CHAPTER TWO
An Uneasy Partnership
Seated at his desk, Wriothesley scratches away with his quill, despite the need to sharpen it again, and tries to ignore the sense of chill that pervades the office chambers. While he has always known that Cromwell and Rich do not see eye to eye, and indeed would avoid each other at all costs were they not obliged to be in each other's presence during meetings of the Privy Council, he has never realised that there is such friction between them.
Cromwell is busy at his desk, as always. He is chewing at the inside of his cheek, Wriothesley notes from that odd hollow and the shape of the Minister's mouth; always a sign that he is in a poor temper. Although he considers it likely that Rich is the reason for Cromwell's mood, Wriothesley is not one to speculate upon such matters. The fact that the new Chancellor of the Court of Augmentations has not yet managed to arrive at his desk, however, suggests that the Secretary is right.
His nib blots, and he mutters a cross word under his breath before reaching to his pot for his pen-knife. Like all scribes, he is well practised in the art of sharpening a quill, and he sits quietly as he does so, shaving the nib over a platter to catch the waste. The work complete, he examines the new cut carefully, before setting back down to work again, only to be startled by the door of the offices opening rather more quickly than he is used to, setting the shards of the feather shaft aloft, all over his work.
Wriothesley looks up sharply, shooting an irritated scowl at the Clerk who should know better than to hurl the door open so; and is obliged to hastily rearrange his expression at the sight of Rich, who ignores him and instead marches briskly to his desk - apparently unaware that everyone else has been at theirs for two hours or more. The Chief Minister and the King's Secretary share a glance; not the best start to the day, it seems.
There is nothing in the way of papers upon Rich's desk; not yet, at least, for the Court has yet to begin its business. Instead, he arranges his ink pot, quills and knife to his liking - always swan quills, for they are stiffer and more suited to his writing - reaches for a sheet of rough rag paper and starts to set down notes in a most bizarre sequence of letters and symbols. One of the Clerks, filing nearby, looks at his work for a moment, and exchanges a bemused glance with one of his friends.
Unaware of their scrutiny, Rich continues to scrawl, until his attention is caught by a shadow over the paper as someone blocks his light. Raising his head, he is about to curse the irritating individual, only to find that it is Cromwell.
"Can I be of assistance, my Lord?" he asks, his tone brittle.
Standing over Rich, Cromwell sighs and wonders if the man at the desk realises just how easily he shows his thoughts upon his face. The words might be polite - albeit frosty - but there is no disguising his mild contempt for the man who is now his superior. Ignoring it, for everyone at court tends to hold a similar opinion of him, Cromwell attempts to thaw the chilly atmosphere, "I thought it would be useful for us to discuss your plans for the operations of the new Court."
Rich waves the paper briefly, "I am setting down my thoughts." He does not add that he was forming those thoughts last night with the aid of his mistress in the warmth of his bed.
Cromwell is bemused for a moment, for he knows that Rich's writing is usually a rather fine and exact Chancery hand, and this scrawl is quite meaningless, "I trust that you shall be noting your thoughts down in English at some point?"
Rich smirks, "This is naught but my first draft: a form of writing at speed - I devised it while engaged at the Middle Temple. I am able to set down words almost at the speed at which they are spoken. Once I have finished, I shall set them down in a manner more suitable for your perusal." He bends over the paper and resumes writing - indicating to all and sundry that, in his mind, at least, Cromwell is dismissed.
I am not going to like this man, he thinks to himself as he returns to his own desk. Rich has one of the worst reputations at Court - probably even worse than his own. Cromwell is not blind to the enmity he inspires, nor is he unaware of the muttered names that people speak when they think his back is turned; but no one is more despised or distrusted than Richard Rich. Most consider the Chief Minister to have at least some degree of integrity lurking somewhere within him, despite his base-birth, but no one at all thinks the same of the former Solicitor General - for did he not perjure himself to bring down Thomas More? That he did so at Cromwell's behest is neither here nor there. The words were false, and he spoke them.
As he reaches for his quill, Cromwell knows that he should not feel enmity for the man who did only what was required of him - but his willingness to do it, and his failure afterwards to show even a flicker of remorse? How can he not feel shame as I do?
Finishing his notes, Rich reads back through them: crossing out some, amending others, adding to more. He prefers to draft in his speed-hand, as his thoughts rattle through his mind quickly, and he must write equally quickly if he wishes to capture them as they enter his head. Writing properly can come later; besides, it amuses him to leave all about him in the dark.
