Saint Patrick ☘ (shamrocked_) wrote in nevermore_past, @ 2012-07-18 11:14:00 |
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Entry tags: | saint george, saint patrick |
Who: Saints Patrick and George
What: Angry at the dissolution of the monasteries, the brothers are working together to help however they can. And one just got caught.
When: April 1541
Where: The Tower of London
Warning: Yeah...some torture.
The situation in England was growing more and more dire. And while Henry's influence in Ireland only extended to the area in and around Dublin, his English reformation was still causing troubles for Patrick's country of patronage. And even more so for the Catholics in England. Henry had split from Rome and Patrick couldn't sit still and do nothing while his home country and the country of his dear brother George became had their houses of worship and sanctuary were turned to country homes.
Patrick had been working with George, secretly of course, trying to save the monasteries. He hid the scattered monks and priests with brave families who would take them in. He consulted with the Vatican to find ways to solve the situation. His most important job, however, had been keeping Cardinal Reginald Pole alive and out of Henry's way. The Cardinal was of royal lineage, descended from Richard III and his mother, Margaret Pole was considered the last of the Plantagenet line. Henry considered anyone of royal blood as competition and he had had the cardinal's entire family arrested, despite the fact that they had done nothing to deserve it.
The Cardinal, who was loyal to the church, was perhaps their best chance of restoring England to sanity.
It had also been saving the Cardinal which had caused Patrick to be caught. Henry's forces had closed in on the Cardinal while he was staying at a manor house with Patrick and a loyal Catholic family. In order to distract Henry's men from the Cardinal who was hiding in a priest hole in the barn, Patrick had drawn them to a different hiding place in the family's home after making sure the family themselves was fleeing, never to return to their own house. It had worked.
He had been seized, sailed up the Thames through Traitor's Gate, and now he was safely enclosed in the Tower, probably awaiting torture.
It was worth it. Cardinal Pole was safe and England still had a chance of salvation. Patrick sat on a wooden bench and he prayed for strength now. He would need it. He also prayed that his brother would come to him and they could talk before he was taken down to be broken. It would be dangerous for George to come with others. Nothing could connect them, or George would be taken prisoner too. But if he came alone, they could talk.
George had never honestly expected there to be a time when he regretted that the king knew who he truly was. He was the saint of England and the guardian of the English monarchy; it just made sense that each generation of royalty would be told who he was eventually.
But now, now he'd have given anything to just be anonymous. To escape from the watchful eye of Henry and Henry's lackeys, to be able to take Patrick and just run.
There had been one way to get in to see Patrick. One way for him to prove his loyalty to Henry. In the rational part of his mind, George knew that this was actually not a bad plan.
The human part of him was busy screaming.
The door to Patrick's cell creaked open as the guards unlocked it, and George stepped inside.
"Hello," he said, keeping his face and voice expresionless.
Patrick raised his eyes to meet George's, and he worked to keep his face expressionless as well. They weren't alone yet. They might not be left alone at all, and until they were, Patrick planned on saying nothing to connect them.
He listened for footsteps in the hallway walking away, but all he could hear was his own heart pounding away in his ears. He wanted to go to George; to take comfort in the arms of his older brother, but he stayed where he was, sitting on the wooden bench, his arms on his legs, his hands hanging between his knees.
He nodded back to George instead of speaking, at least until he was sure his voice wouldn't crack.
The guards stayed behind George, and he was half-convinved Henry had ordered them to toss him into the cell if he made any sudden moves towards Patrick.
"You've been found hiding a wanted man," George said, keeping his eyes fixed on Patrick's shoulder. He couldn't stare at his brother's face. He couldn't give any clue that they knew each other. As long as no one knew Patrick was a saint, there was some chance that he might get out of the Tower.
George just wasn't sure whether it would be dead or alive.
"It's been agreed upon that if you won't cooperate, you'll be made to."
Patrick watched George carefully and when the guards didn't leave, he nodded again, and when he spoke, he only hoped his brother understood the meaning behind his words.
"You're going to have to make me," Patrick growled at them. "I'm not cooperating."
This wasn't George's fault. Patrick wanted him to know.
George swallowed a few times to keep his voice steady.
