PROLOGUE

June 29, 1613

From the river, it looked as if two suns were setting over London.

One was sinking in the west, streaming ribbons of glory in pink and melon and gold. It was the second sun, though, that had conjured an unruly flotilla of boats and barges, skiffs and wherries, onto the dark surface of the Thames: across from the broken tower of St Paul's, a sullen orange sphere looked to have missed the horizon altogether and rammed itself into the southern bank. Hunkering down amid the taverns and brothels of Southwark, it spiked vicious blades of flame at the night.

It wasn't, of course, another sun, though men who fancied themselves poets sent that conceit rippling from boat to boat. It was, or had been, a building. The most famous of London's famed theatres, the hollow wooden O, round seat of the city's dreams, the great Globe itself, was burning. And all of London had turned out on the water to watch.

The Earl of Suffolk included. "Upon Sodom and Gomorrah, the Lord rained down fire from heaven," purred the Earl, gazing south from the floating palace of his private barge. In his office of Lord Chamberlain of England, Suffolk ran the King's court. Such a disaster befalling the King's Men, His Majesty's own beloved company of actors who not only played at the Globe when they weren't playing at court, but who owned the place, might have been expected to disturb him. To scuff, at the very least, the sheen of his pleasure. But the two men sitting with him beneath the silken awning gave no sign of surprise as they sipped wine, contemplating the catastrophe.

Their silence left Suffolk unsatisfied. "Gorgeous, isn't it?" he prompted.

"Gaudy," snapped his white-haired uncle, the Earl of Northampton, still lean and elegant in his mid-seventies.

The youngest of the three, Suffolk's son and heir, Theophilus, Lord Howard de Walden, leaned forwards with the intensity of a young lion eyeing prey. "Our revenge will burn even brighter in the morning, when Mr Shakespeare and company learn the truth."

Northampton fixed his great-nephew with hooded eyes. "Mr Shakespeare and his company, as you put it, will learn nothing of the kind."

For a heartbeat, Theo sat frozen in his great-uncle's stare. Then he rose and hurled his goblet forwards into the bottom of the barge, splattering servants' saffron-yellow liveries with dark leopard spots of wine. "They have mocked my sister on the public stage," he cried. "No amount of conniving by old men shall deprive my honour of satisfaction."

"My lord nephew," said Northampton over his shoulder to Suffolk. "With remarkable consistency, your offspring exhibit an unfortunate strain of rashness. I do not know whence it comes. It is not a Howard trait."

His attention flicked back to Theo, whose right hand was closing and opening convulsively over the hilt of his sword. "Gloating over one's enemies is a simpleton's revenge," said the old Earl. "Any peasant can achieve it." At his nod, a servant offered another goblet to Theo, who took it with poor grace. "Far more enthralling," continued Northampton, "to commiserate with your foe and force him to offer you thanks, even as he suspects you, but cannot say why."

As he spoke, a small skiff drew up alongside the barge. A man slid over the rail and glided towards Northampton, shunning the light like a wayward shadow slinking home to its body. "Anything worth doing at all, as Seyton here will tell you," continued Northampton, "is worth doing exquisitely. Who does it is of little consequence. Who knows who did it is of no consequence at all." Seyton knelt before the old Earl, who put a hand on his shoulder. "My lord of Suffolk and my sulking great-nephew are as curious as I am to hear your report."

The man cleared his throat softly. His voice, like the rest of his clothing and even his eyes, was of an indeterminate hue between grey and black. "It began, my lord, when the players' gunner took sick unexpected this morning. His substitute seems to have loaded the cannon with loose wadding. One might even suspect it had been soaked in pitch." His mouth curved in what might have been a sly smile.

"Go on," said Northampton with a wave.

"The play this afternoon was a relatively new one, called All Is True. About King Henry the Eighth."

"Great Harry," murmured Suffolk, trailing one hand in the water. "The old Queen's father. Dangerous territory."

"In more ways than one, my lord," answered Seyton. "The play calls for a masque and parade, including a cannon salute. The gun duly fired, but the audience was so taken with the flummery onstage that no one noticed sparks landing on the roof. By the time someone smelled smoke, the roof thatch was ringed with fire, and there was nothing to do but flee."

"Casualties?"

"Two injured." His eyes flickered towards Theo. "A man called Shelton."

Theo started. "How?" he stammered. "Hurt how?"

"Burned. Not badly. But spectacularly. From my perch, a fine one, if I may say so, I saw him take control of the scene, organising the retreat from the building. Just when it seemed everyone had got out, a young girl appeared at an upper window. A pretty thing, with wild dark hair and mad eyes. A witch child, if ever I saw one.

"Before anyone could stop him, Mr Shelton ran back inside. Minutes passed, and the crowd began to weep, when he leapt through a curtain of fire with the girl in his arms, his backside aflame. One of the Southwark queens tossed a barrel of ale at him, and he disappeared again, this time in a cloud of steam. It turned out that his breeches had caught fire, but he was, miraculously, little more than scorched."

"Where is he?" cried Theo. "Why have you not brought him back with you?"

"I hardly know the man, my lord," demurred Seyton. "And besides, he's the hero of the hour. I could not disentangle him from the crowd with any sort of discretion."

With a glance of distaste at his great-nephew, Northampton leaned forwards. "The child?"

"Unconscious," said Seyton.

"Pity," said the old Earl. "But children can prove surprisingly strong." Something wordless passed between the Earl and his servant. "Perhaps she'll survive."

"Perhaps," said Seyton.

Northampton sat back. "And the gunner?"

Once again, Seyton's mouth curved in the ghost of a smile. "Nowhere to be found."

Nothing visibly altered in Northampton's face; all the same, he radiated dark satisfaction.

"It's the Globe that matters," fretted Suffolk.

Seyton sighed. "A total loss, my Lord. The building is engulfed, the tiring-house behind it, with the company's store of gowns and cloaks, foil jewels, wooden swords and shields . . . all gone. John Heminges stood in the street, blubbering for his sweet palace of a playhouse, his accounts, and most of all, his playbooks. The King's Men, my lords, are without a home."

Across the water, a great roar shot skywards. What was left of the building imploded, collapsing into a pile of ash and glimmering embers. A sudden hot gust eddied across the water, swirling with a black snowfall of soot.

Theo howled in triumph. Beside him, his father ran a fastidious hand over his hair and beard. "Mr Shakespeare will never again so much as jest at the name of Howard."

"Not in my lifetime, or in yours," said Northampton. Silhouetted by the fire, heavy eyelids drooping over inscrutable eyes, his nose sharpened by age, he looked the very essence of a demonic god carved from dark marble. "But never is an infinite long time."