CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Churlish Gentleman

My stomach has largely settled by the time I return to to the office Chambers and take a seat at my desk; though it still threatens to rebel somewhat if I allow myself to think of the scene I witnessed in the corridor, so I make myself concentrate firmly on the papers before me. Besides, if the King agrees that we are to move, we will need to abandon our work to begin packing.

Cromwell is gone for no more than half an hour, and he confirms upon his return that the King has indeed agreed that it is time for Hampton Court to be, as the King puts it: 'sweetened'. A polite term for the hideously unsanitary mess that the place has become to be extensively cleaned and scrubbed. It is, after all, impossible to house so many people in one place without it becoming something of a midden in time.

"Are we to begin work for the removals?" Wriothesley asks, looking about with mild dread at the mess of papers and books that we have accumulated over the last few months.

"Not immediately," Cromwell says, drawing a mildly relieved look from the Clerk, "though the boys should begin clearing and filing papers at the earliest opportunity so that we can begin when the time arrives. Placentia will require some preparation before the Court removes - the repairs to the King's storm-damaged chambers are not yet complete."

He heads to his desk, beckoning to me as he goes. I follow him and sit opposite, while he waves away the nearest clerks to give us at least some privacy, "His Majesty doesn't know about the second death at present - though it cannot be kept from him for too much longer. While neither of these deaths were caused by weapons, the fact that another has occurred will unsettle him. While I would give all to keep him alive, he is a King, and as such presides over the peace of the realm - so others would give all to see him dead. He is not unaware of that."

I shudder slightly. To talk of the King's death is highly risky, even in terms of fighting to prevent it. Even a relatively young king, such as Henry, is not immune from the final journey - and his fear of dying without a son to succeed him makes even a tentative suggestion of such an occurrence almost a treasonable act. No wonder Cromwell is talking so quietly.

"How do you intend to broach the matter?" I ask, equally quietly.

"I am undecided," he admits, "it would, however, be wise to do so before Norfolk takes it upon himself to tell the King on my behalf, and draw attention to my silence on the matter."

This time, I have to ask, "Why does he despise you so?"

Cromwell looks surprised, "Norfolk? For one reason, and one alone: I am a commoner; he is a Duke. My meritorious advancement rankles with him as he feels such an ascendancy belongs only to a Nobleman, which I am not." He smiles then, and I realise that he considers Norfolk's ire to be nothing more than an inconvenience to be treated with amused disregard. He does not dismiss it - he is not fool enough to do such a thing - but neither does it wound him or impact upon his work.

After another hour's labour, Cromwell is obliged to return to the Presence Chamber with some completed papers, and we take some time to eat. As I do so, I feel an odd sense of dislocation. The daily workings of the Court are so ordinary, so normal; and yet, not one other person around me has any knowledge or understanding of the savage undercurrents that wash around them all unseen. I am now privy to that knowledge - and yet, the sense of strangeness is still there. Maybe, in time, I shall become accustomed to it. It's clear that Cromwell has, so I assume I shall, too.

When we reconvene, Cromwell quietly advises that he has told the King of the second murder. As the Modus Operandi is completely different from the first, he has taken care to emphasise that the two events are unrelated; but the King's Grace is demanding that the matter be resolved, and the killer caught, before the Court removes to Placentia. While he is clearly relieved not to have the burden of silence, the replacement of that with a new burden - a deadline - is the last thing that he wanted.

"While it coincides with my own," he admits, "I should have preferred not to have had it officially imposed - to resolve a matter such as this will not be simple. The King's expectations of results are much higher and more exacting than Wolsey's - the Cardinal understood if I could not solve a problem of demonic nature. The King will not."

"But, is it not another ravener?" I ask, and his expression shows I am revealing my innocence of such matters.

"I truly wish that it were, Richard," He sighs, "But the manner of death was too quick. The boy would've died more or less instantly, albeit with much defilement of the surroundings." He pauses, with a slightly apologetic look, as I sway slightly, and swallow hard, "For raveners, the joy of the kill is in the pain of the victim. It's that upon which they feed, not the flesh, though they are not averse to supping blood. The anticipation of shock at the discovery of the corpse is also of great interest to them, even though they cannot stand daylight, and are usually unable to witness it."

