A/N: Posted today (28 July) in honour of the late Thomas Cromwell, who died on this day 476 years ago.
Welcome back! Following on from the events of The Man with the Silver Swords...
As always, I own nothing other than that which has originated in my own imagination.
Summary: As the year draws to a close, Sir Richard Rich is becoming more accustomed to his task as Second to the Silver Sword Thomas Cromwell. The King has married Jane Seymour, and all wait in hope that she shall bear him a prince.
But dark forces still circle the Court, and, if all is not to be lost, they must protect the Queen from the malevolence of Lamashtu; but the demoness has plans of her own that seem oddly harmless - but could well destroy them all...
CHAPTER ONE
Settling Down to Business
The wide open space of the Tiltyard echoes with the sharp crack of wood striking wood that is thrown back by the surrounding trees that have begun to shed their reddened leaves to the earth. We have been at this for nearly two hours now, and I feel as though my right arm shall never work properly again.
I have, however, managed to prove that I am able to fend off the attacks that Thomas Cromwell is flinging at me, though his movements are slower than they might be if he were truly fighting, as I doubt that I could stand in his way if he were to do that. I am not a born fighter, and I have never received tuition to this degree - but then, as I am a lawyer by trade, why should I have?
I think it must be close to a year since that night in Hampton Court when my life changed course, and I tied myself to the fate of a man tasked to battle in a war of which I was entirely unaware. That the King's Secretary, now Lord Chancellor, belonged to a shadowed order of warriors known only for the silver-rich swords they carried meant nothing to me; I was too busy loathing him for being the base-born son of a blacksmith - and resenting the fact that he outranked me - for I was, as I still am, the Solicitor General.
When he is not Thomas Cromwell, he is called 'Raven' - as this was the sigil assigned to him before he was sent to England. When I am not Sir Richard Rich, I am his Second - assigned to grant him all the aid that I can. I think I am supposed to be better at this then I am, but I was not intended to play such a part. That was meant to be the late Cardinal Wolsey - said to be the most highly trained and prepared Second anyone had ever known.
Seeing that I am too tired to continue, Cromwell retrieves the wooden staff that I have been using, and returns it to a rack in one of the weapons sheds. Behind us, the walls of the Palace of Placentia disguise the fact that the court of Henry, Eighth of that name, is in dire need of new accommodation. The sheer numbers of people present can only have one outcome, and we have reached it. One of the other reasons that we are down at the Tiltyard as often as we are is to escape the almost constant presence of the growing reek of waste that has even begun to permeate the offices that are more normally fragranced by the familiar and comforting aromas generated by enormous quantities of paper and ink.
"Come, Richard," Cromwell is irritatingly cheerful, "William has secured a fine perry that needs to be sampled; I am sure he said he had found some curd tarts to accompany it."
The possibility of such a sweetmeat catches my attention at once. Wealthy though we are, such delicacies are usually destined for the tables of the higher nobles, and for the King. Mere courtiers, such as Cromwell and I, rarely see such fare - though it must be said that we eat well. Until I was obliged to learn swordplay, I had not noticed exactly how well. It is only now, that my clothes are loosening in response to a markedly reduced girth, that I realise that I had been indulging rather more than I ought.
There are bundles of dried lavender at the doors and windows of Cromwell's apartments: an attempt to banish the vague atmosphere of sewage that seems to be everywhere now. The end of the Summer has helped somewhat, as the river had become so offensive that travelling on a wherry was becoming a true ordeal to be avoided wherever possible. The encroaching coolness of autumn, however, has brought the stench of the Thames down to a tolerable level, which is just as well, as I have not been to Grant's Place, where my Library is held, for some weeks.
I still find it odd to say 'my' Library. It once belonged to Wolsey - as he established it. It's only over the last few months that I have begun to feel comfortable referring to it as belonging to me. Perhaps because it is during those months that I have really accepted my new task as Cromwell's Second. My decision was made very much on the spur of the moment; when I noticed that, regardless of the cold, emotionless exterior he normally displays to all about him, underneath he was deeply, miserably lonely. Lonely to the point, it seemed, that he was willing to accept a Second who despised him rather than have no-one at all. Something prompted me to answer that unspoken appeal. I am still not entirely sure what that something was.
