by Jean Plaidy
“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.
Mark tried to picture the face of the Queen; he could see her clearly. He must keep that picture before him, no matter what they did to him. If he could but remember her face…if…
He was half fainting as they laid him in the frame and fastened the loops of the ropes to his wrists and ankles.
Cromwell’s face was close to his.
“Smeaton, I would not have them do this to you. Dost know what happens to men who are racked? Some lose their reason. There are some who never walk again. This is pain such as you cannot dream of, Smeaton. Just answer my questions.” He nodded to his attendants to be ready. “Smeaton, you have committed adultery with the Queen.”
“No!”
“You have admitted it. You admitted it at Stepney; you cannot go back on that.”
“I was tortured…The pain…it was too much…”
“So you admitted the truth. Did I not tell you that what you have known so far was naught? You are on the rack, Smeaton. One sign from me, and those men will begin to work it. Will you answer my questions?”
“I lied…I did not…”
He could see her face clearly, smiling at him; her eyes were great wells of blessed darkness; to lose oneself in that darkness would be to die, and death was the end of pain.
“Begin,” said Cromwell. The windlasses turned outwards…Smeaton felt his body was being torn apart; he screamed, and immediately lost consciousness.
Vinegar. That hateful smell that would not let a man rest.
“Come Smeaton! You committed adultery with the Queen.”
He could still see her face, but it was blurred now.
“You committed adultery with the Queen…”
There was nothing but pain, pain that was a thousand red hot needles pressing into the sockets of his arms and legs; he could feel his joints cracking; he felt they must be breaking. He began to groan.
“Yes, yes…yes…anything…But…”
“Enough!” said Cromwell, and the man at the table wrote.
Mark was sobbing. It seemed to him that they poured the accursed vinegar over his face. They sprinkled it on with the brush he had seen hanging on the wall, adding fresh smarts to his bleeding head; causing him to shrink, which in its turn made him scream afresh, for every movement was acute torture.
Cromwell’s voice came from a long way off.
“There were others, beside yourself, Smeaton.”
Others? He knew not what the man meant. He knew nothing but pain, pain, excruciating pain that shot all over his flesh; this was all the pain he had ever thought there could be; this was all the pain in the world. And more than pain of the body—pain of the mind. For he would have died for her, and he had betrayed her, he had lied; he had lied about her; he had said shameful things of her because…he…could not bear the pain.
“Their names?” said Cromwell.
“I know…no names.”
Not vinegar again! I cannot bear it…I cannot bear pain and vinegar…not both! He broke into deep sobs.
“You shall rest if you but tell us their names.”
How could he know of what the man was speaking? Names? What names? He thought he was a little boy at his mother’s spinning wheel. “Little Mark! He is a pretty boy. Here is a sweetmeat, Mark…And he sings prettily too. And he plays the virginals…Mark, how would you like a place at court? The King loves music mightily…”
“Begin again!” ordered Cromwell.
“No!” shrieked Mark.
“The names,” murmured Cromwell.
“I…I…know…not…”
It was coming again, the agony. There was never agony such as this. Burning pincers…the wrenching apart of his muscles…the wicked rack was tearing off his limbs. Vinegar. Accursed vinegar.
“Mark Smeaton, you have committed adultery with the Queen. Not you alone! You were not to blame, Mark; the Queen tempted you, and who were you, a humble musician, to say nay to the Queen! But you were not alone in this, Mark; there were others. There were noble gentlemen, Mark…Come now, you have had enough of this rack; men cannot be racked forever—you know that, Mark. It drives men mad. Just say their names, Mark. Come! Was it Wyatt?”
“There was none…I know not. I lied. Not I…I…”
No, not again. He was going mad. He could not endure more. Her face was becoming blurred. He must stop, stop. He was going mad. He would not say what they told him to. He must not say Wyatt’s name…
They were putting vinegar under his nose. They were going to turn the rack again.
He saw the court, as clearly as though he were there. She was smiling, and someone was standing beside her.
“Norris!” he screamed. “Norris!”
Cromwell’s voice was gentle, soothing.
“Norris, Mark. That is good. That is right. Who else, Mark? Just whisper…”
“Norris! Brereton! Weston!” screamed Mark.
He was unconscious as they unbound him and carried his tortured body away.
Cromwell watched them, smiling faintly. It had been a good day’s work.
The next day was the first of May. May Day was a favorite court festival which the King never failed to keep. At one time he had been the hero of the tiltyard, but now that his leg was troublesome, he must sit back and watch others take the glory of the day. The chief challenger on this day would be Lord Rochford, and the chief of the defenders, Henry Norris. It was not pleasant, when one had been more skillful than they, to realize age was creeping on, turning one into a spectator instead of a brilliant performer who had held the admiration of the entire court.
Cromwell came to see the King before he went to the tiltyard. Henry frowned on the man, not wishing to see him now, but for once Cromwell would not be waved aside; he had news, disturbing news, news which should not be withheld from His Majesty one second longer than necessary. Cromwell talked; the King listened. He listened in silence, while his eyes seemed to sink into his head and his face grew as purple as his coat.
