thick, heavy walls of the Clink prison.
‘In what capacity?’ asked the gaoler nervously. He’d forgotten how large Blackstone was. He seemed to take up the entire cell. The muscular bulk had been heaved into plain black breeches, thick leather boots and gauntlets. A black woollen tabard skirted his protruding belly, banded by a broad silk sash. His cavalier hat stayed firmly on his head, despite the close confines of the Clink.
He wore the clothes of an old Royalist general. But the pale eyes, sunk deep into his fleshy face, were those of a killer.
Blackstone gave a grim smile.
‘Both capacities,’ he said. ‘I was here for a long, long time.’ He inhaled deeply and pointed to a brazier of burning tar. ‘The smell of pitch,’ he said, eyeing the dirty smoke, ‘still sickens my stomach.’
The gaoler scratched nervously at a flea bite. He often brokered black-market goods, but was regretting agreeing to this transaction. Something was very wrong with this dead-eyed man.
‘It’s hard to think of you . . . that way.’ He managed.
‘Cromwell took revenge on the King’s generals,’ said Blackstone. ‘We were crammed in here. Starved, tortured.’
His eyes clouded slightly. They rested on a sharp-looking iron implement.
‘Then,’ he continued, ‘I was employed to extract secrets from Royalists. My . . . experiences you see.’ He smiled sadly at the pincers in his hand. ‘They made me better qualified.’
‘Do you have the cauldrons ready?’ he asked.
‘We have two,’ said the gaoler carefully. ‘We had a problem finding lead.’
Blackstone picked up a wickedly toothed wooden vice.
‘You’ve made some improvements,’ he noted. His eyes were cold.
The gaoler nodded. Sweat had broken out on his forehead, though the cell was cool.
‘Torture is a wicked business,’ said Blackstone.
The gaoler nodded uncertainly.
Blackstone lifted the vice and eyed it against the candle flame.
‘New?’ he suggested. ‘There’s no blood.’
The gaoler nodded. ‘We’ve better tools than any other gaol,’ he said. ‘There’s no man in twenty years the Clink hasn’t broken under torture.’
‘No man?’
‘There was one,’ the gaoler corrected himself. ‘A nobleman.’ The gaoler sniffed. ‘’S one of those legends,’ he says. ‘I don’t believe it. The story is they used every tool on him for two years. He never gave any names.’ The gaoler gave a scoff of derision. ‘I’ve never met a man lasted more than two weeks.’
Blackstone replaced the vice. ‘He was real,’ he said. ‘They called him The Unbreakable. Torturers tried each device in the Clink and even fashioned some new ones. The man never uttered a word.’
‘You were one of the torturers?’ asked the gaoler, sounding interested.
‘I am the man they couldn’t break,’ replied Blackstone.
The gaoler’s eyes widened.
‘I’m a different man now,’ added Blackstone. ‘I’m a father. Of a kind.’
‘Children are a blessing,’ offered the gaoler uncertainly.
Blackstone nodded. ‘And we must protect them.’ In a sudden movement he grabbed the gaoler’s throat. The gaoler twisted helplessly under Blackstone’s grip. But his skinny frame was no match for the enormous man.
Deliberately, Blackstone forced him back into a leather chair. The gaoler struggled in horror as leather straps were fastened over his wrists. Blackstone scooped up the iron pincer.
‘You hurt one of my boys,’ said Blackstone, wielding the pincers. He raised a hand as the gaoler made to protest. ‘You came to his house and took his brother. For being Catholic.’
‘Many boys,’ said the gaoler, his voice quavering. ‘Parliament makes us . . . Catholics must be kept in line.’
Blackstone gave him a cold smile. His eyes were burning. ‘Catholic women and children too? I hear all.’ He tapped his head.
The gaoler shrank back. ‘I can give you . . . information,’ he gibbered. ‘Of interest.’
‘I know everything in
‘In what capacity?’ asked the gaoler nervously. He’d forgotten how large Blackstone was. He seemed to take up the entire cell. The muscular bulk had been heaved into plain black breeches, thick leather boots and gauntlets. A black woollen tabard skirted his protruding belly, banded by a broad silk sash. His cavalier hat stayed firmly on his head, despite the close confines of the Clink.
He wore the clothes of an old Royalist general. But the pale eyes, sunk deep into his fleshy face, were those of a killer.
Blackstone gave a grim smile.
‘Both capacities,’ he said. ‘I was here for a long, long time.’ He inhaled deeply and pointed to a brazier of burning tar. ‘The smell of pitch,’ he said, eyeing the dirty smoke, ‘still sickens my stomach.’
The gaoler scratched nervously at a flea bite. He often brokered black-market goods, but was regretting agreeing to this transaction. Something was very wrong with this dead-eyed man.
‘It’s hard to think of you . . . that way.’ He managed.
‘Cromwell took revenge on the King’s generals,’ said Blackstone. ‘We were crammed in here. Starved, tortured.’
His eyes clouded slightly. They rested on a sharp-looking iron implement.
‘Then,’ he continued, ‘I was employed to extract secrets from Royalists. My . . . experiences you see.’ He smiled sadly at the pincers in his hand. ‘They made me better qualified.’
‘Do you have the cauldrons ready?’ he asked.
‘We have two,’ said the gaoler carefully. ‘We had a problem finding lead.’
Blackstone picked up a wickedly toothed wooden vice.
‘You’ve made some improvements,’ he noted. His eyes were cold.
The gaoler nodded. Sweat had broken out on his forehead, though the cell was cool.
‘Torture is a wicked business,’ said Blackstone.
The gaoler nodded uncertainly.
Blackstone lifted the vice and eyed it against the candle flame.
‘New?’ he suggested. ‘There’s no blood.’
The gaoler nodded. ‘We’ve better tools than any other gaol,’ he said. ‘There’s no man in twenty years the Clink hasn’t broken under torture.’
‘No man?’
‘There was one,’ the gaoler corrected himself. ‘A nobleman.’ The gaoler sniffed. ‘’S one of those legends,’ he says. ‘I don’t believe it. The story is they used every tool on him for two years. He never gave any names.’ The gaoler gave a scoff of derision. ‘I’ve never met a man lasted more than two weeks.’
Blackstone replaced the vice. ‘He was real,’ he said. ‘They called him The Unbreakable. Torturers tried each device in the Clink and even fashioned some new ones. The man never uttered a word.’
‘You were one of the torturers?’ asked the gaoler, sounding interested.
‘I am the man they couldn’t break,’ replied Blackstone.
The gaoler’s eyes widened.
‘I’m a different man now,’ added Blackstone. ‘I’m a father. Of a kind.’
‘Children are a blessing,’ offered the gaoler uncertainly.
Blackstone nodded. ‘And we must protect them.’ In a sudden movement he grabbed the gaoler’s throat. The gaoler twisted helplessly under Blackstone’s grip. But his skinny frame was no match for the enormous man.
Deliberately, Blackstone forced him back into a leather chair. The gaoler struggled in horror as leather straps were fastened over his wrists. Blackstone scooped up the iron pincer.
‘You hurt one of my boys,’ said Blackstone, wielding the pincers. He raised a hand as the gaoler made to protest. ‘You came to his house and took his brother. For being Catholic.’
‘Many boys,’ said the gaoler, his voice quavering. ‘Parliament makes us . . . Catholics must be kept in line.’
Blackstone gave him a cold smile. His eyes were burning. ‘Catholic women and children too? I hear all.’ He tapped his head.
The gaoler shrank back. ‘I can give you . . . information,’ he gibbered. ‘Of interest.’
‘I know everything in
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