Sovereign ms-3

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘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.

  Chapter Forty-four

  HE STOPPED. A fraction of an inch away, the heat searing my finger. A high-pitched creak told me the door had opened and through waves of pain and terror I heard voices, recognized a harsh mutter, Sir Jacob Rawling’s voice. The door closed again. I looked wildly round, groaning and spitting blood. The fat turnkey had come in and was standing by the torturer, looking at me with mild interest. The big man nodded to his son and the hot knife was pulled away. I felt myself lifted up and wondered if this was the start of some new horror, but they only pulled the chain holding my arms off the hook, then lowered me to the floor. I stood unsteadily. The big man looked at me, a faint smile on his meaty face.

  ‘Your lucky day. We’ve to stop; you’re to go back to your cell.’

  I staggered and spat out blood and a fragment of tooth. The boy had broken off a big molar in the side of my lower jaw. The fat turnkey reached out a hand to steady me. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get you back. Here’s your shirt and doublet.’ He helped me pull the torn clothes round my shoulders, then led me half-dazed from the chamber.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked as he walked me back. My voice sounded thick, my mouth was still bleeding. I had been proud of my teeth, I had had nearly a full set.

  ‘You’re to be taken to Archbishop Cranmer at Hampton Court. I don’t know where he’ll keep you, because he hasn’t a gaoler any more, has he? Billy and I are in trouble about that,’ he added lugubriously.

  We turned the corner into the central area and there, standing by the desk with young Billy, I saw Barak. My heart leapt. His manner was quite different from the day before, he looked confident and energetic. At least, till he saw me. Then his jaw dropped.

  ‘Jesu!’ he shouted. ‘What have you done to him? You fucking arseholes -’

  ‘Now, none of that!’ the fat turnkey admonished. ‘He was taken to the torture on Sir Jacob’s orders. My advice to you is to get him out of here before the Archbishop changes his mind.’

  ‘There’s a whole boatload of new captives coming in soon,’ Billy told him.

  ‘Just as well we’ll have the cell, then.’

  Barak took my arm. ‘How many teeth did the arseholes pull?’

  ‘Just one.’

  ‘Let’s get out. We’ve a long boat journey. It’s raining, but I’ve got your coat and a blanket. And your things.’ He took out my dagger and purse and Cranmer’s seal that had been taken off me when I arrived. He handed them to me, then looked at the turnkeys. ‘Can you get these irons off?’

  ‘All right.’ The fat man selected a key from his ring and, bending down, released my feet and left wrist. When he came to the manacle on my right wrist, though, the tight one, the key would not turn. ‘Damn thing, it’s stiff.’

  ‘Try spitting on the key,’ Barak said. The turnkey did as he suggested, but with no result.

  ‘Looks like you’ll have to keep it on, matey.’

  Barak bent and studied the manacle. ‘It’s rusty. I could probably get that off with tools at home.’ He turned to the gaoler. ‘But he can’t go before the Archbishop dragging a three-foot length of chain. Can you get the padlock off?’

  The round gyve was connected to the chain by a stout little padlock. The gaoler grunted and went over to a bundle of little keys hanging from the wall. He opened the padlock, the chain falling to the floor. All the time I had been looking on dumbly, licking my cracked and swollen lips, but now I burst out weeping uncontrollably, my sobs echoing round that terrible chamber. Barak took my arm and led me gently through the barred door, up the stairs and through the Great Hall. I was past caring whether the soldiers saw my wretched state. I asked no questions; it was all I could do to stumble along.

  We descended the steps of the White Tower, then I felt grass under my feet, rain on my head. We stopped walking at last and I looked up. We were by the Watergate again. A wherry stood there, a soldier and a boatman in Cranmer’s livery sheltering under the arch. Beyond, the heavy rain made the Thames water hiss and boil.

  ‘He’s hurt, take care,’ Barak told the boatman.

  They helped me in and the boatman took the oars. Barak wrapped the blanket round me as we pulled out into the water. A hand to my throbbing jaw, I looked at the wide river. A large barge swept past us, sculling into the Watergate. Sitting inside was a cargo of bedraggled gentlemen and ladies, their fine clothes streaming water, surrounded by soldiers. My eyes widened as I saw Francis Dereham, no longer proud and arrogant but shrinking against the side of the boat, his face white as chalk. I also recognized some of the Queen’s ladies, and then I saw Lady Rochford in the midst of them, staring at me with wide terrified eyes. Seeing my bloodied face, she began screaming and tried to stand up. Someone pulled her back down. The shrill sound faded away as the barge passed under the arch. I sat staring after it.

  ‘Why is Lady Rochford there? Has she been arrested?’

  ‘Looks like it. Perhaps they know about Culpeper.’

  ‘If they don’t now,’ I said grimly, ‘they will soon.’

  ‘This means we’re safe,’
Barak said eagerly.

