The boy had assured them that Leyander would appear soon after sunup, but there had been no sign of him. Walcott questioned one of the other actors, determined to learn the killer’s whereabouts. When the boy had named Anton Leyander as the murderer, Lieutenant Walcott had been agitated: the last thing he needed was for Captain Sheldrake to discover he had questioned Leyander previously and allowed him to go free. He must be found and arrested, and quickly.
Walcott had sent men to Leyander’s lodgings, and given orders for Varian to be found and arrested: he would be questioned as brutally as necessary to get him to give up Leyander’s whereabouts. As it had turned out, Anton Leyander had delivered himself into their hands. More or less. The chase along the dockside was something else that Sheldrake did not need to know the detail of.
When they reached the Guard House, Walcott was greeted by the men he had sent to search Leyander’s rooms.
“Sir,” the first man said, stepping forward and saluting. He was holding an old flour sack, and emptied its contents onto the floor in front of the lieutenant and Anton Leyander. The bundle of clothing that tumbled out was a jester’s motley; and there was also an empty wine bottle bearing Lord Eòghan’s crest, which rolled across the floorboards and came to rest at the toe of Walcott’s boot.
“Found in the prisoner’s rooms, sir,” the Guardsman said.
Walcott glanced toward Leyander, and smiled to see the expression of surprise on his face.
“Should we inform the captain” the Guardsmen asked.
“No, do not disturb him yet,” Walcott said. He wanted to ensure word spread about his capturing the murderer, before Sheldrake could appear and claim credit. The man responsible for bringing Lord Eòghan’s killer to justice would almost certainly be awarded the rank of Captain when it came time to make a permanent appointment to the post. Walcott smiled, anticipating Sheldrake’s reaction when he learned the murderer was in a cell below the Guard House.
*
Anton Leyander was manacled at wrists and ankles, and taken barefoot down the winding stone staircase into the dungeon caves beneath the castle. An iron studded door was opened and he was pushed into the dark cell beyond. His head struck the stone wall inside: in the moment before the door swung shut, he could see that this windowless cell was only four feet square and perhaps nine feet high. The floor was damp black earth. When the door banged shut and the key rattled in the lock, the darkness became absolute.
The fool’s outfit the Guard claimed to have recovered from his room had not been the garments he had worn. He had burned those clothes. Whether the motley and the empty bottle had been planted by the Guardsmen themselves, by Sheldrake, or by some other person, Anton did not know. But their discovery had sealed his fate. Anton huddled in the corner of the tiny cell, wrapped his arms close to his body and tried to stop shivering.
A dull pain throbbed behind Anton’s eyes. He passed a furred tongue over dry lips. Opening his eyes revealed only unbroken darkness. His hands and feet were numb with cold, and the weight of the iron manacles was digging into his flesh. He had no clue as to how long he had been held captive in the dark, did not know whether it was now day or night. The absence of light and sound was intended to disorientate him, he knew, but knowing it did not prevent a deep feeling of hopelessness descending upon him. Nor did it keep away the fear that he now lay curled in a cold, damp void with the world beyond the darkness dissolved to nothing.
A key rattled loudly in the lock. Anton raised his hands to shield his eyes, several pounds iron bracelets and chain slowing the move. The oak door swung open on well-oiled hinges. Anton recognised the shadow outlined in the doorway by flickering torchlight.
“Captain Sheldrake.” Anton’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “How goes it with you?”
“Well, indeed,” Sheldrake said, though he seemed ill at ease. “Leave us,” he said over his shoulder to the gaoler.
“Why am I held prisoner?” Anton asked.
Sheldrake smiled weakly. “You do not need to ask,” he said. “You entered this castle pretending to be a fool; you cut Lord Eòghan’s throat, and pushed his body from a tower window.”
“Is that how he died?” Anton asked.
“You know that,” Sheldrake said.
“I did not kill him,” Anton said. “And you know that.”
