CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Confiteor Deo

Brandon continues to stare at the papers on the wall, though he seems not to see them, "What has happened to him?" he murmurs, "He was such a sweet boy…"

"That, I know not, your Grace," Cromwell says, urgently, "but - whatever it was, it cannot have been the healthiest of upbringings for a child - revered by his father, but reviled by others for being a bastard. Some are able to ignore their origins, but perhaps he could not. His Majesty has showered him with love, gifts and more - but he has been back and forth from Court as much as his sisters. And now he is threatened with a rival?"

"You consider him to be insane, then?" Brandon accuses.

"Not entirely, your Grace; no. There are times when he is lucid; but he seems capable of moving from that state to another that is entirely inhuman. How, I cannot say, nor is it possible to see into his mind and know why. I think that, when he is mad, he is entirely mad - but when he is not, he is entirely not. How he passes from madness to sanity, why he does so, and why it happens at such speed…that I cannot know. But I do know that he seems most intent upon redemption, for I am given to understand that he recites the Confiteor frequently, and also the one hundred and thirtieth psalm. Perhaps, when he is lucid, he believes that his acts of mortification cleanse him entirely of any sin associated with his actions - and thus feels no discomfort in continuing them when his madness returns, for we are taught that all sin that is confessed and for which we repent is forgiven, are we not? It may be that he views the imposition of pain as repentance, and thus those who endure it receive redemption."

"Or perhaps he is possessed by a demon."

Cromwell shakes his head, "That would be a simple explanation, would it not, your Grace? But I think it not to be so. There is much that we do not know, and to ascribe such things to demons seems convenient. If a demon were compelling him to do this, then why does he revel in it afterwards, even though he performs endless acts of supposed repentance and mortification of the flesh? Why keep these papers, and the trophies, and the blood? If a demon were the cause, would he not do all that he can to destroy all signs that it controls him at times - or flee from people in order to protect them from what the demon causes him to become? No, the only darkness in him is that which he has created in his own mind - and it has made him the most dangerous man in England." He turns to Brandon, his expression as urgent as his voice, "And he has Sir Richard in his grasp."

"Then we must tell his Majesty." Brandon says, quietly, "If we do not do so before we act, then we are helpless should we miscarry. He must know - and know now."

"Your Grace…"

"I appreciate your fears, and I share them. No matter what happens, we must ensure that this evidence is in the hands of the King before we depart. Should Fitzroy escape us, his word shall bring us all down - and if Sir Richard dies, then so shall we."

"I do not consider Sir Richard to be expendable, your Grace." Cromwell says, his eyes angry, "I am not willing to abandon him and consider his loss to be no more than an acceptable misadventure."

"It is not my wish either, my Lord." Brandon glares at him, furious at such a suggestion, "But the longer we argue, the longer Fitzroy has to harm him." Snatching up the coffer, he turns to the door, "Let us away. If we are to save Sir Richard, then we must set these papers before the King."

Cromwell is easily able to keep up with Brandon's swift stride, and the two hasten through the corridors to the Presence Chamber, where his Majesty is still holding court, "If it were possible to dispatch you with a squad of guards to apprehend Fitzroy, then I would do so - but the King shall have questions that I cannot answer - thus you must come with me."

"Then send the guards." Cromwell counters, at once.

"Against a Royal Duke? No order but that of the King shall overrule him - and, if he is as you say he is, even that might not be enough. There is no choice. We must set these papers before the King prior to any act against Fitzroy. Without his acceptance, and agreement, we are helpless." His expression is sympathetic, "If it were possible to do so, then I would grow wings and fly to the Tower to apprehend the youth in a heartbeat - but until the King's love is dulled, you and I know as well any that Fitzroy is beyond any man's power to stop."

Cromwell's expression - unusually unguarded - betrays his fears, but he does not reply. Instead, his mind races: how long would it take for a man to be whipped to death? Would Fitzroy do that at all, given his access to all of the instruments in the Tower? Is Rich upon the rack? What if…what if…what if…

The music in the Presence Chamber is soothing, and conversation is quiet; sufficiently so for their entrance to be thoroughly marked, and attract the immediate attention of the King.

