A/N: - Thanks for the thumbs up, Catalinadelvalle, and thank you, too, for yours, Blurgle, I really appreciate your comments, and I'm glad you're enjoying the story!

Religious reform hasn't played much of a part in proceedings so far, but that's about to change...

Chapter Twenty

An Error of Judgement

I have remained in my quarters all day today, pleading a severe headache. That I am speaking the absolute truth is no consolation, for I cannot prevent these ghastly attacks, nor can I predict them. The discovery that raveners are beginning to emerge from the shadows again serves only to make matters worse, for it seems that, in granting me the ability to never be deceived by a demonic presence even when it is no longer in my hand, my sword appears most keen to ensure that I am aware of each and every incursion that takes place.

It is clear to me that I am utterly unprepared to carry such a burden, for when I held the weapon in my hand, it did not have such a violent impact upon me - but now that it does not need to even be where I am, its disturbance upon me is insupportable. And I have no means of quelling it.

If I cannot continue to work without the constant fear of collapse, then I am helpless to work in the Court; but my presence here is still required, and thus I have no alternative but to find some means or other to repress it. Gift or no, it is a painful one to bear, and I am not prepared in any way to carry it. Not when we are facing a greater threat even than Lamashtu.

At least the weather is improving, for Spring is almost upon us. Thus, the Regent, with the agreement of the King, has decreed that we shall move to Nonsuch at the end of March. With two weeks to prepare, Wriothesley is overseeing the most important works, and so Cromwell and I shall depart a week early, on the pretext of attending the main offices at Whitehall, to spend a week at Grant's Place to search the library again, before we travel south to the Palace.

I am also concerned by that vision that troubled me in the Council chamber; where I saw Northumberland dressed in red and raising Somerset's coronet to his own head as his rival's sigil burned. Even as I think it, I feel that strange sense of deep fear that troubled me so as soon as I emerged from the vision. Somehow, I cannot shake the thought that the reason for my fear is that Northumberland's plans are not entirely devoid of infernal involvement. It is - alas - no more than a mere feeling that this is so; and thus I have not spoken of it, for I have no evidence to offer in support of my view. It is just that: a feeling.

My head has cleared by the following morning as Cromwell awaits me at the water gate, where a goodly sized barge is waiting to ferry us upriver to the Tower Wharves. The Coxswain is an old friend of Cromwell's, and he shall let it be known that we were ferried up to London Bridge - if the river is too dangerous to pass between the starlings - or to the Privy Stair at Whitehall if it is not.

As the barge is one of the larger vessels, we are able to enclose ourselves in the small cabin, for our discussions are not fit for the oarsmens' ears.

"Have you endured any further incursions, Richie?" is his first question - which does not surprise me in the slightest.

"None, Thomas - but it has been no more than a day, so I do not hold out hope for freedom from such torment until we have found some means to secure it."

"There is something else, is there not?" he asks, pointedly. He has known me for ten years or more, and been a friend closer to me than a brother for many of those ten years. He can read me with astonishing accuracy.

"There is. But this is not the place to discuss it. I should rather wait until we are at Grant's Place."

The weather is benign, and thus the river is quite calm; which is always a great relief to me, as I have never forgotten a dreadful journey from the Tower to Greenwich in the midst of an autumn squall of such viciousness that even the oarsman was afraid that his wherry would overturn and we would die. Free from such distraction, I am content to sit back in the comfortable chair and merely enjoy quiet conversation upon matters of government policy and anticipation of our quarters at Nonsuch, for neither of us have been to the newest and - we are told - most grand of Henry's palaces. It had never been quite finished before he passed away - and thus his visits were largely for hunting parties only, and we were far too busy for such excursions.

"I am told the Palace is most opulent." Cromwell smiles, "I should think it is - given what we paid for it."

"I look forward to seeing the new banqueting hall," I admit, "I am told it is octagonal, and that the panelling is beautifully executed in a sequence of marvellously bright colours."

"To match the sweetmeats, no doubt."

I am not surprised to find that Cromwell has sent ahead that we are coming, and there is a small carriage awaiting us at the wharves. It is, as always, a rattling journey over rough cobbles, but the upholstery is relatively soft, and the journey short, so I am not complaining. Even being rattled to hell is preferable to an uphill walk after two hours on a boat.

