[Author's Note: I'm a bit of a fan of the 'mashup' genre; particularly those 'Demon Hunter' style stories - and that rather undocumented period that Thomas Cromwell spent on the continent seems ripe for mashing! Consequently, the tale has strong tinges of AU, and tends to lurch rather wildly between history and Show canon, but it does move along largely in tandem with them.

I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing other than that which is completely made up by me...]

CHAPTER ONE

The Stranger in the Office

I awake with a start. The candle has guttered and gone out: starved of wax that is now a pool of translucent white on the table. I am face down on the wood, my head resting upon papers and scrolls. Not for the first time, I appear to have fallen asleep at my desk. Around me, the Palace of Hampton Court sleeps, and I have no doubt the surrounding peasantry snores peacefully away, too.

A clock strikes outside in the darkness: the quarter. I have no idea of the hour, but the moon, such as it is, is sufficient to lift the darkness in the chamber a little, and I can see to tidy up the mess. It is not my preference to work so late - not even on the business of the King - not when there is a full tankard and a gaming table ready for my attention; but nonetheless, these papers must be prepared and for reasons of his own the King's Secretary felt obliged to depart as that same clock struck the hour of six after noon.

Damn you, Cromwell, I think to myself; displeased at such laxity. For one claimed to work so hard, where is he tonight? Why is he not burning candles down to the nub? I have no doubt that he would be able to furnish me with a suitable excuse about being required in the King's presence - we are, after all, both lawyers by trade - nonetheless, it rubs raw that he should have left me to do this. But then, that I am obliged to be second to him does little to lessen the hurt.

No mistake - I loathe the man. I have no doubt that he despises me equally in return as he is no more than a base-born son of a tradesman who could not know any better. Churl of his nature have no knowledge or understanding of the importance of the higher ranks, and the fact that his rank in the Court exceeds mine is as sore a blister as his absence from this tedious work. I am not blind to my reputation about the court, and I care nothing for that as long as I am able to advance my career - and thus I set myself at Cromwell's side in the hopes of achieving advancement upon his heels. I am quite sure that he is as aware of this as he is of my deep dislike - perhaps that is why he assigned such dull, tedious work to me before he departed. The thoughts are childish, perhaps, but they make a pleasing accompaniment to my tidying.

The last of the papers stored in a coffer, I reach for my cloak with dark musings on how to exact some petty revenge on the morrow; and stop dead at the sound of a scrape and bump from the other side of the door. No one should be abroad at such an hour; but perhaps it is nothing more than a rat…

Another scrape, then a low moan. No rat then. I begin to tremble, fearing burglary, or even assault, and now I am grateful for the last of the old moon and the shadows it affords me. I keep well back as the door creaks open, admitting a tall, shapeless form that shuffles and limps forward, leaning on tables and shelves as though they were crutches. Someone in a cloak, with a soft black bonnet pulled low; but who would be here now? Why are they aiming so resolutely, if slowly, for the Master Secretary's desk?

The intruder is no more than two paces from his apparent goal when he moans again and this time falls heavily to the boards. Even now, he still tries to move forward, but clearly cannot - he lacks the strength. Not wishing to disturb this fallen stranger, I step forward as silently as I can in order to escape to the door undetected. As I do so, I see smears across the floorboards, and I realise that he has left a trail of blood in his wake. A dead man, then. Perhaps I should just allow God's will to take its course…

A floorboard creaks, and I bite back a grunt that threatens to be come a squeak.

"Who's there?" the voice is weak, but my movement has given me away, so it seems that his senses are still sharp, then. I stop dead, cursing to myself for my foolishness, and wonder what to do, uncertain now whether the owner of that voice is as far gone as his faint words suggest. He is, however, upon the floor and largely helpless, so of little threat to me now. Easy enough to take the initiative, then.