"Fine. Get up." He stepped forward, grabbing Patrick's arm and yanking him up. Once he was on his feet, George squeezed down on his arm gently, the most reassurance he could offer at the moment.
He kept that grip on Patrick as they made their way down into the room that was serving as a torture chamber. It was underground, and there was precisely one door out.
"He's to be kept alive," one of the guards reminded George.
George just nodded before tossing Patrick into the room roughly. He waited until the guards had bolted the door behind him before finally, finally letting himself sink to his knees next to his brother.
"Patrick," George murmured, keeping his voice low and his back to the door. "This is a very bad situation."
Patrick, on his hands and knees, turned to look at his brother. They could finally speak. Finally touch. Patrick raised up to his knees and though being thrown to the floor had hurt, he still turned to give his brother a brief embrace.
"George, it's going to be alright," Patrick whispered to him. "Do what you have to do. It doesn't matter. Our friend is safe; that's what's important."
Patrick wouldn't dare mention Reginald Pole's name in the Tower, even if they were alone.
"No, it's not going to be all right," George hissed. "I'm supposed to torture you, Patrick. And then they're going to cut your head off. Nothing about this is all right!"
Ever since Henry had started his Reformation, George had been torn between his duty to the Church that had kept him alive and the country that he loved and served. It had hurt him so acutely that it was an almost physical pain.
But now, the terrible uncertainty was gone. Henry could burn in Hell for all George cared.
Patrick took his brother's hand and he kissed it gently. "This is for England," he whispered, his heart resolved. "George, I trust you. I'm in your hands now. I know it's not easy, but it's not your fault." Patrick didn't fear death. He wasn't too keen on pain, but he would get through it. "God is with us, George. He won't desert us. As I said. Do what you must. I won't hold this against you. In fact, I'd rather it was you than someone else. Forgive me for that."
"Shh," George said, pulling Patrick into a hug. "Don't apologize. It's all right."
He still felt panic, still felt terror, but closed his eyes and imagined that sinking down, like a body weighted and tossed into a river. He tried to replace his fear with calm, with emotionless purpose. He needed to be unflinching. He had fought dragons, he had stared down armies. He could do this to Patrick.
The trembling in his hands finally stopped, and George reached into his coat to extract the things he had smuggled into the Tower. The first was a canteen, filled to the top to keep from making a sloshing sound. The second was a dark, heavy ball, wrapped in fabric. Unwrapped, it gave off a strong, though not necessarily unpleasant odor. He set both objects down in front of Patrick, along with another canteen filled with water and sweetened with plant extracts.
"Drink this, and eat that, quickly" George said. "The canteen on the left it water, and you'll need that too."
The ball was pure opium, and the canteen of dark liquid was poppy tea. There wasn't much to be found in England, or Europe in general, but George still had contacts in the Arab world. He knew there was nothing that numbed pain better than opium.
If George had to torture Patrick, he didn't want Patrick to feel a thing.
"These won't taste all that appetizing-" in fact, both would be incredibly bitter. George had taken a sip of tea earlier and had to fight back a gag. "-but you won't feel any pain. Just try not to vomit."
Patrick lifted his eyes to meet George's and though he wasn't a fan of drugs in any form, but this was a desperate situation. And more than that, if he took the drugs then George would feel less pain as well.
In the end, that was really why he did it.
Patrick nodded and he grabbed the canteen of bitter tea. The was thirsty anyway, and that probably helped in choking it down. The taste hit his tongue and he choked a little, his throat closing down against the bitterness. Patrick pulled the canteen away from his face for a moment, and he took a deep breath before continuing to drink the rest. When he finished, he shoved the ball of opium in his mouth and he washed the taste of it away with the water, which tasted like the most amazing thing in the world after the rest of George's secret treasures. In fact, when it was gone, he wished he had more of it.
He knew the opium would wear off. He knew whatever George did to him, it would hurt later, but the pain would be less than if he felt it while it was happening to him.
With his head already swimming a little, Patrick looked up at his brother. "Be strong, brother. You make it look good and I'll make it sound good." He reached for George's hand, his own shaking ever so slightly. "Don't risk yourself going easy on me."
