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  ‘I would not be happy with anyone else after Rose,’ he replied, pouring himself a beaker of ale. ‘She knew my ways as another would not.’ He rinsed the ale around his mouth before swallowing.

  Katherine grunted and pushed a plate towards him. ‘Then at least let me tutor you in the ways of the market. You pay sixpence for meat worth two pence and are content with bread a week old. The Earl of Leicester’s chief intelligencer you may be, but at looking after yourself you are no better than a child.’

  It was true. He had never been much concerned with money or the practicalities of daily life and, left to himself, was unusually inept at both. At Pembroke, a rattling shutter would have been swiftly repaired by a college servant or by a poor sizar in need of a few pennies. In London, it might never be done.

  ‘This morning we will walk to Cheapside where we will buy fresh meat and winter vegetables at prices I agree with the traders. Then you will know how much to pay in future.’

  Christopher speared a slice of beef with his knife and took a bite. Sure enough, it was tough and stringy and he knew that he had probably paid too much for it. Good meat and vegetables had become harder to find this last twelvemonth. But he would not surrender without some semblance of resistance. ‘I have much to do and it will be bitter cold out there.’

  ‘Your work can wait. Wear your thick coat. Think of yourself as a pupil newly arrived at Pembroke Hall. Cold or not, there will be traders about and you shall have your first tutorial in the art of purchasing. I should have given it months ago.’

  Christopher grunted. ‘I do not wish to break a leg. The streets will be icy.’

  ‘Then we will take care. Argue no more. This morning we shall go to the market and count ourselves fortunate that we have money to buy food. Many do not.’

  That too was true. Three poor harvests in a row and few country folk could now eke a living from the land. The religious houses that might once have sheltered them were long gone and every week more vagrants poured through the city gates seeking work and shelter, found neither and ended their days in Newgate or as dinner for the rats in a filthy alley. Some wards were swift becoming no more than noxious cauldrons overflowing with poverty, crime and disease. Talk in the inns and taverns was of little else.

  And as if that was not enough, fearful Londoners awoke each morning half expecting to see Spanish ships on the river. The more scurrilous news books delighted in depicting the unsmiling King Philip of Spain lurking in his Escorial Palace and plotting an invasion of the island for which he reserved most of his papist venom. To Catholic Queen Mary Philip had been married; to her Protestant sister Elizabeth he wished only the fires of hell. With Spanish troops just over the narrow sea in the Low Countries it was not difficult to imagine their arrival at London Bridge one dark night. The trained bands were drilling for just that and if it happened, God alone knew what might befall England.

  ‘If I must, Katherine, although I would rather be practising my lute. I have been idle of late.’

  ‘How is it that today you are so keen to return to your lute? Nothing to do with visiting the market, I suppose.’

  ‘Nothing. I merely thought that playing might lift my spirits after the horror of yesterday. I know I am a poor hand at the instrument but playing requires concentration and does not permit the mind to wander.’

  ‘Christopher, you are not as poor a hand as you pretend and you can play later, after we have been to the market. I shall go to the chamber to dress. Be ready when I am.’

  He waited until he could hear her in the bed chamber before going to the study, where he kept his lute in its fine, tooled leather case hidden under a heap of old clothes. In the eighteen months since it had been presented to him by the Earl of Leicester he had never allowed anyone, not even Katherine or Rose, to touch it. A housebreaker would surely ignore a pile of old shirts and look elsewhere.

  He took the instrument from its case and sat as if to play. It was an ivory lute, made in Venice to the earl’s order and had been a prized item in his private collection. He closed his eyes and ran his fingers over the body and down the fine lines of ebony that bordered it, savouring the smoothness and the gentle curves of the ivory.

  The sound board had been fashioned from alpine spruce and the delicate trellis of the rose was gilded. The back of the neck was decorated with tiny ivory roses and on the peg box had been fixed an ivory plate showing the bear and ragged staff emblem of the Dudley family. It would have cost ten times the price of a common lute and there would be very few like it in England.

