Free The Heretics by Rory Clements Page A

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