Miss Parsons is awaiting us, and follows us inside, "I am glad that you are here, my Lord - I am afraid Mrs Dawson's health is most precarious, and that you have not come a moment too soon."

Cromwell does not reply; he pauses for a moment, and then hastens upstairs without a word. I see little purpose in following, for the Goodwife did not recognise me when I visited her last. That said, if this is our last opportunity to see and speak with her, then I shall do so without hesitation.

"Richie," Cromwell's voice comes down the stairs from above, "I think you should come up."

I feel a small lurch in the pit of my stomach, and mount the stairs with some trepidation, as Cecil emerges from the Library Chamber and watches with a rather sad expression.

The man standing outside the door as I approach Goodwife Dawson's bedchamber is dressed in black, and clearly a physician. His expression is rather grim, and I feel a sense of nervous dread as I enter. She is abed, I note, as she was when I saw her last, and a young kitchen maid is seated nearby, presumably present as a nurse.

"…Such a good man." Her voice is faint, and her breathing weak, "the Cardinal always looked after us."

"Willingly, Mrs Dawson." Cromwell smiles at her, holding her hand, "For you equally took care of us, and I am most grateful for your kindness."

She looks into his eyes, "Such a handsome boy you were…so thin and nervous when you first came to us."

"Indeed I was." He says gently, "thin as a pole, and new to my profession."

"Never had a son," she wheezes on, softly, "Took you under my wing, I did. And so proud…so proud of you."

I find a stool and sit on the other side of the bed, taking her other hand, and she looks at me, "Mr Rich…"

"Hello Mrs Dawson."

"I am pleased that you are here." She says, softly, "You were always such a good friend to my dear boy. Like a son to me…"

"The Doctor said it is likely to be today, Richie." Cromwell says, very sadly.

"Then we shall stay, shall we not?" I sympathise, "I shall speak to William - we shall not commence work until she is at rest."

He nods, and I slip back downstairs. Cecil is still in the hall, and looks up as I come down the stairs, "The physician has been with her this morning, Richard. He does not expect her to see tomorrow's dawn - so your arrival was most fortunate."

Even though I am aware that her time is almost upon her, I still find Cecil's words hard to accept and rather painful, "I agree, for she is most pleased to see Thomas; and even seemed pleased that I was here."

"She is fond of you as well, Mr Rich." Miss Parsons tells me.

"Though I did not appreciate that she regards Thomas as a son. In some ways, his Eminence did much the same; so, even though he found himself all but orphaned, he found a new mother and father." I look back, "I should return."

"If you require victuals, please send Alice downstairs to advise me."

It seems, however, that I shall not need to; for, to my dismay, the kindly old lady has passed away in my absence. As I return, Cromwell is still holding her hand, and looks up at me, "It was peaceful, Richie - as though she simply fell asleep; and mere moments ago."

"I am truly sorry, Thomas." I return to my seat, and look across at him as he gazes sadly into the peaceful face of his faithful housekeeper.

"I can still remember the day that I arrived in this house, Richie," He murmurs, "I was introduced to William, and then to his Eminence - but it was Margaret Dawson who truly welcomed me and made me feel that the house could be a home."

"If you wish, Thomas, I can set to work on the initial arrangements?"

He looks up at me, and I see dampness about his eyes, "I should appreciate that. We shall ensure that she is laid to rest with respect and honour."

In that, at least, I can be of assistance. A woman of her class would not be privileged to be granted a tomb; and, indeed, were it not for Cromwell's wealth, she would only be granted a coffin to carry her from the house to the church, before being buried only in a shroud. Instead, however, she shall be laid to rest in the coffin that shall bear her from this place, and shall receive a headstone; just as Cromwell's late manservant, William, did before her.

"Is there anything else I can do?"

"I do not think so. Thank you, Richie." His eyes are back upon her face again, and I know that he requires privacy. Thus, I withdraw to allow him to mourn.

Cecil has returned to the Library chamber, and I join him there, "I am sorry, Richard. Thank God you arrived when you did; for she was most intent that she see Thomas one last time before she passed."

"And thus she did."

