“Please . . . stop! I . . . will tell you . . . about the doublet . . . Her majesty . . .”
“Her Majesty!” said Cromwell, smiling suddenly.
“Loosen the rope. Bring him a little water. Her Majesty?” he prompted.
“Her Majesty thought I was ill-clad, and since I was to be her musician, she gave money for the doublet. . . .”
“The Queen gave you money. . . .” One large cold finger pointed to the ruby. “And the ring . . . ?”
“I . . .”
“The rope, you fools! Tighten it! You were too soft before. . . .”
“No!” screamed Mark. “You said . . . water . . .”
“Then who gave you the ring?”
“The Queen . . .”
“Give him water. The Queen then gave you the ruby ring.”
Mark drank; the room was swimming round and round; the ceiling dipped. He could see the river through the window—it looked faint and far away; he heard the sound of singing on a passing barge. Oh, were I but there! thought Mark.
“I would know why the Queen gave you the ruby.”
That was easy. “She was pleased with my playing . . . She is a most generous lady . . .”
“Over-generous with her favors, I’ll warrant!”
He felt sick. This was no way to speak of the Queen. He wanted to stand up, push aside that bland, smiling face, run out into the fresh air, run to the Queen.
“You were most friendly with the Queen?”
“She was most gracious . . .”
“Come, no evasions! You know full well my meaning. The Queen gave you money, clothes, and a ruby ring. Well, why not? She is young, and so are you. You are a handsome boy.”
“I understand not . . .”
“Subterfuge will not help you. You are here, on the King’s command, to answer questions. You are the Queen’s lover!”
The shock of those words set his head throbbing anew; he could still feel the tight pressure of the rope about his head, although in actual fact it was quite loose now; the torture had stopped for a while. He felt very ill; the blood was still trickling down his face from the cut which the rope had made. Oh, why had he accepted an invitation to dine with Thomas Cromwell! Now he knew what people meant when they talked with fear of Cromwell. Now he knew why they would suddenly stop talking when Cromwell appeared.
Cromwell rapped on the table with his knuckles.
“Tighten the rope.”
“No!” screamed Mark.
“Now. Speak the truth, or it will be worse for you. You are the Queen’s lover. You have committed adultery with the Queen. Answer! Answer yes!”
“No!” sobbed Mark.
He could not bear this. He was screaming with the pain; it seemed to him that his blood was pounding against the top of his head, threatening to burst it. It gushed from his nose. He alternately moaned and screamed.
Cromwell said: “You must tell the truth. You must admit this crime you and she have committed.”
“I have committed no crime! She . . . she . . . is a queen . . . No, no! Please . . . please . . . I cannot bear it . . . I cannot . . .”
One of the men was putting vinegar beneath his nose, and he realized that he had enjoyed a second or two of blessed unconsciousness.
Cromwell gripped his chin and jerked his head up violently, so that it seemed as if a hundred knives had been plunged into his head.
“This is nothing to what will follow, if you do not answer my questions. Admit that you have committed adultery with the Queen.”
“’Twould be but an untruth . . .”
Cromwell banged on the table; the noise was like hammer blows on his aching head.
“You committed adultery with the Queen . . . Tighten up . . . Tighter, you fools! Tighter . . .”
“No!” screamed Mark. And then the smell of vinegar, mingling with that of blood, told him he had lost consciousness again.
He sobbed: “I cannot . . . I cannot . . .”
“Listen,” snarled Cromwell, “you committed adultery with the Queen . . .” The great hand shot up and seized the stick from the hands of his servant. “There! There! You committed adultery with the Queen. You committed adultery with the Queen . . . Admit it! Admit it!”
Mark screamed. “Anything . . . anything . . . Please . . . I cannot . . . I cannot . . . endure . . . my head . . .”
“You admit it then?”
“I admit . . .”
“You committed adultery with the Queen . . .”
He was crying, and his tears mingled with the blood and sweat . . . and that hateful smell of vinegar would not let him sink into peace. He had longed to die for her, and he could not bear a little pain for her. A little pain! Oh, but it was such exquisite torture; his head was bursting, bleeding; he had never known there could be agony like this.
Cromwell said; “He admits adultery with the Queen. Take him away.”
They had to carry him, for when he stood up he could see nothing but a blur of paneled walls, and light from the window, and a medley of cruel faces. He could not stand; so they carried him to a dark chamber in which they left him, locked in. And as he sank to the floor, he lost consciousness once more.