George nodded, pulling Patrick to his feet and wrapping an arm under his shoulders to support him. The amount he'd given Patrick would probably be fatal or at least very dangerous to a normal human. George could only hope it would keep his brother under a haze long enough.
He kissed Patrick on the cheek, just once, before leading him over to a set of chains in the center of the room and stripping his clothes off. He bound Patrick's hands at about head level to keep the circulation in them from being cut off. He noticed the way Patrick was swaying already, and grabbed one of the stools scattered around the room.
"Kneel on this," he said, before stepping away from Patrick to stare at the various weapons hanging on the wall.
George understood torture. He'd been a Roman heretic, after all, and the Romans had taken their torture very seriously. If he tried he could remember knives cutting into his skin, iron rods breaking his bones, being held down and-
George shook his head. He tried not to remember. But he'd lived through the Inquisition, and he'd been a Crusader, and the point of it all was that he understood torture and how to do it.
His back was ramrod staight as he sorted through the implements of pain scattered about the room. His hands didn't shake. He was, by all outward appearances, perfectly calm.
A whip with multiple tails, small bits of metal woven into the tips.
A good assortment of knives, several with serrated edges to make the cuts more jagged.
Iron rods that could be heated using the fire burning in a corner of the room.
Thumbscrews.
George laid them out across a table near Patrick, arranging them all carefully and giving the drugs time to fully enter Patrick's system. Finally, he turned back to face his brother. He took Patrick by the chin, noting that his breathing was slower and the way his pupils were starting to shrink even in the darkness of the room. Good.
"I'm going to whip you first," George said, holding up the whip to show Patrick before moving around to his back.
George's face remained expressionless as he raised the whip and swung.
As the whip cracked across his back, Patrick felt his flesh part. The bits of metal dug into him and it was as if his brain knew it should hurt, and yet those pain receptors which should be on fire right now were blocked.
The first time the whip cracked across his back Patrick didn't scream, he moaned. The sensation was unpleasant, but not painful. It was hard to concentrate now on making a show of pain for any listening ear which might press itself against the door in passing while his head was swimming the way it was.
Patrick drew a ragged breath, and then the whip cracked across his back again. He winced and squeezed his eyes shut, pulling slightly against the chains that held his arms tightly.
Then he started to pray out loud in Latin. It helped him focus his thoughts. Each time the whip hit his back, Patrick cried out and his prayer was broken. He would return to it, his voice panicky and his Latin rough. He never had been wonderful at it. Concentrating on declining words correctly was better than concentrating on the dull feeling of his brother whipping his back to shreds.
"I won't tell you anything," Patrick cried out for good measure, his voice sufficiently panicky and pained.
George kept silent, beginning to circle around Patrick with the whip once his back was sufficiently bloodied. The tails created harsh, red patterns across his ribs, his stomach, his arms. George struck a few spots several times to increase the bleeding and the bruising.
A light sheen of sweat covered him by the time that he was done, and some of Patrick's skin was hanging off in strips.
"The knife comes next," George said, stepping up to Patrick and taking him by the chin again. His brother still seemed fairly addled, which was good. "How are you holding up?"
George had circled him with the whip and all Patrick felt was strange discomfort and the grim knowledge that once the drugs wore off, he wouldn't be able to move for quite some time.
When George took his chin, Patrick stared up at him. His tongue felt heavy and thick and he tried to articulate that he wasn't fantastic, but he could take more. What he said was, "fine. Jus' do it, George." His body was feeling heavy and remaining upright wasn't easy.
Seeing his brother come at him with a knife wouldn't be either. At least when the whip started, George had been behind him.
George had a very hard-earned knowledge of where a human being could be cut without risking them bleeding to death. He had never expected to use it on Patrick.
He went to work on the front of Patrick first, since he knew that would be the hardest part. His brother's skin split easily, streaking red trails of his blood winding down his skin. There was no real pattern to his cuts, but George made sure to smear to the blood occasionally, to make Patrick look even worse.
Once he was satisfied with Patrick's front, he walked around and went to work on his back, carving new lines of red around the whip marks. It was almost hypnotic, in a way, seeing the skin split around the knife. George wondered if he wasn't going a little crazy.
The knife and George's hand were soaked with blood by the time he was done.
