I noticed his hands were shaking and his breathing had quickened; the memory was obviously difficult for him.

"Did they use force?"

"No, sir. But they argued as lawyers do, they twisted every answer I gave until it sounded like the opposite meaning, and I became so confused and afraid I found myself agreeing to statements that I knew were not true. It is strange the way that someone who wants to find you guilty can start to make you believe in your own guilt, even when you know you are innocent. I was afraid I would condemn myself by mistake, sir. It was a horrible experience."

"I can imagine," I said, with feeling, remembering the fear that had gripped at my guts when the abbot had told me I would be questioned by the Inquisition all those years ago. "And you are afraid you will be questioned again if it becomes known that your father is to become a Jesuit priest?"

He nodded, finally looking directly at me. "If they refused to believe me before, how much worse will it be when they know he is part of the Jesuit mission? What if they take me to London for questioning? I have heard tales of what they do there to get the information they want. They can make you say anything."

I remembered my conversation with Walsingham in his garden and shivered involuntarily. Thomas's narrow, pointed face was stretched tight with fear, his skin so pale that a tracery of blue veins stood out at his temples like a river delta inked on a map. There was no doubt that this fear was real and vivid.

"The authorities would believe you know enough to make hard questioning worthwhile?" I asked.

"I know nothing, sir!" he protested, his cheeks flaming again with emotion. "But I am not brave-I do not know what I might be capable of saying if they hurt me!"

"Tell me the truth, Thomas," I said firmly. "I cannot help you if you do not. Are you afraid that you will betray your father's secrets, and the secrets of his confederates, if you are threatened with torture?"

"I never wanted this knowledge, sir," he whispered, his voice cracking as he blinked back tears. "I told my father so, but he wanted me to share in it. He was determined to bring me to the Roman faith, he wanted me to go with him to France, so he wouldn't have to choose between his son and his church. I suppose he thought if he confided in me about his meetings, I would feel some complicity, some loyalty toward his friends. Instead I am trapped by all these secrets I never asked to be told. I am suffering for a faith I don't even share!" he cried, bringing his fist down on the table.

"You have never thought of offering up these secrets voluntarily?" I ventured. "You must know the Earl of Leicester would surely reward anyone who could give him such information about the Catholic resistance in Oxford as you must have."

Thomas stared at me as if it was taking him some time to process the meaning of my words.

"Of course I have thought of it. Have you ever seen the execution of a Catholic in England, Doctor Bruno?"

I confessed that I had not.

"I have. My father took me to London to see the death of Edmund Campion and his fellow Jesuits, in December of 1581. I think he wanted me to understand what was at stake." He passed a hand across his brow and squeezed his eyes hard shut, as if this might blot out the scenes he had witnessed. "They were sliced open like pigs in the slaughterhouse and their guts torn from their living bodies, wound around a spindle to pull them out slower. You can hear them still crying out to God while their entrails are held aloft to please the crowd and their hearts thrown in the brazier. I could not bear to watch, Doctor Bruno, but I looked at my father's face and he was rapt, as if it were the most glorious spectacle he had ever witnessed. But I could not willingly deliver anyone to that fate. I don't want anyone else's blood on my hands, sir, I just want to be left alone!" His voice rose to a frantic pitch and he clutched at his bandaged wrist.

"Thomas," I began, and broke off as the serving girl arrived with fresh tankards of beer. When she had set them down, I leaned in, carefully lowering my voice. "Are there other Catholics here in Oxford who know that your father told you about them? I mean, people who know you do not share their faith, and might be afraid that you would betray them if you were questioned?"

Immediately he looked away.

"Are you also afraid that those people would try to silence you before you could hurt them? Like they did with Roger Mercer?"

"I can't say any more, Doctor Bruno." His voice was trembling now. "I swear, you don't want that knowledge either. I only wanted to ask if you might find a time to speak on my behalf to Sir Philip, to beg his patronage and assure him that I am a true Englishman, loyal to the queen and to the English church."

"I thought you had stopped believing in God," I said, with a smile.

"What has the Church to do with God?" he countered, almost smiling in return. From somewhere beyond the windows, a church bell began to peal distantly. Thomas jumped as if he had been stung. "Doctor Bruno-I hope this won't seem ungrateful, but I should get back to college. Gabriel will be returning from lectures soon and I have work still to do."

It seemed to me that he was suddenly anxious to end the conversation; perhaps he had not anticipated so many questions in return for the favour he wanted. I drained the last of my beer and paid the landlord, feeling a twinge of guilt as I saw the undisguised envy with which Thomas watched me take coins from Walsingham's plump purse. If he knew that I had been given this money by the very people whose attention he feared, for the exact purpose of winkling out the kind of secrets his father kept, whatever respect he professed for me would vanish like yesterday's mist.

Out of the thick warmth of the tavern, the rain had set in again and a chill wind drove it sideways into our faces. Thomas pulled his gown tighter around him as we walked along the High Street under the shadows of the dripping eaves in silence, sunk deep into his own thoughts while I tried to fit what I had just learned with the matter of Mercer's and Coverdale's deaths. We had almost reached the turning to St. Mildred's Lane when I remembered there was something else I had wanted to ask him.

"You said you have no friends here, Thomas, but do you not count Mistress Sophia Underhill?" I said, slowing my pace so that we would not arrive at the college gate before he had a chance to answer.

He looked at me with some surprise.

"There was a time, I suppose, when I considered her a friend. But I think she regards me rather as she does her dolls-something that amused her in childhood, but which she outgrew and put aside."

"Because of your father's disgrace?"

"No." Thomas sidestepped a puddle that had formed in the rutted lane, the sole of one of his shoes flapping open with each step he took. "She grew out of me long before that. When my mother died and my father decided to come back to Oxford at the earl's request, I was made to lodge with a family in the town-you know only the rector may live with a wife and family in college, the other Fellows are supposed to be bachelors. But the rector's family took pity on me, and my father and I were often invited to dine at their table-I was supposed to be company for young John, the son who died, but of course I noticed Sophia." He sighed and appeared to stoop even further, as if the memory of those days was a physical weight on his shoulders. "Then John was killed and Sophia's father decided to rein her in. He had ambitions for her to make a grand marriage and her mother was supposed to be preparing her by taking her into society, but Mistress Underhill took ill with her nerves after John's death, and Sophia was left to herself with no company but the men in college. There were governesses but they never lasted long." He laughed ruefully. "I do not blame them-I should not like to try and teach Sophia anything against her will."