The Heretics (8 page)

Persons nodded, but without conviction.

There was silence in the room. From outside came the shouts of Spanish traders and the thump of drums.

‘Would you be a king, Mr Roag?’ Persons said suddenly.

‘Would you have me be a king?’

Father Persons smiled and folded his arms. ‘Come, I will hear your confession now, before you embark on your great enterprise.’

Roag did not move. ‘No, Father. I will confess when I return to you, for I know I must commit mortal sins in this holy war. I cannot yet cast off my coat of steel.’

‘Do not imperil your immortal soul, Mr Roag.’

‘No, Father.’

Creswell watched from a first-floor window as Roag untethered his horse and trotted eastwards towards the fish market and the bridge over the Guadalquivir. ‘He is cold and mad,’ he said, half to himself, half to Robert Persons who sat at the table behind him. ‘He has no religion, only resentment.’

‘He will carry out the task we wish, in the way we desire it.’

‘Will he? Can we trust him that much?’

‘Have faith, Joseph, have faith. After all, it is said he is the son of a king.’

‘And do you truly believe he has royal blood in his veins?’

Persons shrugged his shoulders but did not reply.

Chapter 8

R
EGIS
R
OAG
GAZED
up at the Castillo de Triana. The stone walls were sand-coloured and warm, yet the overall impression was of dark foreboding. The fortress had been built on a massive scale to dominate the old Moorish town of Seville and to many people it was hell on earth, a huge cavern of pain and horror. Roag was not a sentimental man, but even he was struck by its grim power.

The castle stood on the western bank of the Guadalquivir river in the poorer quarter, where the old mariners and prostitutes, the manumitted slaves and beggars, scraped a living. It was the first sight of Seville to greet ships navigating up the olive-green waters of the river and it never failed to cast a gloom over the mariners’ mood. For a hundred and fourteen years now, the building had served as the prison of the city’s Inquisition. Countless men and women – mostly Jews, Moors and Lutherans, but also Catholics – had been brought here, accused of heresy and other crimes. Thousands had been tortured and hundreds had been handed over to the civil authorities –
relaxed to the secular arm
, as they called it piously – to be burnt at the stake. Those who repented, the fortunate ones, would be strangled by garrotte before the fire was lit.

Roag glanced back across the river to the fish market and, a little further south, to the splendid Torre del Oro. The tower of gold shimmered with warmth in the evening light, amid a tangle of shipyard masts and rigging. Turning back to the Castillo de Triana, the contrast was palpable. He entered through a great arch, next to the pontoon bridge, then dismounted and led his horse on foot. Roag was well known here and faced only peremptory questions from the guard. Striding across the outer courtyard, he passed a queue of black-clad and cowled men and women. He knew, from their furtive glances and the hiding of their faces, why they were there: they were informers, come to denounce enemies, neighbours, mothers or brothers, for gain or spite.

‘She is a fornicator,’ one would say in a shameless whisper; ‘I have heard him lauding the Luther sect,’ another would rasp, venom in her voice; ‘I saw her place a crucifix on the ground, then spread her skirts, squat down and piss on it,’ a scorned suitor would say, ‘what is worse, she is a Jew.’ And so those accused would be hauled before the Inquisitor, while the accusers slunk back into the shadows.

The malice here, amid the immense walls and embattled turrets, was almost tangible.

Roag was recognised by the gatekeeper, who showed him where to tether his horse, then admitted him through the heavy iron door. The would-be informers surged forward, but the gatekeeper pushed them back at the point of a pike and told them to wait for the prosecutor or his secretary. They were in Carmona with the Inquisitor-General, he said with a sneer. He did not know whether they would be here this week or the next. If the informers didn’t want to wait, they could take their chances with the civil authorities and have their testimony passed on to the assessors.

Roag had enough Spanish to ask to be taken to the gaoler, a magistrate named Enrique Jorge whose serious face betrayed no laughter lines; it did not do to laugh. One woman had found herself incarcerated simply for smiling when the name of the Virgin Mary was mentioned during a sermon. The witness who denounced her called the smile a
sonrisita
– a smirk.

But though he dared not smile, Enrique Jorge was a likeable, well-fed man who clearly enjoyed his mutton, bread and wine. He also enjoyed Roag’s company.

