‘Piss on them. That’ll cool them down.’
Thomas had heard of this. The governor’s fire, it was called. Torture for pleasure, and on a boy of no more than ten. Gradually, the boy’s howls became sobs, then stopped altogether. He slumped to the floor and lay still. The first voice spoke again.
‘If I ’ad a knife, I’d eat the little bugger.’
‘Me, too.’
‘’e’s only a runt. Wouldn’t be enough on ’im to go round.’
God in heaven, thought Thomas, how in the name of everything holy did I get here? He knew, of course. It was the very unholy Rush. With the king away, he thought he could get away with anything. First Pole, then Abraham, now him. Whatever was in it, Rush wanted that message. It was more than a routine despatch, much more. Somewhere hidden in it was information of critical importance to the outcome of the war. A peace proposal, perhaps, or news of help from the Dutch? Or something more devious? Simon must keep it hidden until he got out of here and could work on it again.
Some time later the door to the cell was unlocked and the fat gaoler came in again, this time carrying a heavy-looking cudgel. A younger man, who might have been his son, followed with two loaves of bread, which he threw on the floor.
‘Dinner time,’ croaked the gaoler. ‘Eat up. Too skinny and you’ll go slow on the rope. And be grateful. Remember I ’ad to pay for it from me own pocket.’
Even before the gaolers had left, an unchained boy leapt on a loaf and sank his teeth into it. He had barely done so when he was knocked aside by a large, black-bearded man, whose arms were just long enough to reach the bread. No one else got a bite, and Thomas did not see where the other loaf went. It hardly mattered. He was not yet hungry enough to take a mouthful of stale, shit-covered bread.
He sat against the slimy wall, and tried to think of Margaret and the girls. But he could not. The walls of the gaol would not let him. He could see only gangs of men, serfs and slaves, digging out the foundations of this place, lowering down stone and bricks and timbers on ropes, clambering down rickety ladders to dig and build foundations, and watching a great castle slowly emerge. They had built well. The castle and its tower had stood for five hundred years. How many men had died in it? How many had died in this very cell? If it stood for another five hundred years, how many more would die here? He wondered who had designed the castle, where the stone had come from, where the iron had been forged. He wondered how long it had taken to build and how many men had toiled on it. Gazing at the stone walls, he wondered about the mason who had built it. Was he tall, short, fat, thin? How did he speak? Did he have a family? How old was he when he worked here? What tools had he used?
Realizing that he was doing just as he did when faced with a new cipher, Thomas smiled and tried something else. Starting from the top left corner, he began counting the stones in the wall. He counted along the rows, noting that the odd-numbered rows began with a small stone and the even-numbered ended with one. The same occurred where a row met the door. He counted two hundred and sixteen stones in the wall. Building a wall must be like decrypting a cipher. It had to be done stone by stone. One stone out of place and the wall would be weak, and would fall. One mistake in a decryption, and the system would fail. Lay a strong foundation, take careful measurements and lay one stone squarely on top of another. Check your work regularly. Wall building and decryption. Much the same.
By the following evening, Thomas was ravenous. No more bread had been brought by the gaolers, and no bodies removed. His stomach was racked with cramps, and he longed to stand or stretch his legs. But whenever he tried to, his legs were grabbed and twisted until he moved them back. He tried to think about the cipher. He saw letters and stones, shapes and patterns. He saw Vigenère’s square as a rippling wave and as a wall of stones. He knew that something important was eluding him, but lacked the strength to search for it. He fell into a sleep which was not a sleep. He saw shapes and heard noises, but he could not tell whether they were real or imagined. He no longer noticed the stench, or the sounds of men retching and defecating. His world began at the wall behind his back and ended at his toes.
Some time that night, the door was opened and the fat gaoler came in again. He unlocked Thomas’s chain and pulled him roughly to his feet. Thomas immediately fell, and was hoisted up by his arm. He struggled to stand.
‘You’ve a visitor, ’ill. Downstairs.’
Thank God. Simon, or even Jane. The gaoler tied his hands behind his back with a short length of rope, and led him by the chain around his neck through the door and down the stone steps to the guardroom.
‘’ere ’e is, sir. I’ll be outside.’
Thomas went in and heard the gaoler lock the gate behind him. In the room were a small table and two chairs. On one of them sat Tobias Rush.
‘Master Hill,’ said Rush, not bothering to stand. ‘I’m greatly distressed to find you here. Do sit down.’ As always, Rush was all in black, hands resting on the silver-topped cane. Thomas sat. ‘News of your arrest reached me only yesterday. I came as soon as I could.’
It was a lie. Thomas stared at him and said nothing.
Rush continued. ‘Master Pearson, the coroner, tells me that there is evidence against you for the murder of Abraham Fletcher. I could scarcely believe it, and told him so. Absurd, I said. Why would Thomas Hill murder Abraham Fletcher?’ He paused. ‘Did you murder Master Fletcher, Thomas?’
You know I did not, Rush, because you did, thought Thomas, saying nothing. Rush’s voice turned menacing.
‘Nothing to say? Then let me assist you. The coroner believes that the murderer resided in the college. An intruder would have had difficulty hiding and would have been noticed. His inquiries have turned up nothing to suggest this. On the contrary, he is certain that the murderer was well known to Master Fletcher. As to motive, the culprit was obviously looking for something, and was prepared to kill to get it. I wonder what that could have been. Have you any idea, Thomas?’
Still Thomas remained silent.
‘No? Let me remind you that you are suspected of a murder for which you have no alibi. Whatever secret Abraham Fletcher was guarding, it would have been dangerous to someone, and who is to say that that someone isn’t you? And I warned you to guard your tongue. Oxford is full of spies and traitors to the Crown. No one is above suspicion, even a lady-in-waiting to the queen.’ He sneered. ‘Now the coroner suspects you of being one of them. If you do not confide in me, there is little I can do to help you. At the very least, you will hang.’
Thomas stared across the table at the black eyes, and saw the evil in them. ‘Thomas, this is foolishness.’ Again Rush’s voice had changed. ‘If you tell me everything, I can help you. I have influence with the king. If you know why Master Fletcher was killed, I urge you to tell me. Otherwise …’
Thomas rose and went to the door. Rush leapt off the chair and exploded in fury.
‘You stupid little man. Tell me what you know, and you may live. Stay silent and you will die. You have my word on it.’
Thomas ignored him, and rattled the door. It was opened by the gaoler.
‘Take him up,’ yelled Rush, ‘and make him suffer. I want the truth out of him.’
Hands still tied and neck in the iron ring, Thomas was dragged up the steps to the cell. The gaoler locked him back in his place, untied his hands and left without a word.
Thomas tried again to concentrate on the wall. He could not do it. His mind was not working. He needed food and water. Without them, the vague idea would stay vague.
‘On yer feet, ’ill,’ ordered the gaoler the next morning. ‘You’re a popular little bugger. You’ve got another visitor.’ After the same procedure with the chain, Thomas was led roughly through the door. He could barely stand and the light outside the cell hurt his eyes. He stumbled down the steps to the guardroom, expecting to see Rush. A figure was standing by the gaoler’s table. He squinted at it. It was Jane.