Wearing a coronet and pearls in red hair that was a mass of tight curls, she had a pale, distinguished face with a high forehead, fine nose and full lips. Her regal beauty had an ageless quality that was enhanced by a remarkable pair of eyes. Dark, shrewd and watchful, they managed to combine authority with femininity and-when the sun hit them at a certain angle-they even hinted at roguishness. Nobody who met her imperious gaze could fail to recognize her as Elizabeth Tudor, Queen of England.

Bright colours had been used on the inn sign. Enough of the neck and shoulders was included to show that she was dressed in the Spanish fashion, with a round, stiff-laced collar above a dark bodice fitted with satin sleeves which were richly decorated with ribbons, pearls and gems. A veritable waterfall of pearls flowed from her neck and threatened to cascade down from the timber on which they were painted. The same opulence shone with vivid effect on the reverse side of the sign. Royalty was at its most resplendent.

London was the biggest, busiest and most boisterous city in Europe, a thriving community which had grown up in the serpentine twists of the River Thames and which was already thrusting out beyond its boundary walls. Poverty and wealth, stench and sweetness, anarchy and order, misery and magnificence were all elements in the city's daily life. From her high eminence in Gracechurch Street, the queen's head saw and heard everything that was going on in her beloved capital.

'Ned, that gown will need a stitch or two.'

'Yes, master.'

'You can sweep the stage now, Thomas.'

'The broom is ready in my hand, Master Bracewell.'

'George, fetch the rushes.'

'Where are they?'

'Where you will find them, lad. About it straight.'

'Yes, master.'

'Peter!'

'It was not our fault, Nicholas.'

'We must speak about that funeral march.'