Day of Wrath

by Iris Collier

At first, Nicholas didn’t recognise him. Sir Roger had been starved, hung up by his hands from manacles fixed to the wall, which had torn his wrists, and the iron gauntlets, which he’d been forced to wear, had broken his hands. But he had not revealed the names of his fellow conspirators. Now, in the dungeon of the central keep of the Tower, he’d been stretched out upon a great oak frame which was raised from the ground. His wrists and ankles were attached by cords to rollers at each end of the frame. Two men wearing blood-splattered leather aprons stood by the levers which turned the rollers and stretched the body on the rack until the bones cracked and arms and legs were dislocated, if necessary.

  The low, vaulted room was dimly lit by guttering rush lights and the walls dripped with moisture on to the stone floor, as the dungeon was almost at the level of the Thames. The room stank of sweat and terror and unimaginable pain. Overwhelmed, Nicholas sank down on his knees by the side of Mortimer’s ravaged face, which was almost obscured by the sweat-soaked dark hair. Where was the strong, middle-aged man he’d seen only last week polishing the gleaming chestnut-coloured flanks of his horse, Galliard? In a matter of days he’d been reduced to this ghastly wreck, a travesty of a human being.

  ‘Sir Roger,’ said Nicholas looking down into the dark eyes, glazed with pain and staring at him without comprehension. ‘This is a terrible sight.’

  ‘It could be ended,’ said the voice of Digby, who had to be present at these occasions. ‘Just tell us the names of your fellow conspirators and we can release you from this torment.’

  Mortimer turned his head away, and said nothing. Digby nodded to the two men standing by the levers. They turned the rollers and gradually, inexorably, Mortimer’s body was stretched so that his bones cracked. Mortimer screamed, an inhuman sound, like an animal torn to bits by the hounds. Nicholas covered his ears and Digby motioned the men to stop.

  ‘For God’s sake, Sir Roger, just give me the names. Why not end this pain? Think of your family, your children…’

  ‘I think of nothing else, Peverell,’ said Mortimer in a faint whisper. ‘I’ve been told my wife is here. She mustn’t see me like this. Tell her I love her, and Peverell, if the worst should happen to me, you’ll look after her, won’t you? She knows nothing about all this and the children are innocent.’

  ‘We just need one name, Sir Roger, and then you will be taken back to your cell. Who is Ultor?’

  Mortimer’s body twitched involuntarily and he groaned. Looking straight into Nicholas’s face he said only one word. ‘Never.’

  The levers turned the rollers again, and Mortimer shrieked in torment, the sound reverberating around the room. Nicholas forced himself to look down into Mortimer’s sweat-soaked face, now streaked in blood where he’d almost bitten his tongue off in agony.

  ‘Just one word, Sir Roger. For Christ’s sake, let us put an end to all this.’

  Mortimer’s eyes were glazing over and he was nearly unconscious. ‘I cannot tell,’ he managed to say, the words so faint that Nicholas had to lower his head towards those blood-smeared lips.

  Nicholas got up and faced Sir Philip Digby. ‘You must stop this barbarity,’ he said. ‘Sir Roger will never tell us what we want to know. Do you want him to expire on this fiendish instrument?’

  ‘He’ll not hold out much longer, my Lord. But I agree we mustn’t lose him at this stage. Release him,’ he said to the two men working the rollers. They untied the cords, lifted the limp body off the frame, and dowsed his face with a bucketful of cold water. ‘We’ll continue later. Take him back to his room. Now my Lord,’ he said turning more cheerfully to Nicholas, ‘we dine in two hours. Perhaps you’d like to freshen up, perhaps take a turn round the walls and get a breath of sweeter air from the river. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to see Lady Margot, and we can go from there.’

  Nicholas followed Digby up the stairs. Sickened and appalled by what he’d just witnessed, once back in his room, he flung himself down on his bed and tried to force the image of Mortimer’s blood-soaked face and the sound of his cries out of his mind. And this was just the beginning.

  Chapter Thirteen

  That evening, Nicholas dined with Sir Philip Digby in the spacious apartment which had been allocated to him as Lieutenant of the Tower. Thomas Cromwell pleaded pressure of work and stayed in his room. Nicholas and Digby talked about everything except what they had witnessed that day, and as Nicholas had little appetite, he escaped to his own room as soon as possible.

