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‘How are you feeling, Mr Shakespeare?’ Babington asked solicitously. He was stretched out on the settle, feet up and hands behind his head. ‘I must confess you look rather ragged and not a little shabby.’

‘I feel yet worse than I look.’

‘Almost as tattered as Thomas Salisbury here. You, however, will tidy yourself up and go bravely, whereas Mr Salisbury will always look like a wild man of the moors. Even Mr Mane’s ministrations can do nothing for his hair and his tailor has quite given up on him.’ Babington laughed and swung round to make space beside him. ‘Come, sit with me while Mr Salisbury fetches you sustenance.’

Shakespeare took the offer of the seat with gratitude. Not for the first time he was struck by Babington’s easy elegance and good looks. It was not surprising that he had caught the Queen of Scots’ eye when he delivered letters to her in the years she was held in Sheffield Castle. How different might his life have been had he chosen instead to fawn over Elizabeth, for she would undoubtedly have been won over. He could have cheered her days with jests and scandalous tittle-tattle.

‘Where is Mr Tichbourne?’ Shakespeare asked. ‘I recall he was with you when you saved me from those young dogs.’

‘He has returned to his own lodgings near St Bart’s. Chidiock needs his sleep, poor wretch. He has the constitution of a young maid and we have drunk him into oblivion. Likewise you, it seems.’

Shakespeare affected to bridle. ‘I seem to remember it was a fine, merry feast and that my cup was filled as fast as any man’s.’

‘I noticed that you conversed with Mr Tilney. What did you talk about?’

Salisbury returned with a cup of milk and Shakespeare drank it down. It was rich and thick with cream, the way he liked it. He nodded his appreciation to Salisbury, handed back the cup and picked up the hunk of bread from the platter that had been placed at his side. He took a bite and chewed. The two men were waiting for him to speak, but he did not hurry in his eating. He needed to consider his response carefully. When he had swallowed the morsel and patted his mouth with his sleeve, he met his host’s eye. ‘He said I should follow you in all things, Mr Babington.’

‘What else?’

‘He expressed surprise that Walsingham let me out.’

Babington smiled. ‘That is indeed a matter of interest, and has been ever since Mr Savage introduced you to our little band of brothers.’

‘I have been completely open with you, Mr Babington. Ask me questions and I will answer them.’

Babington put up a palm. ‘Mr Shakespeare, I beg you, do not feel insulted. Be assured that I was most happy that you joined our cheery group of diners and drinkers, for I know you come of good Warwickshire stock, wedded to the true faith. You are familiar with the mass and you are confessed. But I must tell you that there are those among us . . .’ His gaze strayed to Salisbury, then back to Shakespeare ‘. . . who have their doubts about you. Can a man work for both Walsingham and the Pope? Some men wonder whose cause you truly serve.’

Shakespeare frowned, then spread his hands. ‘They could ask the same question of every man at the Plough. What of Tilney or Abingdon? They are sworn guards of the Queen’s body. Who do they serve? Even Mr Salisbury here, who can say what is in his heart? Was he not brought up as ward to the demon Leicester?’

‘You are right, of course. We must all have faith and trust in each other, otherwise Walsingham and Burghley will have won the battle before the trumpet is even sounded. But I am obliged to mention it, for it is a matter that comes up time and again. One of our number whispered to me last night that you were known to be a deal too close to Mr Secretary and that you should be shunned.’

Shakespeare raised both his hands. ‘Mr Babington, Mr Salisbury, if you do not trust me, then I will bid you good fortune and withdraw from your company this moment, for I can well understand your fears and I have no wish to cause you sleepless nights, let alone difficulties with your fellows.’

‘Can you not say anything in your defence? A single word to prove where your loyalties truly lie? For whether you are with us or against us, you must know that there is a great deal more to our band than a gathering of friends enjoying good food and speaking our minds. Any man of wit must see that.’

Shakespeare shook his head. ‘You must take me or leave me. And I will not hold it against you if you cast me out. Now, if it please you, I must depart, for Mr Secretary will require my presence soon after dawn so that he may set me on the trail of papists and traitors . . .’

This elicited the faintest of smiles from Babington and a scowl from Salisbury.

‘Forgive me. It was in poor taste.’ Shakespeare stood up, as did Babington. After the briefest of hesitations, they shook hands.

‘Good morrow to you, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘I would speak with you more when my head is clear. Perhaps I can calm your fears.’

‘Come to me in the early afternoon and have a trim. We will be at Mane’s of Bishopsgate. Come see how he struggles with Mr Salisbury’s thatch! And rest assured, sir, I have no desire to cast you out. I think you can be of more value on the inside of our band than ever you could be on the outside. But we must proceed cautiously.’

‘I understand.’ Shakespeare bowed. ‘And I thank you once again for intervening on my behalf. And you, Mr Salisbury, for the use of your bed these past hours.’ He held out his hand in farewell, but Salisbury declined to take it.

A strange image flashed into Shakespeare’s mind: the schoolroom at the King’s New School in Stratford, where the master, Mr Hunt, was telling the boys of the lives of the Romans and of the plot against Julius Caesar. ‘Brutus was the leader of the assassins, but it was Gaius Cassius who drove him to his cruel act – and Cassius who struck the first blow.’ A picture now came to him: the face of Babington attached to Brutus’s body, and Salisbury’s atop the humourless Cassius’s.

Chapter 10

Walsingham gazed at Shakespeare’s bruised head and winced. ‘I think Mr Mills rather overdid it.’

‘Sir Francis?’ Shakespeare could not conceal his irritation. Did he detect a dark smile lurking around the corners of his master’s usually dour mouth?

‘Forgive me. It was my idea. I felt it would not work if I told you beforehand, but I thought it would help.’

‘I am still unsure-’

‘I asked Mr Mills to organise a mild attack on you, in the sight of your fellow diners at the Plough Inn. He found three young apprentices and gave them a shilling each for their night’s work. They were supposed to knock you to the ground, throw insults at you and threaten you with a dagger. They were not supposed to damage you, but it had to be believable.’

‘They could have killed me!’

‘No, no. If it had got out of hand, Mr Mills would have called off his hounds. He was watching and directing them from the shadows. The idea was to show the others in your band of traitors and drinkers that you were truly one of them, suffering for the cause as they do. It worked, did it not?’

Not for the first time, Shakespeare tried to peer deep into Walsingham’s dark eyes and discern his true character, but it was a wasted effort. Perhaps his wife or children knew him well, but no one else was allowed into the secret corners of Mr Secretary’s devious soul. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It worked. A little too well. Babington had to rescue me.’

‘Well there you are. Safe and sound and a little closer to your prey.’

They were in Walsingham’s austere private room at his Seething Lane mansion. Having arrived home two hours before dawn, Shakespeare had managed no more than an hour and a half of sleep. Then he washed himself thoroughly and hastily ate a breakfast of eggs and ham, prepared for him by the new housemaid, while he caught up with the news from Boltfoot about his vain quest for those who knew Will Cane. Shakespeare heard the tale with interest.