CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Hunting the Hunter

A small clock on the overmantel strikes ten, the tiny chimes sprinkling the air about us with the only sound in the room. I have been crouched beside the chair in which Cromwell sits for over an hour; but neither I nor William have managed to coax so much as a word from him - or even a glance. It is as though he has closed himself off into another space - and we are not welcome to join him.

"I have seen this before, Sir." William admits, quietly, "Not often - but at times, if matters are at their worst. He emerges in time, and speaks nothing of his thoughts. I think perhaps he feels great guilt - for he places much upon himself to preserve lives - and should he fail, he considers himself to be to blame."

Thinking about it, I remember that evening after we had destroyed that first ravener, when he told Tom and I of the deaths of the Florentine family with whom he had lodged. And then the nightmare he suffered that first night at Grant's Place. William is right - but to have become so burdened that he cannot confront our situation? I have never seen the like - and I have no idea how to respond to it. Without Wyatt at my side to offer another opinion, I am utterly lost.

"He places too much upon himself." I say, "If we can draw him out of this, then I think we must do all we can to assure him that his belief is false."

"I have attempted to do so," William admits, "But I think he listens only to assure me. He does not believe me."

I cannot help but groan inwardly. We do not have time for this - Wyatt does not have time for it. I stand, and William rises to join me, "We cannot afford to wait for him to emerge, William. Perhaps Wolsey's library might have some advice." With luck, there should be wherries in the port, and I can be at Grant's Place before the end of the afternoon. I do need, however, to advise Wriothesley of our absence, so I make my way straight to the offices to seek him out.

"The King is asking for him, my Lord," Wriothesley frets, "I have had to return the messenger to the Privy Chamber to say that he cannot be found. The messenger returned a few moments ago with a bloody nose and a reminder that the King does not expect to be told such things."

As the only man who was never intimidated by the King's anger is long dead, I do not feel embarrassed at the sudden sense of coldness in the pit of my stomach. I have no choice but to face the onslaught myself - for I do know where Cromwell is. The fact that he is in no fit state to meet with the King is immaterial: he would dispatch guards to Cromwell's chamber to escort him to the King's presence. I have no idea how I can persuade him that the Lord Chancellor is not well enough to attend, and my search for a good reason occupies me to the point where I am at the door, and a nervous looking steward ushers me in.

I rarely face the King alone, and I have certainly never had to do so when he is in a temper. The look on his face is so sour that I almost want to run away.

"Where is he, Mr Rich? I have been awaiting his attendance for an hour or more." The volume of his voice suddenly rises, "I do not like to be kept waiting. Where is the Lord Chancellor?"

Then it comes to me - there is one thing that would cause the King to agree to Cromwell's absence from his presence - one thing…

"Forgive me, your Majesty," God, my voice is shaking, "I have come from his apartments. I must report that he is unwell. His manservant would not allow me to enter, in case of contagion. He said that the Lord Chancellor was afflicted with some form of ague, and is abed. He does not think that it is overly serious - perhaps some form of chill - but he has no wish to place you at risk of infection."

That is all that Henry truly fears, and I pray silently that he will accept my words. I also pray equally fervently that I have not over-egged it - as, if there is the merest hint that the illness is plague, or the sweat, then he shall demand that Cromwell be removed from the Palace at once.

"Very well," he snaps, "Get yourself from my presence - for if you have been near him, and you have what he has, I have no wish to be near you. Send Wriothesley." He waves me away, sharply, and I escape.

Relieved, I stop only to advise the unfortunate Mr Wriothesley of his summons, before returning to my apartments in search of more suitable clothing to go burrowing about in a cellar. Once back in the suit that I had so foolishly referred to as my own hunting garb, I hurry to the water gate in hopes that not only a wherry is available, but also that the tide is in my favour. In each case, I am fortunate, and I am soon being ferried towards the city.

