CHAPTER FOUR

Only the Devil

Kat is sleeping the following morning as Rich wakes, dark dreams of blood and death still clearing away as he opens his eyes in an early dawn light that he is more grateful to see than he could have imagined. Thank God she was still waiting for him when he returned to his quarters last night; how on earth Cromwell could remain so detached after all that they witnessed, he does not know. Kat is warm, soft and close - all that he needed after last night's hideous hours in the presence of that vile corpse.

He wants to talk to her - as he did last night; probably far more than she would have wanted him to. He shall not wake her - she looks so peaceful - instead he watches over her, waiting for her to wake. He enjoys watching her wake as much as he likes to fondle her hair.

They say little as they break their fast together. They do not need to, for they are utterly at ease in each other's presence. Instead, she kisses him lightly before she departs early. It does not do to be seen leaving a lover's quarters in the morning, after all. People gossip about him quite enough as it is, and Kat has no wish to add ammunition to their chatter.

Sitting alone at the table, Rich attempts not to think about the task ahead. Today, he must transcribe the notes that he took, and he would very much rather not. If he does not, however, then what shall Cromwell and Butts have to consider as they discuss their investigation? God, if only he had been somewhere else yesterday when the Constable turned up…

He is startled by a knock upon the door to his chambers, and stands as his Manservant opens the door to admit Cromwell. He frowns, for what reason would the Chief Minister have to call upon him? They can discuss last night's events quite conveniently in the offices.

Taking a seat by the fire, Cromwell turns to Rich and indicates the other chair. Warily, Rich joins him.

"Are you well this morning?" Cromwell asks, his tone sincere, "I can only ask that you forgive me for placing you in such an unpleasant position yesterday eve."

"As you said," he answers, a little resentfully, "There was no other who could have made a suitable record of your investigative activities."

"Perhaps; but nonetheless, it was presumptuous of me, and I am sorry." Cromwell sighs, then continues, "I am afraid, however, that I cannot release you from the obligation, for the King has now charged us with the investigation, so I need you to continue with me."

Rich sighs, and closes his eyes. He had hoped that this would not be so - but, deep inside, he knew that it would. The King had forced them together - in all ignorance, admittedly - when he demanded the investigation into Anne Boleyn, and now he has done the same again. Has he forgotten that William Whorwood is now the Solicitor General?

"I do not consider it proper that we continue our investigation in the office chambers, Mr Rich." Cromwell continues, "I have, therefore, secured a hitherto unused chamber nearby for that purpose. If you are ready to depart, we can make it ready for use while Doctor Butts undertakes his work. We should then be prepared for him to bring us his conclusions."

As Rich nods, and rises from his chair to fetch his simarre, Cromwell sighs in his turn. Rich is miserable - it is all but written upon his face - and Cromwell can understand why, for he feels much the same. Until last night, the Court was a dangerous place, but only for political reasons. Now, however, there seems to be a dark toxicity about it that was not present yesterday morning. Someone in the Palace has acted with such appalling depravity that even his worst activities seem to take on an altogether more benign aspect.

They walk together - but apart - as always. A few turns short of the door that leads into the office chambers, Cromwell stops and unlocks a heavy wooden door, leading Rich into the room that he has set aside for their unwanted extra work. It is a large chamber, unregarded and unused for some years. Unbeknownst to Rich, he has already identified additional spaces in the other palaces, for it can never be guaranteed that they shall remain in one place for a predetermined time. He is still surprised that they have not yet moved to Hampton Court.

Unlike much of the rest of the palace, this part of the complex is older, and thus the walls are formed from plastered wattle. He has secured a large table, and a number of chairs; some coffers and a large dresser with long shelves that now stand against one of the shorter walls. If they must move, then they can easily pack the papers and add them to those that must be transported from the main offices.

His expression sour again, Rich seats himself at the table, where he finds an inkhorn, pounce pot, knives and a number of quills - both swan and goose - have been set in preparation. The ink is still in a bottle, while the papers are wrapped in hessian to keep dust at bay. Taking the knife, and a quill, he notes that it has been sufficiently hardened, and makes short work of sharpening it into a nib to his preference, "I shall endeavour to prepare the notes in their entirety before Doctor Butts arrives." He advises, "Though I cannot be certain that he shall not finish before I do."

