"Then we cannot afford to delay here," Will said. "Pickering is our only link to the Skull, and the Enemy's plans."
At the foot of the stairs, in the deepest part of the White Tower, they were confronted by another oaken door flanked by two guards, who unlocked it and closed it swiftly behind them. The room beyond was vast and unpleasantly gloomy. A handful of torches at large intervals created a permanent twilight that obscured many of the workings of that place. Occasional moans or cries emerged from the shadows, like the haunting voices of lost souls, and there was a heavy stink of excrement, urine, and blood.
A tall man in his early forties, fair-haired, with bright eyes and an easy smile, walked out of the dark to greet them. He clasped his hands before him with an expression of continual glee. Jeremiah Kemp, England's torturer-inchief, enjoyed his work.
A constant succession of Catholic spies, and potential spies, criminals, traitors, and informants passed through his doors, Jesuit priests, minor aristocrats, lawyers, farmers, gentlewomen, and wealthy merchants. Kemp treated them all with equal care and attention.
"Welcome, my Lord Walsingham, Master Swyfte," he said with a shy smile and a deep bow. "All is ready for you."
"Pickering?" Walsingham asked.
"He has been softening. Please come and see." Kemp led them past every imaginable device of human torture to one of the wooden posts that supported the ceiling of that underground chamber. From near the top of the pillar, Pickering hung from an iron bar supported by staples in the wood, his hands fastened into iron gauntlets attached to the bar. It was a deceptively simple instrument. The weight of the suspended body caused the flesh in the arms to swell, creating the agonising sensation that blood was about to burst from the end of every finger.
His face drawn and badly bruised, Pickering watched them with dazed eyes.
"Are you ready to confess?" Walsingham asked him.
"I am but a lowly thief," Pickering croaked. "I know nothing of these matters of state." His weak voice sounded truthful, but Will caught the briefest shadow flicker in his eyes.
"You like games?" Will asked. "Chess?"
Pickering eyed him hatefully.
"The pawns are removed from the game early. There is little to be gained by extending their lives."
"Unless they are clever pawns, with aspirations to rise to be the true power on the board." Pickering's eyes gleamed.
Will nodded. "Then we know where we stand." Turning to Kemp, he said, "Let us introduce our guest to the Duke of Exeter's Daughter."
"Certainly, Master Swyfte." Kemp clapped his hands to summon the guards to bring Pickering down from his perch. Though he had only been on the pillar for a short while, his legs were too weak to support his weight.
The guards dragged him to the end of the chamber where the rack stood before a row of candles, a wooden bed stained with bodily fluids, a ratchet system for turning at one end.
"The Duke of Exeter was an inventive man when he was the constable of the Tower, and he devised this method to ensure full truth and honesty from those he entertained," Will said. "You are aware how this works?"
Pickering shook his head, but his expression suggested his imagination was already hard at work.
"The arms and legs are fastened thusly. This winch is turned, which extends the rack here, and here, and so the guest's limbs are stretched. I am told the pain is very great indeed, in the joints in particular. If the turning of the winch is continued, the limbs are dislocated, and eventually torn free."
"I will tell all you wish to know," Pickering said.
"Unfortunately, it is already too late for that," Will replied. "The moment has long since passed for caution. We can no longer risk wasting time on dissembling and half-truths in the hope that you might find some small advantage for yourself."
Pickering's face drained of blood as he realised what Will was saying. "You will torture me, even though I will tell you what you want to know?"
"Every act we perform in this dark room destroys our humanity a little more," Will said. "We strip our souls by degrees. But we are small men, all of us, and meaningless in the vast sweep of the nation's life. When we are gone, we shall be forgotten, but for now we have a part to play. The men and women of England deserve to live free, and earn their crust, and laugh and play, and sleep easy every night, free from fear. I gladly sacrifice my life to buy that liberty for them." He paused. "And I would gladly sacrifice your life for the same."
Walsingham nodded to the guards. Pickering's feeble struggles were quickly overpowered, but his mounting cries reverberated off the stone walls. Calming a little once he was strapped to the rack by his wrists and ankles, he began to babble everything he thought his captors wanted to hear.
Will stood back until the rack had been tightened to the point where every incremental turn of the winch pulled a cry of agony from Pickering. "You are inhuman!" he screamed.