William, Cromwell's faithful manservant, has - as promised - set out the perry, but with three cups. There is also an inviting pile of the equally-promised curd tarts, almost certainly purloined from a batch large enough to conceal their disappearance. We are obliged, however, to wait before we fall upon them like ravenous dogs, as it is clear that we are awaiting company.
Sure enough, William answers a brisk knock at the door to reveal Thomas Wyatt, a courtier, poet and emerging diplomat; and also the third member of our little band. Already accomplished with weapons, he has no need to join us for our regular sparring sessions, though he has practised with me whenever Cromwell was not free to do so. One of the tallest men at court, his worth as a spy would seem somewhat limited - but for the fact that he does much to conceal his intellect behind a screen of buffoonery that has made him many friends. All appreciate his bright humour - as do we.
"Curd tarts!" he proclaims delightedly, for he sees them as rarely as we do, "Who did you bribe to obtain these, William?"
William looks quite offended at the suggestion that money has changed hands; he would far rather that he had been accused of stealing them - as that is, largely, what he did. Wyatt laughs cheerfully, and seats himself with us.
"What news, Tom?" Cromwell asks, pouring him a glass of the perry. As both Cromwell and I are far too prominent - and, if I am truly honest, too disliked - to capture the kind of court gossip that can be most helpful to us, Wyatt is our window on a world denied.
"All is quiet, Thomas," Wyatt reports, "Queen Jane is proving to be the most compliant and retiring creature - perfect, it seems, for his Majesty's temperament." His expression flickers for a moment, and we both know that he is thinking of her unfortunate predecessor, for whom he still carries a torch. Unlike Jane, Anne Boleyn was highly intelligent, very quick witted and blessed - or perhaps cursed - with a fiery temperament that had inflamed the King's passion when he was trying to win her favour, but repelled him once he had it. Though Wyatt has long forgiven us for our participation in her downfall, we know that her death still haunts him. As it haunts us.
He shakes himself, and continues, "Needless to say, he is expecting her to be with child almost immediately - and seems most put out that she is not. There is already one mistress behind the arras, but the Queen seems quite willing to accept that she is there for one purpose - and it is for night-time duty; not for night-time recreation."
I sigh inwardly - Wyatt puts it quite crudely, but he is right. As Queen, Jane's role is not to rule, nor to be a helpmate. She is to bear a son - and that is all. Henry is deferential to her as his Queen, and shows all the signs that one would expect of a loving husband - albeit one who considers himself superior to the constraints that marriage vows are supposed to place upon him. He has her at his side for all Royal occasions, and visits her for the purposes of creating a child; but it is to other women that he turns for entertainment.
I was rather like that myself, once, until I found that I no longer had the time. My work as a Second has seen to that, though Cromwell has never again sought female company following the loss of his wife and daughters, and that somewhat monastic devotion to his mission has also prompted me to reconsider my own philandering. I think my own wife is quite grateful, though my duties keep me away for most of the time, so she is rarely obliged to share my company - perhaps she is grateful for that, too.
"She seems not to be disheartened," Wyatt adds, sounding quite surprised, "Far from it, in fact. She does not begrudge him his amours, but instead immerses herself in Queenly duties; and all love her for it."
That is also true. Since Henry married, he has generally seemed to be in a far better temper than he was when married to Anne. Certainly he has not struck Cromwell for some considerable time - something he seems content to do with impunity when the mood takes him - nor has he insulted him. He would not do so with any of the grand Nobles that surround him, but his Lord Chancellor is not a Noble, and thus accepts his role as the King's whipping boy without complaint. Given his abilities with blades and fists, I am amazed sometimes at his restraint.
The atmosphere at Court has lightened considerably: people are less afflicted by the tensions that once reigned in these halls. It seems that Jane has been a true balm that has eased the fractures and lesions inflicted by the Boleyns and Howards when they attempted to snatch all that they could from Anne's rise. The only tragedy from that was our inability to save Anne - who was innocent of their calumnies, as were the four entirely blameless men who died with her. That cloud only seems to lie over us now.
Evening is drawing in, and we stay for supper. We seem to do that most nights - whether it be in Cromwell's apartments or mine. Wyatt's are not large enough to host us, and he does not have access to a good cook, so he cannot serve us anything to match the fine roasted capon that we devour with the enthusiasm of men who have been fighting each other for the entire afternoon.