"So, you don't know what was responsible?"

His expression worried, he shakes his head, "As the Captain said, I have never seen the like." He looks at me then, and I realise he has a task in mind, "I cannot leave the court, Richard. Not at present. You will be less missed than I - so I must ask you to travel to Grant's Place and search the Great Index for me. William shall accompany you - he is aware of the library and its contents, though he has rarely been inside it. He will also serve as proof that you are acting on my behalf. Goodwife Dawson guards the House against all comers. She has met you but once, and thus does not yet trust you."

There is no work that will not wait for my return, so I nod in agreement, though the thought of making the journey on horseback holds no appeal, for I am an indifferent horseman, at best. It does mean, however, that I shall get my first proper taste of the Library, and that most certainly does appeal, and I suspect that my keenness shows, as Cromwell shakes his head - this time with a smile, and returns to his work.


The horse that has been selected for me is largely compliant, and solidly built. I have no beast of my own, so William has had a quiet word with the Master of the Horse on my behalf to lend me a mount. Taking my example from Cromwell, I have abandoned my smart simarre, and instead wear a thick cloak to cover me. In spite of myself, I feel altogether roguish, a bonnet upon my head and a cloak about my shoulders, while a goodly sized saddlebag has been fitted to the rear in case I need to bring papers back with me.

William, who is clearly used to such excursions, mounts up easily, and shows commendable restraint as I have no option but to use a mounting block to clamber aboard. I am deeply grateful that there are no other witnesses to my incompetence. He also has a saddlebag attached, but also some weapons hanging from various loops and straps to make an obvious display; even though we are to travel in daylight, the risk of robbery is ever present, particularly as we have no escort. Having never travelled in any group smaller than ten or twenty, I am nervous; and most grateful to not be travelling entirely alone, as I am not safe with weapons myself, and therefore I am unarmed.

It takes us most of the day to make the journey, though perhaps not as long as it might otherwise have done, as William seems to know some routes that enable us to avoid following the river exactly. Having left early, it is mid-afternoon as the horses plod into the yard, and Goodwife Dawson emerges from the house, obviously surprised to see us. At first, she frowns, as she does not seem to remember me from my previous visit, but the sight of William clearly reassures her, and she nods politely before summoning a man to deal with the horses, and ushering us inside.

The house is eerily quiet, as Gregory has returned to the household where he is lodged, and the staff in the house is limited only to those sufficient to keep it from falling into disarray. I know that Cromwell could not afford to maintain it at the moment - wealthy thought he is, he has not been Chancellor for long enough for people to consider whether he is worth approaching with bribes - but clearly Wolsey took steps to ensure that they would be paid before his entire fortune was engulfed by the Royal exchequer.

Goodwife Dawson insists that we eat before we can do anything else other than attempt the mildest of ablutions. Now that she has recovered from the surprise of our unannounced arrival, she has managed to scratch together a light repast of bread and cheese, accompanied by some sharp, still crisp apples that have stored over the winter rather better than expected. Once she has departed, I turn to William, who is standing as though ready to attend me, and invite him to sit and join me. He is not, after all, my servant.

"How well do you know the Library, William?" I ask, slicing a chunk of apple, "I have seen it only once, so I have not the first idea where to start, other than to search the Index."

"I have seen it some few times, my Lord," he says, reaching for a slice of bread only after I prompt him to take it, "My knowledge of its contents is, however, rudimentary at best. His late Eminence was the true guardian of that collection, and he knew it thoroughly. He did not, alas, have the time to teach me some of his knowledge before he was dispatched to York."

I sigh, and chew at the apple, "Then we shall blunder our way through the thickets together, William. I can only hope that the Cardinal's organisation carried beyond the Index and onto the shelves."