It is only as we approach the Tower wharves that I realise that I forgot to add the poniard that Cromwell gave me. While the area about the Palace is mostly well to do, I shall be obliged to travel from the Tower to Grant's Place on foot - and I have no means of protecting myself. But then, even if I did have the poniard, I should be more likely to hurt myself than anyone with designs upon my person - as Cromwell's intention to teach me to defend myself with at least some degree of competence has not yet moved from intention to deed.

The streets are busy, however, so the only risk I take is crashing into people, as I must progress with care, looking down at the floor to avoid the usual unpleasantnesses that seem to end up there. Cromwell might have no qualms about splashing refuse and worse all over his shoes - but I am not so keen. My efforts do, however, keep me thoroughly entertained as I make my way north; and I am soon at the gates of Grant's Place.

"Why does no one ever tell me that visitors are expected?" Goodwife Dawson is, as always, most displeased to be caught unawares by my arrival. Even the fact that she only has to cater for one seems not to mollify her. I think perhaps she does it because she assumes that we expect it, so I endure meekly until she sighs the deep sigh of the martyr, and allows me to enter.

"How is Mr Cromwell?" she asks, as she stands aside.

I opt to tell her the truth, "Not well, Mrs Dawson. There was an…incident…last night, and he is most burdened by it."

Her expression shows that she understands my meaning. She, like William, is aware that he can be overwhelmed by events at times - and has also seen it before. Immediately, she is taking my cloak, offering me something to eat and drink, and bustling about to keep the other servants away from the Chamber with the secret door.

"Is that why you are here?" she asks, worriedly, as I enter. She does not follow, so I turn to her.

"Yes, it is. Do you know what this room contains?"

She shakes her head, "I know there are secrets in this house, Mr Rich - but Mr Cromwell has never told me of them. He prefers me not to know - but I think for my own protection rather than his."

"That is so. I do not know whether there is anything within that can help us - but we do not have time for him to emerge from his becalmed state on his own. I must seek out what I can from the secrets held here. An innocent life depends upon it."

"Any help that you require," she says, earnestly, "You have but to ask." She nods as I thank her, and withdraws, shutting the door behind her.

There is no fire in the grate, as the day is rather too warm for one. Instead, I strike the flint and steel that lies nearby, to light a spill from the kindling and transfer that to a candle. Such is my urgency, that I struggle to obtain a light at first, and I am obliged to stand still for a few moments to calm down. I am of no use to anyone if I also allow this awfulness to affect me.

Once down in the cellars, however, the presence of the books seems almost to be a balm to my racing thoughts. There is nothing I enjoy more than to seek out knowledge - and this is, as Cromwell has told me more than once, now my domain. Transferring the light to the lantern, I seat myself at the reading desk, and begin to search the Great Index, in hopes that there might be some reference to reaching someone who has closed themselves off from others. Wolsey must have seen it happen to Cromwell during their association. He must have done…

But there is nothing. Not a single reference. How could he not have thought to include references to assist a later Second in managing such a situation? But then - he did not expect to have to instruct a later Second; by the time he realised that it would be necessary, there would have been no opportunity to do so - or his mind would have been on other things entirely. I have nothing to refer to.

Disappointed, I flip through to the final page, which I have not yet seen. There, to my surprise, is a small note: treatises on physics and medicines - unreferenced shelf at rear. The note has been written in haste, as though as an afterthought - and I realise that, even at the last minute, Wolsey did realise that he must assist a new Second.

The shelf I seek is, as described, at the very far end of the cellars, and I curse aloud at the mess. Wolsey was never granted the time to catalogue these books, and they have been left to accumulate dust and mouse droppings in the intervening years. I shall have to go through them one by one. I do not have time for this…

Muttering to myself, I start to gather as many books as I can into my arms to transport them back to the reading desk. In my annoyance, however, I am becoming clumsy, and one over-tall stack topples, scattering across the floor.

For no worthwhile reason, I shout something obscene, and stamp my foot like a petulant child - as though the books had fallen deliberately to spite me. Grumbling crossly, I bend to retrieve them, and then snap another obscenity as a folded paper flutters away from the pile and drifts across the floor into a dark corner. Fetching it out, I feel ready to crumple it into a ball and hurl it at the wall, until a single word catches my eye.