Seated beside the fire with a cup of warmed hippocras, I retrieve the piece of paper that has been occupying my attention from the moment that I found it. I don't like to recall that night too closely, as I almost lost my life - and the remedy for it was so horrible that even now the memory of it is inclined to break my sleep on occasion. The paper itself, however, is such a fascinating puzzle that even the slowness of my progress in deciphering it does not disturb me unduly. The darkness we faced is defeated - and that which sent it seems to have retired for the moment.
None of us are fool enough to think that the demoness Lamashtu has withdrawn entirely from the fray - but we have certainly not let the opportunity afforded to us for preparation slip by. I shall never be any use with a ranged weapon, but at least now I can acquit myself well with a sword. I wish, though, that I were better acquainted with my Library. Perhaps I should visit it tomorrow - my workload has settled for the moment, so I could escape for a day - possibly more. While it means running the gauntlet of the formidable Margaret Dawson for arriving unannounced, she is always welcoming once she has allowed her annoyance to be vented. Yes. I shall go to Grant's Place tomorrow.
I am tired this morning, having slept badly. The dreams I sometimes have make me fearful to sleep again - and certainly last night I was loath to do so. I am running, always running; and the demon Zaebos is always behind me - getting closer and closer. But I find that my legs refuse to obey me, and seem to almost be dragging through something thick - like honey, or mud. I always seem to wake before I am captured - but each time I do, the darkness of the bedchamber convinces me that he is somewhere near, a dilemma worsened by the fact that I have no means to make a light, and search for him. Even though I saw him driven to dust by the silver in Cromwell's sword as it skewered him front to back, he still seems alive to me, and I wonder if he will ever truly be gone.
I have not dressed richly, leading the Wherryman to think I am a servant. His conversation is tiresome, but at least it does not mention Revenants - instead he concentrates upon how fortunate I am to work in the Palace, and asks if I have met the Queen.
"God's blessings upon her," he goes on, "Fair as the new morning, she is. Better for all than that Witch-whore Anne."
The insult startles me somewhat, as I am unused to hearing such words. The name 'Boleyn' is not to be spoken in the Palace; and as we do not speak of her, to hear another do so is rather unexpected. That she is so hated, even in death, shocks me to some degree, as I never knew her to be anything other than educated, intelligent and cultured, and all who were present at her execution fell to their knees to honour her courage at the last; including Cromwell. It was her family that did the damage. Outside the palace walls, however, she is reviled for supplanting the beloved Queen Katherine.
He must see the startled look on my face, as he changes the subject quickly; suggesting that we shall have a hard winter - something to do with the gulls, or perhaps strange shaped clouds. I have no interest in superstitions, so I leave him to blabber on. The river is rough today, and the wherry bobs unnervingly in the heavy swell - which is more than sufficient to give me an excuse to ignore him, as I would sink like a stone if the boat was to overturn.
I am most relieved to abandon the boat at the Tower wharves, though the prospect of making my way to Shoreditch on foot is never welcome, given the state of the roads. As usual, the people around me are concerned with their own affairs, and my journey to Grant's Place is uneventful.
My arrival at the house, however, is not. Goodwife Dawson is in fine voice again, berating me for being as inconsiderate as the Master for my failure to make my intentions known to her. As I have learned from her Master how to endure her tirades, I let it wash over me, for I know that once she has calmed, she shall offer me ale and bread, and all shall be well again. I have a duffel with me, so she knows that I intend to stay the night. Once I am seated in the Chamber with the secret door, she bustles away to see to preparing a room for me.
As I sup at the ale, and break away some bread, I decide to myself that I should stop calling this Chamber by such a long title. From now on, it is 'My' Chamber. After all, it is the way to 'My' Library, so it seems appropriate to lay full claim to it. Pleased, I reach for my cup, only for it to tip, and spill its contents across the desk. Startled at my clumsiness, I am obliged to scrabble for the napkin that lies under the bread to mop up the mess. Clearly I am more tired than I realised.
I have no particular plan of research; but instead will spend the rest of the day immersed in the Great Index, taking time to learn where things lie in as much detail as I can. Fortunately, I am blessed with a good memory, and this has been my plan of action for the last few months. While I could not hope yet to match Wolsey's knowledge of his extraordinary collection, mine is improving apace - helped in no small measure by the marginalia that I am adding as I make my discoveries. The Index is, of course, now mine, too.