Having eaten, we repair to the chamber where the entrance is concealed, and I make my first attempt to open the door myself. Fortunately, my incompetence does not stretch to door opening, and the mechanism obeys my nervous fumblings. Once down in the Cellar, with the assistance of a small lantern, I open the enormous index, and attempt to remember how we used it when Cromwell showed it to me.

The index makes for most uncomfortable reading, as each outcome becomes more detailed as we progress through the choices Wolsey has set out for us. Fortunately, there is one which covers bite wounds, which differentiates between a simple puncturing of the throat, apparently the hallmark of a Revenant, to almost complete evisceration. There is one entry, however, which fits our requirements exactly - the tearing out of the throat. Nervously, I turn to the page that it indicates.

While most Revenants drink blood only, and do so for survival as much as for pleasure in the fear that their actions create, there is a hierarchy of their kind, and those higher are interested in destruction as much as in blood. They are few in number, but the highest of their kind is called Zaebos. Records CXXVI to CXXVII.

He has used a filing system. Relieved, I look to William, who ponders for a moment, and indicates a set of shelves towards the back. Lighting my way with the lamp, which leaves the unfortunate man in the dark while I do so, I search the shelves he has pointed out, and find two thick packets of papers bearing the corresponding numerals. Upon returning to the reading desk, a brief examination reveals that the packets contain not carefully constructed notes, but torn out pages, pieces of vellum with fragments of faded scrawl and myriad items of such confusing complexity that I know I cannot make sense of them in the light of the lamp. It would, therefore, be most sensible to remove the items and carry them back to Hampton Court so that we can view them collectively - Cromwell, Wyatt and I - in hopes of drawing a conclusion.

We shall not, however, get back to Hampton Court tonight, so Goodwife Dawson has already prepared rooms for us, and serves a fine leg of mutton with bread to mop up the juices, and a sallet of parsley and fennel. Again, William has to be all but ordered to sit with me, but as he has been so helpful, it seems most churlish to expect him to stand by while I feast.

"How long have you worked for the Lord Chancellor?" I ask, as William takes only two, very small slices of mutton.

"Ten years, my Lord," He replies, "I was assigned to be his manservant when he first arrived to work with the Cardinal; though he was not used to having a servant, so it took me some time to persuade him to accept me as such."

I cannot help but smile at the thought - having to be taught by his servant how to have a servant.

"How much do you know of his duties outside the Court?" I hope that I am not prying too much - but if I am to be Cromwell's Second, it would be useful to find out just how much William is involved in the business. I have no wish to ask an inappropriate question, or to inadvertently insult him by giving the impression that he is not trusted.

"I know all, my Lord," William admits, "Master Cromwell has kept me apprised of all his activities, and has placed great trust in me both to keep his secret and to assist him where his Second could not. There are, after all, parts of the Palace that are closed to illustrious men, and he requires my aid in securing information from those places. I see, and hear, but say nothing - except to Master Cromwell."

I nod, and chew on a mouthful of gravy-sodden bread before continuing, "I hope, then, that you would not consider me to be too forward in asking that you include me in your reports?"

"Indeed I would not, my Lord," he says, "You are, after all, Master Cromwell's Second now. I consider it as much my duty to assist you in your joint enterprise as to assist him. As I explained to him when he asked me much the same." He adds, a little pointedly. I laugh, and prevail upon him to take more mutton.

By the time we have returned to Hampton, laden with our papers, our conversation is much more genial and less cautiously polite than it was on the way out. Our jubilation, however, is rather short lived, as the thoroughly unpleasant Edward Mortimer is peacocking it aboard a fine stallion that seems quite intent on throwing him off. He remains aboard, however, and his hangers on are applauding enthusiastically. Once again, his clothing is only just short of violating the palace rules on dress, and his expression as we arrive becomes viciously mischievous.

"Ah, Mister Solicitor General," he drawls, ignoring the rather desperate curvetting of the horse, "Are you certain you should be permitted to ride abroad? Have you not been horse-sick, perchance?"

