FOOTNOTES
[34] [See Note K.] The Black Assize.
[35] Hence the phrase “He shall rue it.”
CHAPTER V.
PUT TO THE QUESTION.
Low, hidden in the very foundations of the Castle of Rougemont, was an arched dungeon of considerable dimensions, which only the initiated knew.
You descended into it by a winding staircase, excavated in the very thickness of the wall, and entered, after a descent of thirty steps, on opening a huge door of stone, which shut again with a resonant clang, and struck horror into the heart.
It had no communication with other cells, neither had it any species of window; so that those who were within, when the door was shut, were cut off from all sight and sound of the external world.
Summer or winter, night or day, storm or calm, might reign above, all was alike down there.
At one end was a platform of wood raised about a foot from the stone floor; upon this stood an oaken table with writing materials, and behind it a grand mediæval chair with the insignia of justice, the sword and scales, carved thereon; and at the opposite end was an arched recess concealed by a curtain, which hid both the executioners and the implements of torture until they were needed, when some unhappy wretch had to be “put to the question.”
But even in their most ruthless days, the dread ministers of English justice only used torture as a last resource, to wring guilty secrets from the criminal, when the welfare of the State appeared to sanction the cruelty—they never descended to the fearful refinements of the German dwellers on the Rhine in their robber castles, where fiendish ingenuity was displayed in pushing agony to its utmost limits without violating the sanctuary of life.[36]
On the third day solitude and silence having failed of their effect, Cuthbert was brought down into this den.
At the table sat the governor of Rougemont, in his chair of state, and by his side Sir John Redfyrne; a physician, clothed in a long dark cloak, a clerk with pen and parchment, ready to take down the answers of the prisoner, were the only other persons present, at least in sight, when the two gaolers brought down the unfortunate youth.
“Thy name?” said the governor.
“Cuthbert Trevannion.”
“Hast thou always borne that name?”
“No, only a few years.”
“What other hast thou borne?”
“Cuthbert, only.”
“What then is thy real name?”
“I know not.”
“Who was thy father? What was he called?”
“I was a foundling, and cannot tell.”
“What is thy age?”
“I was found an infant in the wood of Avalon, on the 28th day of December, in the year 1525.”
Sir John started at this announcement, and looked earnestly at the speaker.
“At whose charge wast thou brought up?”
“That of the Abbot of Glastonbury.”
Sir John and the governor looked at each other as if this information corresponded with their expectations.
“Wast thou not sometimes called ‘Hodge?’”
“After the yeoman who found me, and became my foster father.”
“How didst thou pass under the care of Sir Walter Trevannion?—men of rank do not usually give the honour of their name to obscure striplings.”
“I was commended to him by my benefactor, the late Abbot.”
“Thou wert, then, particularly dear to that trait——, I would say Abbot?” said the governor, who throughout showed a desire to spare the prisoner’s feelings, and was evidently discharging a painful task from a sense of duty.[37]
“I was dear to him,” said Cuthbert, “but so were all his children.”
“But he trusted not all as he trusted thee?”
“I am not a fair judge of that.”
“He revealed his secrets to thee, I am told.”
“He would hardly make a mere boy the depository of many secrets; I was hardly fourteen at his martyrdom.”
The officials all looked at each other as the last word was pronounced, and the governor said mildly—
“‘Execution,’ thou would’st say, but we will not dispute the subject,—dost thou remember the day when thou didst gain a silver arrow at an archery contest?”
“I gained more prizes than one.”
“This was in the May of 1539, and Nicholas Grabber was thy competitor?”
“Yes, I remember it.”
“Well, in that same night the Abbot, as we are informed, gave thee the honour of a private interview?”
“He often did.”
“But on this occasion, had he not a special object?”
“He would not be likely otherwise to send for me—his time was valuable.”
“Thou evadest the question.”
“I do not comprehend it.”
“What was the special object on this occasion?”
Cuthbert felt that the point was reached at last.
“I am not at liberty to disclose.”
“That is the matter at issue between us, but we hope thou wilt not drive us to extremities, as we would fain spare thee, compassionating thy youth. In plain words, did he not disclose to thee the mystery of a secret chamber, where many documents of importance to the King be concealed, and much treasure of the Abbey hidden from the royal owner, to whom the nation hath given the property of the monasteries.”
“That is the very question I must decline to answer. If I know anything it is not my secret, but one committed to me by the dead, under awful sanctions.”
“A good citizen knows no higher sanction than the welfare of his country, and our religion bids us honour and obey the King.”
“In all things lawful, but this is not lawful to me.”
“I grieve over thee, poor youth,” said the governor, “and over the measures I must take; but the orders of council are explicit, are they not, Sir John?”
“They are, there is no alternative.”
“Gaoler, draw back the curtains.”
The curtains separated in the middle, and were drawn back to the wall—the mystery of the arched recess was laid bare.
There stood two brawny men, beside a brazier of glowing coals, wherein were two pincers heated to a red heat; hard by was the rack, with its cords and pulleys, ready for working; manacles and chains hung on the wall; scourges and thumb-screws; there was the huge iron band, with a hinge in the middle and a padlock in front, which was placed around the bodies of wretches condemned to the stake; all the implements known to the English torture chamber, happily so seldom used, were there; seldom, we say, but comparatively often in this reign of terror.
This coup d’oeil was intended to frighten, there was no intention to bring the full resources of the chamber into very active use; the thumb-screw alone they thought would be sufficient for a young beginner.
“Thou seest thy fate—be wise in time. Believe me, my poor youth, thou wilt not be able to endure what is in store for thee if thou continuest in obstinacy; be wise, therefore, and yield with grace what thou canst not retain, and our best efforts shall be used for thy free pardon for all laid to thy charge, only remember we cannot allow a divided allegiance in this realm—it were death to us; thou must obey the King, or die the death; thou hast read the ancients:—
“‘Cuncta prius tentanda, sed immedicabile vulnus
Ense recidendum est, ne pars sincera trahatur.’”[38]
“My lord,” said the poor lad, “I know I am weak, but I must do my best. You will do your duty, and I will try to bear, which is mine.”
“Apply the thumb-screw.”
Cuthbert was told to place his thumbs together; resistance would have been useless and unseemly, therefore he quietly complied, and the horrid little instrument of torture was made to take them both at once; the turning of a screw brought a sharp little bar across the bones which compressed them until it seemed to burn the flesh like fire, causing exquisite agony; the screw was secured by a lock, and a chain attached to it might, if there were need, be used to attach the prisoner to a staple in the wall, where he might be left until the agony broke his spirit.[39]
Huge drops of sweat stood on the sufferer’s brow.
“Thou feelest a portion of what is due to thee if thou confessest not.”
“In te Domine speravi,” breathed the poor prisoner.
Minute after minute passed by, during which the struggle between bodily pain and will continued.
At last, Sir John looked at the governor and whispered.
“Another turn!” said the latter, reluctantly.
Another turn was given to the screw, and the prisoner fainted, his sensitive frame could bear no more.
They poured cold water over him, but it was long before he showed signs of consciousness, and when he did so, the governor said to Sir John—
“It is useless, we can go no further to-day.”
“But you will succeed to-morrow, the dread will be greater now he knows what pain is, and he will yield, I predict, when brought down once more; we shall not need a fresh application of the torture.”
“God grant it, for it is a pitiful sight, and I would sooner stand on the field of battle; one feels a man there, and not a brute.”
“Let the poor lad be taken to his cell and all kindness shewn him,” added the governor.
So the pleasant party broke up.
