Execution

by S. J. Parris

  ‘We.’ I looked at him, understanding. ‘When you said you talk to people for Walsingham, was this what you meant?’

  He smiled. ‘Exactly. I turn the handle on the rack, so he doesn’t have to get his hands dirty. I tighten the thumbscrews. I pull the rope that rips their arms out of their sockets, the young priests, when they don’t want to give up their secrets. But they all talk to me, eventually.’

  ‘Did you give her opium?’ I asked. I wondered how long he had kept her tied up like that. She would be uncomfortable kneeling there, but that was as nothing to what would happen if and when he pulled on the end of the rope and she was lifted in the air, left hanging from her arms twisted behind her back; her bodyweight would gradually dislocate her shoulders. If he felt particularly vicious, he could let the rope out suddenly in a series of drops that would tear the tendons and ligaments in her arms beyond repair.

  ‘Only a little. She was making a fuss about the baby.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Robin.’ I could hear the despair in my voice. ‘Don’t do this. She’s your sister’s closest friend.’

  ‘Quiet, Bruno, unless you want some opium too. I saved a bit just in case. No? Good, then. Kneel beside her.’

  I hesitated, casting around to see how I might find a way out of this. There were too many people’s lives at risk if I refused, or angered him enough that he decided to dispatch me with a quick knife-thrust, like Marston. I knelt, praying as I had never prayed before that Ben would return in time.

  ‘I have something special for you,’ he said. ‘Hands behind your back.’ I obeyed, and for the second time that night I found my wrists bound behind me. This time, though, there was no prospect of cutting through the cords. He turned to a chest against the wall and brought out a metal object that he held up against the light for me to see. ‘Do you know what this is?’

  It was an iron implement about seven inches long, with two razor-sharp prongs at either end and a ring in the middle.

  ‘Dio cane.’ I heard how my breath shook as I exhaled. ‘The Heretic’s Fork.’

  ‘That’s right. Appropriate, no? I believe this one was actually brought in from Spain. Master Secretary takes a great interest in the methods of the Catholics, for all that he despises their doctrines.’ He threaded a leather strap through the ring in the centre. ‘Head back. Do as you’re told, or I’ll pull that rope and Frances can watch you from the ceiling.’

  I tilted my head, trying not to shake. I had heard of this practice, though never seen it used. The idea was to force the heretic to look up at the heavens, while making sure he could not speak to repeat his blasphemies. Poole fastened the strap around my neck; with my head strained back as far as I could bend, the two top prongs pricked the skin below my chin, and the bottom ones pressed into my collarbone. As he pulled the strap tight, I felt all four points puncture the skin; there was no way I could speak or move my head without one end or both piercing deeper into the soft tissue. If I lost my balance or let the weight of my head fall forward, the top would go straight through the underside of my jaw, the lower prongs into my breastbone. I tried to swallow and feared I might choke on my own saliva. I slid my knees further apart to steady myself, and fixed my gaze on a knot of wood in the roof beam directly above; if I could focus and keep still, I had a better chance of avoiding the worst.

  ‘Right. Give me that child.’ Poole strode across to the nurse and snatched baby Lizzie out of her arms. I could not move my head to see, but from the sounds, I guessed that the nurse tried to protest; I heard a slap and muffled sobbing, before he appeared in front of me again with the infant wrapped in the sling around his front, now dozing contentedly with a string of milky dribble hanging from her chin.

  ‘Goodbye, Bruno. It’s been interesting. If they find you in time, you can tell them the whole story. I’ll be halfway across the sea by then.’

  He walked around behind us and I heard a slow creaking, followed by a strangled cry as, at my side, Frances began to lift into the air.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I tried to say, through clenched teeth, without moving my jaw.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t quite catch that.’ He pulled harder on the rope, and Frances screamed, through the bridle; the opium had not been enough to dull the agony in her arms.

  ‘Clara’s not there,’ I said, and felt blood run down my neck as the tines bit deeper.

  ‘What?’ He tied off the rope to a bracket on the wall and came to stand in front of me; from the corner of my eye, I could see Frances suspended five feet or so off the ground, slowly rotating, quietly whimpering. ‘Not where?’

