Men in elaborate saffron ruffs and scarlet doublets, puffed at the shoulders, slashed at the sleeves, and padded at the chest, with matching breeches and contrasting hose in hues of periwinkle, marigold, and popinjay vied for attention with gold pomander-sniffing ladies attired in elegant gowns of Venetian satin or taffeta, festooned with precious stones and shot through with gold and silver thread, or else sewn from rich, three-piled-piece Genoan velvets, with dainty leather or satin shoes that were pinked, raced, and rosetted, their hair dyed in fantastic colors and braided with pearls or tucked beneath elaborate caps with large gold and silver brooches holding flowing plumes and feathers to set off the carcanet collars of small, linked enameled plates adorned with jewels and tiny pendants, wrists languidly displayed bracelets of gold or enameled silver with beads of amber, coral, or agate, rings everywhere, on every finger of both men and women… it was a visual feast, a writhing tableau of endless fascination.

And then the play would begin.

From the moment that the first player stepped out onto the stage, Elizabeth became transported to another world, one that seemed even more real than the romances that she read, for these were living, breathing people bringing to life real characters upon the stage. And if, much of the time, these characters seemed less real than stagy, she did not mind and nevertheless allowed herself to be carried away by the illusion. For as long as the play would last, her gaze would remain riveted upon the stage, and if there were other gazes riveted upon her from some other vantage point, she was unaware of them and could thus forget them.

But now, there was a new drama unfolding that she wished she could avert her gaze from, for it was her drama and the ending she foresaw was not a happy one. Somewhere along the way, someone had gazed at her particularly long and hard, and favorably, and unbeknownst to her, her father had been approached, discussions had been initiated, and a marriage had been arranged.

She had no idea who Anthony Gresham was. Apparently, it was not really her concern, so she hadn’t been consulted. What little knowledge she had was painfully sketchy. The mysterious Anthony Gresham was young, supposedly well set up, and handsome, although she had long since realized that, to her father, any eligible young man from a socially prominent family was certain to be “well set up and handsome.” His father was a privateer, one of Drake’s celebrated Sea Hawks, who was in line, so it was said, to receive a knighthood. She knew next to nothing of such things, but she knew that the idea of marrying his daughter to the son of a knight would send her father off into transports of ecstasy. There was little else that he would need to know or care about.

Chances were, she thought, that she was just as much a mystery to this young Anthony Gresham as he was to her, although it was certainly possible, even probable, that he had at least seen her, perhaps during one of her visits to The Theatre with her father. Yes, she thought, that had to be how it must have happened. The socially prominent son of a knight, or knight-to-be, could certainly not be expected to marry a young woman sight unseen, regardless of her father’s wealth. She, on the other hand, was expected to do her filial duty to her parents and marry someone whom she not only did not love, but had never even seen.

And if, as her mother claimed, most girls “her age” would gladly trade places with her in an instant, Elizabeth felt equally certain that she would trade places with them just as readily, even if they were of the poorest and most common stock. As she sat alone in her room, feeling miserable and lost, she entertained the notion of what it would be like to run away somewhere and find a job in some distant town or village, working in a tavern or an inn, or as a seamstress with threadworn fingers or a laundress with waterlogged skirts and wrinkled hands. Perhaps that was precisely what she should do, she thought, dramatically. Pack up a few belongings and then run away in the middle of the night. That would certainly teach them a lesson. And it would serve them right.

The only trouble was, she had no idea where to go or how to get there. And so she sat, and wept in anger and frustration.

LONDON WAS EVERYTHING HE HAD expected and much more. A recent census had reported the city’s population as over 120,000 and it seemed to Smythe as if they were all out on the streets at once. Cobblers, drapers, merchant tailors, younkers, ironmongers, weavers, goldsmiths and ropemakers, skinners, saddlers, tanners, vintners and apothecaries, discharged soldiers, dyers, pewterers and cutlers, hosiers, stationers, haberdashers, whores and grocers, barbers, balladeers and barristers, scriveners, booksellers, pickpockets and portrait painters and cozeners of every stripe, everywhere he looked, a different walk of life was represented, often loudly, sometimes repellantly, but always interestingly.

Dominating the city was the massive, gothic Cathedral of St. Paul’s, where people gathered in Paul’s Walk among the open stalls and bookshops to post bills or hire servants or be regaled by lurid tales of far-off lands from seamen-some of whom might even have been sober as they passed their hats-or else receive forecasts from robed and long-bearded astrologers, who were listened to with wary fascination and respect because they were believed by many to consort with demons. Here also was Paul’s Cross, where Sunday sermons could be heard preached from the outdoor pulpit on those mornings when it didn’t rain and turn the cobbled streets even more dangerously slippery with muck and slime than they usually were.

With so many carriers’ carts and carriages and horse litters and coaches clogging up the narrow streets and alleyways, making passage hazardous for those who rode and walked alike, the Thames was the main thoroughfare for many, with the watermen plying their way up and down the river and across in their small rowboats, ferrying those who chose not to use the crowded London Bridge, which was the only bridge across the undulating river to Bankside.

Downstream, to the east, stood the famous Tower of London, built as a palace citadel to guard the city from invasion from the sea. The Tower was an armory, as well as a prison for the most dangerous offenders, and the only place of coinage for the realm, in addition to being a treasury for the Crown Jewels and home of a menagerie that included several lions. To the west, roughly two miles from the city of London and connected to it by the Strand, was the Royal City of Westminster, which contained the Palace of Whitehall, the main residence of the queen, and the Abbey of St. Peter, where the monarchs of the realm were crowned and often buried.

In the city streets, Smythe noticed that many if not most men went armed, although a recent proclamation had reduced the allowable length of swords to no more than three feet and daggers to twelve inches. The fast, slim rapiers were more and more coming into vogue and fashionable ladies carried little bodkins tucked away somewhere discreetly. Those less concerned with fashion wore their poignards or stilettos openly, the better to defend themselves in the event of one of the frequent brawls or riots that broke out from time to time, often the result of young apprentices swaggering about in raucous gangs, needing little more excuse than youth and drunkenness, always an incendiary combination, to start a sudden, bloody street fight.

And drunkenness was less the exception than the rule. Smythe had long since learned that his habit of making an infusion of boiling water with dried clover flowers, mint, and raspberry leaves with honey, a healthful and revitalizing recipe meant to clarify the mind, taught him in his boyhood by old Mary, the village cunning woman, would be considered quite the eccentricity. Water, as everybody knew, was merely for washing up and cooking, certainly not for drinking. Ale was the universal beverage, imbibed at breakfast, dinner, supper, and all throughout the day, save by the more affluent citizens of London, who drank wine, all of which created a constant state of ferment where violence could brew and street fights could erupt at any time.