“My Lord Bishop, you have my sworn statement that I watched this man force a demon named Abrasax to inhabit the body of a chicken. His guilt is therefore not in doubt and you must proceed to his torture so we may have proof that all Tudor kings have obtained their crowns by witchcraft. This warlock’s confession that he used the Black Arts to maintain Henry on the throne will show all true Englishmen they must acknowledge me as their lawful king! Now you may begin,” said the White Rose and he pointed to the two turnkeys, who knew better than to shirk their duty.
The gaolers lost no time in hauling Thomas from his cell and dragging him to the Judas Cradle where they began to beat him savagely with long wooden staves. The gaoler’s blows continued until their prisoner had been bludgeoned into at least temporary submission and as Thomas lay in the filthy straw, groaning and gasping for breath, they stripped him naked. Finally, whilst the bishop crossed himself and the monks chanted prayers for the salvation of the damned, the metal fetters attached to the ends of the strappado’s ropes were fastened around Thomas’ waist, wrists and ankles.
“This is your last chance witch, confess or suffer unimaginable pain,” said the bishop. Thomas couldn’t have spoken even if he’d wanted too and in the next moment he felt the rusty manacles bite into his flesh as his naked body was lifted off the floor. He gritted his teeth as the waves of pain washed over him but far worse was to come.
“Confess, or feel the embrace of Judas!” repeated the bishop.
“I bet you like to watch your priests plough your choirboys, you sick bastard!” Thomas shouted hoarsely. In reply the bishop crossed himself and gave the order. With a creak of pulleys and a squeal of ropes the gaolers lowered their prisoner towards the blunt spike positioned directly below his backside and Thomas felt the point of pyramid slowly part his buttocks. In the next instant its wooden tip entered his body.
As the weight of his own flesh conspired with the Judas Cradle to tear apart the most intimate parts of his anatomy, Thomas cold do nothing but cry out in pain. He tried to arch his back, clench his muscles and twist his body to alleviate the agony but every movement only increased the pitiless torture. Perspiration poured down his naked skin and screams flew from his mouth in a ceaseless psalm of pain. As the torment continued, his oaths and curses were quickly reduced to bestial shrieks and howls but at last de la Pole called a halt and Thomas felt himself lifted into the air.
“You fool, what’s King Henry to you? The Tudor usurper sentenced you to death so revenge yourself on your betrayer! Name Henry as the as the chief witch of England and you’ll die quickly but keep silent and you’ll drown in a bottomless ocean of pain,” whispered the White Rose. Thomas tried to reply that he thought all kings were the servants of The Devil but before he could speak, the door of the torture chamber crashed open and the Duke of Albany entered. The Scottish duke was accompanied by four of his liveried attendants and before anyone could protest, he’d tossed a blue leather pouch, decorated with French fleur de lys, at de la Pole’s feet.
“As you’re busy I’ll spare you the trouble of reading the French king’s latest letters, suffices to say that Francis has ordered us both to cancel our planned invasion immediately and march south with as many men as we can muster,” said the Scottish duke.
“What!” cried the White Rose.
“You’ve dallied too long, My Lord, and now it’s Francis’ turn to fear for his throne. A week ago the king’s rebel cousin, the Duke of Bourbon, crossed the Italian frontier at the head of an army of Spanish and imperial mercenaries. Bourbon has already proclaimed himself King of France and laid siege to Marseilles but Francis is moving swiftly to crush this rebellion. He’s planning to raise the royal standard at Lyon and his liege lords have been ordered to join him there as soon as possible. Those that delay will be declared traitor and their lands will pass to the crown forthwith,” replied Albany, whose French wife owned vast estates in the Auvergne.
De la Pole could only stare at the leather pouch at his feet. A few hours ago he’d been preparing to lead of one of the most audacious military operations in history but now his dreams of recovering his throne were dead, drowned in the murky waters of the Moselle. The king who’d promised his support had betrayed him and the alchemist in whom he’d placed his trust was now naked and hanging by his ankles like a plucked chicken in a market. Albany saw the look of rage in de la Pole’s face and though he didn’t show any similar emotion, he was as angry as the White Rose.
