I was still a little shook up. ‘Well?’

‘At the lute.’

‘I suppose, sir.’

He leaned in closer. ‘How old are you?’

‘Sixteen, sir,’ I said, keeping my age consistent with what Rose thought.

‘You look two years less than that. At least. But also two years more. Your face is a riddle.’

‘I have sixteen years, sir.’

‘No matter, no matter . . .’ He wobbled slightly and rested his hand on my chest, as if for support. He was as drunk as the others, I realised. But he straightened himself up.

‘We, the shareholders of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, are currently looking for musicians. I have written a new play, As You Like It, and it requires music. There are a lot of songs. And we need a lute. You see, we had a lutist but the pox has taken him.’

I stared at Shakespeare. His eyes contained two golden fires, reflecting a nearby burning torch.

Kemp, tugging Burbage away from Elsa’s attentions, was keen to speed things up, so said to me brusquely: ‘Tomorrow, the Globe, by eleven of the clock.’

Shakespeare ignored him. ‘Play now,’ he said, nodding at the lute.

‘Now?’

‘While the iron is hot.’

Elsa started singing a bawdy song I didn’t know.

‘The poor lad is still shaken,’ said Kemp, feigning sympathy. ‘Onwards.’

‘No,’ said Shakespeare. ‘Let the boy play.’

‘I don’t know what I shall play.’

‘Play from the heart. Pretend we are not here. To thine own self be true.’

He hushed Elsa.

Eight eyes watched me.

So I closed mine and played a tune I had recently been playing, and thought of Rose as I did so.

All the day the sun that lends me shine

By frowns do cause me pine

And feeds me with delay;

Her smiles, my springs that makes my joys to grow,

Her frowns the Winters of my woe.

When I stopped singing I looked at the four faces staring silently at me.

‘Ale!’ shouted Kemp. ‘Lord, give me ale!’

‘The boy’s good,’ said Burbage, ‘if you ignore the song.’

‘And the singing,’ said Elsa.

‘You play well,’ said Shakespeare. ‘Be at the Globe Theatre tomorrow. Eleven o’clock. Twelve shillings a week.’

‘Thank you, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Twelve shillings a week?’

Rose couldn’t believe it. It was morning. We were out fetching water before work. Rose had to stop and place the bucket of water down. I placed mine down too. The water – for cleaning, not drinking – was from the well at the end of the lane, nearly a mile north of Oat Barn and the orchards, so we needed the rest. The morning sky blushed an ominous pink.

‘Yes. Twelve shillings a week.’

‘Working for Mr Shakespeare?’

‘The Lord Chamberlain’s Men. Yes.’

‘Tom, that is joy.’

She hugged me. Like a sister. More than a sister.

And then a cloud of sadness fell across her face as she picked up her bucket again.

‘What?’

‘I expect we won’t be seeing much more of you then.’

‘I will walk home each evening just the same. Around the walls or through.’

‘That was not my meaning.’

‘So, what is your meaning?’

‘Your life will be too colourful for a dull market girl.’

‘You are not dull, Rose.’

‘A blade of grass is not dull until you see a flower.’

‘It is. A blade of grass is always dull. You are not a blade of grass.’

‘And you are not a stayer, Tom. You ran from France. And you ran from Suffolk. You will run from here. You do not settle. Since we kissed even your eyes fear settling on mine.’

‘Rose, if ever I flee it will not be because of you.’

‘So when you flee why will it be, Tom? Why will it be?’

And that I couldn’t answer.

The water was heavy but we were nearly home. We had reached the stables now, and saw a row of horses, like lords in a gallery watching a play they had already seen, staring at us. Rose fell silent. I felt guilty for the lie I had told about my mother’s death. I needed to tell her the truth about me. At some point, I would surely have to.

Just as we were reaching the cottage, we saw two women in the street. One of the women was Old Mrs Adams. She was shouting at another. Hell-turding away.

Rose knew the other woman from Whitechapel Market. Mary Peters.

A quiet woman, with a sad look about her. She was probably forty. Which, back then, was an age you could not take for granted you would reach. She wore widow’s black all the time.

Old Mrs Adams was leaning in, spitting mad words at her, but Mary turned to stare her down with such a silent fury the old lady backed away like a cat suddenly scared of its prey.

Then Mary kept on walking down Well Lane towards us.

She didn’t seem the least bit disturbed by her encounter with Old Mrs Adams. Rose, I noted, seemed to tighten a little at the sight of Mary.

‘Good morrow, Mary.’

Mary smiled briefly. She looked at me. ‘Is this your Tom?’