The Last Abbot of Glastonbury: A Tale of the Dissolution of the Monasteries

CHAPTER III.
AN ACT OF GRATITUDE.

Sir Thomas Stukely of Chagford, gentleman, was a type of the old English justice of his day; a hundred pounds a year, equivalent to a thousand now, represented the condition of the squire of the parish, and heavy duties had he to perform; to wit, it was his duty to know everything and everybody; did any parent bring up his child in idleness, it was his place to interfere and see that the child was taught an honest trade; did any vagrants go about begging, it was his duty to see them tied to a cart’s tail and flogged, or even in extreme cases of persistence to see them hanged out of the way, for the days were stern days.

It was his to bridle all masterless men, and, if they would not work, to send them to gaol; and to see that all youths, forsaking idle dicing and gaming, or the frequenting of taverns, gave themselves to manly exercises, archery, cudgel playing, and the like; that each might be a soldier in time of need.

His hour of rising, in summer, was four o’clock, with breakfast at five, after which his labourers went to work, and he to his business; in winter, perhaps an hour later was allowed to all. Every unknown face, met in the country roads, was challenged by the constables, and if the stranger gave not a good account of his wayfaring, he was brought before the justice; did the grocer give short weight, or the cobbler make shoes which let water, it must all come before Sir Thomas, as he was called in courtesy, for he was only “a squire.”[31]

At twelve he dined in company with his household: good beef, mutton, ale, and for the upper board wine—Canary, Malmsey, or the like; bread was plentiful, both white and brown, vegetables, before the advent of potatoes, scarce;[32] the ladies made the pastry with their own fair hands.

The doors stood open to all comers at the hours of dinner and supper; they of gentle degree fared at the squire’s table, of simple at the lower board with the servants, which formed with the upper one the letter T.

Free board and free lodging to all honest comers; it might be rough but it was ready; as the squire and his household fared, so did the guests, both in bed and board.

Early after his dinner, the squire went hunting, or rode about the farms and looked after his tenants; saw that the fences were in good repair, the roads well kept; and returned at sunset to supper.

In his old wainscotted hall, panelled with black oak, its ceiling decorated with the arms of the Stukelys between the interlacing beams, a fire of logs in the huge hearth, and two favourite hounds lying before it, sat Justice Stukely and his wife at supper.

A ring at the bell, and the porter ushered in a stranger.

“My name is Redfyrne, Sir John Redfyrne, travelling upon the King’s business, and craving your hospitality.”

“It is thine, man,” said the host, “sit down there,” as he pointed to the vacant seat of honour by his side; “beef and bread are by thee, and here is good October, or there fair Malmsey, to wash it down.”

Sir John ate heartily; and his host did not ply him with many questions until he had finished a huge platter of meat, and discussed a jorum of ale.

“Hast ridden far, Sir John?”

“From Bovey only.”

“Which way, round Moreton or by the Becky?”

“By the Becky, where I narrowly escaped the Gubbings.”

“The Gubbings!” and the squire with difficulty repressed a malediction, which rose to his lips. “They are like wasps, kill one, a hundred come to his funeral. Only last month we caught a party of them red-handed, and hung them up on the spot, for they are not Christians or Englishmen, and we thought it wasn’t worth while to trouble judge or jury over them. There we strung them up from the beeches of Holme Chase, the prettiest beech-nuts honest eyes could rest upon—five men, two women, and three boys; yet they are not frightened away from these parts yet.”

“Nor ever will be unless you hunt them from the moor with bloodhounds.”

“It may come to that; they are a plague-spot in the Commonwealth, and especially upon our fair country of Devon. But what news from court, Sir John?”

“The King’s Majesty’s health is better, but he hath been sorely tried by the humour of one Dr. Crome, who preached in a sermon, that no one could approve of the dissolution of the monasteries, and at the same time admit the usefulness of prayers for the souls in purgatory; his majesty thought the speech levelled against himself, and Dr. Crome being examined before the Council, criminated ex-Bishop Latimer and many others. Crome and Latimer saved themselves by recantation, but Anne Askew, a maid of honour about the court; Adlam, a tailor; Otterden, shame to say, a priest; and Lascelles, a gentleman in waiting, have all been burnt alive at Smithfield. Shaxton, late Bishop of Worcester, smelt strongly of the faggot, but he recanted just in time, and preached the funeral sermon over his late allies as they smouldered.”

