“Water!” snapped Norton, and one of the guards climbed up upon a ladder to slosh a pail of brackish, cold river water in Conn’s face.
He sputtered back to reality, and to pain as the ropes were tightened upon his other arm, and he cried out again, but this time it was a particularly foul oath, and it was aimed at William Cecil.
“He don’t have a particularly high threshold for pain, m’lord,” noted Norton. “I’ve gone easy with him so far, and I ain’t never had a man pass out on me this quick.”
“Then he is experiencing severe pain?”
“I’m a mite surprised, but it would appear so,” said the dungeon master. “He’s a big fellow, m’lord, but I thinks it’s because his bones is delicate like.”
“Can ye inflict just a bit more pain on him without injuring him, Master Norton?” asked William Cecil.
“Aye,” he said, and then he turned to his assistant. “Peter, ye handle the arms, but mind remember, we want no broken bones. I’ll put ye up there meself if ye break anything.”
Peter nodded, his eyes alight at the thought of actually aiding his master in this important interrogation. What a tale he’d have to tell his mother tonight, and that little serving wench in the tavern he’d been trying to impress might even lift her skirts at long last once she heard of his new stature.
Together the two men moved in unison as they tightened and fussed with the levers connecting the ropes attached to their prisoner’s limbs. It was subtle at first for Conn was already in such pain that he could not feel their new efforts, but then the agony slammed into him, forcing all the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping for air he could not seem to find as fiery fingers of pure, undiluted pain ran swiftly up and down his entire form. His big, straining body poured water, the muscles in his neck bulged, as did his torment-filled eyes, and his mouth opened wide as he howled in an unhuman-sounding, animal-like anguish. There was a roaring sound in his ears, but through the mist he could hear Lord Burghley saying, indeed almost pleading with him,
“My lord, my lord, spare yerself further torture. Ye have only to tell me the details of yer plot, and the pain will be stopped.”
With incredible effort Conn managed to find his voice. “I know of no plot, Burghley!
No plot!
Ye’ve the wrong man!” and then he fainted.
William Cecil was not a man easily fooled. Lord Bliss was suffering greatly, and still he denied involvement in
Deliverance.
Could it possibly be that he was telling the truth? And if he was who was using his name, and why? “Release him, Master Norton, and revive him. It is my opinion that he is not lying.”
“I’d have to agree with ye, m’lord, if ye’ll forgive my boldness,” said the dungeon master. “Some of ’em can take far worse than I gives this gentleman before they even passed out. This man ain’t good with pain so what we did to ’im really made ’im suffer. A man don’t lie to me when I makes ’im suffer. I ain’t so old yet that I can’t do me job.”
The wheel rack was lowered, and more cold river water was casually sloshed over Conn by Peter. As his eyes began to flutter open, a cracked earthenware cup of wine was forced through his lips, and down his throat. It burned as it hit the pit of his stomach like a hot rock, and Conn retched half of it back up, but managed to keep the rest of it down. His eyes began to focus, William Cecil coming first into view.
“Ye bastard!” he managed to croak.
“I am delighted to see that yer recovering so quickly,” said Lord Burghley dryly. He didn’t blame Lord Bliss’ anger, but then his first loyalty was to his queen, and her safety. He had known her since she was a child. In his private moments he thought of her as he did his own daughters, and he would do anything to see her safe from all harm. Now, however, he needed time to sort out this puzzle. Something was very amiss. Was there a plot against the queen, or not? “Escort Lord Bliss back to his quarters,” he ordered the guards, and as they aided Conn to stand he said, “We will talk again, my lord.”
“Ye better have some answers for me,” snarled Conn. “If ye want to know who is responsible for this, then so do I!”
Lord Burghley nodded in agreement. “In that thought we concur, my lord.”
“Jesus God!” Cluny cried as his master was helped back into their cell. “What did they do to ye, m’lord? Are ye all right? Put him down gentle, ye great oafs!”
“We’ll treat ’im just like a babe in arms,” said a grinning guard, and they unceremoniously dumped Conn upon the nearest pallet.
As they stamped out laughing Cluny shook his fist at them, and muttered an oath. “English scum,” he muttered, but fortunately they didn’t hear him.
