Mordecai Lopez did not speak. Instead he put his hand down on the table beside her, glanced at her, then went back to his chair. He left something on the table.

She knew what it was without looking.

He smiled. “It’s yours to keep.”

The gold seemed to have an added luster in the candlelight. She saw in the gold, jewel-banded cylinder the cause of all her misery. She hardly dared touch it. Samuel Scammell’s throat had been cut for one of these, and she had been brought very close to the hideous flames, Lazen Castle had fallen, Sir George had been killed, and all for these seals.

She picked it up, almost holding her breath as she did so. Again she was surprised by the weight of the precious gold.

St. Matthew had shown an axe, the instrument of that martyr’s death, while St. Mark had the proud symbol of the winged lion. This seal, St. Luke, was similar. It showed a winged ox, head high and burly, the symbol of the third Evangelist.

She unscrewed the two halves and the small, silver statue inside made her smile. St. Matthew had contained a crucifix, St. Mark a naked woman arching in pleasure, while in St. Luke was a little, silver pig.

“Each of the seals, Campion, contains a symbol of the thing the seal-bearer most fears.” Lopez’s voice was quiet in the room. The moment seemed almost unnatural to Campion; the mystery unravelling. “To Matthew Slythe went a crucifix. To Sir Grenville Cony went a naked woman, and I received a pig.” He smiled. “I don’t count that as much of an insult.”

She put the halves together and looked at the white-bearded old man. “What’s in the fourth seal?”

“I don’t know. The man who had those seals made is the holder of St. John. I would like very much to know what it is that he fears.”

She frowned, almost afraid to know what, for a year, she had longed to know. “Is Christopher Aretine the man who has St. John?”

“Yes.” Lopez was staring intently at her, his voice still quiet and gentle. “It’s time, Campion that you knew it all.” He sipped some wine, listening to the damp river wood spit at the screen in front of the hearth. Every second seemed heavy to Campion. Lopez put his wine glass down, the movement delicate, then looked at her again.

“We shall begin with Christopher Aretine. My friend.” He stared at the seal in Campion’s hands as if it was something strange, something forgotten. “It was said that Kit Aretine was the handsomest man in Europe, and I think he truly was. He was also a scoundrel, a wit, a poet, a fighter, and the best company I ever knew.” Lopez smiled wistfully, then stood again. He talked as he crossed to the bookshelves. “He was a great lover of women, Campion, though I think he was a dangerous man for women to love.” He reached to the topmost shelf, grunted, and brought down a book. “There was a fine madness in Kit, I’m not sure even now I can describe it. I don’t think he knew fear, and he had too much pride, too much anger, and he refused ever to bow the knee. I sometimes wonder if he was driven by hatred in search of love.” Lopez smiled at the thought as he sat again, the book on his knees.