Murder Most Royal: The Story of Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard

by Jean Plaidy

  Two days before Mark had received the invitation, Brereton did not come to the presence chamber. He heard the nobles’ speculating on what had happened to him. He had been seen in his barge—going whither? None could be sure.

  “On some gay adventure, I’ll warrant.” said the Queen. “We shall have to exact a confession from gay William, when he again presents himself!” And she was piqued, or feigned to be so; Mark was not sure; he could never be sure of the Queen; when she laughed most gaily, he sensed she was most near tears.

  She found him sitting in the window seat, his lute idle in his hands.

  She said softly: “Mark, you look sad! Tell me why.”

  He could not tell her that he had been thinking he was but a foolish boy, a boy whose father was a carpenter, a boy who had come far because of his skill in music, and he at the height of his triumph must be melancholy because he loved a queen.

  He said that it was of no importance that he was sad, for how could the sadness of her humblest musician affect so great a lady!

  She said then that she thought he might be sad because she may have spoken to him as an inferior person, and he would wish her to speak to him as though he were a nobleman.

  He bowed low and, overcome with embarrassment, murmured: “No, no, Madam. A look sufficeth me.”

  That was disturbing, because she was perhaps telling him that she knew of his ridiculous passion. She was clever; she was endowed with wit and subtlety; how was it possible to keep such a mighty secret from her!

  The next day he took a barge to Stepney. Cromwell’s house stood back from the river, which lapped its garden. Smeaton scrambled out and ascended the privy steps to the garden. A few years ago he would have been overawed by the splendor of the house he saw before him, but now he was accustomed to Greenwich and Windsor and Hampton Court; he noted it was just a comfortable riverside house.

  He went through the gates and across the courtyard. He knocked, and a servant opened the door. Would he enter? He was expected. He was led through the great hall to a small chamber and asked to sit. He did so, taking a chair near the window, through which he gazed at the sunshine sparkling on the river, thinking what a pleasant spot this was.

  The door must have been opened some time before he realized it, so silently was it done. In the doorway stood Thomas Cromwell. His face was very pale; his eyes were brilliant, as though they burned with some excitement. Surely he could not be excited by the visit of a humble court musician! But he was. This was decidedly flattering. In the court there were many who feared this man; when he entered a room, Mark had noticed, words died on people’s lips; they would lightly change a dangerous subject. Why had the great Thomas Cromwell sent for Mark Smeaton?

  Mark was aware of a hushed silence throughout the house. For the first time since he had received the invitation, he began to wonder if it was not as a friend that Cromwell had asked him. He felt the palms of his hands were wet with sweat; he was trembling so much that he was sure that if he were asked to play some musical instrument he would be unable to do so.

  Cromwell advanced into the room. He said: “It was good of you to come so promptly and so punctually.”

  “I would have you know, my lord,” said Mark humbly, “that I am by no means insensible of the honor . . .”

  Cromwell waved his thick and heavy hands, as though to say “Enough of that!” He was a crude man; he had never cultivated court graces, nor did he care that some might criticize his manners. The Queen might dislike him, turning her face from him fastidiously; he cared not a jot. The King might shout at him, call him rogue and knave to his face; still Thomas Cromwell cared not. Words would never hurt him. All he cared was that he might keep his head safely in the place where it was most natural for it to be.

  He walked silently and he gave the impression of creeping, for he was a heavy man. Once again Mark was aware of the silence all about him, and he felt a mad desire to leap through the window, run across the gardens to the privy stairs and take a barge down the river . . . no, not back to court where he could never be safe from this man’s cold gaze, but back to his father’s cottage, where he might listen to the gentle sawing of wood and his mother’s spinning wheel.

  He would have risen, but Cromwell motioned him to be seated, and came and stood beside him.

  “You have pleasant looking hands, Master Smeaton. Would they not be called musician’s hands?” Cromwell’s own hands were clammy as fish skin; he lifted one of Mark’s and affected to study it closely. “And what a pleasant ring! A most valuable ring; a ruby, is it not? You are a very fortunate young man to come by such a ring.”

  Smeaton looked at the ring on his finger, and felt that his face had flushed to the stone’s color; there was something so piercing in the cold eyes; he liked not to see them so close. The big, clumsy fingers touched the stone.

  “A gift, was it, Master Smeaton?”

  Mark nodded.

  “I should be pleased to hear from whom.”

  Mark tried to conceal the truth. He could not bear those cold hands to touch the ring; he could not bear to say to this crude man, “It was a gift from the Queen.” He was silent therefore, and Cromwell’s fingers pressed into his wrist.

  “You do not answer. Tell me, who gave you that most valuable ring?”

  “It was . . . from one of my patrons . . . one who liked my playing.”

  “Might I ask if it was a man . . . or a lady?”

  Mark slipped his hands beneath the table.

  “A man,” he lied.

  His arms were gripped so tightly that he let out a shriek for Cromwell’s hands were strong, and Mark was fragile as a girl.

  “You lie!” said Cromwell, and his voice was quiet and soft as silk.

  “I . . . no, I swear . . . I . . .”

  “Will you tell me who gave you the ring?”

  Mark stood up. “Sir, I came here on an invitation to dine with you. I had no idea that it was to answer your questions.”

  “You came here to dine,” said Cromwell expressionlessly. “Well, when you dine, boy, will depend on how readily you answer my questions.”

  “I know not by what authority . . .” stammered the poor boy, almost in tears.

  “On the authority of the King, you fool! Now will you answer my questions?”

  Sweat trickled down Smeaton’s nose. He had never before come face to face with violence. When the beggars had passed his father’s door, when he had seen men in the pillory or hanging from a gibbet, he had looked the other way. He could not bear to look on any distressing sight. He was an artist; when he saw misery, he turned from it and tried to conjure up music in his head that he might disperse his unhappy thoughts. And now, looking at Cromwell, he realized that he was face to face with something from which it was not possible to turn.

  “Who gave you the ring?” said Cromwell.

  “I . . . I told you. . . .” Smeaton covered his face with his hands, for tears were starting to his eyes, and he could not bear to look longer into the cold and brutal face confronting him.

  “Have done!” said Cromwell. “Now . . . ready?”

  Mark uncovered his eyes and saw that he was no longer alone with Cromwell. On either side of him stood two big men dressed as servants; in the hands of one was a stick and a rope.

  Cromwell nodded to these men. One seized Smeaton in a grip that paralyzed him. The other placed the rope about his head, making a loop in the rope through which was placed the stick.

  “Tighten the rope as I say,” commanded Cromwell.

  The boy’s eyes were staring in terror; they pleaded with Cromwell: Do not hurt me; I cannot bear it! I could not bear physical pain . . . I never could. . . .

  The eyes of Cromwell surveyed his victim, amused, cynical. One of the thick fingers pulled at his doublet.

  “Indeed it is a fine doublet . . . a very fine doublet for a humble musician to wear. Tell me, whence came this fine doublet?”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “Tighten th
e rope,” said Cromwell. It cut into the pale skin of Mark’s forehead. He felt as though his head was about to burst.

  “The doublet . . . whence did it come?”

  “I . . . I do not understand. . . .”

  “Tighter . . . tighter! I have not all the day to spend on such as he.”

  Something was trickling down his face, something warm and thick. He could see it on his nose, just below his eyes.

  “Who gave you the doublet? Tighten the rope, you fools!”

  Mark screamed. His head was throbbing; black spots, like notes of music, danced before his eyes.

  “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 won
der 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.