impregnability. He threw the door open to reveal a room of darkness relieved only by the guttering light of a few pitch sconces and a small, grubby skylight. The windows to the street were all boarded up and blacked out.
“Step inside, Mr. Shakespeare, do not be afraid. I will not eat you.”
“I promise you this, Topcliffe. Whatever things I feel about you, fear is not one of them.”
Topcliffe barked his mongrel laugh. Shakespeare stepped inside and looked around the gloom. The room was dominated by the rack, a grotesque bedlike structure constructed of bright new timber and measuring ten foot by four. At each end was a roller, with thick ropes for attaching to the wrists and ankles.
“Brand new, Mr. Shakespeare. Do you like it? I paid for it from my own purse. Twenty-one pounds, fifteen shillings. How much have you paid of your money in defense of the realm?”
In a corner was a brazier with cold dead coals and ash from another day. On the wall was a bar attached to two iron rings, bolted firmly into place just below ceiling height. Topcliffe saw Shakespeare’s eyes move there. “Now that, Mr. Shakespeare, is my pride and joy. All you must do is put a pair of fetters to their wrists with a nice metal point pressing into the flesh, then hang them by the hands from that bar up there. If I’m in a hurry, I’ll hang them loose; but usually I like to take my time, so I’ll let them touch their back to the wall or have their toes touching the ground. That way they don’t die so quick. The pain that such a simple device can provide is a mighty thing to behold. They go mad with it, Shakespeare, mad as Bedlam fools. It does grip their torso most, their belly and chest, a crushing pain worse than any that a man can endure. They believe blood is leaking like sweat from their hands and fingers, though it is not. My one problem with it is that they can scarcely say a word while they’re up there, so I can’t tell when they want to provide the information I require. But I let them down every once in a while to see whether they wish to talk. Usually they do.”
“I am here to see Mr. Woode, not to discuss the merits or otherwise of your foul, un-Christian instruments.”
Topcliffe looked satisfied with the impression his chamber had made. “Ah, yes, Woode. Now there is a gentleman most fearful. He certainly is a talker, told me everything I wanted to know and more. I think I now know the name of his aunt Agnes’s best milk-producing cow. And, of course, the truth of the priests he has had at his house. He’s admitted everything: names, dates, descriptions, present whereabouts. He tells me Robert Southwell was one of them and that the traitor was at Tanahill House all the time while I was searching-proof enough that I was right not to stop looking and proof that Her Ladyship is in league with the Romish Antichrist and all his devilish works. I hope Southwell starved to death in his dismal hole and that his rotting flesh stinks the place out.”
“I have a warrant allowing me to talk with Mr. Woode.”
Topcliffe took a cold branding iron from the brazier. He idly slapped it down on his hand before replying. “Not necessary Shakespeare. He’s told me all, as if I was his priest in the confession box and he was revealing all his dirty little secrets. Why, he even admitted stealing timbers from the Royal Docks. Now, if that isn’t a treasonable offense, then I’m a Dutchman’s donkey.”
“A man will testify that black is white under torture, Topcliffe. Now take me to Woode or answer to Mr. Secretary.”
Topcliffe bared his teeth with contempt. He threw the iron back into the brazier. “Woode it is then. Come on, boy. Through here.”
There was a door in the side of the strong chamber, set into a brick wall. Topcliffe unlatched the bolt then kicked it open. There was no light in this room except the flickering of the torches. Shakespeare could see nothing at first, but then as his sight adjusted he thought he could see a mound, like a sack of beets, in the far corner. Shakespeare strove to avoid recoiling from the habitual prison stench of ordure, then stepped forward into the room.
“Mr. Woode?”
There was no reply. He could hear breathing, coming in short, painful gasps.
“Mr. Woode, it is John Shakespeare. I am here to talk with you.” Shakespeare turned to Topcliffe. “Do you have drink for this man?”
“He has water. If he doesn’t like it, he can drink his own piss.”
“I would talk with him.”
“Then talk.”
“Alone.”
“As you like.” Topcliffe stepped away and was about to slam shut the door. Shakespeare intervened with his foot.
“I want light in here. And get this man good food and some small ale or I will write to the Queen giving detail of how you care for those you question in her name.”
“Your threats mean nothing to me. The Queen knows what I do for her and she revels in it.”
“What febrile nonsense you talk.”
“Oh, but she does, Shakespeare, she does. I tell her all about it when I’m on top of her thrusting in and out. How that do work her up into a frenzy, until she cries out in pleasure.” Topcliffe laughed, but Shakespeare wasn’t deceived. He knew he had touched a raw nerve, that Topcliffe’s relationship with the Queen was the one area he could be vulnerable. Elizabeth would never allow herself to be embarrassed or shamed by one of her hirelings.
“Would you like me to tell her you said that?”
“Would you like your head broke with an iron bar? Would you like me to bruit it abroad to Mr. Secretary about your strange bedtime cavortings most recently? Tell me, Shakespeare, what did become of your right eyebrow? Hah! I know everything about you, Shakespeare. You’re as bad as one of those Popish girl-boys. God’s blood, have your damned candle and food. Perhaps the prisoner would care for a baked pie of elvers and thrushes, with some dainty marzipan sweetmeats to follow…”
Shakespeare’s color rose. How did Topcliffe know about Mother Davis and Isabella Clermont? Had he followed him? Had the witch told him? And if so, why?
As Topcliffe went off to order some scraps of food from one of his servants, Shakespeare took a deep breath and went to the huddled figure in the corner. His clothes were still those of a gentleman, but covered in the dust and filth of this hellish cell. Shakespeare put an arm around him.
“Mr. Woode, can you talk, sir?”
Woode’s eyes shone in the gloom. “Yes, Mr. Shakespeare, I can talk. But I will not.” The voice rattled like a bag of beans, but it was strong enough and more than a whisper.
“I am here to help you.”
Another Walsingham trick, I presume.
“Catherine-Mistress Marvell-has told me things. She says you are an innocent man.”
“And what difference does that make? My body is already broken. That is what the law of England does: breaks innocent men until they confess to things they did not do. Well, sir, I will not talk with you. And nor will I talk with that wild animal Topcliffe. Despite what he says, I have told him nothing.”
The effort of talking took its toll and he slumped back against the wall.
“Trust me, Mr. Woode. In Christ’s name-your Christ and mine-I swear that I am here to bring you succor, not harm you. Please trust me. It is our only hope……”.
Topcliffe’s servant, a thickset boy with slicked hair and the beginnings of a wispy beard, arrived with a jug of ale, some bread, and a lit candle in a candle-holder. He slid the candle to Shakespeare, ceremoniously spat into the ale, then put it on the floor, slopping out a fair part of it in the process. He dropped the bread and kicked it as it landed.
“Hope it kills you,” the boy said with studied sullenness.
“Thank you, boy. Now go.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going from this dung heap. And the name’s Jones. Nicholas Jones. I ain’t no one’s boy.”
Shakespeare closed the door and gave Woode a long draft of ale. In the candlelight, he examined the prisoner, who yelped when touched but otherwise put up no resistance. He could scarcely move. His arms hung limp at his sides. There were marks from the manacles, red rings of broken skin around his wrists, but those were the only outward sign of torture. His eyes remained open, alert, and bright.
“How long did he hang you on the wall?”
“It felt like hours. Maybe just minutes. I have no idea. There is more torment against that wall than I had ever thought possible. I do not think I can suffer it again without dying.”
