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.
