Sovereign (69 page)

‘Well, Master Locke,’ Sir Jacob said. ‘Here you are, almost at the end of your road. I thought you should see Master Shardlake. Another lawyer come to grief, the man your
fiancée tried to kill. Have you aught to say to him?’

Bernard Locke looked at me for a moment. Turning his head made him wince. ‘Nothing,’ he whispered.

‘Why did you do it?’ I asked him. ‘Why did you use that wretched woman so? Get her to take an innocent life, put her in such danger her own life was lost?’

Locke did not answer, only looked at me without interest as though he was already in another world.

‘You betrayed the conspirators, you betrayed her.’

Still he did not respond.

‘If you had succeeded, would you have married Jennet?’ For some reason I had to know.

He ran a swollen tongue across cracked lips. ‘Perhaps,’ he said in a high, croaking voice. ‘What does it matter now?’

Another question came into my mind. ‘Do you know a barrister of Lincoln’s Inn named Martin Dakin?’ I knew the question could not place Dakin in danger. Anything incriminating
Locke knew about anyone, he would have told his torturers already.

A flicker of interest in the hollow eyes. ‘Ay. I knew Martin.’ Already he was talking of himself in the past tense, as though he were already dead. His mouth twitched in a
half-smile. ‘He was not involved. He is safe.’

‘Who is this Dakin?’ Sir Jacob asked.

I sighed. ‘Only the nephew of an old lawyer I know. A barrister of Gray’s Inn. I was trying to help the old man find him.’

Sir Jacob frowned at me. ‘You have other things to worry about now, Master Shardlake, believe me.’ He nodded to the turnkeys and they bore Locke away, the fat one grunting with the
effort. He had a hard time unlocking the door while trying to hold the chair, but he managed it and they carried Locke through. ‘We’ll have a job getting up these stairs,’ the
younger one said.

‘Ay.’ The fat man gasped. ‘You’re a nuisance, you are, matey,’ he told Locke. They carried him upstairs; I heard him groan at the jolting of the chair. Sir Jacob
inclined his head.

‘Often by the end they’re in such pain they can’t think of anything beyond that. Well, he’ll be out of it tomorrow, his head will be off.’

‘There is to be no trial?’

Sir Jacob gave me a long sideways look, as though I had committed an impertinence. ‘I think you need some time to reflect on where you are,’ he said. ‘Yes, that would be best.
We shall talk again later.’ He sat down at the desk and began writing notes on a paper, ignoring me again while he waited for the gaolers to return.

I stood there, my legs shaking, thinking frantically. Had the Queen had dalliance with Dereham as well as Culpeper? It seemed incredible, yet it was the only explanation for Cranmer’s
signature on the warrant. And they knew nothing about Culpeper. I could deny knowledge of Dereham truthfully. But would they believe me, would they try other means? And I knew that if they tortured
me I would tell them anything to get them to stop, tell them about Culpeper or what I suspected of the King’s ancestry, anything. I could bear less than Locke had, I knew that, less than
Broderick would have. My head reeled with sudden terror and I hid my face in my hands and groaned.

With a puffing and blowing, the turnkeys came back down the stairs. I pulled my trembling hands from my face. Sir Jacob was looking at me with what seemed like quiet satisfaction. ‘All
right,’ he said. ‘I think the penny has dropped. Put him in with Radwinter.’

T
HE FAT TURNKEY
took me up a flight of stairs to a narrow torchlit corridor lined with sturdy wooden doors. He opened one
and thrust me in with a twist of his arm so forceful I nearly fell.

The cell was a long chamber with a low roof. The bricks had been whitewashed but were disfigured with patches of mould. Through a small, high barred window at the other end of the room I could
see a patch of dark sky and hear the hiss of rain hitting the river. We must be right by the water. The only furniture was a pair of rickety truckle beds opposite each other by the door. On one of
them Radwinter sat, head in his hands. They were chained together, as were his feet. He did not look up as the turnkey led me over to the other bed.