His expression rather unsure, Cecil reaches behind him for a sheaf of papers, "I appreciate that this is likely not the best time, Richard, but I have spent the last week searching for any further references to your two problems. Now that we have identified Shadowsight, it has proved to be rather less of a difficulty than previously, and I have found some papers which may aid us. Once we have completed the required service to Mrs Dawson, then perhaps we may peruse them."

I am hard put to stop myself from reaching for the papers at once, for I am most keen to find whatever means I can to suppress the sudden and unexpected interruptions that are inflicted upon me by my sword; but I must not do it. Not yet - for we must first see to the consignment of Margaret Dawson to God.

"I shall miss her, William." I admit, a little tearfully, to my embarrassment, "She was a good woman, and looked after us well."

"Then there shall be a place for her in heaven, I think." Cecil answers, "And soon she can mother all around her again, as she did in life."

I smile at the thought, "And she shall be most happy."

It is, perhaps, just as well that Cecil has been so busy, for the first two days after our arrival are taken up with the formalities associated with Goodwife Dawson's passing. As we did with William, we have turned to the Priest at the Church of St Leonard, and there is ample space for her to be interred beside him. Long widowed herself, she did not have a plot to be laid in alongside her late husband, and it is likely that his grave has already been reused - for that is the fate of the mortal remains of the poor after they have departed the world.

That will not be so for her, any more than it was for William, for their resting places shall be marked, and Cromwell has taken great care to ensure that no others shall share the ground in which they lie.

We make a most sombre group as we stand around the grave, our mood defiant of the glorious sunshine that casts gentle shadows around us. As previously, when we buried Cromwell's faithful manservant, the entire household is present - as are not a few tradesmen, for the Goodwife was well known and respected.

The Priest's words are kindly, and heartfelt, for he is burying a member of his congregation. I know that I am not alone in my sorrow as the coffin is lowered into the grave, and I am also not surprised that Cromwell is as reluctant to leave her as he was William. But then, not only is there that insistent pull of a valued member of his household, but also a dreadfully insistent sense of disquiet - for it was after William's burial that we returned to the Palace only for Cromwell to be arrested that very afternoon. I am thus most grateful that we are presently resident at Grant's Place.

Our walk back to the house is slow, and we say little to one another. It is not the first time that I have felt that I have reached that stage in my life where the giving has ended, and now all is being slowly taken away; and I have no doubt that Cromwell feels much the same. Besides, I was shocked as I stood beside the grave to see just how old he looks these days - the grey at his temples now spread to the point that his entire crown is flecked with silver; the wrinkles around his eyes and across his forehead numerous and deep, and there is no escaping the slower, stiffer movements thanks to his ageing joints. I know that he is ten years my senior, and is older than the late King was when he passed away - but nonetheless, to see it laid so bare before me is cruel indeed, and I am no longer surprised that he is intent upon retiring to the House as soon as he is able.

Miss Parsons has ensured that there are victuals awaiting us upon our arrival at the house, and while we partake, we do so minimally, for we have little appetite. I associate the late Goodwife with this place so utterly that I cannot imagine the house without her, and I can see that Cromwell is most saddened by her loss.

As the afternoon draws into evening, those who have spent time with us as guests have departed to their homes, and we are settled in the Library chamber. Cecil has gathered the papers together, and I am almost desperately hopeful that he has found something amongst them that shall allow me some peace from the visions and dreams that trouble me so greatly.

"Now that I know what is meant by the term 'Shadowsight', Richard," Cecil begins, "I have found indications even in the Cardinal's index, for there was a reference to a most obscure document that I struggled for some time to translate, for it was a translation of singular incompetence."

"Show me." I am almost eager to reach out and snatch the paper from him, but instead I permit him to present it. Even I have better manners than to take it.

"It refers to legendary blades, Richard; most of them known to us; such as Colada and Tizona - the swords of Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar, and mythical ones, such as Hrunting, that was gifted to Beowulf by Unferth. They were not known to have mystical powers as Shadowsight does, but the writer seems to have assumed that they did - for he refers to a sword known in ancient stories called Tyrfing, which has very similar properties to Shadowsight."

"In what way does it help us?" I ask, a little impatiently, for so far all I have heard is that swords of a mystical fashion exist.