I step forward and snatch a knife from a nearby table - a short blade for sharpening quills - and reach down to pull the folds of black away, then snatch the soft, black bonnet from the stranger's head…

"Jesu God!" I cannot keep back the epithet, for the stranger is no stranger; he is Thomas Cromwell.

"Is that you, Rich?" he asks, his voice thick with pain. I turn him over and see wetness about the black of his doublet. I realise that a knife has entered him; nothing else could have caused such an outpouring of blood if the trail he has left behind him is truly his and not another's. Am I surprised at such an outcome? A man so hated, so despised, could only possibly end up with a knife in his side, since he has the favour of the King and there is no possible chance of his being dispatched on the block. I am more surprised that it is not a knife in the back.

"Yes, it is I." I say, "How is it that this has happened?"

He is sheened with sweat, his eyes wide and vivid. Without speaking, he raises a trembling arm and points upwards towards a small black coffer that sits on a shelf behind his desk. Made of the finest ebony, carved thickly with strange beasts and vines, it is rarely on the shelf upon which it currently resides - but when it is, he guards it like a lion, and none of us are permitted to touch it. Cromwell rarely shows temper, but any who try to reach the coffer are sure to feel its strike.

"Fetch it." The words are all but spat out, but I comply, not particularly out of a desire to help Cromwell, but to see at last what this forbidden box contains. Something sinful, no doubt. I pause, irked at myself. Am I really so willing to instantly believe the worst of the man lying at my feet?

Breathing hard, Cromwell retrieves a kerchief from the folds of his cloak and crumples it into a thick wad, while I set the box down on the floor and, unbidden, open it. Rather than object, instead he instructs, fumblingly unfastening his doublet as he does so.

"The pewter bottle - open it. Empty it onto the cloth." Reaching into the coffer, I retrieve a metal bottle that must hold a tankard's worth of some liquid. I comply, snatching the kerchief and soaking the muslin in a clear fluid that smells strongly of distilled spirits, then look down at him and curse; his eyes are all but rolling up into his head - he is not long for this world, and if he does not speak again, then he shall be gone. Do I mind? Again, I am not sure.

"The vial," he continues, faintly, "Three drops." I retrieve an ugly black vial shaped like a hideous imp with a lead stopper at the top, sealed with wax. Breaking the seal and working out the stopper, I recoil sharply and almost drop it. The stench that emerges from the item is so offensive that I can barely keep from retching, but again, I follow the instruction and drip three, malodorous black spots onto the spirit-soaked cloth, then look down at him in hopes of prompting him to speak again.

"The stick," he chokes, "Then the wad." Looking into the case a third time, I see a thick piece of wood, dented and chipped along its length. Snatching it, Cromwell jams it between his teeth, then reaches for the wad. As he lifts up the bloody linen of his shirt to expose his side, I finally see the wound and cannot stop from cursing - it is deep, bleeding profusely…it's mortal; it has to be. He cannot possibly survive this…

Ignoring my revulsion, Cromwell tenses, closes his eyes tightly, and presses the wad to the gash. I cannot help but jump back as he seems almost to leap from the ground, a hideous screech emerging from his clenched mouth. His free hand, clamped into a fist, hammers madly down on the floorboards and he writhes in agony. No matter how bad the wound, this, it would appear, is far worse. I want to run, to vomit, to scream - but I cannot move; held by the awful spectacle of this highly placed man uttering such a ghastly noise, his head tossing from side to side as his heels start to drum the floor in a ghastly counterpoint to the thumping of his fist.

At last, after what seems like an eternity that should bring all the guards in the palace rushing to our door, he relaxes and is still, though his breathing is harsh. As I become aware of myself again, I realise that I have backed away to the wall, and curse my cowardice. But it is still not over; instead, he spits out the stick and speaks again, "The pitcher on the table - a cup, and a basin." Apparently he is not yet able to move, so I must do his fetching.

