THERE was I, racking my brains and trying to think of the link between a spooky story I'd read the previous year while on holiday, and this imposing pile in which we were standing.

It's impossible not to be affected by the atmosphere of Harvington Hall. Not only a place of dreadful memories, the sharp-angled red brick is also home to some of the most enduring and fascinating tales in the long and sorry history of English religious persecution.

But what was that book called? Ah yes, The Green Stone. And last year's summer read is sort of coming back to me now.

The story goes something like this. A group of friends goes in search of a collection of fabulous artefacts belonging to a secret sect that has endured down the centuries. Yes, that was it.

But my powers of recall are starting to falter.

In fact, they are beginning to peter out, much to the annoyance of my family. Here and there, as we walk around the old house, various clues present themselves... the priest holes, the faded pictures of the Nine Worthies and the chapel that cunningly converted to a nursery the moment the pursuivants - king's agents - appeared in the lane leading to the house.

Today, it's hard to imagine living in fear of such persecution and terror. But at the turn of the 16th Century, such was the level of paranoia generated by the Popish Plots that the then-Protestant establishment was seeing Catholics under the beds absolutely everywhere.

Metaphorically and literally, in fact. For Harvington Hall, deep in rural Worcestershire, near Kidderminster, is riddled with hiding places, a veritable Dutch cheese of concealment.

The priests' hiding places were built during the time of lord of the manor Humphrey Pakington, in the days when it was high treason for a Catholic priest to be in England. Some of the secret chambers are the work of Nicholas Owen - alias Little John - who was arrested at Hindlip House, near Worcester in 1606.

After several years eluding the authorities, the arch craftsman was eventually unmasked. Refusing to divulge his secrets, the hapless and courageous Owen died under torture in the Tower of London.

My eldest daughter starts to press me about the story of The Green Stone. I'm sorry, it's no good. The plot must have been so involved that recollection is proving rather difficult.

Or maybe it's me and the inevitable dwindling of grey cells.

Besides, my mind is dwelling on other matters. It's this idea of living with the probability of detection and unspeakable, awful death that preoccupy my thoughts.

Just how did Nicholas Owen live from day-to-day in the full knowledge that discovery could happen at any moment?

How could he sleep with the fear of the truly horrendous consequences that would be his fate if apprehended?

But there is, of course, nothing new under the sun. Come to think of it, times have not really changed that much since the days of the religious terror in England. For example, take just a cursory glance at the age in which we live.

Most weeks there are reports of some atrocity or other, the product of a fundamentalist extremism that has very much in common with its mediaeval and Tudor counterparts.

On reflection, Nicholas Owen probably slept quite easily. Appalling though his fate may have been, his ordeal on the rack was probably no more obscene than the suicide bomber who willingly blows himself and others to pieces in the name of God.

And Owen was not alone in his readiness to die in the name of his religion. There were many others who were also prepared to sacrifice their lives because of their faith.

Another visitor to Harvington Hall during the 17th Century was John Wall, a priest who had received his training in Rome. He subsequently returned to the Midlands, then a traditional hotbed of Catholic resistance.

Alas, the luckless John Wall was betrayed and executed just outside Worcester's city walls. Not for nothing was the place of his butchery known as Red Hill. Indeed, I wonder whose house in this present-day leafy suburb of Worcester actually stands on the place where Wall was hanged, drawn and quartered?

Now there's a thought for someone.

Interestingly, there is a widely-held belief that Wall's mortal remains lie beneath the present-day Kays building in the Tything, Worcester. My colleague Michael Grundy has, on occasion, referred to him in Memory Lane.

It is hard to imagine the fortitude of men such as Wall and Owen - but taken within the context of present-day outrages and fanaticism, not completely impossible.

But there is, nevertheless, a crucial difference between the Catholic martyrs and today's Islamic fundamentalist excesses - and that is those desperadoes of 400 years ago placed only their own lives on the line.

Their activities posed a threat to no one but themselves. The general population was free to go about its daily business without fear of sudden, arbitrary death at the hands of terrorists.

Not so nowadays. We are all on the front line. Every one of us. Hundreds now die every year because of global religious extremism. Countless innocents have their lives snuffed out by strangers who, no doubt, profess their allegiance to a loving deity...

Be that as it may, the springtime sun is high in the heavens, bestowing a warm glow on the russet tones of Harvington Hall as we make our way into the grounds that surround this glorious building.

Both the girls have found the story of the wily Humphrey Pakington and his clever carpenter highly interesting. We all gaze at the great man's portrait, and are caught in his penetrating gaze, his impassive face supported by a ginger, wedge-shaped goatee beard.

I'm still racking - yes, the dreadful torture instrument bequeathed this word to the English language - my brains for more details from The Green Stone. But nothing springs to mind... just the abiding thoughts of how religious zealotry and bigotry never seem to be that far way from the thoughts of Mankind.