  Kicking off his boots and unfastening his doublet, he flung himself down on his bed. But sleep eluded him. A shaft of moonlight came through the narrow window and fell on his bed. He got up and looked out at the beautiful night sky, a canopy of velvety darkness punctuated by the brilliant dots of light from the stars. And illuminating everything with its mellow light, was the full moon. He breathed in the watery smell of the Thames, which he could just see in the distance, its surface lit by the twinkling lights from the lanterns of the ships riding at anchor. So much beauty, he thought, so much tranquillity; and yet, just a few yards away down in the dungeon of the great central keep, a man lay groaning in agony. Tomorrow his torment would increase until breaking point.

  He shivered and went back to his bed. Dear God, he prayed, let Mortimer speak tomorrow. Then we can put an end to this diabolical torture.

  He woke up just as the sun was rising over the marshes of the Thames estuary. He washed and ran his fingers through his hair and beard. A servant brought his clean water and took away the night bucket. Another brought breakfast of boiled eggs and bread and a jug of small beer. He tried to eat but the food seemed to turn to gravel in his mouth. Then the guard came and escorted him down to that infernal place where, once again, Mortimer had been strapped to the rack.

  It was obvious that Mortimer was very weak. Emaciated to the point where his bones almost protruded through his flesh, he looked like a bundle of old clothes, sweat-stained and streaked with blood, hardly human at all. His broken hands were now swollen with infection and he’d almost gone beyond pain as he turned his head when Nicholas came in and didn’t make a sound. When he spoke, his voice was stronger and his brain seemed clear.

  ‘So, my Lord, they’ve brought you here again. Now I wonder why that is? Are they warning you? Showing what could happen to you if you opposed the King? Not that you’d do that. You’re too much of a time-server.’

  ‘I’m the King’s servant, just as all my family have been, and always will be. But, Sir Roger, you make a pitiful sight and I hope to God that you will make an end to this today. We only want one name; just one. Who is this Ultor? You must know him, because he speaks about you in his letters which Southampton has intercepted. Unless we know who he is, the King is in very great danger.’

  ‘And I suppose they’ll hold you responsible. But let me tell you this, Lord Nicholas, if they break every bone in this carcass of mine, I will never tell you the name of this man. Aaa…’

  The speech ended in a shriek of agony as Digby had arrived and had signalled to the two assistants to turn the rollers. Mortimer’s body, already stretched to the point where broken blood vessels were oozing blood, seemed to disintegrate. He rolled his eyes in agony, and his breathing became short and laboured. But still he said nothing.

  Digby turned in exasperation to Nicholas. ‘This man is a stubborn fool. We haven’t broken him yet, but, by God, we will. Get Lady Mortimer,’ he said to the guard standing by the door.

  His words revived Mortimer quicker than the bucket of water standing by the rack.

  ‘No, no, for mercy’s sake, spare me that.’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ said Digby sternly. ‘Give us just this one name and it will be over. Lady Mortimer can look after you. You know you can’t take much more of this; do you want her to see you suffering in extremis? You, her husband and father of her children?’

  ‘I cannot tell, but in the name of Christ, have mercy.’

  ‘Mercy? I leave that to God. We’ve got a job to do.’

  Nicholas
heard footsteps coming down the stairs. He turned and she stood in the doorway, a tiny figure wrapped in a grey cloak. He went to meet her and her eyes when she looked up at him were dazed with terror. He tried to put an arm round her shoulders, but she shrank away from him.

  ‘Lord Nicholas, what are you doing there?’

  ‘For the same reason as you – to persuade Sir Roger to give us the names of his associates. We need only one name, but he will not co-operate.’

  ‘He knows nothing. Oh God and His angels help us,’ she said as she suddenly made out the figure on the rack. ‘Husband, what are they doing to you?’

  She tried to push her way forward but the guard restrained her. She fought him with the strength of a wild beast and he couldn’t hold her. She ran forward and threw herself down on the floor beside her husband’s body. She smoothed the matted hair back from his face and then collapsed over his body. Then two guards went over and pulled her away and she stood there sobbing.

  ‘Tell your husband to give us the name we want and we can end this torture,’ said Digby.