Lamashtu.

Leaving the books on the floor, I immediately unfold the paper in the hopes that this might be the one piece of the puzzle we need the most, and suddenly my curse is replaced by a sharp shout of relief, "Thank you, God!" for now I finally know what we must find in order to destroy her.

Unfortunately, however, I do not know what the items might be.

I am unable to abandon the mess that I have created, and try to be less clumsy this time as I replace them, despite my excitement at my find. This discovery might be what we need to bring Cromwell back from his melancholia, so the more I can discover from it, the better.

The writing is difficult to read, as the language is archaic, and scattered with words and even letters that we do not use any longer. I see the use of the letter 'thorn' which we have abandoned, but the words are meaningless to me. As best as I can decipher, we must obtain two items - one referred to as Blár Eldur, the other as Rauður Eldur - which will force Lamashtu into her true demonic form. It is only then that these unknown items can be used against her; but they shall destroy her: that is promised. If we can work out what these items are - and obtain them - then we can prevail against her.

Without hesitation, I am delving back into the Great Index again, in the hopes of references to mystical objects. This time, Wolsey is far more forthcoming with his references, and I am back and forth between the desk and shelves for nearly two hours. My searches, however, prove to be fruitless - there is not so much as a mention of these unknown items; or, if there is, it is not in a context that I can understand and match with them. Disappointed, I have no alternative but to admit defeat and hope that I can return to Placentia before dark.

Folding up the paper that I have found, I carefully secure it in a pocket inside the jerkin that sits over my doublet, and tidy away my mess. Goodwife Dawson is keen to offer me sustenance before I depart, but the sense of urgency I feel to return to the Palace and present this information to Cromwell in the hope that it might stir him from his silence is such that I refuse as politely as I can. She does, however, insist that I be transported back to the Wharves by carriage, so at least I shall be there at a more swift speed than I might have been had I walked.

The tide is on the turn when I arrive at the Tower, but a few wherries are bobbing nearby, and I am able to secure one to return me to Greenwich. As I am quite roughly dressed, the Wherryman assumes me to be a palace servant, and attempts to make conversation, until I glare at him, and he stops. I am still too interested in the mystery that I have uncovered. What are these objects? What do their names mean? Will a translation help us to understand, or make matters worse?

What if my discovery does not bring Cromwell back?

I pay the wherryman a substantial gratuity to compensate for my rudeness, which mollifies him considerably, and he departs from the watergate with a cheery wave. I have managed to get back before nightfall, though the shadows are growing long, and few people are about.

My mind is still largely occupied by thoughts of odd words and their meaning as I hasten back to Cromwell's apartments. I am, therefore, utterly unprepared for the violent grasp upon my arm, and do not even have time to shout as I am dragged into a silent, shadowed passageway.

"Say nothing. Or you die." The voice hisses as a gauntleted hand clamps over my mouth, and I go cold inside, for it is Mortimer.

I attempt to struggle, but Mortimer is a demon, and he is far stronger than I. He is also taller, despite my own height; he lifts me up as though I am weightless, and carries me, kicking rather wildly, through the darkened passage out into that same abandoned part of the Palace that we had found when looking for his sacrifices.

Dear God…sacrifices…is he looking for new ones? I would scream if I could - but my mouth is muffled by his gauntleted hand, and I can manage no more than a faint keening sound that travels no further than his ears, and causes him to laugh. Ignoring my pathetic attempts to escape him, he kicks open the door to that same cellar, and carries me down the steps. Once inside, he casually drops me, and I go sprawling across the dirt floor.

The light is not good - just a few candles - but enough, as my eyes become used to the dimness, to see that I am not alone. Wyatt is in the corner, chained up and gagged. His eyes widen at the sight of me, and he tries to say something that is stopped up by the thick cloth jammed between his teeth. If I was his hope of rescue, then I am a poor failure, and I stare back at him with eyes just as wide. We are both afraid - he is, I can see it. So am I. Zaebos has both of us - and we are the most effective bargaining tools he could have hoped to have. No matter how cold Cromwell is, no matter how ruthless - no matter how much the Mission is All - he could not abandon us. Not now.

