Lord Burghley looked a trifle perplexed for a moment. His information was usually reliable although he, himself, had to admit that this particular tale had disturbed him for he would have never considered Conn a man to involve himself in treason. Still in all one had to be careful, and his usually reliable informant had claimed that Spain was involved once again in a plot against Elizabeth Tudor.

It would not be the first time Spain and its amba.s.sador entangled themselves in this sort of business. There had been five amba.s.sadors from Spain during the queen's reign to date. The first, Count Feria, a holdover from Mary Tudor's reign had been married to Jane Dormer, an English gentlewoman. He had departed England in I559 to Elizabeth's great relief for she had not liked the pompous count at all.

Alvarez De Quadra, the Bishop of Aquila, had come next, and served his king four years before dying of plague in London. The queen enjoyed outwitting him which she always did since the bishop lacked a sense of humor. He was followed by the only amba.s.sador from Spain that the queen had liked.

Diego Guzman de Silva, Bishop of Toledo, had remained for six years. A naturally elegant, cultured sophisticate he was well liked by the entire court. He, in turn, liked Elizabeth for though he was loyal to Spain, he was clearheaded, and not fanatical as had been his two predecessors. But the bishop grew so homesick for Spain, that he requested his release of King Philip, and was granted it.

In choosing his successor, Spain did a complete turnabout, and sent England Guerau de Spes, an unpleasant little man whose outrageous manners, thoughtless remarks, and genuine capacity for troublemaking made him highly unpopular. Involved in the Ridolfi plot he was expelled from England in late December 1571.

For the next six years there was no amba.s.sador from Spain to England, and then just last year Bernadino de Mendoza had arrived. The queen was highly dissatisfied with him for he was an ignorant, pompous, and vengeful man. Already there was indication that he was as his predecessor had involving himself in plots to remove the queen. Just several months ago, Antonio de Guaras, a Spanish agent in England since 1570, had been imprisoned for his involvement and dealings with the captive Queen of Scots.

Now another plot, code name: Deliverance, was being unraveled by Lord Burghley's secret agents, and everything pointed to Conn St. Michael, Lord Bliss, as being hip-deep within it. Still Conn was denying it. Of course he denied it, William Cecil chided himself. They never admitted anything except under torture. He turned to the man by his side.

"It appears, Master Norton, as if we shall have to interrogate my lord Bliss a little more strongly."

"Aye, me lord," came the reply, and the man called Norton smiled showing several blackened stumps of teeth.

Norton! The name slammed into Conn's brain, and he felt sick to his stomach. Norton, the Tower's infamous dungeon master! Norton, who had perfected the art of torture so well that he could drive a man to the brink of insanity without even breaking a bone. What in G.o.d's name was happening? How had he become involved in something so serious? Feeling himself beginning to panic he took a deep breath, and spoke.

"My lord, ye accuse me of involvement in a plot to kill the queen, and replace her with Mary of Scotland, and yet ye offer me not one shred of evidence of my culpability. Have I been accused? By whom? Let them say it to my face, my lord! Is this English justice?"

Again Lord Burghley found himself rattled, and somewhat nonplussed. He liked young Lord Bliss. He had never known him to be either a plotter, or a fanatic. This whole thing was most disturbing, and when the queen learned of it she was going to be very distressed. Still there was evidence, and Elizabeth Tudor's safety was paramount. Already three people had been rounded up, betrayed by one of Lord Burghley's double agents, and each one had implicated Conn St. Michael, Lord Bliss, as the ringleader in this plot. He shook himself.

"Ye've been accused by three men in this plot," said Lord Burghley. "Tell me, my lord, if yer as innocent as ye claim, then why would three men implicate ye in such a plot? Nay, we shall have Master Norton interrogate ye for a bit, and then we shall see what ye have to say."

Before he might struggle Conn's arms were pinned to his sides, and he was dragged across the room to where upon the wall he could see a large wheel rack which was now lowered so he might be hoisted upon it. His doublet was expertly removed, his boots roughly yanked from his feet, his shirt pulled open to his waist, and then he was spread-eagled upon the rack which was raised up again some six feet off the floor.

Horrified, and yet fascinated in spite of himself, Conn watched as below him the infamous Mr. Norton checked the ropes and levers that operated the rack. Why hadn't he struggled against his captors? he wondered, but he knew. He couldn't actually believe that the whole thing was serious, and now as he felt the ropes securing him begin to tighten, drawing his arms and legs into a painful stretch he suddenly realized just how very serious this whole thing really was.

