are, but you are still only fourteen years.’
Andrew walked forward and knelt before Shakespeare. He kissed his hand. ‘The world is out there, beyond the western sea, and it holds my future. I am more certain of this than anything in my life.’
Shakespeare gazed down fondly at the boy he regarded as his own son. Andrew’s short life had not been easy, and Shakespeare knew that he had considered his decision to go to sea with great thoroughness.
‘Then God speed you, boy. And learn well. Master the astrolabe and quadrant, the hourglass, the compass and the chart, for then you will be a true mariner and indispensable to your captain. But that is for tomorrow. For today, I have an errand for you.’ He folded the letter he had been writing and sealed it, then handed it to Andrew. ‘Take this to Sir Robert Cecil for me.’
Regis Roag slid from the saddle in the noisy Plaza de la Magdalena. He had been riding since dawn, but he was still cool and his long, oak-brown hair was unruffled. With sharp, experienced eyes, he glanced around at the bustle of traders, the working men, the women scrubbing stone steps and the promenading señoras in their mantillas. All the time, he looked for the face that might seem out of place. As a hunter of men, he knew how to spot a predator.
There was warmth and the scent of orange in the evening air. Roag breathed deeply. Seville was a fine place. The magnificent buildings, the wide-open squares, the perfume of strange plants and incense, the many religious houses, the workers in gold: all spoke of a town created by God. This was the wealthiest city in the greatest empire in history – a world away from the mud, stench and squalor of lowly London, the city that had spat him out like a stone, and its dirty neighbour Southwark, the place of his birth.
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
Andrew walked forward and knelt before Shakespeare. He kissed his hand. ‘The world is out there, beyond the western sea, and it holds my future. I am more certain of this than anything in my life.’
Shakespeare gazed down fondly at the boy he regarded as his own son. Andrew’s short life had not been easy, and Shakespeare knew that he had considered his decision to go to sea with great thoroughness.
‘Then God speed you, boy. And learn well. Master the astrolabe and quadrant, the hourglass, the compass and the chart, for then you will be a true mariner and indispensable to your captain. But that is for tomorrow. For today, I have an errand for you.’ He folded the letter he had been writing and sealed it, then handed it to Andrew. ‘Take this to Sir Robert Cecil for me.’
Regis Roag slid from the saddle in the noisy Plaza de la Magdalena. He had been riding since dawn, but he was still cool and his long, oak-brown hair was unruffled. With sharp, experienced eyes, he glanced around at the bustle of traders, the working men, the women scrubbing stone steps and the promenading señoras in their mantillas. All the time, he looked for the face that might seem out of place. As a hunter of men, he knew how to spot a predator.
There was warmth and the scent of orange in the evening air. Roag breathed deeply. Seville was a fine place. The magnificent buildings, the wide-open squares, the perfume of strange plants and incense, the many religious houses, the workers in gold: all spoke of a town created by God. This was the wealthiest city in the greatest empire in history – a world away from the mud, stench and squalor of lowly London, the city that had spat him out like a stone, and its dirty neighbour Southwark, the place of his birth.
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
Similar Books
