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too, Mr. Shakespeare. You will recall Sir Francis Walsingham’s library and his collection of correspondence and charts?”
    Shakespeare could never forget it. For nine long years, Mr. Secretary and his library full of secrets had been the center of his world. He recalled the austere, silent room at Barn Elms in Surrey, the Principal Secretary’s country home where he kept so much of his correspondence: hundreds, if not thousands, of papers and documents from Madrid, Paris, Rome, Delft, and Antwerp. Even from the Orient, the Indies, and the New World. But most of all from here at home—intimate information about the thoughts and deeds of men and women in every corner of society: what was said in the taverns and theatres, the prisons and the bawdy houses; who was swiving whom in the palaces and great houses. Who was plotting; who was loyal and who was not. It was a unique collection of information and only one man knew it in its entirety—Walsingham himself.
    “I remember it well, Sir Robert.”
    “The question is, where is it? When he died, Mr. Shakespeare, it all disappeared. Every last scrap of paper, every nautical chart, every intercepted secret from the Escorial and the Vatican. All gone, spirited away from his house.”
    “Surely you do not suspect my lord of Essex?”
    Cecil affected an expression of scandalized shock. “Tut-tut, Mr. Shakespeare, ‘suspect’ is a strong word. It seems to suggest a crime has taken place, when nothing could be further from thetruth. I am sure the Earl has these documents—but you may very well think he is entitled to them, for he is married to Mr. Secretary’s daughter. And why should she not inherit her father’s papers?”
    “Are you saying that you want me to find these papers and bring them to you? I would need several wagons to carry them all.”
    “God’s wounds, no, Mr. Shakespeare. I merely want you to find them and gain access to them, examine them if you can—and find out what information he held about Arbella Stuart and those around her. I would be astonished if there was not extensive and important information to be had. This is a game of chess, Mr. Shakespeare. It is a game we must win. Like chess, it has clear rules, the main one being that the sovereign must be protected at all costs. To that end, we must use every ounce of our wit to best our foe.”
    “And what if my lord of Essex should wield his morgenstern and break your pieces, Sir Robert?”
    Cecil stroked his unlined brow with the slender fingers of his ungloved right hand. “The morgenstern, Mr. Shakespeare, is an unsubtle weapon. It was effective when I was not expecting it. Now I know he has it and we shall be prepared. And, anyway, you will be with him to make sure no such thing occurs.”
    “It will be like working for two masters—and betraying one of them.”
    “I understand your misgivings, but that is the intelligencer’s art, is it not? That is what Mr. Secretary saw in you.” Cecil rose. He lifted his head, almost imperceptibly, and his falconer appeared and took the bird and gauntlet from his arm. “Come, let us walk just a little further, Mr. Shakespeare. I am keeping you from your school, but look how the sun shines. Every man must play truant once in a while. I want the sun to shine always on England. Though the times are dangerous, there is much cause for hope, too. We have a new pope in Rome, one that may yet prove more amenable to peace between the old religion and thenew; Henri of Navarre may soon grasp the whole of France and bring peace to his bloodstained country. These are today’s men. They are, hopefully, men like you and me; men who would rather send ambassadors than armadas. But the peace that you and I both crave will not happen by accident, for there are other men, men of a martial bent who would rather kill and destroy than talk. Will you let them hold sway, or will you join me? Do you wish eternal war with Spain, or would you like your daughter to grow up in a