CHAPTER FIVE
The Man with Red Hair
As the Court disperses, Rich remains where he is. If Cromwell was not expecting such an elevation, then Rich certainly was not, and he cannot help the sense of deep envy that bites at him. How fortunate it must be to have such favour from the King; in an instant he is not only knighted - as Rich is - but also ennobled and granted an appointment of enormous importance. No one has held the appointment since Thomas Boleyn was disgraced, and now it is Cromwell. He chews at his lower lip, trying to reconcile his gratitude to the man who treated his Kat with kindness and dignity with his sudden jealousy at an elevation that seems to be utterly arbitrary.
He wants to go in search of her - to set free the childish griping that is already crowding into his head; but he knows he cannot. She shall be with the Countess now, and he should be at his desk. Unaware of how much he is scowling, he retreats back to the offices.
Seated at his desk, Cromwell attempts to process the sudden slew of privileges that have been placed upon him. Knighted, ennobled, and appointed Lord Privy Seal: in the space of no more than five minutes, he has moved almost beyond the reach of any who might wish to act against him. They must all really hate him now. Despite himself, he still cannot repress the sense of slightly spiteful glee.
He looks up as Rich returns to the offices, and his mild amusement turns to an inward sigh. Rich still has no idea just how widely he displays his thoughts upon his face; and his jealous disgruntlement is like a beacon to Cromwell, who has learned from long experience the importance of those inadvertent statements on an unguarded face; and has also learned well how to disguise such thoughts from his own. Unless, of course, he chooses to display them. He considers, briefly, advising Rich to be more discreet - but then opts not to. Rich is quite offended enough as it is.
Rather than rub salt into the wound by demanding that they commence their questioning immediately, Cromwell sits down with his papers again. His elevation has done nothing to clear those from his desk, and he wishes to complete that which is before him so that he can concentrate tomorrow upon the equally important matter of investigating the death of Anne Hamme. He can only hope that Rich is not still sulking in the morning.
His quarters are empty of all but his manservant when Rich ends his working day. Disappointed, but not perturbed, for there are occasions when Kat is not present, and her apologies are always very enjoyable, he seats himself by the fireplace with a cup of sack and continues trying not to wallow in envy. He has no right to be jealous - none at all. Cromwell works damned hard and has earned every ounce of reward the King bestows; but he is base-born. He should not even be at Court…
"Would you like me to set out some supper, my Lord?" His manservant asks, discreetly.
"Not immediately." He declines, for he does not yet know if Kat shall be present, and he is not sure whether he would prefer to sup with an empty place opposite, or alone and find himself looking at a hungry woman who has nothing to eat, "I shall call you." The manservant withdraws, and he goes back to his brooding again. Until this morning, thinking dark thoughts about the man he loathes was quite an enjoyable pastime - until Cromwell granted Kat such courtesy and respect. He didn't look away from her as others do, nor did he grant her anything other than his full attention. For someone so ruthless, so utterly singleminded in his determination to act for the King, Rich never realised how much Cromwell makes time for those who have been less fortunate than he. Now - despite his envy - he finds that he does not dislike the tiresome upstart as much as he thought he might. It seems, after all, that the man has a heart.
The door opens. Only one person opens the door to his chambers without knocking, and he looks up to see the veiled form of Kat, dressed in a light overgown atop a patterned kirtle. It is only as she closes the door that she removes the veiling that keeps people from staring at her, and she returns his welcoming smile, "Forgive me, Richie," She says, "The Countess has not been well today, and she demanded my company rather longer than usual. Have you supped?"
"Not without you, Kat." He indicates the other chair beside the fireplace, "I shall call John back to organise some victuals for us."
She eyes him as she sits down. He has no idea that she can read him as well as Cromwell does, "What is it, Richie?"
"The news has not reached you, then?"
She shakes her head.
"Cromwell is knighted, ennobled and made Lord Privy Seal." He says, trying to keep his sour envy from his voice, but failing utterly to keep it from his face.
