Tethering his horse to the base of a palm tree, he composed a smile and pushed open the door of the four-storey, anonymous house that held the grand title of the College of St Gregory. It was an inadequate building for its purpose, a poor tenement wedged between a bakery with intoxicating aromas and a leather shop that exuded animal stench.
He recoiled at the noxious blend of stinks. This was no place for the training of young men in the disciplines of faith. The boys who came here from England needed to pray and meditate in quiet solitude if they were to return to their homeland as God’s soldiers and to die as martyrs. Here, they were closeted together like sheep in a pen. In the high summer, they sweltered, with no relief from the cloying heat and the stale sweat of each other’s unwashed bodies.
Even as he stepped inside, he sensed panic in the air. A boy, no more than eleven years of age, was scurrying past. Roag grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Where is Father Persons?’
The boy was wide-eyed. ‘He is with Thomas Eaglet.’
‘Where?’
‘In the sickroom, at the back.’
‘Take me there.’
A group of robed men stood around a bed. Roag instantly spotted Father Robert Persons among them. He was standing beside his assistant, Father Joseph Creswell.
Roag touched Persons on the shoulder. Slowly, he turned around and Roag saw that the priest’s once-handsome eyes were deep and haggard.
Persons made the sign of the cross. ‘Dominus vobiscum, my son.’
Roag bowed, his mane of hair falling about his glowing face. ‘Et cum spiritu tuo, Father.’
‘You have arrived at a most sad time, Mr Roag.’
‘So it seems.’
‘Thomas Eaglet is close to death.’
Roag looked beyond Persons to the shrunken figure curled up on the cot, laid on his side to minimise the pain. But it seemed Eaglet was already past such worldly cares. His shallow breathing was only just audible.
To Roag, the dying man’s body looked like raw flesh on a butcher’s counter. He gazed on the loathsome mess of meat with interest, nothing more. No skin was visible save on Eaglet’s face and hands.
‘How has he come to this state, Father?’
‘He scourged himself with a flail. It is white martyrdom. That is what we will call it, but it is a waste. It is not true martyrdom. It will be the second such death at St Gregory’s this year. Such things unsettle our other young men and boys.’
Roag nodded. More than the unsettling of the boys here, he realised that if news of the event reached England it would not reflect well upon the Society of Jesus. ‘I will end his misery.’ His hand went to his dagger.
Shock registered on Persons’s face. He reached out and restrained Roag’s hand. ‘Indeed, you will not. God will decide the time.’
Roag removed his slender fingers from the dagger and said nothing more.
Persons shook his head. ‘I am told young Eaglet and others have risen every midnight these two weeks past, to scourge themselves with the discipline in front of the Blessed Sacrament. They must be commended for such diligence in the mortification of the flesh, but Eaglet did not know when to stop. Why would he not stop? He has lost so much blood.’ Persons suddenly steeled himself and touched the dying man’s hand, one of the few parts of the body that still looked human. He turned to Father Chamberlain, who was acting as nurse. ‘Has extreme unction been given?’
‘Yes, Father.’
Persons walked across the room and picked up a heavy iron brace, studded with short spikes designed to dig into the flesh and keep wounds open, however rotten they became.
‘He wore this, Mr Roag. The Lord only knows where he obtained it. We must all pray for his soul. He is a very brave young man. You know, when he first came here I doubted his faith, but he has proved me wrong.’ Persons made the sign of the cross over the forehead and face of the young man in the cot, then turned away. ‘Come, Mr Roag, let us go to my office.’
The room was austere. Nothing but a table, chairs and papers. Its only ornament was a gilded cross on the wall. A shaft of late sunlight lit the thin arm muscles of the crucified Christ.
‘Is everything ready?’ Persons asked. ‘The ships arranged, the money all in place, your men trained?’
Roag had a youthful smile that would win over maidens and emperors with its easy charm. In his forty-third year, he could pass for a man of thirty, exuding warmth and confidence. ‘All is in place.’ He held up a scroll. ‘I have the authorisation of the casa.’
The document bore the seal of the casa de contratación – the house of trade – whose absolute seat of power rested within the Alcázar royal palace and whose word was law in all matters of shipping and without whose authority no vessel might leave Spain.
Persons nodded. ‘Good. Which just leaves the matter of the traitor. He is in the hands of the Holy Office. I shudder to think that we ever trusted him. I fear he will burn in this world and the next.’
A lazy tic fluttered in the parchment-thin skin around Persons’s left eye. There was a softness about the priest, but he had a certain aura. His beard was short and neat, his eye clever and wary. He had an intimate manner that turned those he met into either devoted friends or dedicated enemies. Roag knew he was not given to squeamish women’s ways, nor subject to doubts in matters of faith. Yet he could see that the prospect of burning live human flesh disturbed him, as though the stench would remain in his nostrils, like bitter wormwood, for all eternity.
‘Men such as Warner make life difficult for us here,’ Persons continued. ‘And yet it were better it did not come to the fire.’
‘Then we must make do,’ Roag said evenly. ‘I will go to the Castillo de Triana from here. I am sure I will have a hearing.’
Joseph Creswell, Persons’ loyal assistant, sensed his superior’s discomfort. ‘Remember, Father, the holy doctor Thomas Aquinas himself concluded that execution by the secular authorities was the proper way to deal with heretics who refuse to be reconciled. First, excommunication from the Church and if, stubbornly, they refuse to recant, then by His law they should be excluded from life itself. The fire is God’s hand.’
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
REGIS ROAG 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 d
id 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
RIDING HARD, SHAKESPEARE 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.
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