Sumerford's Autumn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Really Alysson, you’re positively boring these days.” Jennine sank back against her pillows, reached for her cup and sipped the steaming hippocras. She watched her maid over the brim. Alysson was clearly concentrating on other matters entirely. “Come and sit by me, my dear, and tell me what the problem is.”

  “Problem?” Alysson whirled around. “How could there be a problem, with life so sweet and so simple? With Ludovic arrested, his execution possible any day. With Gerald also in the Tower facing death. With your baby less than three months in his grave, and Lord Humphrey wailing every morning outside this door until you let him in for comfort. And now the cess pit is overflowing and threatening us all with disease from foul vapours. What a wonderful and fulfilling life we all lead in this great draughty castle. How could there be a problem?”

  “Now that’s exactly what I mean, Alysson,” said the lady. “You’ve grown sharp tongued and quite rude. I can’t imagine why I put up with you.”

  Alysson sat suddenly on the edge of the bed where Jennine was stretched. She gazed earnestly at her mistress through the afternoon shadows. “You don’t need to put up with me anymore, Jenny.” She held her breath, and said it in a hurry. “I’m leaving the day after tomorrow.”

  A deepening silence merged into the shadows, an early twilight as the drizzle fogged the outside the windows, blurring the glass mullions. The Lady Jennine realised her mouth was open, and shut it with a snap. “I forbid it. I told you before. I won’t let you leave.”

  Alysson sighed. “I’m sorry Jenny. But you won’t miss me really, you’re just cross that someone has the temerity to walk out on you. And I have to go, you must realise that. I love him. I have to go and see if I can help.”

  Jennine laughed. “Help? How? Climb up the Tower walls and pass him a sword? Fuck all the guards in return for letting him escape?”

  “It’s hopeless I know.” Because that part at least was true. “There’s probably nothing I can do. But I have to be there, and see him, and take him food and blankets, and hold him, and promise I’ll never sleep until he’s free.”

  “Do they let mistresses crawl into bed with their prisoners?”

  Alysson stared. She felt her cheeks growing pink and hot with anger. “Haven’t you ever attempted to do something important yourself, Jenny?” she demanded. “Haven’t you ever wanted to help anyone else? Haven’t you ever believed, desperately, that you had to try? Or have you always just sat around complaining? Always letting other people do everything for you? And then accusing them of being useless and stupid? While really it’s you being useless and stupid?” She found herself panting for breath, her fists clenched. “You’ve done your best to thrust me into Ludovic’s bed for a year or more, and even though you know quite well it never actually happened, now you insult me for being a whore. But you’re the whore, Jenny, and I’ve never thrown that in your face before. I’ve known the truth since you told me yourself at the beginning, so don’t look so prissy. Now I wish I had become Ludovic’s mistress. He never wanted me to come back and work for you after I was wounded. He wanted to keep me safe in his own house far away, and I was an absolute fool to turn him down. If I ever get him back I’ll say yes without any hesitation. But first I have to see him, and kiss him and convince him he’ll be saved somehow. I’ve waited and waited because I know I can’t do much to help him, and I prayed for a miracle, but now I can’t wait any longer. I have to go to London.”

  Jennine’s eyes stayed cold but her mouth smiled. “Of course, my dear.” She patted the bed beside her. “Come and sit closer. I understand, naturally. In fact, I shall help. You may have money, and clothes, and food to take. I shall arrange everything. But perhaps you should wait a little longer. After all, for all we know the dear boy may be on his way home right now. His lordship the earl may have secured his release already.”

  Alysson shook her head. “The earl would have sent the countess a message. The castle would be in uproar, preparing a celebration for the homecoming.”

  “Yes, perhaps you’re right, my dear.” The smile was fixed like plaster to stone. “So I shall arrange horses and an armed guard for your journey. I shall speak to the countess and get permission to borrow a litter. You shall have only the best, my love.”

  “The countess will never agree. How could you expect her to supply all that just for a lowly maid servant she doesn’t even like?” Alysson frowned. There was something wrong. “Besides, I’ve made my own arrangements. I leave on Wednesday.”