  ‘Essex,’ I managed, forcing my jaw to stay clenched.

  ‘What do you know about it? How did you know she was going to Essex?’ He grasped a handful of my hair in his fist. ‘Tell me or I’ll push down.’

  Before I could speak, we both caught the click of the door opening; he twisted around, wrenching me with him.

  ‘Robin?’ said a woman’s voice. I could have cried with relief. He let go of me and walked around the pillar.

  ‘Sweetheart? How in God’s name did you get here? I thought you were—’

  ‘What are you doing – the boy said you were going to kill Lizzie?’ Clara’s voice trembled; I wondered if she had not believed Ben’s story until she saw for herself. ‘Oh, dear Jesus. Robin, give me the baby. Now.’

  ‘Darling, you don’t understand – you shouldn’t be here. Why did you disobey me?’ Though he was clearly reeling from shock, his tone had grown harder; I hoped to God I had not simply led another person into danger. At that moment, Frances let out another groan; Clara must have pushed past Robin, because she appeared suddenly in front of us and screamed.

  ‘Oh, God, Robin, what have you done to Frances? What have you done? Let her down, now!’

  ‘I can’t. And you need to come with me. We’re going to Tilbury.’

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’ Clara took a step towards Frances; Robin reached out and grabbed her arms to restrain her, and – though I could not quite see what happened next, with my eyes forced to the ceiling – a small figure materialised out of the shadows, I heard the slash of a blade through cloth, and Robin Poole crumpled to the ground with a cry, like a marionette with its strings cut. Clara dived forward and grabbed Lizzie from him, clasping the baby to her chest.

  ‘Ben – get that woman down,’ I said, my teeth gritted tight. ‘Gently as you can.’ He wiped his little knife on his breeches, looked from me to Frances, and nodded. I heard the creak of a rope as Frances was lowered carefully to the ground, where she slumped on to her face; Clara rushed to her and, with the baby over one shoulder, began undoing the ties that held her arms. Ben came round behind me, unbuckled the strap and removed the fork from my neck; I stretched my head forward gingerly as he began to saw through the cord holding my wrists.

  Robin was writhing on the floor clutching the back of his thigh, howling like a wounded animal; blood pumped out alarmingly through his fingers and puddled on the uneven stones, but for as long as he wasn’t putting up a fight, I thought he could be safely left. I hauled myself to my feet, found my knives in the corner where I had thrown them, and released Alice, Joe and the nurse, who swooped in like a Fury and gathered up baby Lizzie in her arms so that Clara could get the bridle off Frances, who fell sobbing into her friend’s lap.

  Robin tried to stand; he was bleeding severely, and he managed one or two staggering steps towards me, his face white as bone. I realised, belatedly, that his injury was more serious than I had thought.

  ‘You fetched him a nasty cut there, Ben – what did you do?’ I pushed Robin down to the floor again, found the gash in his leg and tried to press my hands against the wound to stop the bleeding.

  ‘There’s a vein in the back of the leg, if you cut it in the right place they bleed out in minutes,’ he said, matter-of-fact as always. ‘My dad taught me, he learned it in the army.’

  ‘Madonna porca – we don’t want him bleeding to death.’ I pressed harder,
but I could see that Robin’s eyes were growing glassy.

  ‘He was going to kill you and that girl, and the baby,’ Ben said, indignant. ‘I saved your bloody lives.’

  ‘I know. But—’ I ripped off my shirt, tore a sleeve from it and wound the cloth around Robin’s leg, hoping to staunch the flow. He raised a hand and gripped my arm.

  ‘Where is Clara?’ he said, his voice hoarse.

  She raised her head and looked at me, a question in her eyes. Alice crouched beside them and took Frances in her arms so that Clara could go to Robin.

  ‘Quick,’ I said. ‘I think we’re losing him.’ I kept my shirt sleeve pulled tight around his leg as she leaned down and took his face between her hands.

  He held his hand over hers. ‘It was all for you,’ he whispered.

  ‘He didn’t kill Father, Robin. And he wouldn’t have killed me. You’ve destroyed everything.’ Tears streamed down her face and fell on his as she shook her head.