With seemingly great care Mr. Norton tightened one of his screws, and Conn, unable to help himself, screamed as a sharp pain tore through his shoulder; and screamed again as his opposite leg was loosened within its hip socket. The pain continued to pour through him, now filling his entire body with such incredible agony that Conn began to pour sweat. The dungeon master looked up at him, smiling his unpleasant smile.

"Do ye have anything ye want to say to my lord Burghley, Lord Bliss?" he inquired solicitously.

Conn groaned. "I know of no plot," he gasped. "I am not in-involved in a-any d.a.m.ned plot. Arrrrrugh!" he cried out as his other leg was pulled out at an unnatural angle, and the people below him began to fade before his eyes. His head slumped upon his chest as he began to lose consciousness.

"Water!" snapped Norton, and one of the guards climbed up upon a ladder to slosh a pail of brackish, cold river water in Conn's face.

He sputtered back to reality, and to pain as the ropes were tightened upon his other arm, and he cried out again, but this time it was a particularly foul oath, and it was aimed at William Cecil.

"He don't have a particularly high threshold for pain, m'lord," noted Norton. "I've gone easy with him so far, and I ain't never had a man pa.s.s out on me this quick."

"Then he is experiencing severe pain?"

"I'm a mite surprised, but it would appear so," said the dungeon master. "He's a big fellow, m'lord, but I thinks it's because his bones is delicate like."

"Can ye inflict just a bit more pain on him without injuring him, Master Norton?" asked William Cecil.

"Aye," he said, and then he turned to his a.s.sistant. "Peter, ye handle the arms, but mind remember, we want no broken bones. I'll put ye up there meself if ye break anything."

Peter nodded, his eyes alight at the thought of actually aiding his master in this important interrogation. What a tale he'd have to tell his mother tonight, and that little serving wench in the tavern he'd been trying to impress might even lift her skirts at long last once she heard of his new stature.

Together the two men moved in unison as they tightened and fussed with the levers connecting the ropes attached to their prisoner's limbs. It was subtle at first for Conn was already in such pain that he could not feel their new efforts, but then the agony slammed into him, forcing all the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping for air he could not seem to find as fiery fingers of pure, undiluted pain ran swiftly up and down his entire form. His big, straining body poured water, the muscles in his neck bulged, as did his torment-filled eyes, and his mouth opened wide as he howled in an unhuman-sounding, animal-like anguish. There was a roaring sound in his ears, but through the mist he could hear Lord Burghley saying, indeed almost pleading with him, "My lord, my lord, spare yerself further torture. Ye have only to tell me the details of yer plot, and the pain will be stopped."

With incredible effort Conn managed to find his voice. "I know of no plot, Burghley! No plot! Ye've the wrong man!" and then he fainted.

William Cecil was not a man easily fooled. Lord Bliss was suffering greatly, and still he denied involvement in Deliverance. Could it possibly be that he was telling the truth? And if he was who was using his name, and why? "Release him, Master Norton, and revive him. It is my opinion that he is not lying."

"I'd have to agree with ye, m'lord, if ye'll forgive my boldness," said the dungeon master. "Some of 'em can take far worse than I gives this gentleman before they even pa.s.sed out. This man ain't good with pain so what we did to 'im really made 'im suffer. A man don't lie to me when I makes 'im suffer. I ain't so old yet that I can't do me job."

The wheel rack was lowered, and more cold river water was casually sloshed over Conn by Peter. As his eyes began to flutter open, a cracked earthenware cup of wine was forced through his lips, and down his throat. It burned as it hit the pit of his stomach like a hot rock, and Conn retched half of it back up, but managed to keep the rest of it down. His eyes began to focus, William Cecil coming first into view.

"Ye b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" he managed to croak.

"I am delighted to see that yer recovering so quickly," said Lord Burghley dryly. He didn't blame Lord Bliss' anger, but then his first loyalty was to his queen, and her safety. He had known her since she was a child. In his private moments he thought of her as he did his own daughters, and he would do anything to see her safe from all harm. Now, however, he needed time to sort out this puzzle. Something was very amiss. Was there a plot against the queen, or not? "Escort Lord Bliss back to his quarters," he ordered the guards, and as they aided Conn to stand he said, "We will talk again, my lord."

"Ye better have some answers for me," snarled Conn. "If ye want to know who is responsible for this, then so do I!"

Lord Burghley nodded in agreement. "In that thought we concur, my lord."

"Jesus G.o.d!" Cluny cried as his master was helped back into their cell. "What did they do to ye, m'lord? Are ye all right? Put him down gentle, ye great oafs!"