He lay there, half fainting, not aware of the room nor even what had gone before. He knew nothing except that there was a pain that maddened him, and that it was in his head. In his mouth he tasted blood; the smell of vinegar clung to his clothes, devilishly not allowing him to rest in that dark world for which he longed.
He was semi-conscious, thinking he was in his father’s cottage, thinking he sat at the feet of the Queen, and that darkness for which he longed was her eyes, as black as night, as beautiful as forgetfulness.
But now someone was beating with a hammer on his head, and it was hurting him abominably. He awakened screaming, and knew suddenly that he was not in his father’s cottage, nor at the feet of the Queen; he was in a dark room in Thomas Cromwell’s house at Stepney, and he had been tortured . . . and what had he said? What had he said?
He had lied; he had lied about her for whom he would have died! Sobs shook his slender body. He would tell them . . . he would tell them he lied; he would explain. It hurt me so that I knew not what I said. She is a great, good lady. How could I have said that of her! How could I so demean her . . . and myself! But I could not bear the pain in my head; it was maddening. I could not endure it, Your Most Gracious Majesty! For that reason I lied.
He must pray for strength. He must do anything, but he must explain that he had lied. He could not let them believe . . .
He lay groaning in the dark, misery of body forgotten because he mourned so sincerely what he had done. Even though I assure them it is not so, I said it . . . I failed her.
He was almost glad when they came to him. That cruel man was with them.
Mark stammered: “I lied . . . It was not so. The pain was too much for me.”
“Can you stand?” asked Cromwell in a voice that was almost solicitous.
He could stand. He felt better. There was a terrible throbbing in his head, but the frightening giddiness had passed. He felt strengthened. No matter what they did to him, he would tell no more lies. He was ready to go to the scaffold for the Queen.
“This way,” said Cromwell.
The cool air fanned his burning face, setting his wounds to smart. He reeled, but there were those to support him. He was too dazed to wonder where he was going. They led him down the privy stairs to a barge.
He could feel the river breeze; he could smell the river, tar and sea salt mingling with blood and vinegar. He felt steady with purpose; he pictured himself going to the scaffold for her sake; but first though, he must make it clear that he had lied, that only such frightening, maddening torture could have made him lie about her.
The river was shot with darkness, for evening was advancing. The barge was being moored; he was prodded and told to get out. Above him loomed a dark, gray tower; he mounted the steps and went over the stone bridge. They were going to put him in the Tower! He was suddenly sick; the sight of the Tower had done that to him. What now? Why should they take him to the Tower? What had he done? He had accepted money, he had accepted a ring; they were gifts from a queen to one whose music had pleased her. He had committed no crime.
“This way,” said Cromwell. A door was unlocked; they passed through it. They were in a dark passage whose walls were slimy; and there was a noisome smell coming up from below the dismal spiral staircase which they were descending.
A man with a lantern appeared. Their shadows were grotesque on the walls.
“Come along,” said Cromwell, almost gently.
They were in one of the many passages which ran under the great fortress. The place was damp and slimy; little streams trickled across the earthen floor, and rats scuttled away at their approach.
“You are in the Tower of London, Smeaton.”
“That I have realized. For what reason have I been brought here?”
“You will know soon enough. Methought I would like to show you the place.”
“I would rather go back. I would have you know that when I said . . . when I said what I did . . . that I lied . . .”
Cromwell held up a thick finger.
“An interesting place, this Tower of London. I thought you would enjoy a tour of inspection before we continue with our cross-examination.”
“I . . . I understand not . . .”
“Listen! Ah! We are nearer the torture chambers. How that poor wretch groans! Doubtless ’tis the rack that stretches his body. These rogues! They should answer questions, and all would be well with them.”
Mark vomited suddenly. The smell of the place revolted him, his head was throbbing, he was in great pain, and he felt he could not breathe in this confined space.
“You will be better later,” said Cromwell. “This place has a decided effect on those who visit it for the first time . . . Here! Someone comes . . .”
He drew Mark to one side of the loathsome passage. Uncanny screams, like those of a madman, grew louder, and peering in the dim light, Mark saw that they issued from the bloody head of what appeared to be a man who was coming towards them; he walked between two strong men in the uniform of warders of the Tower, who both supported and restrained him. Mark gasped with horror; he could not take his eyes from that gory thing which should have been a head; blood dripped from it, splashing Mark’s clothes as the man reeled past, struggling in his agony to dash his head against the wall and so put an end to his misery.