  He struggled to speak; I pressed with all the strength I had left, but I could see there was no chance of saving him. Clara leaned her ear to his mouth to catch his final words.

  ‘I love you too,’ she murmured, through quiet sobs, as he stopped moving and his stare fixed on somewhere far beyond her. ‘And I hated you,’ she added, when she was sure he could no longer hear, before a fresh wave of tears overtook her.

  ‘I didn’t think it would work,’ Ben said in a small voice. ‘I haven’t really killed a man before, I just said that. Will I be hanged?’

  I picked up my knife and smeared the blade with Robin’s blood. ‘Ben. You’ve done a phenomenal night’s work. All of us owe you our lives. I know you’ve ridden all over London today, but this is your last job – you’re going to take your dad’s horse, and bring Joe back to his mother in Southwark. Ask her to put you to bed for the night – I’ll get a message to Dan. Give your knife a good wash. I killed Robin in self-defence, if anyone asks.’

  He looked at Poole’s body a moment longer, as if both terrified and amazed by his own handiwork. ‘Do I still get my shilling?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ll get a lot better than that.’ I pulled on my doublet over my bare chest and limped across to Joe, who was cowering against the wall. ‘Did he harm you at all, Joe, while you were here?’

  The child shook his head. ‘No. He told me I had to be quiet or he would have my mother sent to prison and tortured.’ He was biting his bottom lip; suddenly he pulled away from the wall and flung his arms around my waist. I placed a hand on his head to steady him until his breathing calmed.

  ‘Your mother is quite safe – just worried about you. Go with Ben now, he’ll take you to her.’

  I watched as the children left together, Ben with his arm around Joe’s shoulder like a big brother.

  Clara had helped Frances to a sitting position; though the opium had not quite worn off, and her jaw and shoulders clearly pained her, she did not seem to have sustained any lasting injuries. The nurse placed the baby in her lap and she looked up at me, her face drained.

  ‘Bruno. We have to tell my father.’

  ‘I’ll go to Whitehall if you lend me a horse, but I’ll need some kind of seal to take – they’ll never let me near the palace looking like this.’

  She shook her head and stood shakily, the baby over her shoulder. ‘We’ll all go. I’m not staying here alone with no guards. The conspirators are still out there, and they know there’s been a spy among them.’

  ‘My lady, you are not fit to ride that distance,’ Alice said, alarmed.

  ‘It’s the only place I’ll feel we’re all safe,’ Frances said, and a note of authority returned to her voice. ‘You and Janet too’ – she nodded to the nurse – ‘or do you want to stay here all night with three dead men for company? No, I thought not. I’ll fetch my father’s seal from his study. Bruno, come with me in case I stumble in the dark.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  We took three horses from the stables; Alice and Clara helped me saddle them, since all the stable hands had been sent home. I rode with Frances behind me, holding me by the waist; Clara took another pony by herself, and Alice mounted the third, with the nurse riding pillion, carrying baby Lizzie in a sling. We must have made a strange party, traipsing through the midnight streets, bloodied and battered like a group of refugees; my face drew suspicion from the men of the watch each time they stopped us, but Frances showed Walsingham’s seal and they immediately dropped back, bowing as we passed.

  I had had less faith than Frances in our chances of being admitted to the palace at Whitehall, but at the Great Gatehouse, the seal worked its magic again. Alice and Janet were shown to the servants’ quarter to rest, while Frances took the baby and insisted that she, Clara and I were brought straight to Walsingham. The vast complex of buildings was eerily silent at this hour; only tired-looking guards observed us as they fought to keep straight-backed and alert, while occasional figures in livery slipping through the courtyards glanced up briefly as they passed on their secret midnight business.

  We were escorted along a series of corridors and up staircases, dimly lit as the night’s torches burned down in their sconces. The rooms grew gradually more opulent and heavily guarded as we approached the heart of the palace, the Queen’s private chambers. Finally we were brought to a stop outside a heavy wooden door, guarded by two men in royal livery, where a clerk with exhausted eyes sat on a chair with a portable desk around his neck, scribbling notes. At the sight of us, he stirred into life, and after a hasty whispered exchange with the soldiers flanking us, he stepped forward and raised a hand to bar our way.