Conn couldn’t help grinning up at his body servant even through his pain. “I’m alive, Cluny,” he said, “though just barely.”
“What the hell did they do to ye, m’lord?”
“The rack,” came the grim reply.
“The rack?”
Cluny’s face registered his deep distress. “Why the rack? What the hell did ye do, m’lord?”
“I did nothing, but Lord Burghley believes, or at least he thought he believed that I was involved in a plot against Bess Tudor.”
“Ye ain’t involved in any plot,” said Cluny loyally. “Why, hell, m’lord, if ye were then I would be, too. Ye wouldn’t go off and get into trouble without yer faithful Cluny.”
Conn managed another weak grin. “No, Cluny, I wouldn’t get into trouble without ye. Yer a good man to have at one’s back, but ye see, someone has somehow managed to involve me though I know not how. Let’s hope William Cecil manages to find out before he takes it into his head to talk with me again.”
Lord Burghley was indeed seeking answers, but he was getting nowhere in his search. He carefully went over the reports that had been written on the matter from the statements given the other prisoners involved in this matter. They had all been most eager to talk, and little persuasion had been needed at all to encourage them. Reading over the reports on the matter he could find nothing, and yet he was absolutely certain now of Lord Bliss’ innocence. He wanted to speak with the other plotters himself, but no sooner had he given the order for their presence than Adam de Marisco was brought in to him.
“My lord Burghley,” he said by way of greeting. “I think ye know why I am here.”
William Cecil nodded sourly. What had he expected? “I suppose that yer wife is here also,” he replied.
“My wife is at home at
Queen’s Malvern
with our children. Ye will remember she is forbidden London and the court.”
“I forget nothing, my lord, and I am relieved that Lady de Marisco is finally of an age to show discretion.”
Adam slapped his thigh, and chuckled. “She was ready to come,” he admitted, “but both Conn and I prevailed upon her not to for Aidan needs extra courage now. Please, my lord, what is this all about?”
“Yer brother-in-law has been involved in a plot to assassinate the queen, and put Mary of Scotland upon the throne,” said Lord Burghley.
“Impossible!” said Adam de Marisco.
“I am beginning to agree with ye,” admitted Lord Burghley.
“Beginning to agree? God’s nightshirt, man! ’Tis not Conn’s style at all, and ye know it! There’s no secrecy in the man at all. He’s an open book which is one reason the queen always liked him.”
“I cannot, ye will understand, my lord, be too careful of her majesty’s safety,” said William Cecil. “Both Spain and France have done nothing else since Elizabeth Tudor took the throne of England but intrigue to pull her off it. This is not the first plot that has come to light that sought to murder her. I trust no one, my lord de Marisco, no one.”
Adam nodded. He fully understood Lord Burghley’s position. “What made ye believe Conn involved?” he asked.
“The three men we caught in the plot all accused him of being the mastermind behind it. Each named him by name, but there is something in the reports I have that disturbs me, and I cannot put a finger on it. Sit down, my lord, for I have asked to have those three prisoners brought to me now. Yer brother-in-law under torture protested his innocence quite convincingly, even going so far as to slander my parentage in the process.”
Adam was horrified. “Ye tortured him? How?”
“The rack,” was the flat reply. “All men protest their innocence until persuaded otherwise. Lord Bliss would not implicate himself despite Master Norton’s best efforts. Do not look so troubled, my lord. No bones were broken. It seems yer brother-in-law has a low threshold for pain, and Norton is a master of his craft. Even he was convinced of his subject’s purity. Now, however, I must unravel the mystery of whether there actually is a plot, and why these men implicated Lord Bliss.”
They had been seated in a chamber on an upper level, part of the apartment of the governor of the Tower. William Cecil arose, and said, “Will ye come with me, my lord? I must go below while Master Norton interrogates the other three. I am certain ye’ll want to be there.”
“Aye,” replied Adam grimly. “I do.”
The two men descended into the bowels of the Tower of London to the realm of Master Norton. There in the dungeon master’s workshop stood three men shackled to the wall. Two were young, one no more than sixteen, the other probably twenty. The third man was somewhat older, and was Adam realized looking at him related to the boys.
“A father and his two misguided sons,” said Burghley dryly, and then. “Which one first, Master Norton?”