“That reminds me of the old song,” said the Justice, “which they sang in France when I made my first essay in arms there, the King was young then.

“Well, for the witch and for the heretic a faggot is the best cure. What else is going on?”

“They say that an ingenious mechanist has invented a machine to move the King upstairs and down in his chair without difficulty; he is so corpulent that little trace is left of the princely gallant of the Cloth of Gold.”

“Queen Catharine has a hard time of it?”

“She is a good nurse, but she is careful not to cross the royal temper.”

“There are five good examples set before her in her predecessors.”

And so the talk went on, over the recent peace concluded with France in the previous summer; over the disputes in court between the party of Cranmer and the Seymours on the one hand, and that of the Duke of Norfolk, and Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, on the other. But we will not weary the reader with any more of the chit-chat of the latter days of Henry VIII., now drawing near his end, furious as a wild beast at the slightest contradiction, worshipped by his courtiers on bended knee, and putting to the death Catholic and Protestant alike, if they varied from the doctrines stated in the “King’s Boke.”

The supper over and the servants dismissed, the real purpose of Sir John’s visit came out, and the Justice learned with deep surprise mingled with disgust, that he sought a warrant for the arrest of Sir Walter Trevannion and his reputed son Cuthbert, and men to execute the same.

“Sir Walter Trevannion! why, what has he done?”

“Nought as Sir Walter, but much as Father Ambrose of Furness Abbey.”

“Pooh! pooh! if the old man has been a monk it was lawful to be so once; and if they still play at monkery, why the King has their money, let them play.”

“It is, I fear, a more serious business than you imagine, Sir Thomas; this Father Ambrose was art and part in the northern insurrection, which they call the ‘Pilgrimage of Grace,’ and moreover, attainted for that very crime.”

“But how dost thou identify him with Sir Walter, who seems a harmless country gentleman?”

“I have been on his track for many years; it was I who detected that traitor, the some-time Abbot of Glastonbury, in correspondence with him, and I am well assured that buried somewhere beneath the foundations of the ruined pile of that Abbey lies a secret chamber containing papers and documents, which would reveal the names and machinations of many traitors to his royal highness; but there is only one who knows the secret of its whereabouts, and that one is the adopted son of Sir Walter.”

“The adopted son, young Cuthbert, is he not the real son?”

“No, Sir Walter was a monk till the dissolution; this young Cuthbert was a foundling, brought up at Glastonbury, who disappeared when we were on the point of seizing him, and has never been heard of since, till, being on the trail of Father Ambrose, I unearthed him as Sir Walter Trevannion, and at the same time, killing two birds with one stone, found my master Cuthbert. It is a glorious stroke of luck, and will make my fortune at court.”

“And the poor Trevannions,—for there is no doubt Sir Walter is Sir Walter?”

“None at all, his father denounced him for becoming a monk against the paternal will.”

“Well, the poor Trevannions, what of them? what will be their fate?”

“If, Sir Thomas, you are a friend to King Harry, as holding his commission you must be, you will accompany me with the dawn of day to the manor house, with a guard of constables in case of resistance, and so enable me to seize the couple of traitors, and lodge them safely in Exeter gaol.”

“It must be done, since you yourself, who are the accredited agent of the King, answer for it, and since you say your evidence is sure; but I would sooner you had some other errand than to put me on this job. It is hard upon a man to seize his own neighbours and equals in this way. Can you prove the identity? there is the question.”

“A monk, an apostate if you care to call him one, is at my beck and call, who was at Furness with Prior Ambrose, and knows every hair on his head.”

“And the lad?”

“An old schoolfellow at the Abbey is with me, who saw him, himself unseen, at Bovey yesterday, and can swear to him.”

“Then we had better go to bed, for we must rise betimes.”

“Only write out the warrants to-night. You can lodge me?”

“As I would the devil if he came on the King’s service. Nay, be not offended, I love not this butchering work, chopping up men into quarters; but still the King is the King, and justice must be done. I have had my bark and will not fail you when the time comes to bite.”

When Cuthbert reached home that night, he lost no time in telling Father Ambrose, or Sir Walter, by whichever name the reader likes to call him, the story of his meeting with Sir John Redfyrne.

Sir Walter looked very serious as he heard it; he did not like the look of the affair.

“It might have been well for thee, poor lad, hadst thou let the Gubbings finish their work.”

“But would it have been right, father?”