  “Ah.” Jennine continued to smile. “How efficient you are, my dear. Very well, though I admit to being a little disappointed you told me nothing until almost on the point of leaving. Hardly polite to a faithful friend. But I forgive you, of course. Now, let us make plans together.”

  Alysson ignored the patted counterpane. She wandered over to the window enclosure. “I told you weeks ago,” she said. “But the roads were iced in and the rivers too high for the carrier to cross, so I had to wait. Now the paths are clear.”

  “I see.” Jennine’s smile seemed to fade, tiny pricks of high colour appearing like glitter in her eyes. “With such determination, my dear, perhaps you’ll secure your lover’s release after all.” She rose and stretched, reaching for the door. She opened it just a little and peered out. She called. A page came puffing up the stairs outside. It was not Clovis, but Remi, her own personal boy. Jennine addressed him quietly, then turned back to Alysson. “Patience, my dear. I shall organise some treats for you. After all, I cannot lose my very dearest friend without thanking her in some special way.”

  Alysson felt strangely uncomfortable. “I don’t want gifts. I know I’ve upset you, and I’m sorry, but I can’t just sit around here thinking about where he is and what terrible things are happening to him. You’ll be all right.” Alysson tried to smile and found her mouth would not curl. “You have such a wonderful friendship with Humphrey, and he adores you and the countess likes you so much. I expect you’ll be with child again by summer. Then you’ll be the most important person in the castle again. You won’t even remember me by next month.”

  Footsteps, running, someone small and light and someone else heavy footed. Banging outside, and the door was wrenched open. Alysson stared.

  “Her,” Jennine pointed.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Ludovic crossed the yard of the inner ward. He squinted at the unaccustomed light, breathing deep. The stench of the Thames floated close, but air, however cold or rank, smelled sweet after months of knowing only the chill vapour of his cell, and natural light, however dull, seemed gloriously alive after peering only through the shadows of enclosure. The ground sparkled as day slid across wet stone. It had rained in the night though through the huge isolation of the walls, Ludovic had heard nothing.

  His steps were restricted by the shackles and he was utterly weary. He had slept very little. He was hungry. The food he paid for himself was meagre once delivered, the cauldron already divided between his gaolers while hot, before he received whatever they had left him when cold. The brazier had remained a faint fitful glow, its tiny charcoal warmth sunk and disillusioned by damp. At first Ludovic had pulled it close, holding his hands up against its open ironwork, clinging to the flicker of diminishing flame and the rising warmth of smoke. But through the low light he had watched his hands tremble, too weak and too cold to hold steady. So then he had crept beneath the cover of his bed, pulling the blanket around his shoulders, laid his head on the flat bolster and closed his eyes. When the ghostly whispers echoed in his head, he could not answer, not knowing anymore what was real. It was only contemplation of the rack and Martin Frizzard’s smile which had then filled his vision and the clank of his shackles seemed like the clink of metal on metal which he expected from the pulleys of torture. He shivered and could not sleep.

  It was mid-April said the guards who came for him. Spring, a bright new hope and a burgeoning of prosperity. Ludovic nodded, discovering no reply,
nor the ease of ready answer he had once known. He had no hope, nor interest in prosperity, and the passing of the time depressed him. He had not supposed April to have come so unannounced, when he still felt himself creeping through midwinter.

  Master Frizzard was waiting.

  “I have your confession ready for signature, sir.” Snuggled in fur, the man tapped a finger to the scroll lying before him. “Here, my lord. Read it and sign it. Or it’s the rack which waits, with rollers well oiled and the levers ready warmed.”

  A stool was set and Ludovic sat, thankful to do so. He was twenty six years old and felt ancient. Each bone suffered its own separate and violent ache. He stared at the paper prepared. At first he found it hard to read, his sight red rimmed and blurred. Then he read the words which spoke in his name, admitting to complicity in crimes which, he believed, had never been committed by anyone let alone himself. He knew himself already irredeemable. He looked up at the small narrow mouth over the width of fur trimming in front of him. “But I have had no contact of any kind with the Duchess of Burgundy. I have never been to Malines. I do not know the man Piers Warbeck. I have no knowledge of these other men you name, nor their conspiracies. Written here are admissions of duplicity and crime, matters which confuse and disgust me. How can I sign this document?”

