'Too long. The years drift by so fast these days.' He gave a sigh. 'But they have been kinder to me than to Sam.'

'Does he know that I'm coming?' asked Nicholas.

'Not yet.'

'I've no wish to intrude upon an old friendship.'

'It's no intrusion. You're here to help Sam.'

'How?'

'You'll find a way, Nick. You always do.'

They strode on vigorously through the scuffling dark.

Even though it lay fairly close to his lodging, the Hope and Anchor was not one of Nicholas's regular haunts. There was something irremediably squalid about the place and its murky interior housed rogues, pimps, punks, thieves, pickpockets, gamblers, cheaters and all manner of masterless men. Ill-lit by a few stinking tallow candles, the tavern ran to rough wooden benches and tables, a settle and a cluster of low stools. Loamed walls were streaked with grime and the rushes on the stone-flagged floor were old and noisome. A dog snuffled for rats in one corner.

The Hope and Anchor was full and the noise deafening. An old sailor was trying to sing a sea shanty above the din. A card game broke up in a fierce argument. Two drunken watermen thumped on their table for service. Prostitutes laughed shrilly as they blandished their customers. A fog of tobacco and dark purpose filled the whole tavern.

Nicholas Bracewell and Will Fowler sat side by side on the settle and tried to carry on a conversation with Samuel Ruff, who was perched on a stool on the other side of the table. All three drank bottle-ale. It had a brackish taste.

Nicholas glanced around the place with candid surprise.

'You lodge here, Samuel?' he said.

'For my sins.'

'Can it be safe?'

'I sleep with one hand on my dagger.'

'And the other on your codpiece,' said Fowler with a grin. 'These drabs will give you the pox as soon as they breathe on you, then charge you for the privilege.'