  ‘Tell them, tell them,’ she shrieked. ‘Nothing in the world is worth dying for in such a way. Tell them for my sake and the sake of your children.’

  He couldn’t look at her. He closed his eyes, and his body was trembling and he was drenched in sweat.

  ‘I cannot,’ he said.

  Then the assistants once again set about their task. This time there was a dreadful crack as both legs were dislocated under the tension. On the next turn, both arms would go.

  Mortimer’s scream was so terrible that even Digby recoiled. Lady Mortimer gave one cry and collapsed on the floor. The guards took hold of her and dragged her outside.

  Then suddenly, it was quiet. Mortimer’s body was limp on the rack. Nicholas went over to him and laid his head on the sweat-soaked chest. He felt nothing. The heart had stopped. Mortimer had made his own exit from that dungeon.

  Nicholas stood up and crossed himself. ‘He’s gone,’ he said to Digby, ‘and may God have mercy on his soul.’

  Digby turned to the two assistants. ‘Stupid, clumsy fools. I told you not to be too strong.’

  ‘Don’t go blaming us, sir,’ said the largest of the two men. ‘Every man has his limits and this one’s had a bad time. He was practically at his limit when you gave him to us. He’s only human, flesh, blood and bones; and we can’t stretch him forever like wool on the tenterhooks.’

  ‘You should have given me a warning that he was getting to the end of his tether.’

  ‘Not our job,’ said the two simultaneously. ‘You give the orders; we turn the levers.’

  ‘It’s terrible to die like this,’ said Nicholas, appalled. ‘No priest, no chance of making his peace with God. I must go to Lady Mortimer, Sir Philip. The sight she’s just been forced to witness is enough to turn her mind.’

  ‘The guards will see to her,’ said Digby, his face still flushed with anger. ‘You must look to yourself. The King’s going to be in a right state when he hears about this. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, my Lord. Take that man off that infernal machine,’ he said to the men, ‘and put him in the mortuary.’

  ‘Let me take him home.’

  ‘Home, my Lord? He hasn’t got a home. He’s a traitor, in case you’ve forgotten. He’ll be buried here. We’ve a plot for the likes of him.’

  ‘And Lady Mortimer?’

  ‘That’s for the King to decide. You’ll have to speak to him. He’ll be merciful, no doubt. She’s done nothing. I expect she’ll be sent to join her children back in her family home. Now, I’ll order the coach to take you to Court.’

  Feeling unspeakably wretched, Nicholas collected his things together. He asked to see Cromwell, but was told he was too busy to see him. He asked to see Lady Mortimer but they said she was still unconscious. The coach arrived and even the coachman didn’t look at him. There was no Sir Philip to wish him God speed. The gatekeeper opened the postern gate, and the coach lumbered down Tower Hill. Despite everything, Nicholas breathed a sigh of relief. He’d escaped the Tower. This time.

  * * *

  The King was attending an archery competition in Richmond Park. There was no room prepared for Nicholas. He was shown into a small waiting room near the main gatehouse and told to stay there until someone sent for him. He asked for ale, and a servant brought a tankard of small beer and banged it down on the table resentfully. The writing was on the wall, thought Nicholas. Word had already got round and he was in disgrace.

  Finally, another servant came and told him that the King would now see him. Outside, the coachman was waiting for him. He came up to Nicholas and stood there shuffling his feet as if uncertain how to begin.

  ‘Out with it, man,’ said Nicholas, not unkindly.

  ‘It’s nothing, really, my Lord, but I thought I ought to warn you. The King was beaten in the archery competition by the Earl of Surrey. He’s in a very bad humour. Then, on the way home, his horse stumbled and he fell off in front of everybody. It wasn’t a bad fall, just a blow on his shoulder, but it’s put him in a right foul mood. Do you still want the horses stabled for the night?’

  ‘By the sound of it, I’ll not be long with the King. Give the horses a feed and I’ll be with you soon. We’ll put up at Merrow.’

  ‘I’ll see to it, my Lord. And … good luck.’

  Feeling like a naughty schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s study, and resenting every minute of it, Nicholas followed the servant into the King’s presence. Why, he thought, hadn’t he the courage to tell coachman John to bring round the coach immediately and drive home as fast as possible? Anything was better than this humiliating treatment for something he hadn’t done.

