Iris Collier - Day of Wrath

He shivered and went back to his bed. Dear God, he prayed, let Mortimer speak tomorrow. Then we can put an end to this diabolical torture.

He woke up just as the sun was rising over the marshes of the Thames estuary. He washed and ran his fingers through his hair and beard. A servant brought his clean water and took away the night bucket. Another brought breakfast of boiled eggs and bread and a jug of small beer. He tried to eat but the food seemed to turn to gravel in his mouth. Then the guard came and escorted him down to that infernal place where, once again, Mortimer had been strapped to the rack.

It was obvious that Mortimer was very weak. Emaciated to the point where his bones almost protruded through his flesh, he looked like a bundle of old clothes, sweat-stained and streaked with blood, hardly human at all. His broken hands were now swollen with infection and he’d almost gone beyond pain as he turned his head when Nicholas came in and didn’t make a sound. When he spoke, his voice was stronger and his brain seemed clear.

‘So, my Lord, they’ve brought you here again. Now I wonder why that is? Are they warning you? Showing what could happen to you if you opposed the King? Not that you’d do that. You’re too much of a time-server.’

‘I’m the King’s servant, just as all my family have been, and always will be. But, Sir Roger, you make a pitiful sight and I hope to God that you will make an end to this today. We only want one name; just one. Who is this Ultor? You must know him, because he speaks about you in his letters which Southampton has intercepted. Unless we know who he is, the King is in very great danger.’

‘And I suppose they’ll hold you responsible. But let me tell you this, Lord Nicholas, if they break every bone in this carcass of mine, I will never tell you the name of this man. Aaa…’

The speech ended in a shriek of agony as Digby had arrived and had signalled to the two assistants to turn the rollers. Mortimer’s body, already stretched to the point where broken blood vessels were oozing blood, seemed to disintegrate. He rolled his eyes in agony, and his breathing became short and laboured. But still he said nothing.

Digby turned in exasperation to Nicholas. ‘This man is a stubborn fool. We haven’t broken him yet, but, by God, we will. Get Lady Mortimer,’ he said to the guard standing by the door.

His words revived Mortimer quicker than the bucket of water standing by the rack.

‘No, no, for mercy’s sake, spare me that.’

‘It’s up to you,’ said Digby sternly. ‘Give us just this one name and it will be over. Lady Mortimer can look after you. You know you can’t take much more of this; do you want her to see you suffering in extremis? You, her husband and father of her children?’

‘I cannot tell, but in the name of Christ, have mercy.’

‘Mercy? I leave that to God. We’ve got a job to do.’

Nicholas heard footsteps coming down the stairs. He turned and she stood in the doorway, a tiny figure wrapped in a grey cloak. He went to meet her and her eyes when she looked up at him were dazed with terror. He tried to put an arm round her shoulders, but she shrank away from him.

‘Lord Nicholas, what are you doing there?’

‘For the same reason as you – to persuade Sir Roger to give us the names of his associates. We need only one name, but he will not co-operate.’

‘He knows nothing. Oh God and His angels help us,’ she said as she suddenly made out the figure on the rack. ‘Husband, what are they doing to you?’

She tried to push her way forward but the guard restrained her. She fought him with the strength of a wild beast and he couldn’t hold her. She ran forward and threw herself down on the floor beside her husband’s body. She smoothed the matted hair back from his face and then collapsed over his body. Then two guards went over and pulled her away and she stood there sobbing.

‘Tell your husband to give us the name we want and we can end this torture,’ said Digby.

‘Tell them, tell them,’ she shrieked. ‘Nothing in the world is worth dying for in such a way. Tell them for my sake and the sake of your children.’

He couldn’t look at her. He closed his eyes, and his body was trembling and he was drenched in sweat.

‘I cannot,’ he said.

Then the assistants once again set about their task. This time there was a dreadful crack as both legs were dislocated under the tension. On the next turn, both arms would go.

Mortimer’s scream was so terrible that even Digby recoiled. Lady Mortimer gave one cry and collapsed on the floor. The guards took hold of her and dragged her outside.

Then suddenly, it was quiet. Mortimer’s body was limp on the rack. Nicholas went over to him and laid his head on the sweat-soaked chest. He felt nothing. The heart had stopped. Mortimer had made his own exit from that dungeon.

Nicholas stood up and crossed himself. ‘He’s gone,’ he said to Digby, ‘and may God have mercy on his soul.’

Digby turned to the two assistants. ‘Stupid, clumsy fools. I told you not to be too strong.’

‘Don’t go blaming us, sir,’ said the largest of the two men. ‘Every man has his limits and this one’s had a bad time. He was practically at his limit when you gave him to us. He’s only human, flesh, blood and bones; and we can’t stretch him forever like wool on the tenterhooks.’

‘You should have given me a warning that he was getting to the end of his tether.’

‘Not our job,’ said the two simultaneously. ‘You give the orders; we turn the levers.’

‘It’s terrible to die like this,’ said Nicholas, appalled. ‘No priest, no chance of making his peace with God. I must go to Lady Mortimer, Sir Philip. The sight she’s just been forced to witness is enough to turn her mind.’

‘The guards will see to her,’ said Digby, his face still flushed with anger. ‘You must look to yourself. The King’s going to be in a right state when he hears about this. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, my Lord. Take that man off that infernal machine,’ he said to the men, ‘and put him in the mortuary.’

‘Let me take him home.’

‘Home, my Lord? He hasn’t got a home. He’s a traitor, in case you’ve forgotten. He’ll be buried here. We’ve a plot for the likes of him.’

‘And Lady Mortimer?’

‘That’s for the King to decide. You’ll have to speak to him. He’ll be merciful, no doubt. She’s done nothing. I expect she’ll be sent to join her children back in her family home. Now, I’ll order the coach to take you to Court.’

Feeling unspeakably wretched, Nicholas collected his things together. He asked to see Cromwell, but was told he was too busy to see him. He asked to see Lady Mortimer but they said she was still unconscious. The coach arrived and even the coachman didn’t look at him. There was no Sir Philip to wish him God speed. The gatekeeper opened the postern gate, and the coach lumbered down Tower Hill. Despite everything, Nicholas breathed a sigh of relief. He’d escaped the Tower. This time.

* * *

The King was attending an archery competition in Richmond Park. There was no room prepared for Nicholas. He was shown into a small waiting room near the main gatehouse and told to stay there until someone sent for him. He asked for ale, and a servant brought a tankard of small beer and banged it down on the table resentfully. The writing was on the wall, thought Nicholas. Word had already got round and he was in disgrace.

Finally, another servant came and told him that the King would now see him. Outside, the coachman was waiting for him. He came up to Nicholas and stood there shuffling his feet as if uncertain how to begin.

‘Out with it, man,’ said Nicholas, not unkindly.