"And you know he did not murder the two Catholic Fellows and the boy at Lincoln College?"

"I know that too."

"Then"-I looked up at him, seeking reassurance-"he was executed for crimes he did not commit."

"Her Majesty's government does not persecute anyone for his faith alone," Walsingham said, with a trace of impatience. "That is the official line, and it is important that the people are reminded of that often, or we shall only make more martyrs. If they believe that these Jesuits are willing to murder for their faith, it helps our cause immeasurably."

"Then all is propaganda," I said, wearily.

"This is principally a war of loyalties. We must persuade the people that their allegiance is best placed with us, by whatever means we can fashion. You saw their response today, did you not? Usually when the head is struck off, a great cry goes up from the crowd of 'Traitor! Traitor!' for they have their sport. But with this Gilbert they witnessed it in complete silence, and that must be a serious cause for concern for the Privy Council. It means the crowd did not approve of what was done today, they found it too barbaric. One more like that and they will turn against us." He shook his head. "I have suggested on numerous occasions that they should hang until they are dead, but I have been shouted down. Perhaps now the council will see reason."

"It is a brutal way to die," I agreed.

Walsingham rounded on me, his face agitated. "Worse than the burnings and massacres they inflict on Protestants? In any case, you told me you saw him kill the boy, Thomas Allen, in cold blood, and you were certain he meant to kill the girl too, though she was with child. And Philip says he would have killed you. So he was not an innocent man, Bruno. Do not pity him on that account."

"No." I acknowledged this by lowering my eyes.

"It is a hard thing to witness," Walsingham said more gently, laying a hand briefly on my arm. "No doubt you think me barbaric for insisting you watch. But I warned you that entering Her Majesty's service would not be an easy path to tread. I needed you to see that for yourself."

"He died well," Sidney cut in abruptly, as if he had been dwelling on it all this time. "With dignity."

"He bore himself with fortitude in the Tower as well," Walsingham agreed, a note of respect in his voice. "They trained him well in Rheims to endure pain. We did not get one name from him, despite long hours of work."

I winced to remember Jerome's bloody fingers and tried not to think of what more "work" might have been carried out on him.

"What will happen to Sophia?" I asked hesitantly, attempting a sip from my glass.

"Underhill's daughter? At the end of her confinement, when she is strong again, she will be questioned." Seeing my expression, he added, "It is my belief she will talk willingly, just as she gave up those letters. But she may have other names we can usefully add to those provided by you and Walter Slythurst."

He fixed me then with an intense look and I dropped my gaze to the floor; I wondered if Sidney had told him about my covering for Sophia over the letters, or if he knew that I had withheld certain names when he debriefed me after my return from Oxford. Perhaps he would have got those same names-Richard Godwyn, Humphrey Pritchard, the Widow Kenney-from Slythurst or Underhill when he questioned them, but I doubted it.

"Oh, please-this Slythurst is useless," Sidney said scathingly, rousing himself from his perch and striding across the room to pour a glass of wine. "He missed the priest right under his nose and tried to hand Bruno over to the pursuivants. Do not give him another penny, I say."

Walsingham sighed. "He was not the most efficient of my Oxford informers," he acknowledged. "He offered his services a couple of years ago to get himself out of debt. He exposed Edmund Allen by very crude means, but that only served to make the other Lincoln College papists yet more hugger-mugger. He is too greatly disliked by his colleagues ever to gain their confidence, so that all his intelligence was largely guesswork based on tavern gossip. In fact, I had warned him that he could not continue in my service without some news of more note just before you arrived-perhaps that was why he was so keen to prove himself by pointing the finger at any suspect."

"It might have helped if I had known he was your man," I said, trying to keep the reproach from my voice. "I thought him the killer at first."

"Better we all guard our secrets, Bruno. He could have turned out to be the killer. I would not have wanted your judgment wrongly coloured by sympathy." Walsingham smiled, but I thought I caught a warning note in his tone.

"That will not happen, Your Honour," I murmured, not quite meeting his eye.

"I trust it will not," he said brightly. "For now, Bruno, I need you back in the French embassy. I hear worrying reports out of Paris that the Guise faction is newly strengthened and plotting against our realm. Place yourself close to the ambassador and see what you can find."

"I will, Your Honour, to the best of my ability," I assured him.

"And now," he said, rising slowly to his feet, "Philip has some news I hope you will find welcome."

He looked expectantly to Sidney, who hooked an arm about my shoulders.

"My old tutor, John Dee, has expressed great interest in making your acquaintance, Bruno, and in showing you the treasures of his library. His house at Mortlake lies not a mile from here, and I am to take you this afternoon, if that pleases you."

"If it pleases me?" For the first time in days I felt myself stirring back into life. Though Sidney had called Jerome Gilbert's execution my triumph, since my return from Oxford I had felt no sense of achievement. In fact, I had felt nothing but intense melancholy at the thought of so many lives wasted for so little, and even my books had failed to animate me. I thought often of Sophia and how her life might be unfolding, and I had begun to fear I might no longer be capable of taking pleasure in anything. Now the prospect of Doctor Dee's library, and the slender chance that he might have some clue as to who had robbed him of the lost book of Hermes Trismegistus all those years ago, pricked my curiosity once more.

Sidney took up his cloak as Walsingham crossed to me, grasping my hand between his, those unfathomable eyes probing mine.

"You have proved your mettle, Bruno," he said, a note of fatherly pride in his voice. "Philip told me you risked your own life to bring this priest to justice and the Privy Council is grateful. I hope ours will be a long and happy association."

I thought it politic not to tell him that I had actually risked my life for a book and a girl. Since I had returned with neither, I thought, I may as well claim it was all for the English state, so I accepted his praise with a sober nod as Sidney held the door open for me. If any good had come from the bloody events I witnessed in Oxford, it had been to convince me that, now more than ever, Christendom desperately needed a new philosophy, one that would draw us together as we passed from the shadows of religious wars into the enlightenment of our shared humanity and shared divinity. It would fall to me, Giordano Bruno of Nola, to write the books that would light this fire in Europe, and with Walsingham's help, I planned to put them into the hands of a monarch with a mind equal to understanding them. When I wrote to Sophia to tell her of Jerome's courage, I would also impress upon her that it was not too late to hope for a better world.