all been interrogated at the roadblock — questioned separately, most of them several times. Whatever slanders might have been spoken could be only their word against his, but that poster was damning. Who could argue against an act of Parliament? The one person who might have passed that paper to the Inquisition was Baron Oreste, because he had been responsible for it in the first place.
The interpreter returned the paper to the table and came back to thump the butt of his musket on the floor beside the prisoner and deliver the next translation.
'The inquisitor says that the evidence is strong enough to force a confession. This is the accused's last chance to repent. If the accused does not name his demon, he will now be put to the Question.'
The soldier still did not meet Toby's eyes. He might be a decent enough fellow when off-duty, perhaps popular with his mates, a good singer, or skilled with women, homesick for England, planning to buy a freehold with his loot, if he ever laid his hands on any, if the war would ever end… any or all of those things. But now he was very much on duty and would do what he was told to do whether he liked it or not. He had no choice; this was not his fault. If he disobeyed an order he would be hanged or whipped to shreds, or his fate might be worse than either of those, because to argue with the Inquisition was itself evidence of possession.
Sweat streamed down Toby's face and ribs although there was a huge icy rock in his belly. 'Tell him I do not have a demon. He is making a terrible mistake. He is going to torture an innocent man.'
Even as the soldier was translating the prisoner's answer into a Castilian little better than Toby's own, the inquisitor beckoned to the three black-hooded tormentors who had been standing silently under the windows with brawny arms folded, waiting out the interminable preliminaries. The prospect of action at last must seem welcome to them, because they strode forward eagerly, crowding in close around the accused. He struggled to relax, to enjoy these last few moments without pain, but he knew he had passed up one faint chance. He should have run to the far end and grabbed up a branding iron or something and tried to break out. He would not have succeeded, but perhaps a misjudged blow would have broken his neck. Now he was hemmed in, and it was too late.
'The accused will remove all his garments.'
Was this it, or just a bluff? Toby glanced at the menacing black hoods closing in, and their sinister dark eye holes. Three to one. They were all smaller men than he, but they might well be faster. Resistance would only bring violence and increase his suffering, although he suspected he did not know what real suffering was yet — the inquisitor was about to teach him.
Unless it was only a bluff. The interrogation had advanced in slow stages, so they would probably just frighten him today and start the real hurting tomorrow. He shrugged and reached for the laces of his doublet.
When he had stripped, one of the novices took away his clothes. The tormentors roped his wrists behind him and clamped fetters on his ankles. The pulley overhead jangled. Calloused hands fumbled at his back, fastening the rope to his bonds.
It did not feel like a bluff. They were going to begin with the
How long would the hob make him endure? It had never cared how much he suffered — it had done nothing on the two occasions he had been whipped and had once let him be beaten to a pulp in a fight so vicious that his opponent had died under his fists. It had not interfered at all, except possibly to keep him alive, and if it did start to intervene now, that would merely prove to the friars that they had been right all along.
'Tobias,' the inquisitor sighed. He spoke again through the English soldier. 'The accused is a strong man, but a heavy one. This will hurt the accused and may do him permanent damage. The brothers do not wish to make the accused suffer. They have his interests at heart, and they will persevere for however long it takes. The accused must tell them the name of his demon so they may cast it out and he will be a free man again.'
The soldier's pink face was streaming sweat as he fumbled through to the end of that speech. He still did not look at the accused's eyes.
Toby bit back a savage desire to tell the venerable cleric to stuff his own head into a certain dark place — they would merely see abuse as confirmation of his possession. He blinked the sweat away and looked at the other two friars, who stared back sympathetically. But neither was going to help him. They mourned his plight. They thought that they knew the only way to save him from it. He was not a person any more, he was only
He tried to speak calmly, but the words came out as a shriek: 'I do not have a demon!'
The inquisitor shook his head wearily and gestured. The tormentors pulled on the rope. The rope lifted Toby's wrists. He bent forward, but the pull continued. His arms rose inexorably, curling him over until his head was level with his waist, and then his shoulders could flex no more. He rose on his toes. The friar said a word, and the men stopped hauling. There Toby was held, gasping with the strain. He would not scream. He would not cry out. He must not admit anything at all. Nothing but denial.
The friar spoke again. 'The inquisitor asks—'
He cut off the translation with a yell. 'I do not have a demon!'
He waited.
So did they.
They had all day, and tomorrow and next week and forever. His toes were weakening. His toes were about all he could see — his legs, his toes on the flagstones, and little splashes in the dust as sweat dripped from his hair. His toes were failing, setting more and more of his weight on his twisted shoulders. Hot knives of pain dug in, twisting joints in ways they were not supposed to move, prying ligaments awry.
Head down, he could not see the gestures, so it was a surprise when the rope suddenly slackened. Somehow he retained his balance on his bound feet and let his arms down. The relief was so intense that he gasped aloud and felt that he had failed his manhood by doing so. Panting hard, he straightened up to face the inquisitor.
He croaked, 'I do not have a demon!'
The friar smiled sadly and nodded to the two novices at the door. They came forward and wiped Toby's face with a white cloth, then held a pewter cup to his lips. He drank eagerly of the tepid water. It was refilled and he emptied it again.
The inquisitor said, 'The accused has barely tasted what will happen. He must reveal the name of his demon or his sufferings will be a thousand times worse than what he has just experienced.'
Toby stared into those droopy, bleary eyes, so full of sympathy and understanding. He spoke to them with all the sincerity he could muster and a mouth that was dry as salt again already. 'Tell the venerable father that I know that. Tell him I am more terrified than I have ever been in my life. Tell him I will do anything he wants, anything at all, but I cannot reveal the name of a demon that does not exist.'
The soldier translated. The brother with the quill scribbled busily, periodically dipping his pen in the inkwell with fast little strokes like a chicken pecking dirt. He turned a page, dipped again, wrote more.
The inquisitor nodded unhappily as if the answer had been exactly what he expected. He looked past the prisoner, to the waiting tormentors.
'Take me to a sanctuary!' Toby yelled. 'The spirit will tell you that I don't have a demon!'
Maybe it wouldn't, but that was what an innocent man would say. It might not work in his case, but it would delay the torture. An hour's reprieve would be worth anything he could imagine, even ten minutes. He knew it would not work, of course. He had made the suggestion many times in the previous, more gentle interrogations. The Dominicans did not trust the spirits, or spirits would not cooperate with the Dominicans — whatever the reason, the request was always refused.
The inquisitor ignored the suggestion. The rope tightened again, bringing instant protests from Toby's shoulders. His arms rose, and so did the pain. Soon he was up on cramped, bleeding toes again. And higher still. His feet left the floor, leaving all his weight hung on his cruelly twisted arms. The strain bent his spine, crushed his shoulder blades together, wrenched wrists and elbows, but it was in his shoulders that the real agony blazed. He would
He spun slowly, seeing the flagstones rotate below his toes. They pulled him higher, every heave and jolt a greater agony. He was going to lose control of his bladder soon. When they had raised him until his face was at head height — so they could watch his expression, perhaps — they tied the rope to a bracket, leaving him there.
