The Queen's man

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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.’

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