Iris Collier - Day of Wrath

‘What the hell do you mean? I didn’t ask the King to come and stay with me.’

‘No, but you let your servant babble to all and sundry and now everyone knows the King’s coming to your place.’

‘Now let’s get this clear. I have never mentioned the King’s name to anyone, not even to my bailiff. I told him to get the place ready, to hire servants, to stock up with food. And that’s what he’s been doing, and that’s what everyone’s been noticing. People aren’t stupid and in a small village like Dean Peverell they notice everything. No one knows that the King’s coming. The writer of that letter, this Ultor, isn’t even sure.’

‘No, but he suspects, and this puts the King in great danger. We shall hold you responsible for his safety when he’s with you.’

‘I live in a country house, Master Cromwell. It’s not a fortress. I have no retainers to guard the King’s person. You’ll have to dissuade the King from coming.’

‘If you think I can do that, then you don’t know the King. He’s set his heart on this visit. The fleet are expecting him. But out there in those woods and fields which surround your house, an assassin lurks. You must find out who he is and deal with him before the King gets to you.’ Only Mortimer knows his name, and you must make him give it to you.’

‘If you think Mortimer will betray an accomplice, then you don’t know Mortimer.’

‘Don’t be so sure. He’s already had two days’ torture with the manacles, and he’s almost broken. A couple of turns on the rack and he’ll be ready to tell us everything we need to know.’

‘And if he still doesn’t talk?’

‘Well, if needs must, we have Lady Mortimer here in the Tower. We could bring her along to talk to her husband, and when he sees her he’ll talk. They always do.’

‘This is barbarous,’ shouted Nicholas, appalled at the prospect of Lady Margot having to endure the sight of her husband being tortured.

‘Maybe, but the law is the law. Treason is a hideous crime, the penalties must be severe. Now, if you’re ready, perhaps you’d like to have a chat with Mortimer and see what you can do.’

Cromwell summoned the guard, and Nicholas was asked to follow him. Sick at heart, Nicholas followed him out to the great central keep, built by the first King William to defend London against invaders, and down steep, stone steps to the dungeons below.

* * *

At first, Nicholas didn’t recognise him. Sir Roger had been starved, hung up by his hands from manacles fixed to the wall, which had torn his wrists, and the iron gauntlets, which he’d been forced to wear, had broken his hands. But he had not revealed the names of his fellow conspirators. Now, in the dungeon of the central keep of the Tower, he’d been stretched out upon a great oak frame which was raised from the ground. His wrists and ankles were attached by cords to rollers at each end of the frame. Two men wearing blood-splattered leather aprons stood by the levers which turned the rollers and stretched the body on the rack until the bones cracked and arms and legs were dislocated, if necessary.

The low, vaulted room was dimly lit by guttering rush lights and the walls dripped with moisture on to the stone floor, as the dungeon was almost at the level of the Thames. The room stank of sweat and terror and unimaginable pain. Overwhelmed, Nicholas sank down on his knees by the side of Mortimer’s ravaged face, which was almost obscured by the sweat-soaked dark hair. Where was the strong, middle-aged man he’d seen only last week polishing the gleaming chestnut-coloured flanks of his horse, Galliard? In a matter of days he’d been reduced to this ghastly wreck, a travesty of a human being.

‘Sir Roger,’ said Nicholas looking down into the dark eyes, glazed with pain and staring at him without comprehension. ‘This is a terrible sight.’

‘It could be ended,’ said the voice of Digby, who had to be present at these occasions. ‘Just tell us the names of your fellow conspirators and we can release you from this torment.’

Mortimer turned his head away, and said nothing. Digby nodded to the two men standing by the levers. They turned the rollers and gradually, inexorably, Mortimer’s body was stretched so that his bones cracked. Mortimer screamed, an inhuman sound, like an animal torn to bits by the hounds. Nicholas covered his ears and Digby motioned the men to stop.

‘For God’s sake, Sir Roger, just give me the names. Why not end this pain? Think of your family, your children…’

‘I think of nothing else, Peverell,’ said Mortimer in a faint whisper. ‘I’ve been told my wife is here. She mustn’t see me like this. Tell her I love her, and Peverell, if the worst should happen to me, you’ll look after her, won’t you? She knows nothing about all this and the children are innocent.’

‘We just need one name, Sir Roger, and then you will be taken back to your cell. Who is Ultor?’

Mortimer’s body twitched involuntarily and he groaned. Looking straight into Nicholas’s face he said only one word. ‘Never.’

The levers turned the rollers again, and Mortimer shrieked in torment, the sound reverberating around the room. Nicholas forced himself to look down into Mortimer’s sweat-soaked face, now streaked in blood where he’d almost bitten his tongue off in agony.

‘Just one word, Sir Roger. For Christ’s sake, let us put an end to all this.’

Mortimer’s eyes were glazing over and he was nearly unconscious. ‘I cannot tell,’ he managed to say, the words so faint that Nicholas had to lower his head towards those blood-smeared lips.

Nicholas got up and faced Sir Philip Digby. ‘You must stop this barbarity,’ he said. ‘Sir Roger will never tell us what we want to know. Do you want him to expire on this fiendish instrument?’

‘He’ll not hold out much longer, my Lord. But I agree we mustn’t lose him at this stage. Release him,’ he said to the two men working the rollers. They untied the cords, lifted the limp body off the frame, and dowsed his face with a bucketful of cold water. ‘We’ll continue later. Take him back to his room. Now my Lord,’ he said turning more cheerfully to Nicholas, ‘we dine in two hours. Perhaps you’d like to freshen up, perhaps take a turn round the walls and get a breath of sweeter air from the river. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to see Lady Margot, and we can go from there.’

Nicholas followed Digby up the stairs. Sickened and appalled by what he’d just witnessed, once back in his room, he flung himself down on his bed and tried to force the image of Mortimer’s blood-soaked face and the sound of his cries out of his mind. And this was just the beginning.

That evening, Nicholas dined with Sir Philip Digby in the spacious apartment which had been allocated to him as Lieutenant of the Tower. Thomas Cromwell pleaded pressure of work and stayed in his room. Nicholas and Digby talked about everything except what they had witnessed that day, and as Nicholas had little appetite, he escaped to his own room as soon as possible.

Kicking off his boots and unfastening his doublet, he flung himself down on his bed. But sleep eluded him. A shaft of moonlight came through the narrow window and fell on his bed. He got up and looked out at the beautiful night sky, a canopy of velvety darkness punctuated by the brilliant dots of light from the stars. And illuminating everything with its mellow light, was the full moon. He breathed in the watery smell of the Thames, which he could just see in the distance, its surface lit by the twinkling lights from the lanterns of the ships riding at anchor. So much beauty, he thought, so much tranquillity; and yet, just a few yards away down in the dungeon of the great central keep, a man lay groaning in agony. Tomorrow his torment would increase until breaking point.