"I'm going to open the door for a minute, so I have to move the stool," George said, keeping his voice low and soothing. "Just hang there and look unhappy."
He rapped sharply on the door once Patrick was situated, trying not to look like he was about to vomit. To the guards, he said, "I'll need some water, if you wouldn't mind." He held up his blood-covered hand. "Messy, thirsty work."
Patrick had no trouble hanging there, looking unhappy. Even as high as he was, he had still watched George cut into his flesh. He couldn't feel the physical pain, but emotionally he felt it all.
Patrick let the chains take his body weight, which pulled at his wrists, but he couldn't care. He hung his head forward and even though he tried to stop himself, Patrick started to cry.
It wasn't from pain, nor for anything happening to him. It was for George. Patrick couldn't keep a sob from escaping his lips, thanks to the state he was in. It probably only made it look better for the guards anyway. The broken and bleeding man in the middle of the room, crying for what they assumed was mercy for himself.
Patrick wanted mercy for George. He wanted mercy for the English people whom Henry was ruining for the love of whatever woman he chose to care about that week.
He didn't say a word, which was probably fortunate. It might have been obvious he was quite drugged had he started rambling about his brother and the unfairness of Henry while he hung there with his blood dripping in small rivers down his skin.
One of the guards brought him a bucket of water with a ladle in it, while the other peered into the room at Patrick curiously. George leaned against the door patiently, taking a sip of the cool water and letting the guards look their fill.
"Any luck with him?" one of them asked.
"None so far," George sighed. "You know how these types are."
"Good luck," the guard said sympathetically, nodding at him. The door was shut and bolted behind them with a heavy sound.
George dragged the stool back under Patrick, lifting his brother by the waist to help him back onto it. He raised the ladle full of water to Patrick's lips.
"Drink. It'll be worse later if you don't."
Patrick groaned, but he did as he was told. He panicked a little bit, afraid he might choke on his own tongue when he tried to swallow the water, but it went down like it was supposed to, even through Patrick's crying. It soothed his throat which, despite drinking quite a bit before this had begun, was now dry and scratchy thanks to his screams.
Then he hiccuped.
"George," he whispered, obviously trying hard to be quiet, so much so that it came out as something of a stage whisper. "I'm sorry, George."
That put George closer to crying than anything that had happened so far. He stroked Patrick's cheek softly, wanting to hug him and knowing that it would only hurt Patrick.
"Shh, shhh, don't apologize," George whispered. "This will all be fine, you'll see. We'll both get through this."
He made Patrick drink a bit more, then put the bucket down, being careful not to spill any of the water still inside. Then he wrapped the fabric that the Opium had come in around his hand and picked up one of the iron rods.
I can do this, he thought to himself, trying not to let his hands shake as he put the end of the rod into the fire, waiting until the metal started to glow red before he took it out again.
"This will burn you," George said, staring at the tip of the rod instead of at Patrick. He waited until the glow had faded from the metal before he pressed it to the side of Patrick's leg.
While the pain from the whip and the knife hadn't worked it's way through the drugs George had given him, the burn from the hot iron did. It probably hurt far less than if he hadn't been dosed up and if the metal had still been glowing red, but Patrick's screams were no longer theatrical.
Patrick wrapped his hands around the chains that held him in place, squeezing down on them so tightly his knuckles went white. His body tensed and he tried to pull his leg away from the iron, which caused him to fall slightly off the stool.
He couldn't beg George to stop because he knew that would mean George might. And the consequences that would stem from any course of action beyond this one, were worse than enduring anything George could throw at him.
He screamed anyway.
George almost dropped the iron, but worried the clanging sounds would make the guards open the door. Instead, he kept his grip on it even as the smell of Patrick's skin sizzling filled the air. He knelt down and ladled up some of the water, splashing it against the burn gently.
"Two more," George murmured, so low that he wasn't even sure Patrick could hear him. "Just two more."
Do it fast, he told himself, standing up and looking over which spot on Patrick was still unmarked. Biting his own lip so hard that he tasted blood, George pressed the iron to Patrick's arm. He kept it there until he smelled burning flesh, then moved it again to Patrick's ribs.