Cromwell nods, "I shall be in the offices if you require me. I have asked Doctor Butts to report here rather than to the offices. Send for me when he arrives."

For a moment, as he looks at this notes, Rich almost wants Cromwell not to leave; consumed by a sense of tense nervousness at the horror his scrivenings contain. Irked with himself, he pours out some ink into the inkhorn, charges his quill and begins to re-read the code, hoping that it shall not make him sick again.

Rich is still at work when Butts arrives. The Doctor has spent a thoroughly unpleasant morning assessing that which he had already fathomed from his initial examination; but he has had no intention of missing anything that might be of use. Instead, he feels that he need not have bothered - for the woman has told him no more than she did last night. He does not even know who she is.

They nod to one another, and Rich leans out into the corridor to seek out a passing steward to summon Cromwell to the chamber. As he returns to his seat, Butts lifts the first of his transcriptions, and reads, pursing his lips and frowning. The notes are, as expected, accurate - carefully scribed in Rich's fine longhand. Despite their look, however, they do not make pleasant reading.

Cromwell is soon with them, and has been undertaking additional research of his own, "From the location of the rooms, I believe it likely that the victim was Miss Anne Hamme." He advises, "She was part of the retinue of the Countess of Derby, though of lesser wealth, and not well supported by family or her Mistress."

"You cannot be certain of that, my Lord." Butts says, quietly, "She was quite brutally disfigured."

"Indeed," Cromwell concedes, "but we have a starting point, and it is possible to confirm through a process of elimination. If we cannot find her living, then we can be reasonably confident that the corpse is she. What have you been able to ascertain?"

Butts pulls some papers from a portfolio, "I have made written notes," He says, "I have not been able to identify the type of weapon that was used, I fear. I can say with certainty, however, that it was extremely sharp, as the incisions were clean-edged. Suffice to say, her death was caused primarily by the loss of blood, I think. There is no other explanation for the blood upon the walls, for it was not painted there. I suspect that one of the main blood vessels in her body was opened, and thus this spurted the blood across the room - for I have seen it happen in other circumstances."

Despite himself, Rich gags, and hastily sets a kerchief to his mouth, "Sorry." He mumbles.

"I found also that she had indeed been forcibly penetrated; though I could not further ascertain whether the actions against her person took place before or after death." Butts concedes, "I consider it reasonable to assume that the wounding took place after the vein was opened. I did find an incision upon her neck which would appear to be the source of the spray."

"And the excised organ?" Cromwell prompts.

"From the state of the lower abdomen, and the position in which the organ was left, I am content to state categorically that it was her womb. Though I am at a loss as to why it was removed as it was when all else was largely destroyed. I cannot think of any motive for such a savage assault; I can only assume that it was a random act of brutality."

"Then why was there nothing outside the room?" Rich asks.

Cromwell and Butts turn to him, bemused.

"While you spoke of blood and other matter all over the floor - and not all of it soaked into carpets, for there was some upon the floorboards was there not?" he stops, swallows firmly, then continues, "Why was there no evidence of it outside the room? An act of random violence it might have been - but to leave the outside of the chamber so pristine when all within was so befouled? Does that not strike you as strange?"

Butts looks at Cromwell, who returns his somewhat embarrassed gaze, "I had not thought of that." He admits, "The room was so thoroughly bloody - but it did not occur to me that it would have covered the perpetrator as much as it did the walls and floor. How is it that none of it was found outside? Such foulness would have required great care to remove so thoroughly…"

"And yet there was nothing." Rich prompts.

"Then the killing was not random." Butts says, shocked, "The perpetrator planned it. They must have had - at the very least - clean shoes in which to depart."

"Not merely clean shoes." Cromwell disagrees, "If he was as coated in blood as the room about him, then surely he must have needed to change his clothing, too?"

They exchange worried glances. Shocking though a random act might be - a planned one is far, far worse.