His toadies laugh, that vile braying sound that always seems to accompany an invitation to laugh at another's expense. I would glare back, but my concern now is that I cannot possibly hope to dismount from the horse unaided, and he will see it. The idea of being such a focus of amusement is deeply unpleasant; but his stallion suddenly swerves violently to the side, and his attention is diverted in restoring control for a sufficient time to enable me to slide off my own mount onto the mounting block. By the time he is looking at me again, I am safely on the ground, and William is detaching the saddlebag while a groom waits to take the beasts back to the stables.

Leaving Mortimer to his amusement, I follow William's inscrutable example and we return to the office Chambers to see if Cromwell is present. He is not, and Wriothesley advises that he is currently with the Privy Council presenting some forthcoming Acts of Parliament. William quietly advises that he will take the papers back to Cromwell's apartments, and ensure that supper is ready for us so that we can peruse their contents. He also offers to seek out Wyatt to request his presence. Bowing discreetly, he departs, and I eye with distaste the papers that have accumulated in my absence.

Later that evening, Cromwell's chamber is a disaster of fragments. Amidst our supper, we have spent nearly an hour attempting to arrange the mess in the packets into some sort of order; but a combination of Cromwell's ability to think logically, my ability to order sensibly, and Wyatt's ability to think laterally, we have something approximating a sensible chronology assembled from the mouse-nibbled and disassembled wreckage. It has been frustrating, but at the same time it has been a surprisingly enjoyable puzzle, and our assumed roles have fitted together well.

"That was fun," Wyatt observes, "We should do this more often." This time he is struck by two napkins, rather than one glove.

After two additional hours, we are all exhausted, and our eyes are strained. Our endeavours, however, are not without result; for now we know more about this strange being referred to as 'Zaebos'. Wyatt has made careful notes of our observations, and reads them back to us.

"So, to the best of our knowledge, Zaebos is from a higher order of Revenants, known by a term that none of us can pronounce, which was given it by a society of which we have never heard."

"Tom…" Cromwell warns, clearly too tired for japes.

"You are too tired to throw another cloth at me, my Lord Chancellor, but then I am too tired to dodge," Wyatt grins back, "According to the oldest references, this being has lived for eons, feasting on blood, or merely destroying that upon which it opts not to feed in order to cast fear and chaos amidst the communities upon which it preys. It was known amongst the ancients of Babylon, but there were no references amongst the tribes of Israel, so it would perhaps have avoided the Holy Land. It is, as far as can be determined, the only one of its kind remaining, so once dispatched there shall be no more to follow it, for it is of such great age that it seems to have lost the ability to create more from living mortals - unlike lower Revenants. We do not, however, have any references that describe how to destroy it - but as it is of the same type as the revenants that we know of, it is most likely that the silver blades would dispatch it."

"But…" I remind him, quietly.

"But?" he asks, momentarily confused until I wave an apparently forgotten fragment at him, "Ah yes, but. It would appear that Zaebos is not harmed by daylight as others of its kind would be. Unlike raveners, or lower revenants, it is able to move about by day."

"That suggests," Cromwell adds, "that it has the ability to take other forms. If it looks anything like a revenant, it would be easily discovered in daylight, for they look considerably less than human. Not so hideous as a ravener, but still clearly inhuman."

"Would you be able to sense its presence?" I ask.

"All creatures of darkness give off the smell of ichor - some more strongly than others," Cromwell explains, "The passage reeked of it, so I have no doubt that I shall come across this being at some point. I should prefer to do so sooner rather than later - to destroy it here and now would solve many problems. But I suspect that it shall not be so easy as that - such things rarely are."

"We do, at least, have a target upon which to turn." Wyatt reminds us, "Thus we have made some progress."

As we have been working late into the night, the following morning is a drowsy affair, with much yawning that causes Wriothesley to look at us oddly, for neither of us are known for the sort of carousing that many others are so keen to indulge in, but to look at us, one would have thought that we had spent the night at the gaming tables.