  The day after the execution of the traitor John Berwick, who had conspired to blow up Whitehall Palace, assassinate the queen and replace her with the Catholic Queen of Scots, Leicester had summoned Christopher to Whitehall and asked to see his right hand – the hand on which the ring and little fingers were bent inwards. When Christopher held it up for inspection, Leicester had looked doubtful. ‘Your first two fingers and thumb are unaffected by your condition, but your third and fourth fingers are a concern. It would be a pity if you could not use them. Using a goose-feather quill to play, as our grandfathers did, so limits one’s range.’

  Christopher had been astonished. He had no inkling that Leicester had so much as noticed his hand.

  ‘There is nothing to be done but try.’ From behind his enormous writing table Leicester had produced the lute. ‘I hope that you will accept this in appreciation of your service in uncovering the Incendium plot and in capturing the traitor Berwick.’ He dropped his voice in mock confidence. ‘Any of the royal lutes would gladly sit in the stocks for a week for this. I thought Anthony Conti was going to faint when I showed it to him.’ Conti’s name was well known for his skill on the lute not only in Whitehall but throughout London. ‘Have you ever played, doctor?’

  Christopher had confessed that, as a boy, he had been taught. ‘My mother had a fine singing voice, my lord, and insisted on my taking lessons in order to accompany her. When I left home and went up to Cambridge, however, I played no more. It is a source of regret.’

  ‘Well, here is an opportunity for you to start again.’ The earl handed the instrument to Christopher. ‘Sit and try it out. Let us see what you can do.’

  To refuse would have been unforgivably discourteous. Christopher took a seat, placed the body of the lute on his lap and the fingers of his left hand on the neck. When he rested the little finger of his right hand on the sound board and played a few chords, he found, to his surprise, that he could use his third finger without undue difficulty. The little finger would be more of a problem but one that with a little dexterity he could overcome.

  Immediately he regretted having admitted to playing as a boy. ‘I fear that I shall not do such a fine instrument justice, my lord,’ he said. ‘It is years since I played.’

  ‘Nonsense, doctor. I can tell by your posture that you have been well taught. You read tablature of course.’

  ‘I do, my lord, and music.’

  Leicester nodded. ‘The lute has been correctly tuned. Why not try something simple from memory?’

  After more than twelve years, no tune would be simple. Christopher racked his brains. ‘I recall learning one of Thomas Wyatt’s poems set to music, my lord – “Wilt thou go walk through woods so wild”. I could try that.’

  ‘Perfect. Not a difficult piece. You will manage it with ease.’

  Christopher breathed deeply, as his teacher had long ago instructed him, adjusted the angle of the lute slightly, and began, slowly at first, and then picking up speed as the movement of his right arm became familiar. His teacher’s voice came back to him. ‘Pluck the strings with the arm, Christopher, not the hand.’

  When he reached the end, he put down the lute, knowing that although he had not made a fool of himself, he had coped poorly with one difficult change of stops and that his playing had been less than fluent.

  Leicester clapped his hands. ‘Bravo, doctor. Your thumb misbehaved a little and with practice you will play faster and with more divis
ions, but I believe you could be a fine musician.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord, although I fear that you flatter me.’

  ‘I do not. And I hope that playing will prove as beneficial to you as it does to me. A well-played tune is a sovereign cure for every malady from melancholy to gout. Harmony and balance in music as in life. Take the lute, doctor, and learn to play it well.’ A sly grin crept over the narrow face. ‘In fact, if you practise hard enough I might be able to offer you a position as a musician with my players. How would you like that?’ Of the troupe of players he sponsored, the earl was inordinately proud.

  ‘It would of course be a great honour, my lord, although for the present …’

  Leicester had laughed. As his mood invariably mirrored that of the queen, Her Majesty must have been in fine spirits that day. ‘Quite, quite. Just a jest. But do practise, doctor, and one day you may play at court.’

