CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Shocking Beauty

I feel most uncomfortable entering the offices the next morning. I have slept very badly, and the one person I do not wish to speak to is Cromwell. Fortunately, when I arrive, he is not present - already meeting with the King and the Council. Wriothesley advises that he is expected to be absent for most of the day, much to my relief. The clerks have been looking at us oddly for some time given the unexpected thaw in our dealings with one another, and I do not wish to offer them more cause to speculate at our strange behaviour, given that it is likely that the thaw has hardened again.

I know that I am right - I know it. We are not prepared to face Lamashtu with so little knowledge of her powers or her plans. The fact that Cromwell does not agree with me, purely on the grounds that I do not know this world enough yet, is surprisingly hurtful - as, to me, it is not a matter of experience - it is a matter of plain common sense. While the sense of fury I felt has subsided, it has been replaced by a sense of almost sullen rejection, and I wonder if I shall be able to bring myself to speak to Cromwell when he returns from his duties elsewhere.

Pushing my wounded feelings to one side I settle down to work, and I am quickly absorbed in some intricate legal papers. So entirely do they occupy my attention that I am unaware of anything around me for a considerable time, and I do not notice that Cromwell has returned unexpectedly, and is now busy at his desk. As there is no pressing need for me to approach him, I opt not to; we are so engrossed with our respective workloads that no one remarks that we have not communicated at any point during the day.

Darkness is falling as I finally set aside the last of my papers. Most of the clerks have been dismissed for the day, and only Peter remains, lighting candles all about while Wriothesley and Cromwell are both still hunched over their desks. Then, with a badly stifled yawn, Wriothesley sighs with obvious relief, sets aside a paper, drops his quill into a pot and pushes back his chair to depart. He nods to Peter, who also looks quite relieved to be dismissed, and the two leave us alone.

I am at a loss for something to say. Since my angry departure last night, we have not spoken, and I am not sure how to raise the matter. Instead, I stand dumbly in the middle of the office while Cromwell continues to scratch away with his quill as though he is alone.

"Are you going to stand there, or come over here?" he asks, eventually, his eyes on the paper as he continues to write. There is no edge of temper that I can detect in his voice, so I decide not to turn and go, but instead approach the desk and take a seat opposite him. I cannot hide a rather reproachful expression, however, which he notices as he finishes the paper he has been writing, and finally looks up at me.

"I wondered whether to follow you last night," he admits after a few minutes of slightly awkward silence, "Tom advised against it. You were rather angry, and he claimed it is never wise to interrupt someone when they are, as he put it 'storming off'."

"Do you not see why I was irked?" I ask.

"I do, Richard; I do. But what else can we do but fight? She is a dark being, and I am tasked to defend against such creatures."

"But we are blind!" I try again, "Please, Thomas - please see it from my point of view. We are facing something unknown - even to you. I know that I have spent but a few weeks in this world that you have known for ten years or more; but even with experience, I would not consider it remotely sensible to commence an attack on something without knowing more about its defences. We do not even know the location of her lair."

At first, I assume he will dismiss my fears, but instead he sits back and considers my words, then nods, "In that respect, Richard, you are correct - and I should be less keen to reach for my weapons. We will not be able to fight one that we cannot find, after all." Then he leans forward again, his elbows on the desk, "But fight her we must - all of us. If you feel unable to fight her with weapons, then you are the one who will fight her with knowledge. I realised that you would be an admirable Second long before you came to my aid after I was wounded - but you must also realise that you still have much to learn, and I wish that you had the time to learn it as Wolsey did; but matters have forced our hands. He had prepared for my arrival before I had even entered the College. He was mentored by a Second who was in communication with the White Witch I mentioned - the one who had been a Second herself. She knew that this trial was approaching; and wanted to be certain that the Silver Sword who would face it would do so with the most highly trained and prepared Second the Order had ever seen."

"And then Wolsey fell." I murmur, wondering at the cruel vagaries of fate.

