He took the piece of cloth he had brought and moved to secure it around my mouth.

"The trapdoor does not open from the inside," he remarked as he did so. "And the walls are so thick that no one will hear you scream, but just in case."

"Jerome-wait," I said, holding up my hands as he lifted the cloth.

"Yes?" His eyes widened, almost touchingly eager, perhaps hoping that I had changed my mind about repentance.

"Leave me the light," I whispered, hearing the tremor in my voice.

He nodded once before securing the cloth over my mouth, then turned and moved back toward the opening that led to the small garderobe. I watched as his fine leather boots disappeared up into the square of daylight, before the hatch slid into place with barely a click, and I was left alone, bricked into the wall of the house, unable to move or speak, feeling that I had been buried alive.

The last I remember is thinking that I would even be relieved to see Jenkes, as I battled the sense that my chest was swelling to bursting point, my breath trapped under my ribs as I was trapped in the priest-hole, the little vision afforded me by the candle blurring and wavering as I lost all feeling in my hands and feet and a strange, welcome light-headedness, almost as if I were under water, carried me away through the flickering light into blackness.

I was returned abruptly to my senses as I hit the brick floor hard on my side. The candle had long burned out but a faint square of light entered through the open trapdoor. I blinked hard but could only make out shadows against the darkness. A pair of strong arms grappled me awkwardly toward the hatch, where other hands gripped me beneath my armpits and hoisted me up into the garderobe. Dazed and half conscious as I was, I squinted and tried to open my eyes, expecting to look into the triumphant eyes of Rowland Jenkes, but the man who had pulled me from the hide was dressed in some kind of soldier's uniform I did not recognise. He pushed me roughly down the steps into the chamber, now brightly lit by a sun that was high overhead. I stumbled and came to rest on my knees at the feet of a short, sandy-haired man with a foxy face, a neat, pointed beard, and wide moustaches, dressed in a green doublet. He stroked his beard, looked at me with satisfaction for some moments, then nodded. The man in soldier's uniform reached for his dagger and brought it up to my face. I tried to wrench my head away, screaming to no avail through the cloth gag, but the soldier neatly slipped the point of his dagger behind the cloth and cut through it, tearing the pieces from my mouth.

"That's him, sir," said another voice. I looked up to see the man who had given me passage through the east gate of Oxford, still in his watchman's livery.

"Now," said the fox-faced man. "Where is your accomplice?"

I stared up at him, uncomprehending.

"Answer me, you papist dog," he said, kicking me soundly in the stomach.

"I don't understand," I gasped, the little breath I had recovered knocked out of me once more.

"What did you say?" The fox-faced man stepped forward with sudden interest, crouching so that his face was close to mine. "Speak again in the queen's English, you filthy piece of shit."

"I have no accomplice," I managed to croak.

"What accent is that you have?"

"I am Italian. But I-"

"As I thought. Sent by the Jesuits in Rome, no doubt. Well, we have found your hiding place now, Padre. I'm afraid not all of Lady Tolling's servants are as loyal as she might have hoped. Do you know who I am?"

"No, but I am no Jesuit-" I began, but the man lifted a hand and slapped me soundly around the face.

"Silence! You will have time enough to make your defence hereafter, when you have told us where to find your friend. I am Master John Newell, county pursuivant of Oxfordshire. State your name-and do not waste our time with one of your aliases. We will have the truth from you sooner or later."

Relief flooded over me, despite my smarting face. The man was obnoxious, but at that moment I could have thrown my arms around him and kissed him. His presence here with armed men could only mean that my message had reached Sidney and he had alerted the authorities-though it sounded from the pursuivant's words as if they had arrived too late to stop Jerome and Sophia from leaving.

"I am Doctor Giordano Bruno of Nola," I said, attempting to sit up and recover some dignity, "a guest of the University of Oxford travelling with the royal party."

"You lie," he said coldly. "You are one of Lady Tolling's priests. But where is the other? The servant we persuaded to talk said there was an Englishman, tall and fair. Where is he hiding?"

"He is fled," I said, my tongue tripping over the words in my haste, "he travels with a young woman, Sophia Underhill, toward the coast. They will board a ship to France where she will be killed. Hurry, you must stop them!"

The pursuivant laughed unpleasantly. "It does not take much to make you squeal, does it, Jesuit?" he mocked. "You will be an easy job for my men. There is the loyalty of papists for you," he added, looking up, and the men standing about laughed sycophantically.

"I am no Jesuit," I insisted. "Where is Sidney? He will tell you who I am-let me see Sidney."

"Who is Sidney?" asked the pursuivant.

"Sir Philip Sidney, nephew to the Earl of Leicester," I said, my confidence faltering. "Did he not call you here, on my instructions? Is he not with you?"

"Sir Philip Sidney?" The pursuivant seemed to find this vastly entertaining. "Oh, ho! And are we to expect Her Majesty herself to arrive any moment to intervene for you? No, my Romish friend, I was not called by Sir Philip Sidney, nor anyone so grand, but by Master Walter Slythurst of Lincoln College, who had reason to believe a notorious papist and murderer was fleeing the city of Oxford in the direction of Great Hazeley, most likely seeking protection."

"Oh, God, Slythurst," I moaned, burying my face in my still-bound hands. "He has it all wrong, you must believe me-I am no murderer, nor a papist. I live with the French ambassador in London, for God's sake! I was trying to save Sophia when the real priest threw me in that hide."

"He is bound, sir," pointed out the young soldier who had dragged me from the hide, somewhat nervously.

"What?" Newell snapped around peevishly.

"He was bound hand and foot and gagged in there," the young man said, his voice wavering now. "It's just-why would he do that to himself?"

"They have all sorts of ruses you would never dream of," said Newell, his lips pressed tightly together. He turned back to me. "You can plead your case before the Assizes when the time comes. A spell in the Castle gaol should clear your head. Meanwhile, you can tell me what you know of Sophia Underhill. Her father alerted the watch yesterday that she had been abducted. Is it the papists that have done this?"

"They are en route to the coast," I gasped, "though they went first to Abingdon. Every moment you waste here is a gift to him-you must send your men on the road after them."

"Don't tell me how to command my men, you cur," he spat in my face. He motioned to the soldier. "Arrest this man for the murder of two respected Fellows and one student of Lincoln College, and on suspicion of the murder of a young man thrown to his death from the gatehouse tower." When I opened my mouth to protest he added, "And on suspicion of entering this country with treasonable intent to seduce the queen's subjects to the church of Rome, and with meddling in affairs of state."

"No! I beg you, send for Sir Philip Sidney at Christ Church College, he will tell you I am innocent," I cried, as the young soldier untied my ankles, took me by the elbow, and heaved me to my feet.