‘Are they sworn to obey the Pope?’

Cecil shrugged. ‘I care nothing for what they think in private,’ he said. ‘It’s what they do in public that concerns me. If they will leave good English men and women to follow their own consciences in peace and quiet, then they can worship in their own way.’ He paused. ‘It’s the wild few I fear,’ he said softly. ‘The madmen who lack all judgement, who care nothing for agreements, who just want to act. They’d rather die in the faith than live in peace with their neighbours.’

The boat nudged the landing stage and the rowers snapped their oars upright. A dozen lanterns were lit on the wooden pier and burned either side of the broad leafy path to the house to light the lord homeward. ‘If they attempt to disturb the peace of the land that I have struggled so hard to win – then they are dead men,’ Cecil said gently.

October 1605

The peace Cecil worked for did not come at once. A year later in mid-autumn John saw one of the house servants picking his way down the damp terrace steps to where he was working in the knot garden. Cecil had finally agreed that he should take out the gravel and replace it with plants. John was bedding in some strong cotton lavender which he thought would catch the frost and turn feathery white and beautiful in the winter, and convince his master that a garden could be rich with plants as well as cleanly perfect in shapes made with stones.

‘The earl wants you,’ the servant said, emphasising the new title, reflecting the pleasure the whole household felt. ‘The earl wants you in his private chamber.’

John straightened up, sensing trouble. ‘I’ll have to wash and change my clothes,’ he said, gesturing to his muddy hands and his rough breeches.

‘He said, at once.’

John went towards the house at a run, entered through the side door from the Royal Court, crossed the great hall, silent and warm in the afternoon quiet after the hubbub of the midday dinner, and then went through the small door behind the lord’s throne which led to his private apartments.

A couple of pageboys and menservants were tidying the outer room, a couple of the lord’s gentlemen gambling on cards at a small table. John went past them and tapped on the door. The sound of the Irish harp playing a lament abruptly stopped and a voice called: ‘Come in!’

John opened the door a crack and sidled into the room. His lordship was, unusually, alone, seated at his desk with his harp on his knee. John was instantly wary.

‘I came at once; but I’m dirty,’ he said.

He wanted Robert Cecil to glance up, but the man’s face was down, looking at the harp on his lap. John could not see him, nor read his expression.

‘The man said it was urgent –’