Cromwell nods, "And now you must face this trial alongside me without the preparation that Wolsey received. It is a hard task I have placed upon you, and I can only ask that you forgive me for it. I am certain that have chosen wisely in asking you to assist me - but there is so much that you still are yet to discover; things that Wolsey already knew. It is not because I do not trust you - it is simply that my experience is greater, and I am perhaps more able to judge the risks that I face. As you learn more, that will begin to change."

As he speaks, I see it again; that awful loneliness. He needs to have a Second - not merely to assist him, but also to be someone in whom he can confide. I sit back, "I cannot change my view, Thomas - but I will not stand aside and leave you to face this tribulation alone. I shall do all I can to discover more about this creature - while Tom gathers more intelligence for us in relation to Zaebos. I think at this time, we must set ourselves more urgently to curtailing his behaviour at Court - for each death that occurs, we are more beset by demands from the King. Demands that disrupt the work we are trying so hard to do."

Cromwell smiles, "That, my dear Mr Rich, is as things always are."

We both look up at the sound of footsteps, to see Wyatt, who looks very pleased with himself, "I think you may be correct in your assessment of that sigil, Thomas," He advises, "The abominable Mr Mortimer's inability to conceal himself from me has granted me access to his most private activities."

"Most private?" Cromwell asks, an eyebrow sardonically raised.

Wyatt chooses to ignore him, "I spent much of last night following him as best I could; and eventually came upon him drawing another of those sigils. I took much more care to hide than the poor man he murdered, and was able to witness his activities."

"What did he do?" I ask.

"Spoke some words that I could not hope to repeat if you asked me to, as I did not understand them; then a ghostly face appeared above the sigil - a most extraordinarily beautiful woman. He bowed before her, and they conversed. I was, alas, unable to hear their conversation as they spoke in low voices - and I didn't dare attempt to get closer, for fear of discovery."

Cromwell looks rather disappointed, "Would it be worth making another attempt tomorrow night to see if he returns to the same point?"

"Possibly," Wyatt looks unsure, "I cannot be certain at this point whether he intends to use the same place again, or whether he will move. Give me two more nights and I may be better able to advise you."

Cromwell nods, "Very well, but for God's sake, don't let him see you."

"See me? See me?" Wyatt looks scandalised, "Mr Cromwell - you should be ashamed of yourself! See me indeed!" Grinning cheerfully, he turns and walks out.

We are supping together again, though I have opted to host proceedings on this occasion. As agreed, two nights have passed, and we await Wyatt's report. As I have access to a far better cook than I did at Hampton, I am not embarrassed by the the fare that John has set out for us, in the form of a steaming hot game pasty, roasted artichokes and frumenty. As my purse does not permit me to place claret upon the table, John has instead managed to secure a light mead and some perry.

My quarters are considerably smaller than Cromwell's but not impossibly so. As John is not a part of our band, I ask him to leave us undisturbed until I call for him, and we allow him time to depart before we begin to discuss the matter at hand.

"Well?" I ask Wyatt as he helps himself to a piece of the pasty. He says nothing - but instead stabs a chunk of venison with his knife and pops it into his mouth, chewing expansively.

"Tom." Cromwell warns, "Not tonight."

Wyatt swallows the mouthful and looks outrageously contrite, "Forgive me, Gentlemen; I am in a celebratory mood."

"So Zaebos has returned to the same place to confer with Lamashtu?" I ask.

"On both occasions." He confirms, "I remained well hidden - so again, I did not hear what they discussed. He did not attend the spot at the same time each night, however, the first, he arrived as the clocks struck a quarter past the hour of eleven, while on the second I was obliged to remain in hiding for nearly another three hours later than that."

Cromwell nods, relieved, "I am pleased to hear that. Had he been regular, I might have been concerned that he knew of your presence. As he did not, perhaps we may find ourselves equally fortunate tonight. Were there any places nearer to his position?"

Wyatt shakes his head, "Had there been, I would have used one. I could not create something that would serve the purpose, as he would have seen it."