"And that is not a good thing?" Kat asks, "He is not noble, and surely that speaks for the power of merit over blood, does it not?"
"Perhaps…but…" he stops. He knows how it sounds.
"But what?" Kat prompts.
"I wish the honours were mine." He admits.
To his relief, she does not view him with scorn, or annoyance, "He has ten years on you, Richie," She reminds him, "He is beating a path for all men of low-born blood to follow - why not follow his lead and earn the King's love through hard work and diligent service as he has done, rather than through a mere accident of birth?"
Rich sighs. He knows that she is right, but his pride will not permit him to agree with her. Instead, she reaches out and takes his hand, "Do not let pride lead you, Richie. I have learned through painful experience that pride is an enemy as much as a friend, and it is most fickle. It can be stamped upon as nothing else can, and be utterly crushed - but it can also lead one astray to a fearsome degree in order to protect itself."
"Am I so transparent?" He asks.
"To me?" Kat smiles, "Yes. Like glass." Rising from her chair, she seats herself upon his lap again, claiming his mouth with hers. She pulls away briefly, "That is excellent sack, my Lord."
Rich laughs, "You are a wicked woman."
"I do my best, my Lord." She says, and kisses him again.
Cromwell is surprised to find Rich is already busy in the chamber they have set aside for their investigation. As he had hoped, his colleague's mood is much improved, and Cromwell offers silent thanks to Kat for her apparent ability to alter Rich's temper - though he does not wish to speculate over how she achieved it.
"I have ordered the information that we have so far, my Lord." Rich advises, "I think it might be helpful to categorise our papers, so this pile indicates that which we have uncovered from our initial investigation." He points to another sheaf of papers, "This one contains the notes from Doctor Butts, and this," he indicates a single sheet of paper, again in his impeccable chancery italic hand, "shall, hopefully, add to the information that Miss Silverton provided."
Cromwell sits, and sighs, "Please do not refer to me so formally, Mr Rich." He says, "I am quite overburdened with titles and do not need to be reminded of them. My name is Thomas - I should much prefer it if you referred to me by name; in private, at least. I can be 'your Grace', or 'my Lord', when other people are in earshot, but I should prefer to be considered a mere mortal the remainder of the time."
Rich raises his eyebrows. Being under-burdened with honours, he would like nothing more than to be referred to as 'your Grace' by others, in public or in private, and finds it most strange that one who is entitled to such deference would rather eschew it, "If that is your preference, my Lor…Thomas." He pauses, then remember's Kat's advice about pride, "In which case, if you are content to refer to me as 'Richard', I should not object."
A small rapprochement, perhaps - but better than the awful, stiff formality that has governed their dealings prior. Emerging from the room, they walk together, but no longer apart. There are people to be questioned, even if only for minor details, and now they are under Royal command not to refuse; so, once again, Rich is armed with paper, quill and ink.
For reasons that he cannot quite explain, even to himself, Cromwell does not wish to conduct the interviews in the room that he has set aside for their papers, so he commandeers a small chamber a few doors down from the entrance to the main Waiting Chamber. Most courtiers congregate there in hopes of petitioning - or at least being noticed by - the King, so it is less of an inconvenience for them to be pulled away.
"Do you think we might uncover a suspect?" Rich asks, as he sets out his writing equipment, "It seems rather unlikely to me."
"Perhaps so, Richard. But I think we must start somewhere. Even rumour and innuendo is better at this point than nothing. I think, however, that I shall start with those who knew Miss Hamme. They might be willing to identify the man with whom she associated." He rises from his seat and leaves the room.
He is not gone long, returning with a rather pale looking young woman in a dress that looks most fine, until Rich notices that the hem is slightly frayed. Another courtier of insufficient means, then.
"Please take a seat Miss Willmott." Cromwell invites, the soul of courtesy. Taking his cue from Cromwell's apparent mood, Rich nods encouragingly rather than guardedly, as he charges his nib with ink. Seating herself, she confirms that her name is Sarah Willmott, and she is one of the train of the Countess of Derby.