I emerge, blinking, into the last of the daylight, to the aroma of roasting meat. A side of beef has been turning for much of the day, and, while all shall enjoy it, the choice cut will be set aside for me. Goodwife Dawson has even managed to secure a claret, though it is not of the quality that would be found at the Palace. The increase in her household budget - to accommodate the two newest servants - has clearly been beneficial.
I sup alone, as there are no members of the Cromwell family at Grant's Place. They live a short walk away at Austin Friars, and - other than Gregory, his son - know nothing of this house. Gregory is the last of his immediate family, however, though I have only met the boy once. Cromwell has hopes for him to enter Royal service in time, but first he must complete his education, so he is rarely in London. He certainly has no knowledge of his Father's clandestine occupation.
As soon as I have eaten, I return to the books, this time to research the paper that I still have safe. I know so little about the objects to which it refers. I cannot even work out what they are, though the repeated presence of the word Eldur suggests that they are two types of the same thing. The language itself is archaic - which I had already deduced at the moment I found the paper, but I cannot be certain of its age. It might date from as far back as the time of Alfred, or perhaps earlier. My researches have not, as yet, revealed much more than that which confirms what I already know. The fact that I am tired does little to aid my work.
Eventually, I give up for the night, and leave the matter to rest. As do I.
I return to the Library the following morning, and carry on with my exploration of the Index, testing myself as best I can on my work the previous day. The one thing that I have gained over the period of time during which I have been exploring is a towering respect for Wolsey's ability to organise and categorise all that he placed here. I have, more-or-less, become fully acquainted with his cataloguing system - to the point that I could now add items myself without disrupting it. What I lack, however, is his immediate knowledge - that intimacy that enables the scholar to know, almost without checking, where a document lies. It must have taken Wolsey years - and I have had no more than a few months. I am clearly being too impatient with myself…
My attention is caught by an odd sound - almost a snort, or perhaps a grunt. Is someone in the Library with me? I don't recall being followed down the steps - but, as I have discovered several times to my cost, my awareness of my surroundings is limited at best. It is quite possible that I am not alone down here.
Taking up the lantern, I conduct a search, my nerves jangling somewhat. I loathe the fact that I seem to be unable to approach any uncertain situation without trembling. No matter how much Cromwell suggests that I have found depths of courage within myself, at moments like this, I struggle to believe him.
There is no one present, and I chew briefly at my lip in disgust at my foolishness. I am supposed to be a Second: starting at my own shadow is not acceptable. Irked, I return to the Index and continue my work until my growling stomach drives me back out in search of something to eat.
Rather than leave me to dine on my own, Goodwife Dawson instead sits with me, apparently intent on discussion. This is rather disconcerting, as she is not normally so forward, and I pause, a chunk of beef on the point of my knife halfway to my mouth.
"Forgive my intrusion, Mr Rich," She begins, almost meekly, "I would not normally speak of such matters to any but Master Cromwell, but I think you would wish to know, as it was your good self and Mr Wyatt that brought her here."
My mouth still open, the knife still poised, I nod, uncertainly.
"Since she came into my care, young Molly Taverner has shown an astonishing aptitude for reading and writing," the Goodwife tells me, "I have never seen the like. As she was interested in the books, I thought it worthwhile to teach her, as there are none here who seem to be able to calculate so much as a pair of figures, much less a column in an account."
I remember Molly - so small, so rough, so afraid. A lowly drudge in the Palace, her young man had vanished - and her insistence that he would not have abandoned her had led to our discovery of an unholy ritual in preparation. Thanks to her, six lives had been saved, including that of the youth to whom she had sworn herself. Since then, she has been here - and, it seems, learning apace.
"She has learned so quickly - faster than I could have imagined anyone could - and her memory!" she smiles, "She has but to briefly read a list of items, and she remembers them all. Already I have placed her in charge of the Kitchen inventory, for she remembers all with such ease. She has been a great help to me."
I set the knife down on my plate again, as I realise that I look an idiot with it poised where it is, "I'm pleased to hear it. I shall apprise Mr Wyatt of her progress."
Rising from her chair, Goodwife Dawson nods, bobs a polite curtsey, and leaves me to my dinner.