He cannot see Cromwell from where he sits; there is a stand of shelving in the way. Perhaps it is for the best, however, for he despises the Black Crow as a common-born upstart with more advancement than he deserves. Besides, it was Cromwell who set him against Thomas More, asking him to find some means of converting the King's fury at the man's refusal to swear the Oath of Supremacy into an act of real, or at least - perceived to be real, treachery. He has not forgotten the look of contempt upon More's face; it frequently haunts him in his sleep.
Kat finds his dislike quite amusing; for, as she reminds him frequently, he is of Gentry stock and therefore only one step higher up the social ladder. As she is of equal standing to him, he is not offended by her words - but then, even if he were, her soft lips and touch quickly remedy all ills. In spite of himself, he cannot repress a slight smile. God - if only he had found her before his Father had demanded he wed Lisbet Jenks.
He sighs, and reaches for his quill to begin his transcription.
As all return to duty after the midday meal, Cromwell looks across to where Rich is still busily working. Given the exacting nature of his longhand, perhaps it is no surprise that the man is still transcribing, though the Chief Minister is quite intrigued at his new colleague's working methods.
He does not recall seeing Rich use that strange code before; but then, when they questioned the various men and women of Queen Anne's acquaintance - he pauses to shudder briefly at the memory - the work of note taking was undertaken by clerks. Had he known of it, then he might have risked offending the Solicitor General as-was with a request to minute the interrogations himself.
Brushing a few lingering crumbs of bread from the front of his doublet, Cromwell seats himself and sets another sheet of paper before him. He does not use vellum, for that is left to the scribes who produce the fair copies of the Acts to which the King's Grace appends his signature. Instead, as Rich did, he roughs out his thoughts upon rag paper, and his drafts are on the same material, albeit of better quality.
He intends to start assigning some of his team of Clerks, and various other resources, to the Court of Augmentations - but as Rich is yet to present him with any strategies or procedures for its operation, he cannot do so. Irked, he sets his quill back in its pot, and is about to stand, only to find that Rich appears to have finished, and is approaching his desk with a handful of papers.
Everything about the way that Rich moves speaks eloquently of his disgruntlement at having to play second fiddle to the King's Chief Minister. In a world where all should be guarded in their behaviour - as a protective measure if nothing else - Rich seems unable to keep his strongest feelings hidden. To Cromwell, who conceals his feelings so entirely that most think he has none at all, Rich's open expression is as easy to read as a book fresh from the new-fangled printing press. Maybe he should mention it - though not here; given the glower upon his face, Rich would almost certainly take offence. Cromwell is not particularly interested in sparking an argument. Not in front of the Clerks, at least.
Rather than take the papers and start reading them, leaving his colleague stuck in front of the desk like a schoolboy awaiting the master's approval, instead he invites Rich to fetch a chair, and has him sit down alongside. Reading the papers takes some time, as the notes prove to be extensive. He decides not to attempt conversation, as it is quite clear from Rich's face that any reciprocal words would need to be dragged from him with hooks.
At length, he looks up. Despite himself, Cromwell cannot help but admire the sheer attention to detail in the notes, and the consideration of the necessary governance for the operation of the Court. He knows from experience that Rich is sharp, quick minded and organised - and the papers prove it. Even though he would rather have worked with Medusa than the man seated to his left, he knows that he was right to appoint him.
Wriothesley has left his desk, and no Clerks are nearby, so Cromwell opts to risk a conversation that might draw attention, "I am well aware of our mutual history, Mr Rich," he says, "and I appreciate that we can hardly be considered to be the best of friends."
Rich nods, a little warily, but does not comment.
"I trust that we are both sufficiently professional to at least work together as colleagues, for our main concern is to deliver his Majesty's demands, and to do so without causing him annoyance or grief."
This time, Rich shrugs, "I shall do my work to the best of my ability, my Lord." His tone is dreadfully formal, "I could not countenance to act in any other manner."
Cromwell sighs, inwardly, "I shall withdraw and leave you to continue without further recourse to me." He advises, as Rich collects his papers and rises from the chair again, "For it is clear from your noted plans that there is no requirement to do so." And I can get on with my own work without being obliged to deal with you.
From his expression as he departs, it is clear to Cromwell that Rich feels much the same about their new, enforced partnership. Too busy with his own business, he puts all thoughts of the Court of Augmentations, and its new Chancellor, firmly from his mind.
The lengthening shadows draw courtiers from all about towards the Hall, where supper is to be served. The highest born Lords might well sup in their private quarters, but for those who are not so well situated, the Hall is where people go to be, and be seen.