“Whether you did or did not, you will confess to the murder,” Sheldrake said. “And then there will be an execution: the public deserve a little something to cheer them, don’t you think?”
“I will never confess to this crime,” Anton said.
“You will,” Sheldrake said. “Within these underground chambers, men have been compelled to confess many crimes, whether they were guilty or otherwise.”
“If I am to be put to the question,” Anton said. “I will speak only the truth: I will reveal your plot to my inquisitor and you will swiftly find yourself in fetters beside me.”
Sheldrake smiled and shook his head. “Do you think I would allow that? No one will hear your accusations. The time for games is done, and all that lies ahead for you is death. Your only concern should be how quickly that death comes about. I have your confession drawn up already: sign it now, and your death will be swift under the executioner’s axe. I will see to it that the blade is freshly-sharpened, so only a single blow is required to take off your head.”
“I am touched by your concern,” Anton said. “But you will not have me dead so easily. I shall plead my case before the magistrate”
Sheldrake smiled coldly. “Lord Eòghan was the magistrate. And he has been murdered.”
Anton sighed, beaten. “And in his absence, the Captain of the Guard may draw up the death warrant.”
“It awaits only my signature,” Sheldrake said. “Due process requires that I have your confession on record before I put my seal to it.”
“I shall never confess myself guilty of your crimes,” Anton said.
“If you will not confess freely, you will be taken to the Chamber of Inquisition, there to be shown the rack. If you do not then answer to your guilt, you shall be racked to the extent that the examiner sees fit. You will confess.”
“Never!”
“Do not answer in haste,” Sheldrake said. “Take some more time to consider your position.”
The door was closed again and the key turned in the lock. Anton was left alone in the darkness to consider his fate.
They came later to question him.
The inquisition chamber was smaller than Anton had imagined. Windowless, carved from the rock beneath the castle, the air was smoky from the torches around the walls, and above the glowing braziers heat haze shimmered. The floor was damp black earth, rich with the blood and sweat of men. Chains and manacles hung from wall and roof. A rough wooden bench along one wall held various metal instruments, scourges, and the smaller torture engines. A large area of the floor lay clear, save for the four stakes where a man might be tied spread-eagled. Close by were a board like a small door, which would rest on a man’s chest, and the stack of stone blocks which would be piled on the board to slowly crush a man until his ribs burst forth from his skin.
But dominating the chamber was the rack: a stout ladder-like frame on four legs, inclined at forty degrees with a windlass at the higher end. This was a machine designed solely for inflicting pain. To wring from its victims whatever confessions of guilt or words of betrayal an inquisitor might ask for. Many a rackmaster would boast of the clients who had left his device a full foot taller than when they had been introduced to it.
Anton was brought into the chamber by two Guardsmen; they removed his manacles, and roughly stripped him of his shirt. Then the two men left, closing the heavy oak door behind them, leaving Anton to face Sheldrake and the torturer.
“Allow me to introduce Jakob, our chief inquisitor,” Sheldrake said.
The torturer smiled and gave a small bow. He was a short man, barrel-chested, with thick arms. He was all but bald, and his remaining hair was gingerish
. His face was florid, and in his black leather apron he might have been a blacksmith or a butcher, and perhaps he did possess many of the skills of both.
“Jakob is a most talented artisan,” Sheldrake said. “His skills in the persuasive arts have been praised even by his victims.”
Anton bowed in Jakob’s direction. “It is always a pleasure to encounter a skilled craftsman.”
Jakob nodded, his smile never changing.
“He is deaf?” Anton asked.
“Quite deaf,” Sheldrake said. “It came on quite suddenly. It is really very sad: he can no longer hear the screams of his victims.”
“Nor their confessions,” Anton said.
Sheldrake smiled. “He will not hear a word of what is said here.”
Jakob was still grinning and nodding gently, looking from Anton to Sheldrake and back as each spoke, the movement of his head just a moment too late each time.
“But even if he could hear, he could never repeat anything said here,” Sheldrake said.