I return to the Library once more. I am never tired of books, or the written word - it was that which sent me into the legal profession as much as anything else. Seeking out knowledge seems to be in my blood far more than fighting or violence; I almost thrive on it. As in the morning, I remain engrossed until driven back out by hunger. An uncharitable observer might suggest that I have made no progress - but I have now, more or less, committed the cataloguing of two sets of shelves entirely to memory, and I would wish to stay and build upon that. That, alas, is not possible, as I cannot remain away from my desk any longer. I shall sleep tonight, and return to Placentia on the morrow.
My decision made, I seek out Goodwife Dawson to see what she has for my supper.
The river is considerably rougher upon my return to the Tower, as a solid autumn gale sweeps across the city. Consequently, I have some difficulty persuading a Wherryman to accept me to return to Greenwich, as the river's width and depth at that point always increases the choppiness of the water, and puts the small boats at risk of being swamped. Eventually, one consents, on the condition that I pay a considerable gratuity for the risk he is taking. That said, if he can get me back to the Palace without drowning me, I would pay him almost an entire year's pay for the service. The fact that he is clearly almost as frightened as I am is less than reassuring.
We take far longer than usual, as the Wherryman keeps his doughty little vessel as close to the banks as he can. We are thrown about horribly, and I have to bite my tongue twice to stop myself from screaming aloud as we pitch violently one way or the other. Never before, in my entire life, have I been more glad to step ashore. The gratuity I pay the Wherryman is, in my gratitude, twice that which we agreed - given that he may not wish to risk returning until the gale subsides, so he will both lose trade and need somewhere to sit out the disruption. I just wish that my knees would stop shaking, as I return to my apartments to change out of my befouled clothes. It may not be summer anymore, but the river is still quite revolting, and I have been thoroughly soaked.
As there is still an afternoon to get through before I host supper for Cromwell and Wyatt, I repair to my desk in the offices to see what has been set there in my absence. To my relief, there is not much - and what little there is will take not much time at all. The King is too contented at present to be interested in litigation, so my workload has eased rather. I entertain no assumptions, however, that such a lull will actually last.
Cromwell is busy over some documents, Wriothesley leaning over his shoulder and muttering something; presumably observations covering whatever it is that the document is about. Elsewhere, the clerks are busy at their work, drafting, filing or carrying messages. I feel quite surplus to requirements, and depart again in search of Wyatt to pass on Goodwife Dawson's news.
By the time we gather to sup, I am not surprised to see that Cromwell has abandoned his finery again, and is in that rough suit of black clothing that I have long since started calling his 'hunting' garb. John, my manservant, had earlier laid out the set of black clothing that I have for that same purpose, presumably upon instructions received via William. It appears that I am to join the Raven on his hunt tonight, then; part of my ongoing instruction as a Second. I cannot help but wonder if Wolsey was required to do this when he was first learning the task.
Wyatt does not normally join us on such excursions, as he considers his eavesdropping in the Hall to be of equal importance, "Ah." He says, cheerfully, "The burglars are back."
Cromwell smiles at his joke, but is soon quite serious again, "You may well soon be obliged to join us, Tom. The number of raveners is increasing. No sooner have I dispatched one, than another appears. I have never seen them in such numbers."
I look at him, surprised, "When did this start to happen?"
"Not long ago - until about a week past, they would arrive at their usual pace. Keeping them controlled has become an easier matter now that Zaebos is no more. I can concentrate upon them with my full attention - your presence as my Second has also helped upon that score."
I swallow, nervously, "So I am no longer to attend as an observer?"
"For the time being, I would rather that you remained unseen." He admits, then gives me one of his more piercing glances, "Your swordplay is not as far along as I would have expected, given the time that you have put into it."
I feel my face burn with embarrassment, but he is looking at me in a fashion that suggests not criticism, but concern, "I suspect that you are not applying yourself as fully as you could. Am I correct?"
I stare at the floor, and try to think of an answer; but I cannot.
"No matter," Cromwell says, his tone of voice announcing that he is happy to change the subject, "Continue your observances. We can return to the Tiltyard on the morrow."
Our hunt is short, and fruitful. We come upon the expected ravener within half an hour of leaving my quarters, and it is soon dispatched. Cromwell looks highly disappointed to have had such an easy time - he is not used to such a quick kill. Given the speed at which they normally move, neither am I.