"Forgive me, Richard," Hastily, Cecil scans the document, "It is difficult to interpret, but the document does speak of swords that are bonded to those who wield them - though its reference to Tyrfing is exactly the opposite, in that it would kill whoever used it. None of the weapons mentioned seem to match yours in the state of their bond to the one that wields them - but there is a reference elsewhere which claims to counter that bond."

I am about to comment again, but I pause as Cecil reaches across to another document, words inscribed faintly upon a rather damaged sheet of parchment, "I am relieved to advise that his Eminence discovered it - and it is here." Rather than read it, he hands it to me, and I grasp at it eagerly.

The writing is, as I first noticed, dreadfully faint, and it is hard to make out some of the words, but it is a remarkable item, for the words upon it describe an infusion of various herbs and spices that seem most innocuous, though we have not seen Grains of Paradise in many years, their having been supplanted by black pepper.

"What does the document advise, Richie?" Cromwell asks, quietly.

"It appears to be an infusion of various ingredients that must be imbibed, Thomas: hyssop, grains of paradise, myrtle, cinquefoil and long pepper, all dried, ground up and steeped in white wine."

"Which I have already accumulated." Cecil advises, with a remarkably straight face.

"The infusion is already made?" Cromwell looks most surprised.

"Not completely, Thomas." Cecil admits, "It should be ready by this evening."

"Do you think it shall have any effect?"

"There is no way to tell, I fear; our only recourse is to attempt it. None of the ingredients are toxic, so I am willing to try it as soon as it is ready." I insist. Anything to avoid another ghastly vision or dream.

Cromwell smiles, rather sadly, "Then we shall try it."

I recall my words, and my enthusiasm, with mild dismay as I am confronted with a basin in which this hoped-for concoction awaits me. It is barely warm, and even at a distance, the reek of it is quite foul, and I know already that the taste shall be appalling.

"How much should I take?" I ask, nervously.

Cecil has, thoughtfully, brought the parchment through to the large chamber in which we are supping, "A pony-glass of the infusion in a gill of small ale."

Shuddering slightly, I pour the required amount into the cup before me, for it contains the appropriate volume of liquid. The combination of the beer and the infusion together is quite revolting, but I have swallowed the Cordial that must follow an application of the sovereign specific; and this is fragrant in comparison. And thus I lift the cup to my lips, and drain it.

At first, I am quite convinced that I have done nothing of any value - but in a short time, I find myself experiencing a strange sense of separation - as though something has been cut from me. To my surprise, I feel a terrible sense of loss; and I am suddenly quite fearful, "Do we know if this effect is permanent?"

Cecil shakes his head, "It is not. The infusion must be drunk daily."

That is, at least, mildly reassuring, but nonetheless, I feel I must be certain that I have not destroyed the bond with my blade, and I nervously extend my hand, "Lezviye k moyey ruke."

For a moment, I am terrified that it shall not hear me, but then I find my hand closing around the hilt, and I am relieved to find that it has heeded my call. It seems, then, that this infusion is indeed efficacious - for my bond with my sword has reverted to that which I have known since it first came to me.

I just hope that I am not deceiving myself - for my sword can prevent most forms of deception, but not that.

I sleep well, and wake in the morning remarkably refreshed. Despite that awful sense of bereavement, I am hopeful that there shall be no more ghastly disturbances, for I cannot afford to appear mad, or possessed. Not when it is becoming ever clearer that we are facing another encroachment of the demonic kind - just when we thought that all we had to worry about was securing the succession of a child.

We break our fast together upon cold mutton, bread and cheese, while Cecil muses over his discoveries in relation to our other issue - that of the supposed apocalypse.

"It has been most difficult to find anything useful, I fear," He admits, reaching for his cup of small ale, "The general consensus that I have found in the papers is that the Horsemen herald the end of days, and thus must be accepted - for that is God's will."

"And what if a horseman arrives independently?" Cromwell asks, "The prophetic statement in the book of Revelations is most clear that the man on the red horse is the second to emerge; and we have not received any indication that the first has arrived."

