‘Your role is to see and hear, without being noticed, to eavesdrop but remain in the shadows. In a comedy, we want the audience to know that the eavesdropper is there. They join in the fun. Those who are being spied upon do not know what is happening, but the audience does. So we dress the spy in bright colours. He makes his presence very obvious, the audience watches his every move. But the poor lovers – it is usually lovers – simply do not see him, even when he is right under their noses.’

I nodded. I had watched this kind of scene in comedies myself.

‘Now in a tragedy or a history, we want something different. The spy lurks in the darkness. Perhaps the audience does not even know he is there until everyone else has left the stage after revealing their secrets. Then he comes forward. There is the shocked realisation that the spy has heard the secrets and terrible consequences will follow. Do you see?’

I nodded again.

‘So in this case we dress the spy in dull, inconspicuous clothes, so that he can blend with his surroundings, unnoticed. I think that is what you should have in mind.’

He let his stool fall forward again with a clatter.

‘That cloak of yours.’ He point to where I had laid it across one of the beds. ‘Too pale.’

It was the soft undyed cream of natural wool. I realised what he meant. Even in the dark corner of an ale house, it would stand out, drawing attention to itself.

‘You need something darker.’ He got up and rummaged about amongst one of the piles of clothes, spoiling all my careful folding, then pulled out a cloak of a dull, dark brown, almost black. I did not like it as well as my own cloak, but it looked thick and warm. ‘Take this. No one will notice you in this.’

‘I can’t take that. It’s the beginning of winter. You will need it yourself.’

‘Oh, I will borrow something from the playhouse.’

‘If I am to borrow it, then you must take mine.’

He started to object but, perhaps seeing a determined glint in my eye, he agreed.

‘Very well, we will exchange cloaks until you return from the Low Countries. When will you return?’

‘Sir Francis says I will be home for Christmas.’

‘Not too long then.’ He sat down again. ‘Your doublet and hose are sober enough. Have you a hat or cap you can pull down about your head?’

I thought for a moment. ‘I threw away that dreadful woollen cap Phelippes gave me when I played the messenger boy and bought a better one in Lichfield. Would a merchant’s clerk wear such a cap?’

‘Why not? In the cold weather we must all keep our heads warm, and I am told it is very cold in the Low Countries. Flat as a frying pan, so the wind whistles over the polders. And damp. Nothing ever dries out. You will be scraping mould off your face, never think of my dirty plates.’

‘You make it sound very inviting.’

He laughed. ‘I almost wish I were coming with you. I am tired of playing sweet maidens. I should enjoy a villain’s part.’

‘I hope I am not a villain.’

‘No, you are an innocent and trustworthy merchant’s clerk. Remember what I have told you before. Think yourself into the skin of such a young man. Your own age, but of a very different profession. Inky fingers – I suppose you have those when you work with Phelippes. Busy adding up your master’s accounts in your head. That should not be difficult for you, with your skill at mathematics.’

I smiled. I had known Simon would help. Already I could envisage that earnest young clerk, anxious to advance in his profession. Somewhat reserved, so he would listen to the soldiers’ talk, but would not join in. I opened my mouth to say something, but at that moment we both heard the clock from a nearby church strike the half hour.

‘Half past one!’ Simon cried. ‘We must go!’

He tossed me the dark cloak and I swung it round my shoulders as he picked up mine. Together we made our way down the ladder and the stairs, parting at the front door of the house.

‘Good luck to you, Kit,’ Simon said. ‘Come and see us when you are back in London.’

‘I will.’ I started to run, for I had farther to go than he.

I reached Seething Lane in better time than I expected, for it was not yet two o’clock. Before going inside, I walked through to the stable yard. The apple I had brought yesterday for Hector was still in the pocket of my doublet, for I had been too distracted when I left to remember it. I found the ugly piebald in his stall. He greeted me with a soft whicker and rubbed his forehead against my shoulder.

‘I have only a moment, my fine fellow,’ I said, ‘but I’ve an apple for you.’

I held it out on the palm of my hand and he took it delicately with his velvet soft lips.

‘Good lad,’ I said, rubbing him between the ears as he crunched the apple, dribbles of juice running down his muzzle and dripping on to the straw.

‘Afternoon, Master Alvarez.’ It was the stable boy Harry.

‘Afternoon, Harry,’ I said. ‘I must go. Sir Francis wants to see me.’

I gave Hector’s neck a final pat and crossed to the backstairs. Up there Sir Francis and Nicholas Berden would be waiting.

Chapter Six

I found not only Sir Francis and Nicholas Berden in Sir Francis’s office, but also Thomas Phelippes, who nodded to me, but said nothing. I was relieved that the hands on Sir Francis’s French mantel clock, bought when he was ambassador to Paris, were just reaching the hour. It chimed softly. It was a luxury my father and I could no longer aspire to, though we had once owned three striking clocks at our house in Coimbra. Now I had to judge time by the multitude of church clocks in London – not always in harmony with one another – though I had also developed a keen sense of the hour without the need for consulting a timepiece.

I hung my cloak on the same peg as yesterday. If any of them noticed that it was not my usual cloak, they said nothing. Sir Francis waved me to a chair and I sat down. Our chairs were grouped around a low table on which a map had been spread out, weighed down at the corners with inkwells, a sanding box and a small bronze Roman statue which Sir Francis normally kept on his desk. Despite this, the map threatened to roll up, so Berden took two books from a shelf on the wall to hold down the two shorter ends. While he was on his feet, he refilled the others’ wine glasses and poured another for me.

Craning my neck, I could see that the hand-drawn map showed the debatable area lying between France and the Low Countries, as well as all of the Low Countries themselves as far as the German states. The border lands did not only consist of the area from which the Spanish launched attacks on the United Provinces, those Dutch lands which had declared themselves independent of Spain. Closer to France the area had also passed back and forth between the Catholic League, headed by the Duke of Guise, and the Huguenots, led by Henri of Navarre, both factions entirely beyond the control of the weak king of France, Henri III, the last of the sons of Catherine de’ Medici to hold the French throne. I was unsure which French commander was in possession of which parts of the territory at present. It seemed to change from day to day.

‘The Earl of Leicester is based here in Amsterdam at the moment, or at any rate according to our last report.’ Sir Francis tapped the map with his forefinger. ‘The army is encamped just outside Amsterdam, the Earl and the senior officers are quartered in the town. Our fleet, together with the ships belonging to our Dutch allies, lies offshore to the west. The Spanish would dearly like to seize Amsterdam, but they already hold Sluys and Dunkerque, both of which will serve them well for launching an attack on us. However, I know that they are anxious to secure Boulogne and Calais as well. Have you received any new despatches from France today, Thomas?’