  ‘I’m sorry, but Sir Francis is in a most secret, high-security meeting and cannot possibly be disturbed.’ His officious tone seemed intended to provoke; with Frances it succeeded. She knocked his arm out of the way and raised her voice.

  ‘Listen to me, whoever you are. I am Lady Frances Sidney and this is my daughter, and these are my friends. We were all nearly murdered tonight and I need to see my father, so you can open that fucking door right now or I will kick it down.’

  While the clerk spluttered, she marched straight past him and the stunned guards, and we followed her into a room that smelled of paper and leather and beeswax, the walls lined with wooden bookcases. Walsingham and his guest sat in high-backed chairs either side of a hearth where the embers of a fire flickered. Master Secretary rose at once; he took us in one by one, and when his gaze alighted on Clara he had to grasp the back of his chair for support. Meanwhile, I was staring with the same expression at the man he had invited for a clandestine midnight meeting in the heart of the palace. It was Archibald Douglas.

  ‘Is it you?’ Walsingham said wonderingly to Clara, holding out his arms to embrace her.

  ‘It’s you,’ I said to Douglas.

  ‘I know, me again – I turn up everywhere. Like a wee rat.’ He grinned. ‘What happened to your pretty face – did you get too fresh with one of your Southwark doxies?’

  ‘Sir Francis, you know what this man is,’ I said, amazed that Walsingham could have let him in.

  ‘A man can be many things, Bruno,’ Douglas said, cheerfully. ‘Today I’m an ambassador of l’amour. I couldn’t tell you before, it’s a big old secret, but I am here about the business of true love. You’ll know all about that, eh.’

  I looked to Walsingham to demand an explanation, but he had turned to his daughter.

  ‘Daddy,’ Frances blurted, the word weighted with feeling, all her composure suddenly collapsing as she flung herself at him like a child. He wrapped an arm around her and the baby, the other around Clara, and folded them all into him.

  ‘Oh, my girls,’ he murmured, and I saw a tear fall down each cheek. I felt I was intruding on a private scene, and began to back towards the door. Douglas caught my eye behind Walsingham’s back and mimed wiping his eyes; I almost slapped him.

  ‘Robin is dead,’ Clara said, after a moment, her voice dull. She was not weeping; she looked overcome by exhaustion.

&nb
sp; ‘I killed him,’ I said quickly, before the women could forget and mention Ben. Walsingham appeared to notice me for the first time.

  ‘You killed Robin?’ He sounded faint.

  ‘He meant to torture me and drown Lizzie,’ Frances sobbed, her voice muffled.

  ‘Good God. You had better sit down, all of you, and tell me the whole story. Is Lizzie hurt?’

  ‘No, Father – she barely knows any of it happened.’

  Walsingham laid a hand on his granddaughter’s sleeping head, and took a deep, shuddering breath as he composed himself, tidying away his shock and emotion and becoming Master Secretary again.

  I kicked Douglas’s legs to make him move; belatedly he realised, and jumped out of his chair to offer it to Frances. Walsingham called in the clerk and sent him for hot wine and bread, and told Douglas to wait outside. ‘Our business will keep,’ he said, in a tone that sounded like a threat.

  ‘Aye, but not too long, eh,’ Douglas said. ‘She’s no getting any younger.’

  Before I could work out what he meant by that, Frances had launched into an explanation of everything that had happened since she and I realised that Clara was not dead; Clara and I filled in the gaps. Walsingham sat behind his desk, his fingers steepled together, tapping his lips with his forefingers, listening with that expression that always made you feel he could hear everything you were not telling him as clearly as the words that came out of your mouth.

  ‘I saw the dead girl,’ he said, looking at Clara in disbelief. ‘I would have sworn she was you, even with the face…’ He pointed to his own and left the rest unsaid.

  ‘Robin would have chosen her well,’ she said in the same flat tone. ‘He was nothing if not resourceful.’ The surge of fear and energy that had propelled us through the night’s events had receded with violent haste, leaving us all grey-faced and drained. I sensed that Clara was only now properly understanding that she had lost her brother.

  ‘That’s why I valued him so highly,’ Walsingham said. ‘I wish I could have questioned him about all this. Did you have to kill him, Bruno?’