"What have you done, Charles? Why is that bloody murderer in my presence?"

His words spark an extraordinary response, as the courtiers in the room seem to pull away from the arrivals like a film of grease separates under a drop of soap. They stare at Cromwell, who still lacks his simarre and chain of office, and at Brandon, whose expression is sad - yet urgent - and who carries an ebony box.

"I beg your indulgence, your Majesty - but it is imperative that we speak with you in private; immediately. I shall bring the guards with me, thus you may be assured that there is no risk to any within these walls."

"I gave you orders, Charles! Get that vile killer to the Tower with his filthy accomplice! Must I order my boy to do your work for you?"

"His Grace has not returned from the Tower, Majesty." Brandon says, quietly, "It is for that reason that I plead with you for a private audience."

"Are you suggesting that that bloody-handed Rich has harmed him?" Henry scoffs.

"No, Majesty." Brandon answers, "Quite the opposite. I beg you, I must speak with you in private, and with my Lord Cromwell. A life is at stake; we cannot tarry."

"Then tell me here." Henry snaps.

"Majesty!" Brandon protests, "I can only plead with you - once you have heard what I must tell you, I assure you that you shall be most glad that you agreed to hear me in private."

Then, at last, Henry nods, "Have it your way, Brandon." He rises to his feet, slowly and painfully, then hobbles down the steps from his throne and leads them through to the Privy Chamber beyond.

Once inside, he turns with astonishing swiftness, and reaches out to grasp the front of Brandon's doublet, "How dare you speak to me so, Charles!" He shouts, "Contradicting me in public!"

"I beg your pardon, Majesty," Brandon says, bowing, "but I had no choice - a life is in peril, and a grievous wrong must be halted in its tracks. There is a dreadful truth that you must learn - that I myself learned but half an hour ago - and I wish it could be any other than that which it is."

Glaring at his friend, the King sits, "Tell on."

Brandon and Cromwell exchange an uncomfortable glance, "Forgive me, Majesty - but…your son, the Duke of Richmond, is not the youth that we all hoped him to be. He is not the very model of Majesty - instead he is a dangerous madman. It is he who killed the five women at Court, not my Lord Cromwell or Sir Richard Rich."

He has no opportunity to continue, "Do not speak such lies to me, Charles!" Henry rages, exploding immediately at the suggestion that his golden child is anything less than perfect, "Has this monster eaten into your mind and deceived you? My boy has taken it upon himself to investigate these crimes - and it is he who uncovered the truth!"

"I wish that were so, Majesty." Brandon sighs, "I truly wish that Fitzroy had indeed undertaken an investigation - but had he done so, he could not have identified the men that he has named, for they are not the ones responsible for these crimes."

Henry glowers, but does not speak.

"Forgive my presumption, Majesty." Brandon resumes, "What evidence did his Grace set before you when he made his accusation against Sir Richard Rich?"

"Evidence?" the King asks, "Why should he need to provide evidence? The word of a noble and a prince is evidence enough! Has it not always been so? His word is sufficient - and is of greater weight than the word of a low-born gentry knight and a cloth trader!"

Cromwell feels no surprise at the sudden dismissal of his importance, and thus shows none. It is nothing less than he expected - as he had warned Rich when he had first mentioned his discovery of the chain upon which Fitzroy keeps his trophy jewels. The word of a Duke is, indeed, evidence enough.

"I should have thought much the same, Majesty," Brandon admits, sadly, "but when I came upon my Lord Cromwell, he had discovered the truth. It lies within this wooden coffer what was hidden with great care in the Duke's apartment."

"Hidden?" Henry turns and glares viciously at Cromwell, "You broke into my son's apartments?"

Cromwell says nothing. Instead, Brandon continues, "That is of lesser importance, Majesty. The truth resides within that coffer - and you must read it for yourself."

The coffer rests upon the table, a silent accusation. The King seems loath to touch it, as though the very act of doing so is a condemnation upon his beloved son. Watching him, Cromwell churns inside; why is he taking so long? Does it not matter to him that his son is, quite possibly, murdering one of his Privy Councillors as he sits and stares at a box?