'Rest yourself tonight, Tom. I need you to be fully alert. Richard and I shall make the rounds instead."

I am not sure whether to be pleased or horrified that he has chosen to include me in his hunt, and I take a rather larger gulp of perry than I intended, almost choking myself.

"You are required to attend this hunt, Mr Rich," Wyatt intones gravely, "Attempting to choke yourself to death is not an excuse."

This time I throw my napkin at him.

Cromwell and I meet again in one of the lesser courts as the clock strikes nine. He is, as I expected, in his hunting garb again, while I have done the best I can to match him with black garments of my own. I cannot shake the feeling that I am being included for the purposes of learning again, but as I need to learn, this does not concern me unduly.

He has not brought his swords with him, instead relying on a long, dangerous looking poniard that rests at his hip beneath his cloak. As always, I am unarmed; but as he can fight well enough for both of us, I prefer to leave any potential fisticuffs to him. Keeping close behind, I follow him down another unregarded passageway, realising that I should make time to learn my own routes as soon as possible. Again, he is quick to see guards, and to hide from them, and we remain undiscovered.

The location that Wyatt described is indeed difficult to approach - which is clearly why Zaebos has selected it. Isolated, unused at night, the court is surrounded by stores and offices of the minor departments that we oversee only lightly, and there is not a soul to be seen. There is, however, the faint tracing of the sigil on the cobbles in the centre of the court. Standing beside it, Cromwell looks about, and then crosses to a drainpipe. Uncertain of his intentions, I follow, only for him to remove his boots and hand them to me, before quickly and deftly scrambling up to a low roof with suitably high gables. In a moment, he is over them, before hastily leaning back over and pointing me in the direction of the hiding place that Wyatt used. It is, as Wyatt advised, too far away to be certain of overhearing anything - but Cromwell is perched almost above the spot - and maybe he might discover something.

With no idea of how long we must wait, we remain still in our separate hiding places. It had never occurred to Wyatt to climb up on to that roof, any more than I might have considered it, and certainly the ease with which Cromwell scaled the wall is remarkable. He would make a brilliant burglar if ever the King opted to dispense with his services.

We are fortunate tonight, for Zaebos arrives with commendable haste. Retracing the sigil, which has worn slightly, he kneels and intones a startlingly loud chant in a language that is unintelligible to me - though the very sound of the words are sufficient to chill my blood. I freeze as still as I can, even though I am well away from his field of vision, and wait to see what will follow.

It begins as a tiny spot of light that spits and sputters for a few moments, before suddenly expanding into a globe of white. After a few moments more, the light begins to fade a little, and - as Wyatt reported - the head and shoulders of a woman are visible - lit all about by the light of the invocation.

I do not dare to move, but this does not prevent me from seeing. She is, as we were told, luminously beautiful: fair skinned, with piercing eyes that I am too far away from to determine their colour. Everything about her seems almost carried to some extreme or another - to the point of being almost a fairy creature from some folk tale. I can only imagine that her hair is probably black as night - or maybe fair as the morning sun - as it is coiffed beneath an English hood and impossible to see. Her cheekbones are high, and her lips extraordinarily red. For a disguise, it seems odd to me that she should make herself so resolutely, almost aggressively, attractive. It would be impossible to remain hidden if she came to court - every red blooded courtier would be trying to woo her. Even I might have tried were I not overshadowed by the young bloods that stalk the corridors.

At length, their discussion is at an end. Zaebos makes an obscure gesture in the air, not quite a genuflection, and the woman is gone. Rising, he departs.

I know better than to emerge too soon, and remain still until Cromwell raises his head over the gables again. I approach him as he reaches the ground, and hand him back his boots, "Did you hear anything?" I keep my voice a low whisper.

"Little of consequence," he admits, pulling up the second boot, "perhaps that is just as well. Had they spoken extensively of plans, I should have feared that our observation had been discovered. I did gain one piece of information - Lamashtu is posing as the Lady Isabella Sofre." He shrugs, as he has no idea who such a person might be.