"We are," Will said. "No good man should ever submit another to these deprivations. It would behoove neither of us to say you brought this upon yourself. Nor should we consider it a punishment, for I pass no judgment on you. But at this point all men and women in England are at risk of the worst death imaginable. I weigh my own soul, and your agonies, against that. Now, let us proceed slowly and carefully, so there is no room for doubt. You are the cousin of Bulle, the Tyburn hangman. Is that true?"
"Yes, yes, yes!"
Walsingham watched Will, curious to see where the line of questioning would take him.
"I am always troubled by seemingly random connections," Will stated. "This business began with the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots, at the hands of Bulle. Now his cousin is involved in the next stage. By chance?" Will shook his head. "What did Bulle learn at Fotheringhay?"
It took a moment for Pickering to stifle his sobs, and then he began, "Mary ... Mary delayed her execution for hours, through pleas, and prayers, and lies, and deceit."
"That is true," Walsingham said.
"There was nothing to gain by delaying her execution. She was not afraid to die."
"Why, then?" Will pressed.
"She was waiting. For ... for news of the discovery of the Key to the Silver Skull."
"No news could reach her in Fotheringhay," Walsingham said. "Guards were at the door of her chamber continually. All letters in and out were carefully scrutinised." He nodded to Kemp to turn the winch another notch.
When Pickering's screams had died, the King of Cutpurses cried with a raw throat, "What I say is true. She did receive news by ..." He looked from face to face fearfully. "You will not believe me, but it is true!"
"Go on," Will said.
"By a mirror. A magic mirror!" He screwed his eyes shut and waited for the pain to lance through his joints. Kemp poised with one hand on the winch.
"A magic mirror," Will mused. "That is how the Enemy communicates?"
"Their own mirrors? Or all mirrors?" Walsingham queried aloud. "Should we remove every looking glass from the Palace of Whitehall? Are they spying on us as we look into our own faces?"
"'Tis true," Pickering gasped, relieved. "That is how Bulle told it to me. He spied upon Mary through the secret passage that ran behind her chamber."
"He knew of that?" Walsingham asked.
"He bribed the captain of the sheriff's guard," Pickering continued, still desperately eager to please. "Many of the women brought to execution offered their bodies to Bulle in return for their freedom, or at the least a quick end. He took them regardless. This time, he thought ... perhaps-"
"With a queen?" Walsingham said, disgusted.
"Mary was renowned for her skills between the sheets," Pickering noted.
"So, while Bulle spied on Mary in the hope that he could steal favours from her, he saw her speaking at the mirror?" Will enquired.
"Yes! As my cousin told it to me, the glass grew cloudy, as if the smoke of a great fire billowed within it. From his vantage point, he could not see any face within it, but he could hear a voice."
"What kind of voice?" Walsingham asked.
"A man. Or something that purported to be a man. It told Mary that the key had been recovered ... from the crypt beneath the Holy Rood-"
"The palace in Edinburgh." Will wondered how long the Enemy's plan had been in motion; when had they first seized control of Mary to manipu late their way into the Palace of Holyroodhouse to search for the key? Months ago? Years? Had she always been under their control, as they slipped into the spaces and the weaknesses between human prejudices?
"And then the voice proceeded to tell Mary about the plot to steal the Silver Skull from the Tower, and the time and the date."
"And Bulle passed this information on to you, for you to find some way to gain financial advantage from a blow against England itself," Will said sharply. "You did not pass this on to the authorities. You sought only your own personal gain. That is treason in and of itself." He nodded to Kemp to tighten the winch another notch.
Pickering's shrieks ended in a series of juddering sobs. "I did not seek to harm my country or my queen!" he wailed. "I simply saw an opportunity."
"As all men of business do," Will said sardonically.
"I planned to return the Skull to the authorities-"
"Once you had played England and Spain off against each other, and grown fat on the proceeds. What else did Bulle tell you?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing that you remember?"
"No."
Will gave the nod to Kemp, who tightened the rack another notch. Briefly, Pickering blacked out from the pain, and when he finally came round, Will said, "Jog your memory, while your limbs are still attached."
Babbling incoherently, Pickering eventually attempted to run through everything his cousin had told him, one drunken night in the Bear in Alsatia. It was only after two more turns of the winch that he recalled something new.
"The voice said ... they still search ... beneath the palace," he gasped.
"For what?"