"The document that I have uncovered, however," Cecil resumes, "refers to another manuscript; one of such reputation that the only copy thereof is reputedly locked away in the deepest of the Papal Archives - for the Cardinals that swarm the Lateran Palace in hopes of ingratiating themselves sufficiently to become Pope fear it."

"Why would they do so?" Cromwell asks, intrigued at the thought of something that could frighten catholic officials to such an extent, "What does it contain?"

"It is impossible to know - but it is said that it refers to more detailed prophecies of the latter years of the world, and suggests that the authority of Rome shall be toppled. Whether that be true, or no, the document does not reveal - but I think it unlikely. A more reasonable suggestion is that it discusses the Revelation of John in terms that are not in accordance with the text of the Holy Bible."

"Given that it is not universally accepted as a prophetic work, that is quite possible." Cromwell agrees, "Certainly Martin Luther did not think it to be so - though the Catholic Church largely accepts it." His tone suggests that the Catholic Church would accept anything, and I cannot quell a smile, for his prejudices are showing again.

"But - if it is not universally accepted as a prophetic work, why was I shown visions of a man on a red horse? And one who all but identified himself as 'war'? Might he not be the prophesied horseman at all?" and then I am struck by a thought, "Have you considered our copy of the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum?"

"I had not thought to." Cecil admits, rather abashed, "For I was working to the assumption that our horseman was of prophetic origin."

Abandoning the victuals, we make our way down into the Library. I have not yet had the opportunity to explore this remarkable work, for, unlike most of the items in our collection, it has been published only recently by a demonologist from the Low Countries - though he claims to have used a source far older. Alongside it is the work to which it is an appendix, De Praestigiis Daemonum, and the two are remarkably interesting, as they list the hierarchy of demons in the infernal realms. While not entirely complete - for who can list every demon that has ever existed? It has great potential to be of use to those of us who fight them.

That said - it does not make pleasant reading, but we eventually settle upon a likely candidate.

"There," I point at the entry, "Eligos - a Grand Duke in Hell, commanding sixty legions. He knows the future outcomes of war, sees hidden things, and rides a steed of equally infernal origin, the Steed of Abigor. He appears in the form of an armoured knight."

"So - rather than the horseman of War being released, it would appear that we have instead discovered the victor in the battles to claim England as a demonic stronghold." Cromwell sighs.

"And so, as prophesied, a great conflict has opened the way for a man upon a horse." Cecil muses, "I shall set to work on finding what I can to combat him."

"No - we shall set to work." I remind him, "I have not been present in this place even half as much as I should - and it is essential that I re-acquaint myself with it."

Besides, I should like to gain Wolsey's advice. So far, he has not intervened - but then, as this discovery was made in a book that had not even been written at the time that he lived, what advice could he have given? I have never come across the predecessor - apparently called Liber officiorum spirituum, which is, perhaps, the book that is purportedly locked away in the Papal archive. Though why any should fear it, God only knows. Such is the allure of the hidden, I suppose.

Exploration of the Library is our expertise as Second and apprentice, so Cromwell retreats upstairs as we work. I find Cecil to be a remarkably intelligent man, and also very likeable, as his mind works in much the same way as mine does - albeit far more quickly. By the time Cromwell returns downstairs to alert us that it is nearly midday, and dinner shall be served shortly, we have accumulated a surprisingly large number of documents which may - or may not - be of use.

After we have dined, we return to the main chamber and divide the parchments between us, as they are mostly in Latin, other than two in Greek, and one in Hebrew, which I can - more or less - decipher, though I am dreadfully out of practice. Other than this, there is one that seems to be in a form of language that we cannot understand at all well, so it shall be left until last. And so we embark upon a long afternoon of quiet perusal. As we used to do when Wyatt was present, we examine each document individually; that which looks likely to warrant further reading is set into the middle of our circle, though that is now a table, rather than the floor, while those which are not are set aside.

After an hour, we have reduced the selection considerably, and work together rather than individually, taking each piece in turn. As I surmised, most are of no use other than to confirm that which we already knew - though one paper suggests that the manifestation of Eligos inspires immense violence in those who are present when he does so, while another states that he works most effectively through consorting with the high-born. That would certainly explain Northumberland's involvement.

At length, we have discovered little of use, and are left with just the document that we cannot decipher - or, at least, neither Cecil nor I can understand it, so Cromwell sits with it awhile, before he nods, "I think I have it."

