She stared at this knowledgeable little boy, but somehow such knowledge
seemed devilish. "How do you know this?"
"As the good Shrewsbury said, I have book-learning," he replied. "But
I have not told you all the recipe yet. There is more."
"And what do you want in return?"
"I want a rosary blessed by the Pope," he answered instantly. "I have
heard you say that you have more than one. I would greatly desire one
for myself."
So he was a Catholic! "If you promise me that you will treasure it,
for there is no means of any others coming into this country," she
said. Or he was posing as a Catholic, to gain her confidence. Or he
was a heretic, who wanted to desecrate a holy object.
Or he dabbled in witchcraft, and wanted it for evil purposes.. ..
"You need have no fears," he said, as if reading her mind. He waited,
and she realized he wanted the rosary immediately.
She made her way over to the coffer where she kept some of her personal
goods and found a carved ivory rosary that the Holy Father had blessed.
Drawing it out, she brought it over to him and placed it in his
outstretched hand.
He studied it carefully, as if it were a rare jewel. Then he closed
his fingers over it. "Very well, here's the rest of the recipe," he
said quickly. "Dissolve the alum in a little clear water twenty-four
hours before you wish to use it. You may write upon white paper, white
linen, or white taffeta. The writing will be invisible until you wet
the letter in a basin of water and hold it up to heat. Then the
writing will appear white, and stay readable until the paper dries. You
may make a little cut or nick to indicate which material or paper has
such writing. This way you can reread the letter if necessary."
"Have you tried this?"
"Many times," he said.
"Where can I obtain alum? The request for lemons is easier to
explain."
"I can bring some. They let me out of the castle, as I am a native,
and only a child." He grinned, and looked very impish.
*
Charles Bailley stepped off the ship from Flanders and onto the dock at
Dover. The spring winds were blowing his clothes, and he had to clutch
hard at his chest, to secure the pouch he was carrying under his shirt.
The docks were swarming with people, and high above he could see the
castle and tiny people looking down at the ships coming into the
port.
He hurried toward the staging area where he could set out on the road
to London, when suddenly he felt arms grabbing him and pulling him off
the path.
"That's the one!" someone said.
"Search him!" Hands were thrust into his shirt, and the pouch wrested
open. A fistful of letters was extracted.
"No!" He tried to snatch them back. "Who are you? By what right ?"
"Orders of Walsingham," one of them said. "Walsingham. You've heard
of him? Cecil? Have you heard of him?"
"By what right ?"
"The Queen of England! Have you heard of her?"
SIX
So now we have them?" asked Elizabeth. "All of them?"
Francis Walsingham indicated the papers on the table that ran the
length of his chamber. They were neatly arranged, and each bore a tag
underneath. "Start here, Your Majesty," he said, gently steering her
to the left. "The earliest are here."
The first tag was dated October 1568.
"You see that she was already writing to the Spanish ambassador such
provocative things as "Tell your master if he will help me I shall be
Queen of England in three months and mass shall be said all over the
country," " said Walsingham. "That was during the hearings!"
Elizabeth picked up the letter and read it. "Yes, I see." Her voice
was grim. "My dear cousin. And she sent me needlework as a New Year's
gift shortly thereafter. Of course I, above all people, realize that
prisoners will say and promise many things to anyone."
Walsingham shot a look at her. Wasted sympathy! "Next, the marriage
contract with Norfolk." He indicated a paper labeled August 1569.
"Hmm." Elizabeth studied it. "So this is what a marriage contract
looks like! Pray God I never have to sign one! Ah, poor dear Charles
IX. I was forced to reject his proposal. Now they say he has already
wed. So short a time how can one believe the protestations of love?
But here, Norfolk and Mary !" She dropped the thing as if it were a
snake. "My dear cousins both."
"Now, Madam. Here are the letters from November of 1569, the
communications with Northumberland and Westmoreland. And now, our
coup: these letters of Bailley's."
"And what, precisely, is the business with Bailley?" Elizabeth never
forgot a name, but his connection with the Queen of Scots was most
important.
"He was recruited to carry messages from the Continent back to Mary and
Norfolk. Ridolfi you remember that banker, Ridolfi? was their agent
in the plot; he was to seek aid from Philip for the purpose of invading
England, deposing you, and freeing Mary. Now these letters, oh" his
voice rose an octave in excitement "give us the link we need! Bailley
is a servant of Leslie's, who is Mary's principal adviser. But some
letters are in cipher, and are addressed to '30' and '40." I assume
they are noblemen here. Never fear, we will find out. I have taken
the liberty of arresting Leslie. I trust you do not object."
Elizabeth felt herself on the verge of trembling. The mysterious lords
"30" and "40" .. . who could they be? Who were the traitors?
Am I completely surrounded by traitors? Whom can I be sure of? she
wondered.