“The young ’un. He’s the most fearful. See how he sweats, my lords? Peter, the boy!”
The silent Peter unlocked the shackles binding the lad, and pulled him forward across the room to refasten him within a high-backed wooden chair. A heavy leather strap held him about the midsection, leg irons held his ankles immobile, and his arms were bound at the wrists to the wooden arms of the chair. Peter then affixed a contraption to the boy’s hand that Adam immediately recognized as a thumbscrew. Slowly he began to tighten it, and within a short order the boy began to shriek out his pain, screaming for mercy, crying for his mother, and to the Blessed Virgin Mother as well. At a signal from Master Norton his assistant ceased tightening the screw, and William Cecil said to the two men still hanging from the wall, “Well, sirs, will ye stand by idle while the lad suffers? Ye have but to tell me what I want to know, and he will be released, but refuse to answer, and I will see to it that both yer sons are hung without delay, Master Trent.”
The man called Trent looked ill, his color slightly green, and slightly white about the lips. “My lord,” he pleaded. “We have told ye everything we know. I swear it! Do ye think I want my sons dead? Not for any cause!”
“Who caused this plot to be made?”
“We have told ye. Conn St. Michael, Lord Bliss. He came to my shop one evening as I was about to close, and said he knew that we were members of the true faith. He had, he said, been empowered by the church to grant us everlasting salvation if we would aid him in killing the queen, and helping Mary of Scotland, an honest Roman Catholic ruler, to gain her rightful throne. England would bless us, he said. What man wouldn’t take the chance of eternal salvation in God’s heaven, my lord? We agreed to help him, my sons and I.”
“A man offers ye eternal salvation, and ye merely accept it. The word of a stranger? Come now, Master Trent! What is this tale ye seek to have me believe?”
“He had a paper, my lord! I can read, at least a little! It was signed by the pope hisself with all sorts of pretty seals, and a ribbon. I never saw such an official-looking document. That was good enough for me!”
“Probably forged,” said William Cecil, “but official-looking enough to fool a simple man.” He looked at Master Trent again. “Are ye not happy and prosperous under the queen’s rule?”
“Aye,” replied the man, “but her can’t give us eternal salvation.”
“A butcher’s logic,” remarked Cecil. “That’s what he is, ye know. A butcher. Is it not fitting? He’s been an outspoken religious for years, but never considered a threat. That’s how we were able to catch him so quickly. He was eager to brag of his about-to-be good fortune, and word of it came to us so we arrested him.”
“Ask him about Conn’s involvement,” said Adam de Marisco. William Cecil nodded. “Tell me of Lord Bliss, Master Trent. How did ye come to meet him?”
“Him came to us,” was the reply. “Said he had heard we were the type of men who might aid him, and if not, keep our mouths shut.”
“ ’Tis the same story as he told before,” said Lord Burghley wearily.
“What did Lord Bliss look like?” demanded Adam. “Describe him to us.”
“Him were a big, tall man who spoke with an Irish accent,” came the reply.
“Be more detailed!” Adam’s voice said sharply.
“I can’t, m’lord.”
“Why not? What color eyes did he have? Was his nose long or short? What color was his hair? Did he have any marks upon his face that ye recall.”
“I can’t tell ye, m’lord. He was masked, and well muffled by his cloak.”
“Had ye ever met Conn St. Michael before this encounter? Ever seen him at all?”
“No, m’lord.”
“Then how did ye know who he was?”
“Because he told us, m’lord,” said Master Trent to Adam in a tone that implied that perhaps Adam was not too bright.
“Of course,” said Lord Burghley slowly. “That’s what has been bothering me about these reports. Nowhere is there a description of Lord Bliss.”
“Aye,” said Adam, “because it wasn’t Conn. Whoever it was wanted this poor fool to believe it was, but he dared not show his face for it was meant that ye discover this alleged plot, and that Conn be arrested.”
“I believe yer right, my lord de Marisco, but first I would be satisfied on one thing.” He signaled to Master Norton, and the dungeon master hurried from the room.
They sat in grim silence for several minutes, and then Norton returned, and with him was a masked, and heavily cloaked figure. Lord Burghley turned back to Master Trent.
“Is this man Lord Bliss?” he demanded.