"What is it?" I ask, "It seems almost to be French, and yet it is not."

"It is Picard," he answers, "A language spoken in the northernmost corner of France, where it meets the border of Flanders. I learned a little of it from a trader while I was at the house of Frescobaldi. It amused him that I had an ear for languages."

"Can you understand it?"

"Not enough to be of any use, I fear. I shall have to obtain a translation - though that should not be difficult, for I know of a Picard at Court: Francis Langlès. He was brought up in Péronne, and is part of Marillac's entourage - and I rather amused him when I attempted to speak to him in the dialect of his home. Despite being in the French delegation, he is of a Lutheran bent and is thus unlikely to be dismayed should this document speak of matters that might dismay one of a more Catholic frame of mind."

"Will he be at Nonsuch?" I am aware that we shall need to depart there before a translation is ready.

"No, but Marillac shall certainly seek accommodation either in the borough of Cheam or in the vicinity of Ewell in order to be present at Court without needing to travel excessively, so Langlès shall be nearby."

Naturally, now that I must wait for an explanation, I am in a fever of anticipation - patience has never been my strongest suit, and my mind is racing with possibilities as I ready myself for bed.

Oh, for God's sake, Rich. It shall be ready when it is ready.

"Are we correct in our assessment, Eminence?" I am eager for even the slightest degree of confirmation.

All I can tell you is that the battles in the infernal realms are indeed at an end - but the identity of the victor has not been shown to me. That, alas, is for you to discover.

Not exactly what I was hoping for - but he cannot tell me that which he does not know. In which case, Cromwell and I shall commence our journey to Nonsuch tomorrow, and see what Langlès can discover.

I have been imbibing the infusion for three days now, and already I am tired of it - though I am relieved to find that I am still unaffected by the more unpleasant elements of my connection to my sword, so I am willing to endure the vile brew as long as I can do so before I break my fast, and thus obliterate the taste with whatever victuals are served.

With no further information to be gleaned from the library, Cromwell has decided that we shall depart for Nonsuch this morning. As it is further away than Hampton Court, we shall be on the road for most of the day and travelling an unfamiliar route; so Paget, who has been there, has agreed to meet us at London Bridge and we shall ride there together. As he knows of us, we shall not be obliged to remain silent about the matter that is hanging over our heads.

He was not present when we discussed the threat with the Regent and Somerset, but at least we are able to apprise him of a less disastrous situation; for we thought at that time that we were facing the beginning of the end times. It now appears that we are not - or perhaps this is the identity of the horseman that was revealed to John in his prophecies. It is impossible to know for sure.

As promised, Paget is awaiting us in a small tavern close to the bridge, "Your manservant asked me to advise you both that he has overseen the transfer of your possessions to Nonsuch, my Lords." He advises, "Their Majesties shall depart there at the end of the week, and Mr Wriothesley has already transferred the required office functions, so they shall be operating by the time we arrive."

"I shall believe that when I see it." Cromwell smiles, as Paget mounts his horse.

The bridge is busy today, and our progress is tiresomely slow. The volume of traffic is frequently such that crossing the bridge can take an hour or more; and today looks to be such a day. Matters are made worse by the general reek of refuse and sewage from the nightsoil pots that are blithely emptied out of windows from the houses and businesses above the roadway. People are arguing, cursing, chattering and squabbling amongst themselves; perhaps out of annoyance, but mostly for something to do, I suppose.

By the time we emerge, the sun is high, and we are largely free of crowds as we pass beyond Southwark and make our way southwards into open countryside. With no one to overhear us, Cromwell takes the time to apprise Paget of our discoveries; both the initial assessment, and our latest interpretation.

"And you think the name of this demon to be Eligos?" Paget asks, remarkably unfazed by our subject of discussion, "A remarkable name, to be sure. What do you know of him?"

"Alas, not much, Mr Paget," Cromwell admits, "Merely that which was revealed by Mr Weyer's admirable Pseudomonarchia Daemonum. We are hopeful that one remaining document shall grant us more useful data - but that is written in the Picard language, and thus we must rely upon one who speaks that language in order to progress in our investigation."