Setting his notes aside, Rich tidies up the quills and empties his unused ink back into the bottle before wiping out the inkhorn. He does not intend to come back here for the rest of the day if he can avoid it, and would very much prefer not to come back at all. The entire affair seems to have taken a detour into darker places than he wishes to imagine, and he wonders what on earth the unfortunate woman did to inspire such brutality. He cannot accept that she deserved it; no one could deserve…that.

Butts has returned to his more conventional duties, while Cromwell has returned to the offices - for the time being, at least. Scribbling away at some notes he has made on the ever present issue of legitimising 'the Prince' as the King insists Fitzroy must now be addressed, he tries to put thoughts of the death aside, but finds that he cannot.

Being firmly politically engaged, he has no involvement with the machinations of the women at court - for they plot and politic as much as the men do - albeit on less precipitous matters. In what way has Anne Hamme offended someone? And how on earth has her offence - if there even be one - driven someone to wreak such cruelty upon her? His late, beloved Liz taught him very early on in their marriage that a woman is more than mere property, or a means to propagate the family line. She had disabused him of such notions almost as soon as they shared the marital bed for the first time; she was intelligent, and capable, and would not, under any circumstances, accept condescension from him, or from his 'male intellect'. Consequently, he does not entirely share the overall view of women as lesser beings - for to do so would, in his mind at least, place his dearest Liz in that same category, and she was anything but a lesser being.

He sighs to himself. It has been a long time since he thought of her - for he does so only rarely these days. Despite the passage of years, to think of her still brings him pain, so he prefers to not think of her rather than endure the discomfort of her loss. She is ever present - yet is held aside for fear of the storm of grief she might inspire.

The King has opted not to hold a meeting of the Council this afternoon, so Cromwell is free to either continue with his drafting, or perhaps make some first inroads into the investigation that he knows he must begin before the inevitable rumours spiral out of control. Like all enclosed communities, the Palace is a place of fomenting nonsense of all kinds. He well remembers the idiotic stories that travelled all about the court after the King's tantrum over the non-appearance of Anne's executioner. It had been a most uncomfortable experience for him, for he had been held almost at knifepoint; but the tales that had travelled about the Court afterwards had adopted an almost grandiose ridiculousness. Apparently, in some quarters - until he had shown his face to disprove it - the King had actually stabbed out one of his eyes, while in others he had slashed an 'A' into his cheek.

Doubtless some clouds of rubbish have already started to waft about. The sooner he begins his work to establish the truth - if he can - the better. For a moment, he considers not asking Rich to assist him - despite his highly useful ability to make such accurate and verbatim notes - then realises that he must. Regardless of his obvious distaste for the entire business, Rich would be even more affronted at being left out of the work that it entails. Cromwell has rarely come across someone so easily offended - and often for the most obscure and unexpected reasons.

Rising from his desk, he looks around the shelves and realises that Rich has not returned to the offices. Concerned, he visits the chamber in which they have left their notes. He is not there, either. Cromwell sighs, inwardly: based on what he knows of his colleague, he can guess where Rich has gone.

Do I disturb him or not? He thinks, concerned that he might find them engaged in activities of an entirely private nature. That said, however, his mistress - Kathryn, if he recalls correctly - might have insights that they lack. Best to risk embarrassing all three of them in the hopes that he can secure her assistance in their investigations.

Standing at the door to Rich's quarters, he pauses for a moment, fighting with himself not to put his ear to the door. The last thing he wishes to do is interrupt them…just knock, you idiot. Hoping for the best, he raps smartly upon the wood.

He is most relieved at the speed with which the door opens, and he finds that his colleague is not overly dishevelled, though his doublet is open at the throat. He is, naturally, not impressed to see Cromwell standing before him.

"Forgive my intrusion." Cromwell's contrition is sincere, "Is Mistress…Miss…Silverton with you?"

Rich looks pained. Of course she is. Standing aside, he indicates that Cromwell should enter.

She is seated in a chair near the fireplace, though there is no fire in the July heat. Her face is averted, and she does not turn to look at him, "Mr Cromwell?" she asks.

"Ma'am." He answers, bowing formally, "Forgive me - I would not have intruded; but I hope that you might be able to assist us."

"Us?" Rich asks, standing behind him.

