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Authors: Rory Clements
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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
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
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