Once again, I comply, and set a heavy, filled pewter pitcher down beside him, and then a wooden cup, and copper basin - all apparently set there for this purpose, though I had not noticed them when I woke and I dread to imagine what he intends to do with them. Moving painfully, he lifts himself to his knees, and then pours a hideously thick, foul looking liquid into the cup. Steeling himself again, he empties the entire cupful down his throat, before leaning forward over the basin. I lean forward too, wondering what might happen now; and sure enough, he groans, then heaves violently, before forcibly swallowing again. We stay there for an age, apparently waiting, until Cromwell breathes in deeply and sits back on his heels, an expression of relief on his damp, grey-tinged face.

Despite myself, I cannot help but step in as Cromwell attempts to rise, "For pity's sake, Master Secretary, you are wounded!"

"No longer." He says, shortly, and lifts his shirt again. To my astonishment, the wound has gone - as though it were never there in the first place. Indifferently, he allows the linen to drop and stands, before making his way around to his chair and sitting down with a sigh.

I am at a loss; all I can think is that he has been accosted either by enemies or footpads, but how is it that he could be cured so? Mere moments ago he was dying at my feet - but now he is seated, and nothing more than a little out of breath. He has retrieved another kerchief from a drawer in his desk and is blotting the sweat from his still pallid face. He shrugs out of the cloak, and I realise he is far more roughly dressed than he would be were he in the Presence Chamber - the rich quilted doublet is instead rough broadcloth, the linen shirt unbleached; his chain of office gone, and not a jewel or ornament to be seen. I can think of no reason for him to be so poorly clad, unless he has been visiting the Cheapside whorehouses - a secret that none of us would have suspected.

Whatever his reasons for being as he is, he is tired. My thoughts as to what he has done - other than being grievously wounded - to have made himself so exhausted are, however, held as he moves again, this time reaching to his belt and removing two leather scabbards from his waist and setting them, and the swords they contain, on his desk. How could I not have noticed those when he fell? In contrast to the battered clothing, these are richly chased with glistening metal that shimmers: polished silver. No, he would not have taken those into a whorehouse…

"I owe you an explanation, I think." He says, though he does not look at me - his gaze drifting tiredly across a shelf of papers and powdery volumes of great age.

"You need not explain yourself, Master Secretary," I respond, not wishing to know what he has been doing in the midst of the night - whorehouse or no whorehouse.

"Ah, but I think I do." He smiles, thinly, "You should not have been here to see my secret; but had you not been, one of the clerks would have found my lifeless corpse upon the floor on the morrow."

Secret? God's wounds, he has a mistress…or worse, he prefers men…

"The fluid in the vial is of obscure origin," Cromwell murmurs quietly, "it can heal all and any wound or hurt, though in doing so it is infinitely more cruel than the hurt it is intended to heal. It has, however, certain poisonous effects that must be countered by the ingredients in the cordial. That, too, is unpleasant, and I have on occasions been unable to tolerate it, hence the basin. Today I was more fortunate, as I was not obliged to drink a second draught having vomited up the first."

I swallow. Hard.

"I am sure that you believe me to have been engaged in unsavoury activities to have been so grievously wounded," he continues, "Those who came against me were numerous, and violent; and despite my prevailing in the end, one of them drove a dagger into my side before I was able to dispatch him. It was a deep wound, for sure - and but for you, it would have killed me."

"It is of no moment, Master Secretary," I mumble, loathing to be thanked by this tiresome commoner, but yet even loathing myself for doing so, "thanks be to God that I was here when you needed my aid, though I must confess that I am at a loss as to why you should have been set upon so - particularly within the precincts of the Palace."

He sighs, and looks away again. Whatever his secret truly is, I know he is about to tell me - but I am not prepared for his words.

"There is a darkness surrounding this Court, Mr Rich," Cromwell says, quietly, "I refer not to the dangers of displeasing the King, or even the fight against the scourge of Rome, but instead of something far deadlier. We speak of otherworldly forces - perhaps in jest, perhaps not. But they are real, and I have been tasked to fight them." He pauses, then looks directly at me, "I am a Silver Sword."