"But you will come? There is much I would ask you."

She looked up at me with a surprising urgency, her hand lingering on my arm; I nodded briefly as her father appeared at her shoulder and levelled an enquiring gaze at me. I shook his hand, thanked him for the meal, and bade the company good night.

I WAS GLAD to emerge into the cool of the passageway; the rain had stopped and the night air smelled fresh and inviting after the heavy warmth of the rector's lodgings. I thought I might walk in the orchard garden to clear my head and digest before retiring, but as I reached the end of the passageway I realised that the iron gate had been closed. When I tried the ring set as a handle, I found it was firmly locked.

"Doctor Bruno!" called a voice behind me, and I turned to see Roger Mercer standing at the other end of the passage, by the rector's door. He took a few paces toward me. "You wished to take a turn in the grove?" He gestured toward the closed gate.

"Is this not permitted?"

"The grove is exclusively for the use of the Fellows," he said, "and only we and the rector have keys. It is kept locked at night, for fear the undergraduates would make use of it for all manner of improper trysts. No doubt they find alternative places, if they can slip past the main gate," he added, with an indulgent smile.

"They are not allowed out of the college at night?" I asked. "That does seem a hard confinement on men in the prime of youth."

"It is meant to teach them self-discipline," Mercer said. "Most of them find ways around the rules, though-I know I did at their age." He chuckled. "Cobbett, the porter, is a good old man, he's been here for years, but he is willing to look the other way for a few coins if the young ones come back from town after the gates are locked. He likes a drink too, Cobbett-sometimes I think he conveniently forgets to lock the gate altogether."

"Does the rector not discipline him?"

"The rector is severe in some matters, but in others he shows a shrewd understanding of how best to manage a community of young men. A rod of iron is not always the wisest course-sometimes good leadership is a matter of knowing when to turn a blind eye. Young men will go to taverns and whorehouses whether we like it or no, and the greater the force used in prohibition, the greater the allure."

"As Doctor Bernard said about forbidden books," I mused.

Mercer glanced at me sideways as we emerged from the other end of the passage into the open courtyard, where the clock on the north range proclaimed the hour to be almost nine.

"You must excuse Doctor Bernard some of his harshness," he said, apologetically. "He has had to change his religion three times under four different sovereigns. He was ordained as a priest in his youth, you know, before the queen's father broke with Rome. But he grows more and more outspoken of late, and I begin to suspect that he suffers that affliction of old men, where he is sometimes lost in memory and not clear to whom he speaks."

"He seemed lucid enough to me. But angry."

"Yes." Mercer sighed. "He is angry-at the world, the university, at what has been demanded of him and at himself for what he has done. And you must be wondering at his anger toward me." He glanced at me again, almost timid.

"He spoke bitterly of exile."

"He meant the trouble last year over our subrector, Edmund Allen, I expect you have heard. William was close to him, as was I, but I was obliged to testify against him to the Chancellor's Court for certain matters regarding his religious practices. William considers this an unforgivable betrayal."

"And you?" I asked softly.

Mercer gave a small, bitter laugh.

"Oh, I acted according to my duty and to save my skin, and now I have the subrector's gown and his well-appointed room in the tower. William was right. I betrayed a friend. But I had no choice, and neither did he. You see the life we have here, Bruno?" He gestured at the windows of the rector's lodgings, still glowing with amber light from the candles. "It is a good life, a comfortable life for a scholar-we are sheltered in many ways from the world. And I-I am not fitted for any work but the life of books and learning. I lack the worldly ambition to push myself forward. If I had not publicly condemned my friend for his perfidy in religion, I would have shared his fate and lost everything. And at that point his fate was not known-the Privy Council allowed the university to conduct his trial, but there was every chance the matter would be handed to them, and Edmund might have been facing a worse punishment than exile." He shuddered. "So I am not proud of my actions, no, but William Bernard has no right to rail against me. When Her Majesty took the throne and ended her sister Mary's brief reconciliation with Rome, there was a great purge in the university-all the Catholic Fellows and heads of colleges appointed by Mary were deprived of office unless they renounced the pope's authority and swore the Oath of Supremacy. William swore it quickly enough, and that oath bought him twenty-five peaceful years in this place, while his more steadfast friends were scattered to the four winds."

"And yet, in the winter of his life, it seems clear enough to anyone listening that his heart returns to the old faith."

"I think, as he nears death, he grows less concerned with the fate of his body and more fearful for his soul," Mercer said. "Perhaps if we all saw our death so close at hand, we might choose a different course, but alas, while we breathe, our fears are for our poor, weak flesh and our worldly status."

"Perhaps so. But it is the son who seems to suffer it most," I observed.

"You have met Thomas? That poor boy. He is a very able scholar, you know. At least, he was." Mercer ran both hands over his face as if washing it, a gesture of hopelessness. "I have known him since he first came to Oxford at fifteen-before his father left for Rheims, he charged me to care for Thomas like a father in his absence. Edmund understood why I had to act as I did-he forgave me. But Thomas will not forgive me for my part in Edmund's trial. I have tried to help him-with such gifts of money as are in my power, I mean-but he would rather humiliate himself slaving for that young peacock Norris than accept a penny. When I pass him in the courtyard he does not even acknowledge me, but I feel the hatred burning in him like a furnace."

"That is hard," I said. "But he is young, and the passions of the young are often as brief as they are fierce. Perhaps he will forgive you in time."

I bowed then and moved toward my staircase, keen to get to work before the hour grew too late. Mercer stepped forward and grasped my hand.

"I hope we will have a chance to talk further, Doctor Bruno," he said. "I am truly glad to have met you, and I hope I did not sound too sanctimonious in my disapproval this evening when we spoke of Agrippa and the Hermetic treatises."

"Oh, I am quite used to disapproval," I said, waving away his apology with a smile.

"You mistake my meaning. The rector is a pious man and, as I say, he can be severe when he chooses. It is prudent for those whose position depends on his good opinion to express views that accord with his own when at his table. But I have long had a great interest in these works-as a scholar, I mean, for I believe that one can study the occult philosophies objectively yet still remain a good Christian. Is it not so, Bruno?"

"Ficino thought so," I replied. "And I hope he was right, Doctor Mercer, else I am damned."

"Please-call me Roger," he said warmly. "Well, I shall look forward to our next discussion on these matters."

With that, he bowed and strode away across the courtyard. I turned toward my room just as fat drops of rain began once more to fall from a brooding sky.