“Had we sailed for Dunbar a month ago we’d be beyond the reach of the French king by now, but thanks to your stubbornness we must fight Francis’ war in the south if we are to retain any hope of his favour,” the Scottish duke said bitterly but de la Pole ignored him and turned to Thomas.
“So your dastardly scheme becomes clear. Henry paid you to delay my invasion, knowing full well that Bourbon’s rebellion would force the French king to abandon me. Now tell this Scotch viper that it was your witchcraft that caused my plan to fail or suffer more of this,” said de la Pole and he signalled to the gaolers to lower their prisoner onto the Judas Cradle once more. Seconds later a shaft of unbelievable pain shot through Thomas’ insides and his screams of agony became louder as the wooden pyramid penetrated his body again, but still he wouldn’t submit. Albany began to protest that there was no time for de la Pole to continue enjoying himself and insisted that they prepared to march at once. Reluctantly de la Pole told the gaolers to raise Thomas into the air.
“I offered to serve you and your cursed House of York in good faith but now, I swear by the broken bones of St Barnabas, I’ll not rest until I’ve trampled every white rose into the dust!” he said in a voice cracking with pain.
“Shall we continue the torture, My Lord?” said the bald gaoler eagerly but de la Pole shook his head.
“No, though I’m loathe to admit it, My Lord Albany’s right and we must pursue this matter on my return. Place the witch and his familiars in the cage, make sure they suffer but keep them alive,” growled de la Pole. Without another word, the White Rose, Albany and the clerics left the dungeon but Thomas’ torturers did not free their prisoner from the strappado immediately. Instead they left him suspended above the Judas Cradle whilst they opened the grating in the torture chamber’s floor and climbed into the crane’s enormous drum.
The drum was actually a treadwheel and slowly it began to turn but whatever it was on the other end of the chain that passed through the floor’s opening had to be heavy as it took the combined weight and strength of both turnkeys to lift it. Sweating and panting with the effort, the gaolers laboured until the topmost bars of an iron cage, about six feet square, appeared. When the cage’s roof was level with the chamber’s floor, the gaolers secured the treadwheel, released Thomas from the strappado and dragged him to his new prison. After unlocking a door in the cage’s roof, the gaolers tipped Thomas inside as if he were the contents of a chamber pot being poured into a gutter.
Battered and bruised, Thomas lay on the cage’s iron barred floor moaning whilst the hairy turnkey refastened the cage’s locks and the bald gaoler returned to the treadwheel. With the cage secured, the hairy gaoler shouted something through the trapdoor before joining his colleague in the drum. A moment later the cage, with Thomas inside, descended into a second torch lit vault immediately below the torture chamber. Here men in the black and white livery of Metz’s city guard opened an identical iron grating so the cage could continue its journey. The tiny metal cell finally emerged into daylight whereupon it stopped, leaving Thomas suspended beneath an arch of the pont des Morts.
The walls of Metz encompassed several islands in the Moselle and the fortified ‘Bridge of the Dead’ joined the large Island of Chambière to the river’s northern bank. The sinister name was derived from the practice of drowning criminals beneath the pont des Morts’ and the torture chamber was part of the barbican built over the bridge’s central span. Mercifully, the gaolers had obeyed de la Pole’s instructions and left the cage suspended twenty f
eet above the water but for several hours Thomas could do nothing but nurse his injuries. He was covered in cuts and bruises, and his backside ached liked he’d been ravished by a dozen lecherous abbots, but at least no bones had been broken.
For several hours the worst he had to suffer were the curious stares of the pedestrians and boatmen passing over, or under, the pont des Morts but the curfew bells ringing across the city brought him fresh suffering. Shortly after the barbican’s gates had been closed for the night the iron grate above the cage was opened and Thomas saw the familiar faces of his gaolers looking down at him.
“Good evening, my little spatchcock,” cooed the bald gaoler. “How’s your arse?”
“If only you had a prick you could go and plough your mother!” spat Thomas.
“But if I had no prick I couldn’t do this,” said the bald gaoler who promptly dropped his filthy breeches and released a shower of steaming piss into the cage.
