Visiting the shrine of Saint Margaret Clitherow ...

I can remember scribbling, in a dusty lecture theatre, Elizabeth Tudor's words - I have no desire to make windows into men's souls - outside, red buses sailed down Gower Street - behind me, two detectives sat each side of a Prime Minister's son - dust motes waltzed in shafts of May sunshine -

Later, I wrote an essay about Elizabeth's religious policies - each sly page of my essay was barnacled with footnotes - I narrowed my eyes when I read intricate paragraphs in The English Historical Review - 

But I could not write about what I was really thinking - Walsingham's cryptographers, long galleries, the evisceration of Jesuits -

I was loitering in The Shambles, when I came across the shrine of Saint Margaret Clitherow - I stepped into a sad dark place - there were heavy beams above my head - a stark altar was illuminated by electric candles - sombre panelling absorbed my melancholy -

I learned more, later, about the manner of the saint's martyrdom - I felt a sense of shame and helplessness, imagining it -

Yet such cruelty still abounded - men drew up weekly kill lists in bland offices - they wore beautiful suits, not velvet doublets -