Sovereign

Chapter Forty-three

ALL THE REST OF that long day I waited in the cell, hoping for further news, though I knew the tasks I had set Barak would take time. I remembered the bells we had heard along the river yesterday – was it only yesterday? – that Tamasin told me were ringing as part of special services the King had ordered to celebrate the happiness of his fifth marriage. He must not yet know the suspicions about Catherine. Cranmer would need strong evidence before he dared tell the King.

RADWINTER RETURNED early in the afternoon. I was relieved to see that he did not seem to have been hurt. He was in a filthy temper though. He sat on his bed, muttering to himself so furiously that spittle gathered at the edges of his mouth. I shuddered at the sight. At one point he looked up, glared at me and said, ‘The torture, they’ve promised me the torture tomorrow, though I’ve told them all. They can’t see it’s the truth. See, Father, they break the rules! You were wrong, the rules may be made by God but men put them into action, and they break them!’ He stopped then and gave that strange impish giggle I had heard yesterday. ‘You are not my father, I know that. You’re the soft hunchback lawyer. You do not understand anything.’ Then he turned his head away.

As the light began to fail our door was unlocked again and the young turnkey appeared. He carried three clean blankets and a neatly folded set of clothes, on top of which were some bread and cheese and fruit. He laid them down on the bed. ‘A girl left these for you.’ He gave me a lascivious grin. ‘Tasty little blonde. She your doxy?’

‘No.’

He looked at Radwinter, who had turned to stare at the wall when he saw the turnkey had not come for him. ‘He is not well,’ I said quietly. ‘In his mind.’

‘Ay, we’ve had a laugh with him, saying he’ll fetch the King and Cranmer down on us. But when he sees what’s in store for him tomorrow, that’ll shock him back into his wits soon enough. Always does. Goodnight then, matey.’ He slammed the door shut.

I tore a hunk off the bread and a lump of cheese. They tasted good. I had not realized how hungry I was. ‘Radwinter,’ I called. ‘Do you want some?’

He turned round and I saw he had been weeping. ‘No,’ he said and looked at me. ‘They still say I killed Broderick.’

‘I believe you did not.’

‘Who did then?’

‘I do not know. But I do not think it was you.’

He looked at me hard. Something seemed to change in his eyes, the madness returning. ‘Who cares what you think?’ he spat out with renewed viciousness.

‘No one.’

‘Soft hunchback fool.’ He turned away again.

‘Dear Jesu,’ I muttered under my breath, ‘save us both from this.’

A SECOND NIGHT in the cell, less cold under the blankets Tamasin had brought but no less full of terror. Radwinter muttered and cried out in his sleep. The rain stopped then began again, harder than ever, hissing like some furious animal. Another grey dawn took shape outside and I got up, wincing at the stiffness in my limbs, making the chains clank. I ate the last of the food. Where was Barak? Had he found anything out at the Guildhall? Had he made it to Hampton Court?

They came early that morning, their keys rattling in the lock. Both turnkeys. ‘Come on,’ the fat one said cheerfully to Radwinter. ‘You’re wanted.’

THEY CAME BACK for me two hours later. ‘Time to see Sir Jacob,’ the fat one said. ‘Now, you’re not going to be any trouble, are you?’ he coaxed ominously. ‘It’s just questions this time.’

I let them lead me out to the central area where the desk was. Beyond, I could see the barred door that led up to the White Tower. A soldier was waiting there. The young turnkey nodded to him. ‘This one for the deputy warden,’ he said. The soldier took my arm as the turnkey opened the door to the staircase. The soldier indicated I should walk ahead. I stumbled and clanked my way up the narrow staircase.

I heard a murmur of male voices ahead and felt shame and horror at the prospect of being marched past the soldiers in the Great Hall again, limping, in chains, unwashed. But the soldier led me past the entrance to the hall, up a further flight to another floor with large unbarred windows and fresh rushes on the floor. He stopped before a door and knocked. Sir Jacob’s voice called, ‘Come in.’

It was a light chamber, the walls painted yellow. Tables were covered with papers organized in neat piles. Maleverer’s offices, I remembered, had always looked chaotic.

A window streaked with rain showed Tower Green, where people walked to and fro. Sir Jacob, wearing a black doublet and white shirt, sat behind a desk. He looked at me seriously.