“You foul, stinking bastard!” screamed Thomas.
“Such ingratitude, you must’ve been parched sitting out in the sun all day so I merely gave you something to drink but you must be hungry as well as thirsty. Are you hungry?” asked the bald gaoler whereupon the two turnkeys picked up a large wooden vat they’d brought with them and tipped its contents through the hole in the bridge’s roadway. A deluge of rotting entrails and putrid kitchen waste cascaded over Thomas whilst the gaolers roared with laughter.
“Did you enjoy your meal? And what would could be better to go with such fine victuals than some pleasurable company?” said the bearded gaoler. Thomas braced himself for a shower rats or some other vermin but instead he felt the cage move upwards. This time it was raised to the level of the bridge where the door in the roof was opened once more.
In the bottom of the cage, Thomas couldn’t see what was going on but it seemed as if a riot had broken out above his head. The air was filled with the sound of cursing and in the next moment three men were tipped head first into Thomas’ prison. Despite the bruises, dried blood and encrusted filth that covered their faces he recognised the new arrivals at once, they were Bos, Prometheus and Quintana.
“So you too have been put to the torture,” said Quintana, eyeing Thomas’ battered, naked body, but there was no hint of kindness or sympathy in his voice.
“You see now that the Left Hand Path leads to pain and death,” groaned Bos miserably but the Nubian was more forgiving.
“Leave him be, it seems to me he’s suffered enough. Have you forgotten that we all followed him to Metz willingly and we’re no worse off now than before we met him. Besides, if he escaped The Fleet and the Tower of London then this chicken coop should present no problem. So Thomas, can you release us from this cage?” Prometheus said hopefully.
“I will not die here because I’ve sworn a solemn oath to revenge myself on the prince of lies who calls himself the White Rose!” said Thomas hoarsely.
“By the looks of things you couldn’t revenge yourself on a dog that had pissed over your boots,” said Quintana with as much humour as he could muster.
“Your tortures are but a warning of the torments that await all sinners in Hell, you must repent and leave vengeance to The Almighty,” said Bos eyeing the Englishman’s battered body. Thomas ignored the Frisian and insisted that he’d not rest until his enemies had been defeated but even Prometheus urged the Englishman to put all thoughts of revenge out of his mind, at least for the time being.
“You’re a remarkable man Thomas,” said the Nubian. “Most of us can make an enemy of one king but you’ve managed to incur the wrath of two!”
13
THE CAGE
With four men imprisoned in the tiny cage there was no room to lie down or stand up. All the prisoners could do was sit with their legs dangling between the bars of the cage’s floor and with each hour that passed their torments increased.
When the sun rose they had to endure the steady stream of rocks and refuse dropped through the grating above their heads. In the evening they were plagued by the bites of gnats and mosquitoes that clouded around them and when the sun set, the damp rising from the river seemed to chill the very marrow of their tortured bones. Thomas suffered worst of all. Having been thrown into the cage naked, he had no clothes to protect him from the day’s fierce heat or the night’s cold air and he soon developed a fever. After five days his condition suddenly worsened and the others realised the shadow of death was upon them all.
“We can’t stay here, the Englishman won’t last much longer,” said Bos.
“I’m all right,” Thomas whispered but it was clear that he wasn’t. Some of his deeper wounds had failed to close and his blood was slowly being poisoned by the filth that fell from above.
“Bravely spoken but I’ve grown tired of these lodgings and intend to quit this address forthwith,” said Quintana with a weak smile. “Now how shall we take our leave, by road or river?”
Unfortunately their situation seemed hopeless. They had no tools to pick the locks that fastened the cage’s door or money to bribe the guards and not even the combined strength of Bos and Prometheus could bend the solid iron bars. Even if they could escape their prison, they would have to climb up the chain that attached the cage to the bridge, open another locked grating and force the wooden gates of the barbican that barred their way to freedom. Yet, unbeknown to them all, they still had allies in Metz. On the morning of the sixth day, after the merchants and drovers had made their way into the city, a familiar face appeared at the iron grating in the bridge.
