I was still smiling when I reached the Theatre. The doorman recognised me this time, and even he smiled, though for the most part he had a forbidding expression, etched on his face by years of trying to stop young rascals from slipping into the playhouse without paying.

‘Master Alvarez, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Simon said you was to go through. You know the way.’

I climbed up the steps and crossed the stage to the left hand entrance again. When I lifted the curtain to pass through, I looked around carefully for the throne I had nearly fallen over before, but it was nowhere to be seen. Nor was the stack of spears. Instead there was a sort of oriental litter, propped up on its end. Where the rich drapes fell away I could see the rough wood underneath. Looking more closely I realised that what I had taken to be the embroidered cloth of the drapes was cheap cloth painted to look like embroidery. Here and there coloured glass gems had been glued on. The light flowing in from my raised curtain made them gleam and I could see that from the audience the whole litter would look fit for some eastern Sultan.

Beyond the litter there was something that looked suspiciously like an executioner’s block, with the axe casually leaning against it. The sides of the block appeared to be smeared with blood. Red paint, no doubt.

‘Kit, there you are!’ Simon emerged from the shadows, carrying a bundle of costumes. ‘Come with me. Can you pick up that turban I’ve dropped?’

I did as he asked. I thought a turban was a long piece of cloth wound by the wearer directly on to his head. When I was a child in Coimbra, there were still a few Moors living there who wore the turban. However, I found that the turban I picked up was already wound into shape and firmly stitched in place. I asked Simon about it as I followed him deeper into the area behind the stage and through another curtain.

‘Do you know how long it takes to put on a turban?’ he said. ‘In the company we often have to play many parts. In the first act I might be the sweet daughter of the wicked Sultan of Araby, but in the second I am a soldier in his bodyguard – no lines, just standing there holding a pennant and looking menacing. I have to discard my girl’s wig and my skirts, wipe the make-up off my face, don a soldier’s uniform and sword, and put on a turban. A turban ready to wear, because in another minute I have to be on stage.’

‘I see.’ It sounded very complicated.

‘And then, of course, I may need to be the sweet maiden in the following act, falling on her knees before her wicked father, begging him to spare the life of the hero, who is her secret lover, so they can escape from the Sultan’s palace and sail away to a new life.’

‘Oh. I thought you would fly off on a magic carpet. Through the air.’

He stopped and looked at me seriously. ‘I don’t think that has ever been done. A faraway look glazed his eyes. ‘But you could do it, with wires.’ He pointed overhead, where I could see men moving about on timbers which formed a canopy over the rear part of the stage area. Then he gave me a sharp look. ‘You were joking.’

‘Only a little,’ I said.

‘Still, it could be done. Shall I suggest it to Master Burbage?’

‘Better not. I don’t want to be held responsible when they have to pick the pieces of you off the stage.’

‘I won’t, then. Oh, it’s good to have you back, Kit!’ He began laying the costumes carefully in a large wicker clothes hamper, making sure they were not creased. When I commented on this, he said, ‘I’d have my ears boxed by the mistress of the wardrobe if they had to be ironed again.’

‘Surely you are too old and too grand for that.’ I handed him the turban, which he fixed into its own box.

‘You haven’t seen the mistress of the wardrobe. Twice the size of Master Burbage, with a fist like a bare-knuckle boxer.’

‘Yet she made these?’ I gestured toward the costumes, which – for all their fakery – were exquisite.

‘She did. You cannot judge anyone in the theatre by their outward appearance, though outward appearance can be a help, if you want to play heroes, or comics.’

‘Or dainty maidens?’

‘Or dainty maidens indeed.’

I laughed.

‘And how well did your own play-acting succeed?’ He closed the hamper and leaned back against it with his arms crossed. ‘I feared you would be absent for three weeks. Had I known you would be back in a week, I should not have troubled your father.’

It was there, unspoken between us.

‘My play-acting went well, I thank you. I was a very point-devise tutor. I was even pursued by the extremely beautiful daughter of the house.’ I could joke about it, now that it was behind me.

‘Were you? Lucky fellow! Extremely beautiful, did you say? And of an amorous turn of mind. Do you think she would like a personable young actor?’

‘Oh, a young actor, however personable, would be far beneath her notice. Nothing less than a belted Earl for Mistress Cecilia Fitzgerald.’

‘New money,’ he said shrewdly.

‘Certainly. And still climbing. So I fear that she is also not for the likes of a young doctor, however distinguished.’ I gestured toward the box which held the turban. ‘This play about the Sultan, is it truly as dreadful as you make out?’

‘Quite as dreadful. It’s an ancient thing, but the groundlings like it and we could all play it half asleep and with our eyes shut. It brings in the pennies, until people accept what we are trying to do with the new plays.’

‘I hope you do not play the Sultan piece too often. I have been telling my father that the playhouses are changing, that the new plays are far finer.’

It was an apology and he understood that, but before he could answer, a small man appeared out of the shadows, carrying a lute.

‘So the new plays are finer, are they?’ he said. ‘But will there still be room for comedy? That’s what I want to know.’

‘This is Guy, Kit. Comic actor and the finest lute player outside the court.’

‘I am honoured,’ I said, with a bow, ‘to meet the finest lute player outside the court.’

‘And you must be the sawbones Simon is always taking about.’

‘Oh no, I am not a surgeon, I am a physician. We leave the butchery to other men.’ So Simon was always talking about me. I felt a small thrill of pleasure.

‘Kit also plays the lute,’ Simon said with a grin. ‘He has just been tutoring the very beautiful daughter of a very rich man in a very grand house in Surrey.’

I think he did not like Guy mentioning that he often spoke of me. For myself, I would have preferred him not to have mentioned what I had been doing in Surrey. I frowned slightly and shook my head, but the other actor ignored what he said.

‘Let me hear you play, then, Kit,’ he said, holding out his lute to me.

I held up my hands in protest. ‘I am not a professional player like you. I play only for my own pleasure.’

‘Come, give us a melody,’ Simon said.

I saw that they would not leave off until I obliged, so I took the lute and perched on the edge of the costume basket. Running my fingers over the strings, I found that only one needed tuning and adjusted it, wondering whether Guy had loosened it to test me. What should I play for them? Then I remembered the haunting tune Harriot had brought us the other evening. Settling the belly of the lute on my knees, I began to play.

First I played the simple melody, but as it came to an end I wove it into an extemporised variation and then another, forgetting where I was and losing myself in the music until I brought the richly plaited melodies together and down into the original simple, heart-breaking fall.

When I looked up, I saw that quite a crowd had gathered silently around us. As I handed the lute back to Guy, they broke into spontaneous applause.

‘You may not be a professional musician, Christoval Alvarez,’ he said, ‘but you play like one. Where did you find that melody?’