He swallows, and forces himself to calm down; he, too, is a loving father with only one son to continue his line. How would he behave if Gregory faced such a charge? Would he react with equanimity? Quietly reach for the evidence and examine it objectively? Of course he would not - and yet he expects such behaviour from his King…

Hurry, hurry, hurry…

Then, as though his arm is held by lead weights, Henry reaches into the coffer and retrieves the first paper - the one that Cromwell discovered first. As before, the tiny vial causes the page to droop, and the King reaches in with his other hand to lift it.

"It is his writing, your Majesty." Brandon says, very quietly.

"I know." Henry snaps, "I have been reading his letters for years. I do not need to be told." Then he lapses into silence. And reads.

His expression seems not to change; but the effect of the words upon the page is unmistakeable as the edges of the paper begin to quiver in response to his shaking hands. Gradually, his face registers disbelief; as did Cromwell's - for how could it be possible that a youth of barely eighteen years could commit such depraved violence upon another living soul?

Setting the paper down, the King reaches in for another. At first, the disbelief becomes greater and greater anger, for he refuses to accept the words that are telling him an unwanted, unwelcome truth. This is not his son. This is not his darling Fitzroy…it must be another…it must be.

But it is not.

"Where was this found?" He asks, after an almost interminable pause.

Brandon turns to Cromwell, who speaks for the first time since they arrived in the King's presence, "It was within a large travelling box in a closet in…in his Grace's bedchamber, Majesty." He struggles to mention the name of the perpetrator he has come so utterly to hate.

Henry reaches into the coffer for another paper, and Cromwell realises it is the description of Kat's murder. Gradually, as he reads, the King's face falls, as he is confronted with the cruel relish of a man who forced himself upon a dying woman as she pledged her love to another; who could not save her. Setting the paper aside, he reaches for another, and another.

For Christ's sake - how many more do you need to see?

Cromwell is almost hopping upon the spot in his desperation to be away. Fitzroy is still free - he has Rich in his custody and, if they have reached the Tower - they must have done by now - and Rich is not yet dead, then he is almost certainly enduring torture. God above, why are they waiting? What if their delays lead to another death? Even one more is one too many…

Slowly, painfully, the King looks up at them. His expression is agonised, for at last he is seeing the truth about his beloved boy. There is nothing he can say, or do, to refute this - for it is in Fitzroy's own hand. Why would he write this, and in such detail, if he were not present? How could he know of it if others had committed the crimes? He has lied…he has lied to his own father…his King…

"Go." He says, very quietly, "Fetch him back. Fetch Fitzroy back to me."

"Yes, your Majesty." Brandon bows hastily, as does Cromwell, before they turn and depart with all haste, their retinue of guards in close pursuit.

As he follows Brandon out of the Privy Chamber, Cromwell tries as hard as he can to suppress his anger that the King's order did not include an exhortation to save Rich.

As they hurry through the corridors, Brandon waves over a youth wearing his livery, "Go to the Privy Stairs, engage a barge as soon as you may. We shall be along shortly."

As the youth rushes away, Brandon takes a turn that shall lead them away from the exit, and Cromwell protests, "Where are we going, your Grace?"

"To my apartments. There are some items that I fear we shall need."

"But…"

"Do you think that the boy shall acquiesce at the first sight of us? Even if he is not insane, I do not doubt that we shall not live to see another dawn should we face him unprepared. Come with me."

Hurrying into his apartments, which are quiet and dark, for the candles are not yet lit, Brandon leads Cromwell through to a small antechamber. Confused, Cromwell watches as the Duke lights a candle, then removes a painting from the wall to reveal a small wooden door set into the plaster. He retrieves a set of keys from a pocket in his doublet, separates out a single, small key, and unlocks the door before opening it to reveal two fine wooden cases within the small space beyond.

Fetching out the cases, he hands them to Cromwell, before locking up the cupboard and replacing the picture, "Put those on the table in the main chamber."

"What are these?" Cromwell asks as he complies, "Weapons, I presume?"

"You presume correctly." Brandon replies, opening one of the cases. Within lie two remarkable looking pistols.

"Guns? How do you expect to fire them? We cannot carry them concealed - the slow-match would burn our garments!"

"Look again."

