"As always, my lord, I am vigilant." Will pretended to agree with Walsingham's assessment of his motivations, but in truth the principal secretary didn't have the slightest inkling of what drove Will, and never would. Will took some pleasure in knowing that a part of him would always remain his own, however painful.

As the carriage trundled over the ruts, the carnal sounds and smells of Bankside receded. Through the window, Will noticed a light burning high up in the heart of the City across the river, the warning beacon at the top of the lightning-blasted spire of Saint Paul's.

"This is it, then," he said quietly.

"Blood has been spilled. Lives have been ruined. The clock begins to tick."

"I did not think it would be so soon. Why now?"

"You will receive answers shortly. We knew it was coming." After a pause, he said gravely, "William Osborne is dead, his eyes put out, his bones crushed at the foot of the White Tower."

"Death alone was not enough for them."

"He did it to himself."

Will considered Osborne's last moments and what could have driven him to such a gruesome end.

"Master Mayhew survived, though injured," Walsingham continued.

"You have never told me why they were posted to the Tower."

Walsingham did not reply. The carriage trundled towards London Bridge, the entrance closed along with the City's gates every night when the Bow Bells sounded.

Echoing from the river's edge came the agonised cries of the prisoners chained to the posts in the mud along the banks, waiting for the tide to come in to add to their suffering. Above the gates, thirty spiked decomposing heads of traitors were a warning of a worse fate to those who threatened the established order.