"Have you not spoken to her of our activities last night?" Cromwell asks him, pointedly. He is not surprised when Rich looks slightly sheepish.

"In what way might I be of assistance to you?" Kat asks, her face still turned towards the empty fireplace. His eyes rather hostile, Rich crosses to join her, and rests a hand on her shoulder. At once, her hand rises to rest upon his.

"You have access to information that we cannot hope to obtain, Miss Silverton." Cromwell says, quietly, "It is my hope that you might have heard rumours or suggestions amongst the female courtiers."

Then, slowly, she turns to look at him, and he sees for the first time the dreadful damage that smallpox has wrought upon her. Silently, he holds her gaze, and will not look away as she speaks, with some bitterness, "And what makes you think that I am able to overhear rumours and innuendo that might be of use to you? I am considered a cursed creature - I travel between her Grace's quarters, and my lover's. There are few other places where I am welcome."

"I know that you are a woman of great strength, and courage." He says, simply, "For how else could you remain in a poisoned ant's nest such as this?"

"I have my reasons." She replies, her grip tightening almost, but not quite, imperceptibly upon Rich's hand.

Cromwell smiles, and bows to her with the formality granted to a woman of the highest station, "I am given to understand that you have a quick wit and are well learned, Ma'am. For that reason, I believe you know far more of what happens within these precincts than you are willing to divulge."

For a long time, she holds his gaze - almost daring him to look away from her ravaged face. He has seen worse than this, however. Only last night, he saw worse than this - for amidst the pitted craters in her skin, two eyes look out - depthless orbs of hazel that seem almost to reach out to capture the soul. Her beauty now lies only within; how bizarre that a man as superficial as Rich has discovered it.

"There are rumours." She says, eventually, "But then, there are always rumours. Naturally, they are ridiculous and become more so with each passing hour."

He is not surprised to hear this, "I take it people think that only the Devil could show such depravity, and has taken it upon himself to walk among us?"

"That, yes - but others are claiming that it is Anne Boleyn - risen from the grave to take her revenge."

"I see what you mean by 'ridiculous'." Cromwell smiles and takes a seat, "Perhaps I should view such nonsense with scorn - but why grant it such energy?"

"We think the victim might have been one of the Countess of Derby's retinue." Rich advises, since it is clear that Cromwell has no intention of leaving them alone, "From the quarters in which she was found, probably Anne Hamme."

Kat nods, "Perhaps that is so. One of her closer friends - Emma Wright - has been asking us if we have seen her these two days past. She thought perhaps that Anne might have run away, for she was involved in a violent argument with one of her amours, though Emma did not enlighten us as to his identity."

"What do you know of her?" Cromwell asks, indicating to Rich that he should be prepared to make notes. At first, he glares back, not wishing to leave Kat's side.

"It's alright, Richie." She says, softly, "If I can be helpful, then I wish to be so."

Richie? Cromwell blinks. He has never associated this man with a pet-name.

Like all office-men, Rich is not without the means to write, or a medium upon which to set down words, and he is soon at the table, as close as he can still be to Kat, and waits, loaded quill in hand.

"Anne has…had…something of a reputation for flightiness," Kat begins, "None of us have ever held it against her, for she is…was a sweet natured girl."

"Girl?" Cromwell prompts.

"Yes - she was but sixteen. As I understand it, she was born into a large family, with more children than funds to support them. Such is the burden of nobility, it seems."

"I have no knowledge of nobility." Cromwell advises her, sagely.

"Then you are fortunate, I think." She smiles back, sharply, "As with all children of her station, she was dispatched into another household to be brought up and educated to a level appropriate to her birth. Equally, like many such children, she learned nothing of the kind - or at least it did not seem so, for she was largely illiterate, had dreadful manners and knew only how to flirt. Though she was quite remarkably romantic in nature." Briefly, Kat smiles, "And she was one of the few women about me who showed no ill nature towards me." She pauses, and exchanges a glance with Rich, who returns it with that same openness that reveals all that he is thinking.