Cromwell does so, but then looks up again, bemused, "What am I expected to notice from them? I have not fired a gun in years."

Brandon lifts one of the weapons, "These are the latest of their kind, Mr Cromwell: self striking, so they do not require a slow-match, and can be carried concealed. They are wheellock pistols - I obtained them from a gunsmith in Vienna, though they are banned throughout the Holy Roman Empire. I suspect it is thanks to their ability to be carried amidst clothing."

"Do they load in the same manner as a matchlock?" Cromwell asks, hastily, as he reaches for the other.

"They do." Brandon retrieves the second box and opens it to reveal another brace within, "But care must be taken when priming. Let me show you."

Cromwell watches carefully as Brandon prepares the first of the pistols for firing. As he begins to load the pair that the Duke has assigned to him, Brandon turns to look at him, "Do you truly think that Fitzroy is as mad as the papers suggest?"

Concentrating on priming the weapon, Cromwell nods.

Night has now fallen, and but for their status, and the urgency of their mission, it would not be possible to find river transport other than one of the larger royal barges. Thanks to the importance of the Duke of Suffolk, one such vessel waits for them, rising and falling with the swell of the river, while large lanterns have been mounted fore and aft to warn other shipping of their presence as they travel.

"Haste, my lords!" the captain calls, as they hasten down the privy steps, "The tide is on the turn, and we shall make good time - two hours, perhaps less!"

Two hours…dear Christ…two hours…and what is happening at the Tower now?

His expression tense, Cromwell seats himself beside Brandon in the small cabin, closed off from the oarsmen. His only hope is that, with the tide against them, Fitzroy's barge took considerably longer to get to the Tower, thereby leaving Rich helpless for less time - but how long have they delayed? Was it really two hours since his arrest? Perhaps more? Less? He has no idea.

Sitting alongside the Lord Privy Seal, Brandon eyes him, intrigued. In his mind, Cromwell seemed utterly incapable of showing any emotion of any kind - or even feeling it - and here he is, clearly fretting over the welfare of a man that, until last autumn, he seemed to actively despise.

It had amused everyone about the court to watch that brittleness as they had first set out to work with each other over the closure of the monastic houses - himself included. By the time that initial frost had thawed, most had grown bored with the entire matter, being far more interested in other gossip; and it is only now that he can see the bond of friendship that has grown between the two. How strange that it should have happened over a string of murders…

"I must ask you to forgive me, my Lord." He ventures, quietly, "I shared in the general amusement about the Court at the notion of your being required to work with a man you disliked as much as you did. I did not see the degree of friendship that has grown between you. It is only now, that I see your concern for his welfare, that it is clear to me. I did not think it possible that such a thing could exist - for I considered you to be too cold, and Mr Rich too craven. In that, I was wrong - and I offer my apologies."

Cromwell regards him for a moment, and then shakes his head, "Your Grace - you have no need to apologise to me - for in some ways you are correct. It was our work together that brought out the qualities that fed our friendship, not the men that we were - or are. We have learned much about one another, and learned to appreciate our better selves. I learned many years ago that it is wise, and safe, to keep myself utterly guarded - for am I not a base-born commoner amongst nobles? I have risen far above the station that I should have expected in life, and I am not unaware that I am despised for my presumption. I give nothing, trust no one, and thus work to maintain my survival amongst men who would give all to bring me down."

"And what of Rich?"

"When first he began his work, I knew him only as a man who was willing to besmirch his hands, and his conscience, for my convenience. I used him, I fear, for he could deceive Doctor Fisher and Sir Thomas More into granting the King his will - to prove them traitors when they instead sought only to accept the supremacy of God over Man. While Rich lacks strength of will, he is not a base coward, for he has accepted the harsh challenge of working alongside me to track down the murderer of those women - even when one of them was dearer to him than his own life."

"I thought she was merely another of his mistresses."

Cromwell shakes his head, "In name, perhaps - but not in fact. He loved her dearly, and she reciprocated - the black pearl, the one that Fitzroy named as his trophy from her; it was his gift to her this Christmastide past, and its loss left him distraught, for it was precious to her, as she was precious to him."

"And I thought him incapable of loving anything other than his own advancement."