  It had been typical of the earl – a thoughtful, valuable gift, polite encouragement, a touch of humour and care for his intelligencer’s well-being. And a complete surprise. Christopher had left the palace clutching the lute and wondering at a man who could be so generous in word and deed, yet, when his humour was ill, also unreasonable and impatient. Rather than risk the carts and horses and mud and muck of Fleet Street, he had wrapped the case in his gown and taken a wherry to Blackfriars steps.

  Since that day he had taken great care of the gift, cleaning it often and replacing broken strings and worn-down frets. He had bought music from the booksellers’ market in St Paul’s yard and from Mr Brewster’s shop in Fetter Lane, practised regularly, and had, he thought, become tolerably competent again. He had also come to realize that his playing and his choice of music reflected his mood – light and fluent when happy, slow and dull when not. Sombre pavans, jolly galliards, and dompes for quiet contemplation. His favourite piece of all was entitled ‘My Lady Cary’s Dompe’. It lifted his spirits when they were low and he played it often.

  Working for the earl was seldom easy and sometimes downright impossible, but he took quiet pride in the gift and wished that Leicester would ask about his progress. He never had. That too was somehow typical of the man.

  He was wondering whether to risk a chord or two when there was a knock on the door. He cursed, replaced the lute in its case and went to open it. An icy blast swept into the house. Despite being wrapped up in a thick, fur-trimmed coat and hat, the young man standing outside was shivering. Narrow in the shoulder and several inches shorter than Christopher, he looked as if a strong gust might send him hurtling down the hill. ‘Roland,’ said Christopher, surprised. ‘Come in at once before you perish.’

  Roland Wetherby stepped inside and stamped a sprinkling of snow from his shoes. Christopher closed the door quickly. ‘God’s wounds, Christopher,’ Roland said, shaking his head, ‘but it is cold out there, cold enough to freeze a man’s balls. There is ice on the streets and they are treacherous. Take care when you go out.’

  ‘I would much prefer not to go out, Roland. In fact I had a mind to devote the morning to my lute, but Katherine wishes me to accompany her to Cheapside.’

  Wetherby pulled off his gloves and rubbed his hands together. ‘There will be precious few traders about today and, in any case, my friend, the noble earl has other plans for you. He summons you to Goldsmiths’ Hall immediately. The lute later, perhaps.’

  ‘What in the devil’s name does the earl want of me at this hour and why Goldsmiths’ Hall?’ It was unlike the earl to summon him when it was barely light although at least the Hall was nearby in Foster Lane. He would not have far to walk.

  Wetherby grinned. He rarely knew something about Leicester that Christopher did not. ‘I have an inkling, but better that you should ask the earl.’ He glanced up. Katherine, now properly dressed and her hair brushed and arranged to frame her face, was coming down the stair. He bowed low. ‘Mistress Allington, good day. I had not thought to see you this morning. Do you fare well?’

  Katherine turned her smile on him. A ladies’ man Roland Wetherby was most emphatically not, yet he was as susceptible to her charm, when she chose to use it, as any. ‘Mr Wetherby, a pleasure to see you. I fare well, thank you. But I trust you have not come to take Christopher away. Today he is to be my pupil, although between you and me, I do not expect much.’

  ‘Alas, I fear that the lesson must wait, madam. The earl has other plans for him.’

  Katherine made a moue. ‘How disappointing. I was looking forward to teaching a doctor of law how not to spend a shilling when sixpence will do. I am vexed but still I wish the earl good fortune. Christopher’s head will be throbbing and his mind befuddled. Like so many of your sex, he is prone to excess.’

  ‘We saw a woman convicted of murdering her husband by an act of witchcraft burned at Smithfield yesterday,’ explained Christopher. ‘I sought solace in a bottle.’

  ‘Several bottles.’

  ‘Very well, Katherine, several bottles, not that they brought much comfort. We should not have been there and I know not why we stayed. The woman suffered greatly.’ He closed his eyes as if trying to banish from his mind the image of her fleshless face and blackened bones. ‘Now, sit, Roland, and take a beaker of beer. Ignore Katherine. Her temper is never sweet before midday. The earl must wait until I have finished my breakfast. I will join him presently. How is his mood today?’

