‘He’s trying to get a reaction,’ says Nicholas. ‘He was like that at Cambridge – always a provocateur.’
‘Mistress Merton seems to have taken a shine to him.’
‘Has she really? I can’t say that I’ve noticed.’
Timothy puts his head around the door, a grave look on his young face. ‘Master Nicholas! There are two men asking for you in the taproom.’
‘That was quick,’ says Ned. ‘They’ll be the Bishop of London’s men, about the play. They’ve probably come to arraign us for blasphemy.’
Nicholas can tell from the set of his mouth that Ned’s not entirely joking.
‘Are they wearing gowns?’ Nicholas asks, wondering if the Censors have decided to drop by to deliver their verdict in person, before they’ve even listened to his defence. That would be the very end, he thinks – Censor Beston finding him watching an invocation of Beelzebub!
Timothy shakes his head. ‘Not unless physicians need to go about armed. They have swords.’
6
‘God give you good morrow, Dr Shelby,’ says Robert Cecil, leaning back in a high carved chair that’s almost a throne and resting his fingers lightly on the edge of his vast desk. His tone is welcoming, but to Nicholas’s mind, Burghley’s son can make even a welcome sound like an accusation of treason. His voice, soft and pleasantly modulated, is like his face: you know it masks things you’d rather not dwell upon.
Through the tall windows behind Cecil, Nicholas can see the fields of Covent Garden stretching away towards the spire of St Giles. The last time he was in this chamber, he recalls, Robert Cecil had blackmailed him into spying on the Catholic Lord Lumley, patron of the College of Physician’s chair of anatomy. Cecil had used Bianca’s life as the incentive – his searchers had found her father’s heretical writings hidden at the Jackdaw. On that occasion the journey from Bankside had been made by night – a terrifying voyage in utter darkness, not knowing what awaited him at its end. Today’s trip on the turbulent water has been merely stomach-turning.
‘And good morrow to you, Master Cecil,’ he says cautiously, knowing that Robert Cecil is not in the habit of summoning itinerant doctors solely to catch up on medical gossip.
‘And how is Mistress Merton these days?’ asks Cecil with a wolf’s smile. ‘Still cleaving to papist heresy? Should I be thinking of locking her up again, for the realm’s protection?’
‘She is well, Master Robert, thank you. And unimpeachably law-abiding.’
‘I hear the Grocers’ Guild have allowed her a licence to practise as an apothecary. How did she manage that – bewitch them?’
‘Lord Lumley used his influence.’
Cecil studies him awhile, his pale, elongated face with its little blade of beard tilted slightly. He has the eyes of an innocent, thinks Nicholas: wide, with arched eyebrows as soft as a child’s. Yet somehow you’re reminded of the bright stare of a hungry fox, stalking its prey in the small hours of the night.
‘On the matter of the noble Lord Lumley, I still can’t quite fathom how you played me such a fast match, Dr Shelby.’
‘I, Master Robert – play you a match? Why would I do such a thing?’
‘I sent you to Lumley to spy upon him and bring him to justice for treason.’
‘And spy upon him is what I did.’
‘Yet now, in the queen’s estimation, Lord Lumley is the most loyal man in the realm, lauded by her and the entire Privy Council for unmasking a Jesuit traitor! That was not exactly what I had in mind when I engaged you.’
‘A wise judge does not decide the verdict before he’s heard the evidence,’ says Nicholas innocently. ‘Isn’t that what they say?’
Robert Cecil declines to answer. He makes an elaborate display of nonchalantly inspecting the papers on his desk, easing his crooked shoulders under his gown and sucking at his lower lip, as if he can’t decide what crucial matter of state to attend to first.
‘Do you have any employment at present, Dr Shelby – other than as a tavern-hand, that is?’
‘Not really.’
‘You’re not still pursuing a glorious medical career, treating the vagrant poor at St Thomas’s for a few bartered eggs and a stolen goose?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘I heard the College Censors were of a mind to strike you off their roll.’
‘Then you heard right, Master Robert.’
‘Excellent!’ Cecil rubs his hands together. The rubies and emeralds in his many rings wink at Nicholas in the light from the window. ‘Then you are free.’
‘Free for what?’ asks Nicholas with a sense of foreboding.
‘Free to do me a small service.’
Nicholas frowns. ‘I’m not the betraying kind, Master Robert. I learned that with Lord Lumley. If you want a spy, I’m afraid I’m not really your man.’
Robert Cecil opens a desk drawer and pulls out a small box. It is a very fine box, Nicholas notes, its corners reinforced with beaten silver, the lid embossed with the Cecil crest. With his long feminine fingers, Cecil opens the lid and lifts out a silk purse. Making a play of weighing it, he sets it down on the desktop. The contents make a sharp-edged, expensive rattle.
‘There are more gold angels here, Dr Shelby, than a physician might hope to earn in a plague year – if you desire them.’
Nicholas eyes the offering with suspicion. He remembers this morning’s conversation with Ned Monkton, about the unholy bargain at the centre of Kit Marlowe’s new play. He has no illusions about the consequences of taking Robert Cecil’s money. It will be a pact with the Devil.
But the money won’t be for himself, he reasons. He could repay his father in some small measure for the cost of his medical studies. If the Censors permit him to continue practising, he could subsidize the penurious part-time position at St Tom’s, should he decide to return to it.
‘What do I have to do in return? Plant incriminating evidence on the Earl of Essex? Denounce the Bishop of London as a closet papist?’
Cecil seems to enjoy Nicholas’s attempt at bravado. He picks up the purse. Jangles it seductively. ‘Call it a fee – for professional services rendered. I want your opinion of a physician: one Dr Arcampora. He’s treating the grandson of a kinswoman of my wife – Lady Mercy Havington. You served in her husband’s company in the Low Countries, I think. Is that not so?’
Nicholas struggles to suppress a laugh. Robert Cecil is offering him more money than he’s seen in his life for something he already has every intention of doing. It’s a small victory, he thinks. But even small victories against Cecil are worth savouring.
‘Have I said something humorous, Dr Shelby?’
‘Why not ask one of the Censors of the College?’ he asks, his practical nature asserting itself. ‘They’re far more experienced.’
‘You already know my opinion of physicians, Dr Shelby. If it were left to me, I’d hang the lot of you for dissembling rogues – saving your own presence, of course.’
Cecil pushes the purse across the desk, and a part of Nicholas hates him for his easy presumption.
‘This will be a privy matter between us. I want it done discreetly. And this time I’d prefer that it didn’t end with you telling me Dr Angelo Arcampora is the most honest man in Christendom and by rights should be attending our sovereign majesty as her personal doctor. I conceded the last match, Dr Shelby. This one, I expect to win.’
By late afternoon the wind has dropped. Bankside basks in the spring sunshine. The cut-purses and the coney-catchers come out of their holes, in the hope a few rash souls might cross the bridge in search of entertainment. While Marlowe and his players rehearse their parts in the Jackdaw’s yard, Nicholas helps Bianca prepare the evening pottage. When they’ve finished dicing, paring and chopping, he suggests a stroll around the fishponds in the Pike Garden. She agrees, unaware that it’s an offer made not entirely without artifice.