Author's Note: First of all, I'd like to acknowledge the Rose of Truro for coming up with this plot bunny a couple of years ago, which I came across while browsing the forum as a lurker. As it doesn't look as though the bunny sprouted (how's that for mixed allegories), and it involves the gruesome twosome, I was more than tempted to give it a go.
Before we begin - this is not a 'Silver Sword' story, and is not set in that same alternate universe. Where possible, I've tried to align more completely with actual history than previously - with one obvious exception. So, in this story, Cromwell is not Lord Chancellor, as he never held that post; and Rich is not the Solicitor General, as he stood down in the spring of 1536 to take up the Chancellorship of the Court of Augmentations. As this does rather throw a spanner in the works over the plausibility of his participation in a criminal investigation, I've created another reason for him to become involved.
Disclaimer: I own nothing other than that which has emerged from my imagination.
Thomas Cromwell has always been regarded for his efficiency and capability; thus it is made his responsibility to investigate when the body of a woman is discovered hideously dismembered in her own chamber. Dragooning the unwilling Sir Richard Rich into assisting him, the pair find themselves working to uncover a murderer who seems to leave no clues to their identity or motive.
With the resistance of hostile courtiers, and even a popular rebellion, to hamper them, they must track down a killer whose depravity is matched only by their anonymity - until an unexpected development suggests the unthinkable: the killer is royal…
Out of the depe call I unto the Lorde
Lorde heare my voyce
Oh let thyne eares consyder well the voyce of my complaynte
If thou Lord wylt be extreme to marke what is done a mysse
Oh Lorde who maye abide it;
But there is mercy wyth thee
That thou mayest be feared.
I loke for the Lord
My soule doth wayte for hym
And in his worde is my trust.
My soule doth paciently abyde the Lorde
From the one mornynge to the other.
Let Israel trust in the Lorde
For with the Lorde, there is mercy and plenteous retempcion.
And he shal redeme Israel from al his synnes
Psalm 130
From the Thomas Matthew Bible, 1537
CHAPTER ONE
The Day after She Died
Dawn is breaking; a magnificent affair of gold and peach that reaches out to banish the darkness of the night that has passed. Boats are already on the river, making their way downstream with the tide: wherries heading to the wharves to seek customers, barges bringing goods to the markets in the City and a few souls in their own row-boats that pass the elegant balustrades and façades of the Palace of Whitehall.
Few are about at this hour, for there was much celebrating the previous night, for those who wished to, or those who felt that they should. His Majesty, King Henry, eighth of that name, is once more without a wife - a state that he achieved with so little effort upon his own part, and so much upon the part of others.
None speak of her now, that witch-like Nan Bullen. Queen once, but then no more, and now she herself is no more, her head parted from her neck by the sword of a French executioner only a day ago. A quick death, to be sure - though the whisperers and gossips make much of the clemency of a King who could have sent her to the fire. Perhaps he ordered it so that it would be too quick for her to use witchcraft to escape - for did she not bewitch the King? Some even believe it.
And so, the Queen's apartments are empty once more, where once a musician played and sang, and a vivacious, dark-locked woman held court surrounded by ranks of admirers. All know that the King dined last night on the mate of a Cob Swan, stewed and baked into a pie, and the feathers all put back upon it. Seven years, it took to get her - and she was gone in less than four; taking five men to the grave in her wake.
There are more people about now, for the King intends to hunt today, and many of the great Lords shall ride out with him; though not the Earl of Wiltshire, who has departed in disgrace with nothing but the ghosts of his children to keep him company. Even Thomas Howard of Norfolk, the grandest and most royal of Nobles, has departed for a time to lick his wounds, for he was not left untouched by the scandal of the King's whore.
Servants bustle about amongst the corridors, their black livery marking them out from those of higher state. They comment, they gossip - just as all others do, but their words are more free, for who listens to such as they?
Her own brother, they say. To get a son to give the King, and save her life. No wonder it swilled in blood from her womb - an abomination against God!
And how many others? A wanton, to be sure - and against our good King Hal. May she burn forever for her presumption and mortal sin!