"We'll treat 'im just like a babe in arms," said a grinning guard, and they unceremoniously dumped Conn upon the nearest pallet.

As they stamped out laughing Cluny shook his fist at them, and muttered an oath. "English sc.u.m," he muttered, but fortunately they didn't hear him.

Conn couldn't help grinning up at his body servant even through his pain. "I'm alive, Cluny," he said, "though just barely."

"What the h.e.l.l did they do to ye, m'lord?"

"The rack," came the grim reply.

"The rack?" Cluny's face registered his deep distress. "Why the rack? What the h.e.l.l did ye do, m'lord?"

"I did nothing, but Lord Burghley believes, or at least he thought he believed that I was involved in a plot against Bess Tudor."

"Ye ain't involved in any plot," said Cluny loyally. "Why, h.e.l.l, m'lord, if ye were then I would be, too. Ye wouldn't go off and get into trouble without yer faithful Cluny."

Conn managed another weak grin. "No, Cluny, I wouldn't get into trouble without ye. Yer a good man to have at one's back, but ye see, someone has somehow managed to involve me though I know not how. Let's hope William Cecil manages to find out before he takes it into his head to talk with me again."

Lord Burghley was indeed seeking answers, but he was getting nowhere in his search. He carefully went over the reports that had been written on the matter from the statements given the other prisoners involved in this matter. They had all been most eager to talk, and little persuasion had been needed at all to encourage them. Reading over the reports on the matter he could find nothing, and yet he was absolutely certain now of Lord Bliss' innocence. He wanted to speak with the other plotters himself, but no sooner had he given the order for their presence than Adam de Marisco was brought in to him.

"My lord Burghley," he said by way of greeting. "I think ye know why I am here."

William Cecil nodded sourly. What had he expected? "I suppose that yer wife is here also," he replied.

"My wife is at home at Queen's Malvern with our children. Ye will remember she is forbidden London and the court."

"I forget nothing, my lord, and I am relieved that Lady de Marisco is finally of an age to show discretion."

Adam slapped his thigh, and chuckled. "She was ready to come," he admitted, "but both Conn and I prevailed upon her not to for Aidan needs extra courage now. Please, my lord, what is this all about?"

"Yer brother-in-law has been involved in a plot to a.s.sa.s.sinate the queen, and put Mary of Scotland upon the throne," said Lord Burghley.

"Impossible!" said Adam de Marisco.

"I am beginning to agree with ye," admitted Lord Burghley.

"Beginning to agree? G.o.d's nightshirt, man! 'Tis not Conn's style at all, and ye know it! There's no secrecy in the man at all. He's an open book which is one reason the queen always liked him."

"I cannot, ye will understand, my lord, be too careful of her majesty's safety," said William Cecil. "Both Spain and France have done nothing else since Elizabeth Tudor took the throne of England but intrigue to pull her off it. This is not the first plot that has come to light that sought to murder her. I trust no one, my lord de Marisco, no one."

Adam nodded. He fully understood Lord Burghley's position. "What made ye believe Conn involved?" he asked.

"The three men we caught in the plot all accused him of being the mastermind behind it. Each named him by name, but there is something in the reports I have that disturbs me, and I cannot put a finger on it. Sit down, my lord, for I have asked to have those three prisoners brought to me now. Yer brother-in-law under torture protested his innocence quite convincingly, even going so far as to slander my parentage in the process."

Adam was horrified. "Ye tortured him? How?"

"The rack," was the flat reply. "All men protest their innocence until persuaded otherwise. Lord Bliss would not implicate himself despite Master Norton's best efforts. Do not look so troubled, my lord. No bones were broken. It seems yer brother-in-law has a low threshold for pain, and Norton is a master of his craft. Even he was convinced of his subject's purity. Now, however, I must unravel the mystery of whether there actually is a plot, and why these men implicated Lord Bliss."

They had been seated in a chamber on an upper level, part of the apartment of the governor of the Tower. William Cecil arose, and said, "Will ye come with me, my lord? I must go below while Master Norton interrogates the other three. I am certain ye'll want to be there."

"Aye," replied Adam grimly. "I do."

The two men descended into the bowels of the Tower of London to the realm of Master Norton. There in the dungeon master's workshop stood three men shackled to the wall. Two were young, one no more than sixteen, the other probably twenty. The third man was somewhat older, and was Adam realized looking at him related to the boys.

"A father and his two misguided sons," said Burghley dryly, and then. "Which one first, Master Norton?"

"The young 'un. He's the most fearful. See how he sweats, my lords? Peter, the boy!"

