"I understand," I said quickly. "Perhaps, then, I could knock for you, and you could let me out and lock the gate again behind me?"

He looked doubtful. "Well, I could, sir. And would I have to keep awake until you returned?"

"I don't know how long it will take, but I could knock on the window for you to let me back in."

"We can try that if you like, sir," he said, still sounding unconvinced. "But you must swear no one in Lincoln will hear of it or I will be for the chop."

"I swear it. I will vanish like a thief in the night." I thanked him and stepped out into the damp quadrangle, still shadowed by a heavy grey sky, my head aching with these new revelations.

A damp chill hung over the courtyard as I peered out from the mouth of my staircase at twenty minutes to midnight, though the heavy clouds that had brought the day's punishing rain had broken at last to allow the merest glimmer of moonlight to illuminate the slick flagstones. I was grateful for the pale light, since it had allowed me to read the clock on the north range from my window-I had been pacing my room in a state of pent-up anticipation since the end of supper-but I was now anxious that I should not also find myself lit up like a spectacle as I tried to leave the college unobserved. Keeping close in to the shadows, I crept the length of the south-range wall and then along the west toward the tower, praying that Cobbett would be awake. Twice I started at a noise, thinking I had heard something stirring in the opposite corner, pressing myself tight against the damp stone, but eventually convinced myself that I had heard nothing except for the nocturnal antics of a fox or owl outside the walls, a noise now dulled by the thudding of my own blood in my ears. All the windows facing the courtyard were dark, save for a flickering light in the upper storey of the rector's lodgings; if Sophia had still not come home, I thought, no wonder the poor man could not sleep. As I passed the west range, I wondered if Gabriel Norris and Thomas Allen had returned; neither had been present at supper and it seemed strange that both should have disappeared after the discovery of Ned's body. William Bernard was also missing, an absence more noticeable for the fact that none of his colleagues had mentioned it at high table, despite the frequent glances at his empty place.

Under the tower archway, I tapped gently on Cobbett's little arched window; I was pleased to see that candlelight burned within and to my surprise, the door opened almost immediately. Pressing a grimy finger to his lips, the old porter shuffled with painful slowness toward the gate, a small lantern in his right hand, glancing fearfully out at the shadowy courtyard as he did so. He handed me the lantern and I watched as his arthritic fingers sorted expertly through the enormous bunch of keys hanging from his belt, selecting one with barely a sound. The gate creaked in complaint as it opened, the sound like nothing so much as the trunk of an ancient tree bending in a storm, and we both froze for a moment until we were satisfied that there was no movement from the buildings behind us.

Cobbett motioned to me to keep the lantern.

"Tap on the street window when you come back," he reminded me in a hoarse whisper. "Never fear, I shall hear you. And take care abroad in the streets, sir. Have your wits about you." His face in the candlelight was unusually serious, so I nodded with equal solemnity as I stepped through the gate into the mire of St. Mildred's Lane. The hinges groaned mightily again as Cobbett heaved the gate closed behind me, and a moment later I heard his key turning in the lock with an ominous finality.

I had barely passed the walls of Jesus College and was almost upon the place where St. Mildred's Lane meets Sommer Lane when I whipped around sharply on my heels, my hand on the knife, convinced now that I had heard the unmistakable sound of a footstep in a puddle somewhere at my back. I held the lantern up, peering frantically into the blackness of the lane I had just walked along, but its circle of light barely reached beyond the length of my arm and only made the darkness seem more impenetrable. I almost called out for whoever was there to show himself but stopped myself at the last moment, thinking it best not to draw more attention to myself.

I trudged on through the muddy street, staying close to the solid blackness of the city wall on my right as I followed its line down Sommer Lane toward the north gate. Again, the quiet splash of a footfall behind me, like the ones my own boots were making in the brimming ruts left in the road from the day's rain; again I spun around, this time drawing the knife, hissing "Who's there?" in so low a voice as to be barely audible. This time I was sure I detected something in the deep shadows; not so much a movement as a stirring of the air, the chill mist reassembling itself into the space where a man had been moments earlier. I had no doubt now that someone was following me, but only a few yards ahead I saw the reassuring bulk of St. Michael's church hard against the city wall, and beside it the lights on the watchtower over the gate. I took a deep breath and, replacing the knife at my belt, reached inside the pocket of my breeches for the few coins I had earlier taken out as bribes for the watchmen, thinking it best not to let them see the full purse I carried.

Two young men carrying pikes and smelling strongly of ale stepped forward halfheartedly as I neared the gate.

"State your business," the taller one said, as if he did not care either way. He ostentatiously bit the groat I handed him in front of me, while I anxiously glanced over my shoulder for any sign of my pursuer, but I could see nothing beyond the spheres of lamplight. When my bribe was judged authentic, I was ushered through the gate and found myself alone outside the city wall.

THE INN YARD was shrouded in shadow, overhung by a muffled silence which seemed taut with anticipation. I could see no light in any of the windows, and the only illumination came from my little lantern. From somewhere in the dense dark to my right came the soft whinney of a horse, the shifting of its weight in slumber, close by. I held up the light to see where I should go.

"Put that out, you fool. Would you have the watchmen on us?" hissed a man's voice at my ear, his breath warm against my cheek. My heart leaped and I almost dropped the lantern with the shock, but managed to reach inside the glass and snuff out the candle. The figure who had spoken overtook me and crossed the yard without hesitation, his cloak swishing around his legs as he walked. A sliver of moonlight penetrated the clouds and in its thin gleam I saw other shadows come to life, more figures gliding silently through the still air to the back of the inn building, all cloaked and hooded. For a moment the sight reminded me of rising for Matins in the early hours at San Domenico, the hooded figures looking like nothing so much as the monks among whom I had spent my youth. I followed the shapes I could barely see and reached a small door, which closed just as I reached it. I could just make out the shape of a grille at head height, so I leaned toward it and whispered, "Ora pro nobis." For a moment there was only silence, but then the door opened a crack and out of the shadows a pale hand beckoned me inside.

I slipped through the gap into a narrow passageway which, from the smell of stale food, appeared to run alongside the inn's kitchen. From his sheer size, I guessed that the person who had admitted me was young Humphrey Pritchard, the potboy; whether he had recognised me, I did not know. He ushered me along the passage, which ended in a rickety-looking staircase that curved around to the next floor. One tallow candle burned low in a sconce halfway up, filling the narrow stairwell with its bitter smoke. Footsteps creaked on the stairs behind me and I hastened my climb, emerging onto a landing with a low, beamed ceiling and uneven floor. I noticed the small windows had been hung with black cloth to prevent the candlelight from showing to the world outside. Still unsure of where to go, I followed the landing to its end, where a low door stood ajar; tentatively pushing this open, I found myself in a small room crowded with hooded figures who stood expectantly, heads bowed, all facing a makeshift altar at one end, where three wax candles burned cleanly in tall wrought-silver holders before a dark wooden crucifix bearing a silver figure of Christ crucified.