The King has chosen to sup in private this evening, with only the Lady Jane Seymour - and her brother - for company. The presence of the dour Edward is known by all to be nothing more than a ruse; a pretence on the part of the King that he has not removed his second wife to make way for his third-in-waiting. The Court wags comment, in the smallest of voices, that she cannot be that pure if she is in his quarters only a day after her predecessor has been removed; brother present or not.
Abandoning his papers in a locked coffer, Rich does not spare a moment to bid his fellow workers good evening. The Clerks are merely servants, Wriothesley is of no interest, and he would rather be trapped in ice than endure conversation with that damned Cromwell. Besides, once he has supped, his Kat shall be waiting for him.
Almost unconsciously, his expression softens at the thought of her. He has had mistresses before, and has four bastard brats to prove it, but none since he found her in the train of the Countess of Oxford. Like many of her station, she is required to maintain a certain degree of dress and dignity - but lacks the means to do so. There are plenty of such women about the Court, and thus do what they can to secure gifts from the men about them in order to support themselves. His previous women had indeed cost him a fair amount in jewels and presents - but they had more than earned their keep in return.
It is different with Kat, though; fair haired, blessed with almost depthless hazel eyes, and a glorious wit that amuses and challenges him in equal measure. Despite the illicit nature of their trysts, Kathryn Silverton has a warm wholesomeness about her that appeals to Rich at a level deeper than mere attraction. She has no other amours - for who would have a woman with her pocked face? She was beautiful once; of course - until smallpox winnowed its way through her family. She survived, the only child to do so, but it had robbed her of that comely countenance. She is fortunate in one respect, however, in that her intelligence and learning have recommended her to the Countess, who has brought her to court, and keeps her carefully veiled to avoid offending those who are so utterly devoted to the cult of beauty.
He changes his mind about supper, and instead returns to his quarters in the hope that she shall be there early. She rarely disappoints in that respect, and indeed she is seated by the fire in his most comfortable chair, her eyes upon the one person in the Court to whom she always shows her face in the secure knowledge that he will not look away. Despite the pocks, her smile is warm, for she has learned to trust him to a degree that no other does.
"How went the day?" she asks, with a deliberately coy tone that draws a reciprocal smile from him.
"Poorly, I think, my Kat." He admits, "It is not my wish to be about that black Raven Cromwell."
She indicates the table, where a light repast has been set out, "I hope you did not sup, Richie," She smiles, "Otherwise you would be obliged to sup again. For I should pout most heartily if you did not join me."
"Then I think I am most fortunate that I did not."
As they sup, however, his mood sours again, the raven spectre of Cromwell crowding into their tryst like an unwelcome third wheel.
"Why does he discomfit you so?" Kat asks him, "He is but a man in a chain of office."
Rich frowns, attempting to explain his feelings, "He is of base birth, Kat. Not like us - even though we be of Gentry stock rather than the true nobility. He has advanced himself far beyond the right of a man of his station, and that does not sit well with the natural order of things."
"I have little interest in the natural order of things." Kat sniffs, dismissively, "The natural order of things determined that a woman of my standing was no longer fit for a man of equal stock when the pox took my face and marked it with craters."
"Am I not of equal stock?" Rich asks, not entirely seriously.
"You are married." She reminds him, smiling a little wickedly, though he can hear the slight edge in her tone, "And thus, you do not count."
He reaches across to take her hand, "Had things been different, Kat…" he lets the sentence hang; she knows of his regret at their respective fates in the marital market. For a moment, their eyes lock, sharing a world of sadness and heartache at the chances that were not granted to them.
"Think not of Thomas Cromwell, Richie," Kat advises, gently, "You must work with him; and, though you like him not, there is no obligation upon you to claim that you do. The King demands your diligent service, and thus you should provide it. Did the King demand that, in accepting this post, you must become Cromwell's dearest friend?"
"God, no." Rich smirks, "I should rather have carved out my heart. Even though folk say I have none."
"You could not have carved it out, for it is safe in my keeping."
He grimaces, "Did you pay Thomas Wyatt for that?"
She pretends to pout, "It cost me a blue bird's song. I have been cheated."