Shuddering, he stepped away from Patrick, put the iron down near the fireplace, and started vomiting. He felt like his stomach was trying to crawl out of his throat.
Unconsciousness, which would be a blessing right now, seemed to float just out of reach. The burns had caused yet more screaming, though now that the hot iron had been removed, the ache was dulled and the pain was manageable thanks to the opium.
It was the opium which made it hard to help George, and despite all he was enduring right now, Patrick wanted nothing more than to comfort his brother as well.
"Brother," he whispered softly. And then he said the only think his pained and addled mind could think of to give George strength. "I love you."
George heard Patrick speaking in between the dry heaves. When he finally had some control over himself, he looked up at Patrick and tried to smile.
"I know. I love you, too."
He splashed some of the water in his mouth, and gave most of the rest for Patrick. Trying to still the shaking in his limbs, George leaned back against the table.
"One more, Patty," George said softly. "One more thing, and then we're done."
He picked up two sets of thumbscrews, squeezing Patrick's hands gently before slipping the vises over his fingers. He tightened both sets around Patrick's fingers, just to the point where it would be uncomfortable.
"Everything is going to be fine," George said, and he wasn't sure whether he was saying it for Patrick's benefit or his own. He'd saved the thumbscrews for last so that Patrick could at least clench his hands throughout everything else, and now...
George took a deep breath and moved quickly. He tightened each vise hard and fast, much faster than they were intended to be turned. He heard Patrick's fingers snap, the sound like dried twigs cracking. Once he was sure Patrick's fingers were broken, he slid the thumbscrews off again and let them clank onto the table.
Patrick bit his lip as George tightened the thumbscrews, obviously trying to make it look like he had slowly tightened them while Patrick refused to answer questions. He had done so fast instead and the sudden breaking of his fingers caused Patrick to scream, even through his bitten lip.
When George returned the thumbscrews to the table, Patrick watched him wearily, no longer able to hold onto the chains with his broken fingers.
The drugs were still very much doing their job and even so, Patrick's body was a myriad of dully throbbing aches and pains. The show would be good enough to keep suspicion away from George and Patrick would be sentenced. Most likely he would be sentenced to die. That, Patrick mused, would be better than this by miles.
Sometimes it took months for a sentence to be passed down. It had to wait until the courts got around to it, and Henry's courts were kept very busy. It was likely Patrick would be kept in the tower for a long while yet and George wouldn't be able to see him. It wouldn't be safe.
This might be the last time he saw his brother in a long time, and this is what had occurred between them.
"George," Patrick croaked. "Do you...d'you remember the kelpies?" he asked, grimacing toothily at his brother in place of a smile. He coughed a few times, causing him to moan. "Urgh. Thought we were in trouble. But we were alright in the end. We'll be alright."
George leaned his forehead against Patrick's, stroking his sweaty hair away from his face.
"I remember," George said, closing his eyes. "We got through that, we can get through this."
He tried to smile for Patrick. "I'll talk to Henry, tell him that you won't break, that you're too dangerous to be kept alive long. You'll be free before you know it."
Having his brother assure him he would do his best to have Patrick killed quickly might have unnerved him, had the circumstances been different. But right now, it sounded like the most reassuring thing in the world.
"Thank you, George," Patrick whispered. He leaned his forehead against George's for a moment longer and then he said, "can I rest now?"
"Yes," George said, kissing Patrick on the forehead. "You can rest. They'll take you back to your cell, all right?"
Carefully, he moved the stool out from under Patrick's legs. He stroked Patrick's hair one more time. For all that he'd been desperate to end this and get himself and Patrick out of this room, he was equally desperate not to leave now.
One of the prayers Patrick had written flashed through George's mind, and he murmured part of it to his brother as they stood there.
"I bind to myself today
The power of Heaven,
The light of the sun,
The brightness of the moon,
The splendour of fire,
The flashing of lightning,
The swiftness of wind,
The depth of sea,
The stability of earth,
The compactness of rocks."
"You're as strong as any of those," George whispered afterwards. "You are."
Then he stepped away from Patrick and squared his shoulders. He knocked sharply on the door and schooled his features into something like an irritated expression.
"Nothing at all?" the one of the guards asked.
"Nothing," George spat. "Take him back to his cell."