Down in the tiltyard they were awaiting the arrival of the King. The Queen was already in her place, but obviously the jousts could not start without the King. He went to the yard, and took his place beside her. The tilt began.
He was aware of her beside him; he was trembling with jealous rage. He was thinking. This is the woman to whom I have given everything; the best years of my life, my love, my throne. For her I broke with Rome; for her I risked the displeasure of my people. And how does she reward me? She betrays me with any man that takes her fancy!
He did not know who tilted below; he did not care. Red mist swam before his eyes. He glanced sideways at her; she was more beautiful than she had ever seemed, and more remote than she had been in her father’s garden at Hever. She had tricked him; she had laughed at him; and he had loved her passionately and exclusively. He was a king, and he had loved her; she was a nobody, the daughter of a man who owed his advancement to the favor of his king…and she had flouted him. Never had she loved him; she had loved a throne and a crown, and she had reluctantly taken him because she could not have them without him. His throat was dry with the pain she had caused him; his heart beat wildly with anger. His eyes were murderous; he wanted her to suffer all the pain she had inflicted on him
—not as he had suffered, but a thousand times more so. It galled him that even now she was not one half as jealous of Jane Seymour as he was of Norris down there in the yard.
He looked at Norris—one of his greatest and most intimate friends—handsome, not as young as those others, Weston, Brereton and Smeaton, but with a distinguished air, a charm of manner, a gracious, gentle, knightly air. He loathed Norris, of whom a short while ago he had been very fond. There was her brother, Rochford; he had liked that young man; he had been glad to raise him for his own sake as well as his sister’s; gay, amusing, devilishly witty and attractive…and now Cromwell had discovered that Rochford had said unforgivable, disloyal, treasonable things of his royal master; he had laughed at the King’s verses, laughed at the King’s clothes; he had most shamefully—and for this he deserved to die—disparaged the King’s manhood, had laughed at him and whispered that the reason why the King’s wives could not have children successfully was that the King himself was at fault.
Smeaton…that low-born creature who had nothing to recommend him but his pretty face and his music had pleased her more than he himself had. He, King of England, had begged her, had implored her, had bribed her with offers of greatness, and reluctantly she had accepted—not for love of him, but because she could not refuse a glittering crown.
He was mad with rage, mad with jealousy; furious with her that she could still hurt him thus, and that he was so vulnerable even now when he planned to cast her off. He could leap on her now…and if he had a knife in his hand he would plunge it into her heart; nothing would satisfy him, nothing…nothing but that her blood should flow; he would stab her himself, rejoicing to see her die, rejoicing that no one else should enjoy her.
The May sunshine was hot on his face; the sweat glistening across his nose. He did not see the jousts; he could see nothing but her making such voluptuous love with others as she had never given him. He had been jealous of her before; he had been ready to torture those who had glanced at her, but that had been complacent jealousy; now he could be jealous by reason of his knowledge, he could even fill in the forms of her lovers—Norris! Weston! Brereton! Wyatt? And that Smeaton! How dare she, she whom he had made a Queen! Even a humble boy could please her more than he could!
His attention was suddenly caught, for her handkerchief had fluttered from her hand; she was smiling, smiling at Norris; and Norris picked up the handkerchief, bowed, handed it to her on the point of his lance while they exchanged smiles that seemed like lovers’ smiles to Henry’s jealous eyes.
The joust continued. His tongue was thick, his throat was dry; he was filled with mad rage which he knew he could not continue to control. If he stayed here he would shout at her, he would take her by the beautiful hair which he had loved to twine about his fingers, and he would twist it about that small white neck, and tighten it and tighten it until there was no life left in the body he had loved too well.
She spoke to him. He did not hear what she said. He stood up; he was the King, and everything he did was of importance. How many of those people, who now turned startled eyes on him, had laughed at him for the complaisant husband he had appeared to be, had laughed at his blind devotion to this woman who had tricked him and deceived him with any man she fancied in his court!
It was the signal for the jousting to end. How could it go on, when the King no longer wished to see it? Anne was not so surprised, that she would attach too much importance to the strange behavior of the King; he had been curt with her often enough of late; she guessed he had left Greenwich for White Hall, as he often went to London to see Jane Seymour.
The King was on his way to White Hall. He had given orders that Rochford and Weston should be arrested as they were leaving the tiltyard. Norris he had commanded to ride back with him.
He could not take his eyes from that handsome profile; there was a certain nobility about Norris that angered the King; he was tall and straight, and his gentle character was apparent in the finely cut profile and the mobile mouth. He was a man to be jealous of. The King had heard that Norris was about to engage himself to Madge Shelton who at one time—and that not so long ago—had pleased the King himself. Henry had wished him well of Madge; she was a very attractive woman, lively and clever and good-looking. The King had tired of her quickly; the only woman he did not tire of quickly was Anne Boleyn. And she…The anger came surging up again. The wanton! The slut! To think that he, who had always admired virtue in women, should have been cursed with a wife who was known throughout his court for her wanton ways! It was too much. She had known that he admired virtue in those about him; and she had laughed at him, jeered at him…with her brother and Weston and Brereton and Norris…
He leaned forward in his saddle and said, his voice quivering with rage: “Norris, I know thee for what thou art, thou traitor!”