“Do all torturers swear an oath of secrecy, then?” Anton asked.
“No, their tongues are removed when first they are apprenticed,” Sheldrake said.
Anton looked towards Jakob, who nodded and smiled.
“Let me show you Jakob’s toys,” Sheldrake said. “Some of them are really quite ingenious.” He moved towards the bench by the wall.
Anton followed, hoping that an opportunity for escape might present itself.
“This is called ‘the boot’,” Sheldrake said, picking up a wooden box and a handful of wedges. “The foot is placed in here, and the wedges inserted between the inner and outer boards: as the wedges are hammered further and further home, so the pressure upon the foot is increased, causing unbearable agony to the wearer.”
“It does not look much like a boot,” Anton said.
“That which comes out of it looks not much like a foot,” Sheldrake said. He replaced the box and wedges. “This is a particularly ingenious device,” he said, picking up a small steel instrument. It consisted of two short iron bars about two inches long: one had three rods sticking out from it, the middle one threaded like a screw; the other had three corresponding holes in it. A nut with wings like a butterfly secured the two bars together. “These are thumbekins,” Sheldrake explained. “The thumbs are inserted on each side of this central threaded rod. The upper bar is positioned over the quick of the thumbnails, and this nut on the central rod is tightened, forcing the top bar down.” He looked up and smiled. “Have you ever trapped a finger in a drawer? Imagine that pain applied – and increased – hour after hour. Of course, its use is not restricted to the thumbs: each joint of every finger and toe could be subjected to the screw until a man might confess.”
“Do you spend much of your free time in this chamber, Sheldrake?” Anton asked.
“My duties keep me from spending as much time here as I might wish,” Sheldrake said. “I should have liked you to experience the thumbekins, for they are such a fine piece of work. Unfortunately we are awaiting the making of a new set: these were used recently and drawn so tightly that they could not be unscrewed, and the smith had to be brought with his tools to take them off. You can see here where the screw thread is damaged.”
“If your purpose in revealing these devices to me is to arouse in me such fear that I shall confess to your murders,” Anton said, “I am afraid you have failed.”
Sheldrake looked disappointed. “I had hoped that I might persuade you to sign the confession,” he admitted. “But it seems that I shall have to leave persuasion in Jakob’s hands.”
Anton reached behind him for one of the sets of iron pincers, intending to use them as a weapon, but Sheldrake’s knife was at his throat on the instant.
“Is that the knife that cut Eòghan’s throat?” Anton said, replacing the pincers.
Sheldrake smiled. “As a matter of fact, it is.” Keeping the knife at his throat, Sheldrake twisted Anton’s arm up behind his back and pushed him towards the rack. “Very soon, you shall be pleading for me to use this knife on you. I shall remain here and wait for that moment.”
“Best find yourself a comfortable roost,” Anton said. “Your wait will be a long one.”
“We shall see.” Sheldrake said.
Anton was tied to the rack: ropes were looped around his ankles and secured to iron hooks at the bottom of the frame; his wrists were similarly bound, arms stretched above his head, and the ropes threaded into the ratchet-operated windlass. Jakob turned the spoked wheel on the windlass, taking up the slack, and the ratchet mechanism clicked loudly.
Sheldrake leaned in close, the flickering torchlight on the cave wall behind him enhancing his demonic aspect. “You will be asked only one question,” he said. “Will you sign the confession and admit your guilt? Each time you refuse, the wheel will be turned three cogs, and then you will be asked again.”
“I am not guilty,” Anton said.
“That is irrelevant,” Sheldrake said. He nodded to the torturer.
Jakob wrapped meaty hands around the spokes and turned the wheel: the ratchet clicked three times. The ropes dug into the flesh around his wrists and ankles, and Anton felt the strain in his joints. Another nod from Sheldrake and three more clicks from the ratchet against the toothed wheel. Anton could feel his feet and hands begin to swell as the circulation of blood was impeded by the tightening ropes. A dull ache began in his knees and elbows, and a deeper burning in his hips and shoulder joints.