"Is it possible that this Eligos might be the referred to Horseman of War?" Paget ventures.

"I was wondering that, myself," I admit, "for prophesies are notoriously fickle things, are they not? They speak sparingly, and leave much open to interpretation."

"I trust that the additional document might reveal a means of repelling this Eligos?"

"That is our hope."

Our conversation moves on to more trivial matters as we continue through a mixture of fields and woodland that is a real pleasure to traverse. The woods are alive with birdsong, and the winged choristers flit from tree to tree as we pass by, the horses moving at a gentle plod. It might be a long ride, but it is without doubt most beautiful.

We pause to dine at a wayside inn that Paget promises is not too offensive; and I am most relieved to find that he is right, for I am hungry - and I most certainly do not wish to endure another bout of the awful poisoning that struck me down upon my return to Greenwich from Felsted.

Never having seen the palace, except in the form of sketches that I presumed to be ridiculous fantasies when Cromwell presented them to me years ago, I am fascinated to see how well the architects rendered those frantic scrawls. How long ago was it? Edward had just been born, and Queen Jane had survived - but I think I was so taken up with my frantic fretting over the location of Red Fire that it it quite slipped my mind at the time once I had set one of the Clerks to work upon identifying the funds to begin paying for it. Even signing the documents that released the funds has disappeared from my memory now; and I am struck by how entirely my search for that jewel consumed me.

As we are a approaching from the north, the frontage seems quite conventional, as is the overall plan of the building; but the real glory lies along the southern range, where two great octagonal towers stand at either end, flaring out to wide halls crowned with cupolas that are almost bristling with finely wrought finials that rise from every joint, a profusion of pennants fluttering gaily in the spring breeze. The whole is surrounded by gardens, and looks quite wonderfully idyllic - though it is rather odd to be so far away from the river. I suspect that, while the King may not be particularly interested in the place, the Regent shall find it quite perfect.

Evening is drawing in as we clatter through the great North Gatehouse into the Base Court, where I find that John and James have arranged for the Grooms to take our horses out to the Mews. Before us, a flight of stairs rise to a middle gateway over which rises the Clock tower, and Paget leads us through to the central range, where I am relieved to find that John is waiting to guide me to my new apartments. I anticipate several days of getting hopelessly lost in these corridors, but - as Cromwell is no more familiar with this palace than I, at least it is a difficulty that I shall not experience alone.

The quarters assigned to me are very fine - a large main chamber with wide windows that offer a view across a well tended parterre garden, and a goodly sized bedchamber with an excellent tester bed that I am most grateful to find, for I am very tired after a long day in the saddle. I am sure that Cromwell's apartments shall be finer than mine, but as these are the finest I have been granted at any time in my Court service, I have no complaints.

As the Regent and the King have not yet arrived, we have the opportunity to sup in Cromwell's quarters, and I am not surprised at all to find that I was right. He has, I note, been busy while I was exploring my apartments, "I was correct in my assumption, Richie; Langlès is already installed in a small manor just to the east of Ewell, and I have arranged to visit him on the morrow with the document. He is expecting us both."

While the rest of the Court has not yet arrived in large numbers, Marillac has secured accommodation at a rather old-fashioned place called Cuddington Lea, a large manor house named for the small hamlet that once existed here, before it was entirely demolished to make way for the larger of the two parks at Nonsuch. Naturally he is not yet in residence, but it seems that some of his staff have been sent here to prepare the place for his arrival, and Langlès, a tall, thin man with lank brown hair and a remarkably long nose, has been placed in charge of the work.

"Ah, mon Seigneur, welcome to our charming little ruin!" he enthuses, cheerfully, "What is this remarkable document that you have brought for me to see?"

"I wish I could tell you, M. Langlès; but alas, I cannot decipher it, for it is in a most outlandish language." There is a twinkle in Cromwell's eye that I have not seen in a long while.

"That is because you do not speak a civilised tongue, M. Cromwell," Langlès laughs at him, "Come, I shall call for some wine and we shall examine your strange document."

The claret that we are given is excellent - far better than the quality of our surroundings - and Langlès is soon absorbed in the document.

