Free The Heretics by Rory Clements

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