‘Sit down,’ the fat man said. I collapsed rather than sat on a thin, filthy mattress, stinking of damp. There was no blanket. ‘Stretch out your arms,’ he ordered.
‘Come on, I haven’t got all day.’ His tone was still quiet but when I looked up his hard little eyes told me he meant business. I reached out my arms. So quickly and dextrously
that I hardly had time to realize what he was doing, he took a chain with a manacle on each end from under the bed and slipped the manacles round my wrists. There was a double click and I was
pinioned. He bent down, pulled out another length of chain and secured my feet. He stood back and inspected his handiwork with a nod.

‘There. That’ll do.’

‘Is this necessary?’ I asked, my voice rising with fear.

‘Is this nec-essary?’ he repeated with a grin, imitating my educated tones. ‘It’s the rules, matey. This is the least of it, you’ll see.’ He glanced at
Radwinter, who still sat with head bent, then left the cell. The key rattled in the lock.

I sat there, rigid with terror. The chains were long; I could move my arms and no doubt walk, but they were heavy and one of the gyves was tight, not enough to stop the blood but sufficient to
scrape my wrist painfully when I moved it.

I looked up to see Radwinter staring at me. He was filthy, eyes wild and bloodshot in his dirty face. How different from the neat, confident figure who had greeted me at York Castle.

‘What have you done?’ he asked in a cracked, hoarse voice.

‘Not what I am accused of.’

‘You lie!’ he shouted suddenly.

I did not reply. I thought, what if he leaps at me?

He went on, talking fast in bitter, intense tones. ‘You were always a weakling, and weaklings are dangerous, can be prevailed upon by the sinful, like Broderick. Wrongdoers must be
punished, that is right, my father said when he beat me that it was God’s law and he was right, it is. It is!’ he shouted, as though I had contradicted him. ‘But I did not kill
Broderick! I made mistakes but mistakes are not disloyalty, they should be punished but not with this!’ His voice rose and he looked at me with frantic, glaring eyes.

‘Perhaps they will only question you,’ I said soothingly, ‘then let you go when they realize you were not responsible for Broderick’s death. I do not believe you killed
him.’

What I said did not seem to register. ‘Mistakes must be punished.’ He frowned. ‘But
not
so severely. It is deliberate wrongdoing that must be dealt with harshly. My
father taught me. To forget my bedtime, only three strokes of the switch. To stay out playing
deliberately
, twelve. The scars remind me, that is why he put them there, to remind
me.’

I did not reply. I did not need to, for his eyes were unfocused, looking inward; he was talking to himself rather than to me.

‘Sometimes he would make me kneel and look at the switch for half an hour before he used it. It was part of the punishment. He told me that doesn’t work with animals.’ He
looked up at me then. ‘Do you remember,’ he said with a smile, ‘I told you that?’

‘Yes.’ I thought, Maleverer was right, his wits have gone, this has been too much for him. They have locked me in here with a madman.

‘He told me about that when we went to the bull-baiting, when he held my hand so tight the blood stopped flowing. Waiting, it frightens a boy and I knew it would frighten a man too.’
He smiled suddenly, a leer the like of which I hope to see on no man’s face again. I moved down the bed in an involuntary effort to get further away from him. He seemed to come to himself and
glared at me, the old icy stare.

‘You will feel the switch, I mean the instruments, you will and I will not because I am innocent, I am righteous in God’s eyes! The King who is God’s representative on earth,
he will not allow it!’ He began to shout, suddenly full of mad fury. I cowered away. ‘You weak bentbacked creature! The King gave you what you deserved at Fulford Cross!’ He
laughed, suddenly full of wicked glee like an evil imp in a morality play. He was in a world of his own, or perhaps he always had been. He stopped abruptly. ‘Maleverer accuses me,’ he
said. ‘Accuses me falsely. When I am out of here,
he
will feel the switch. I shall lay it on him.’ He shook his head. ‘No, I mean the irons, the fire. Why does my head fizz
and burn? Why can I hold nothing in it straight any more?’ He gave me a look of desperate appeal.

‘You should see a priest, Radwinter,’ I said.