Bailley gritted his teeth as they led him down the steep, dank spiral
stair into the dungeon of the White Tower, the oldest part of the Tower
of London. The upper reaches of the White Tower had a banqueting hall
and a fair stone chapel where kings and queens had lain in state; but
in the bowels of the earth there was a room that had never seen
daylight or a happy human moment. The odour of wetness and vermin was
overwhelming as he stepped over the threshold. The flickering torches
in wall sockets showed every wall to be lined with torture instruments:
Skeffmgton's Gyves, casicaws, manacles, fetters, and bilboes. In the
middle of the room stood an enormous rack.
"No!" cried Bailley. "No!" He tried to twist away. "I have
committed no crime, you have no right !"
"Still harping on your rights?" said the warder. "It is not your
rights that are in question here, but your knowledge. Pray share that
knowledge with us, and you'll never know the rack."
Bailley stared at the legendary machine in fascinated horror. It was a
rectangular frame of wood about six feet long, resting on legs some
three feet high. The legs were secured by being sunk into holes in the
floor. At the head and foot of the frame were two rollers, that could
be wound by turning handles. Dangling from the ends of the rollers
were four ropes, one for each limb of the torture victim.
"No!" Bailley was shoved onto the ground and held on his back in the
middle of the frame while two of the guards tied his ankles and wrists
to the machine. Then they stood back and began winding the winches,
lifting Bailley up and stretching him until, like a sheet, he was
suspended over the frame. His joints gave a few sighs and pops as his
weight settled.
"This is a healthy stretching," said one of the men. "It can almost
feel good. Now you can truthfully say you have been on the rack. But
to avoid any discomfort, it would be well to tell us ... everything.
But we will wait for our superior to explain. Ah .. . here is our
esteemed rack master
A well-dressed man appeared at the entrance to the chamber and stepped
smartly over to the rack. The perfume of his gloves struck Bailley as
an obscene part of the torture.
"My friend, I see you have made the acquaintance of a device of which
we are all justly proud here in the Tower," he said silkily. "The
finest oak frame, the length of it, the fixedness of it there is none
like it in the land. Those portable devices" he made a gesture of
dismissal "if one has no space, of course, can serve, after a fashion.
Yet Her Majesty has graciously provided such quarters as required to
give the rack its full potential."
Bailley kept staring at this man. How did one become a rack master Was
it a talent that started in boyhood, being particularly adept at
dismembering live frogs, at drowning kittens and docking puppies'
tails?
"Let me explain how it works," the rack master was saying. "We will
tighten the winches, and at each half-turn you will be lengthened. Why,
we can make you a foot longer than God did!" He laughed loudly,
slapping his thigh. "But the joints protest. They do not want to be
stretched, stubborn things! They rip and tear out of their sockets it
is always a surprise to learn which can be more stubborn, the mind at
withholding information, or the sinews in clinging to their bones. That
is what makes this work anything but routine." He paused. "This is
your last chance. Tell us everything: the extent of the conspiracy,
everything the Spanish and the Pope said, the ciphers and codes."
"No."
The rack master nodded and four guards one at each corner began winding
the winches. Bailley's body jerked upward and quivered as he was held
perfectly horizontal and the roller was secured at that tautness by
ratchets and iron stops. Then the winches were turned another
half-turn, and his shoulders groaned. There was a jolt as one became
dislocated. His body sagged downward, but the slack was quickly taken
up by another turn of the winch.
He screamed. His shoulder was on fire, and pain was searing through
his chest.
"Now, then. The information."
Bailley was choking and babbling. Suddenly his hip ligaments tore. He
fainted.
"Throw water on him," said the rack master with disgust. "This one is
hardly worth torturing, he's so soft!"
John Leslie, the Bishop of Ross, was shoved into the room. He stared
at the stretched form of Bailley lying on the rack.
"We'll have cleared it soon enough," said the rack master "You will
not have to wait long!" He nodded to the guards, and they began
unfastening the ropes. Bailley dropped to the ground with a thud. They
dragged him off; Leslie noticed the abnormal angles of his ankles. The
body bumped and jounced as two of the guards hauled him across the
floor and out of the room.
"I'll talk, I'll talk! No, don't touch me!" wept Leslie. "What do
you want to know? The letters? I'll tell you! The Queen of Scots?
She's wicked, she doesn't deserve the noble Duke of Norfolk for a
husband. She poisoned the French King Francois, she murdered Darnley,
and as for Bothwell she tried to murder him too! Yes, she led him out
to the field at Carberry Hill so he could be killed!" Leslie fell
cowering on the ground in a heap, his hands up to ward off imaginary
blows.
"See what a stouthearted servant the Queen of Scots has," sneered the
rack master "May she always be served by such." He looked at the
shuddering Leslie and shook his head. "He is not worthy of our noble
instrument!"