None of those in finer garments speak so - for their words would get back to a King who wishes never to hear the name 'Boleyn' again. Her name is not to be spoken, nor those of the men with whom she fornicated - known and unknown, for was it not said that she had many more lovers? He broke with Rome to win her, and instead won only shame.
A shaft of sunlight flits through a lancet window onto the face of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. He squints briefly and turns away, reaching for a pair of black leather gauntlets from his manservant before pulling down the front of his doublet to straighten it. Of all the nobles at Court, he is almost always present to hunt with the King, for their friendship is celebrated. Even so, he has, on occasion, stirred Henry's wrath, and has endured banishments as a consequence.
Today, however, he is a welcome distraction to a King eager for sport in the light of the disastrous end of his marriage. They shall ride out over the park of St James to seek deer in the mists of early morning, and the ride shall make all well again.
He moves with a swift stride - the stride of a man well used to action. He is early, but, even so, the Mews are alive with noise as the grooms bring the saddled horses out for their riders. His own mount, a fine black-maned Bay gelding named Ajax after the hero of the Iliad, is ready for him, and he is quickly aboard, reaching down to lift a cup of wine from a tray held by a steward.
As he sips, he watches the King emerge from his apartments. He is limping less today: always a good sign. His fall at the Joust at the beginning of the year has opened up an old wound on his leg, and now it refuses to heal - at times so foul and stinking that none wish to be near him unless they must be.
"Ho, Charles!" he calls, merrily, as though all that happened yesterday was another hunt, just like this one, "A fine morning for sport!" He snatches a silver goblet from a tray held for him and gulps down the wine it contains in six hefty swallows.
"Yes, your Majesty." He agrees, benignly, as Henry is helped aboard Pégase, a magnificent black charger gifted to him at Eastertide by the King of France that rides so fast that one might believe he could indeed rise to the sky like the mythical beast after which he was named. Despite the sport ahead, the King is in tawny velvet slashed with cloth of gold that serves to expand his already expanding girth, for he eats as he did when his leg was healthy - even though now it is not.
Gradually other men of the Court emerge to mount up and depart. The whisperings are silenced by proximity, but even so there are knowing glances behind the King's back. Another marriage foundered on the rocks; another bairn dispatched to bastardy - for now he has three, does he not? But only one left that he values: the boy. The only boy he has ever managed to sire, who - it seems - is late.
"There you are, Boy!" Henry cries, after the clock has struck the quarter after the hour, "And we were primed to leave without you!"
His voice is indulgent, for the youth that approaches can do no wrong in his eyes. Named after his father in every respect, Henry Fitzroy - Henry Son-of-the-King - grins boyishly, his blue eyes glittering, his dark hair - after that of his mother Bessie Blount - bouncing in curls about his neck, leaps into the saddle of his horse with the agility and ebullience of his seventeen years.
"Forgive me, Majesty!" He says, with neither remorse nor contrition, "I was held by the beauty of the morn, encapsulated in a sunbeam!"
The King laughs, delightedly, though the courtiers he cannot see exchange pained glances. Even Brandon cringes inside at the inanity of the comment. Did he pay someone to write it for him?
The hunt departs with a clattering of hoofs upon the cobblestones, leaving behind stewards, grooms and the inevitable piles of manure that remain after a gathering of horses. Henry leads the pack at a brisk trot - no surprise aboard Pégase - and Fitzroy keeps pace with him as they talk together. A few paces behind, Brandon allows himself to ignore the conversations ahead and behind, and instead indulges in reverie to occupy the mile or so that lies between the hunters and the wilder parts of the park where their quarry awaits.
Of all the children Henry has sired - for he has sired a few, those who have lived, those who have died, those whom he has not acknowledged - only this one remains close now. Mary is gone from Court, her name sullied with bastardy as her mother was set aside; and now the little three-year old, Elizabeth, has joined her in that unhappy state - orphaned as surely as though both parents had died. All he has now is his son - also a bastard, but a happier one, to be sure; for he is what they were not. He is male.