  Henry was still in his riding clothes. A servant was doing his best to tug off his long, leather riding boots slippery with mud. The King had unbuttoned his doublet and was roundly cursing everyone who tried to make him comfortable. He glared at Nicholas with his small, piggy eyes, and continued berating the unfortunate servant, who was trying to get his undamaged arm out of the doublet.

  ‘God’s teeth, man, take care. My shoulder’s as sore as hell. Do you want to kill me? Aaa…’

  The man had removed one arm and was now eyeing the other apprehensively.

  ‘Oh get out of here, you lumbering fool,’ he shouted. ‘Come here, Peverell, make yourself useful for once and get me out of this coat.’

  The servant fled, and Nicholas approached the King. Gently he began to ease the coat over the King’s shoulder.

  ‘A nasty bruise you’ve got there, your Majesty.’

  ‘That brute of a horse was all over the place. Take care, Peverell, it hurts.’

  Then Nicholas had a flash of inspiration. ‘Allow me,’ he said. He took out his knife, which he always carried on a belt round his waist, and with one slash, cut away the material of the sleeve. The arm appeared as neatly as a sausage from its skin. The King looked at the two halves in astonishment, then roared with laughed. ‘So, you’ve cut the Gordian knot, Peverell. You’re a right Alexander the Great. Mind you, you’ll have to buy me a new coat.’

  ‘Only one sleeve, your Grace.’

  ‘One sleeve! Damn it, you’ve got a cheek. You’ve ruined the whole garment, you fool. You’ll have to replace it for me.’

  Nicholas bowed, mentally adding the cost of buying a new doublet to the already huge cost of entertaining the King. The servant eased off the boots, and the King stood up in his stockinged feet.

  ‘Well, Peverell,’ he said, turning to confront Nicholas. ‘It seems you’ve been a disappointment to me.’

  ‘Your Grace…’

  ‘Oh, don’t start making excuses, it’s not your style. I’ve heard that Mortimer died under torture despite my express wish that he should live. A dead traitor who’s kept his mouth shut is no use to me. That fool Digby…’

  ‘Mortimer was very near the end, your Grace. His heart couldn’t take any more. Four days of torture and starvation had weakened him too much.’ />
  ‘Digby should’ve slowed down the last bit.’

  ‘The last bit dislocated both legs.’

  ‘Oh spare me the details, Peverell.’

  ‘And it wasn’t a good idea to bring in Lady Mortimer. She fainted, and Mortimer gave up at that point. He’d begged us not to let his wife see him in that condition. I fear that the memory of those last few minutes will haunt Lady Mortimer for the rest of her life.’

  ‘Oh don’t be so melodramatic, Peverell. Mortimer was a traitor. Unfortunately for you there are others out there and we don’t know who they are.’

  ‘I’ll do my utmost to track them down.’

  ‘You’d better, Peverell. Remember I’m coming to stay with you in ten days’ time. You’ve got that time to catch the devils. Well, what are you waiting for? I’m ravenous and you’ve got a long journey ahead of you. You’re dismissed,’ he shouted as Nicholas still stood there.

  ‘Your Grace, Lady Mortimer … will you allow her to return to her house? After all, she’s done nothing.’

  ‘That soft heart of yours will be the death of you, Peverell. What happens to Mortimer’s house and his widow is entirely my business. But don’t fret, man, you know I’m a merciful man. I’ll send a coach to take her home to her family. They live in the other end of your county, I hear. She’ll be reunited with her children, never fear. She might even marry again as she’s still young. Now, don’t mention this matter to me again. It bores me, and I can hardly concern myself with the fate of the wives and families of traitors. Now get away with you, man.’

  Nicholas bowed and backed away from the King. Henry Tudor was a hard taskmaster, he thought. No offer of dinner, no accommodation, just a kick up the backside.

  ‘Oh, and Peverell…’

  ‘Your Majesty?’

  ‘Don’t forget my new coat. See what the Marchester haberdashers can come up with. Green, I think, suitable for the country. Velvet, of course, with slashed sleeves. White silk lining. Just right for a summer idyll.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘See that it’s a good one. Oh, one other thing. I’ll be bringing along a handful of my Yeomen of the Guard. See to it that they’re given suitable accommodation. After all, with your county crawling with assassins, I shall need some protection.’