Cromwell has barely sat at his desk before a summons arrives for him - not from the King, but from the Earl of Wiltshire. It is put politely enough - after all, Cromwell's elevation in status now protects him from the Earl's previous assumption that he was just another servant to be ordered around - but still, the fact that Boleyn still feels he can issue such orders must rankle. I am not surprised at Cromwell's discontented expression. I allow myself the uncharitable thought that he looks rather as though he is chewing a wasp.

As I return to my papers, I can hear the clerks whispering amongst themselves, and I take great care to look as though I cannot hear them, despite listening intently; it is, after all, a talent that William has put to great use.

"They say the Queen is with child again," Peter, the youngest, is saying, "after the failure to produce the son she promised, we can only hope that she bears one this time." Despite speaking in only a whisper, I can make out a sense of fervent hope - and perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. He probably has a bad case of calf love for her. He wouldn't be alone in such sentiments.

"She can but hope." Daniel, one of the older clerks hisses back, "God has not smiled on her union - removing the good Queen's grace as she did - she is nothing but a whore."

The group goes silent. Regardless of whether they agree with him, his words are treasonous, not to mention offensive to the smitten Peter. Nervous that matters might escalate, I decide to break things up, "Gentlemen - I know not what has captured your attention so, but should it not be your actual duties? The ones that you are paid to undertake?"

Sheepishly, they disperse; though as Peter passes my desk, I stop him, "One word," I say to him, "And that word is 'Don't'." I can see in his face that he has guessed my meaning, and he looks a little startled as he realises I have overheard their conversation, but have no plan to punish anyone. I have never reacted to such a situation in such manner before - but I know that Cromwell has, and if I am his Second, then I intend to follow his example.

When Cromwell returns, he looks troubled, and asks me to join him outside in the corridor. Bemused, I follow him back out of the chambers, "What is it?"

"The Boleyns," he murmurs, "Not Wiltshire - he has always been that way; but George. He was most strange with me today - I have never known him to be anything other than bright and cheerful; but he is becoming more and more like his father. Worse, there is a residue of ichor about him. They are consorting with something dark - possibly even this Zaebos that we have discovered. I cannot tell - but I cannot think of any other possible cause."

"Are you sure?" I ask, a little nervously.

He shakes his head, uncertainly, "I wish I could be. Perhaps I have not seen it before - but, prior to the annulment, while the matter was still under consideration, the cook in the house of John Fisher served food laced with poison - four died. At the time, I suspected Boleyn, as he had the motive and the funds to pay for the poison as well as to bribe the cook. At the time, when the man died - he was lowered into a cauldron of boiling water - I could not bring myself to watch, but Wiltshire was impassive. I did not pay it much mind it at the time, but now I realise that George was equally stone-faced. I was too revolted by the sound of the man screaming as he was boiled, so I did not credit it with the attention it probably deserved." He looks annoyed - with himself, I am relieved to note.

"Did they ask anything of you?"

"They sought my assistance in securing something as a gift for the King - Wiltshire is concerned that the birth of the Princess Elizabeth may damage his standing at court, as she is not a boy. Her Majesty is with child again, however, so perhaps she may yet deliver the son she - and he - promised."

I nod, "I overheard the clerks whispering about it. The boy, Peter, he has a bad case of calf love for Her Majesty. Daniel spoke against her, so I hastily broke up their conclave in case of a fight."

Cromwell sighs, "She appears to have that effect on many." He smiles then, briefly, "Raise the subject with our poetic Mr Wyatt - you will see much the same."

"Wyatt?" Why am I surprised? He seems the type easily swayed by beauty - and, although not conventionally beautiful, no one can deny that Queen Anne has a striking uniqueness about her that lifts her above the other women of the Court.

"The same. But for my intervention, I fear that he might act upon his feelings - though I am certain they are not reciprocated. Much of the work I assign to him is designed to keep him busy in the hopes that he will not do something foolish. I doubt I am entirely successful, however. He is truly smitten - to the point that his poetry can, on occasions, become unremittingly mawkish." He grimaces, and I cannot suppress a snort of amusement.

We are about to go back into the Chambers again, when we are disturbed by the sound of running feet and turn together to see a guard rushing towards us, "Lord Chancellor - come quickly! The King is demanding to see you!"

