only be faintly imagined in revenge plays were a reality there, and most who were swallowed up by it never returned. Even from where she stood, at a safe distance along the river, she could feel the cold, clammy reach of it.
What business could Rob have there? She could well imagine he would do something to cause his arrest. Actors were always getting into fights and being thrown into gaol, and there had been rumours he had once fetched up in Bridewell. Yet surely no one, not even a bold player like Rob, would voluntarily go near the Tower?
She hurried across the bridge herself and stood up on tiptoe, straining to catch a glimpse of him. She finally saw his plumes again, and to her relief he was not entering the dark environs of the Tower but continuing along the river on the other side. She ran after him, dodging around pedestrians to keep him in her sight as he made his way into the tangle of streets just beyond the Tower’s walls.
He went past more shops and houses, not even glancing at them. Gradually the buildings grew farther apart, with large gardens and empty spaces between them and the road, until he came to what had once been the entrance to an old Carthusian monastery. A vast complex had once lain here, covering many acres and containing churches, dining halls, scriptoriums and butteries and barns. Now there were large homes, quiet and watchful behind their new gates.
At one of them, a tall half-timbered place of solemn, tidy silence and glinting windows, Rob stopped at last. He glanced over his shoulder, and Anna dived into the nearest doorway to stay out of sight. As she peeked out cautiously, he sounded the brass knocker on the heavy iron-bound door. A black-clad manservant, as solemn as the house, answered.
‘He has been expecting you, Master Alden,’ the man said as he ushered Robert inside. The door swung shut, and it was as if the house closed in on itself and Rob was swallowed up by it as assuredly as if it was the Tower itself.
Anna stared at the closed-up structure in growing concern. What was that place? And what business did he have there? She did not have a good feeling about it.
A pale heart-shaped face suddenly appeared at one of the upstairs windows, easing it open to peer down at the street. It was a woman, thin and snow-white, but pretty, her light brown hair covered by a lacy cap and a fine starched ruff trimming her silk gown. The watery-grey daylight sparkled on her jewelled rings.
Anna realized that she recognised the woman. She sometimes visited the White Heron to sit in the upper galleries with her fine Court friends. It was Frances, Countess of Essex—wife of one of the Queen’s great favourites and daughter of the fearsome Secretary Walsingham, whose very name struck terror in everyone in Southwark.
‘Oh, Robert,’ Anna whispered. ‘What trouble are you in now?’
Chapter Six
‘Wait here, if you please, Master Alden,’ the dour manservant said to Rob. He gestured to a bench set against the wall in a long, bare corridor. ‘The Secretary will receive you shortly.’
‘I thought he had long been expecting me,’ Rob said, but the man just sniffed and hurried on his way. Rob sat down on the bench to wait; it was a move no doubt calculated to increase the disquiet any visit to this house in Seething Lane would cause.
He had been here too many times, heard and seen too many things in its rooms and corridors to be too concerned. Still, it was always best to be gone from here quickly.
The house was dark and cool, smelling of fine wax candles, ink, and lemon wood polish. The smooth wooden floors under his feet were immaculately clean, the walls so white they almost gleamed. Lady Walsingham was a careful housekeeper.
Yet underneath there was a smell of something bitter and sharp, like herbal medicines—and blood. They did say Secretary Walsingham was ill—more so after the stresses of the threatened Spanish invasion the year before. But not even the great defeat of the Armada, or this rumoured illness, seemed to have slowed the man at all.
He was as terribly vigilant as ever. No corner of England escaped his net.
And no filament of that net, even one as obscure as Rob, ever escaped, either.
He swept off his cap and raked his hand through his hair. This was the only way he could protect the ones he cared about—the only way he could see them safe. He had always known that. But lately it had become harder and harder.
Especially when he thought of Anna Barrett, and the way she looked at him from her jewel-bright eyes …
‘Master Alden. My father will see you now,’ a woman’s soft voice said.
Rob forced away the vision of Anna and looked up to find Secretary Walsingham’s daughter watching him from an open doorway. Her fine gown and jewels glistened in the shadows.
‘Lady Essex,’ Rob said, rising to his feet to give her a bow. ‘I did not realise you were visiting your family today.’
‘I come as often as I can. My father needs me now.’ She led him down the corridor and up a winding staircase, past the watchful eyes of the many portraits hung along its length. ‘Don’t let him keep you too long. He should rest, no matter how much he protests.’
‘I will certainly be as quick as I can, my lady,’ Rob said. He had no desire to stay in this house any longer than necessary.
She gave him a quick smile over her shoulder. ‘My friends and I did so enjoy The Duchess’s Revenge. We thought it your best work yet.’
‘Thank you, Lady Essex. I’m glad it pleased you.’
‘Your plays always do—especially in these days when distraction is most welcome, indeed. When can we expect a new work?’
‘Very soon, God willing.’ When his work here in Seething Lane had come to an end.
‘Don’t let my father keep you away from it. We’re most eager to see a new play. Always remember that.’ Lady Essex opened a door on the landing and left him there with a swish of her skirts. Rob slowly entered the chamber and shut the door behind him.
It was surprisingly small, this room where so much of England’s business was conducted. A small, stuffy office, plainly furnished, with stacks of papers and ledgers on every surface and even piled on the floor.
Walsingham’s assistant, Master Phellipes—a small, yellow-faced, bespectacled man—sat by the window, with his head bent over his code work. The Secretary himself was at his desk in the corner, a letter spread open before him.
‘Master Alden,’ he said quietly. Walsingham always spoke quietly, calmly, whether he remarked on the weather or sent a traitor to the Tower. ‘Have you any news for us today?’
‘Nothing that can yet be proved,’ Rob answered. ‘But work progresses.’
Walsingham tapped his fingers against the letter, regarding Rob with his red-rimmed, murky eyes. ‘Were you working when you took part in that little disturbance outside the White Heron? A quarrel over a bawd, I hear.’
‘It may have seemed so. I had to come up with a quick excuse to cover my stealing of this.’ Rob took out a small, folded packet of papers and passed it across the desk.
Walsingham glanced at it. ‘A step in the right direction. Yet we still do not have the names of the traitors in Lord Henshaw’s Men. We know
