I looked at him with contempt.

"Better she had been quietly murdered, and your reputation survived unblemished?" I said, through my teeth.

"No doubt you think me a monster for saying so," he replied, with no trace of apology. "But you have no children, so you cannot know the pain of losing them. My daughter is dead to me in any case, Bruno. Better she had been lost at sea and her mother spared this shame. Yes, I think so. Better for Sophia, too. She will have no kind of a life after this."

"And you would rather have gone on harbouring a Jesuit in the college and living well from his fees, if it meant an easy life? Or perhaps you knew about Norris all along?"

"No-that is a lie!" he cried, springing forward. "I had no idea about Norris. Perhaps that in itself is a grave failing, but I would never knowingly have tolerated an active missionary in the college, it is absurd to suggest so. I pray you, do not repeat that suggestion to your friend Sir Philip. Norris paid his way and he was granted no more or less licence than the other commoners."

"Norris was recommended for a place here by Edmund Allen," I said, "a man you already knew to be a secret Catholic. And Norris never attended chapel-did that not strike you as suspicious?"

"The sons of gentlemen are not used to rising early. It is one of their privileges that they are not expected to."

"Every dispensation may be bought here," I said, looking at him with scorn. "It reminds me so much of Rome. But you knew about the others, too, didn't you?"

He sighed. "I knew about William Bernard. But everyone in Oxford did-it was no secret that he kept to the old ways, though he took the Oath of Supremacy. But he was a recalcitrant old man and judged harmless. He is fled, by the way, but I don't think there will be too much of a hunt put out for him. To put a white-haired old fellow like that in gaol or stand him on a scaffold does not play well with the people, as the Privy Council knows. And the others-Roger Mercer, I knew, but he was a good man. Coverdale was a surprise. There are others-I suppose when I am questioned about Norris I must reveal their names."

"I do not think that will be necessary," I said, still reeling from his callous words about Sophia. "The names of the worst offenders are already known."

He studied me as he reached for the door handle.

"You have too much compassion, Doctor Bruno, to be embroiled in this business. I know that you lied to spare my daughter a public trial. Just as I could have handed the Catholics here, the whole lot of them, over to the pursuivants years ago, but I thought we could all rub along together. I see now one has to be ruthless, and for men like us, it is not in our character. You are like me in that regard," he added, with a hint of self-satisfaction.

"No, sir," I said quietly, as he held the door open for me to pass. "I am nothing like you. Had I a daughter, I hope I would not wish for her death rather than my own dishonour." He opened his mouth as if to protest, but I cut him off. "She is no whore. She is a woman of mettle, and she deserves your care and protection, not your contempt."

I left him standing in the doorway, his mouth still gaping wordlessly like a fish, and strode purposefully across the quadrangle of Lincoln College for the last time. At the gatehouse I turned to take my final look, and saw the outline of Sophia at the first-floor window of the rector's lodgings, her figure distorted by the patterned glass, one hand raised in farewell.

Under a sky barely touched by the first streaks of dawn, through a thin drizzle that misted on my hair and on the horse's mane, I rode west out of the ambassador's residence at Salisbury Court along Fleet Street, away from the City of London, a cloak tucked around me against the damp and my chest as tight as if it were bound by iron hoops. I would not have chosen to make this journey, but I had received word from Walsingham that he expected my presence and I thought it better not to argue. Steam clouded from the horse's nostrils in the morning air as I turned him north at the great monument of Charing Cross, onto the spur road that led out of London and into open country to the northwest. Here the road grew busier; small groups of people on foot heading in the same direction, chatting eagerly among themselves and sharing drinks from leather flasks, while pie sellers moved quickly alongside them, calling out their wares to the expectant crowd, all making for the morning's spectacle. Nearer to our destination, people had lined the streets, children hoisted on their fathers' shoulders to witness the passing of the procession.

At the place they call Tyburn, a wooden platform had been erected at the height of a man's head to ensure all the crowd had a clear view. On this scaffold the executioner's table had been set, an oversize butcher's block all laid out with various knives and instruments, and beside it, a fire had been lit to heat the water in a large cauldron. Those at the front of the crowd pressed closer, stretching out their hands toward the warmth of the flames; though it was July, the damp had left a chill in the early-morning air, and people stamped their feet and rubbed their hands together impatiently as they waited. At the side of the scaffold a wooden gallows had been built and a cart stood empty underneath it. I turned the horse and made my way around the back of the crowd; at the far side, nearest to the gallows, I could see a number of gentlemen on horseback keeping their distance from the jostling throng and guessed I would find Sidney among them. As I guided the horse around, city officials with pikestaffs passed through the crowd, clearing a path in front of the scaffold.

I found Sidney with a group of young mounted courtiers close to the gallows. Though his companions seemed in high spirits and talked loudly among themselves, he kept his horse reined in tight, making it step impatiently on the spot as he surveyed the crowd, his mouth set in a grim line. Catching sight of me, he nodded without smiling.

"Let us move to one side, Bruno," he said quietly. "I am not inclined to be among those who would treat this as if it were a country fair."

"I had much rather not have been here at all," I admitted, as we took up a position a little way off from the group of young men.

"Walsingham was adamant that you should attend. He feels it is important that his people fully understand every aspect of their work. Those who fight wars are not spared the sight of gore, and neither are we boys playing at soldiers. Our struggle is real, and its consequences are bloody." He turned and fixed me with an earnest expression. "This execution is your triumph, Bruno. Walsingham is very pleased with you."

"My triumph," I repeated softly, as a great cry went up from the crowd and they all stood on tiptoe to watch the arrival.

It was almost fully light when two black horses appeared in the gap between the scaffold and the front row of the crowd as a group of women rushed forward to throw roses and lilies, the flowers of martyrdom, in the path of the horses, the officials jabbing with their pikes at those who pressed in too closely and threatened to impede progress. As if by common consent, the crowd drew solemnly back, the babble of conversation ceased, and the horses' hooves could be heard thudding quietly on the turf as the hurdle they drew behind them carved ruts into the damp ground. I stood in my stirrups and leaned forward, my stomach clenching at the sight.

Jerome Gilbert was bound to the hurdle, feet uppermost, arms crossed over his chest, his head almost level with the ground so that his face and hair were spattered with mud. When the hurdle reached the gallows, two men stepped forward to untie him and his body slumped to the ground like a child's cloth doll; the men grasped him beneath his shoulders and hoisted him between them onto the cart. He had been stripped to his undershirt and hose, but now, as they lifted him up to an expectant murmur from the crowd, he reached inside his shirt and drew out a handkerchief to wipe the worst of the mud from his face. I winced to see that his left eye was so bruised and swollen he could not open it, but he scanned the crowd frantically with his good eye before throwing the handkerchief into the air, where it was deftly caught by a grey-haired man with a lugubrious face near the front.