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him, but could not place him. He wore a poor shirt and breeches beneath a farmworker’s felt hat. Shakespeare smiled at him. “Forgive me, I do not recall your name.”
    “Clarkson, Mr. Shakespeare. I was Lord Burghley’s man for many years.”
    “Yes, of course. I am sorry, Clarkson. Are you pensioned now?”
    “Not exactly, sir. Let me speak plain, though quietly, if I may. This meeting is not an accident. I am here to talk with you, privately.”
    Shakespeare frowned. “You wish to talk with me? Why not come to my house?”
    “The same reason that I am not in my livery, sir. I must not be seen with you. This is a matter of some delicacy and it is not possible to know who might be watching.”
    “You had better tell me more.”
    “Indeed, sir. Perhaps if I were to walk off eastward and you were to turn back alone up Dowgate, taking care to see if anyone dogs your footsteps, then we could meet again out of the public glare. Might we say the church of St. John in Walbrook in five or ten minutes’ time, sir? It will be cool in there and we can talk without being observed or overheard.”
    “Clarkson, you have me intrigued. I will see you there.”
    Shakespeare liked Clarkson and believed him trustworthy. As he walked slowly along Dowgate north toward Walbrook, he looked about him to see if he was followed. The streets were thronged with noisy crowds and clogged with wagons and cartsthat could scarce move for the poor parking of other wagons and the scaffolding on houses in the narrow lane. It would be difficult to discern the prying eyes of a stranger among this sweating mass of humanity.
    St. John’s in Walbrook was empty when he entered. But as Clarkson had predicted, it was pleasantly cool, a sanctuary on this baking-hot day. The church was sparsely furnished, with only a few three-legged stools to sit on and a table where once a great Catholic altar had stood. All the finery of Rome had been torn out and burned; the rood-screen and the confession boxes, the bones of saints and painted paneling, all long gone in a great bonfire. The stained glass had been smashed years ago by Protestants and not replaced.
    Shakespeare sat on one of the stools and waited. When he had been there a minute or two and no one else had come in, he heard a noise, like a whispered call, from a small chapel to the side and went to investigate. There was a door to the vestry. He went in and found Clarkson there.
    “I am sorry for the secrecy, sir,” he said. “But as you will discover, it is entirely necessary. I hope that neither of us has been pursued here.”
    “I am afraid I have no way of knowing, Clarkson. Now, pray, tell me what this is about.”
    Clarkson looked grave. “I am now in the employ of Lord Burghley’s son, Mr. Shakespeare. I am sure you know of him: Sir Robert Cecil, a Privy Councillor and already taking on much of the workload of the late Sir Francis Walsingham. Some say he is already Principal Secretary in all but name.”
    Cecil? Of course Shakespeare knew of him. He was probably the most influential of the younger men in Elizabeth’s government, even if he lacked the raw physical power and dash of courtiers such as Essex and Ralegh. “And what has that to do with me, Clarkson?”
    “He wishes to see you, sir. On a matter of great import to therealm, I believe, though I am not in a position to tell you what it is.”
    “And when and where am I to see him?”
    “He is at Theobalds, sir, his country home in the county of Hertford. He asks that you come straightway to him and he apologizes for the inconvenience to you.”
    Shakespeare shook his head. First Essex, now Cecil. But he had no choice. When such men summoned you, you obeyed the call. “May I return to the school first, to reorganize my lessons?”
    Clarkson shook his head. “I fear that would be too hazardous. Just follow me now. I have horses waiting.”

    I N A REMOTE HOUSE on that bleak and lawless tongue of swampland known as the Isle of