Retiring to the fireside with the remains of the wine, they sit quietly and talk, banishing that black-clad ghost from their presence. Is this how it should be with a wife? Rich wonders, for he has never shared such times with Lisbet - their relations entirely perfunctory and expected for the procreation of children. Had he loved her once? Perhaps he did - but any regard he had for her has faded away as they have grown apart. He cannot blame her; she was as obliged to wed him as he was to wed her - arranged when they were both too young to resist the will of their families. He does not hate her; but then he does not love her either. That privilege, if privilege it be, belongs entirely to Kat. Instead, he ensures she is kept in an honourable state as befits the wife of a highly placed Courtier - and claims obligations at Court to keep him from her bed.
The wine finished, Kat settles herself upon his lap as he drowses in the chair. He can still taste claret as he kisses her, reaching up to remove the gabled English hood that hides her hair from him. He loves to caress her hair.
She breaks the kiss, "I love you."
For a moment, he gazes into her eyes. Even though he truly loves her in return, the words will not come; he cannot let that last barrier down, "I know you do."
She watches him for a moment, her eyes reading in his expression everything that he cannot bring himself to say, and smiles as he rises from the chair, lifting her in his arms, "Time for bed, my Lord?" she asks, coquettishly.
"Most definitely." He whispers in her ear.
Wriothesley busies himself with his work, maintaining the most solid façades of industriousness in the hopes that the Clerks will feel sufficiently intimidated by his ethic to ensure their own is as solid. He has lost count of the times he has found them speculating over how long it shall take the Chief Minister and the Chancellor of the Court of Augmentations to come to blows. One of them was even talking of taking wagers on the possibility of such an event.
In the three weeks that have passed since Sir Richard Rich arrived at his desk, there has been no thaw in that stiff formality that governs their dealings with one another, and they speak only if required to in the course of their work - whether it be the work of the new Court, or the business they discuss with the Privy Council. Naturally, such stiffness leads to comments being misconstrued, which thus leads further on to unnerving silences and comments of such frostiness and loaded meaning that even he, Wriothesley, is quite certain that a full argument might erupt. It never ceases to amaze him how two men who are so at odds with one another achieve anything at all.
If Rich knows of Wriothesley's opinions, he does not show it; for he, too, is busy. The bill that shall commence the closure of the large religious houses has not yet cleared Parliament, even though the King could - and quite possibly would - assent to it regardless if he considers himself to have waited too long. The smaller houses, however, are already closed, so the procedures to deal with their lands, properties and monies must be in place. Establishing them has required him to work far longer hours than he should have liked - largely to avoid the inevitable hard stare that Cromwell can unleash when so minded. Despite his dislike of the man, Rich is well aware of Cromwell's remarkable ability to intimidate others with nothing more than a slight change of expression. He has not, and shall never, make the mistake of underestimating the Chief Minister's intelligence and ability. The man, base-born though he is, is fiercely intelligent, and knows exactly how to reach into the innermost fears of those against whom he is set. Equally, however, Rich is not blind to the source of Cromwell's power: he has the favour of the King, and it is only from this that he can raise such fear of his ruthlessness. Without it - what would he be?
As he finishes reading the fair copy of the memorandum that formalises the operations of the Court of Augmentations, Rich nods to himself and charges his quill to sign it. Cromwell might be his superior in terms of the ongoing dissolution of the Religious Houses, but the Court of Augmentations is in his charge. Signing the sheet of vellum with a careful flourish, he scatters it with pounce to dry the ink, before shaking off the excess. For a while, at least, his work is done; the smaller houses have been mostly dealt with - so until the commissioners begin work at the larger houses, he is largely redundant.
Beyond the shelving, on the other hand, Cromwell is bent over papers that seem to have no end. He is still contemplating the possibility of appearing less competent in the hopes that people might stop thinking that no other but he can solve their problems; but then, he has worked to such an extent for much of his adult life, and he is quite certain that he could not live without that ever-present sense of endlessness. To stop would allow too much else to crowd in upon him. At least, under this burden, he has no time to address regrets, grief or remorse - the King does not need a man with such cares.
The afternoon requires them to attend the Privy Council, which places them both amongst those of much higher birth than they; men who wear their nobility like cloth-of-gold, and who resent the presence of lesser mortals. Even Rich does not escape; for he has nothing more than his knighthood to recommend him.
Norfolk has returned to Court recently: his relationship to the youth Fitzroy through marriage sufficient to overcome the Boleyn taint. As they enter, he eyes both Cromwell and Rich with loathing; no, not quite that - there is certainly dislike, but there is also a sense of nervous apprehension. He has found from experience that, with the favour of the King, Cromwell has power even over a man of his stature.
Ignoring the Duke's scrutiny, Cromwell takes his seat. He has no interest in vindictiveness or spite - it is another of the many things for which he simply does not have the time.