Turning back to Cromwell, she resumes, "They had hoped that she might make a place for herself amongst the Queen's ladies - but her manners were so poorly schooled that this turned out not to be possible. She was placed with the Countess in the hopes that it was not too late to turn things about." Then she sighs, "I know no more than that, I am afraid, my Lord."

"It is more than we knew when I arrived, Ma'am." Cromwell says, "Thank you. I hope you do not mind if I ask you to keep your ears open to gossip, and rumour? For we have no access to the world of women in this Court, and thus we are blind to evidence that might be available from half of those present to obtain it for us."

"Do you think I might be of use?" she asks, her hopes that she might be written vividly across her ravaged face. Cromwell watches her with real sadness - she has been so utterly crushed by her circumstances that even something so small would be a service of which she would be proud.

Again, Rich rises from his place at the table, and his hand is upon her shoulder once more. Even as he does so, his face is speaking louder than words would, Don't even think about hurting her. Don't dare to, or I swear to God I shall make you pay for it.

Ignoring the glare, Cromwell leans forward, and takes one of Kat's hands, "Yes. I do. I do not ask you to speak to others, or to ask questions. Merely to watch, and listen - for your unregarded state is now your strongest weapon, and one that shall be of the greatest help to us. We shall deal with the questioning, for that is a burden I would not place upon you. Most are likely to refuse even to talk to us, and I suspect that we have learned more this day from you than we shall learn from a hundred courtiers."

He does not ask Rich to come with him as he takes his leave - for he knows it is likely that Kat shall need his comfort and reassurance. Instead, he makes his way to the Hall, where he intends to put his theory into practice. He needs no more than twenty minutes to find that he was right.

"Why should I talk to you about such a matter?" even being a fellow Privy Councillor seems not to make a difference.

"You have no jurisdiction!" No surprise there. He is talking to an Earl.

"And what does the death of a whore have to do with me?" God above, even the Minions have no interest.

It is at moments like this that Cromwell's base-birth and despised rise truly tell against him; for none respect his position. While, ordinarily, such disrespect would not concern him; this outright hostility is not helpful to his investigation. Perhaps Rich might do better - but he does not think it likely. Rich is of Gentry stock, and thus only one step higher than himself. Not only that, who trusts him? Indeed, until today, when he had seen Rich with Kat, he had never thought the man had it in him to care for anyone but himself.

Giving up, he retreats from the Hall. Perhaps he was right - Kat is their best weapon. Then he sighs. That must not be - she does not deserve to have such a burden placed upon her. If people do not wish to cooperate with him, then he must prevail upon the King to make them. That they shall hate him all the more is immaterial. He needs to track down a murderer.

Emerging from his meeting with the King, Rich sighs with relief. His Majesty's moods are never predictable - even when one approaches him with good news - and the report of monies raised from the confiscation of monastic properties, and the sale of lands, could not be guaranteed to please him. Rich has never been the target of the King's rage, but he has seen it directed at others, and has no wish to be its focus.

The figures are indeed impressive - and these are just the earnings from the smaller houses. He cannot begin to imagine the figures he is likely to be providing once the large houses are closed. The commissioners are already about their work, and he knows it shall not be long before his workload increases to match theirs.

As he returns to the offices, he notices Cromwell, standing over a wooden coffer and frowning. It seems a relatively inoffensive item, though it seems to have candles set into holders at either side which even now are still burning.

"Take a look at this." Cromwell invites, standing up and stepping from it. Bemused, Rich does as bid, "Our commissioners found it at Sawley Abbey."

Bending, Rich squints into a cross shaped hole cut into the top. Within, a skull, with some remnants of skin adhering to it, resides - its eyes filled with some sappy resin or other to fill them out. As he watches, it moves slightly. Rising, he knows full well that it cannot be doing so of its own volition, and looks at Cromwell, who is now standing at the other side of it, "How is it done?"

They switch places, and he sees the panel that has been drawn back from the rear of the coffer. There, within, is a small handle. Turning it, he bends forth over the coffer to look inside it again, and can see the top of the skull as it moves. A simple trick - but doubtless effective.

"People thought it granted benedictions." Cromwell glowers, crossly, "For a fee, naturally."

"Of course." Rich agrees, shaking his head.

