A short flight of stone steps brought them to a dark narrow passage, and they proceeded silently and slowly along it, until their progress was checked by a strong iron door, which was unfastened and closed behind them by Nightgall. The jarring of the heavy bolts, as they were shot into their sockets, resounded hollowly along the arched roof of the passage, and smote forcibly upon Elizabeth’s heart, and she required all her constitutional firmness to support her.
They were now in one of those subterranean galleries, often described before, on either side of which were cells, and the clangour called forth many a dismal response. Presently afterwards, they arrived at the head of a staircase, which Elizabeth descended, and found herself, in the torture-chamber. A dreadful spectacle met her gaze. At one side of the room, which was lighted by a dull lamp from the roof, and furnished as before with numberless hideous implements—each seeming to have been recently employed—sat, or rather was supported, a wretched man upon whom every refinement of torture had evidently been practised. A cloak was thrown over his lower limbs, but his ghastly and writhen features proved the extremity of suffering to which he had been subjected. Elizabeth could scarcely believe that in this miserable object, whom it would have been a mercy to despatch, she beheld the once bold and haughty Sir Thomas Wyat.
Placed on the corner of a leathern couch, and supported by Wolfytt and Sorrocold, the latter of whom bathed his temples with some restorative, Wyat fixed his heavy eyes upon the princess. But her attention was speedily diverted from him to another person, whose presence checked her feelings. This was the queen, who stood on one side, with Gardiner and Renard. Opposite them was Courtenay, with his arms folded upon his breast. The latter looked up as Elizabeth entered the chamber; and after gazing at her for a moment, turned his regards, with an irrepressible shudder, to Wyat. Knowing that her safety depended upon her firmness, though her heart bled for the tortured man, Elizabeth disguised all appearance of compassion, and throwing herself at the queen’s feet, cried, “Heaven bless your highness, for granting me this interview! I can now prove my innocence.”
“In what way?” demanded Mary coldly. “It would indeed rejoice me to find I have been deceived. But I cannot shut my ears to the truth. Yon traitor,” she continued, pointing to Wyat, “who dared to rise in arms against his sovereign, distinctly charges you with participation in his rebellious designs. I have his confession, taken from his own lips, and signed with his own hand, wherein he affirms, by his hopes of mercy from the Supreme Judge before whom he will shortly appear to answer for his offences, that you encouraged his plans for my dethronement, and sought to win the crown for yourself, in order to bestow it with your hand upon your lover, Courtenay.”
“It is false,” cried Elizabeth;—“false as the caitiff who invented it—false as the mischievous councillor who stands beside you, and who trusts to work my ruin,—but, by our father’s soul it shall go hard if I do not requite him! Your majesty has not a more loyal subject than myself, nor has any of your subjects a more loving sister. This wretched Wyat, whose condition would move my pity were he not so heinous a traitor, may have written to me, but, on my faith, I have never received his letters.”
“Lord Russell’s son declares that he delivered them into your own hands,” observed Mary.
“Another he, as false as the first,” replied Elizabeth. “It is a plot, your highness—a contrivance of my enemy, Simon Renard. Where is Lord Russell’s son? Why is he not here?”
“You shall see him anon, since you desire it,” replied Mary. “Like yourself, he is a prisoner in the Tower. But these assertions do not clear you.”
“Your highness says you have Wyat’s confession,” rejoined Elizabeth. “What faith is to be attached to it? It has been wrung from him by the severity of the torture to which he has been subjected. Look at his shattered frame, and say whether it is not likely he would purchase relief from such suffering as he must have endured at any cost. The sworn tormentors are here. Let them declare how often they have stretched him on the rack—how often applied the thumbscrew,—how often delivered him to the deadly embraces of the scavenger’s daughter, before this false charge was wrung from him. Speak, fellows! how often have you racked him?”
But the tormentors did not dare to reply. A stifled groan broke from Wyat, and a sharp convulsion passed over his frame.