CHAPTER TEN

Recovery

I hear Wyatt's voice, "If only we had known. This was caused by that which made the fish cook berate the prawns, and the gardener argue with the robin. It prompted Mr Jameson to threaten Heracles in the tapestry, and Will Paxton to attempt to behead a unicorn. It even caused the Lady Mary to chase you. We did not find until it was too late that it could exert such power over one who feels great remorse."

"I think I have seen its effects before." Cromwell says, quietly, "Some years ago, when he was first made Chancellor, Thomas More, meeting me in my capacity as King's Secretary, seemed to become almost mad with rage at me when I questioned why he seemed so determined to resort to fire in the face of rising lutheran sentiments. He had two of his servants pin me down on the desk, and set a poker in the fire to heat. They slit my doublet and forced up my shirt to expose my back. I thought that I might be branded - and expected to be - but he did not carry out the act. I always wondered what had driven him to behave so; for though he was bigoted and rigid over what he considered to be heresy; his act was the absolute opposite of his general nature: he never once advocated violence against another human being in so cold-blooded a fashion."

"Hot blooded, more like." Wyatt grunts, but Cromwell does not laugh.

Then, at last, it happens, "I thought myself lost, Tom." The pitch of his voice is rising, as the tears start to come, "I cried out to you both to help me - but you did not answer. There was no one, and I was utterly alone. God help me, I was so afraid…" and he breaks. I feel his arm pull away from my hand - which has gone loose anyway, and his legs draw up as he pulls his knees to his chest. It is only then that I raise my head - for he has buried his face in his hands, and sobs as violently as he had in Hampton Court after we had barely escaped Lamashtu's priory.

He is in pain - and he needs the comfort of his friends; but I cannot move, or speak. All I know is that, in his darkest hour, it was Wolsey who came to him. Wolsey who proved himself to be a true Second while I blubbered like a fool and came within an inch of failing him completely. If I was of so little use to him in his most desperate need, then he hardly needs me now. I am surplus to requirements.

Instead, it is Wyatt who speaks - and surprises me with his words, "I, too, am greatly troubled by nightmares, Thomas - for I also carry a burden of guilt. Did I not act with childish indiscretion towards Queen Anne? Ever have I thought that, had I not done so, then my foolish scribblings, and my hopeless pining, might have left people less willing to believe that any would look upon her as an adulteress. She haunts my dreams - I find myself in the cell in which I was kept, and I can hear her: she screams for me, pleads for my help for a demon is with her. The door is open, and I search endless passages for the door behind which she is trapped. But I never find her - all I can hear is screaming, as she suffers torments that I cannot begin to imagine. My foolishness destroyed her, and all but broke my heart."

Cromwell slowly raises his head to look at Wyatt, whose face is now creased with pain, "I miss her, Thomas - miss her more than anyone could guess. Each day is agony for she is no longer here, and I cannot see her face. And I must smile and play the fool, all the time knowing that the one who demanded her destruction entertains another woman in her stead - while those who carried out his desire are forced to bear the burden of it as he does not." And then he lets out a painful cry, "I cannot remember what she looks like any more…she is gone, and I cannot see her…ever again."

Wordlessly, Cromwell reaches out and gathers Wyatt as a father gathers his son, until the poet's head is resting upon his shoulder as he sobs out his grief and pain. I had no idea - did Cromwell? Should I have known? Do I even care any more? I'm not sure that I know, or even that I want to know. Instead, I redirect my attention to the counterpane. The tear-spots have dried now, and I do not intend to add more to them. I shall not allow myself to feel the pain that Wyatt is showing. Not ever again. Perhaps I should just get up, make some excuse, and go. There is no place in this enterprise for me now.

I stand up, and turn; but Cromwell speaks, "Richard." It is not an order, not a query - but it has the power to stop me in my tracks, "Tell me why you are angry."

How does he know? I have not shown it - and, anyway, I am not angry. Not at all, I am…what am I? I cannot think…

"I am not angry." I snap back.

"If you are not angry, what then?" he retorts, his red-rimmed eyes narrowing.

"I am not angry!" I shout, "I am…I am…" and then I cannot stop, "I am hurt! I am…God, I feel as though my soul is in pieces! I gave everything to this! I even came close to giving up my life - but no matter what I do, no matter what I suffer, Wolsey is always the one who aids us! It's Wolsey! Even when you were in that hell-place, it was Wolsey who came to you, and I couldn't!"

Cromwell says nothing, but watches me, gravely.