"Has his Majesty seen the interim figures?" Cromwell asks, as they move back through the office to his desk.

"He has. And he seems content." Rich says, "At least, he did not dismiss me or hurl the papers at me. I took that to be a good sign. Has he issued his edict that people talk to us about that other matter?"

"Not yet - I have not had the opportunity to seek it from him. I am due to meet with him shortly."

"He appears to be in a good mood, my Lord." Rich advises, sagely, before retreating back to his desk to read some more reports just delivered from the Commissioners out in the countryside.

How odd it is. Cromwell thinks to himself, as he sits down to collate the papers he is taking to the King. Barely a day has passed, and Rich seems to have become markedly less hostile. He is not blind. His kind treatment and clear respect for Kat has probably made the difference; but he knows better than to trust that things are improving between Rich and himself. Despite the clear affection he has for the woman, Rich is still known for his untrustworthiness. Cromwell has not got to where he is by being overly trusting.

Gathering the papers into a leather folio, Cromwell rises from his desk and departs to meet with the King. That his Majesty is in a good mood is always helpful, particularly as he has a letter from Lady Bryan, and one from the Lady Mary. That unfortunate young woman has been obliged to swallow an enormous degree of pride, for even with the new Queen's quiet promptings, Henry refuses to have her back to court unless she accepts his supremacy over the Church. Being an out and out papist to the marrow, Mary has resisted such a move from the moment it was first demanded of her. He cannot begin to imagine what such an about-face must have cost the girl. Despite his own dislike of all matters pertaining to the Church of Rome, he feels some sympathy for her - the price she must pay to receive her father's love…

Henry is at his desk in the Privy Chamber when Cromwell is shown in. As Rich reported, his mood is benign today, and the lack of that pervasive miasma from his rotting leg proves that, once again, he is likely hopeful that the damned mess is healing at last. It isn't - but still the King hopes. He reads through the papers, signs those that he must, and shows no discontent at those which might have caused him annoyance. Looking up as Cromwell gathers them back, he waits, "Anything else?"

"The Courtiers are proving most uncooperative to my investigation into the recent…incident." He does not use the word murder, "I have found that none are prepared to answer any questions in relation to it."

"I shall issue an order that they do so this afternoon, Mr Cromwell." The King says, "I want the matter cleared up. What else?"

Cromwell nods, "I have a letter from the Lady Bryan. It seems that the Lady Elizabeth has outgrown her clothes, and Lady Bryan seeks to ask if she might procure new ones." He waits for the refusal. He knows it's coming and he is not disappointed.

"No - why should I pay for clothes for the brat? Everyone knows she is no child of mine - her father was the traitor Henry Norris, and her mother was a whore. Anything else?"

Sighing inwardly, Cromwell retrieves another paper, "There is this." He says, handing it over, "The submission of the Lady Mary."

This time Henry smiles, managing not to show too much spite as he does so, and reads the paper, "Very well. Arrange a meeting. In private, and not here."

"Yes, Majesty." He retrieves the paper and turns to leave.

"Oh - I have heard reports of plague in the City." Henry adds, almost as an aside, as he reaches for an apple, "The Coronation shall have to be postponed."

Bemused, Cromwell nods. He has heard nothing, and of all people in the Palace, he would know such things. The King is stalling again, it seems. He made the mistake of crowning Anne Boleyn before she bore him a son, and does not mean to do the same with Jane, then. Slightly saddened, he makes another attempt to leave.

"Thomas."

Cromwell pauses yet again, "Majesty?"

"Mr Rich showed me the figures. I'm very pleased with you, Tom." He pauses, almost for effect, as he slices away a cheek of the apple, "And shall shortly prove it."

Even more bemused, Cromwell nods, bows again, and finally escapes.

Rich approaches him as he returns to the offices, "What did the King say?"

"He shall order the Court to cooperate with us this afternoon, Mr Rich. Hopefully we shall be able to make more progress as a consequence."

Rich nods, a slightly evil smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Being of such little consequence, it is rare for men such as they to receive open support from the King.