‘It is pleasant to see you again, Señor Roag,’ Jorge said. ‘But it always surprises me when you come here. I know of no other man who enters these walls unpaid and of his own volition.’

Roag bowed his head. ‘I am here to see Mr Warner. If you would take me to him, Señor Jorge, I would be happy to make a donation of gold to the Holy Office.’

Enrique Jorge shook his head and refused the money. ‘That will not be necessary. First drink a little
chocolatl
with me, then we will go to Warner. He is chained and has the
mordaza
about his face, for he is like a brute beast without it, cursing the Inquisitor, the Jesuit college and even you. He uses words that no Christian could repeat.’

Roag and the keeper drank their exquisite beverage, sweetened with sugar and spiced with vanilla, then walked through the echoing halls of the prison.

Enrique Jorge threw open the door to the cell. Roag gazed in with distaste. It was cold, gloomy and damp. Water streamed down the walls and settled in puddles.

Warner, the only prisoner, lay curled on his mattress, a clamp across his mouth. His hands were manacled in front of him, and he was chained to the wall.

Roag turned to the gaoler. ‘Would you remove the
mordaza
for me, señor. I must speak with the prisoner.’

‘I cannot do that, Mr Roag, for it has been ordered by Don Juan de Saavedra, the Chief Constable of the Inquisition. We require tranquillity within these walls and Mr Warner has been a disturbance to the peace.’

Roag bowed. It would make no difference to him whether the gag stayed or not. He had all the information he needed: under torture, they had extracted his real name – Robert Warner – and he had confessed that he was a spy, sent by the office of Sir Robert Cecil to report back on the College of St Gregory. His fate was sealed.

‘I understand. Perhaps, though, you would leave us a little while, for I must try this one last time to reconcile him. If I fail, then nothing is left but to pray for his soul and relax him to the secular arm.’

The gaoler bowed his grave, tonsured head, handed a candle to Roag and left the cell. Roag closed the door, put down the candlestick and went to sit on the mattress beside the prisoner, ‘Are you afraid, Mr Warner?’ he whispered. ‘Do you have demons? Do not be afraid. You will not die in the fire. I will rid you of your demons.’

Warner’s eyes were wide open. He struggled to speak, but the iron clamp prevented anything emerging but guttural, animal sounds from the back of his throat. In terror, he scrambled backwards, into the corner, away from Roag.

A needle glinted in the candlelight. Roag held it between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. It was a long needle, three or four inches, sharp but strong. The sort of needle sailmakers used in their craft, the sort he had used as a child working in his mother’s sail-loft in Southwark. Strong enough to pierce the heaviest canvas.

Roag smacked his right hand hard up into Warner’s throat, just beneath the iron brace that encased his mouth and lower face. His hand caressed the throat.

‘There is a demon in here, Mr Warner. I feel it moving, just beneath the skin. Its claws are fixed tight. It is inside your throat, hooked to you like a bat on a beam.’ His voice was quiet, ice in the prisoner’s ear.

In a frenzy, Warner tried to push Roag away, but the manacle and chains sapped his strength and he did not have the force to protect himself.

‘It is this demon, Mr Warner, that has made you a tool of the heretics. It is this demon that endangers me.’ Now Roag had the bright tip of the needle at the side of Warner’s throat. ‘Here, here is the devil, dug deep into your gullet. I think it is Beelzebub himself. Feel his sharp little claws and his ugly snout. He is here and I will do for him.’

A bead of white saliva flecked the edges of Roag’s lips. His right hand smoothed Warner’s lank hair. He smiled at him, kissed his forehead. His left hand stroked Warner’s throat, at the side, just below the arc of the jawline, identifying and singling out the great vein that throbbed there. He slid the needle in, jerking downward to cause a jagged wound. Warner went rigid with the shock. His blood spurted out, across the mattress and the stone floor.

‘Hush, Mr Warner, all is well. I am the seed of a monarch and I will protect you from Lucifer’s sting. I have dealt the demon a mortal blow. He will die soon, and then you will be free of him for ever. Be still.’

In his mind, unspoken, words reverberated:
I can smile, and murder while I smile. I can smile, and murder . . .

Roag went to the cell door and hailed the keeper, ordering him to fetch the gaoler.