Cromwell’s voice was silky in his ear.
“They have cut off his ears. Poor fool! I trow he thought it smart to repeat what he’d heard against the King’s Grace.”
Mark could not move; it seemed to him that his legs were rooted to this noisome spot; he put out a hand and touched the slimy wall.
“Come on!” said Cromwell, and pushed him.
They went on; Mark was dazed with what he had seen. I am dreaming this, he thought. This cannot be; there could never be such things as this!
The passages led past cells, and Cromwell would have the man shine his lantern into these, that Mark might see for himself what befell those who saw fit to displease the King. Mark looked; he saw men more dead than alive, their filthy rags heaving with the movement of vermin, their bones protruding through their skin. These men groaned and blinked, shutting their eyes from that feeble light, and their clanking chains seemed to groan with them. He saw what had been men, and were now mere bones in chains. He saw death, and smelled it. He saw the men cramped in the Little Ease, so paralyzed by this form of confinement that when Cromwell called to one of them to come out, the man, though his face lit up with a sudden hope of freedom, could not move.
The lantern was shone into the gloomy pits where rats swam and squeaked in a ferocious chorus as they fought one another over dying men. He saw men, bleeding and torn from the torture chambers; he heard their groans, saw their bleeding hands and feet, their mutilated fingers from which the nails had been pulled, their poor, shapeless, bleeding mouths from which their teeth had been brutally torn.
“These dungeons have grown lively during the reign of our most Christian King,” said Cromwell. “There will always be fools who know not when they are fortunate . . . Come, Master Smeaton, we are at our destination.”
They were in a dimly lighted chamber which seemed to Mark’s dazed eyes to be hung with grotesque shapes. He noticed first the table, for at this table sat a man, and set before him were writing materials. He smelled in this foul air the sudden odor of vinegar, and the immediate effect of this—so reminiscent of his pain—was to make him retch. In the center of this chamber was a heavy stone pillar from which was projected a long iron bar, and slung around this was a rope at the end of which was a hook. Mark stared at this with wonder, until Cromwell directed his gaze to that ponderous instrument of torture nicknamed the Scavenger’s Daughter; it was a simple construction, like a wide iron hoop, which by means of screws could be tightened about its victim’s body.
“Our Scavenger’s Daughter!” said Cromwell. “One would not care for that wench’s embrace. Very different, Smeaton, from the arms of her who is thought by many to be the fairest lady of the court!”
Mark stared at his tormentor, as a rabbit stares at a stoat. He was as if petrified, and while he longed to scream, to run to dash himself against the walls in an effort to kill himself—as that other poor wretch had done—he could do nothing but stand and stare at those instruments of torture which Cromwell pointed out to him.
“The gauntlets, Smeaton! A man will hang from these . . . Try them on? Very well. I was saying . . . they would be fixed on yonder hook which you see there, and a man would hang for days in such torture as you cannot . . . yet imagine. And all because he will not answer a few civil questions. The folly of men, Smeaton, is past all believing!”
Mark shuddered, and the sweat ran down his body.
“The thumbscrews, Smeaton. See, there is blood on them. The Spanish Collar . . . see these spikes! Not pleasant when pressed into the flesh. How would you like to be locked into such a collar and to stay there for days on end? But no, you would not be unwise, Smeaton. Methinks you are a cultured man; you are a musician; you have musician’s hands. Would it not be a pity were those beautiful hands fixed in yon gauntlets! They say men have been known to lose the use of their hands after hanging from that beam.”
Mark was trembling so that he could no longer stand.
“Sit here,” said Cromwell, and sat with him. Regaining his composure to some small extent, Mark looked about him. They were sitting on a wooden frame shaped like a trough, large enough to contain a human body. At each end of this frame were fixed windlasses on which rope was coiled.
Smeaton screamed aloud. “The rack!” he cried.
“Clever of you, Smeaton, to have guessed aright. But fear not. You are a wise young man; you will answer the questions I ask, and you will have no need of the rack nor her grim sister, the Scavenger’s Daughter.”
Mark’s mouth was dry, and his tongue was too big for it.
“I . . . I cannot . . . I lied . . .”
Cromwell lifted a hand. Two strong men appeared and, laying hands on the shivering boy, began stripping off his clothes.
