Sir Jonathan was there, seated at the head of the table, with two other governors beside him.

‘Come in, Dr Alvarez,’ he said. ‘Please take a seat.’

I sat down in some relief. From his tone, he was not here to complain.

‘Are you fully recovered, sir?’ I asked. He certainly looked better, a healthy colour to his skin and a bright eye.

‘Aye, and all thanks to you, young man.’ He beamed and the other two men nodded sagely.

‘It is because of your prompt action that we are here. I realise that you probably saved my life that day. After I was carried home, my own physician told me that I had had a narrow escape. Without your intervention I would probably have died.’

I bowed my head slightly, not quite sure what to say. ‘I am glad I was able to help you, sir.’

‘Now then,’ he said. ‘What are we to do with you?’

I looked up, startled.

‘I understand that you have had no formal university training in medicine, is that correct?’

‘I have not, sir, but my father was a professor of medicine at Coimbra University before we came to England and I have been trained by him.’

‘Yes, indeed, and he is a very fine doctor. But without a university degree, you will not be admitted to the Royal College of Physicians.’

‘I am aware of that.’ Where could this be leading?

‘We therefore have a proposal to make to you. In recognition of your work here, and the promise you have of making an excellent doctor yourself one day, we would like to offer you the chance to attend the medical school in the University of Oxford, paid for by the governors of St Bartholomew’s.

I stared at him. My mouth must have gaped like an idiot’s. To study at Oxford! This was what I had dreamed of, ever since we had come to England. To gain a degree, be admitted to the Royal College, to rise to a senior position in the profession I loved. Everything in me cried out to say yes.

But I could not.

I knew how students lived in Oxford. Four or six students lodged in their tutor’s rooms in college. They ate with him, slept in one room together. Dressed and undressed in company. It was impossible.

I gripped my hands tightly together under the table. What was I to say? I must refuse, but it would seem the basest ingratitude.

‘Sir Jonathan, I am more grateful than I can say. It is most generous of you, of the hospital . . .’ I stuttered to a halt. ‘But I think, my father, he needs me.’ I paused again, then a thought flashed through my mind.

‘You know, I believe, that I also work for Sir Francis Walsingham as a code-breaker, analysing ciphers and transcribing documents. It is work he considers of the greatest importance in these troubled times.’

‘Yes, Sir Francis has made us aware of your work.’

‘I think it would cause difficulties if I were to leave, at this moment in particular. The work is secret. I may not speak of it, I am afraid. But Sir Francis believes that this year is of vital importance.’

‘You do not believe you can accept our offer,’ he said flatly. There was the merest hint of displeasure in his voice.

‘Not at present, sir. Perhaps in a year or so, if Sir Francis can spare me . . .’

‘Very well.’ His tone was warmer now. ‘Your sense of duty does you credit, for I can see that you would like to accept.’

‘Yes,’ I said, and I did not try to disguise my eagerness. ‘Oh yes, I would.’

‘Well, we will speak of it again in the future, Dr Alvarez. And I thank you again for all you did for me.’

I bowed my way out of the room. I managed to reach one of the storerooms and shut myself in before my tears overwhelmed me.

Chapter Ten

One evening, Phelippes and I were working through a packet containing more than twenty letters which had been intercepted on their way to the French embassy from the Scottish queen. Two were in a new code and were giving us some trouble, for we had no key.

‘I must send word to Dr Lopez or Dr Nuñez,’ Phelippes muttered absently.

I looked up in surprise. ‘Why?’ I said, startled into abruptness.

‘They are both partners in the Spice Trust,’ he said, studying me as if he had noticed me for the first time.

‘Yes, as well as their medical practices.’ I was still puzzled.

He seemed to come to a decision.

‘The partners in the Spice Trust still trade with the whole of Iberia,’ he said, ‘despite the fact that Portugal is now in the clutches of the Spanish monarchy. And you need to understand this, Kit. Through the major spice routes via Arabia and the Ottoman Empire, and through the merchants of Venice, news of the whole known world flows into the mercantile houses of London, Antwerp, and Calais, and so reaches Sir Francis.’

I nodded. I could see this might be true, though I had never thought before that the spice trade might be a source of information for Walsingham.

‘Dr Nuñez has a cousin in Calais, Estevan Nuñez, whose business in precious gems serves as cover for a postal route bringing information to us.’ He glanced down at the pile of documents on his desk. ‘Sometimes we also use it for certain deceptions passing out from London, which are slipped – and not by accident – into the hands of those who will report to ambassador Mendoza and King Philip of Spain.’

‘Oh,’ I said slowly, ‘I see.’ Indeed I was beginning to understand that the work of Walsingham’s office was not simply the interception of letters in order to forestall acts of violence against England and the Queen. Sometimes Walsingham would decide to poke this wasps’ nest of conspiracy, in order to see what would happen. Letters could be infiltrated through this very route Phelippes described. I felt a frisson of something – was it fear or disgust or even excitement?

We said no more of this but worked on until after dark, lighting candles lavishly to help with the close scrutiny the decipherment demanded, until Phelippes looked up from his desk, took off his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes.

‘We will need to work all night, Kit. I will send a servant to tell your father that you will not come home.’

I nodded, inattentively. I was absorbed in laying out a new grid for the alphabet and testing it against the message. Despite my dislike and fear of Poley, and the means by which I had been brought here, I was still fascinated by the mystery and variety of secret codes. I have to admit to a certain pride in my successes. When Phelippes returned, he was followed by a maidservant carrying a tray with cold pies and fruit and small ale.

‘I think I have it,’ I said. ‘It needs a double decipherment – first a displacement and then a grid, but I haven’t solved the grid yet. It’s in French.’

‘Eat something,’ he said, kindly enough. He was a driven man, and drove those who worked for him, but a good master will feed his horse when needed, and fatten his cattle the better to profit from them.

I began to chew a piece of pie absently, holding it in my left hand while scribbling with my right. Phelippes looked over my shoulder.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes. You have it. You’ve done well, Kit. The other message will be in the same cipher, for they are both in the same hand. The rest of the work will take time, but no more detection.’

He sat down in his chair and steepled his fingers together, as he often did when pondering.

‘I see that your rough notes are written in a very different hand from the fair copies you make for me.’

I swallowed a mouthful of pie and washed it down with a gulp of ale. It was past midnight and suddenly I realised how hungry I was, for I had not eaten since noon.