‘This is your one chance to answer my questions truthfully.’ He spoke quietly. ‘If you fail to satisfy me, what is being done to Radwinter now will be done to you. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Sir Jacob.’ My heart was beating fast and again I suppressed the urge to blurt out everything I knew about the Queen. But I would not betray Barak and Tamasin, not while there was still a chance Barak could get to Cranmer, get me out of here.

‘The Queen was placed under confinement yesterday,’ Sir Jacob said, ‘following information received by Archbishop Cranmer that before her marriage she had dalliance with Francis Dereham, whom she appointed her secretary in York. There may be a precontract of marriage between them, and as a lawyer you know what difficulties that may cause in her marriage to the King.’

I was silent for a moment, shocked. Then I said, ‘I know nothing of this, sir. I scarce know Dereham. Sir, I believe I may know how this has come about.’

He nodded. I spoke rapidly, telling him of Rich’s animus against me over the Bealknap case, how he had seen me leave the Queen’s tent and, later, seen Dereham speak to me. I repeated the lie I had told Rich when he saw Dereham talking to me in Hull, that Dereham had seen me at Fulford and used our meeting in the street to make further mock of me. I hesitated before saying that and from a quick intense flicker of Sir Jacob’s eyes I saw he had noticed. He was an experienced interrogator. He consulted a paper on his desk, then rapped, ‘What was your business with the Queen at Howlme?’

It was as well I worked in a profession where you needed to think on your feet. ‘It concerned one of her servants, Tamasin Reedbourne. She has a – a relationship with my assistant, Master Barak. She was in some trouble with Lady Rochford over it.’

He frowned, then laughed, again the schoolmaster who has caught out an errant pupil. ‘The Queen was concerned with the morals of one of her servants?’ he asked incredulously.

‘Sir Jacob,’ I said quickly, ‘those are the only things Sir Richard Rich could have knowledge of. I cannot believe I have been brought here solely on those grounds.’

‘This matter could not be more serious. I have a report from Sir William Maleverer that a senior official’s servant overheard you in the refectory, telling Francis Dereham that if he could get into the Queen’s drawers it would serve the King right for the way he treated you at Fulford.’

‘That is a complete lie.’ I almost shouted my denial. ‘And I would guess the official who employs the servant is Sir Richard Rich.’

That knowing smile again. ‘It is not. He is a clerk for Master Simon Craike of the Harbingers’ Office.’

‘Craike is in Rich’s pay. Question the servant, sir. I beg you. Archbishop Cranmer has been fed false information by Rich.’

‘I told you, the report was from Sir William Maleverer.’

‘I believe he is in league with Rich. Please sir,’ I begged. ‘Please question this servant of Craike’s.’ How Craike had betrayed me. Rich must have put the pressure on.

Sir Jacob referred quickly to another paper. ‘Master Barak and Mistress Reedbourne. They brought you food and clothes yesterday. The turnkey reports you and Barak spoke quietly, as though you did not wish to be overheard.’

‘Would not you, sir, in my position?’

‘I am hardly likely to be.’

‘Sir, could you not enquire of the servant? It would take just a little time. I have already been here two days. Another day…’

Sir Jacob sat and thought, tapping a fingernail against his thin lips. I felt hope rising in my breast. Then he shook his head.

‘No. I am not satisfied. You are keeping things back, I feel it.’

‘Sir Jacob –’

‘No!’ He spoke sharply, waved an angry hand at me. ‘You have had your chance. You will go back to your cell. There you will see what has happened to Radwinter, and perhaps tomorrow when you are taken to where he has been you will have the sense to speak the truth before they really start work.’

My jaw dropped in horror. ‘Sir Jacob, please, a day –’

‘No. When it comes to making a recalcitrant man spill the truth, there is no better means than the torture.’

I WAS MARCHED DOWN the stairs again, past the hall where the soldiers talked and laughed and light spilled into the dark stairway, down again to the darkness and damp; through the barred door again and back into the hands of the young turnkey. The fat turnkey was there too. He smiled and shook his head.

‘Down to the chamber tomorrow, is it? I see it in your face. My advice is to spill all you know as soon as you get in. Your pal Radwinter didn’t, and he’s in a sorry state.’

‘See his mouth, Ted?’ the young man said cheerily.

‘Ay. They must have used the vice on his teeth. He won’t be doing any chewing for a while.’ The fat turnkey shook his head again. ‘Come on, matey, back in the cell you go.’ He grasped my arm.