"It is not very long, M. Cromwell," he advises, "It speaks of the pilgrim Arculf and his journey to the Holy land, where he was shown a chalice that was most revered by all who came to see it - and he was privileged to touch it. When Jerusalem fell, the chalice could not be found; until it was discovered that it had somehow been obtained in years past by Saint Edward of England, of blessed memory. There, it became his communion cup."

"Does the document mention anything special about the chalice?" Cromwell asks, intrigued.

Langlès reads awhile, frowning, "It is hard to read this later writing, for the ink is not so well mixed; but it states that this chalice is the means to repel war, famine and pestilence - but not death, for none can evade the rider of the Pale Horse." He looks up, "If you give me a day, I can place a proper translation in your hands. Is this document of importance?"

"No; I had commissioned workmen to renovate the wine cellar at Austin Friars, and they found it in a wall. I was curious as to what it might say. Perhaps it might have led to some hidden treasure."

"As though you need more money." The Picard laughs, though I note that Cromwell is looking rather concerned.

"I think that I have erred, Richie." He says, as we ride back to the Palace, "God, I have truly erred."

"In what way?"

"Did you not hear what Langlès told us? The means to defeat Eligos is the Chalice of Jerusalem - that which was seen by the pilgrim Arculf and was then used by Edward the Confessor for his communion wine."

"I do not see the significance - all we need to do is secure the cup."

He groans then, "But we cannot."

I stare at him, "How? Does it not exist?"

"The chalice, along with numerous other items of value to the Confessor, were placed in his tomb - and then translated to his shrine in the former Abbey."

And now I begin to understand, "The Abbey that was dissolved - the shrine that was dismantled…"

"The relics within were dispersed - and I cannot say with any certainty that they were not melted down."

"We cannot be sure of that."

"And we cannot be sure that they survive." He looks helpless, "Dear God, I was so intent upon my work to reform the Church, and to secure the monies released by the closure of the Monastic Houses that I never thought for a moment that there might be greater consequences than the ending of the corruption of the Clergy…"

"You could not have foreseen this, Thomas."

"I am a Silver Sword, Richie - it is my duty to consider all that might occur as a result of my actions. I have been a fool, a damnable fool. In my determination to secure the reform of the Church, I might have doomed us all to death and worse. God, what on earth have I done?"

I cannot offer any words of consolation, for what can I say? I am as culpable as he, for while he was at the forefront, I was at his side. In finding the means to defeat Eligos, we have discovered that - inadvertently - our own acts have destroyed it.

And with it, our only hope of avoiding the end of the world.

And, on that cliffhanger, A/N the Second: I haven't sent the Court to Nonsuch yet - which is rather remiss of me as it was supposedly the finest of all of Henry's palaces. Unfortunately, it's gone now; so gone, in fact, that we only know where it was thanks to ground markings from the air, and some archaeological work at the beginning of the 20th Century.

Some of the enormous park remains, however, and I used to play there occasionally as a child. There's a Victorian mock-Tudor mansion still there - though it's not in the place where the palace was - but Nonsuch, for me, conjures up dusty memories of hazy summer afternoons playing ball games, visiting the large aviaries that used to be there, and seeing the exotic birds they used to keep. That was, admittedly, in the 1970s (yes, I really am that old), so they probably don't have the birds anymore.

That said, there is no house called Cuddington Lea - I made that bit up - but Cheam and Ewell (which is actually pronounced 'you-wull') certainly do.

The publication Pseudomonarchia Daemonum (The Hierarchy of Demons) really exists as an appendix to De Praestigiis Daemonum, (On the Tricks of Demons), and you can still read it online if you want a laugh at how credulous we once were - or you can buy it on Amazon (I'm not making this up, you know). Eligos is taken from the list of 69 demons in the hierarchy - he's number 12. The only thing that isn't correct is the publication date - I've got the book available in the 1540s, when in fact it came out in around 1563.

The most intriguing thing about the author, Johann Weyer, was that - despite producing these books - he was a critic of the emerging 'First Great European Witch Freakout', which only really began to gather steam in the last years of the 16th Century, before it completely went bananas in the 17th. Unlike most, he suggested that those who claimed to be witches were mentally ill in some way - and not actually witches. Ironically, before that period, 'witchcraft' wasn't even a crime...