From the anonymous depths of our hoods, my fellow congregants and I furtively regarded one another, though in the dim candlelight all the faces I glimpsed wore the same masklike effects of the dancing flames, features elongated, eyes submerged in pools of shadow. Then suddenly a tall figure across the room turned toward me; the light caught his face for a moment as his eyes met mine, and I recognised with a jolt Master Richard Godwyn, the librarian of Lincoln College. Surprise and fear registered on his face in the instant before he dropped his eyes to the floor, folding his hands prayerfully in front of him. I wondered how many of these others, if I could only see them clearly, would turn out to be men I already knew, creeping through the sleeping city under cover of darkness to live their secret forbidden life. I could not help but admire their courage, though I no longer shared their faith; after all, had I not also once risked my life in defying the beliefs the authorities prescribed for me? Was I not, in a sense, still doing so? In that moment, glancing around the little congregation of fourteen souls, I was seized by the enormity of my own task there. I was the wolf in sheep's clothing, the one who wore the same uniform and would speak the same responses, but beneath my right arm I felt the weight of Sir Francis Walsingham's purse-money I carried to betray these defiant faithful people to prison or perhaps to death. It was all very well for Walsingham to talk in the abstract about the threat to the realm, but could this little Mass really be considered treason? I found it hard to believe that any of the ordinary people gathered here in the night to celebrate a rite denied them on pain of death were secretly plotting to assassinate the queen or tip off French forces. Was their faith alone sufficient reason to deliver them up to the Privy Council's version of justice, I thought, and could I justify that to my own conscience? I remembered Thomas Allen's palpable fear of the interrogation methods the queen's ministers used against those it accused of treason. I felt suddenly horribly exposed, as if my treacherous intent could be visible to those around me; at that moment a hand closed tightly around my wrist and I raised my eyes to find myself staring into the luminous blue eyes of Rowland Jenkes. He gave me a hard look, then nodded at me once in what I took to be affirmation, an almost-smile flickered over his lips, and he let go of my arm, turning expectantly toward the door through which we had entered.

A stillness descended on us, an audible intake of breath as the door began to open and I felt in that small room, as I had not for many years, a tiny shiver along my spine at the old magic of the Mass. These people among whom I stood, disguised, truly believed that they were in the presence of a holy mystery, believed it with a pure faith that I had long forgotten, and it was this, I thought, that a man like Walsingham could not hope to understand. It was the belief in this miracle that would draw them back time after time, despite the threats of death and punishment, defiantly to keep this flame alive, and the honesty of their faith was a little humbling.

The priest who had entered wore a white garment like an alb that reached to his feet, though it was hooded and the hood drawn up, obscuring his face. A green stole hung around his neck. He took his few steps to the altar with solemn dignity, eyes downcast but his bearing erect, holding out the veiled chalice before him. Upon reaching the altar, he made a deep bow, and I saw from the manner of it that he was not a young man and that the physical gesture cost him. But I could not prevent myself from gasping when he straightened and drew back his hood; the celebrant priest was Doctor William Bernard.

He laid the chalice reverently on the left side of the altar, lifted a green velvet burse from on top, and with forefinger and thumb removed the delicate corporal from the burse, unfolded and laid the white linen square in the centre of the altar. Then he placed the veiled chalice carefully on top. The server who accompanied him shuffled nervously; he could not have been more than nineteen, a student, I guessed, and could not help flicking nervous glances around him as he stood, bareheaded, at Bernard's shoulder, as exposed in all this hooded company as if he had been naked.

Facing the altar, Bernard made the sign of the cross from forehead to breastbone and from left shoulder to right with his right hand.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."

The air in the small room seemed charged, all of us poised there as if on a knife edge, our nerves taut with the danger involved in this rite unfolding before us, of which we were all part-even I, who also stood outside it, I too was implicated. Every sudden unfamiliar noise-the cry of an owl, the creak of the inn's old timbers-caused a stiffening among the congregation, an invisible wave of fear that caught and held us for a moment, before the soft hush of breath cautiously released.

"Introibo ad altare Dei," pronounced Bernard, quiet authority in his voice.

The wind gusted suddenly through the wooden shutters, billowing out the black cloths over the windows and making the candles gutter wildly; the young server swivelled his head around in panic, as if someone might have entered, but Bernard proceeded, solemn and imperturbable, with the ceremony he performed as if its every word and gesture were ingrained in his very nature.

There was no music, and the responses of the congregation were muted, barely whispered, as if someone might be listening at the door. We knelt as one as the Mass progressed according to its prescribed rhythms, and I remembered again, with a stab of nostalgia, how those words and gestures had framed my own life for so many years; now, as I repeated the phrases, it was as if they no longer had life in them. Bernard took the Host from a small brass pyx, and after he had elevated it and drunk from the chalice, he turned to face the congregation.

"Ecce Agnus Dei, ecce qui tollit peccata mundi," he intoned, and I raised my head to find his watery eyes boring directly into me. My breath caught in my throat; in that moment it seemed he had penetrated my disguise and seen straight through to the very secrets of my soul. In case I had mistaken the look, beside me Jenkes laid a warning hand on my arm. I understood his meaning; though I had been admitted among the faithful that night, Jenkes and Bernard had not forgotten that I was excommunicate. I was not to think of taking the Host with the rest. They need not have feared; I had not taken communion since I left the monastery, out of some vestige of respect or superstition, or both. But as the small congregation rushed forward, dropping to their knees with mouths hungrily gaping open like baby birds, I shrank back toward the wall, afraid that my nonparticipation would mark me out clearly as a spy; this was, after all, the heart of the rite and abstinence would immediately provoke suspicion. But perhaps Jenkes had warned them beforehand, because although my withdrawal attracted a few curious glances, these were fleeting, and I blended back into the group, muttering "Deo gratias" to Bernard's "Benedicamus Domino."

With the Mass said, the atmosphere of charged anticipation seemed to dissolve, and the congregation appeared restless and anxious to be gone. I kept my place by the door as they began to file out, peering as closely as I could into hooded faces as they passed me, dropping my eyes if they returned my gaze. Jenkes's long fingers closed around my wrist, signalling me to stay while the others left. One of the last to leave, a short figure with his hands tucked beneath his cloak in a monkish posture, paused and looked directly at me; at that moment the candles guttered again and I gasped as the sudden surge of light showed me his face. Adam, the rector's servant, stared back at me, mirroring my own expression of disbelief. He hesitated a moment, as if unsure whether to speak, but Jenkes gave him a hard look and he hurried through the door with the rest.