'Before the sun is up, two men – a soldier and a Dominican priest – arrive to fetch him from the hostel. He is a soldier himself, yet they frighten him beyond reason. In a pouch tucked inside his jerkin is a copy of the letter from the Supremo, counter-signed and stamped with the seal of the Holy Inquisition at Barcelona. He can only trust that it testifies to the nobility of one Englishman, Tristram Winslade, and his adherence to all that is good and true. Right now, any relief it might deliver to his heart, pounding away deep beneath padded kersey layers, is quivering in the pre-dawn chill. They stop at a bakehouse and like kinsmen sit by a brazier, eating sweet bread and goats’ cheese, drinking coffee, while morning strikes the Moorish domes on the cathedral. They ask him about Sir John Arundell. Describe him. Describe his house, its buildings. Describe the garden. ' (Introduction)
