Free The Ashes of London by Andrew Taylor Page A

secure.
    His colleague brought out a trestle, placed it between the old man and the wall, and forced him to his knees. He seized the shirt at the neck and ripped it apart, exposing the victim’s thin, curving back. The vertebrae stood out like a bony saw.
    Williamson and Mistress Alderley joined me at the window. No one spoke.
    Another man approached the little group in the yard. He wore a dark suit of good quality and looked like a discreetly prosperous merchant. He carried a whip in his hand, from which hung nine tails, each tipped with steel.
    ‘Who’s this, madam?’ Williamson said.
    ‘Master Mundy, sir. The steward.’
    Both Williamson and Mistress Alderley had automatically lowered their voices.
    There was a hush in the yard. Apart from Mundy, no one moved. He took the bound man by his hair and twisted his head so he might see the whip with its dangling tips of steel, so that he might understand that this would be no ordinary whipping.
    Mundy released the old man’s head. He stood back and waited.
    The seconds stretched out and seemed to grow into minutes. I found I was holding my breath. At last a figure emerged from the shadow of an archway on the far side of the yard. With the exception of the man stretched over the trestle, the servants straightened their bodies and turned towards him.
    He was middle aged, tall and spare, dressed with a sober magnificence. He walked to the trestle and stood by it.
    The scene in the courtyard now had a theatrical quality – even a religious one, as if some quasi-sacred ritual, sanctified by law and custom, was about to be enacted. Master Alderley was entirely within his rights to take a whip, even a cat o’ nine tails, to a refractory servant, particularly one under suspicion of a grave offence. Was he not master in his own home, where his word was law, just as the King was master in England, and God was the master of all?
    But something chilled me in the sight of Alderley on one side of the trestle and Mundy swinging the whip in the other. Their victim, tied like a pig before slaughter, was small, ragged and grey.
    Alderley’s lips were moving. The window was closed. His words were inaudible in the anteroom above the courtyard.
    The steward bowed to his master. In a flurry of movement, he swung the whip high and brought it down on the wall just above the ring to which the victim was tied. Mortar sprayed from the masonry in tiny puffs of dust. The steel tips did not touch him. But the old man bucked against his bonds and tried to rear up.
    Williamson watched, his face rapt. ‘You’re sure he assaulted his master’s son?’
    ‘It’s a certainty, sir.’ Mistress Alderley glanced at him. ‘Besides, if it had been a stranger, the mastiffs would have had him.’
    It was not her words that gave me pause. It was something in her voice and in that swift, sideways glance at Williamson’s face.
    She wants him to believe what she says, I thought. It’s important to her.
    ‘Why?’ Williamson said. ‘Why would he commit such a crime against man and God? Was the motive robbery?’
    Mistress Alderley was staring out of the window again. ‘He’s an ill-conditioned, awkward fellow, sir, with a head full of wicked notions.’
    ‘Then why’s he in service here?’
    ‘He served a connection of my husband’s first wife, a man who took up arms against the King and committed all manner of evil in the late disturbances. Master Alderley only took him in for charity’s sake, for otherwise he would have starved.’ Again that sideways glance at Williamson’s face. ‘And look what his kindness has brought upon us.’
    I flinched as the first blow of the whip landed on the old man. The victim screamed, and the sound penetrated the glass of the window. His body lifted and twisted. Spots of blood appeared across his back and side. They coalesced into streaks and then into broadening crimson lines.
    Mundy glanced at his master, who nodded. I wished I could look away. But I could