The Duke of Haverford was gone, leaving behind only a monster, grotesque in body and mind—what could be seen of him between the bands of cloth that wrapped him to the bed on which he lay. “You keep him bound all the time?” Aldridge asked the nurses—or warders might be a better description.
The larger of the two currently on duty sounded apologetic. “Except for washing him twice a day, my lord, and that takes at least four of us. Had to, after he near killed himself banging his head against the walls.”
“The binding was at my instruction, my lord,” said one of the two doctors Aldridge had retained. “He was violent and uncontrollable. It is in our report, my lord.” The other doctor had been dismissed after loftily informing Aldridge that his colleagues and the London doctors Aldridge had consulted did not know what they were talking about.
Aldridge had read the report in London. A litany of injuries to the warders and even one of the doctors. Multiple attempts to break out from the tower rooms to which Haverford was confined, three temporarily successful. And repeated self-inflicted injuries as he fought even his own body.
The words on paper had not prepared Aldridge for the deterioration in the three months since he last visited. He had hated and feared his father for most of his adult life. Despised him, too. But this miserable animal was not that man.
Haverford might have reacted to the pity in Aldridge’s eyes, or perhaps some lingering intelligence sensed Aldridge’s authority over the others in the room, for he strove mightily to reach the son he did not recognise, struggling to break free from his restraints, his eyes burning with hatred and his mouth spewing barely intelligible imprecations.
“It would be best to leave, my lord,” the doctor suggested. “We have made him as comfortable as we can, but he will hurt himself if he keeps fighting the bindings like that.”
“I’ll sing to him, my lord,” the largest warder offered. “Soothes him sometimes, it does.” And he began to sing a sentimental ballad in a pleasant tenor.
Aldridge led the doctors from the room. In the outer room, another warder sat watchful, waiting until he was needed. He leapt up and knocked on the door that gave access to the stairs. “It’s me, Frank,” he called. “His lordship is ready to leave.”
The bolts on the outside of the door rattled as they were disengaged. It was kept locked and bolted from the outside, and always attended by someone whose job was not only to allow authorised comings and goings but to act as a last line of defence should Haverford somehow manage to break out again.
Aldridge supposed the monster the duke had become might overwhelm all four of the warders during his wash, but four inches of solid oak fastened with iron must defeat him? Still, Haverford had broken out a number of times.
“Brandy, gentlemen?” he suggested to the doctors. He certainly planned to have one.
