C Sansom - Sovereign

The big man grabbed me as I fell, and sat me in a wooden chair. He sighed, as I might at the sight of a badly copied document. ‘Take deep breaths,’ he said. ‘Just sit there and breathe slowly.’

I did as commanded, staring at him dumbly. His expression was frowning. I saw his apron was smeared with old blood. ‘Got the thin knife heated, Tom?’ he asked over his shoulder.

‘Yes, Father. Coming along nicely.’ Over the big man’s shoulder the boy gave me a nasty smile.

‘Got your breath back?’ the big man asked.

‘Yes. Listen, please, I-’

‘Over here then, Tom.’ And before I could react the big man pulled me up and held me while the boy tore off the new doublet Tamasin had brought and then my white shirt. The big man stepped away and studied me. There was no mockery at my shape, only a cold professional interest.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Chains.’ And again before I had time to react they grabbed the irons holding my wrists together and hauled my arms up, looping the chain through a hook in the low ceiling. I was left dangling, my toes only just touching the floor. The gyves bit into my wrists, the one that had already rubbed my right wrist raw causing excruciating pain. I shouted out.

The big man stood looking at me. He had an impatient expression on his heavy features now. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’re not going to piss about, we want answers quickly. What do you know of relations between Francis Dereham and the Queen?’

‘Nothing,’ I shouted out. I thought, I could stop this if I mentioned Culpeper’s name, tell what I knew of him and the Queen. Or could I? Might that just goad them on?’

‘Come on,’ the big man growled. ‘You know better than that!’

‘Torture is illegal in England!’ I cried out. It made the torturer’s face crack into a grin.

‘Hear that, Tom?’ he said. ‘The soft-skinned fool thinks this is the torture! Oh no, that’s just the hanging up to put you in position. Show him, Tom.’

The boy came forward. In one hand he held a thin knife, the point red-hot. In the other a tiny vice with a screw to turn it. He held them up for me to see. ‘We’ll have some teeth out with the vice,’ his father said. ‘Break them, mind, not pull ’em out by the roots. That’s worse. Then we’ll have that knife under your fingernails.’

My head was clear now, horribly clear, the earlier faintness gone, though it was hard to breathe with my arms stretched above me. ‘Once more,’ the torturer said in tones of heavy impatience. ‘What do you know of the Queen and Francis Dereham?’

‘Nothing. Please listen, I -’

I hadn’t learned yet, I hadn’t learned how speedily they moved. The big man grabbed my head between meaty hands and nodded to the boy. My mouth was forced open, I tasted the boy’s sweaty hands, then felt metal in my mouth. There was a sharp crack and a terrible pain coursed through every nerve in my head. I felt blood seep onto my tongue. The pain went on and on, receding and returning in crashing waves. The boy held up the vice and I saw a gleam of white.

‘Now,’ the big man said again. ‘Dereham, or it’s the knife under the nails. We’ll do nails and teeth turn about.’

‘I – I-’ I was gurgling, half mad with pain. ‘I don’t -’

The father nodded, and the son raised the knife to my pinioned hands.

HE STOPPED. A fraction of an inch away, the heat searing my finger. A high-pitched creak told me the door had opened and through waves of pain and terror I heard voices, recognized a harsh mutter, Sir Jacob Rawling’s voice. The door closed again. I looked wildly round, groaning and spitting blood. The fat turnkey had come in and was standing by the torturer, looking at me with mild interest. The big man nodded to his son and the hot knife was pulled away. I felt myself lifted up and wondered if this was the start of some new horror, but they only pulled the chain holding my arms off the hook, then lowered me to the floor. I stood unsteadily. The big man looked at me, a faint smile on his meaty face.

‘Your lucky day. We’ve to stop; you’re to go back to your cell.’

I staggered and spat out blood and a fragment of tooth. The boy had broken off a big molar in the side of my lower jaw. The fat turnkey reached out a hand to steady me. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get you back. Here’s your shirt and doublet.’ He helped me pull the torn clothes round my shoulders, then led me half-dazed from the chamber.

‘What happened?’ I asked as he walked me back. My voice sounded thick, my mouth was still bleeding. I had been proud of my teeth, I had had nearly a full set.

‘You’re to be taken to Archbishop Cranmer at Hampton Court. I don’t know where he’ll keep you, because he hasn’t a gaoler any more, has he? Billy and I are in trouble about that,’ he added lugubriously.

We turned the corner into the central area and there, standing by the desk with young Billy, I saw Barak. My heart leapt. His manner was quite different from the day before, he looked confident and energetic. At least, till he saw me. Then his jaw dropped.

‘Jesu!’ he shouted. ‘What have you done to him? You fucking arseholes -’

‘Now, none of that!’ the fat turnkey admonished. ‘He was taken to the torture on Sir Jacob’s orders. My advice to you is to get him out of here before the Archbishop changes his mind.’

‘There’s a whole boatload of new captives coming in soon,’ Billy told him.

‘Just as well we’ll have the cell, then.’

Barak took my arm. ‘How many teeth did the arseholes pull?’

‘Just one.’

‘Let’s get out. We’ve a long boat journey. It’s raining, but I’ve got your coat and a blanket. And your things.’ He took out my dagger and purse and Cranmer’s seal that had been taken off me when I arrived. He handed them to me, then looked at the turnkeys. ‘Can you get these irons off?’

‘All right.’ The fat man selected a key from his ring and, bending down, released my feet and left wrist. When he came to the manacle on my right wrist, though, the tight one, the key would not turn. ‘Damn thing, it’s stiff.’

‘Try spitting on the key,’ Barak said. The turnkey did as he suggested, but with no result.

‘Looks like you’ll have to keep it on, matey.’

Barak bent and studied the manacle. ‘It’s rusty. I could probably get that off with tools at home.’ He turned to the gaoler. ‘But he can’t go before the Archbishop dragging a three-foot length of chain. Can you get the padlock off?’

The round gyve was connected to the chain by a stout little padlock. The gaoler grunted and went over to a bundle of little keys hanging from the wall. He opened the padlock, the chain falling to the floor. All the time I had been looking on dumbly, licking my cracked and swollen lips, but now I burst out weeping uncontrollably, my sobs echoing round that terrible chamber. Barak took my arm and led me gently through the barred door, up the stairs and through the Great Hall. I was past caring whether the soldiers saw my wretched state. I asked no questions; it was all I could do to stumble along.

We descended the steps of the White Tower, then I felt grass under my feet, rain on my head. We stopped walking at last and I looked up. We were by the Watergate again. A wherry stood there, a soldier and a boatman in Cranmer’s livery sheltering under the arch. Beyond, the heavy rain made the Thames water hiss and boil.

‘He’s hurt, take care,’ Barak told the boatman.

They helped me in and the boatman took the oars. Barak wrapped the blanket round me as we pulled out into the water. A hand to my throbbing jaw, I looked at the wide river. A large barge swept past us, sculling into the Watergate. Sitting inside was a cargo of bedraggled gentlemen and ladies, their fine clothes streaming water, surrounded by soldiers. My eyes widened as I saw Francis Dereham, no longer proud and arrogant but shrinking against the side of the boat, his face white as chalk. I also recognized some of the Queen’s ladies, and then I saw Lady Rochford in the midst of them, staring at me with wide terrified eyes. Seeing my bloodied face, she began screaming and tried to stand up. Someone pulled her back down. The shrill sound faded away as the barge passed under the arch. I sat staring after it.