"Sofre?" For some reason, it springs a memory in me, and I think for a moment, "I remember seeing it; on some legal documents," then I turn, and grab Cromwell's arm, "property deeds."

"Are you sure?" he looks more hopeful now; we might have some proper evidence.

I suddenly feel a strong urge to go and seek the documents I recall - but Cromwell shakes his head, "Not now. Wait until the morning. It would be most odd for us to be in the offices at this hour. You were only present when I needed your aid because you had fallen asleep over your papers. We were both seen to leave this evening, so to return there now would look out of place."

He is, of course, correct. My sigh of disappointment becomes a yawn, and we agree to reconvene in the offices on the morrow. As we depart, the clocks strike one, and I amend my thought. Later today.

Wriothesley's efficiency, coupled with the extensive archiving system that he and Cromwell have devised - albeit based on Wolsey's extraordinarily organised systems, provides me with the papers I require in less than two hours. Despite being tired from our nighttime excursion, it takes me little time to find that which I seek, and I call Cromwell over to my desk. Rather than tell him, I point at the words The Old Priory of the Benedictines, Richmond Park. As the ruins are within the bounds of a Royal Park, we would, naturally, be interested to note who lives in them, so we hold a copy of the deeds. Sure enough, the name Isabella Sofre is listed. We have found the demon's lair. Unfortunately, we have done so just at the point after we have left the most convenient palace from which to approach her, and we are now at completely the wrong end of London - and are unlikely to return to Hampton Court for half a year at least if the King opts to transfer to Whitehall or Westminster after we must abandon Placentia.

Our afternoon's toil is interrupted by a hastily dispatched messenger, who asks Cromwell to attend to the King. Assuming that he is to receive another angry tirade for yet another body turning up, I decide to accompany him as far as I am able - but it turns out that we have assumed incorrectly. Instead, matters seem to be about to play into our hands.

The discovery that I have come too, rather than irritating the King, instead pleases him, as it means he will not have to send another messenger to fetch me. Apparently, I was supposed to come too. As I have done so independently, the unfortunate boy who forgot to ask for me avoids a cuff over the head, though he is called several unsavoury names before he hastily leaves.

His Majesty hands a document to Cromwell, who reads it quickly. His eyebrows raise sharply at the end of it, and he then hands the paper on to me. From it, I discover that the clearance at Hampton Court has revealed extensive damp in one corner of the Great Hall, and a considerable sum of money will be required to rectify it.

"I refuse to believe that they could require such a fortune to mend a wall." Henry snaps, crossly, "You are to go to Hampton, Cromwell - take Rich with you. Assess everything they demand to do. You have two weeks to make a report on their activities. If they are asking for too much, advise me and then beat them down as far as you can, d'you hear?"

Cromwell bows formally, "Yes, Majesty." I bow too, grateful for the opportunity to conceal the glee that is threatening to show on my face. How could we possibly be so lucky? Now we have the chance we need to investigate Lamashtu - perhaps we can then uncover some means of destroying her.

We return to the offices at a brisk march, and Cromwell dispatches Peter to seek out Wyatt with a request to join us for supper. Turning to Wriothesley, he advises of the King's orders, and grants his chief Clerk the authority to act in his absence should anything arise.

He remains working at his desk until everyone has departed for the day. It is only then that I realise that he does not intend to investigate. Opening the locked cupboard, he retrieves his swords, the crossbow, a handful of silver-tipped bolts and a number of knives, which he carefully sets on his desk. Does he truly intend to carry all of that from here to his apartments?

William arrives, carrying a large, decorative box, as it seems that Peter was asked to call him on his way to his own quarters. Without so much as raising an eyebrow, Cromwell's ever patient manservant busies himself packing the weapons into the box - apart from the crossbow - and then leaves with them. Shrugging out of his simarre, Cromwell carefully sets the strap of the crossbow about himself, and then replaces the outer garment to conceal the weapon. It is small enough to be hidden, and I am less nervous than I might have been had he seriously threatened to carry it openly.

