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said.
    ‘In a way,’ Strange said. ‘I don’t fully understand it myself. It’s called graphite and it is an easy way to write things down when on the road. Ink and quills and the rest can be so messy, my secretary finds.’
    Marlowe knew full well the ruin that an upturned bottle of ink could wreak on a shirt in a knapsack and reached out his hand for the pencil. Strange handed it back and smiled up at the man.
    ‘Much quicker too, I think you will find. It takes a bit of getting used to, but once you have the knack, it is much easier. My secretary says it will never replace the quill, but for these purposes it seems to be just what you need, Master Marlowe. When the point is dull, sharpen it with your penknife as you would a quill.’
    ‘Thank you, My Lord,’ Marlowe said. ‘A very generous gift.’
    ‘Loan.’ Strange was back in his account books and didn’t look up.
    ‘Of course.’ Marlowe bowed. ‘A loan. Thank you all the same.’
    ‘Martin’s over there,’ Thomas said. ‘He can help you until I have finished here. There’s paper in the wagon.’
    Marlowe walked back over to where the actors were still arguing. He stood back from them for a while, then looked at Sledd, still telling the cow all about his life. Behind the main wagon he could hear sounds of the women, as usual getting the work done without fuss or bother, making the world wag as it should and taking no credit. Suddenly, he didn’t want to write a play about a queen, of Carthage or anywhere else for that matter. He wanted to write about what happens to people when their world is turned upside down, through war, famine or death. Or love. He needed to think, to get the plot straight in his mind. He veered away from the noise of the camp and wandered off back into the lane, crossing into the opposite field. He moved along the hedgerow and tucked himself under the bole of a willow, old and hollow and very private. No one would see him there, with his legs tucked in and his brown cloak over his shoulder. He leaned his head back against the spongy wood inside the hollow and looked into the far distance, eyes unfocused as his mind wandered wherever it fancied.
    But Kit Marlowe was not just a playwright. Or just a scholar. He was also, though he fought against it, an intelligencer, a spy. And so his eyes never stayed unfocused for long. They wandered along the horizon, half seeing the trees, the wandering sheep, the blue sky, the few scudding clouds as they wisped past across the top of the hill opposite. Then they stopped and his head snapped up. His young eyes had seen what most would have missed; the man on the horse among the trees, a silhouette against the sky. But although there was no detail to be discerned, he knew in his bones that the man was looking down the hill at the camp below. And he knew from the set of his shoulders and the immobility of his stare that the man would follow them for as long as he need follow, until he had done whatever he was there to do.

THREE
    T he sun was already high by the time Kit Marlowe rolled out of his wagon. The women were tending a large pot of stew over the campfire and the smoke was drifting lazily across the Hertfordshire fields, snaking to the east and the cluster of villages known as the Pelhams. The pretty girl with the red hair smiled at Marlowe and he smiled back. The older ones crouched around the fire with silly grins on their faces. Now that Alleyn had gone, this newcomer was the handsomest in the company and, anyway, Alleyn was anybody’s. His smiles were usually followed by groping hands and a tumble in the hay. This one was altogether more mysterious and – unusual in theatrical circles – he was playing hard to get.
    There were raised voices coming from a stand of birches where Lord Strange, Ned Sledd and Martin were standing. His Lordship was struggling to look suave while coughing and spluttering over a pipe and Sledd and Martin were actors enough to pretend it wasn’t