“The physical effects vary from person to person,” Sheldrake said. “Muscles and ligaments may be torn. An already weak knee or elbow might be the first to be dislocated. Or a limb previously broken might crack again under the strain. Ultimately, bones will be torn free of their sockets – perhaps the wrists or ankles, perhaps the elbows, the shoulders, even the hips. Damage to the spine is also a possibility.” Sheldrake surveyed Anton’s body, as if trying to determine a point of greatest weakness. “Will you sign?”
“Never!”
The wheel was turned through three more cogs. Sweat stood out on Anton’s naked skin. He felt as though the blood was bursting from beneath his nails with each throb of his swollen hands and feet.
“Admit your guilt,” Sheldrake urged.
Anton shook his head. Again the torturer turned the wheel. Wood squeaked against wood and the stout ropes creaked loudly. Anton tried to suck air in through his mouth, but in their stretched state his muscles could not draw in breath and fill his lungs. His arms were now numb, and he began to fear that the paralysis would be permanent. And would the damage to feet and ankles mean he would not walk again? As his vision began to cloud with darkness, he knew that he might suffocate before any lasting damage was caused to his limbs. If he closed his eyes now, he could drift into sleep and leave behind the searing pains in his chest and stomach.
The torturer eased the tension in the ropes, allowing the prisoner a moment to recover. Sheldrake knew he could not interfere: much as he wanted Anton dead, any attempt to hasten his demise might be viewed suspiciously by the torturer.
Water trickled between Anton’s parched lips. It was flat and tasted of metal. It was glorious. As sensation returned, he became aware of a thousand needles of pain in his hands and feet, and wondered what new torment they were subjecting him to. But it was only blood returning now that the bonds had been slackened.
The torturer was standing over him, squeezing water from a cloth and letting it dribble onto his tongue. Anton did not doubt that the man could keep his prisoners alive to endure torment for hour upon hour, day upon day. There would be no escape into unconsciousness, no drifting into the arms of death. Between the bouts of unbearable pain, would be moments of ease, almost gentleness. Not out of any kind of pity or kindness, but merely to prolong the victim’s suffering. To bring the agonies into sharp relief. Pain upon pain ultimately dulled the nerves to greater torment, but each brief respite would allow the body to relax its guard.
“That’s enough, get aw
ay from him.” Sheldrake’s voice sounded sulky, and he roughly pushed the torturer aside. “Are you ready to confess?” he asked, his face close to Anton’s.
“I confess,” Anton croaked, “that the sight of you sickens me.”
The blow was sudden and harsh, and even the torturer seemed shocked.
Anton smiled, his teeth stained with the blood from his split lip. “I may die in this chamber,” he said. “And it may be days before I do so, but I will not confess to the crimes you committed. I may not be able to bring you to justice, but I will have no part in helping you escape it.”
“Take up the slack,” Sheldrake said, waving the torturer towards the rack’s wheel. He loosened the buckles of his jacket, sloughing it off: this was going to be warm work. “Whether you die under the axe as a result of a confession,” he said. “Or die here at the hands of an over-zealous inquisitor, the benefit to me is the same.” He went over to one of the braziers and slid one of the glowing irons out of the coals.
Anton Leyander’s scream echoed throughout the dungeon.
*
Gosling was sitting in the shade of a tree in the marketplace, his eyes closed. He’d had a nice chicken pie and a couple of mugs of ale, and he was thinking that life was rarely as good as this. He heard a huffing sound as someone sat down beside him, and for a minute he thought it must be Merrivale – but then he remembered his old partner was dead; eaten by a dragon.
“Bad news,” Bryn said. “Anton Leyander has been arrested: he is to be tortured and then executed.”
“That’s a shame,” Gosling said, not opening his eyes.
“We should rescue him,” Bryn said.
Gosling opened one eye and stared at his new partner. “You think we should risk our own lives to save him from certain death, so that we can kill him?”
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