And Zaebos knows it.

He grabs me by the collar of my doublet and pulls me back to my feet before pushing me back up against the wall, "Where is the Raven, Second?" he asks, abandoning all pretence that he does not know who we truly are, "Why has he chosen you? Wolsey would have made a great opponent had he not been toppled - at least he would have fought me. But you? Weakling! I should enjoy killing you, but where is the sport in relieving such a wasted choice of his life?"

I cannot speak. My breathing is out of control, and my heart is racing. God…I am so afraid…so afraid…

"Even now," Zaebos continues, "your eyes are filling with tears. You coward! Would you defend him to the death if asked, as Wolsey would have done? If it came down to you, or him, who would you choose? We both know it would be your own sorry skin, do we not? Wolsey was far braver than you - you cannot hope to be his equal!"

To my shame, the rising tears are now on my cheeks. He is right - I could never be as brave as Wolsey was - never ask the Raven to abandon me to ignominy and death as he did. If my life were at stake, then I would do it…I would offer him up over me to save myself. I would…God forgive me, I would…

I hear another strangled sequence of noises from Wyatt, who his shaking his head wildly. I have no idea what he is trying to say, but he is passionate about those words. He is trying to encourage me…he must be. But I am a coward - I am too afraid. Why did I agree to become a Second? I have neither the skill nor the bravery…

Then Zaebos pulls out a knife.

God have mercy, he is going to kill me…he wants me to make that choice - my life, or Cromwell's…and I don't know if I can be brave. My fast breathing becomes more ragged, as Zaebos raises the knife to my throat. Behind him, Wyatt is still trying to shout at me behind that gag. My head is starting to spin…

"Get back from me!" I shout at him, "God help me, no matter what you say or you do, I shall never betray the Raven! He would give his life for mine, and I shall return the favour!"

Words are easy. It is the consequences of them that are far harder to bear: he can see the livid terror in my eyes. Smirking, he uses the knife to slice away a piece of my ruffed collar, and waves it in my face, "I can start with this." He smiles, "Then I can move on to flesh. Are you sure you will never betray the Raven?"

A miserable little sob escapes, but I shake my head furiously, unable to trust myself to speak another word. Again Zaebos cuts, and another piece of my collar is dropped to the floor, before he raises the blade to the side of my head, "Are you fond of your ears, Second? Perhaps I should remove one so you that you can see it with your own eyes?" I cannot restrain a strangled moan, and he laughs, "And you tremble so hard, do you not? Such fear. Such fear…but I need you to deliver a message. Perhaps not, then." At last, he steps back, and I slump against the wall, trying as best I can to smudge away the escaped tears from my face. My dignity, however, is in scattered rags to match the two pieces of collar on the floor.

"I have the poet - and, as I promised, he shall die - offered up as a sacrifice to placate the dread Lamashtu. The Raven has a choice to make - he can save the boy, if he comes to me at midnight tonight. The Tiltyard. He must offer me his swords, and his head. If he does not, then three shall become two."

I try to glare at him, but his eyes are so dreadful that I cannot. Instead, he comes close to me again, his voice now a low whisper, "But then, it remains to be seen whether or not you shall live long enough to deliver my message."

I have mere moments to process the words that he says, to realise their meaning…then he buries the knife in my side, and I feel cold hard steel in my vitals. Beyond, Wyatt screams behind the gag, but I look up at Zaebos, unable to comprehend what is happening.

His eyes are cruel, and he smiles horribly as he withdraws the blade, and I sink to my knees, pressing my hands to the wound that is fountaining my life out onto the dirt floor. This cannot be happening…

Ignoring me, Zaebos crosses the room to where Wyatt is still trying to shout at me. Vaguely, I watch as he unfastens the chain, and drags Wyatt away, leaving me alone to bleed out my life in the cellar.