The Queen's man

Prologue

1578

Sir Francis Walsingham peered across the great hall of Gray’s Inn. ‘Which one is he, Paul?’

‘At the end of the far table, the one just standing up from the bench.’

Walsingham picked out the young man. He was tall, perhaps six feet, with long hair and hooded eyes. ‘Is he a good student?’

‘He has wit enough, though he is not a university man; he came to me after his Barnard’s year.’

‘He looks a little thin.’

‘Well, he is not yet twenty. Give him time to grow. I certainly think him strong.’

‘I like thin men. They slip through doors unnoticed.’

Paul Ballater threw a sideways glance at his old friend and laughed. Walsingham could have been talking about himself, for he was gaunt and angular, with a dark, sunken face that spoke of too many hours hunched over documents and too little time for nourishment.

‘And what makes you think your Mr Shakespeare might be suited to my purpose?’

‘As I told you, he has an inquiring mind and a keen sense of justice, but little love for the intricacies of the law. I think he is not made for dusty tomes.’

‘He will not escape dusty tomes that easily. A hundred papers pass my desk each day. And he will need to learn languages and politics.’

Walsingham watched as John Shakespeare clapped his fellow diner on the back and seemed to share a jest, for they both smiled, then he strode away across the echoing hall. Was this the man he was looking for? He needed an apprentice to learn every nuance of the war of secrets that must be waged if Elizabeth was to hold on to her throne. He needed a man of courage and honesty; rare qualities in the world of the intelligencer.

‘Try him, Frank. If you don’t like him, send him back here. I’ll make a barrister of him in time.’

‘Do we know his family?’

‘His father is a burgess of some standing in the town of Stratford-upon-Avon in Warwickshire.’

‘Are they sound of faith?’

‘I have no reason to believe otherwise.’

Walsingham was silent for a few moments, then nodded. ‘Very well, Paul. Talk to him. If he is amenable, send him to me at Seething Lane on the morrow. Let us see what stuff your Mr Shakespeare is made of.’