"My Lord," A steward is at Cromwell's elbow, "I am commanded by the King to give you this." He hands out a folded paper with Henry's personal seal holding it closed. Frowning, Cromwell takes it, nods his thanks to the Steward and dismisses him. Assuming it to be private, Rich turns to go back to his desk. Despite an inquisitive desire to know what Cromwell has received, he does not feel brave enough to lurk nearby in hopes of finding out.

"It appears that his Majesty means to make this more formal and ceremonial than I anticipated." Cromwell advises, stopping him in his tracks. Rich turns back, "What do you mean, my Lord?"

"I am commanded to approach the King at two of the clock this afternoon."

Rich's eyebrows rise, "He means to offer you some appointment, then?"

"He does not say; though I am at a loss as to what appointment it might be - unless he means to appoint me as some form of Official Inquisitor or other. I am not short of such strange and unique appointments." His tone becomes slightly cynical.

Rich snorts with mild laughter, "Then I shall ensure that I am concealed amongst the crowd to discover what appointment it shall be."

He is as good as his word. The crowd in the Presence Chamber is, as always, extensive. All at Court hope for advancement, and thus linger where the King might notice them, and think them useful. Very few such folk prove to be of any purpose beyond cluttering up the palace precincts, however. They pay little attention to Rich, despite his more useful role than theirs. They are generally of better blood than he, and look down upon him for his Gentry ancestry. He wonders how much more they look down upon Cromwell.

"I am not pleased, my Lords." The King is saying, from his chair beneath the canopy of estate, "I have set men to work upon investigating the act of violence that took place not a week ago - and I am finding that my supposedly loyal subjects are being of no help to them. This must cease. From today, I expect all to offer their fullest cooperation."

There is a rumbling of assent from those about him, but Rich is not indifferent to their discontent. One or two rather unpleasant glares are shot in his direction; which annoys him somewhat, for he was not the blab.

As the Palace clock strikes the hour of two, the Garter King of Arms batters the foot of his staff upon the ground, "Mr Thomas Cromwell!"

All crane their heads as Cromwell enters, formally dressed and walking with a tall dignity that would put some of the grander Lords to shame. He is well aware of his low stock amongst those about him, but he has learned the importance of excellent manners, and show, and can politic with the best of them. As he approaches the King, he can see bemused glances that rather match his own bemusement. That the King intends to place another appointment is obvious, though he cannot work out what that might be. What else can the King grant him? A Knighthood, perhaps? That would not really help him demand the cooperation of the Court - for what has it done to help Rich?

He bows, and Henry bids him to kneel. As he does so, he sees the King's ceremonial sword. It is to be a Knighthood, then.

On one knee, he bows his head as the King sets the blade on one shoulder, and then the other, "I dub thee Sir Thomas Cromwell." He begins, as Cromwell closes his eyes, hardly believing that he finally has a title after all these years, "Arise Sir Thomas." But the King does not stop speaking, "Also Baron Cromwell of Wimbledon." His eyes open, and he looks up, startled. But the King has one more thing to say, and leans closer, "And Lord Privy Seal."

Cromwell's eyes widen, shocked: Lord Privy Seal? That is the third highest position in the Land - on top of that which he already holds, he has this…God above, who on earth remains who would defy his questioning now? Then he is horribly afraid - what else will the King put upon him now that he has such power? The King never grants such privileges without demanding a price in return.

Forcing the emotions aside, he rises slowly, "Majesty…" he manages, almost speechless.

Henry takes his words as thanks, and nods respectfully, "Sir Thomas." Then he returns to his seat while Cromwell bows formally and withdraws. For a moment, he catches a glimpse of Suffolk, standing beside the throne. The Duke's expression is sour, and Cromwell knows that he has earned the man's enmity through the simple act of being rewarded. He cannot keep back a slightly spiteful smile. He knows he should be better than that - but still, the satisfaction of seeing one of the higher born Lords so discomfited at his elevation is powerful, and he wishes to enjoy the moment. Besides, perhaps now people might actually be willing to answer his questions.

Turning, his dignity elevated as much as he, Cromwell departs the chamber, hearing words he never thought would be addressed in his direction, "Sir…", "Your Grace…"

It feels very sweet indeed.