"This is most strange," he admits, as we make our way back to the apartments we left less than an hour ago, "They come here, do nothing and seem almost willing to fall upon my blades. I have never seen such a thing before."
"Do you think Lamashtu to be behind it?" I venture, though I am not sure that I think this likely.
"I have no idea," He admits, "It seems an odd thing to do - why dispatch Raveners to the court to do nothing but cause me to chase them? It is not as though her Majesty is yet with child, so what is to be gained?"
"Mild satisfaction, perhaps?" I venture, "You did, after all, disrupt her plans to destroy the Court."
The next three nights follow this exact same pattern. Always, we emerge together to hunt; always there is a ravener easily found. Always - the ravener seems most disinterested in giving him a real fight. I cannot help but wonder if there is a larger plan at work, though I am at a loss to work out what it might be.
"I agree," Cromwell admits, when I discuss my thoughts with him, "I wonder if I am being gulled - to think that my opponents are not as strong as they once were. I am not fool enough to do that. Do they think that I might not bother to bring my swords?"
We continue to venture out each night for a week - and it is ever the same. They give so little trouble that I am beginning to wonder if Cromwell will start to assign their dispatch to me - and I almost wish that he might.
But then, we should always be careful what we wish for.
Once again, we are hunting, and once more, a ravener is in our sights. As has become the regular pattern, it seems almost to be waiting for us - though I withdraw to the shadows of the passageway as I always do. I am not ready to fight one of these beasts yet. At least, I do not consider myself to be.
The fight seems ready to take the same turn that the previous battles have - nothing more than a quick skirmish that will end in a silver-bitten beheading and the obliteration of the demon to dust. Even I am becoming bored of these encounters, so I cannot imagine how tired Cromwell must be of them.
It happens suddenly - unexpectedly. As he is engaged with one ravener, another one drops from the low roofs above to land at his back, undetected as his landing was covered by the scuffle of the fight. Without hesitation, I call a warning as loudly as I dare, but it serves only to warn the creature that I am present, and suddenly it is staring at me.
I fight down the urge to run, as the ugliness of the creature is bad enough when it is occupied elsewhere, but far, far worse now that it is aimed at me. Instead, I draw the silvered poniard that is the only weapon I possess of any use to me now - and emerge from the shadows of the passageway. Then it moves - with that deadly swiftness that so frightened me the first time I saw one of these creatures. And it is interested in my throat.
Instinct immediately controls me, and I drop to the ground to allow it to pass over me and skid across the damp cobbles as it scrabbles with its clawed hands and feet for purchase. I am not agile, not like Cromwell, and I am also scrabbling to rise - but I am on my feet again and the poniard is held in readiness. Behind me, I can hear the sound of increased activity - as that ravener has also opted to fight at its full ability. Cromwell cannot help me: I must help myself.
Where the hell has this come from? Didn't he say that only one ravener ever occupies a territory at one time? Why are there two? I have no time to ask myself any more pointless questions, as the hideous creature leaps at me. My strike is absolutely blind, but, to my astonishment, it makes its mark, and the ravener is pinned upon the blade. It hisses and spits, trying even now to sink its teeth into my face - but the silver does its work. In moments, it is falling to dust, and I sink back to the ground, almost faint with relief.
The hand on my shoulder makes me yelp in fright, which rather ruins my heroic moment; but Cromwell is standing over me, having dispatched his ravener too. He looks most pleased with me, "Well done, Richie, well done. But for you I would have been lost - and you have your first kill."
Quite.
He helps me to my feet, but I can see the tension in his eyes - we both know that raveners do not share territory - the second one should not have been present. Why it did what it did, we cannot know for certain, but we both have the same suspect. Even Cromwell, despite his conviction that he does not speculate.
Only fear of something more powerful would drive creatures so resolutely solitary to stand together in the same place. They are afraid of that something - and that something can only sensibly be Lamashtu. All we cannot be certain of is her motive. Is she toying with us? Testing us, perhaps? Maybe she hopes that one of us might die in combat. Me, for choice, I suspect - after all, I am far more vulnerable to one of these things than Cromwell, and she almost certainly knows that he would be left not only vulnerable himself for the loss of his Second, but also bereft - which is just as dangerous. It was luck that guided my poniard home tonight - not skill; and luck will only go so far.
Suddenly, my need to translate that paper appears to have become much more urgent.