The silent Peter unlocked the shackles binding the lad, and pulled him forward across the room to refasten him within a high-backed wooden chair. A heavy leather strap held him about the midsection, leg irons held his ankles immobile, and his arms were bound at the wrists to the wooden arms of the chair. Peter then affixed a contraption to the boy's hand that Adam immediately recognized as a thumbscrew. Slowly he began to tighten it, and within a short order the boy began to shriek out his pain, screaming for mercy, crying for his mother, and to the Blessed Virgin Mother as well. At a signal from Master Norton his a.s.sistant ceased tightening the screw, and William Cecil said to the two men still hanging from the wall, "Well, sirs, will ye stand by idle while the lad suffers? Ye have but to tell me what I want to know, and he will be released, but refuse to answer, and I will see to it that both yer sons are hung without delay, Master Trent."

The man called Trent looked ill, his color slightly green, and slightly white about the lips. "My lord," he pleaded. "We have told ye everything we know. I swear it! Do ye think I want my sons dead? Not for any cause!"

"Who caused this plot to be made?"

"We have told ye. Conn St. Michael, Lord Bliss. He came to my shop one evening as I was about to close, and said he knew that we were members of the true faith. He had, he said, been empowered by the church to grant us everlasting salvation if we would aid him in killing the queen, and helping Mary of Scotland, an honest Roman Catholic ruler, to gain her rightful throne. England would bless us, he said. What man wouldn't take the chance of eternal salvation in G.o.d's heaven, my lord? We agreed to help him, my sons and I."

"A man offers ye eternal salvation, and ye merely accept it. The word of a stranger? Come now, Master Trent! What is this tale ye seek to have me believe?"

"He had a paper, my lord! I can read, at least a little! It was signed by the pope hisself with all sorts of pretty seals, and a ribbon. I never saw such an official-looking doc.u.ment. That was good enough for me!"

"Probably forged," said William Cecil, "but official-looking enough to fool a simple man." He looked at Master Trent again. "Are ye not happy and prosperous under the queen's rule?"

"Aye," replied the man, "but her can't give us eternal salvation."

"A butcher's logic," remarked Cecil. "That's what he is, ye know. A butcher. Is it not fitting? He's been an outspoken religious for years, but never considered a threat. That's how we were able to catch him so quickly. He was eager to brag of his about-to-be good fortune, and word of it came to us so we arrested him."

"Ask him about Conn's involvement," said Adam de Marisco.

William Cecil nodded. "Tell me of Lord Bliss, Master Trent. How did ye come to meet him?"

"Him came to us," was the reply. "Said he had heard we were the type of men who might aid him, and if not, keep our mouths shut."

" 'Tis the same story as he told before," said Lord Burghley wearily.

"What did Lord Bliss look like?" demanded Adam. "Describe him to us."

"Him were a big, tall man who spoke with an Irish accent," came the reply.

"Be more detailed!" Adam's voice said sharply.

"I can't, m'lord."

"Why not? What color eyes did he have? Was his nose long or short? What color was his hair? Did he have any marks upon his face that ye recall."

"I can't tell ye, m'lord. He was masked, and well m.u.f.fled by his cloak."

"Had ye ever met Conn St. Michael before this encounter? Ever seen him at all?"

"No, m'lord."

"Then how did ye know who he was?"

"Because he told us, m'lord," said Master Trent to Adam in a tone that implied that perhaps Adam was not too bright.

"Of course," said Lord Burghley slowly. "That's what has been bothering me about these reports. Nowhere is there a description of Lord Bliss."

"Aye," said Adam, "because it wasn't Conn. Whoever it was wanted this poor fool to believe it was, but he dared not show his face for it was meant that ye discover this alleged plot, and that Conn be arrested."

"I believe yer right, my lord de Marisco, but first I would be satisfied on one thing." He signaled to Master Norton, and the dungeon master hurried from the room.

They sat in grim silence for several minutes, and then Norton returned, and with him was a masked, and heavily cloaked figure. Lord Burghley turned back to Master Trent.

"Is this man Lord Bliss?" he demanded.

"Nay," the butcher said quickly.

"How can ye be sure?"

"Lord Bliss weren't quite so tall although nearly so, and he was heavier set than this man."

"Tell them yer name," said Lord Burghley to the masked and cloaked man.

"I am Conn St. Michael, Lord Bliss," came the reply.

"Nah, ye ain't! Ye can't fool me, m'lord. Lord Bliss had a real Irish accent. This poor fellow has but the hint of Ireland in his voice. I should know. My mother came from Ireland."

"Take them away," said Lord Burghley, and the guards released the three, and hustled them from the room.