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Shakespeare said in what he hoped was an even voice. Oh yes, he knew Arden. How could he not know him when his own mother, Mary, was born an Arden? Their blood was his blood. He knew, too, that Edward Arden had insulted Leicester publicly and with utter contempt, calling him ‘whoremaster’ at a time when the earl was dealing lewdly with another man’s wife. The Earl of Leicester, a man ruled by pride, did not forgive such slurs.
    It felt to Shakespeare as if he were manacled to a wall in the coldest Tower dungeon and that these two men, Walsingham and Leicester, had red-glowing irons in their gauntleted fists. Bring your old friends and your family to the gallows or we will know that you are not one of us. Turn in the traitors – or we will consider you the traitor . He had not foreseen this when he agreed to enter the service of Sir Francis Walsingham. This was torture of the soul.
    Suddenly Leicester clapped him about the shoulder and growled a laugh. ‘I am told you are an honest man, Mr Shakespeare, an honest witness. Did you hear of the great hart in this day’s hunt? He escaped us! Now and for all time he is a royal hart. Tell me: do you have the heart of that hart? Can you earn such royal favour? Will you hazard your very life for England?’

Chapter Five
    S HAKESPEARE REINED IN to a slow walk, easing his mount after the long ride from Oatlands to London. He turned left and rode north along Seething Lane in the east of the city, stopping at last before the woodframe house, ancient and weathered, that he counted as home. It stood four storeys high and melded into the night sky. His hired man, Boltfoot Cooper, opened the door to him and bowed. ‘Boltfoot, we ride north tomorrow. We will go armed.’
    ‘Yes, master.’
    ‘Is there food in the house?’
    ‘Perhaps some old bread. A little ale . . .’
    ‘Did I not ask you to buy some food from the market?’
    ‘No, master.’
    ‘Well, in future you will think to do so, unasked.’
    Boltfoot grumbled something inaudible.
    Shakespeare shook his head and wondered, not for the first time, whether he had made a terrible error in hiring this lame seafarer. His tone hardened. ‘You must earn your keep.’
    ‘Yes, master.’
    ‘Take the horse to the stable and see it fed. And then go to the Blue Boy and get their kitchens to provide some pie or meats. Anything halfway edible.’ Could he not have at least brought some eggs and meat into the house? Shakespeare handed over the reins of his mount and watched Boltfoot limping along the road, dragging his club-foot through the dust. Neither servant nor intelligencer, he was a gnarled shipwreck of a man who looked as ill at ease on land as a fish and the truth was he had hired him because he liked him and trusted him – and because he had fighting skills. Shakespeare was all too aware of his own lack of experience in that regard. Though he was a great deal stronger than he looked to the Earl of Leicester, yet he was untested; he had never been in a fight, not even a taproom brawl.
    This was where Boltfoot came in. He knew how to defend himself and would not flinch in the face of enemy fire and shot. He was skilled with cutlass and caliver, his weapons of choice. And what if he had no conversation, and had little in the way of background save his time as a mariner? On the rare occasions when he did open his mouth to speak it was usually to pour scorn upon his former captain, Drake. ‘Drake a hero? He would sell his own mother to the Spaniard for a groat.’ Shakespeare smiled at the thought. He hoped Boltfoot would speak in more flattering terms about him. He took a candle into the pantry, and found a crust of bread and examined it in the guttering light. It had an unpleasant coating of blue mould. He shook the keg of ale. Some liquid and lees sploshed around, so he drew it out into a tankard. Sniffing at it, he put the mug to his lips, then spat. It was undrinkable. He cursed. This would not do. He needed a