Once we are safely back in the apartments, I turn to him, "Please tell me these are a precaution only, Thomas. I still feel that we are not ready to confront Lamashtu."

He sighs, "Perhaps we are not - but if the opportunity arises, I cannot risk letting it slip by. She is unaware that we have discovered her, and that may be our only advantage."

"At least allow me to investigate more deeply. I have the deeds with me, we can review the plans when we arrive at Hampton."

He nods, then looks up as Wyatt arrives, "Tom, make sure that you are packed for a fortnight's stay at Hampton. We are departing on the morrow on the King's business. I would find your assistance invaluable."

Wyatt stands in the doorway, "What - no food?"

It takes us most of the day to get from Placentia to Hampton, as we are obliged to travel on horseback, with a cart following behind us carrying what we need for our stay. In deference to our status, the King has sent an escort, which is most annoying, as we cannot discuss the matter in hand. Instead, Cromwell and Wyatt take turns assisting me with improving my riding technique, and before long I feel brave enough for us to proceed at a trot for a short while.

I have never been in a palace during its 'Sweetening', and the number of people present is astonishing. One of the stewards has already prepared chambers for us - not particularly well appointed, but adequate, and a cook has been assigned to service our need for sustenance. The guards join their colleagues already present, and we can, at last, get down to business.

As I had hoped, the packet of deeds contains a roughly drawn map, showing the location of the priory. It appears to have been triangulated reasonably efficiently, and gives us an idea of how far we must travel. Further investigation reveals some crude plans and drawings, which reveal that much of the priory is in ruins, but the core of it is not only habitable, but well appointed. The remaining buildings surround a large court that would almost certainly be either cobbled or flagged. The interiors, however, are less well covered and we have no idea what might lie within those walls.

"When do we depart?" Wyatt asks, all eagerness.

"Tomorrow morning." Cromwell says, firmly, "We go in daylight, and we do so with great care. I shall require you to do something for me, however; you shouldn't join us at the priory."

Wyatt looks as though he is about to protest, but Cromwell shakes his head, "Trust me, Tom. I wouldn't ask this if it wasn't essential. I need to have some measure in place if we are to carry out the plan of attack I have in mind."

"We are not ready, Thomas," I protest, again, "What if she is able to resist you?"

I fear at first that he might consider this to be something of an insult, but he does not seem annoyed at my words. Instead, he sighs, "It is a risk I must take, Richard. If we can pluck this bud before it flowers, then it shall solve more problems than we can count. The Queen will be able to carry a child to term, Zaebos will be much reduced in power, and we may avert the threat Lamashtu poses to the safety of this Kingdom before she can put any plan into motion. We have to try."

"And if we fail?" I cannot stop myself.

"Then we try again." Cromwell insists, "Or another Silver Sword will be dispatched to your side."

"At least let us explore first," I plead, a little desperately, "we are not in any position to start again if this fails and you are lost - you have to see that! If nothing else, how do we explain to the King that you died at Richmond when you should have been at Hampton Court?"

I expect him to become angry - but he does not. Instead, he rests his hand on my shoulder, "I cannot let this opportunity pass, Richard. Believe me, I do see your point of view. Not one of us takes up the gauntlets in the belief that they shall live a long life. My affairs are in order - they have always been. You know to whom my swords should be sent; but I think that we shall not need to concern ourselves with such morbid thoughts. We may not see her at all - not if she is unable to tolerate daylight. Few demons can."

The words exit my mouth almost unbidden, "I don't want to go…" my voice trails off, and I look away, ashamed.

The scorn that I expect, however, does not follow. Instead, Cromwell's hand remains on my shoulder, and I turn back to him to see sympathy, "Was that so hard to admit?" He asks, quietly, "There is no shame in feeling fear. The man who has no fear has no courage. I would rather trust courage than fearlessness, for one is prudent where the other is reckless; and I do not mean to be reckless in facing this creature."

