Rory Clements - The Heretics

‘ Oremus oratio. . ’

Was this the way it had started for Loake and Trott and Friday? Did this woman and this man really believe in this gibberish, or was it some twisted entertainment, the way a child pulls off the wings of a fly, one by one?

‘ Deus cui proprium est misereri semper et parcere: suscipe deprecationem nostram. . God who is ever merciful and forgiving, accept our prayer that this your servant, bound by the bonds of sin, may be granted pardon by your loving kindness.’

And so it went on. Verse after verse of the Latin rite of exorcism. Sloth called on God to crush the serpent, to cast him back down to hell where he belonged, having once fallen. He commanded Satan to be gone, to depart in fear with all his demons and servants, all this interspersed with flinging of holy water and signs of the cross.

All the while Beatrice watched Shakespeare intently, examining his torso and throat for signs of unholy creatures crawling within. Every so often, as if to keep him awake, she stabbed him with the needle in a different part of his body, whenever she believed she saw a clawed demon crawling beneath the skin. Even as he shuddered under the desperate and never-ending onslaught, Shakespeare could not help but think of the fishers in the fens, stabbing at the black water with their glaives in the hope of an eel. Like them, she was fishing. .

As time wore on, Beatrice became more and more frantic and began foaming at the mouth. She made a guttural sound from her throat, her voice a growl, lower than a dog’s, more disturbing than a wild beast’s roar.

Suddenly a small cat appeared at the end of the nave, just inside the church door. Beatrice screamed, ‘There it is! That is his kitling. Kill it, Sloth. Kill it!’

Looking about her, she saw a pile of wood lying close to the church wall. She picked up a long, crooked stick and began chasing the animal. Cornered, it bared its fangs and hissed at her. She lashed out at it, but the cat was too quick and dived for cover behind the lectern. The mastiff strained at its leash and barked.

‘You see,’ Shakespeare said to Sloth, ‘she is insane. She is leading you all down to hell with this madness. Set me free and make your escape while there is still time. Make your way to Spain in safety.’

Sloth took a small box from beneath the folds of his gowns. He opened the lid and took out something brown and leathery. ‘Light the brimstone, sister.’

Above them, the trapped jay flew about in panic, a flash of brilliance as it drove onwards from rafter to rafter, looking for its way out. Finally, as if summoning all its might, it flew for the light and collided with the ancient stained glass at speed. The impact must have stunned it, or broken its neck. It fell, spiralling black and grey and white, to the flagstone floor of the church and did not move.

Beatrice was on her knees stabbing at the cat, which was well concealed in the space beneath the lectern. Sloth’s words broke her frenzy. She turned, still on hands and knees. Rising to her feet, she lit a taper from the altar candle and held it to one of the dishes on the table. After a while there was a sizzle and a burst of acrid smoke. Beatrice handed the dish to Sloth. He made the sign of the cross over it, then held it beneath Shakespeare’s nose. Much as he wished to show no emotion, no physical distress or weakness to these people, the pungent fumes made him gag and choke. He gasped and coughed, using all his energy trying not to vomit.

‘It is a demon in his throat, suffocating.’ Ovid Sloth thrust forward the leathery brown object that he had taken from his box, pushing it into Shakespeare’s mouth. Shakespeare gasped with shock. ‘Oh, see how Father Sherwin’s bone burns the beast. Oh, surely this relic is God’s most potent weapon.’

Sherwin? Shakespeare recalled the name from many years ago. There had been a priest named Ralph Sherwin who died, butchered, on the scaffold along with Edmund Campion. Shakespeare could hold back no longer. He was sick, weakening fast, and knew he could not take much more before the blood loss made him slip into unconsciousness and death.

Beatrice thrust the sailmaker needle into Shakespeare’s left leg. This time the surprise made him cry out.

‘It is the devil that screams,’ she shrieked. ‘I hear the devil! He cannot last long. Baptise him, Mr Sloth, baptise the sinner, for that will burn the devil most wonderfully.’

Taking a pinch of salt from another dish, Sloth put it on to Shakespeare’s tight-clenched lips and rubbed it in, as though coating a piece of meat. He wet his own fingers with the obscene dribble of his own mouth and smeared it on to his captive’s eyes and lips. Then, from a little vial, he poured oil on Shakespeare’s mouth and nose.

‘ Vade retro satana ,’ he intoned. ‘ Vade retro satana . Begone, Satan. Return whence you came!’ He held Shakespeare’s head between his soft, grub-like hands and twisted it so that he spoke directly into his ear. ‘Now tell me, John Shakespeare. Your life is ebbing. Tell me how you know of Roag. Do this and your family will live, though you die.’

The needle went in again, this time deep into his right thigh. Blood spat out on to the long white gown that Sloth wore beneath the chasuble and purple stole. Shakespeare did not even recoil this time. His body was growing colder, his life seeping from him like water through a colander. The surface of his body was now cloaked in blood. He had lost count of the times he had been stabbed. Soon, he knew, the mortal stroke would come: the needle through the jugular — if he survived that long.

Look after the little ones, O Lord .

He knew he could rely on Jane and Boltfoot, Ursula and Andrew, but he prayed that Sir Robert Cecil would watch over them, too. He closed his eyes. A vision came to him of his late wife, Catherine. Her dark waves of hair were tinged with a golden aureole, her eyes warm and serious, beckoning him, soothing him. The vision brought peace and acceptance, but faded like a sand picture under the incoming tide, only to be replaced by the carnal eyes of Lucia Trevail, beseeching him to live and join her in pleasure. But when he opened his eyes again they met the merciless gaze of Ovid Sloth and Beatrice Eastley, both staring at him with cold, deadly passion. They had no power over him.

Please God, he would be with Catherine soon.

Jane Cooper and Ursula Dancer hitched up their skirts and ran from the Cecil mansion in the Strand into the city streets. By the time they reached the bridge, Jane was out of breath and struggling to keep up. They both slowed to a brisk walk then began running again. They did not speak to one another as they manoeuvred their way through the late afternoon crowds down the lane between the houses that stood astride the great bridge. They did not notice the water rushing beneath.

At the south side of the bridge, they slowed to a walk again and caught their breath as they turned right, then began running once more, looking about them as they went.

Finally, they reached Clink Street and the dark oak door that held the gaol against escape or unwanted visitors. Both women leant against the wall, doubled over, exhausted by the two-mile race through waste-strewn streets, fighting their way past carts and traders.

‘I thought my heart would pigging burst!’

Jane nodded at Ursula. Still gasping for breath, she banged on the door. From within, they heard slow footfalls and the clanking of keys. The turnkey pulled the door ajar a few inches and stared at them. Seeing two comely women, he opened it wider.

‘How may I help you, fine ladies?’

He pulled back his shoulders, lifted his chin and smoothed his long bird’s-nest beard as though that would somehow make him an attractive proposition. He licked his lips, leaving his tongue lolling out between his teeth.