“No, that it would not, and as thou hast done thy duty, so I doubt not thou may’st look for divine protection and the guardianship of saints and angels; but one thing is certain, we must anticipate danger by doing at once what we should have deferred for a week—to-morrow we ride for Glastonbury.”

“To-morrow; and must I leave this place, perhaps for ever, so soon, no good-bye said?”

“Thou may’st never leave it at all otherwise, save as a captive; yes, to-morrow, as soon after dawn as arrangements can be made for my absence.”

The sun had just risen on the following morning when two powerful horses, saddled and bridled, furnished with saddle-bags, and a third with a servant already mounted, were in the court-yard. The aged monks clustered about the door, their Lauds said, to bid their benefactor a short farewell; his favourite servants awaited his parting commands, when all at once a man came hurriedly forward to say that Sir Thomas Stukely, with a strange gentleman and a band of constables, was coming up the avenue.

“Cuthbert, mount,” cried Sir Walter, and the two cutting short their good-byes, jumped upon their steeds, surprised out of their calmer senses, by this sudden and unlooked for announcement. “This way, my son,” cried the old knight, and led the way across a paddock behind the house; disappearing in a copse beyond, just as the pursuers reached the court-yard, and found the old men and servants trying to look as if nothing had happened.

“My life upon it, they are but just gone,” cried Sir John Redfyrne, as he gazed around.

The two fugitives rode through the copse by a narrow path, and then emerged on the road just at the brink of the pass described before; here the way descended to the level of the Becky by several zig-zags: and they were forced to ride very cautiously.

Not so cautiously, however, but a trivial accident happened, involving most tragical consequences.

Sir Walter’s horse trod on a mole hill, just thrown up, and his foot sank in the loose earth; causing him to stumble and throw his master to the ground; Cuthbert was down in a moment, and at his foster father’s side, and, to his joy, he saw his benefactor arise and sit up as if unhurt, but when he tried to get on his legs, he groaned and said—

“My son, I fear my poor leg is broken, the stirrup held and twisted it.”

“Nay, nay, my father, let me help you.”

Sir Walter almost swooned with pain as he made a desperate effort to arise; then said, “Cuthbert, ride on, it is you they seek, remember all that depends on you, ride on to Glastonbury, and wait for news of me; if I come not, you know what to do, ride on: ah! here they come, gallop forward ere you be too late.”

“Do you think I can leave you now, father?” said the poor youth. “Oh, try once more. Nay, it is useless, here they are.”

“Put the best face you can on the matter; do not let them see we were flying from them.”

“Help, help, Sir Walter Trevannion has fallen from his horse, and broken his leg.”

“What,” cried Sir Thomas Stukely as he rode up; “how is this, Sir Walter, not much hurt I hope; we must help you home,—come, men, bear a hand.”

“No more of this trifling,” cried Sir John Redfyrne, sternly; “while it goes on, that lad may escape, and he is worth his weight in gold; do your duty, constables, and you, Sir Thomas.”

“By zounds, I want no man to teach me my duty, least of all a cockney knight: look here, Trevannion, tell me the truth and I will act no knave’s part to spite an old friend whose father was my crony, and so serve some one else’s grudge; art thou, or art thou not, the man they seek as Father Ambrose, Prior of Furness? say no, and we will help thee home, and leave thee in peace; now man, why dost thou not speak?”

Sir Walter looked upon his friend, such a sad look, in which gratitude struggled with pain.

“Stukely,” he said, “do thy duty, thou art ever a true man.”

Stukely groaned aloud, but he offered no further opposition, and the party, escorted by the constables, took the road for Bovey, en route for Exeter gaol.

CHAPTER IV.
EXETER GAOL.

One of the foulest disgraces resting upon mediæval England, but not upon her alone, was the state of her prisons. In such filth were the prisoners kept, that a peculiar fever, called the “gaol fever,” broke out from time to time amongst them, and swept off the poor wretches by hundreds.

But often this malady, the source of which was neglect and cruelty, avenged itself upon the gaolers, and not upon them only, but upon judges, jury, and officers alike; thus at Oxford the assizes known as the Black Assize, in the reign of Elizabeth, became historical.[34] It was convened for the trial of some Catholic recusants, when the foul miasama spread from the wretched prisoners, and judges, jury, sheriff, and officers alike sickened and died.

Thus at the time of which we are writing, rosemary, rue,[35] and sweet smelling herbs were scattered about the court house at Exeter, where “as worshipful a jury as ever was seen,” was convened for the trial of the Trevannions, “father and son,” for the crime of high treason.