  “Again?” Martin Frizzard scowled and pursed his lips. “Have we not discussed this before, sir? His majesty requires you to sign this confession. The king’s wishes should be sufficient motive for compliance. Otherwise your refusal leads directly to the rack. The choice is yours, sir.”

  During those rare occasions under questioning, Ludovic had previously sat straight. He had not shivered, nor trembled, nor bent. Now he relinquished pride. He folded his arms on the table and laid his head down on his wrists. He spoke into the thin grimed linen of his shirt cuffs. “You give me no choices, sir. I cannot sign. As I face execution in either case, at least I will leave my family with the knowledge of my innocence.”

  Master Frizzard stood, scraping back his chair. “Then you offer me diversion, my lord, and a good few hours of entertainment before dinner. Boiled mutton today I believe, and boiled onions with curd cheese. I shall work up a good appetite.” He reached forwards, grabbing a handful of Ludovic’s hair and wrenching up his face to look at him. Ludovic blinked, staring up. “If you have paid for your rations this week,” Frizzard smiled, “then you will be served boiled mutton and onions yourself sir. Of course, it will be sadly congealed by the time the platter reaches you. But then,” he smiled a little wider, “I doubt that will bother you today. You will have no appetite at all I promise, once I have finished with you. You’ll not be able to face a single breadcrumb I’m afraid, nor,” he grinned, “have the strength in your broken fingers to hold it.”

  Ludovic laid his head back down on the table. “Do what you will sir,” he murmured. “I no longer care.”

  Beneath the great Keep the chambers were without windows, but natural light slunk down the wide stairwell and many tall candles banked the walls in iron sconces. The cellar was large and dreary and open. There were three racks, each the same. They were long wooden beds, made of dark oak and heavily built. But they were not true beds and the slatted frames bore no mattress. Massive rollers at either end distorted the surrounding shadows. There was the smell of old blood, and shit, and great fear. The wood was stained.

  Winding and steep, the ancient stairwell echoed from the chamber of questioning into the cellars of torture. Martin Frizzard trotted briskly ahead. Four guards brought Ludovic down. His boots had been removed and the feet of his hose were soon wet and sticky with the grime of the stones. He stood in the arched entrance, his wrists roped behind him, his ankles in irons. Without his boots, the shackles rubbed at his feet, wearing holes in the worn out wool. Fire and candlelight shifted around him, playing its theatre across the walls and the floor and the busy machinery of the apparatus, painting the old black wood with a lurid gloss.

  Far larger than the brazier in Ludovic’s cell, a huge charcoal burner was grotesque with flame, illuminating the damp on the walls. It generated considerable heat. No need for the torturer to shiver. The man already stood waiting, stripped to the waist. He sweated, gleaming like liquid metal in the firelight. Ludovic felt real warmth for the first time in four months, but his back stayed in ice. Released immediately from his bonds and shackles, he was pushed forwards towards the rack which sat central and threatening before him. At once he was forced to his knees against the frame. He stumbled, bent relentlessly forwards. Two guards took his arms, the others took his legs. He was thrown flat, the low slats hard beneath his back, his limbs spread and stretched, his arms above his head and his legs wide. The roller to which his wrists were manacled, groaned, creaking as it pulled against his body. His ankles were chained to the roller at the base, and locked tight. Efficient and busy, the four guards secured him and moved away. Martin Frizzard moved forwards. He looked down on Ludovic and smiled.

  “The rack is an interesting instrument, my lord,” he said with an inflexion of earnest affection. “Being well practised, I and my assistant here can control the amount of pain inflicted to the tiniest degree. Under the right leverage, the rack can stretch your limbs up to the very point of dislocation without breaking the joints or crippling the bones. The pain caused is, of course, exceptional. But no lasting damage need be done. You would not walk away, of course.” Frizzard chuckled. “Indeed, it would be some weeks before you walked again. But in time, with a little doctoring and a good deal of patience, you might recover.”