"How well did you know Anne Hamme, Miss Willmott?" Cromwell asks.
"Not overly well, my Lord." She replies, her voice almost inaudible; a mouse in the presence of a hawk, "I only arrived at Court two months ago."
"With whom did she associate herself?" This is not the Cromwell who intimidated the late Queen Anne's women. Instead, he is seated beside her, rather than standing over her. His tone is gentle, his voice kind. It is clear that the girl equates an interview with him with dark fates in the Tower, and he wishes to dispel that fear, "You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Willmott - I merely seek information, nothing more."
"She had a lot of friends, my Lord." Miss Willmott tells him, still very quietly, "But mostly she was with Miss Wright. They were very close."
"Miss Emma Wright?" Rich asks, to clarify. The girl nods, and he notes it down.
"Was she seeing any men at Court?" Cromwell asks.
For a moment, Miss Willmott is silent, almost afraid to speak.
"She was, wasn't she?" He prompts, gently.
"Sir Simon Paxton." The words are barely audible. It's clear that she won't say much else, for she is almost in tears.
"You have my word, Miss Willmott," Cromwell says, as she fumbles for a kerchief, "Nothing that you say in here shall be made public. Your testimony shall be entirely confidential. He shall not know you have spoken to us."
Rich looks up, surprised - then he realises. The girl fears intimidation; and with good reason - for Paxton has a singularly vile reputation for violence. What on earth was Anne Hamme doing, associating with a man like that? All know of his affairs, and their usually messy endings.
Rather than upset the girl any further, Cromwell allows her to leave. They have obtained little information, but little is better than none, for now they have a possible suspect.
"What do you know of Simon Paxton, Richard?" Cromwell asks. He does not require the information - more an opinion.
"That he is a brute." Rich answers, "And that no woman who associates with him can expect to go for more than a month without bruises or worse. Even the rest of the Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber despise him; rakes though they are. He seems quite intent on outdoing their exploits in the hope that they might consider him more one of them than they do at present."
Cromwell nods, for Rich's assessment is not that far from his own. He makes it his business to know all that he can about those who associate with the King, and Paxton is remarkable in that he is tolerated at all, "As I understand it," He muses, "Paxton's primary talent appears to be misconstruing comments to deliberately take offence, and then reacting with extreme violence to that unwarranted offence. The King banned him from the Presence chamber for six months last year for such a brawl - and it was with an utterly inoffensive Gentleman who had not even spoken to him."
Rich remembers the incident - the man had been talking of some utterly innocuous matter with the Milanese Ambassador. Paxton had broken his nose for his imagined affront. How on earth they shall interview a man with such a quick temper, he cannot begin to imagine. He could not hope to do it - only Cromwell has that intimidating reputation. This is a man who sent six to the block, for Christ's sake. Only a fool could not be intimidated by him. But then, Simon Paxton is a fool, and he does not wish to be in the room when his temper explodes.
"Please take a seat, Miss Wright." Cromwell invites politely, "I can assure you that this interview shall be entirely confidential. None outside these walls shall be informed of our discussions."
"Thank you, my Lord." She is less fearful than Sarah Willmott, but still nervous. All are nervous in Cromwell's presence.
"I understand that you were close friends with Miss Hamme," Cromwell begins, "How well did you know her?"
"Very well, my Lord." Miss Wright says, quietly, "We shared a truckle in the dormitory before she was granted an apartment of her own, and shared most of our secrets."
Cromwell nods, while Rich scribbles, "How did she conduct herself, as a rule?"
Miss Wright looks a little uncomfortable, "I know her reputation, my Lord, but she had a good heart. I think she wished for adventure, and romance - but found only servitude. Such is the way of things for women of our degree. I know that her family had hoped she could serve in the retinue of the Queen - but her manner was too free, too uncontrolled. She gave freely, you know - not so much of her virtue, but of her heart. It was her ambition - it is one all of us share, I think - to secure a fine husband and become a great lady of the Court. She had such dreams, you know? Such dreams…" her voice falters, and she reaches for a kerchief.