"God help me, even when I thought I was brave enough, I wasn't! I fled from Will Paxton because he thrust his halberd at me, and I saw Zaebos! I screamed like a bloody woman and ran away! Zaebos chases me through my dreams almost every night, and I wonder sometimes if I shall ever be free of him! And still, no matter what I do, it's all thanks to Wolsey, not me! The only reason I killed that ravener was because I thought it was Zaebos and I was avenging myself upon him - I stabbed him over and over again, even when the ravener went to dust, because all I could see was Zaebos, and what he did to me!" I am babbling again, but still there is more that I cannot keep inside, and I just keep on going, "I can't even use a sword properly! I dare not - for if I do, I might find a blade in me again, and then that fire in my veins - I could not face that again - I could not! I am too afraid to, for I am a coward! What Second does not protect his Silver Sword - but I have not! I have nearly killed you, not once but twice! It is better that Wolsey is still with us, for he is the Second I cannot be - he has some skill at it, some competence! Some…" I cannot manage another word - the pain inside me is such now that I can barely breathe. I thought I had made such progress as a Second - that I was finally becoming useful, but I am not, and it is always Wolsey that saves us from my failures - Wolsey, Wolsey, Wolsey…

I stand there, like an idiot, blubbering hopelessly, "I cannot do this…" I choke, "I cannot…"

"Richard." His tone is no different, but he is looking at me, and he holds out his right arm - as his left is still about Wyatt's shoulders.

I shake my head. I do not deserve his forgiveness. I have failed him - over and over again…but I cannot re-erect that wall of indifference that made me what I once was - I thought that I could; but it has gone, and I have nothing left. Nothing…

"Richie."

I feel such a failure, so stupid…I had reassured Molly that the disaster we faced was not her fault - and I kept her from helping me in order to ensure that she did not share in my own failings. And I did…I should have stayed…if we had begun our prayers sooner…if I had not waited for her to return to Grant's Place to carry out the search for that second document…

"Am I going to have to get up?" Cromwell asks. From the look on his face, I realise that he will do so - and he is not ready, not yet. Even from this distance, I can see he is still pale as a ghost.

"You do not have to tell me, Richie," he says, quietly, "I can see it in your face. Did you know that Wolsey had some very choice, and uncomplimentary things to say about you? For he did - and I was most vexed with him for it. He trained for ten years or more to become my Second - and was long prepared before I arrived in England; before I even entered the House. And yet he finds fault with you for not being his equal after less than a year? No one could hope to reach such heights of knowledge in so short a time - but still you have risen to the challenge with commendable determination and you did, did you not, uncover the secrets of Blue Fire and Red Fire? Alone and without the assistance of our late Cardinal?"

I glare at him, tearful and mutinous. I don't want to hear this…

"He did not make the mistakes you have made with me, because he made them before he was assigned a Silver Sword and thus no harm was done. He made mistakes far graver than yours - and was spared your guilt for the simple reason that there was no one to suffer the consequences. He cannot understand what it is to find your way as a Second when you have been obliged to start from the beginning with no knowledge even of what we are or what we do - for he did not have to do so. Yet you have done so. As you said to me yourself, Wolsey is dead. You are my Second now."

"I do not deserve the title." I mutter, miserably.

"Self-pity is most unbecoming, Mr Rich, and certainly in a Second. No Second has ever caused the death of their Silver Sword - and neither have you. For God's sake, Richie - we are all fumbling in the dark - I as much as you. I relied far too much upon Wolsey's experience and knowledge, and almost paid for it with both of our lives when I took us into the Priory without a thought of whether or not we were prepared. Your belief in yourself and your abilities as a Second has been shattered - I can see that: shattered utterly. But I refuse to believe that I have chosen ill, for I know that I have not. If nothing else, Wolsey's disdain of you is proof enough - for if he did not consider you worthy of the title, he would not look upon you with such criticism. He would all but ignore your presence. He most certainly would not have spoken the words of the grace through you when you cried out for help in the tiltyard. He would have looked to another to do that service, for Tom was also there. He chose you."

Finally, I move. I do not leave - for I cannot. Not when I can see the sincerity in his face; hear it in his voice. Wolsey is dead - I did say that, but it seems that I did not believe it. We might need him - but he is not Cromwell's Second any more: I am - a task I chose freely, and willingly. I should remember that.

