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I noted a recently repaired crucifix askew on its steeple, mortared clumsily back in place. Women with shawls draped about their heads clutched shivering children by the hand, answering the bells’ summons.
    Peregrine stared at the scene. I glanced at him. “Do you believe in the old faith?”
    He shrugged. “I never much cared for religion. I don’t think God does, either.”
    I was struck by how he had unwittingly described my own opinion. I, too, often wondered if one faith was any better than the other, considering how much blood had been spilled, but I kept my doubts hidden, for it was never safe to speculate aloud about religion.
    Dusk fell, thick with snow flurries. Cinnabar snorted impatiently. I patted his neck. I, too, was tired, not to mention cold. My hands in their gauntlets felt frozen to my reins, and my buttocks and thighs were saddle-sore. In my mind, I fled back over the road we’d just traversed, back to Hatfield, where Kate must be lighting the candles for the evening meal-
    “There’s Cripplegate.” Peregrine broke into my thoughts. “From there, we can take to the Strand and ride to the palace.”
    I brought myself to attention as we maneuvered our way through the horde pushing into the city before the gates closed for the night. As I paid the toll, I had a vivid memory of the first time I’d come to London. I had had no idea at the time, as I’d gazed in awe at the sprawling walls and the Thames’s distant coil, of the adventure that awaited me. Just like then, I now felt an excited prickle in my belly.
    There were people everywhere, closing up shops and hurrying home from last-minute errands while others, eager for the night, threw open doors to smoke-filled inns and raucous taverns. Already the ravaged doxies were patrolling the darker alleyways, garish in their paint, sidestepping the ubiquitous beggars, thieves, and skulking pickpockets. Emaciated dogs scurried underfoot, scavenging in the conduits that carried sewage to the river. Overhead, timber tenements leaned into each other, upper floors conjoining to form fetid vaults, from which denizens emptied chamber pots into the streets, showering unwary passersby with leavings.
    At first, I didn’t see much change. London appeared as dirty and unpredictable as it had been during the late King Edward’s final days. Yet as we made our way toward King’s Street and the palace, I began to notice graffiti scrawled on walls, declaiming, DEATH TO ALL PAPISTS! and SPANIARDS BE GONE! There were placards strewn on the ground, too, muddied now and illegible but no doubt offering equal dissent. It would appear the common people of London were not happy with the arrival of the Hapsburg delegation.
    Whitehall reared into view. We rode into the courtyard and dismounted. Disgruntled officials trudged past us with cloaks yanked about their shoulders and caps shoved low on their heads. None paid us any mind. The snow was falling faster, whitening the flagstones. Cinnabar stamped his hooves.
    “The horses will need feed and stabling,” I said.
    Peregrine gathered both pairs of reins. I gave him two angels from the purse Cecil had sent. He’d not been parsimonious. I had enough for a comfortable stay, providing I didn’t stay too long. “Wait.” I grasped Peregrine’s wrist. “How will you find me?”
    He scoffed. “I lived here, remember? And I warrant you’ll not be lodged in the royal apartments.”
    “Fine, but don’t tarry. After you see to the horses, come to me straightaway.”
    “Yes, master.” With a mock flourish, he led the horses away.
    Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I went to the nearest entranceway. Three sentries swathed in cloaks and bearing halberds blocked my way. Only after I reiterated that I was here to see Lord Rochester did one of them sneer, “Her Majesty’s comptroller? Now, what would a common oaf like you want with an important lord like him?”
    “Can you please tell him Master Beecham is here?” I asked