Norris almost fell from the saddle, so great was his surprise.
“Your Majesty…I know not…”
“You know not! I’ll warrant you know well enough. Ha! You start, do you! Think you not that I am a fool, a man to stand aside and let his inferiors amuse themselves with his wife. I accuse you of adultery with the Queen!”
“Sir…this is a joke…”
“This is no joke, Norris, and well you know it!”
“Then it is the biggest mistake that has ever been made.”
“You would dare to deny it?” foamed the King.
“I deny it utterly, Your Majesty.”
“Your lies and evasions will carry little weight with me, Norris.”
“I can only repeat, Sir, that I am guiltless of that of which you accuse me,” said Norris with dignity.
All the rich blood had left the King’s usually florid face, showing a network of veins against a skin grown pallid.
“’Twill be better if you do not lie to me, Norris. I am in no mood to brook such ways. You will confess to me here and now.”
“There is naught I can confess, my lord. I am guiltless of this charge you bring against me.”
“Come, come! You know, as all in the court know, how the Queen conducts herself.”
“I assure Your Most Gracious Majesty that I know naught against the Queen.”
“You have not heard rumors! Come, Norris, I warn you I am not in the mood for dalliance.”
“I have heard no rumors, Sir.”
“Norris, I offer you pardon, for you know that I have loved you well, if you will confess to your adultery.”
“I would rather die a thousand deaths, my lord, than accuse the Queen of that which I believe her, in my conscience, innocent.”
The King’s fury almost choked him. He said no more until they reached Westminster. Then, calling to him the burly bully Fitzwilliam, whom Cromwell had chosen to be his lieutenant, he bade the man arrest Norris and dispatch him to the Tower.
Anne, sitting down to supper in Greenwich Palace, felt the first breath of uneasiness.
She said to Madge Shelton: “Where is Mark? He does not seem to be in his accustomed place.”
“I do not know what has happened to Mark, Your Majesty,” answered Madge.
“If I remember aright, I did not notice him last night. I hope he is not sick.”
“I do not know, Madam,” said Madge, and Anne noticed that her cousin’s eyes did not meet hers; it was as though the girl was afraid.
Later she said: “I do not see Norris. Madge, is it not strange that they should both absent themselves? Where is Norris, Madge? You should know.”
“He has said nothing to me, Madam.”
“What! He is indeed a neglectful lover; I should not allow it, Madge.”
Her voice had an edge to it. She well knew, and Madge well knew that though Norris was supposed to be in love with Madge, it was the Queen who received his attention. Madge was charming; she could attract easily, but she could not hold men to her as her cousin did. Weston had been attracted to Madge once, until he had felt the deeper and irresistible attraction of the Queen.
“I know no
t what is holding him,” said Madge.
Anne said: “You know not who is holding him, you mean!” And when she laughed, her laughter was more than usually high-pitched.
It was a strange evening; people whispered together in the corridors of the palace.
“What means this?”
“Did you see the way His Majesty left the tiltyard?”
“They say Norris, Weston and Brereton are missing.”
“Where is Mark Smeaton? Surely they would not arrest little Mark!”
The Queen was aware of this strange stillness about her; she called for the musicians, and while they played to her, sat staring at Mark’s empty place. Where was Norris? Where was Weston? Why did Brereton continue to absent himself?
She spent a sleepless night, and in the early morning fell into a heavy doze from which she awakened late. All during the morning the palace abounded in rumor. Anne heard the whispering voices, noted the compassionate glances directed at her, and was increasingly uneasy.
She sat down to dinner, determined to hide the terrible apprehension that was stealing over her. When she did not dine with the King, His Majesty would send his waiter to her with the courteous message: “Much good may it do you!” On this day she waited in vain for the King’s messenger; and as soon as the meal was over and the surnap was removed, there came one to announce the arrival at Greenwich of certain members of the council, and with them, to her disgust, was her uncle the Duke of Norfolk.
Her uncle looked truculent and self-righteous, pleased with himself, as though that which he had prophesied had come to pass. He behaved, not as a courtier to a queen, but as a judge to a prisoner.
“What means this?” demanded Anne.
“Pray be seated,” said Norfolk.
She hesitated, wanting to demand of him why he thought he might give her orders when to sit and when to stand; but something in his eyes restrained her. She sat down, her head held high, her eyes imperious.
“I would know why you think fit to come to me at this hour and disturb me with your presence. I would know…”
“You shall know,” said Norfolk grimly. “Smeaton is in the Tower. He had confessed to having committed adultery with you.”