  ‘Yes. Culpeper’s doings will come out now anyway. What we know ceases to matter.’

  ‘What will happen to the Queen?’

  ‘The axe, I’d think. Poor silly girl.’ The tears welled up again, and I wiped at my face with my sleeve, wincing as I brushed my damaged jaw.

  Barak looked at me anxiously.

  ‘Are you fit to go before Cranmer?’

  ‘I must know what he wants.’ I took a deep breath. ‘You did it then, you got to him?’

  He nodded, droplets flying from his soaking hair. ‘I went to the Guildhall first and saw your friend Master Vervey. You were right: the day you were taken, one of Rich’s men came and told the council you were under arrest, they’d be advised to drop the case and drop you. They were scared silly to hear their lawyer was in the Tower. They’ve agreed to drop the case against Bealknap on the basis each side pay their own costs. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m past caring.’ I sighed. ‘You were right after all about that. I have paid for my obstinacy.’

  ‘Then I went back to Whitehall, tried to get permission to visit Cranmer at Hampton Court. But there was no chance, the place is sealed off. My Whitehall contact told me the Queen’s under arrest there, though that’s not generally known yet. I don’t think I could have got there but for an old friend of yours.’

  ‘Who?’

  He smiled. ‘Master Simon Craike.’

  ‘Craike?’

  ‘I was hanging about the corridors, looking in an ill-humour no doubt, when he came up and asked what the matter was. I told him about your arrest. And what you suspected about Rich. He was horrified. He said he hated Rich and he owed you one, and wrote me out a letter to take to the Chamberlain’s office at Hampton Court.’

  ‘But the deputy warden told me a servant of Craike’s said he’d overheard me telling Dereham to bed the Queen-’

  Barak laughed. ‘I can just see you saying that.’

  ‘So Rich set that up without reference to Craike.’

  ‘He’s not such a bad old arsehole, even if he does like to have women beating him. He said to tell you how sorry he was for everything.’

  ‘So Craike came right in the end. And you saw Cranmer?’

  ‘His secretary. Jesu, things are buzzing at Hampton Court, I had soldiers with me all the time. I told him the story. He went in to see the Archbishop, then came back with an authority to fetch you from the Tower.’ He looked at my face again. ‘I worked as quick as I could, I had no sleep last night.’

  ‘I will never forget this, Jack.’ My voice shook. ‘Thank you.’

  THE BOAT ROWED steadily on through the rain. I huddled inside my blankets as we passed Westminster and Lambeth Palace. I looked up at the Lollards’ Tower. ‘Radwinter is dead,’ I said. ‘He hanged himself yesterday, in the cell.’ ‘Good riddance,’ Barak said bluntly.

  ‘I felt sorry for him at the end.’

  ‘You feel sorry for too many folk. That’s your trouble.’

  ‘Perhaps. How is Master Wrenne?’

  ‘Better. I’ve had the old Moor up to see him.’

  ‘Guy?’ My face lightened at the thought of my old friend.

  ‘He looked at my leg, says it’s nearly mended. He says Master Wrenne was exhausted, but he should be up again in a few days with rest and good food.’ His face became serious. ‘I asked him how long Master Wrenne might have. He said, only months, and his pain and weariness will get worse.’

  ‘I pray we find his nephew.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t we?’

  ‘He’s a northerner and a religious conservative. You remember I said they showed me Bernard Locke before they executed him?’

  ‘Ay.’

  ‘I asked him if he knew Martin Dakin and he said he did, and he was safe. There was something strange, mocking, in the way he said it.’

  ‘I heard the Privy Council have had men around the Inns, questioning people. Mainly Gray’s Inn.’

  ‘Anyone arrested?’

  ‘Not that I heard. I told the old Moor where you were, by the way. I had a job to stop him coming straight down to the Tower.’

  ‘He is a good man.’ I smiled.

  ‘There’s a bit of competition going on at your house, I am afraid. Joan does not approve of Tamasin very much.’

  ‘You don’t have her in your room, I hope?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s the competition for nursing old Wrenne Joan doesn’t like. Two women in one house never works. But she is kind to him. She is kind.’

  I suppressed a frown; I did not like the idea of Tamasin having the freedom of my house. ‘She will domesticate you in the end,’ I said.

  He smiled. ‘She can try. By the way, I’m going to see my old mate tomorrow. He has some news, I’ve had a message.’

  ‘About Tamasin’s father? What does he say?’

  ‘Only that he’s got a good lead.’

  We rowed on in silence, my jaw throbbing painfully, the gyve cold against my wrist. At length the towers of Hampton Court appeared in the distance, and my heart began thumping again.