"Was she seeing any of the men at Court?" Cromwell asks, as she dabs at her damp eyes.
She nods, though her expression is rather dark now, "Just one man. I think she was enamoured of one of the Stewards for a while, but what can they grant women of our state? She caught the eye of Sir Simon Paxton - one of the King's Gentlemen. I counselled her to avoid him, for we all know his reputation; but she saw only an escape from servitude to the Countess. She is most strict, you see, and Anne loathed to be constrained so."
"And did Sir Simon prove his reputation?"
"He did." Miss Wright murmurs, "I came upon Anne a week ago, late in the night. He had beaten her severely - and her dress was torn. She was distraught, but would not tell me more. Only that she had remarked upon another man's doublet. It was rather too red for a man of his station, you see. She said that she was talking to Miss Horner at the time, but it seems that Sir Simon overheard her. He waylaid her as she returned to her chamber."
"Miss Horner?" Rich prompts from the table.
"Mary Horner - the daughter of Sir William Horner."
The pair exchange a glance. Not perhaps an immediate witness, but possibly worth talking to in order to obtain corroboration.
"Do you think he killed her?" Miss Wright's eyes are bright with unshed tears.
"I cannot say at this time, Miss Wright." Cromwell admits, "I have not sufficient evidence to make any judgements one way or another."
As he sees her out, and returns to the table, Rich looks at him, "Do you think he killed her?" he asks again.
Cromwell shakes his head, "I cannot say, Richard. I have nothing upon which to base an accusation. We know from his reputation - and from events - that he is capable of astonishing violence, and does not need much in the way of provocation to unleash it; but it is a great step from fists to a blade."
"Perhaps, then, we should interview him from a neighbouring room."
Cromwell laughs, "I wish that we could. I have no doubt that our questioning shall be most unwelcome, and that he shall react to it with his habitual temper. I shall seek him out, I think. Best to get this over and done with as soon as we may."
As Cromwell predicted, Paxton is most displeased. A man with brilliant blue eyes, and a shock of red hair, he seems most determined to bow to those beliefs about the temper of red-headed men, and glowers viciously at Rich as Cromwell directs him to sit without preamble. He has no interest in gentility or concern for a man such as this.
"What do you want?" Paxton snaps, crossly, "I have nothing to say to you, Cromwell."
The atmosphere seems to chill almost noticeably, as Cromwell turns slowly and calmly, "I believe the proper term of address, Sir Simon, is 'Your Grace'."
"As though I care for the undeserved honours laid upon you. Are you not the base-born son of a blacksmith?"
"And Brewer, Sir Simon. My father was also a brewer." Cromwell corrects him, meticulously. Does this man really think that he feels discomfort over his origins? Nearby, Rich continues to note everything, "I must remind you that all at Court are under the orders of the King's Grace to cooperate with this investigation. Failure to do so would be looked upon with great disfavour by his Majesty." It is the only card he has to play. Best to lay it on the table from the off, as it is very much the triumph.
Glowering, Paxton sits and waits for the questioning to start.
"I understand you were recently seeing Anne Hamme, Sir Simon." Cromwell begins.
"That is no secret." Paxton snaps back, at once.
"I have heard that, a few days ago - perhaps a week - you were involved in an…altercation with her."
He shrugs, "She betrayed me. It was nothing more than she deserved."
"Betrayed you?" Cromwell asks, "You mean, she was with another man?"
"She was talking about that idiot Neville and his too-red doublet. She was mine. She had no right to notice other men."
"You consider a minor observation of another individual's failure to observe appropriate dress to be an act of infidelity?"
"The stupid bitch should've known better. She was mine." He repeats, as though Cromwell is too dull to understand the complexities of relationships outside wedlock.
"And what was your response to her…betrayal?" Cromwell's tone is quite deliberately cynical. His dislike of the man is growing with each second, and he despised him from the beginning.