"As did I. Until I saw him with Miss Silverton. Perhaps, once, he did care only for himself - but she taught him not merely to care, but to love." Cromwell turns to Brandon, "You know, as I do, that the King wills, the King must have. He sees not the manner in which his will is brought about, and thinks nothing of it - but it is the task of men such as I, men such as Rich, to carry the burden upon our consciences as we work his will. Perhaps we have committed mortal sins in the doing of that task - and it may be that I shall never see the gates of Heaven for my acts - but I live in hope, and perhaps the ending of this horror shall be my redemption."

Brandon watches him for a moment, as though seeing him with new eyes. This is not the heartless, uncaring Thomas Cromwell that he has always seen whenever he has encountered him at work…

"I do not know if we can ever be friends, my Lord." He says, still quiet, "But perhaps you have shown me that you are not the man I thought you to be."

"I am indeed not." Cromwell says, darkly, staring out across the blackness of the night, "I am far, far worse."

They have long since lapsed into tense silence as the oarsmen pull with a will. Even with the tide in their favour, they move at little better than a walking pace in the swell of an early autumn squall, and the Captain's estimation of their arrival turns out to be rather optimistic.

As the barge pulls up at the Water Gate, a guard approaches, the Constable at his side, "Your Grace, my Lord - thanks be to God that you have arrived so quickly in answer to my summons…"

"Summons?" Brandon asks, bemused, "When did you send a summons?"

"Some three hours ago, my Lord - though I did not expect an answer so soon, for the weather is most inclement…" he pauses, "If you did not receive my summons, then why have you come? How did you know of my predicament?"

"Predicament?" Cromwell asks, "We are here to retrieve his Grace the Duke of Richmond."

"Then you must know - for he has demanded my keys from me, and has taken it upon himself to incarcerate a prisoner."

"Was that prisoner Sir Richard Rich?"

"Yes, my Lord Cromwell; he seemed to be in great fear, and his mouth was stopped with a gag. I attempted to prevent their entry to the Tower, but Fitzroy threatened my life - and thus I did not know what else I could do but allow him to pass."

"Where did he go?" Brandon asks, at once.

"I know not, your Grace - for he forbade us to follow him, on pain of death."

"Then we shall have to search the fortress. Damn him!"

"I think not, your Grace," Cromwell says, urgently, "We know that Fitzroy is cruel, horribly so - and thus we can be assured of the places to which he has not gone. Thus, our search shall be far quicker than it might seem. He must have gone to those chambers where the lowest of prisoners are interrogated - for that is where the instruments are kept."

"Do you think he shall use them?" Kingston asks, horrified.

"That, I do not know - but even if he has not, the proximity to them might well be sufficient for his desire to intimidate his victim."

"Come with us." Brandon orders, "Bring all the guards that you can find - Fitzroy is to be returned to his father's presence immediately, and we must find where he has taken Sir Richard. Move!"

Kingston turns to the guard beside him, "You heard his Grace - empty the guardroom and follow us to the lower cells. Immediately, man!"

Brandon has not visited the Tower in many years - and certainly not the cells. Cromwell, on the other hand, knows them well, and breaks into a run, "This way - in the inner ward!"

As they make their way towards the dread walls that conceal the lowest, darkest of parts of the prison, they are alone but for the four guards who came with them. The Tower warders shall follow - for they know where to go, and do not need Cromwell to lead them.

Once inside, he slows down, for while he knows there are cells here, he does not know which one is their target. Their shufflings and the sound of their feet on the flags arouses the curious voices of prisoners, hopeful for news from loved ones, or from those who sent them into this place - but there is no time to answer. They have only one prisoner in their sights now.

"Where might he be?" Brandon asks, softly.

"That, I cannot guess - but I cannot imagine that Fitzroy shall…"

He breaks off, as a sudden scream pierces the air, and then a voice, shouting frantically.

"What is that? What is he saying? I cannot make it out…" Brandon says, bemused.

"I care not what it says - for I know that voice." Cromwell hisses, "Come, quickly!"

The words are Latin, possibly; but the echoes rob them of any sense. The voice that cries them out, however, is familiar. It is Rich.