‘I did,’ I said. Then, daringly, ‘I did not like him.’

He smiled grimly. ‘I believe he insulted you. You have every reason not to like him. He is not always a likeable fellow. But clever. Very clever. If sometimes rash and sometimes violent.’ He paused. ‘Will you do this for us, Kit? Berden will be with you for part of the time, and you can always turn to him if you are in difficulty.’

In difficulty? That was a strange way to phrase it. I would be in danger of my life, if there were traitors and if they suspected me. I heaved a great sigh.

‘How long would this last?’

‘You would be home by Christmas,’ he said, and smiled.

Christmas. I remembered last Christmas and the relief of being free of all this secrecy and plotting.

‘Very well,’ I said with resignation. ‘I will go.’

He stood up and reached again for the flask of wine.

‘I think you need another glass of this,’ he said. ‘It is setting in for a frost this evening. Berden had other affairs to attend to today, but he will be here again tomorrow afternoon. If you can be here about two of the clock, we will discuss together how best to proceed. Berden is a good man, very experienced. You have worked with him before.’

‘Yes,’ I said dully, accepting another glass of wine. ‘He is a good man. I would certainly trust him. But we worked together here in England. In a strange country, I don’t know . . .’

‘All will be well,’ he said. ‘I have great belief in your talents, Kit.’

Small comfort. Walking home through the frosty night, with the hood of my cloak pulled over my head and my feet plodding slowly over the familiar cobbles, I felt nothing but dread. Yet how could I refuse a man like Sir Francis Walsingham?

By Newgate the chestnut seller stood stamping his feet against the cold. There were no other customers nearby.

‘A farthing’s worth,’ I said, ‘and another for the prisoners.’

‘Right you are, master,’ he said eagerly filling two twists of paper.

I pushed one through the grid to the prisoners. I could see nothing of them but a white blur of faces. Then I walked on, peeling my chestnuts and leaving a trail of shells behind me all the way to Duck Lane. Fond as I am of chestnuts, they turned to dust on my tongue.

The following morning I asked permission to leave the hospital before midday, and it was granted. It seemed that Sir Francis had made his usual arrangement with the governors, and they must have instructed the assistant superintendant, who ran the day-to-day affairs of St Bartholomew’s. I also told my father that I would not come home for our usual dinner. I felt a compelling urge to see and talk to Simon. He had called a few times at the hospital while we were treating the soldiers from Sluys, but there had never been time for more than the exchange of a few words. I told myself that I wanted to draw on his experience of acting, as I had done before when undertaking a spying mission for Sir Francis. He was adept at taking on different characters and he would surely be able to give me advice once again. If I had other reasons for this urgent need to see him, I concealed them from myself.

At the Theatre, I found Guy Bingham and James Burbage backstage, seated either side of a wooden packing case, which they were using as a table. They were planning the music and the comic interludes for the next production and looked up distracted when I asked for Simon.

‘He hasn’t come in yet, Kit,’ Guy said. ‘Probably still at his lodgings in Holywell Lane.’

James Burbage grunted. ‘If you see him, remind him I’ll dock his wages if he isn’t here in time for rehearsal. Two o’clock sharp. We must run through all the scenes of tomorrow’s play before this afternoon’s performance of The Spanish Tragedy.’

‘Let us hope that is a prophetic title,’ Guy said, ‘for next year.’

Even here in the playhouse I could not escape the foretelling of next year’s invasion.

‘Where?’ I said. ‘Which house in Holywell Lane?’

‘I thought you would know.’ Guy looked surprised. ‘Tall thin house, with three jetties, nearly blocking the lane. Yellow front door.’

‘Yellow!’ I felt myself colouring, that they should think I knew Simon’s lodgings, but there was no reason to suppose that they meant anything by it.

‘Aye. Yellow.’ He laughed. ‘The landlady’s husband paints our scenery. He used some left-over paint from Apollo’s chariot to paint his front door. You can’t miss it.’

‘I don’t suppose I can.’ I thanked them and retraced my steps to Holywell Lane, walking back a little way towards Bishopsgate. Many of the players had lodgings here, but the house with the yellow door was unmistakeable. The building loomed over the lane, its jettied upper stories – almost certainly added illegally – made it look as if it was about to topple over on to unsuspecting passersby.

I banged at the door, but there was no answer. After I had banged twice more without success, I turned away, sure that there was no one at home. But there, coming along the lane, was Simon, carrying a basket of food.

‘Kit!’ He seemed genuinely delighted to see me, despite my long neglect of my friends from the playhouse.

‘Come in.’ He threw open the door, which was not locked. I remembered that when we had first met he had been amused that we locked the door of our poor cottage in Duck Lane, until I explained the need to keep our medicines safe.

I hesitated. ‘I thought we could go to an ordinary for a meal. I must be at Seething Lane by two, and Master Burbage asked me to remind you of your rehearsal.’

‘No need.’ He flourished his basket. ‘I have everything here that we need. Bread still warm from the oven. Cheese. Some bacon I can cook over my fire. A flask of ale. Some late pears. Come up. We are at the very top.’

I followed him through the yellow door and up the first flight of stairs, solidly built and surely as old as the lower part of the house. The next flight had clearly been added a long time ago, for although they were crudely made they were sturdy and showed years of wear. The next flight lacked a handrail, clung precariously to the plaster wall and trembled under our feet. The final floor was reached by a steep ladder, which was not even fixed to the wall. The whole upper floor was an attic, divided into three rooms by thin partitions, their doorways covered by curtains. Simon led the way into the middle room, which looked out over the lane through a half-circle window peering through the thatch of the roof. The floor sloped so steeply down towards the outer wall that it nearly propelled me through the window. The house broke every fire regulation in London, but being outside the Wall, it probably escaped the hand of the magistrates.

I looked around with interest. Simon had grown in the two years I had known him and was now a handspan taller than I. His head just cleared the beams supporting the underside of the roof, but where it dipped down to the outside wall, he would have to stoop. There were two truckle beds, with bedclothes in a tangled heap. A small table and two joint stools were piled up with discarded clothes and papers – probably the scripts of plays. On the floor were several used plates and dirty ale mugs, in one of which several flies had drowned. I wrinkled my nose.

‘Pigs live better,’ I said drily.

Simon looked around, as if he were seeing the room for the first time.

‘I suppose we should clear up, but we’re seldom here, except to sleep.’

‘We?’

‘I share with Christopher Haigh. It’s cheaper that way.’

He began throwing the clothes from the stools on to the beds, and swept the papers on to the floor.

‘It’s disgusting,’ I said. ‘If we let the wards fall into this state, we would be driven out of the hospital.’

‘Well, this isn’t a hospital,’ Simon said cheerfully. He crossed to the window, automatically bending his head as he neared the outside wall. He threw open the window and a blast of cold air blew in, making me huddle my cloak around my shoulders. He leaned outside, groping for something at the side of the window.