I know that I cannot win this argument, and I give up. Sighing, I nod, "Very well."

I do not sleep; I fear to do so - for sleep will bring the morning more quickly. Instead, I sit in front of the fire and try to prevent my head from nodding. When dawn comes, my eyes feel gritty, and my arms heavy. I should have slept; all I have done is increase the horrible fear that is biting at me, and left myself exhausted and useless.

When I arrive at the stables, Cromwell is in conversation with Wyatt, and hands him something carefully wrapped in hessian, "Remember, Tom. You must not use this except in the direst need, and only to save others. It does not permit you to use it to save yourself. You would be burned to nothing."

Wyatt nods, and swallows nervously as he transfers the mysterious item to a saddlebag. None of us are particularly well dressed; preferring instead to give the impression of lesser means. The horses are not ours, not even the one that William seems to have secured for my particular use. Clement, in particular, looks too much like the horse of a gentleman, and we do not wish to give that appearance.

"The ride should take us about an hour, if we keep up a brisk pace," Wyatt advises, "Let me know when I must wait."

We mount up, and depart. As we travel, we say little. I have nothing to add to my comments of yesterday, Wyatt is still sore at not being permitted to come with us to the priory, and Cromwell appears to be planning his approach. The only good thing is the brightness of the morning, alive with new spring life, and I attempt to revel in that rather than feed my increasing nerves at what we must face when we reach our destination.

Our journey pauses at the edge of the park. From this point, only the Court is permitted to ride, and we are less likely to be seen. Cromwell removes his swords from a bundle that has been set to the rear of his saddle, and hangs them from his waist. He does not seem to have bothered with the crossbow, and I allow myself to believe that he has decided not to attempt to engage Lamashtu, as he has no ranged weapon.

"Stay here, Tom." He advises, "But be ready - if we need your assistance, you shall know. If we do not return after a day, then we are likely dead. We have discussed what you must do should that happen."

I stare at Cromwell, horrified, but cannot find words to express the sense of mild panic that is now snapping at my heels. He thinks that we might die? Dear Christ and all the Angels - he does mean to fight Lamashtu; what on all of God's sweet earth have I got myself into?

With a gentle kick of his heels, he moves the horse off at a walk, and I realise that I have no means of escape. I cannot refuse to go, as he will go without me if I do; and even though I am afraid, I cannot bring myself to leave him to face this alone. I can feel myself starting to tremble as I urge my mount forward to keep pace.

The priory, as we approach, seems entirely abandoned. No walls appear to be completely standing, and all about us the air seems oddly dead. The sun seems to have gone in, and wisps of mist emerge from the trees that surround us on all sides. No birds are singing, nothing seems to give any sense of life at all.

"If nothing else," Cromwell says, quietly, "the lack of life about this place is evidence enough of an evil presence."

These are the last words I wish to hear. I swallow hard, as I feel myself almost about to retch. Every instinct I possess is screaming at me to flee, and I keep pleading silently that Cromwell will decide that the risk is perhaps too great without further investigation of the library, and turn back. But he does not.

We pick our way carefully between the ruins. The priory church is long fallen, but then we see the intact structures. In the dull light they seem almost as dead as everywhere else. Perhaps she is no longer there. Please God, let her not be there…

Cromwell pulls up. There are gates ahead of us, which are open. Beyond is the court that we saw on the plan, surrounded by those intact buildings. None are higher than two storeys, but still they look deserted. Surely a woman of her station would have servants? He dismounts, and I do likewise, before we lead the horses into the court and leave them safely secured near the exit. My eyes are darting everywhere, looking for some sign that there is life here…

"So, you have come."

I almost scream out, such is the shock of the voice that I did not expect to hear. Looking about wildly, I see no-one but for myself and Cromwell. Where is she?

"We are expected, then?" Cromwell asks the empty yard.

"Oh, you poor, foolish…little…man." The voice echoes, "Did you really think that Zaebos would not know that you had set your friend to follow him? If he must do so, I would advise him to wear a less distinctive scent."