Their condition evoked great sympathy, and the county town, or rather cathedral city, was crowded upon the day of trial by sympathizers with the accused. It took place in the ancient citadel called Rougemont, which for five centuries offered defiance to the English—when held by the early British or Welsh—until the days of Athelstan; and only a century and a-half later, in the hands of the English, it bade a brief defiance to the Norman conqueror.

Tradition, falsely enough, assigned its origin to Julius Cæsar, and derived its name more truly from the red sandstone which forms the substratum of the castle hill; but whoever founded it, it shared the usual fate of our edifices, both secular and ecclesiastical, in being rebuilt by the Normans, who were rarely contented with aught their old English predecessors had done.

Here, during the brief period of Anglo-Saxon domination, many of the royal race of Cerdic held their court, when they visited their western conquests.

Here also the conquering Norman took up his abode, and to secure the castle to his interests, following therein his usual crafty policy, gave it to be held, in feudal tenure, by one of his chief nobles, Baldwin de Biron, who had married his niece, Albreda.

Here was the county gaol, and here the governor occupied the tenantable rooms in the ancient castle, two of which were assigned to the prisoners, in consequence of their position amongst the Devonian aristocracy—few expected aught for them but a triumphant acquittal; but all the time Sir John Redfyrne felt sure of his prey.

They were thus allowed the consolation of each other’s society; their food was supplied from the governor’s own table, but before them lay the blankness of despair, so far as this world was concerned.

For supposing they escaped the heavier accusation of “misprison of treason” hanging over both,—the elder for his voluntary share in the northern insurrection, the younger for his concealment of a secret involving the King’s peace,—there was another weapon to which their foe might have immediate recourse.

This weapon was the Act of Supremacy.

Would they take the oath? If not the cruel fate assigned to traitors lay before them.

Cuthbert’s own theories were not very defined on the point, but he would strive to follow such guides as Richard Whiting and Walter Trevannion.

But what was the object of Sir John Redfyrne in thus precipitating matters? It was simply that he wished to get Cuthbert into his power. He cared less for the elder prisoner, he might die or live, but were it once placed clearly before the youth that he might save his life by betraying the secret he was supposed to possess, there could be, to Sir John’s mind, no doubt that he would give the clue, and all would be well.

Then as it would no longer interfere with weightier interests, he would show his gratitude for such a trifling favour as the preservation of his own life; and should Cuthbert, as was likely in such a case, lack other friends, even provide decently for his future in some subordinate position.

But first of all the danger must become real, or the youth’s obstinacy would never be subdued,—the jury must condemn.

It was the day of trial, and all the approaches to the court were crowded. We will not appear on the scene in person, we have seen a very similar trial at Glastonbury; but we will just read a number of depositions, as they were written down in the county archives, in old books not generally accessible.

Laurence Tooler, known as Father Paul in religion, deposeth that he was one of the brethren at Furness Abbey, and being an apt scribe was employed by the Prior Ambrose as his secretary, copied lists for him of the leaders in the “Pilgrimage of Grace,” their contributions, in money, men, and arms. Sent copies of the same by the hands of a sure messenger to Abbot Whiting, of Glastonbury; also, at later period, consigned sums of money by ship to the Bristol Channel and thence to Glastonbury: supposed it to be for safe keeping on behalf of the dispossessed brethren. Identifieth the elder prisoner as Prior Ambrose. Admitteth he was once chastised by the Prior for breach of his monastic vows.

Jacques Le Fuyard, an English subject, son of an English mother and French father, speaketh both languages fluently: was employed by the English Government under Cromwell, to track the political refugees in Flanders and elsewhere; knew Prior Ambrose of Furness, at Antwerp; that he, the Prior, often corresponded with Reginald Pole, “the King’s chief enemy across the seas;” that he was more than once with the Papal Nuncio, and often closeted with the Spanish Ambassador; understood that he had given up politics; lost sight of him at Brussels, knew him again in Sir Walter Trevannion; and recognized him, recently, when tarrying about the neighbourhood of the manor house at Becky Hall, near Bovey.