The floor was sticky with a deep pool of blood. Roag had blood all over his hands but he had been careful to avoid it spoiling his expensive gold and black doublet. He held up his hands. ‘I tried to stem the flow of blood, but the wound he made was too great.’

‘Where did he get the needle?’

‘You must ask the constable that, or one of your guards. They should have searched him with greater care. One moment I was talking with him, attempting to reconcile him, the next he had the needle in his manacled hands. Before I could move, he was stabbing at his throat. He knew what he did.’

The gaoler looked at Roag with suspicion. ‘What did you say to him? What happened in that cell?’

‘I told him he was a disgrace.’

‘Why should I believe this story?’

‘Why should you not, señor? It is no difficult thing to conceal a needle. Who would not prefer the sudden stab of a needle to the lingering pain of the fire?’

For a few moments, the gaoler’s gaze held Roag’s, then he gave a brusque nod. ‘Well, such things happen from time to time, and the inquisitors have a great deal too much work as it is. These Jews, these
conversos
, these Moriscos. I suppose it is one less for the fire. They can burn Mr Warner in effigy if they so wish.’

‘Indeed, señor. Indeed they can.’

Chapter 9

R
IDING
HARD
,
S
HAKESPEARE
and Boltfoot arrived at Denham House, near Uxbridge, in a little under three hours. The house was down a long track through overgrown woods. It was bleak and shuttered. So this, thought Shakespeare, was where the priests had wrought their evil. A dozen or more of them had found refuge here and had done unspeakable things for months on end in the name of their religion. It was no surprise that Father Southwell had trouble going easy to his death. But what had happened to the Peckhams, the owners of the house? And what had become of the unfortunate souls subjected to the exorcisms? Surely the local people must have known what was going on.

Shakespeare dismounted and approached the front door of the brick-built building. He hammered at it, more in hope than in expectation of a reply. The sound echoed, but no one came. ‘Break open the door, Boltfoot.’

Boltfoot slid from his horse and unpacked an iron crowbar from his saddlebag, forced it into a gap near the lock and wrenched. The lock gave and the door flew open.

‘The lantern.’

Boltfoot returned the crow to his saddle and unhooked the lantern, struck a light with his tinderbox and handed the lamp to Shakespeare. He pulled out his pipe, tamped in a wedge of tobacco, lit it and drew deeply, then waited by the horses as his master entered the house.

Shakespeare stepped in through the doorway and held the lantern aloft. The hall was large and empty of furnishings. No table, no settles, no hangings. He tried to imagine the exorcism services held there: a table in the centre of the room, with just one girl sitting there, bound, while priests and acolytes swarmed around, chanting their Latin gibberish, describing the demons in detail as they were cast out. Behind them, all the Catholics from the district would be gathered, to watch and wonder. It would have been some display; his own brother, Will, might have been pleased with such powerful theatre.

He walked through the echoing rooms of the shuttered house. There was nothing here but emptiness and a pervasive whiff of damp and rot. Certainly, there was nothing to give a clue to the whereabouts of Thomasyn Jade.

Back in the main hall, he spotted some writing on a wall and held the lantern up to read it. The strange words sounded like the names of demons. Hobberdidance, Modu, Succubus, Mahu and many more. Some scratched in ink, some scrawled in paint. He returned to the front door.

‘Come, Boltfoot.’

They mounted up again. ‘Did you note the gatehouse, master?’ Boltfoot said.

‘I did. It seemed as empty as this place.’

‘There was a thin spiral of smoke behind it, as though a bonfire had been lit.’

Shakespeare nodded, recalling the scent of burning wood. ‘Let us go there.’ He handed the lantern to Boltfoot. ‘Keep that lit; we may need it.’

They rode back along the track. Night was closing in and soon they would have to find an inn. The gatehouse seemed to be unoccupied but Boltfoot had been right: there was a bonfire, still alight. Shakespeare went to the back of the little house and lifted the latch on the door. It was unlocked and he entered. The gloom was pervasive, but the lantern showed him all he needed to know. There was a home-made coffer containing threadbare linen from another age, a single palliasse instead of a bed. Some bread, dried oats and a leather jug with a meagre mouthful or two of spirit at the bottom; a tallow rushlight, extinguished.