"I do not remember! I ... I ..." Kemp moved a hand onto the winch. "A shield! Yes, my cousin said a shield!"
"A shield," Walsingham repeated.
"Thank you for your time," Will said to Pickering. "You have been most helpful. Now, I believe Master Kemp has some further questions for you on other matters."
From a brown leather bag, Kemp removed a sheaf of documents an inch thick. Pickering began to sob gently.
As Will and Walsingham made their way back to the light, Walsingham mused, "The Shield. The third and final item required for the Silver Skull's operation. It lies-or lay-beneath the Palace of Holyroodhouse. The Enemy searched at the time of Mary's execution, but do they now have the object they sought?"
"If the Enemy had the Shield, the Hunter would have used it in Alsatia," Will replied. "As it was, the Skull's power was only released briefly, the display stopped before it could do harm to all present. It was a warning to us ... mockery, perhaps ... nothing more."
"My agents in Hertfordshire reported a black carriage moving north at great speed, all curtains drawn. It did not stop at the usual places," Walsingham said.
"Then I will be away to Edinburgh within the hour," Will announced. "There may still be hope if we act swiftly."
"Godspeed," Walsingham said. "But remember, Scotland and England may now have a steady relationship, but Dee's defences do not extend beyond the border. The Enemy has always thrived on the lonely moors and misty mountains of that northern land, aye, and in their cities too. One reason why King James is so keen to bring England into an even closer embrace. It is said he rankles nightly to his advisors about yawning churchyards, straw dolls in babies' cribs, and the threat that waits for him and all Scotsmen under the Hill of Yews. You must watch your back at all times."
"Nathaniel will do that for me. Our spies in Edinburgh are to be trusted?"
"As much as any. I will alert them to your arrival."
"No," Will said. "Let my arrival be a surprise. I will contact them when I reach the north."
In the carriage on the journey back to the Palace of Whitehall, Will ordered Nathaniel to pack his bags to accompany him on the journey to Edinburgh.
"Scotland." Nathaniel sighed. "I hear it is a place of hard, grey skies and a constant drizzle that dampens the spirit as much as the clothes."
"But you'll have the joy of my company, and such learned and witty discourse that many would pay for such a privilege." Will watched the faces pass the window, afraid that with every one he would see some sign of disease starting to flower.
"My heart sings already," Nathaniel replied.
In the courtyard next to the Black Gallery, the carriage pulled into a stream of activity, with several servants accompanying the court physician and bystanders whispering in doorways. Almost as ashen as Launceston's natural complexion, Mayhew dashed from the Black Gallery and tore open the carriage door.
"What is wrong?" Will enquired. "The queen-?"
Mayhew shook his head. "The boy."
He led Will at speed from the Black Gallery through the Tryst Rooms and into a loft where pigeons cooed. The physician was just leaving as they arrived, shaking his head as they passed.
Miller hung by the neck from one of the rafters.
Sickened, Will could not speak for a moment as he tried to comprehend the torments the youth must have suffered after his encounter with the Hunter. He cursed himself for not doing more to ease Miller's pain, and for failing to protect one in his charge.
"Cut him down," Will ordered.
"I searched for him as you said," Mayhew stuttered, "and could not find him anywhere until one of the servant girls came here for a tryst with her love and-"
"Cut him down!"
Mayhew hastily complied. Once the youth was laid on the dusty boards, Will collected him in his arms and carried him down to the Tryst Rooms. Although he had only known Miller for a matter of hours, he felt the death more personally than any he had experienced in recent months.
"We failed him," he said to Mayhew as he laid the body on a table.
"We did what we could," Mayhew replied. "The knowledge of the Enemy affects all of us in different ways. We cannot predict the outcome. We can only hope."
"We did not do all we could have," Will stated. "He was thrust into this battle too soon, without proper precautions."
"Desperate times-"
"Quiet!" Will snapped. "Many people killed this youth and they will all have to carry it on their conscience-our side, who engaged him in activities beyond him, those who stole the Silver Skull and ensured he would be forced into battle too soon, but most of all the Enemy ... the Hunter." Will recalled the Hunter whispering in Miller's ear, the grinding expression of confusion, then the horror that bloomed in his face at whatever had been said. "He was murdered at that moment, though it took some time to take effect. But know this: there is a price to be paid here, and I will ensure it is extracted from that Hunter the next time we meet. So do I vow!"
