Withypoll dug into his jacket and withdrew a square-bladed cleaver. He handed it to Arlington, who handed it to me.
‘Chop off his finger,’ Arlington commanded.
My arm fell to my side, weak as a child’s. I prayed he intended only to intimidate me, yet he and Withypoll watched expectantly, unsmiling and intense. Edward Josselin blinked and tugged sharply again at his trapped hand. I looked down at the knife, a broad-bladed carving knife with weathered, wooden handle. I opened my fingers and dropped it clattering onto the stone floor.
A small smile appeared upon Arlington’s lips. ‘Do you not recognise it? It’s the knife you used to kill Thomas Wharton.’
Dowling bent down and picked it up. ‘Neither of us will cut off this man’s finger,’ he growled, clenching the handle of the knife tight in his fist.
Arlington drew the rapier from his belt and levelled it at Dowling’s throat. ‘Cut off his finger, Lytle, else I will stick that blade in the back of your skull, same as you did to Wharton.’
Josselin wriggled and squirmed, whimpering. I wanted to reassure him, release him from the restraints that bound him, but Withypoll stood at my elbow. Josselin’s hand was pegged out flat, leaving bare his first knuckles. Only his little finger wriggled free, untied. Torture was illegal in England, and those found guilty of committing such atrocities risked being hanged by the neck, and sliced from sternum to groin. If I chopped off Josselin’s finger, I would be a party to torture.
‘Might I know why?’ I asked, scalp prickling.
‘Edward Josselin is a traitor,’ said Arlington, pricking Dowling’s
throat with his blade. ‘A traitor to King and country.’
‘I am not a traitor,’ Josselin whispered, eyes wide. ‘I have been loyal to the King all my life. My son too.’
Arlington snorted. ‘Your son is a spy and betrayed us all. You chose to veil his treachery. Your country or your kin, and you chose your perfidious kin.’
Josselin sunk in his chair; heavy, old head slumped upon his chest. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Which made two of us.
‘Your son killed the Earl of Berkshire and fled to Essex,’ Arlington spat.
‘Whoever murdered the Earl of Berkshire, it was not my son,’ Josselin insisted, emphatic, momentarily unafraid.
‘Cut off his finger, Lytle,’ Arlington growled. ‘I won’t tell you again.’
I took a deep breath and exhaled through my nose. My head swam and I placed my legs apart so I wouldn’t fall over. His little finger trembled like a trapped mouse, the only finger I could possibly sever without risk of chopping two or even three. I ran my own fingers across my forehead, through a thick sheen of sweat. My first thought was to raise the blade and take a swing, but what if I missed? I might cut off his whole hand. It would be safer to place the tip of the blade in the wood of the table and lever it down slowly.
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What purpose will it serve?’
‘Cut off his finger or I will cut off your head,’ Withypoll’s voice sounded, wet in my ear.
I thought for a moment to slice the knife across Withypoll’s throat instead. Yet that would still leave Arlington alive, and he could conjure up a thousand other Withypolls. Josselin stared, pleading,
desperate to read my intent. Withypoll stretched out a hand towards the cleaver. If I let him prise it from my grasp, then he would use it on me. My life or Josselin’s finger. I stepped to the table and positioned the knife.
‘May God forgive me,’ I whispered, feeling my veins rush with strange energy. I stared into Josselin’s bewildered eyes. ‘Don’t move.’ Then I brought the blade down swiftly afore he could think.
He screamed and yanked at his hand. For a moment I saw flesh and bone, a perfect section, afore thick red blood welled forth like hot jam inside a pudding. He didn’t scream again, just watched agape, the blood draining from his face faster than it bled from his finger. Bile surged into my throat, my skin burnt, and the room seemed to ripple.
Withypoll leant forward and prodded at the small piece of digit lain lonely upon the wood, barely big enough to pick up. ‘His Lordship told you to cut off his finger.’
I threw the blade on the table. ‘Aye, and so I did, and I’m not cutting off any more.’ My body trembled and I felt sickness in my stomach. I couldn’t stop my hand from shaking.
Arlington shook his head and lowered his sword, afore nodding gently at Withypoll. Withypoll picked up the cleaver and cut off the rest of Josselin’s small finger like he was slicing sausage. This time Josselin screamed with all his lungs.
I grabbed an old mouchoir from the bottom of my pocket and tried to quell the river of blood streaming across the surface of the table. ‘What would you have him tell you?’ I shouted. Blood soaked through four layers of cloth in a second. The severed finger lay by itself, a most unnatural apparition. Dowling seized the old man’s hand and pushed the mouchoir firmly against the wound.
Arlington watched our efforts, amused. ‘What will you do, Lytle,
when we hew off his hand? Will you take off your shirt?’
‘Why should you hew off his hand?’ I demanded, heart pounding.
‘My son is not a spy,’ wailed Josselin, torso folded over upon the table, drool dripping from the corners of his mouth.
Arlington pushed me backwards, towards the wall. Dust billowed about our heads, prickling at my nose and throat. ‘You asked to work for me, did you not?’
My face must have appeared blank.
‘You asked Dowling to promote your cause.’ Arlington jerked his chin upwards. ‘Is that not so?’
I watched Dowling’s back as he held Josselin’s hand tight. Indeed it was true, back in the days when I thought it would be a noble occupation. Why had Dowling not warned me off?
‘Well here we are,’ Arlington hissed. ‘And this is what we do. It is my job to protect the citizens of this country and the King himself. If you doubt my sincerity, then consider what happened to our King’s own father, executed by his people.’ He breathed hard through his nose, black plaster rising and falling. ‘I carry an enormous responsibility, as does every man that works for me, and every man that works for me should be strong enough to carry that burden. Do you understand?’
I understood. Withypoll well enough to know murder was no hardship, and Arlington well enough to know he cared nothing for the citizenry. I nodded, for I could not bring myself to speak. He wanted me dead, I was sure of it. So why did he not just instruct Withypoll to be done with it?
Josselin groaned loudly.
‘This man’s son is a spy and a murderer, Lytle, and his treachery has put at risk any chance of peace with the Dutch.’ Arlington wrapped
his fingers about my neck. ‘So save your pity and your tears. There can be no mercy.’
‘How do you know James Josselin killed Berkshire?’ Dowling demanded, pale-faced, regarding Arlington as he would a beast.
Arlington waved a hand in front of his nose as if bothered by the smell of blood. ‘They found Josselin’s blade sticking out of Berkshire’s chest, pinning him to the chair in which he sat, and Josselin ran away.’
‘Perhaps he took fright,’ I ventured. ‘Else was abducted by the murderers.’
Arlington released his grip and scowled. ‘I have not summoned you here to debate the man’s guilt. Mine own intelligence network confirms his treachery. I have spies in all places, here and in Holland. We will win the war because of it.’ He puffed out his chest and stared down his nose. Dowling’s baggy eyes narrowed.
‘My son is not a traitor, nor a murderer,’ cried Josselin.
Arlington slammed a fist down upon the table. ‘Shake your head, you villainous rogue,’ he roared. ‘No man here is touched by your wickedness!’
Josselin said nothing, just lay his head upon his arm, staring at his mutilated hand like it was his son, an intimate gaze of infinite sadness. A tear rolled down his cheek.
‘Enough of this, Withypoll,’ Arlington exclaimed, as if we ruined his day. ‘End it.’