William had been horrified to see the two soldiers set about their work with a relaxed and casual air he still found hard to believe. They were not silent and they made no threats. Instead, they chatted idly as they brought various devices into view, each one designed to rip away a man’s dignity and will. He’d learned that the older man was Ted and the younger, James. James was something of an apprentice to Ted, it seemed, still learning the trade. The older man often paused to explain what he was doing and why it worked, while William only wanted to scream. In a strange way, he was almost an observer, a thing to be worked upon rather than another man.
At the start, they’d asked him only if he was right- or left-handed. William had told them the truth and Ted laid out a set of nasty-looking vices that could be screwed down until his fingers broke. They cut his wedding ring off with a pair of clippers, tucking it into his pocket for him. They’d chosen that finger to attach the first screw and wound it down, ignoring his hissing breath.
William had begun to pray in Latin as the finger burst all along its length, looking as if a seam had ripped. He’d thought that was agony enough until the bone cracked with another two turns, bringing the plates together with the broken flesh crushed between. The two men took their time attaching the others, winding each one further shut at intervals as they discussed some whore down at the docks and what she would do for a few pennies. James claimed to have shown her things she’d never known before and Ted told him not to waste his breath lying, or his money on getting the pox. It touched off a furious argument, with William the unwilling witness, bound and helpless between them.
His left hand throbbed in time with his heart; he could feel it. They’d sat him at the table with his hands free on the wood, passing the ropes around his chest. He had tried to jerk his hands away at first, but they’d held him too firmly. He looked down now at the swollen, purpling flesh, seeing a spur of bone sticking out of his smallest finger. He’d chewed the marrow from chicken bones in his life and the picture of his hand with the dreadful little contraptions attached was somehow unreal, not his hand at all.
William shook his head, breathing the Pater Noster, the Ave Maria, the Nicene Creed, mumbling lines he had learned as a boy, with his tutor taking a whip to him if he stumbled over a single syllable.
‘Credo in unum Deum!’ he said, gasping. ‘Patrem omni … potentem! Factorem caeli … et terrae.’
He’d taken wounds in battle that hadn’t hurt as much. He tried to list them in his mind, as well as how they’d occurred. He’d once had a gash branded shut with a hot iron and, though he could not understand it, his nose filled with the same smell of burning flesh that he thought he’d forgotten, making him retch weakly against the ropes.
The two men paused, with Ted holding a hand up to interrupt his companion when he asked a question. William’s senses swam in pain, but he thought he heard a voice he knew. He’d seen dying men suffer terrifying visions in the past and he tried to close his ears against the sound at first, believing in his terror that he was hearing the first whispers of an angel, come to take him.
‘Confess!’ he heard clearly, the voice muffled by the stones all around.
William raised his head, tempted crazily to ask his torturers if they had heard it as well. The words were being shouted at the top of someone’s voice and with each repetition, different parts were lost. William pieced it together, crying out in surprise and pain as Ted lost his vague look of incomprehension and remembered to tighten the screws once more. Another bone cracked, sending a spray of blood across the wooden surface. William felt tears come from his eyes, though it only increased his anger at the thought of such men thinking they saw him weep.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. He knew Derry’s voice. No one else called him William Pole. It broke his heart to consider giving in to the two men, but the thought of it opened the door and his resolve vanished like wax in a furnace.
‘Very well … gentlemen,’ he said, panting. ‘I confess to it all. Bring me your parchment and I will sign my name.’
The younger man looked astonished, but Ted shrugged and began to unwind the screws, wiping each one down with great care and applying oil to the mechanisms so that they would not rust in the bag. William glanced down at the open roll of thick cloth and shuddered at the things he saw there. They had only begun his torment.
Ted cleared his throat, wiping the table clean of blood and lifting William’s crushed hand on to a cloth to one side. With care, the man placed a sheet of calfskin vellum where William could reach it. From his bag of equipment, he brought an ink pot and quill, dipping the nib for him when he saw William’s right hand was shaking too violently and might upset the ink.
William read the accusations of high treason with a feeling of nausea. His son John would hear. His wife would live the rest of her life in the shadow of such a shameful admission. It was a lot to ask to trust Derry Brewer with his honour, but he did, and he signed.
‘I told you he would!’ James said triumphantly. ‘You said a duke would hold out for a day or two, maybe more!’
Ted looked disgusted, but he handed over a silver groat to his young companion.
‘I had money on you, old son,’ he told William, shaking his head.
‘Remove these ropes,’ William replied.
Ted chuckled.
‘Not yet, my lord. We had a fellow once who threw his own confession on the very fire we’d heated for him. Had to start it all again! No, mate. You’ll abide while James takes it to the men who asked for it. After that, you’re no concern of mine.’
With mocking ceremony, he handed over the signed sheet to James, who rolled it up and placed it in a tube, tying the ends with a clean black ribbon.
‘Don’t dawdle now, lad!’ Ted called after him as he left. ‘There’s daylight still and I’m dry — and you’re buying!’
Taken by force at a slower pace, Derry was struck once more at the sheer size of the Palace of Westminster. The guards who marched him back into the building were determined to bring him straight through, but it was still a different route from the one he had taken before. Derry passed courtrooms and chambers with vaulted ceilings like cathedrals. By the time they’d passed the echoing chamber where the Lords met, he was deeply glum. His search for Suffolk had never had a chance of succeeding in the time he’d been given. All he had was what he’d read in Tresham’s furious face and he was not certain, could not be certain. An army could search the vast palace and never find a single man.
Ahead of his small group of guards, Derry saw another cluster of people swirling in something like agitation. He’d been taken right through to the other side of the palace and as he was shoved closer, he saw to his astonishment that the river gate was open, a bright bar of sunlight gleaming like heaven. Derry stumbled on the uneven floor, his attention drawn to the two figures entering the palace. One of his guards cursed as they heaved him onward, then a mutter of awe went through them.
They brought Derry to the rear of a group facing the outer gate. Every man there was down on one knee, or bowing deeply as the king and queen of England entered their domain. Derry began to smile, looking round to see Tresham and Cardinal Beaufort among them. His moving gaze sharpened at the sight of Lord York to one side. It was no surprise to find the duke had not yet gone to Ireland, but it confirmed some of Derry’s suspicions about the plot against William Pole.
King Henry looked thin and white. Derry saw him pass a thick blanket from his shoulders to a servant, revealing simple clothes with no ornament. The queen seemed to be holding his arm in support and Derry’s heart went out to her, blessing Margaret for bringing her husband. His mind began to race again, weighing his chances.