  Ludovic closed his eyes. He had not struggled. He had allowed the manipulation of his body without resistance or objection. He reserved his strength and concentrated on his breathing. He felt the hot air reach deep into his lungs and then expelled it slowly. The rhythm calmed him and he did not listen to the man speaking, although the words impinged, distantly impelling. Ludovic said nothing now. He was absorbed in controlling the reactions of his body and of prolonging his life.

  Martin Frizzard nodded as though he understood what remained unspoken. “During the process you will be given time to confess,” he said. “I will stop the levers at several points, the second time just before the knees and wrists are dislocated, and then finally as the hips, elbows and shoulders snap apart.” He paused, as though considering before continuing the conversation. “Of course, it’s likely you’ll lose consciousness at that stage, but we’ll bring you round, never fear. I’ve ways of keeping a man conscious when I want him fully aware. Indeed, we have a long morning before I need be off to take my midday dinner in peace. And afterwards I shall be back again. But I hope not to prolong the business. It would be a shame to see a man of your bearing quite broken and deformed by the rack.” He paused again, for affect. “In the end you’ll confess anyway of course. They all do. Older, stronger men than you, my lord. I’m a master at my craft you see, and do not tire easily. Naturally it would save you a deal of pain were you to confess at this early stage, but obstinacy goes hand in hand with treachery they say. You give the word, my lord, to set the rollers turning or to set you free and back to your own hot dinner.”

  He bent over, testing his prisoner’s chains. The pressure on Ludovic’s arms was already extreme. Stretched high above his head, the elbows were wrenched against their natural pivot and long weakened by freezing and sleepless imprisonment, Ludovic felt his body brittle. He counted his breaths, regulated strict and rhythmic, and kept his eyes shut.

  “Sometimes,” Martin Frizzard confided, “a man is too much confused by pain. If he leaves his confession too late, I am engrossed in my work and cannot stop. It is a sad end, but I am not myself at liberty to permit any fool to escape his destiny, and will not impede justice by thinking of mercy before the job is done. But I do not condone stretching until death. I will save your life, my lord, confession or not. You will not die at my hand, but be executed afterwards, whether or not you walk to the block. Many a man needs to be dragged. It makes little differ
ence.”

  The heat had increased. The brazier stood close, its smoke rising uninterrupted to the vaulted stone roof. There was no movement in the chamber to disturb either smoke or flame. The four guards stood back around the walls. Martin Frizzard stood looking down calmly at Ludovic. Ludovic could not move. The light flared rich red against the back of his eyelids.

  “But,” Frizzard continued, “I will still allow opportunity for confession, even at the very end, for once persuaded to admit the truth then clearly you need no more persuasion. This form of encouragement is the straightest path to justice. The law must discover the truth, but a guilty man avoids admitting his guilt. Thus he impedes both justice and the law. I am adept in guiding a guilty man back towards righteousness. Indeed, this is an exercise you should welcome, sir, for it returns you to the truths you have so long discarded. However, if you don’t choose to stop the racking by making your confession, there are other methods I have devised to encourage you beyond the breaking of your joints.” Frizzard paused again, biting his lip. Irritated by his prisoner’s lack of reaction, he breathed deep and continued. “Recently one man was sadly obstinate. He refused to sign his own confession, even after his knees fell apart. I then abstracted his teeth one by one. There were two left when he tried to speak. But unfortunately his mouth was full of blood and his words were impossible to understand. He simply gurgled, and how was I to know his intention? After pulling the last two teeth, I allowed him to swallow the blood and rest a little. Then he indicated a great desire to confess after all. I permitted it, feeling magnanimous. But he fainted before able to write his signature. A pity. He went to the axe unabsolved.”

  The wooden slats beneath Ludovic’s spine held him rigid, forcing his chest upwards, but his breathing remained steady. He had narrowed his focus and now thought of nothing else. Fear battered at the edges of his consciousness but remained locked outside the concentration of his breath.