‘A beardless boy, and invited to lecture grown men of learning. We shall have dancing dogs next, and apes from the Indies dressed in doublets and lace.’

He looked me over again, and I was conscious of my drab physician’s clothes compared with the finery he and Simon wore.

‘A Portingall, are you? A Jew? We all know what should be done with the Jews, bloodsuckers and heretics.’

Bile rose in my throat and I clenched my fists, but dared not challenge him.

At that he gave a mocking laugh, flung his arm around Simon’s shoulders, and propelled him out of the room and down the stairs, their feet clattering on the stone.

I found this encounter deeply unsettling. I had never before seen this fellow Marlowe amongst Burbage’s company, yet he and Simon seemed to be on terms of very close friendship. Perhaps I had only myself to blame. Since we had watched Sidney’s funeral procession back in February, I had hardly seen Simon, my time being so caught up in the work of Walsingham’s service. Although I now had more freedom, I found myself reluctant, after meeting Marlowe, to seek out my friends amongst the players. Until that evening at Raleigh’s house I had been intending to visit them again at the Theatre out beyond Bishopsgate, perhaps to make music again with Guy Bingham, their chief musician and comic actor. Over the twelve days of Christmas last winter I had seen them nearly every day and felt myself at ease amongst their motley company. Like me, many of them concealed their past, living only for the moment. The playhouse was their home, the company of players their family. They lived in a variety of lodgings, ate and dressed well when they were in funds, went hungry and pledged their costumes to Marrano pawnbrokers in Bishopsgate Without when times were hard. They were apt to give little thought for the future. Money slipped through their fingers like water. Yet they were the most easy-going company of men and boys I had ever known.

That is not to say they did not squabble, if one player was given a part that another coveted, or James Burbage tried to force them to play a part in one fashion, when they thought it should be played quite differently. But their squabbles flared up with great noise and drama, then were over in a moment.

Now, however, I was afraid to visit them. Afraid I might meet the despicable Marlowe and suffer more of his taunting. So at first I was at a loss what to say when I met Guy buying oranges at a stall in Cheapside. Since the troubles with Spain, oranges were expensive and hard to come by.

‘You must be in the chinks, Guy!’ I said. ‘Best quality oranges.’

He grinned at me. ‘I never can resist them. These are the first I’ve seen for months.’

He paid the stallholder, then began to juggle the oranges, to the great entertainment of the passersby. Soon quite a crowd had gathered, but he pocketed the oranges, bowed, and led me away by the elbow. We found a seat on a table tomb in Paul’s churchyard, near the booksellers and not far from where Simon and I had stood on that cold February day to watch Sidney’s funeral procession. Guy handed me an orange and would not listen to my protests.

‘I am in the chinks, Kit,’ he said. ‘After a performance last week, a gracious lady sent for me to entertain her dinner guests by playing my lute and singing. I was well paid for it, though the lady wanted rather more of me than I was prepared to give, so I barely escaped with my virtue intact.’

He winked at me and I grinned back, through my orange. Guy had a face like a friendly monkey and I did not believe a word of it. Not the last part, at any rate.

‘And where have you been hiding, Dr Alvarez?’ he said. ‘You are as elusive as fresh oranges.’ He only called me ‘Dr Alvarez’ when he wanted to tease me. At first the players had not believed I was a physician, but after giving a performance at the hospital last Christmas, they knew it was true.

‘Walsingham sent for me again,’ I said. ‘I have been working at Seething Lane as well as the hospital for weeks.’

‘So why are you let out now?’

‘Oh, since Drake returned, matters have been quieter.’

‘Then why have you not come to see us?’

I did not answer at once, making much of wiping my face and fingers on my handkerchief and tossing my orange skin into the long grass.

‘Who is this Kit Marlowe?’ I burst out. ‘He seems to be a great friend of Simon’s.’ I had not meant to say it, and once the words were out of my mouth, I could not look Guy in the eye.

‘Ah, so you have met the great Kit Marlowe, have you? The golden son of Cambridge, poet extraordinary, would-be play maker. Was that at Walsingham’s?’

I stared at him. ‘No. Certainly not. Why should I meet him at Walsingham’s?’

‘He is something of a protégé of Walsingham’s cousin Thomas. And I’ve heard it hinted that he sometimes works for Sir Francis himself.’

‘I’ve never seen him at Seething Lane.’ I felt my heart sink. Was this fellow likely to appear where I worked?

I turned to Guy and studied him. ‘You don’t like him,’ I said.

‘I do not. He is arrogant, thinks too well of himself and too poorly of others. He also has a violent temper and has been in trouble for it. How did you come to meet him?’

‘It was at Sir Walter Raleigh’s house. Harriot took me there for one of Raleigh’s discussion evenings and Marlowe turned up there, very late, with no apologies, dragging Simon after him. He insulted me.’

‘That is no surprise.’

‘Is he a member of Master Burbage’s company, then?’

‘No, no. He’s much too fine a gentleman to join a ragbag of wastrels like us. Though I have heard tell he sometimes mixes with very low company indeed, thieves and ruffians. He’s only a cobbler’s son, but he gives himself airs, having been a scholar at Cambridge. No, he hangs about our company, hoping to sell us a play. And he’s taken lodgings with Thomas Kyd, perhaps in the hope of a recommendation.’

‘So why was Simon with him? They seemed very close.’ I tried to remember what I had seen. ‘At least, he was making much of Simon and wanted him to join in insulting me, though Simon looked embarrassed.’

Guy grinned, and wiped his sticky fingers on his breeches.

‘Well, you have to admit that Simon is a very pretty boy, and Marlowe has a liking for pretty boys.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh, indeed. But do not worry, I am sure Simon does not return the feeling.’

‘I do not worry. What is it to me what Simon feels?’

‘What indeed? And I am sure Marlowe will not hurt your friendship with Simon. He did not join in the insults, did he?’

‘He did not.’

Guy got up and brushed fragments of moss and lichen from his clothes. ‘Come back with me now and see the company. We have missed you.’

Here was another surprise. It seemed that the players also missed me. I had not realised that I had made so many friends, both at Seething Lane and at the Theatre. After years of hiding away, keeping to my father’s shadow, the last two years had changed my life.

‘Will Marlowe be there?’ I asked.

Guy drew himself up to his full height, which was slightly less than mine, and struck himself on the chest with a grand gesture.

‘If he is, I will protect you with my life!’

I laughed and followed him out of the churchyard.

When we reached the Theatre, outside the north wall of the city, past the Curtain playhouse and near Finsbury Fields, we found most of the company there but, happily, no Marlowe. They were about to start a rehearsal of some new comic piece, one of those full of jokes of the moment, which would be stale in six months’ time. It would please the groundlings and earn the players enough coin to live, but it was the kind of trivial thing my father looked down on. Despite my urging, he had still not come to see any of the newer, more serious plays the company performed, like those of Thomas Kyd. I wondered what sort of play Marlowe was writing. Probably as full of bombast as he was.