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 the 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!”
