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Elizabeth, God grant her long life.” He paused, allowing Walsingham to try to guess what he might say next. “It is somewhat ironic that I should be so profoundly grateful to a Catholic queen as well as a Protestant one. Do you not agree?”
    Walsingham said nothing. It was not ironic; it was a mark of Cecil’s genius. And he, Walsingham, knew it more than anyone. Anyone, that is, except Elizabeth herself.
    He wandered back toward the fireplace. “The reason I came this evening is not to delight you with my manners. I am aware that certain talents, such as flattery, are quite beyond my abilities. Nor can I debate the finer points of religious tolerance and treason with you. I am more interested in finding these Knights of the Round Table. Like you, I do not think that Draper knows more than he has already told us. He is a coward, like most selfish men. He would not have given us the name of Henry Machyn or told us about the chronicle if he was trying to conceal the plot. So, I propose that we let him go—to be bait on the end of our fishing line—and that we watch him. But when we get Machyn, or any of his accomplices, how far do we go to get the truth?”
    â€œIf you are asking whether your men may apply torture…”
    â€œIt is a delicate subject, I fully understand. Some of Draper’s friends are wealthy.”
    â€œYou also appreciate that her majesty does not approve of painful techniques.” Cecil picked up his cup of wine and took a sip. He set the cup back down again, turning it between his fingers on the table. “However, she does not approve of rebellion either.”
    â€œSo, if the enmity of these men is sufficient to warrant it?”
    â€œThen God will thank you for doing what you have to do.”
    Walsingham nodded. He turned to leave. Cecil’s voice made him pause.
    â€œDo not forget, Francis, that as long as Elizabeth is queen, God is not just all-forgiving. He is Protestant too.”

7
    Clarenceux walked cautiously through the darkness of his stable yard, holding the unlit lantern in his left hand and reaching out with his right for the wall. Rain dripped down the side of his face. He felt stone and moved to his left until he touched the wooden gate. It was unfastened. The stable lad must have failed to close it properly.
    A shutter banged somewhere; otherwise, he could hear nothing except the incessant rain. He moved slowly along the dark of Fleet Street, running his hand along the front of his neighbor’s house. He wished it were not quite so dark—just a clearer sight of a roofline would have helped.
    He wondered which way he should take. How was he to get past the city gates? They would be closed, and the city walls were impossibly high. He knew that certain houses abutted the walls but he had no idea where he might climb up. He had no option but to find the door by which Machyn himself had come, by the Cripplegate elm. Machyn must have gone back that way, returning to his house. To his wife, Rebecca, and son, John.
    Clarenceux could just make out the shadowy shape of St. Bride’s Church and the line of the city wall along the far bank of the Fleet, leading down to the Thames. He could hear the water of the river gushing under the bridge ahead. Knowing the road well, he walked a little faster with his arms out in front of him in case he should trip over some unseen obstacle in his path.
    Here was the bridge. The river below was in full spate. He could smell the refuse that littered the banks and see the shadow of the city walls. Some nights when the weather had been better, he had stood at this spot and looked down at the Thames, seeing the moon in the water. Not tonight.
    On the city side of the Fleet, the wall made a sharp turn and moved away from the river up the hill to Ludgate. Abutting the wall were two lines of houses, one behind the other. He walked on, wiping the water from his face, until he came to the looming