  Wetherby remained standing. ‘Sour. He frets about the queen’s progress to Kenilworth although it is still eighteen months away and every day finds something new and unpleasant to say about Christopher Hatton. Yesterday he was “a mincing prancer”. Today, who knows? “Captain of the Gentlemen Prancers”, perhaps.’

  Christopher laughed. At only thirty-three, the handsome Hatton, the finest dancer at court, or so they said, had, to Leicester’s annoyance, been appointed Captain of the Gentlemen Pensioners, a high office for one so young.

  ‘And his mood will not be improved if you keep him waiting. You know how he dislikes it.’

  ‘No more than I dislike being taken from my breakfast. I will say that the streets were dangerous and forced me to take unusual care. Or that I was detained by an old woman who had fallen and needed my help.’

  ‘He will not believe you.’

  Christopher shrugged, poured beer from the jug into a beaker and handed it to Wetherby. ‘Sit down and tell me what I might expect at Goldsmiths’ Hall. I am not at my strongest and do not wish to be ambushed by the earl.’

  ‘I shall return to the bed chamber,’ said Katherine, ‘so that you may speak freely.’

  ‘And quietly. You will of course be listening.’

  Katherine poked out her tongue and flounced off. Wetherby pulled up a chair. ‘Oh, very well, Christopher, if you insist. I will tell you what little I know but you must pretend to know nothing. You may happily incur his displeasure but I do not wish to.’

  ‘Nor will you. Now what is it that I do not know?’

  Half an hour later, when Wetherby had returned to Whitehall, Katherine handed Christopher his thick coat. ‘Return directly,’ she said, ‘I shall be here and impatient to know exactly what the earl has in mind for you.’

  CHAPTER 3

  The Goldsmiths’ Company was one of the city’s oldest livery companies and its Hall – as grand as any in London – had stood in Foster Lane for more than two hundred years. Christopher had passed by it countless times but had never before had occasion to enter.

  At the entrance he was met by a red-and-gold-liveried company officer, who wore a sword at his waist. He asked Christopher’s name, welcomed him to the Hall and led him through the Goldsmiths’ Great Chamber, past a chapel and an armoury and down a short passage lit by rows of long wax candles in silver sconces attached at head height to the walls. In the air hung the sweet smells of lavender and rose water.

  It was still too early for the Hall to be busy. Their shoes clattered on the boards of the floor and echoed down the empty passage until they came to a tall oak door, guarded by another arme
d officer. The escort knocked with his fist, pushed the door open and announced the visitor’s arrival. Christopher stepped inside, leaving the escort outside. The door closed behind him.

  The panelled walls of the room he entered were adorned with portraits of Masters of the Goldsmiths’ Company. Above them, narrow windows were set high as if to prevent unwelcome eyes from peering in. The room was bare but for a blazing log fire and a long oak table set in the middle, on which stood a dozen more candles in silver candlesticks and four neatly aligned wooden boxes about the length of a man’s forearm and the depth and width of his hand, their lids open. Beside them were a pair of brass weighing scales such as might be used by a merchant or an apothecary. As he approached the table, Christopher saw that the boxes were highly polished, edged in gold and with the Goldsmiths’ blazon – a pair of unicorns either side of a quartered shield above which stood a figure holding scales and a touchstone – inlaid on the lid. By their size and shape he guessed that the boxes were designed to hold coins.

  He doffed his cap and bowed to the two men standing behind the table. One was the Earl of Leicester, black-eyed, black-bearded, and clad in a crimson doublet, high-collared and embroidered in silver and gold, and hose that matched his doublet. Christopher had never been able to reconcile his master’s flamboyant dress with his puritanical leanings. His own leanings were far from puritanical but he dressed habitually in academic gown and cap. A bird might be known by its feathers but a man could not be, sumptuary laws or no.