C Sansom - Sovereign

He said the word ‘racked’ not with pleasure as Radwinter would have, nor with cold determination like Maleverer, but without any emphasis at all. And suddenly I was very afraid of him.

‘I know, sir.’

‘I know you know. Sir William mentioned it in his report accusing you.’

‘Then he is my accuser?’

‘Yes. Of concealing certain matters between Francis Dereham and the Queen.’

‘Dereham?’ I stared at him in amazement.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Master Dereham is suspected of dalliance with Queen Catherine. It is believed you knew of this, and kept quiet.’

I remembered now. Rich had seen me come from the Queen’s tent at Howlme, he had seen Dereham stop and question me in the street at Hull. Dereham must have been under suspicion, perhaps watched by Maleverer. Rich had told Maleverer and they had taken me. With all I knew, they had arrested me for something of which I knew nothing. ‘Dereham?’ I asked again.

‘It would be better if you did not dissemble, Shardlake.’ Sir Jacob spoke reasonably, the schoolmaster trying to persuade the obstinate pupil. ‘I will show you what awaits you if you do.’ But he made no move, just stood there looking at me. That unnerved me more than ever. I shivered again.

There was a jingling of keys. The fat turnkey had returned with a stocky young man in a stained leather jerkin. My eyes narrowed as I peered at it in the gloom. Were those stains blood?

Sir Jacob nodded at them. ‘Search him.’

I flinched as the men seized me, ran rough hands over my clothes. They took my dagger, purse and Cranmer’s seal, and laid them on the table. Sir Jacob picked up the seal, looked at it and grunted.

‘Bring out Bernard Locke,’ he told them. ‘He’s to be put in the execution cell.’

The pair opened the door of one of the cells and went in. I waited to see Jennet Marlin’s fiancé step out, the man who had set her on her mission of murder.

They carried him out in a chair. He was unchained, and I realized he had been racked so badly he could not walk, his legs hung uselessly down as did one arm, while the other twitched and shook as it held the seat of the chair to try and keep his balance. ‘Here we go, matey,’ the fat turnkey said pleasantly as they carried him across the central area. I tried to look at Locke’s face but his head hung down, hidden by long rat’s tails of hair. He was making little whines of pain.

Sir Jacob called out. ‘One moment!’ The sweating turnkeys stopped. The deputy warden went and lifted Locke’s head by the hair. He whimpered. I saw the weeping sore of a burn running across his forehead. And I was surprised to see that he must always have been an ugly man: his features were heavy and lumpy, and his eyes, staring wildly round him now, were large and bulbous.

‘Well, Master Locke,’ Sir Jacob said. ‘Here you are, almost at the end of your road. I thought you should see Master Shardlake. Another lawyer come to grief, the man your fiancée tried to kill. Have you aught to say to him?’

Bernard Locke looked at me for a moment. Turning his head made him wince. ‘Nothing,’ he whispered.

‘Why did you do it?’ I asked him. ‘Why did you use that wretched woman so? Get her to take an innocent life, put her in such danger her own life was lost?’

Locke did not answer, only looked at me without interest as though he was already in another world.

‘You betrayed the conspirators, you betrayed her.’

Still he did not respond.

‘If you had succeeded, would you have married Jennet?’ For some reason I had to know.

He ran a swollen tongue across cracked lips. ‘Perhaps,’ he said in a high, croaking voice. ‘What does it matter now?’

Another question came into my mind. ‘Do you know a barrister of Lincoln’s Inn named Martin Dakin?’ I knew the question could not place Dakin in danger. Anything incriminating Locke knew about anyone, he would have told his torturers already.

A flicker of interest in the hollow eyes. ‘Ay. I knew Martin.’ Already he was talking of himself in the past tense, as though he were already dead. His mouth twitched in a half-smile. ‘He was not involved. He is safe.’

‘Who is this Dakin?’ Sir Jacob asked.

I sighed. ‘Only the nephew of an old lawyer I know. A barrister of Gray’s Inn. I was trying to help the old man find him.’

Sir Jacob frowned at me. ‘You have other things to worry about now, Master Shardlake, believe me.’ He nodded to the turnkeys and they bore Locke away, the fat one grunting with the effort. He had a hard time unlocking the door while trying to hold the chair, but he managed it and they carried Locke through. ‘We’ll have a job getting up these stairs,’ the younger one said.

‘Ay.’ The fat man gasped. ‘You’re a nuisance, you are, matey,’ he told Locke. They carried him upstairs; I heard him groan at the jolting of the chair. Sir Jacob inclined his head.

‘Often by the end they’re in such pain they can’t think of anything beyond that. Well, he’ll be out of it tomorrow, his head will be off.’

‘There is to be no trial?’

Sir Jacob gave me a long sideways look, as though I had committed an impertinence. ‘I think you need some time to reflect on where you are,’ he said. ‘Yes, that would be best. We shall talk again later.’ He sat down at the desk and began writing notes on a paper, ignoring me again while he waited for the gaolers to return.

I stood there, my legs shaking, thinking frantically. Had the Queen had dalliance with Dereham as well as Culpeper? It seemed incredible, yet it was the only explanation for Cranmer’s signature on the warrant. And they knew nothing about Culpeper. I could deny knowledge of Dereham truthfully. But would they believe me, would they try other means? And I knew that if they tortured me I would tell them anything to get them to stop, tell them about Culpeper or what I suspected of the King’s ancestry, anything. I could bear less than Locke had, I knew that, less than Broderick would have. My head reeled with sudden terror and I hid my face in my hands and groaned.

With a puffing and blowing, the turnkeys came back down the stairs. I pulled my trembling hands from my face. Sir Jacob was looking at me with what seemed like quiet satisfaction. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I think the penny has dropped. Put him in with Radwinter.’

THE FAT TURNKEY took me up a flight of stairs to a narrow torchlit corridor lined with sturdy wooden doors. He opened one and thrust me in with a twist of his arm so forceful I nearly fell.

The cell was a long chamber with a low roof. The bricks had been whitewashed but were disfigured with patches of mould. Through a small, high barred window at the other end of the room I could see a patch of dark sky and hear the hiss of rain hitting the river. We must be right by the water. The only furniture was a pair of rickety truckle beds opposite each other by the door. On one of them Radwinter sat, head in his hands. They were chained together, as were his feet. He did not look up as the turnkey led me over to the other bed.

‘Sit down,’ the fat man said. I collapsed rather than sat on a thin, filthy mattress, stinking of damp. There was no blanket. ‘Stretch out your arms,’ he ordered. ‘Come on, I haven’t got all day.’ His tone was still quiet but when I looked up his hard little eyes told me he meant business. I reached out my arms. So quickly and dextrously that I hardly had time to realize what he was doing, he took a chain with a manacle on each end from under the bed and slipped the manacles round my wrists. There was a double click and I was pinioned. He bent down, pulled out another length of chain and secured my feet. He stood back and inspected his handiwork with a nod.