‘They would send me a papist, a damned papist that should be burned . . .’ His voice lowered and his muttering became incomprehensible, a mad babbling to himself. I stood up and
crossed to the window. The chains clanked and rattled and made movement difficult. I thought again how this was the fear of everyone in London, to stand in a cell in the Tower, limbs chained,
accused of treason, awaiting questioning by Jesu knew what terrible methods. And I was cold, chilled to the bone. I closed my eyes and put my hands over my face, listening to Radwinter’s
demented whisperings and the hiss of the rain on the river outside. It sounded closer now, the tide must be rising. I had never been so afraid in my life.

I went back and lay on my bed, shivering with cold. Hours passed. Radwinter had lain down too and gone quiet. We both jumped up when a key turned in the lock but it was only the young turnkey
bringing food, a thin pottage that smelt bad, little lumps of gristle floating on the scummy surface. He laid the bowls on the floor.

‘If you want better,’ he said, ‘you’ll have to pay.’ He gave us a mercenary look. ‘You’re both gentlemen, will you be having visitors?’

‘Are they allowed?’ I asked.

He looked at me as though I were stupid. ‘Ay, or how would you get money to pay for things? Will someone come?’

‘I hope so,’ I said with a sigh, realizing how desperate I was to see a friendly face.

‘Archbishop Cranmer will come for
me
,’ Radwinter said with sudden haughtiness. ‘Then you and the Tower constable will be the ones that pay.’

‘Will he bring the King with him?’ The turnkey laughed and closed the door. Radwinter gave it a baleful look, then took up a bowl and began slurping at the pottage. I ate the filthy
stuff too, adding more discomfort to my already churning stomach.

More hours passed. It began to get dark. Outside the hissing of the rain went on and on. Was this part of the plan, keeping us waiting, like Radwinter’s father had, to anticipate all that
might come? I lay down. Barak and Wrenne would help me, I told myself. They would come.

A
S THE HOURS PASSED
the cold drove everything else from my mind. My clothes were wet from the rain on the river crossing. They would never dry in here.
Still the rain pelted down outside. I heard the hissing grow louder and then quieter as the river rose and fell with the tide. In the end I lay on the bare planks of the bed, wrapping the filthy
mattress round me as best I could to try and get a little warmth. It was a difficult task in the dark, chained as I was. The mattress stank of piss and old sweat and things crawled into my clothes,
making me itch. There was no sound from Radwinter. I could just make out his form on the bed. I hoped he was asleep. I did not like the thought of him lying awake in the darkness, heaven knew what
mad thoughts churning through his brain.

The mattress provided little warmth. I would doze for a while and wake shivering. I watched the sky lighten from black to grey, outlined by the thick bars on the window. Still the rain hissed
down. After that I slept awhile, tormented by vivid, horrible dreams. In one I was led in my chains into the King’s presence. He lay in an ornately decorated bed, in the room at the pavilion
at King’s Manor where we had met Lady Rochford. He wore a nightshirt which showed how truly fat he was, rolls of flesh heaving like the sea as he struggled to sit up. I saw he was nearly
bald, only a fringe of reddish-grey hair above his ears. He glared at me. ‘Look what you have done!’ he said, and pulled aside his coverlet. On one of his tree-trunk legs was a great
black patch and out of it a yellow fungus like the stuff Broderick had used to poison himself was growing. ‘You will pay for this, Blaybourne,’ he said, fixing me with those eyes that
were so like Radwinter’s.

‘I am not Blaybourne!’ I stretched out my arms in entreaty but the soldiers holding me pulled on the chains binding them. They rattled and the tight gyve cut into my wrist. I awoke
with a gasp. The pain in my wrist was real. I had flung my arm outward and it was biting hard. The metallic rattle was real too, a key was turning in the door. Both turnkeys, the fat one and the
young one, entered, without food and with set faces. My heart banged with fear and my bowels churned.

They gave me only a glance, though, before turning to Radwinter, who likewise had jumped up. From his groggy look he must have been sleeping after all. The fat turnkey heaved him to his feet.
‘Right, matey, Sir Jacob wants you questioned.’