He took his dinner at an inn by the river and then found he was too weary to face the journey back to Theobalds. He headed instead for his lord’s house near Whitehall, where Tradescant might always command a bed. He shared an attic room with two other men, saying that he had been sent to the docks for some rarity promised by an East India trader but which had proved to be nothing.

When all the clocks in London struck eight, John went down to the great hall and found his master, as if by magic, also resident in London calmly seated to break his fast at the big chair at the head of the big table at the top of the hall. Robert Cecil raised an eyebrow at him, John returned the smallest nod, and master and man, at either end of the hall, fell on their bread and cheese and small ale and ate with relish.

Cecil summoned him with a crook of his long finger. ‘I have a small task for you today and then you can go back to Theobalds,’ he said.

John waited.

‘There is a little room in Whitehall where some kindling is stored. I should like it damped down to prevent the danger of a fire.’

John frowned, his eyes on his master’s impish face. ‘My lord?’

‘I’ve got a lad who will show you where to go,’ Cecil continued smoothly. ‘Take a couple of buckets and make sure the whole thing is soaked through. And come away without being observed, my John.’

‘If there is a danger of fire I should clear it all out,’ John offered. He had the sense of swimming in deep and dangerous water and knew that this was his master’s preferred element.

‘I’ll clear it out when I know who laid the fire in the first place,’ Cecil said, very low. ‘Just damp it down for me now.’

‘Then I’ll get back to my garden,’ Tradescant said.

Cecil grinned at the firmness of the statement. ‘Then your job is finished here, go and plant something. My work is coming into its flowering time.’