I want to run - she knew we were coming. This must be a trap…

Then, with a horrid creaking, the gates behind us close firmly, and she appears - swirling into existence before us in a cloud of darkness that rises about her and disperses like smoke. Without hesitation, Cromwell draws his swords, and stand firmly in front of me.

"So you mean to fight me. How entertaining." She smiles. Even now, in my fear, I can see that she is, as her image promised, utterly luminous - how could something so beautiful be so evil? Every move she makes is graceful, including the sweep of her arms as she draws two long black swords from the empty air. Then she vanishes again.

As we look all about, I turn, and she is standing directly behind me. I am suddenly face to face with her, and she is raising her sword to strike at me…

I feel a heavy blow in my back, and tumble to the ground as a silver blade blocks the slice. With that, my nerve finally breaks, and I scramble to my feet to flee. I have no idea where I am going, but I am soon behind some sacks of grain, and watching fearfully as the two combatants make ready to fight.

I should help - I know that I should; but I cannot bring myself to move. If I do so, she might see me, and one of those awful black swords will run me through…a whimper escapes, and I feel as though I might shed tears. Dear God, am I really so lily-livered? It appears that I am.

Does Cromwell know that I have abandoned him to fight alone? Probably; but as I had no weapons, he could hardly have expected me to be of much assistance. He gives no sign of concern, but stands ready, his blades held firm to strike or defend as he needs them. Then, she lunges at him and he parries immediately, before they begin to battle with a speed and violence that I could not have ever imagined; not even against the Ravener.

It is impossible to see their moves, as they move so quickly, but then Cromwell deals Lamashtu a cut across her abdomen, slicing into her and sending black blood pumping out to the ground. She staggers back, with a strange cry and I feel a sense of jubilation that he was right after all. He has killed her…

But then, as we both watch her, she starts to laugh; a strange, guttural sound. Not because she is dying, but because the wound is already closing and vanishing. All that he has managed to do is slice her clothing - she is impervious to the silver in his swords - even a fully open wound seems not to harm her.

They fight again, and this time he manages to cut across her throat - right down to the bone - but again, the wound closes and heals almost immediately, and now I know that nothing Cromwell can do will bring her down. I feel myself trembling with a sick fear - if he cannot destroy her, then how are we to escape?

For a time, I think that all might be well - for he holds her at bay. But he is not a demon, he is human; and it is clear that he is tiring. In a single moment, she lashes out with the pommel of one sword and smashes the blade out of his left hand, which clatters across the flags in my direction. Now he has but one blade - but I could grasp the other…

But I cannot. I am frozen in fear - if Cromwell cannot defeat her, then I am truly lost. I stare at it helplessly as he tries to continue with one sword against her two. The outcome is inevitable. In a matter of minutes, the sword in his right hand is also across the flags, and her swords are quickly abandoned to vanish into the nothingness from whence they came. In that instant, she has him by the throat, and she begins to rise into the air, lifting him with her.

I could take the swords…I could throw them at her…I could distract her…but all I can do is watch as his legs kick wildly, and he chokes horribly. She is throttling him, his hands clutching at hers to try to release them. If I do not act, then he shall die.

I must fetch Wyatt…what else can I do? Frantic, I break cover and flee towards the horses.

"Oh no you don't!" the voice screeches behind me, gleefully, and a black spurt of smoke flies at the horse I had ridden, which almost in an instantaneous obedience to a sharply given order, drops down dead, while the other skitters away with a panicked whinny. Barely able to think, I turn back to see Cromwell's hands drop from hers. Laughing, she allows him to fall to the ground, where he lands heavily, and does not move. She pays me no mind. Instead, she stoops to grasp at Cromwell's doublet, and uses it to drag his body behind her as she enters the house.

Alone, I stumble back behind the grain sacks and drop to the ground. What kind of Second am I? What kind of human being? My panic served no one, and certainly not the Silver Sword Raven. He is dead - he must be.

And I am to blame.