‘They should have given him the rack,’ young Billy said, ‘instead of pissing about with his teeth. He couldn’t have done it then. Fuck! He’s still swinging, he can only just have jumped!’ He grabbed one of Radwinter’s legs, bringing the body to a halt.

‘Why did he do it?’ the fat man said in a tone of outrage.

‘They were taking him back for another go tomorrow.’

‘He did it for shame,’ I said quietly. ‘For him this would have been the ultimate shame. So much for torture bringing the truth.’

THE DEPUTY WARDEN CAME, watched Radwinter cut down and his body taken away. ‘And we got nothing out of him,’ he muttered angrily. But then he had had nothing to give, I thought. He had not killed Broderick. Broderick, Jennet Marlin, Oldroyd, now Radwinter. What a harvest of lives that box of documents had reaped. And how many would Catherine Howard’s dalliance cost?

I sat alone in the cell, through another day, another night. Outside the rain slashed down, hissing, dripping. When it grew dark I found myself looking nervously into corners, as though Radwinter’s tormented spirit might appear there. But there was nothing, no sense of him. As the hours passed my hopes ebbed and flowed with the tide on the river outside, I thought, Barak will come, or there will be some message to give me hope. Surely he could have got to Hampton Court and back by now, on the river? If he did not come, what would they do to me tomorrow? My head swam as I thought of all the abominable things I had heard they used in the Tower: the rack, the vice, hot irons. I had been a fool to think for a moment I could lie to Sir Jacob. I thought of Radwinter’s bloodied mouth. In a bleak moment at the darkest hour of the night I wondered wildly whether Barak and Tamasin might have fled to avoid questioning about the Queen. I cursed myself for such stupidity, Barak would not let me down. Then the dawn came again, light at the window from which a piece of Radwinter’s shirt still hung.

THE TURKEYS CAME for me early in the afternoon. They watched me carefully lest I might struggle, but I knew there was no point and let them lead me away without resistance. I felt light-headed, as though my spirit might fly from my body.

They took me down a flight of stairs, then along a dark passage. They halted before a wide, solid door. The fat turnkey knocked. I looked at the dark old wood. My heart was thumping hard now, making me feel more faint than ever. The door was opened and they led me inside. The turnkeys released my arms and quickly stepped outside again.

It was a big, windowless room with smoke-blackened walls. A large brazier in an alcove put me momentarily in mind of a blacksmith’s forge, as did the big bull of a man in a leather apron standing looking at me, hands on hips. A heavyset boy in his late teens was tending the brazier’s coals. Then I saw the rack with its straps and wooden wheels in the corner, the row of instruments – pincers, pokers, knives – hanging on hooks, and I felt my head spin. Beside me was a big metal bin and on top, among the ashes of old coals, small white objects gleaming. I realized these were Radwin-ter’s teeth, and my legs gave way.

The big man grabbed me as I fell, and sat me in a wooden chair. He sighed, as I might at the sight of a badly copied document. ‘Take deep breaths,’ he said. ‘Just sit there and breathe slowly.’

I did as commanded, staring at him dumbly. His expression was frowning. I saw his apron was smeared with old blood. ‘Got the thin knife heated, Tom?’ he asked over his shoulder.

‘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.