‘Are we ready?’ Walsingham glanced round our company and everyone nodded. We set off.

‘We will not be returning the way you came down to Surrey,’ he said, taking his place beside me as we rode out down the lane which led from the house. ‘Best to avoid going too near Hartwell Hall. We’ll circle round to the north a short way. It won’t add a great deal to the journey.’

I had enjoyed my leisurely ride out from London a week ago. This journey felt very different, riding in the midst of a group of armed retainers. What a wonder it was that I had come to this! It was exciting, but in many ways I wished I could slip back into my old anonymous life, lived between the house in Duck Lane and the hospital. Then, the only danger was that my sex might be discovered. Now, my very life might be at risk, at any moment. It gave a different cast to the day, a different quality to the light and to the countryside through which we passed.

It was early evening by the time we reached London Bridge. The crowds had thinned and most of the shops were putting up their shutters. When we arrived at Seething Lane and rode into the stableyard, I realised I would have to part company with Hector now. After all we had endured together, I was saddened. Sir Francis did not even allow me to settle him, but urged me inside as soon as I had removed my pack from the saddlebag. I gave the horse a final rub between the ears, promising myself that I would bring him an apple next time I came to Seething Lane, and followed Sir Francis indoors.

‘I want you to repeat your story to Phelippes,’ he said as we climbed the stairs, ‘then you may go home to your father. I daresay you will be glad to go.’

I nodded. Already, back in London, dressed in a sober black doublet and stiffly starched ruff, he was once again the Sir Francis Walsingham, Principal Secretary to Her Majesty, that I had first met all those months ago.

Phelippes was still at his desk, poring over his papers with his face almost touching them.

‘Candles!’ Sir Francis called and a boy appeared with two, lighting more around the room before he left.

‘Thomas, you will ruin what little sight you have left, working in the dark like this.’

Phelippes smiled vaguely and rubbed his eyes. ‘I had not noticed it had grown so dark.’ He turned to me. ‘Well, Kit, I understand you have been having adventures down in Surrey.’ He looked at Walsingham. ‘Your man got here about an hour ago. He followed the courier all the way. The letters have gone to their destinations.’

‘Good.’ Sir Francis sat down. ‘Now, Kit, repeat everything you told me. Including,’ he gave one of those smiles so rare in London, ‘including how you were seduced by a young temptress of fifteen.’

It was so unusual for Sir Francis to tease anyone that I took it in good part and repeated my account of the week at Hartwell Hall, especially the ending of it. When it was over and Phelippes had asked one or two questions, I was sent home. I went gladly, for I was tired after what seemed an endless day. Even so, I was not too tired to notice that Phelippes, like Sir Francis, looked startled when I explained how I had seen Poley riding up to the Fitzgeralds’ house in the company of a man who might be a Catholic priest. They exchanged looks. Clearly Poley at Hartwell Hall was not part of their own plans.

The walk back to Duck Lane across London in the fading light seemed longer than ever. My wretched lute banged against my back and I had to keep shifting my pack from one hand to the other, for my arms were so tired from all the riding I had done in the last day and a half. A light shone from the kitchen window as I came up the lane. I was almost too weary to open the door, but the way my father’s face lit up as I came in made the long walk worthwhile.

‘Kit!’ He flung his arms around me. ‘I thought I would not see you for another week at least. Welcome home.’

‘Oh, I am glad to be home, Father. And glad I did not need to stay longer than a week.’

‘There is someone here to see you,’ he said, his manner suddenly a little reserved.

As I laid my lute and pack on the table, I looked where he had gestured.

‘Simon!’

Simon rose from his stool and came across the room.

‘It’s good you are back,’ he said. ‘Dark goings-on, I expect, down there in the country.’

I laughed. He made it sound like a journey to the strange new worlds where Harriot had gone on the Chesapeake adventure, instead of rich and cultivated Surrey.

‘This young man came to ask whether I had any news of you,’ Father said stiffly. ‘He arrived just a few minutes before you.’

‘This is Simon Hetherington, Father,’ I said, realising that they had never met before. ‘You remember, I told you how he fetched me to a patient in the Marshalsea, when you were not here. The man Poley.’

My father continued to look grave.

‘Simon is an actor with James Burbage’s company,’ I explained, a little dismayed by his expression, ‘appearing at the Theatre, at Bishopsgate Without.’

‘He is young for an actor.’ My father addressed me as though Simon was not in the room. I was becoming embarrassed by what seemed almost to be open hostility to Simon.

‘I am young for a doctor,’ I said. ‘He is the same age as I am.’

‘I play the women’s parts, sir.’ Simon addressed my father directly and if he was hurt by my father’s demeanour, he concealed it. But then, he was well trained. ‘It is a very respectable company and Master Burbage has the same care of the boys in the company as any good master for his apprentices.’

My father inclined his head as though he accepted this statement, but reserved judgement about actors in general. I had not thought he was prejudiced against those who earned their living in the playhouse, but it is true that many people regard actors as little more than vagabonds, even those belonging to decent licensed companies in London. Burbage’s company was under the patronage of the Earl of Leicester, and was second in rank to none but the Queen’s Men.

‘I came only to learn whether there was word of you,’ Simon said, turning towards the door. ‘Now that you are home, I won’t trouble you further.’

I could see that my father would be glad to see him go and, truth to tell, I was so tired that I ached in every bone, but I did not want to see him go like this, dismissed, as it were, by my father’s discourtesy.

‘I have a holiday from Walsingham’s work tomorrow,’ I said, ‘and the hospital will not expect me back until next week at least.’

My father made a sudden movement at that, but said nothing.

‘Have you a play tomorrow?’ I said. ‘I could come to see you.’

Simon smiled at me, his whole face full of delight. ‘I have no part tomorrow, but if you came early I could introduce you to the rest of the company and show you something of my world. If you would like that?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I should like that.’

‘Good!’ He thumped me on the shoulder. ‘Come about midday. And take care you do not let Master Burbage recruit you this time!’

He made a deep actor’s bow to us both, then he was gone.

The door had barely closed when my father said, ‘That is not a suitable friend for you, Kit. An actor! They are mountebanks, not to be trusted. And do I understand that you have already met this Burbage fellow?’

I felt a surge of resentment towards my father, something I had never experienced before.

‘Simon Hetherington is a decent young man,’ I said stiffly. ‘He was educated at St Paul’s School and could have gone to Oxford, but did not choose the academic life. He has appeared before the Queen herself. And I merely ran into Master Burbage by chance.’

‘Nevertheless, I do not think he is a suitable friend for you. You must remember how dangerous your situation is.’

Of course I knew what he meant. I must always be on my guard against forming close friendships, lest my secret be discovered. Yet now, for the first time in my life, I found my heart rising in rebellion against my father. Why should I not make friends of my own age, if I was careful? I worked hard. Indeed, since my recruitment into Sir Francis’s service, I worked doubly hard, as both physician and code-breaker. Rarely did I have any moment to myself. That evening making music with Harriot was the first time I had known any leisure for months. And now I had just returned from a frightening mission for Sir Francis, masquerading in a Catholic household which might be engaged in dangerous treason. I had braved Sir Damian’s study to search for traitors’ letters, escaped from the house and ridden through the night, all on my own. I did not think my father understood the risks I had taken.