On one side of the Justices, Lord Egremont, in a throne chair, watched with interest. Behind him stood the cowled and hooded Noctales. Egremont seemed to be enjoying himself but I glimpsed the distaste on Cornelius's face. Kempe was busy: he was the chief prosecution witness. He simply described the attack on Lord Charon's stronghold, the treasures they had found and. above all, 'the abduction of the King's most loyal servant Roger Shallot'. Can you believe that? Men being hanged because of old Roger!
'In the Empire,' Egremont spoke up, 'they'd be boiled like chickens in a cauldron or burnt at the stake.' He looked over his shoulder at Cornelius. 'But it's good to see a felon dance on air, is it not?'
The Noctale crossed himself and glanced away.
Do you know, my heart warmed to that hard-faced, enigmatic man. In a way he reminded me of Cecil and others I had worked with: ruthless but not bloodthirsty men. If someone had to die then let it be done quickly. No relish, no licking of the lips!
'There are some missing?' Benjamin replied.
'Yes, there are,' Kempe replied. He came across whilst the Justices waited for more of Charon's gang to be dragged out before them. 'The King is insisting that these all be dead by dusk. Some have been tortured. They know nothing about the Orb but they have admitted that Lord Charon's lieutenant is William Doddshall.'
'Doddshall?' I queried.
'More commonly known as Cerberus,' Kempe explained. He went to stand behind the Justices. 'Oh,' he called over his shoulder, 'Cerberus is on the rack.' He pointed across to the dungeon at the base of the Norman keep. 'He said he'll talk to no one but you, Shallot. You'd best see what the bastard wants before he dies.'
'And we have a meeting with you, Sir Thomas,' Benjamin called out.
Kempe glanced quickly at Egremont and then nodded.
Benjamin and I left the execution ground and walked over to the Keep. I would like to say it was pleasant to be back in the Tower but I've always hated the place. Benjamin and I had been there only a few months previously, seeking out the mysterious assassin who had created such bloody havoc amongst the Guild of Hangmen.
I wanted to flee. Nevertheless, I was intrigued that Cerberus wished to talk to me. We went down the steps and into a maze of corridors. A sentry took us into the torture room.
Now this was a strange place, or at least it was when I visited. It looked more like a hospital with its white-washed walls. The floor was clean and swept and flowers, arranged in baskets, stood on small shelves beneath the open windows. A child's toy hung on a string from a hook on the wall. The chief interrogator was a kindly, soft-spoken man with watery eyes and slack lips. He came and shook our hands, waved us in, pointing across to a table where there was wine and sweetmeats. Perhaps it was all the more dreadful because of that. Nevertheless, nothing could detract from the terror of Exeter's Daughter: a huge rack in the centre of the room like a large four-poster bed with rollers at the top and bottom. (It was called Exeter's Daughter because a Duke of Exeter had introduced the rack into England in the fifteenth century. Oh, for you students of History, the English were racking and renting long before then, but this rack was regarded as a work of art. It pulled your arms and legs out slowly. It gave the torturers a chance to relax, take some refreshment before turning the wheels again. I'm not being brutish. You read my journals yet to come. I've been on that bloody rack! My arms became half an inch longer than they should be, before that bastard, John Dudley Duke of Northumberland, changed his mind and had me pardoned.)
On that particular morning poor old Cerberus was Exeter's guest. He was stripped naked except for a loin cloth, his hands and feet lashed to the rollers, the poor man's body pulled as tight as a bishop's garter. He was unconscious when we came in, his ugly, ruddy face slack. The torturer tossed a bucket of water over him and held a piece of burnt cork beneath his nose. Cerberus began to shake and moan.
'No, no,' the master torturer whispered. 'Master Doddshall, you have a visitor; the man you asked to see, Roger Shallot.'
Cerberus turned his eyes. He tried to speak but his tongue was too large.
'For pity's sake,' I ordered. 'Slacken his legs and arms.' 'Anything to oblige,' the master torturer squeaked. 'And a cup of wine?' I asked.
The wheel was pulled back. Cerberus relaxed. I went up and forced the wine between his lips.
'You wanted to speak to me?' I asked.
'Damn you, Shallot!' he whispered, the blood bubbling on his lips.
'If you've brought me here to curse,' I replied. 'I won't stay long.*
'No, no,' Cerberus shook his head. 'But I'll speak alone.' 'I don't want to leave,' the master torturer spoke up. 'This is my chamber and my responsibility.' 'Leave!' Benjamin ordered.