Instead, I seat myself alongside him, as Wyatt has done, and his arm is about my shoulders, "When first I met you, Richie, I saw you as a contemptible, unscrupulous politician with no interest other than his own advancement. You have shown me that you are more than that - far more. There is more good in you than you know, and it has emerged apace over this year. You seem hardly recognisable as that same man - and I value your friendship more than you can believe - but there is one thing more that I must say," and he leans close to my ear, "I trust you."

No one has ever said that to me before - for I have never warranted any man's trust. Wyatt might have said the kindest insult anyone had for me was 'weasel', but he is not the only one who has heard worse. I know that none in the Court would ever have placed their trust in me, and until now, I would not have cared. Perhaps that is it - most of all. Until now, I have never truly been able to believe that Cromwell trusted me, even when he has said so - but he does, and now he has truly declared it. And I believe him.

"I promise you," I say, with a firmer voice than I expected after all that ghastly blubbering, "I shall never fail you again."

Cromwell laughs, "Don't make promises you cannot keep, Richie. I may trust you, but that does not mean that you shall never make another mistake. If you do not, how could you ever learn?"

Not, I suspect, as much as I have learned this morning.

A vague sound of knocking comes through to the bedchamber, and both Wyatt and I return to our chairs. If he is as wrung out as I feel, I am sure we would make a hideous sight to anyone who came in to see us.

William knocks on the door, and looks in, "Forgive me, Mr Cromwell; one of the clerks is without - Mr Wriothesley has sent him to enquire if you and Mr Rich are well - for he has noted your absences."

As he looks so unwell, Cromwell is more than happy for the unfortunate messenger to be shown in to see him, and I note that it is Daniel. As they are all used to seeing the Lord Chancellor only in the office chambers, he is clearly most uncomfortable to be in his bedchamber, and he stares nervously at his master's pallid face.

"Please pass my apologies to Mr Wriothesley, Daniel," Cromwell advises, his voice suddenly rather weak-sounding, "I have not been well these two days past, and I shall need today to recover myself. I shall see you all on the morrow."

Daniel nods, and turns to me. As I have sore, red eyes, and something of a headache, I opt for overindulgence with wine, "Forgive me, Daniel - I am recovering from the effects of drink. I am sure Mr Wriothesley can survive for one day without my presence." As I used to offer such dreadful excuses for absence, Daniel does not show surprise, but instead mild resignation as he bows and withdraws.

"Now," Cromwell says, altogether more businesslike, "If you could remove the breakfast items, I think we should make some use of them in the main chamber. Send William through, would you? I have no wish to remain abed, and certainly not in yesterday's clothes."

As we have not lain abed in our garments, they are in somewhat better condition, so we repair to the main chamber to await him. I have little appetite, and neither does Wyatt - so we leave the bread and cheese untouched in case Cromwell wants it.

"Do you feel better now?" Wyatt asks again, looking at me with sincerity rather than mischief. I am not entirely sure what I shouted in the bedchamber, as it came out in such a rush; but I know I said much more than I would have wished to. Perhaps I needed to; so I nod, "I think so." I look up at him, "You?"

He nods. Much was said this morning, and all of us seem to have been far more battered by all that has passed since we first came together as a group to fight the darkness that we knew nothing of until that night in the offices. I feel, in some ways, as though the old me - the one who loathed Cromwell and inspired such dislike amongst my peers - was expunged in that outburst, and I am grateful. Now that I know what it is to have true friends, I have no wish to be on my own again, "We shall win against her, Tom." I say, suddenly, "If it is the only good thing we ever do upon this earth - we shall defeat her. In honour of Katherine, and Anne - both of whom suffered the consequences of her cruelties. Once her Majesty is with child, then we shall do all we can to protect her as we could not protect them."

He nods, his eyes bright with tears again, and I smile at him. We shall not forget - even if history does not know why their lives were destroyed; we do, and we can seek justice for them. God - how noble I sound to myself. Perhaps I should have something to eat then, before I noble myself into a stupor.

When Cromwell emerges, he is in neither his 'hunting' garb nor his more ceremonial robes, and he has left his chain of office behind. He moves slowly, as he is clearly still drained from his experience, and seats himself beside the fire, "So you two are not hungry, either." He observes, smiling.

The wind changed overnight to the south west, and brought warmth with it that has thawed the snow that fell yesterday, and has lifted wisps of fog all about the palace in its place. As the snow has gone, and there is no frost, Cromwell asks William for a cloak. As I have left mine here, and Wyatt was wearing his when he arrived, we do not need to return to our quarters to collect them - though I have no idea what destination Cromwell has in mind.

