the prisons,’ said Blackstone carelessly, his eyes ranging the array of tools. He selected a sharp-edged hammer.
‘Amesbury is looking for you,’ blurted the gaoler. ‘He suspects you build an army against His Majesty.’
Blackstone’s face darkened. Amesbury was one of the turncoats. He hadn’t thought about that in a long time. They’d fought together for the King. Blackstone, Amesbury and Torr had been Brothers of the Sealed Knot. Sworn to return the King to the throne. Before Blackstone made the unholy marriage and all the darkness descended.
‘Why does Amesbury suspect I plot against the King?’ he demanded.
The gaoler was shaking his head. ‘I ask no questions,’ he said, looking helplessly at the cuffs. ‘I just supply lead. Tell me nothing, I beg you. I will never hurt another Catholic.’
‘After the war I had just enough money to buy a guild place,’ continued Blackstone, ignoring him. ‘They taught me a craft. Gave me permission to trade. I worked my way up to the Mayor’s office.’ His eyes dulled. ‘But that is not where true power lay. Not for a Catholic.’
Blackstone pulled off his hat. The gaoler recoiled. Shiny wheals and scars had eaten away half the skin on his scalp.
‘I burned with plague,’ he said. ‘I cannot be killed. Now I build my army of fallen angels. We will drag the King down to hell.’
‘I will not tell . . .’ began the gaoler.
‘You?’ laughed Blackstone. ‘A Protestant gaoler, who’ll help a Catholic plotter for the right price? You’ll keep my secret?’
The gaoler’s face said it all. He knew too much.
‘We have a kinship, you and I,’ said Blackstone, gesturing to the prison cell. ‘We understand things other men cannot. Or should not,’ he corrected himself. ‘We know great secrets.’
Blackstone moved back.
‘I find the most terrible thing is the shame,’ he said. ‘Not yours. You become the monster all too easily.’
His blue eyes looked thoughtful.
‘But their shame,’ he said. ‘The men you hurt. That’s what chills the soul. Pissing themselves and crying for their mothers. You carry it always. Do you find that?’
The gaoler nodded but Blackstone could see in his eyes it was a lie.
‘Then after a time,’ said Blackstone. ‘You come to need it.’
Thoughtfully he picked up the wooden vice.
Blackstone attached the vice to the gaoler’s knuckle.
‘Broken bones are painful,’ he said. ‘But it’s the joints. The tendons. That’s where agony really lies.’
The man began shaking his head, sweating.
‘Knuckles make a noise,’ continued Blackstone. ‘You never forget it.’
The gaoler’s gaze dropped to Blackstone’s hands. Two of his large knuckles were a flattened mess of scars. He looked back up at Blackstone’s face.
‘Please . . .’ he said, ‘I’ve been nothing but loyal.’
‘Tell me what you know of Amesbury,’ said Blackstone.
‘We imprisoned a young boy for thieving,’ said the gaoler, the words coming out in a rush. ‘This afternoon. We only showed him the tools and he told us everything.’
‘Everything?’
‘He worked for the Earl of Amesbury. As an informant. He was trying to find Torr. To get to you.’
Blackstone’s mind ticked over this, turning it this way and that. If Torr were found, could it be a problem? He pictured his old ally, marked with mystic tattoos, alchemy tools in his strong hands.
‘If you should need someone to kill Torr . . .’ began the gaoler.
Blackstone laughed.
‘You are not the man,’ he said.
He moved back and the gaoler’s body relaxed slightly. He tugged hopefully at the leather cuffs. Blackstone looked at them and then raised a hand for the gaoler to be patient.
Blackstone nodded. ‘Do you tell yourself stories?’ he said, ‘of the men you torture?’
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘We all have ways of squaring it with ourselves,’ continued Blackstone. ‘Let me tell you my way.’
Chapter 14
There was a pause as the boy
‘Amesbury is looking for you,’ blurted the gaoler. ‘He suspects you build an army against His Majesty.’
Blackstone’s face darkened. Amesbury was one of the turncoats. He hadn’t thought about that in a long time. They’d fought together for the King. Blackstone, Amesbury and Torr had been Brothers of the Sealed Knot. Sworn to return the King to the throne. Before Blackstone made the unholy marriage and all the darkness descended.
‘Why does Amesbury suspect I plot against the King?’ he demanded.
The gaoler was shaking his head. ‘I ask no questions,’ he said, looking helplessly at the cuffs. ‘I just supply lead. Tell me nothing, I beg you. I will never hurt another Catholic.’
‘After the war I had just enough money to buy a guild place,’ continued Blackstone, ignoring him. ‘They taught me a craft. Gave me permission to trade. I worked my way up to the Mayor’s office.’ His eyes dulled. ‘But that is not where true power lay. Not for a Catholic.’
Blackstone pulled off his hat. The gaoler recoiled. Shiny wheals and scars had eaten away half the skin on his scalp.
‘I burned with plague,’ he said. ‘I cannot be killed. Now I build my army of fallen angels. We will drag the King down to hell.’
‘I will not tell . . .’ began the gaoler.
‘You?’ laughed Blackstone. ‘A Protestant gaoler, who’ll help a Catholic plotter for the right price? You’ll keep my secret?’
The gaoler’s face said it all. He knew too much.
‘We have a kinship, you and I,’ said Blackstone, gesturing to the prison cell. ‘We understand things other men cannot. Or should not,’ he corrected himself. ‘We know great secrets.’
Blackstone moved back.
‘I find the most terrible thing is the shame,’ he said. ‘Not yours. You become the monster all too easily.’
His blue eyes looked thoughtful.
‘But their shame,’ he said. ‘The men you hurt. That’s what chills the soul. Pissing themselves and crying for their mothers. You carry it always. Do you find that?’
The gaoler nodded but Blackstone could see in his eyes it was a lie.
‘Then after a time,’ said Blackstone. ‘You come to need it.’
Thoughtfully he picked up the wooden vice.
Blackstone attached the vice to the gaoler’s knuckle.
‘Broken bones are painful,’ he said. ‘But it’s the joints. The tendons. That’s where agony really lies.’
The man began shaking his head, sweating.
‘Knuckles make a noise,’ continued Blackstone. ‘You never forget it.’
The gaoler’s gaze dropped to Blackstone’s hands. Two of his large knuckles were a flattened mess of scars. He looked back up at Blackstone’s face.
‘Please . . .’ he said, ‘I’ve been nothing but loyal.’
‘Tell me what you know of Amesbury,’ said Blackstone.
‘We imprisoned a young boy for thieving,’ said the gaoler, the words coming out in a rush. ‘This afternoon. We only showed him the tools and he told us everything.’
‘Everything?’
‘He worked for the Earl of Amesbury. As an informant. He was trying to find Torr. To get to you.’
Blackstone’s mind ticked over this, turning it this way and that. If Torr were found, could it be a problem? He pictured his old ally, marked with mystic tattoos, alchemy tools in his strong hands.
‘If you should need someone to kill Torr . . .’ began the gaoler.
Blackstone laughed.
‘You are not the man,’ he said.
He moved back and the gaoler’s body relaxed slightly. He tugged hopefully at the leather cuffs. Blackstone looked at them and then raised a hand for the gaoler to be patient.
Blackstone nodded. ‘Do you tell yourself stories?’ he said, ‘of the men you torture?’
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘We all have ways of squaring it with ourselves,’ continued Blackstone. ‘Let me tell you my way.’
Chapter 14
There was a pause as the boy
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