"To teach the whore a lesson. I gave her a bloody nose for her presumption, and tupped her like a heifer. She belonged to me and no one else." He shrugs, as though his actions were perfectly justifiable under the circumstances.
Cromwell's eyes narrow, and his expression darkens, "Tupped?"
"'Fucked', if you want a more appropriate word for a man of your ilk, your Grace."
"I am well aware of the meaning of the term, Sir Simon." Cromwell growls, "I merely wondered if her consent was sought in the transaction."
"Of course it wasn't. She didn't have a say. She was mine, and it was my right to have it."
What did Butts say? There was a forcible penetration? If not the murderer, then certainly Sir Simon - or, his act prior to his killing of her…
"Can you advise me of your whereabouts some three nights past?" Cromwell asks, his tone low; deadly. He despises the crime of rape, and any who think it a permissible act. He exchanges a glance with Rich, who looks equally disgusted.
"In Cheapside. With the whores." Paxton drawls, disinterestedly.
"Can that be corroborated?"
"What do you think?"
"Given that the women in the brothels can be either paid or intimidated to provide evidence that you were with them, I am not entirely convinced that I can consider your whereabouts to be confirmed." Cromwell's eyes have darkened, his expression more hawklike than ever. Even Paxton seems to shrink from him - but then his words sink in.
"Damn you for a base-born, lying bastard!" He is on his feet, "I am of the Gentry, and you call me a liar?"
Cromwell glares into his raging eyes, "I am claiming that your witnesses cannot be certain to be trusted. Or is that being overly cautious?"
Seated at the table, Rich stares nervously at them. He is glad he was not writing when Paxton's temper exploded, for he started quite violently. He can only hope that the angry Gentleman does not decide to fling his fists at the Lord Privy Seal, for he does not wish to attempt to break up a fight.
"You think to pin this upon me - the killing of a worthless whore? Even had I done so, who would care? She was nothing but a gutter-living slut! So what if I fucked her up against the wall? So what if she cried and begged me to stop? She had no right to demand that I leave her be! She became mine when she opened her legs for me, and I was claiming only that which was mine to claim!"
His rage seems only to be growing - but still Cromwell remains absolutely impassive, staring the man down. Finally, his eyes vicious, Paxton stops shouting, but he still has one more thing in mind. Rather than lash out at the Lord Privy Seal, he grasps the edge of the table with one firm hand, and hurls it over, scattering paper and ink, and causing the other side to crash violently against Rich as he attempts to leap out of the way. Without another word, he strides to the door, snatches it open and slams it closed behind him.
Concerned, Cromwell turns to Rich, who is now leaning against the far wall, cursing softly and pressing his hand to the painful spot on his hip where the table struck. Fortunately, his simarre is the thick one of brown fur, so much of the impact was cushioned, but they both know that he shall have a most spectacular bruise in a very short time.
"That went well." He grunts.
Cursing slightly as he crouches to retrieve the scattered papers, Rich checks them all in the hopes that none were obscured by flying ink.
"Are the papers unmarked?" Cromwell asks, righting the table again.
"A few small drops here and there - but nothing to obscure my notes." Despite his flippant comment at Paxton's departure, it is clear that Rich is not pleased to have found himself in the way of the Gentleman's rage, "I cannot, however, vouch for the future cleanliness of the floorboards."
He gathers the papers together carefully, then looks up at Cromwell, "God, I wish it was him. I should happily see him hang for the crimes to which he has admitted; but he thinks them not to be crimes."
"We shall need more than that which we have to be certain, I fear, Richard; though I, too, would find it gratifying to place this at his door. A vile man he may be, but a murderer? That is another matter."
Rich sighs, "I shall get these notes transcribed. I shall need an hour; perhaps two."