Henry dotes on the youth - at six years old, he was ennobled; by ten, a member of the Lords and bringing charges against the late Cardinal Wolsey. Warden of the Cinque Ports, Admiral of England, Ireland and Normandy, and Lieutenant of Ireland, to boot. None are so favoured as this young man - for he is Henry's greatest hope of succession in the absence of any other.
Fitzroy has been away from Court for some time, back at Collyweston - his home near Stamford - until a week ago, when he came down to stay at a fine Manor a mile or so upstream from Whitehall, until he travelled to the Tower to watch the former Queen die. Brandon shudders for a moment - for he was there, too.
There were few present, for her death was not in public - granted the privacy of Tower Green over the spectacle of Tower Hill. Only the most important were present to watch her end - including that black-clad corvid Cromwell, who had so ruthlessly brought her to the scaffold.
Brandon shudders again. Even though acting upon the orders of the King: orders that came after he, Brandon, had suggested that his Majesty's wife might not be entirely faithful to him, Cromwell acted with a singleminded purpose against a woman whose family had all but sponsored him after Wolsey's disgrace. The swiftness of it: the efficiency. No one can demand speed and efficiency like Henry, and no one can supply it like Thomas Cromwell.
Did he care? Brandon wonders, did it matter to him that he had brought six people to their deaths? He recalls a conversation - how long ago now? When Cromwell claimed that he did have a heart, even if people thought him heartless. After yesterday's events. He cannot help but wonder if that is really true.
A shout of laughter from the King pulls Brandon from his thoughts, and he wonders what Fitzroy said to inspire it. Not that it matters now, for the beaters are nearby, and the hounds are ready to be loosed.
"And now to sport, my lad!" Henry declares, "And while we hunt, I wait to wed my new wife, and to make you my true son. I have set one man upon it, and it shall be done!" with a chuck of his tongue, he shakes his reins and kicks his heels into Pégase's flanks to stir the beast to a gallop.
Urging Ajax on, Brandon sighs inwardly. He knows who that man is - and equally knows that it shall, most efficiently, be done.
The atmosphere in the room is quietly industrious, as young men in black livery move between desks, write, proofread or copy as their tasks are set. All about them are shelves and racks of papers, books and files: the trappings of effective governance, and each of them adds more to the stock.
As they work, Thomas Wriothesley, a thin man dressed in olive green with receding hair and a guarded expression, sits at his desk and writes busily with a goose quill. Every now and again, he looks up to ensure that people are still at work, for there is much to be done: The King wishes to be wedded to his new wife as soon as possible and, even in the Chapel Royal, a wedding takes time to prepare.
Swift footsteps alert him to the arrival of the King's Chief Minister - one name amongst many, though most are not repeated to the man's face - and he looks up as Brandon's Corvid enters the chambers. Clad, as always, in black, his chain of office resting upon his shoulders, Thomas Cromwell pauses briefly to acknowledge his colleague. They exchange few words, for neither has the time for idle conversation; after two ventures into marriage that required all manner of legal and ecclesiastical wriggling to be effected, the King demands that this one be unimpeachably legal, and it is the job of Cromwell and the King's secretary, Wriothesley, to ensure that it is.
Time is, as always, not on Cromwell's side. The King may well trust him to ensure all is done - but his ability to do so has certainly ensured that no one seems able to do anything at all without either consulting him, or seeking his approval. Does no one else in this benighted place know how to think for themselves? He thinks, crossly, as he seats himself at his desk. So much to do, and so little time to do it. Perhaps he should encourage the King to arrange another six hours to every day. He might then be able to keep up with his workload and find more time to sleep.
Not that he slept much last night. Unlike most of the court, who assume he has neither heart nor conscience, Cromwell is very aware that he does. If yesterday had been an ordeal for Anne, at least now she is at peace; at rest. He, on the other hand, most certainly is not.