‘Has – has there been any word for me?’ I asked. ‘From my friend?’

‘No, nothing.’ He began leading me away. ‘There’s no point hoping,’ he said as we approached the cell. ‘Best just resolve to make a clean breast before they get properly started tomorrow.’ He turned the key in the lock. ‘Take my word for it, I’ve seen – oh fuck!’ He yelled suddenly, letting go my arm.

I stared past him into the cell. At first I could make no sense of what I saw, it seemed that a gigantic pendulum had been brought to the cell and set swinging under the window. Then I saw it was Radwinter. He had taken the two beds and set them one on top of the other. He had removed his shirt and, like Broderick, had twisted it into a noose, tied one end to the window and the other round his neck. Then he had jumped from the bed. He had broken his neck, his head was bent at an unnatural angle. His face was hideous, his mouth open and smeared with blood, half his teeth gone. I fell back against the doorjamb, my legs gave way and I slid to the floor.

The fat turnkey had run across to the window. Now he ran back to the door. ‘Billy!’ he yelled. ‘Billy!’ Running feet, and a moment later the other turnkey joined him in the doorway.

‘Oh, Hell!’ he cried. ‘We’ll be in the shit for this.’ He went over and looked at Radwinter, then turned back to the fat man. ‘You know the beds should be fixed to the floor where there’s a high window!’

‘I’ve been trying to get the workmen in for months! How the fuck did he get the beds across with his hands in that state?’ I saw Radwinter’s hands, dangling at his side, were torn and bloody, his fingernails gone. I shuddered and looked away.

‘They should have given him the rack,’ young Billy said, ‘instead of pissing about with his teeth. He couldn’t have done it then. Fuck! He’s still swinging, he can only just have jumped!’ He grabbed one of Radwinter’s legs, bringing the body to a halt.

‘Why did he do it?’ the fat man said in a tone of outrage.

‘They were taking him back for another go tomorrow.’

‘He did it for shame,’ I said quietly. ‘For him this would have been the ultimate shame. So much for torture bringing the truth.’

THE DEPUTY WARDEN CAME, watched Radwinter cut down and his body taken away. ‘And we got nothing out of him,’ he muttered angrily. But then he had had nothing to give, I thought. He had not killed Broderick. Broderick, Jennet Marlin, Oldroyd, now Radwinter. What a harvest of lives that box of documents had reaped. And how many would Catherine Howard’s dalliance cost?

I sat alone in the cell, through another day, another night. Outside the rain slashed down, hissing, dripping. When it grew dark I found myself looking nervously into corners, as though Radwinter’s tormented spirit might appear there. But there was nothing, no sense of him. As the hours passed my hopes ebbed and flowed with the tide on the river outside, I thought, Barak will come, or there will be some message to give me hope. Surely he could have got to Hampton Court and back by now, on the river? If he did not come, what would they do to me tomorrow? My head swam as I thought of all the abominable things I had heard they used in the Tower: the rack, the vice, hot irons. I had been a fool to think for a moment I could lie to Sir Jacob. I thought of Radwinter’s bloodied mouth. In a bleak moment at the darkest hour of the night I wondered wildly whether Barak and Tamasin might have fled to avoid questioning about the Queen. I cursed myself for such stupidity, Barak would not let me down. Then the dawn came again, light at the window from which a piece of Radwinter’s shirt still hung.

THE TURKEYS CAME for me early in the afternoon. They watched me carefully lest I might struggle, but I knew there was no point and let them lead me away without resistance. I felt light-headed, as though my spirit might fly from my body.

They took me down a flight of stairs, then along a dark passage. They halted before a wide, solid door. The fat turnkey knocked. I looked at the dark old wood. My heart was thumping hard now, making me feel more faint than ever. The door was opened and they led me inside. The turnkeys released my arms and quickly stepped outside again.

It was a big, windowless room with smoke-blackened walls. A large brazier in an alcove put me momentarily in mind of a blacksmith’s forge, as did the big bull of a man in a leather apron standing looking at me, hands on hips. A heavyset boy in his late teens was tending the brazier’s coals. Then I saw the rack with its straps and wooden wheels in the corner, the row of instruments – pincers, pokers, knives – hanging on hooks, and I felt my head spin. Beside me was a big metal bin and on top, among the ashes of old coals, small white objects gleaming. I realized these were Radwinter’s teeth, and my legs gave way.

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.