As he returns to his desk, Cromwell sighs to see yet more papers piled up in his absence. He is no longer concerned at the progress of the dissolution, for that is now in the hands of the commissioners, while Rich is responsible for dealing with that which is confiscated. Instead, he must turn his attention - again - to the King's desire to get his bastard son legitimised. If only Queen Jane would conceive. Her continued lack of a babe in her belly serves only to fire Henry's determination to have a son to succeed him by any means necessary; and yet, if she does bring a son into the world, how would that change the plans that he is obliged to set in place? Patience has never been Henry's strong suit - his appalling tempers during the seven years he waited to secure marriage to Anne were testament to that, as was his determination to divest himself of her after he grew tired of the woman who had seemed so intoxicating when he was fighting to possess her. And now, he is impatient to gain a legitimate son, even one from a woman to whom he is not, and was never, married.
Fitzroy is still at court - dancing with the ladies in the evenings, hunting with his father and the higher Lords in the mornings, and sitting with the Privy Council in the afternoons. As Warden of the Cinque Ports, such is his right, but he is so youthful, and inexperienced, that he says nothing, and instead eyes the wiser heads about him with a strange mixture of respect and disdain. The King regularly tells him that he is better than these men - and yet their knowledge and experience leaves him far behind. In Cromwell's eyes, it is not perhaps the most healthy form of education in the art of politics.
Reading through the clauses with meticulous care, Cromwell marks off each one as he completes it. Whorwood has taken care to ensure that all the measures set in place to elevate Fitzroy do not overrule the rights of a true-born son - and he has done so as fully and carefully as Rich would have done when he held the post of Solicitor General. That said, Cromwell notes that Whorwood does not seem to have quite such an encyclopaedic knowledge of law as his predecessor; no one, it seems, can interpret the Law like Rich could.
A Steward is at his side. Setting the papers down, he turns.
"Sir Richard has asked that you join him, my Lord."
Nodding, he dismisses the Steward and strolls to the chamber where they are storing their notes. There are papers scattered everywhere - mostly witness statements, it seems, from the many people who saw and heard nothing whatsoever on the possible night that Anne Hamme died. The number of papers is surprisingly extensive - and largely unsolicited; people have taken the King's order to heart, but done as little as they can get away with to comply with it.
The table, while large, is becoming rather covered, and Cromwell glares at the mess in frustration, "Maybe I should secure another table."
Rich shakes his head, and departs at a swift trot. Bemused, Cromwell waits; but he does not have to wait long, for Rich returns with a small iron pot, which - it turns out - contains a fair quantity of tacks. In an instant, Cromwell appreciates what his colleague has in mind, and the two begin to search through the piles of paper, collating and categorising over again.
"I shall set the initial observations here." Rich says, carefully pinning the pages to the plaster on the wattle, "Doctor Butts's observations here."
"I suggest we separate out those statements that we have directly obtained from those which have been sent to us." Cromwell adds, "I feel it is likely that the unsolicited statements are likely to be of little help to us - but if we have them easily set out, we can arrange them in order of relevance."
The work takes much of the remainder of the afternoon, for the King has once again cancelled the Privy Council meeting to spend the afternoon riding with Fitzroy and the Duke of Suffolk. Sorting through the unsolicited statements proves to be a frustrating business, for many of the pages contain rumours or hearsay for which there is little corroboration, and some are obviously malicious accusations against enemies.
"I had no idea that people here hated each other so much." Rich observes, "I thought it was just us."
Cromwell snorts with amusement, "Do any names spring out with any regularity?"
"None. I have seen only one name appear more than once - but the courtier concerned is Lord Watford, and I know for certain that he has been in Winchester since June. Besides, he is in his seventies, and regardless of his rather lecherous bent, I doubt he has the strength to eviscerate a human body."
As the afternoon draws to a close, the papers are now pinned to the wall in some form of order, and - against the odds - the men who have undertaken the work are now rather more well disposed to each other than they were when it all began. Cromwell wonders to himself whether it was his chivalrous behaviour towards Kat which turned that particular corner - but nonetheless it shall make life much more straightforward if he can undertake this tiresome investigation with a colleague in whom he can place some trust. Until two days ago, he had not thought it likely that he could achieve such a truce with Rich.
It appears, however, that maybe he can.