The urgency of the summons, and the fear-dripped tone in which it is expressed, suggests anger on the part of the King, and I notice that Cromwell visibly blanches. Only Thomas More was truly unafraid of King Henry's rages, but that could not save him. Anger from the King results in punishment - sometimes of a permanent nature, and everyone feels their head a little looser on their shoulders when he raises his voice. Cromwell turns to me briefly, and I suddenly see almost an appeal in his eyes - he does not want to go alone. I cannot blame him.

We hasten to the Presence Chamber. As long as I stay well out of the way, I should not be noticed. Despite hurrying, as we approach, the strident tones of Henry the Eighth are echoing down the corridors, "Where is he? Find that damned knave Cromwell! Find him!"

I have no idea what is going through Cromwell's mind as the voice gets louder with proximity, but I feel a cold hollow in the pit of my stomach that is very much in sympathy. Wolsey might well have tolerated delays and setbacks, but the King does not; and all we have to report to him is our best estimate from a scattered mess of ancient scrawl that something he would not believe in is acting in a manner that he would not countenance.

Hiding myself behind a pillar, I watch, nervously, as Cromwell approaches the Canopy of state. The King is on his feet, red-faced in fury, while alongside him, Norfolk watches smugly. The same Norfolk that was apparently placed in charge of the investigation of the murders that have happened here over the last week. If Norfolk is the one leading proceedings, why is the King's anger directed at Cromwell?

The tirade that follows explains all. Norfolk, unable to make any progress, has instead pinned all blame for it on the Lord Chancellor. He cannot account for himself, as the King will not give him leave to speak. As he works himself further into a rage, the King threatens to box his ears, then to hang him, and then to run him through on the spot - had he a sword to hand. It is only after several such threats that he finally screams directly into Cromwell's face that, despite all assurances that the matter was under investigation, another body has been found - again with their throat torn out. I stare, shocked. When did this happen? How is it that we did not know? Why did the Captain of the Guard not report it to us?

Then I realise - the Captain reported to Norfolk, as he had probably been ordered to. Howard has done this deliberately - to misdirect the King's rage at yet another death. He is watching with a vile smirk on his face as the King's rage settles now on the unfortunate Captain, who is - fortunately - not present. This time, however, the King is clearly intent on action, and summons one of his officials to demand the poor man's arrest and summary hanging.

I have never seen the King in one of his fullest rages before. Usually, I hear of them later, when those present are able to laugh over their tankards about it. I am not in the path of this hideous flood - and I am frightened. I cannot imagine how it must be for Cromwell, who is its focus.

It is then, however, that he finally speaks - interrupting as the King stops for breath and turns away in frustration, "Your Majesty - allow me to plead for the Captain - I am charged with the investigation, and I have clearly not given him…"

He gets no further. Without a word, Henry swings back round, but his arm is out wide and he strikes his Lord Chancellor violently across the face with the back of his hand. The blow is fast, and hard, and it unbalances Cromwell, who staggers, and then falls heavily to the carpeted floor with a solid thud, where he sprawls for a moment, apparently too shocked to move.

The entire room goes absolutely still, and for a moment I am quite terrified that the King will order the trembling official to organise the arrest and summary hanging of the Lord Chancellor, too. The silence, however, seems to bring Henry to his senses, and he looks about, as though visibly calming himself down.

"Have it your way," he snaps, glaring at Cromwell, who is still on the floor, "You and that wretched Captain. Find the monster that is murdering in my Palace - or you will find yourself in the Tower." Turning on his heel, he stalks out.

Pausing briefly to enjoy the moment, Howard smirks, then follows. Fortunately, the gathered courtiers begin to disperse as I hurry to Cromwell to help him up. Despite himself, he still looks shaken. His lip is burst, and there is blood on his chin, while his cheek is a flaming red from the blow. Once on his feet, however, he fetches out a kerchief and mops at the blood, then turns to me, his voice level and conversational - as though nothing had happened, "You heard his Majesty. We have a monster to find. I think we had best get to it."