The evidence he was charged to secure was largely hearsay, gossip and - hence - unverifiable; but he was obliged to find it, and so he did. Though the cost to his mortal soul…
He shakes himself, and tries to concentrate. There is no point in revisiting that which cannot be changed - as he has learned well from his own losses. Liz - his little girls…even Wolsey, to some degree. That is the only satisfaction that he has from the whole escapade, for at least he has wrought some mean measure of revenge against Boleyn and Howard, who acted so cruelly to destroy the man to whom he owes his entire career.
He spent half of yesterday evening on his knees in the Chapel Royal, asking for forgiveness as best he could - not just for his crimes against Anne, but for the spite that even now inspires a sense of justice that shivers up and down his back. He has no time for petty vengeance. No time for regrets. It takes all his time just to do that which the King's Grace demands of him.
Wriothesley is at his side, and he looks up, attempting to pretend that the absence of words upon the paper before him is thanks to contemplation of the matter in hand.
"Forgive my intrusion, my Lord," the Secretary says, in his oddly monotone voice, "I have the paperwork for the newly established Court of Augmentations ready for filing. His Majesty has approved all the clauses, and the appointments of Officers."
Cromwell nods, a little bemused. He does not need to know this, "And?"
"Merely to advise you that the Chancellor is due to begin his work today - would you like me to ask one of the Clerks to clear a desk for his use?"
He sighs; in all of yesterday's events, he had quite forgotten, "Yes, Mr Secretary. Given the incumbent, I suspect one of the better-placed situations might be wise."
Wriothesley nods discreetly, and withdraws, summoning two of the Clerks as he does so. Returning to the paper upon his desk, Cromwell re-charges his quill and attempts to start making notes.
Someone else is standing over him. Setting the quill down again, he wishes that he could scream with frustration. What now? He turns and looks up to see the Palace Constable, who looks perturbed.
"What?" He asks, a little more crossly than he intended.
"I'm sorry to bother you, my Lord." The Constable says, clutching his black velvet bonnet rather nervously, "A body has been found."
The problem with being so damned efficient. Cromwell thinks to himself as he strides after the hurrying Constable, is that everyone makes everything your problem.
He wonders if he should try being a little less competent - in the hopes that people might leave him alone to get on with his work. If it were not an affront to his personal fastidiousness, then he might be willing to try it.
One of the Palace Guards is waiting for them as they approach the Privy Bridge and Stairs. A colonnaded jetty that stretches out into the Thames, it is not uncommon for varied dead things to become entangled amidst the pilings, or wash up on the steps.
Though, that said, they are not normally human dead things.
"She was left there as the tide went down, my Lord." The Constable advises, as Cromwell steps carefully down to the landing, and bends over the sodden corpse. He looks at it for several minutes, before turning back to the Constable, "Fetch Doctor Butts."
Bemused, the Constable nods, and dispatches a Guard.
The woman is not dressed richly - her dress a plain broadcloth in a dull tawny brown. Her hair falls about her face in long rat-tails, and her face has that pasty whiteness that belongs to those found dead in the water. Cromwell looks up to see that more guards have arrived. The water of the river is slopping up onto the stone landing, and he has no wish to remain where he is - there is far too much unpleasantness that might splash over his shoes and nether hose.
"Constable," He says, "Fetch this woman from the landing and bring her up onto the bridge so that the Doctor can examine her." He pauses, and looks down at her dress, drenched in sewage-rich river water that reeks like a privy in the worst summer heat, "You may wish to wear gloves."
They have her on the bridge by the time Butts appears. His robes are as black as Cromwell's though his head is encased in a black scholar's cap. His eyes are keen, his expression intrigued - for he is not normally expected to deal with such matters, "What has been found, my Lord?" He asks, mildly.
"A woman, Doctor." Cromwell advises, quietly, "Found washed up upon the Privy Stairs - I wish to be certain that she is not a victim of contagion." He chooses to ignore the looks of consternation on the faces of the soldiers who moved her. Carefully arranging the folds of his simarre, he kneels down alongside the corpse, as Butts prepares to do the same.
Donning a pair of leather gauntlets, the Doctor spends a long time examining the blotchy, waxy looking face, before extending his examinations down to her neck and shoulders. He pauses, then looks up at the nearest Guard, "You, boy. Come here and help me roll her over."