Seated opposite, a few chairs to the left, Rich is surprised at Cromwell's failure to take note of Norfolk's glare. He has noticed it - he must have done, for he misses nothing - but merely set it aside. He knows himself well enough to appreciate that he could not let such a threatening glance, even one that is tentative, leave him unaffected. He is most relieved that Norfolk reserves the bulk of his ire for the Chief Minister - even if that means that the Patriarch of the Howard clan views him of too little substance to consider. Sometimes it is safer to be obscure.
They rise to their feet and bow as the King arrives, Brandon alongside him. He is moving with vigour: clearly his leg is not troubling him today, as he can conceal the pain it brings him. Consequently, all at the table feel a sense of relief - for his temper is governed by his leg nowadays.
The meeting does not take long, for there is little of importance to discuss, and all are merely advising the King of progress on business already taking place. At least there is no longer talk of his marriage, for that took place a week and a half ago in the Chapel Royal; another reason for his considerably benign mood, perhaps.
Rising from the Table, the King accepts their bows, and marches out into the Presence Chamber, where he shall hold Court for the remainder of the afternoon prior to the feast over which he shall preside tonight to celebrate his bastard Son, who has been granted yet more lands and wealth. He is now second in richness only to his father, and has spent the recent weeks in a state of retreat from that demanding love, and in obedience to the delighted invitations to be present. Illegitimate he may be, but few now doubt that he shall be placed in the succession. Certainly Cromwell does not, for one of the many drafts upon his desk is one for a bill that will admit the youth to such a state.
Gathering his papers as swiftly as he can, for he does not wish to be seen leaving with the Chief Minister, Rich hastens out into the Presence Chamber, where the Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber are gathering. He prefers to avoid these men, too, for he despises them even more than he despises Cromwell.
They call this group 'the King's Minions', for he has always had such men about him - men whose japes and light talk amuse him and remind him of a time when he, too, was young enough to enjoy such trifles. Most are men of little note - other than their abilities to ride and joust, or their skill at amusing the King. As this usually takes the form of comments at the expense of another courtier, which the King finds unpleasantly agreeable, they wear his favour upon them like chains of office, and none dare to challenge them.
"You're looking uncommonly pretty this day, my Lord." One of them, Sir Francis Bryan, pretends to simper, looking at his pale violet doublet and brown furred simarre with amused eyes as those about him snigger crudely. As he attempts to ignore the insult, and walks away, Rich hears the laugher bray more loudly. Bryan is probably chief amongst this pack of giggling hyaenas, for even the Minions usually prefer not to poke fun at the Privy Councillors, and he is the only one with the nerve to do so. With his fine garments and his eye patch - which conceals the ruin of his left eye - he truly looks to be an adventurer and rake; which he largely is.
"Perhaps a tiff, Sir Francis?" Another gentleman, Sir Edward Neville, asks, "And we thought that they were becoming so enamoured!"
"Ah, but who could love the frozen heart of the King's Minister?" Bryan chortles, "He is on a losing path, Sir Edward. And what of his crater-faced lover? Would she stand for two in her bed?"
"Imagine the chill," Neville grins back, "No bed warmer could ever combat it - it would freeze the sweat upon them as they tumbled!"
They laugh at the thought, and turn; the laughter dying in their throats, for Cromwell is standing behind them, and has clearly heard every word.
"Sir Francis," He says, amiably, "Sir Edward." He nods in greeting, and passes them by as though they had been discussing nothing more than the weather. His eyes, however, have narrowed, a sign that Bryan certainly has not missed. Cromwell knows full well that he is a source of spiteful amusement amongst the Minions, and sees no point in direct confrontation - the King would certainly find that amusing. His back straight, his expression benign, Cromwell exudes dignity, and even as he watches the Chief Minister depart, Bryan cannot help but admire him for his calm demeanour. Much as they enjoy poking fun at the man, his endless failure to rise to it seems always to cause their jokes to fall flat.
Leaving the tiresome Gentlemen behind, Cromwell puts their stupidity from his mind and turns his thoughts to another of his endless tasks. The King has not said so openly, but Cromwell is not blind to the signals the King gives him - the feast tonight is a prompt not only to Fitzroy, but also to him, that the King demands that the youth be legitimised and admitted into the Succession. He cannot put off the work for much longer, despite the higher priorities fighting for his attention.
Sighing inwardly, he begins to re-order his plans in his head to accommodate the change, and returns to the offices.