‘A very good morning to you, my good lord,
I trust you’ve been sleeping exceedingly well,
The lodgings are cramped at this time of the year,
Not what you’re used to
But now that you’re here,
I’ll be your host ’til your conscience is clear.’
Sir Francis Throckmorton, in fear for his life,
Stumbled and strained at the chains in his mind,
Eyes black and troubled, a stubble, sore knees,
He’d spent his last night
In the cell, ‘Little Ease,’
But two foot by three foot, and full of disease.
Courteous ever, the Rackmaster Norton
Was eager to show off his gadgets and gears,
‘These are my children, my lovers, my life,
Caress you and press you,
Impale you in strife,
Persuade you to talk, or distract your poor wife.’
Norton was charming, he stroked the Rack pulleys,
He rattled the chains that were spattered with blood,
He showed him the brazier, coals from Kingstanding
The cat o nine tails
And the irons for the branding,
The thumbekins to cripple the right and left hand in.
‘Mankind’s inventions to loosen the tongue;
Here the skull crusher, the cords for garroting
The griddle to roast the pale flesh from your bones,
Admit to your treason
There’s no reason known,
Why you should submit to this treatment alone.’
Throckmorton paled, but he steadied his tongue,
‘I have no comrades, I act on my own.’
Norton had smiled and then burst into laughter,
So, my good lord
It’s the Rack or the slaughter,
But first you’ll embrace my Lord Exeter’s Daughter.
‘I mind when the Jesuit Bryant was here,
Strapped to the rack as the tumblers turned…’
Norton would share what he thought a good jest,
‘He came a foot longer
Than God sent him blest,
I stretched and I stretched him until he confess’d!’
Throckmorton felt all his sinews and bones
Tearing and grinding at sockets and veins,
Thirty two minutes they stretched to the limits,
Still he kept silent
He would not complain,
They rested him then, and petitioned the Queen.
‘Traitors must speak, must be put to the ‘pains’,
Please be as gentle as treason deserves!’
Thus they attached all the chains and the locks,
Stretched the poor wretch
To the ends of the stops, for
The names of the friends of the Queen of the Scots.
That was enough for Sir Frances Throckmorton,
Anything, merely to make the pain stop,
He sat by the Rack, such a sad man and broken,
Gave them Mendoza
And Paget, and Owen,
Then waited for Tyburn, the rope and the drop.
‘England’s a tragic, dishonourable place,
The river is foul, and the Tower a disgrace;
But I have such torture to make the heart race…’
Said Thomas Norton
Who finished Throckmorton,
Then went back to Rack someone else in his place.
David Lewis Paget