The boy stares at him in horror - and it is only a cuff on the back of the head from the Constable that persuades him to comply. Again, Butts continues his examination, before sighing, "I see no evidence of contagion, my Lord - but there are some aspects to this corpse which disturb me. I must beg your pardon for what I must do now."
Even Cromwell's eyebrows raise at this.
Gently, as though in doing so he might wake the woman, Butts raises her skirts. She wears no stockings, and both men are shocked at the livid bruises that emerge as her thighs are uncovered. The sound of crunching gravel causes Cromwell to look up; the Constable has turned all of his young Guards away so that they have their backs to the corpse. Smiling again, he shakes his head, turns back - and wishes he had not.
Butts has raised the skirts up to the waist now, and her most private parts are on open display. The bruising continues all the way up to her hips, and more contusions emerge from that most private of a woman's parts. Moving delicately, Butts parts the thighs, and nods, "It is as I feared."
"What is?" Cromwell asks, having raised his head to look elsewhere as soon as he realised what Butts was doing.
"There is no evidence of contagion; but much evidence of violence. This woman has not merely been beaten, alas - a man has ravaged her quite maliciously and extensively." He pauses, "You may look now if you wish. I have replaced her skirts."
"Has she drowned?" Cromwell asks.
Butts shakes his head, "I think not." He points, "See this thin red line? I suspect that she was instead strangled, for this would seem to me to be the mark of a ligature of some kind. Her last hours must have been truly cruel."
Cromwell sighs, "So she was murdered, then?"
"It would appear so - though where, and by whom, I could not tell you. I cannot even say with any certainty how long she has been in the river, or the moment at which she died."
Now that she is decent again, Cromwell borrows a pair of gloves from one of the Guards and searches her carefully. There is no pocket in her bodice, nor is there a scrip. She wears no jewels, and there is nothing to identify her. "From her garb," He says eventually, "I can only say with certainty that she is not from the Palace. Therefore she does not fall within our jurisdiction."
The Constable leans over them, "Do you wish me to arrange to turn her over to the City authorities, my Lord?"
Cromwell nods, "Thank you, Constable. I think there is little more that we can do - let them take her and grant her a decent burial; and that shall be an end of it."
Cromwell returns to the palace accompanied by the clattering of hoofs from the nearby Mews, and he knows that the King has returned. Idly wondering if they caught anything, he strolls inside. The hunt has been out for nearly five hours by his reckoning. With luck, the King shall be too tired to bother with business today - and he might actually get something done.
Wriothesley is lurking his desk again like a bad smell, and he sighs, "What is it, Mr Wriothesley? I have been examining a stinking corpse fished out of the river, and I do not wish to be bothered for at least an hour. I am behind enough as it is."
He looks up; standing nearby is a man wearing a patterned doublet and a rather discontented expression. With his sandy hair, beard and long, brown-furred simarre, Cromwell imagines to himself that the man rather resembles a squirrel. A bad tempered squirrel.
"Sir Richard has arrived." Wriothesley says, rather unnecessarily. Cromwell knows full well who he is.
They have said nothing to each other since the trials, for he does not like Sir Richard Rich. During those weeks, he was still the Solicitor General for England, and Attorney General for Wales: a lawyer to the marrow, smart tongued, unprincipled and probably dishonest as well. Between them, Cromwell and Rich had dismantled the careful edifice of advancement built so solidly by the Boleyn faction, and had emerged from it without any rapprochement whatsoever. But then, Rich is no novice at such activity - for he had calmly perjured himself to bring about the end of two far better men with great principles and integrity; so to destroy greedy, grasping people of lesser principles? Hardly a challenge.
"Sir Richard." Cromwell says, with stiff formality.
"My Lord." Rich answers, with equal rigid courtesy, inclining his head just sufficiently to avoid appearing ill mannered, but not far enough to be respectful.
Wriothesley looks at the pair, and shivers slightly - somehow, despite the May warmth, the chambers have become considerably colder.