  THERE WERE SOLDIERS at the wharf, checking everyone’s documents. Barak showed them Cranmer’s letter, the one he had brought to the Tower. We were told to wait and escorted to a little wooden shelter with other arrivals, water dripping on to the boards. I put my torn shirt and doublet on properly, and pulled down the cuffs of my shirt to cover the damned manacle. I winced at the chafing, and the throbbing from my jaw. The soldier from the boat waited with us. I am still a prisoner, I thought.

  A clerk arrived, the same soft-footed little fellow who had taken me to see Cranmer at that first meeting more than two months before. His eyes widened at the sight of my swollen, bloody face. The soldier following, he led us across the wide lawn, through a door at the back of the palace, then along dim back-corridors. Looking through a window into a courtyard I saw a familiar figure among the many soldiers posted at the doors. Sergeant Leacon, standing on his own in the yard, looking downcast.

  The official halted before a little door. ‘You are to wait here, Master Shardlake, till the Archbishop is free.’ At least, I thought, I am ‘Master’ again. He turned to Barak. ‘Come with me please, you shall wait elsewhere.’

  ‘I’ll see you soon, sir.’ Barak followed the clerk reluctantly. The soldier opened the door and ushered me in. He closed the door behind me, and I guessed he would be standing guard outside. I looked around me. A room with tapestries of scenes of ancient Rome on the walls, distant views of pillared buildings. A fire in the grate. There was a heap of cushions by the fire and I sank gratefully on to them, not even bothering to remove my wet coat. My eyes closed instantly.

  I woke feeling I was not alone. I opened my eyes. Archbishop Cranmer was standing above me, in his white robe and black stole. He was looking at me, an anxious expression on his austere tired face.

  I scrambled to my feet. As I moved my head a fresh spasm shot through my jaw, making me groan. He put out a hand. ‘Not so fast, Master Shardlake, you will faint. Here, take this chair.’ He pulled a chair out from the card-table, and I sank heavily into it.

  ‘What happened to your face?’ he asked quietly. His cheeks had a grey look and there were bags of exhaustion under his eyes.

  ‘I was taken to the torture, your grace, in the Tower. Barak did not arrive quite in time. They broke a tooth off.’ I realized how muffled my voice sounded.

  Cranmer frowned with distaste. ‘I did not sanction that.’ He hesitated. ‘Sir Richard Rich came to see me, told me you knew the Queen was having a – a relationship with Dereham. He knew I was following up other information already, information that came to me while the Progress was away. An old servant of the Queen from before she was married, who said Catherine had had carnal relations with Dereham when she was younger, that there could be a precontract of marriage. They persuaded me to put you in the Tower, said you would be readier to confess if you were held in there.’ He looked at me severely for a moment. ‘I felt betrayed by you. That
you had not told what you knew, but I did not sanction torture.’

  ‘For Rich having me tortured was probably a matter of sport. I imagine the order to the warden came from him.’

  ‘Maleverer brought me a deposition from a servant of Master Craike. That servant has now disappeared. And Craike came to see me this morning. He says Sir William Maleverer came to him, asked in Rich’s name if he had a servant who would swear falsely for money. He told me he provided a man reluctantly. He did not know the victim of this deceit was to be you. When he heard you were in the Tower, he came to me.’ Cranmer looked down at me. ‘Craike told me, too, about the hold Rich has over him. He said he could bear it no more, realizing he had had a part in sending you falsely to the Tower.’

  ‘Will he lose his position?’

  ‘I fear so. These visits to the stews -’ the Archbishop wrinkled his nose in distaste – ‘are one thing, but he should not have let Rich blackmail him. That at least will stop. Maleverer is in Rich’s pay. He seeks some of Robert Aske’s lands.’ Cranmer’s lips set hard. ‘He will lose his place on the Council of the North. I shall see to that.’

  ‘Rich has won against me, your grace,’ I said quietly. ‘That case Barak told your secretary about – the Guildhall has dropped it.’ I found I did care about that after all.

  ‘Then I am sorry. But you must understand, Rich is too powerful, too useful for the King, for me to intervene against him.’

  ‘So he has truly won.’

  He looked at me seriously. ‘You worked for Lord Cromwell, Master Shardlake. You know how much latitude the great men of the realm are allowed.’

  I did not reply.

  ‘So,’ Cranmer went on quietly, ‘you truly knew nothing of Dereham’s relations with the Queen?’

  ‘Nothing, my lord. I swear.’

  He sighed. ‘Dereham is in the Tower now. They will use harsh methods on him.’ He bit his lip. ‘But it must be.’

  ‘I saw him brought in as we came out. And the Queen’s ladies.’

  ‘I have been set to question the Queen herself. There is more to come out, other men are mentioned already.’ Culpeper, I thought. I looked at Cranmer, fearing more questions, but he only shook his head. ‘That she could have behaved so…’ He sighed again. ‘The King will be exposed to public ridicule. He does not yet believe the Queen has deceived him. But he will. God help her then.’