We walk slowly, as Cromwell lacks the strength to maintain his usual swift march, and I am surprised to find that we have come down to the tiltyard. While the snow has gone, the ground is waterlogged and boggy, but there is one part that is hard-packed with gravel alongside the weapons sheds, and it is to this that he leads us. I realise then, to my dismay, that we are to engage in more sword practice. At least, with the weather being what it is, there shall be none to see us.

As he is still rather weak, Cromwell does not select a wooden weapon for himself, but instead perches on one of the large weapons chests while Wyatt does the honours. My usual feeling is of resignation, and of a mild sense of discomfort, at sparring with the weapons - even wooden ones - for I still remember that awful sense of cold steel in my side - ripping through me and slicing open my veins as it did so. Now, however, the memory is there - but I have acknowledged its presence and - oddly - it seems to no longer have the power to chill me. Instead, I face Wyatt without that doubt, and from his stance, he can see that I have.

My moves are, admittedly, tentative at first, for I have not sparred for some days - either for lack of time, or lack of good weather - but as I warm up, I find that I move more fluidly, and with more assurance, as my fear of the consequences of being outsmarted has receded. We soon abandon our cloaks, and Wyatt's movements become more complex, testing my defences, and demanding that I move faster to dodge and parry. Occasionally he gets through, and the strikes smart somewhat, but I have lost the fear of them, and instead I am intent on practising the moves that will guard against them.

After half an hour, we stop, and Wyatt looks pleased. We turn to Cromwell, who is clearly sharing that pleasure, "Well guarded, Richie. Now, your turn to attack. Remember all I have shown you - and do not spare him."

The last time I attacked something with a blade, I recall I went rather berserk, so I am again tentative at the outset. But such is my determination to prove myself, that it overcomes my fear that I might lose control and instead I keep it, and Wyatt finds that his blocks and parries are becoming harder to maintain, as my speed increases. I would be a fool to believe that I am going to achieve the heights of a master swordsman in the few hours we have spent at the tiltyard; but I know this time, as I fall back from the final bout, thoroughly blown, that I am now fighting at the best of my ability - such as it is - not at something close to it.

Our return to the Palace is not witnessed, fortunately, as we are supposed to be either hung-over, or ill. Instead, we head to our own separate apartments - in Wyatt's case, and mine, to wash and change - before reconvening in Cromwell's apartments for a well-earned supper.

As none of us have eaten all day, I wonder if I am the only one who is somewhat light-headed as I arrive at Cromwell's door. Certainly, the cook has provided an excellent repast that will serve to restore us all, and we are soon seated, and I note that Wyatt attacks his plateful with at least as much enthusiasm as I do, though Cromwell himself eats far less, as he is clearly still too tired - if the shadows under his eyes are anything to go by.

"Do you think that malevolence was sent against us?" he asks, after we have moved onto a selection of comfits and sweet wine.

"I would place all my money upon Lamashtu." Wyatt offers through a mouthful of sugary marchpane, "If the Queen conceives, she'd want us out of the way so that she can interfere. She knows we're prepared for her now."

"Except for the fact that the Queen knows nothing of our true activities." I remind him, "She might have come here, and Thomas might have pledged us to her service…"

"I did what?" Cromwell asks, shocked. Clearly he does not remember.

"You fell flat on your face and told her that she was the truest hope of the Kingdom." Wyatt supplies, cheerfully, "And that you would give all that you were, and all that you had, in her service. You did, of course, immediately faint, so perhaps your head was not on straight."

"It most certainly was not." He looks appalled: the Order is meant to be hidden from all but the Silver Sword and their Second. While he did not state openly what he was, or what he would do, he has still said far more than he should have done.

"Perhaps her Majesty has forgotten about it." Wyatt grins, happily, reaching to break off another morsel of almond paste.

"I most certainly hope so." Cromwell complains, crossly, "The last thing I need is to have yet another person involved in this business. It is supposed to be a secret."

"An open secret." Wyatt adds, and is obliged to dodge another flung napkin.

Our conversation moves on to other things, until we are surprised to hear a knock upon the door. I half expect Cromwell to tense up - the last time this happened he found himself facing an amorous Lady Mary - but instead, William opens the door and steps aside, startled, as one of the Queen's pageboys enters the room.

"My Lords, Mr Wyatt - Her Majesty wishes to see you in her Privy Chamber. If you could follow me."

We share a nervous glance. It seems Queen Jane has not forgotten Cromwell's pledge, then.

Brushing ourselves down, we troop out. Wyatt turns to me, conspiratorially, "Skewered - by royal appointment."

I could not have put it better myself.