Gregory Grigges, deposeth that he was groom to old Sir Arthur Trevannion; is very old now, nearly eighty years; knew the present Sir Walter as a boy, remembers his running away, and becoming a monk, as he heard; the old knight would have nought to say to him afterwards; the elder brother, Sir Roger, died of decline, and the old man longed for his only surviving son, sent abroad and spent much money in enquiries; at length Sir Walter returned. Doth not like Sir Walter so well as his father: hath been put in the stocks by him for having a very little drop too much. That is he present, the prisoner.

Nicholas Grabber deposeth that he was a schoolboy at Glastonbury Abbey, where they got plenty to fill their heads, but little to put into their stomachs; has felt it ever since in a tendency to boils and blains: the meat was so rotten it dropped from your fork as you held it, and the fish stank; hated the Abbot because he was, he thought, an enemy to the King. Watched him narrowly. One day the Abbot sent for the prisoner at the bar; he (Nicholas) would fain know why, suspecting treason, and crept after; heard the Abbot talk to prisoner about papers and a secret chamber, which was to be disclosed to someone who should present a ring which prisoner would recognize: prisoner always making up to my Lord Abbot.

Questioned whether he had any motives for dislike to prisoner: said only that he hated favourites; once he fought with him and was thrashed; was once sent back as a truant to the Abbey, coupled between two hounds, but bore no malice for it, oh no!—only actuated by loyalty to the King; Sir John Redfyrne had shown him his duty. Here the magistrates told him they wanted to hear no more.

To sum up the story, the jury were of opinion that the identity of Sir Walter Trevannion with Prior Ambrose of Furness was clearly proved, that under that name he had been guilty of high treason, but they recommended him to mercy in consideration of his evident reformation in later years.

They found that there was not sufficient evidence to convict the younger prisoner of “misprison of treason.”

Thereupon Sir John Redfyrne desired that the Oath of Supremacy be tendered to the younger.

The judges declared that the demand could not be refused, although they thought it vexatious, and evidently expecting that the young man would at once show his loyalty, were astonished by a blank refusal.

Thereupon Sir John Redfyrne observed they might recognize the true pupil of Richard Whiting.

The judges besought the youth, who was only a little more than twenty years of age, to consider the consequences of his refusal.

He still remained obstinate, with the evident approval of the elder prisoner, his reputed father.

Thereupon sentence of death, after the usual fashion, was pronounced upon both prisoners: to be drawn upon hurdles to the cathedral yard, and there to be hanged, but not till they were dead, cut down alive, and dismembered.

The prisoners thanked God for calling them to die in what they called “so good a cause,” and thanked the jury for the patience with which they had heard them, and the desire they had shown to save their lives, with a simplicity which brought tears to all eyes.

Sir John Redfyrne, on behalf of the Crown, asked and obtained a week’s respite, such sentences being usually executed on the morrow.

The prisoners were removed; a dangerous tendency was visible amongst the mob, many of whom cried, “God bless them.”

By desire of Sir John Redfyrne they were separated and placed in solitary confinement.

So far we have made extracts from the registers of Rougemont.

What was Sir John’s object in all this? why did he persist in securing the condemnation of Cuthbert? and then insist upon the delay of a week in its execution?

Because he trusted to the weakness of human nature, and thought that the fear of death would extract the secret he craved.

And if the fear of death did not extract it, he meant to obtain it by torture; he was provided with a warrant to that effect from the council.

Torture was not, even then, lawful in England, but could be applied by special warrant of the Privy Council, in cases where the safety of the commonwealth was concerned; and this was considered to be one, as the royal Blue-Beard himself was ravenously eager for such wholesale detection of his enemies, as would be attained by the discovery of the records of Furness transmitted to Glastonbury.

On the day following the trial and condemnation, Sir John Redfyrne visited Cuthbert in his cell.

The poor lad gave him one indignant look, then turned his head aside and would regard him no further.

“Cuthbert Trevannion, thou regardest me as thy foe, yet I am not; thou didst save my life from robbers, and I own it, and own that I must appear ungrateful beyond conception, yet I have one excuse, I love my young benefactor, but love my King and country better.”

No answer.

“Thou knowest the existence of a secret chamber at Glastonbury.”

Still no reply.

“Reveal that secret, and I pledge myself to provide for thy future fortunes, to restore thee to liberty and honour, nay to gratify the most extravagant desires of thy young heart.”

He paused in vain.

“Or, failing this, if thou wilt not be led by kindness and mercy, there remain the sharp arguments of thumb-screw and rack.”

The answer came at length.

“Do thy worst, and God judge between me and thee.”

Sir John departed.

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:—

“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.