“Thomas, are you there?” hissed the visitor. The Englishman was faint with hunger and fever but he opened his eyes and saw the face of Hans Nagel looking down at him.
“Trumpet player! What in the name of de la Pole’s stinking codpiece brings you here? Do you still serve the White Rose? Have you come to report my suffering to that pus-sucking viper? God’s blood if I were free of this cage, I’d wring your scrawny neck,” he said weakly. The other prisoners were about to spit their own curses at Nagel but he begged to be allowed to speak.
“Hear me out, you must be mindful that all is not as it seems. I’m here to help you escape, as I helped you once before, but I can’t explain now. The few florins I paid the sentries will turn their heads for no more than a minute so take this, put your faith in the power of the onager and when you’re free, meet me at the Lazar House on the Isle of Ghosts,” hissed Nagel.
From his previous time in the city Thomas knew that the Isle of Ghosts was a small, wooded islet that lay a few hundred yards downstream of the pont des Morts. He also remembered that its only inhabitants were lepers. The other prisoners cried out in horror at thought of taking refuge among those cursed with a disease that putrefied a victim’s flesh whilst they still lived but Nagel wouldn’t listen to their protests.
“There’s no danger,” the trumpet player insisted and he dropped a heavy package through the grate. The object landed on the cage’s roof and was retrieved by Prometheus who stared at it in bewilderment. Nagel had given them a length of stout silk cord wrapped around a short iron rod, as thick as a constable’s staff but no longer than a man’s forearm. At first examination neither item seemed to be of any use in their current predicament but before they could ask the trumpet player to explain further, he’d vanished into the crowd crossing the bridge.
“What’s the good of this?” said Quintana examining the cord. “Even if we could break out of the cage the rope is too short to reach anywhere and what in the name of the King of Spain’s great hairy bollocks did Nagel mean by trusting in the power of the onager?”
“To The Devil with ghosts and onagers, whatever they are, we should not trust a trumpet player who produces nothing but wind for a living,” muttered Bos whereupon Prometheus burst out laughing.
“I’m surprised you’ve not heard of the wild desert asses that are as stubborn as a Lutheran cleric and smell just as bad. Onagers have a kick as powerful as their odour, so the beasts have given their name to a type
of catapult. My father used these war machines to great effect during his wars with Funj,” he chuckled
Prometheus described how, during one battle with the invaders, boulders hurled by onagers had scattered his father’s enemies like flocks of frightened quail and if only the Nubians had possessed more of these catapults, which drew their power from coils of twisted rope, their homeland might still be Christian. The others protested that ancient siege engines would be of little help in escaping from a cage hanging below a bridge but Prometheus insisted that the same power of twisted rope could open their prison. All they had to do was tie the silk cord around two of the cage’s bars and use the iron rod as a lever to wind the loop ever tighter.
To raise their spirits higher, the prisoners could actually see the Isle of Ghosts that lay in the main channel of the Moselle between the fortified bridges of the pont des Morts and the pont Ysfroy. This narrow islet was little more than a waterlogged mound of trees and reeds but it seemed to call to the prisoners like the Isle of the Blessed called to ancient Greek heroes. Tall thickets of willow and alder hid the leper house from view but if Thomas and the others could escape from the cage they could reach it by the long causeway that joined the Isle of Ghosts to the larger Island of Chambière.
The prospect of escape seemed to revive Thomas a little but having discovered the secret of freeing themselves from the cage they had to wait until nightfall before they could put Prometheus’ theory into practice. With agonising slowness, the sun crept across the cloudless summer sky and whilst they waited they had to endure another day of being pelted with taunts and garbage. At last the city’s curfew bells sounded and the barbican’s gates were closed. The footsteps of the sentries faded into the night and as soon as the prisoners heard nothing but silence they set about their task.
As quietly as he could, Quintana tied the silk cord around two bars in the middle of one of the cage’s sides then Bos and Prometheus used the rod to twist the loop ever smaller. Miraculously, the solid iron that had refused to budge when pulled by human muscle alone opened as easily as an eager bride’s legs on her wedding night. When the first two bars had been forced apart, they repeated the process with adjacent bars until the gap was wide enough for even the Nubian to pass through.
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