‘We are seeking Oliver Green, the bookseller,’ the young lord said.

My father nodded his head. ‘I am Oliver Green,’ he said quietly, his Spanish accent very thick. ‘And I will serve you in any way that I can do. Any way that is pleasing to the laws of the land, and the customs . . .’

‘Yes, yes,’ the young man said sharply. ‘We hear that you are just come from Spain, Oliver Green.’

My father nodded again. ‘I am just come to England indeed, but we left Spain three years ago, sir.’

‘An Englishman?’

‘An Englishman now, if you please,’ my father said cautiously.

‘Your name? It is a very English name?’

‘It was Verde,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘It is easier for Englishmen if we call ourselves Green.’

‘And you are a Christian? And a publisher of Christian theology and philosophy?’

I could see the small gulp in my father’s throat at the dangerous question, but his voice was steady and strong when he answered. ‘Most certainly, sir.’

‘And are you of the reformed or the old tradition?’ the young man asked, his voice very quiet.

My father did not know what answer they wanted to this, nor could he know what might hang on it. Actually we might hang on it, or burn for it, or go to the block for it, however it was that they chose this day to deal with heretics in this country under the young King Edward.

‘The reformed,’ he said tentatively. ‘Though christened into the old faith in Spain, I follow the English church now.’ There was a pause. ‘Praise be to God,’ he offered. ‘I am a good servant of King Edward, and I want nothing more than to work my trade and live according to his laws, and worship in his church.’

I could smell the sweat of his terror as acrid as smoke, and it frightened me. I brushed the back of my hand under my cheek, as if to wipe away the smuts from a fire. ‘It’s all right. I am sure they want our books, not us,’ I said in a quick undertone in Spanish.

My father nodded to show he had heard me. But the young lord was on to my whisper at once. ‘What did the lad say?’

‘I said that you are scholars,’ I lied in English.

‘Go inside, querida,’ my father said quickly to me. ‘You must forgive the child, my lords. My wife died just three years ago and the child is a fool, only kept to mind the door.’

‘The child speaks only the truth,’ the older man remarked pleasantly. ‘For we have not come to disturb you, there is no need to be afraid. We have only come to see your books. I am a scholar; not an inquisitor. I only wanted to see your library.’

I hovered at the doorway and the older man turned to me. ‘But why did you say three lords?’ he asked.