A/N: Thank you for your review, Isica - and ongoing thanks to all my readers. I'm chuffed that people are enjoying this tale. To celebrate - here's another chapter...
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Diktat of Sumptuary Laws
Cromwell turns to the door, then stops. He cannot leave Rich behind - not if this is something that might lead them to the killer. Rich would never forgive him, and he is not entirely sure he could forgive himself. His only concern is that Butts's poppy juice might have too strong a hold.
Returning to the bedchamber, Cromwell pauses again. Rich is silent, still sleeping and oblivious of the horrors that he witnessed last night. Why drag him back from that? But then, if he doesn't…
"Richard," He says quietly, shaking the recumbent man's shoulder, "Forgive me, but you must wake. Doctor Butts has summoned us."
He is obliged to shake more roughly, and speak more loudly, to reach through the grip of the poppy juice; but after a considerable period, Rich frowns, moans something unintelligible, and finally opens his eyes.
"Thomas?" He looks up, a little dazed, and surprised, "What is it? What has…"
And then he stops, as the awful remembrance strikes him. Cromwell cannot keep a lump from his throat as he watches the terrible wave of realisation wash across a face that speaks every emotion that Rich feels, "Kat…" he whispers, very faintly.
"I am sorry," Cromwell says, his own voice a little thick, "I would not have woken you - but it may be that Doctor Butts has something that shall aid us in finding the creature that did…that…" his voice trails off.
Slowly, Rich sits up, and pulls the cloak aside. His clothes are crumpled, his hair untidy; but he seems to be, at least mostly, aware of his surroundings, "Then we should go."
As they return to the main chamber, Rich stops again, "Did Butts find it?"
"Find what?" Cromwell asks, bemused.
"The pendant - a black pearl drop. I gave it to her last Christmastide…" he turns back, his eyes speaking that same appeal.
Cromwell stares at him, revolted: his mistress, a woman who truly loved him, and whom he claimed to love, died brutally two nights past - and all that Rich seeks is a…a…bloody jewel? It seems that, at the last, Rich is only ever out for himself, then.
"We did not." He says, bluntly, "We could not find it in her rooms. It was our thought that the killer must have taken it."
Almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows that he has assumed wrongly, and wishes with all he has that he could take them back. Rich sinks into a chair alongside the table, his expression distraught. It is not the value of the jewel that he is considering, but its worth to him as something of hers…
"It was precious to her…" he whispers, faintly, "she always wore it…it was the last that was left of her, and it is gone…she is gone…oh Christ, she is gone…" and then he slumps across the table, and sobs.
Cromwell stares helplessly, for he knows that his brutal words have triggered this collapse. That it would have come at some point is immaterial; it has come now, and he has caused it. Cursing himself, he snatches at a chair and draws it up so that he can sit alongside Rich, "Forgive me, Richard - I beg you. I did not see the worth of the black pearl to you in terms of its preciousness to Miss Silverton. I knew not its significance to you or to her. If the killer has taken it, then we shall wrest it back from him. I promise you: I shall do all that I can to find him and restore it to you."
Rich does not reply; Cromwell wonders if he even heard the words at all, "Doctor Butts has promised to save you a lock of her hair."
Slowly, painfully, Rich looks up, "Her hair?"
"It is something of her, is it not?" He had not been so fortunate with Liz - for nothing of hers was to be kept after she died of the sweat.
Rich nods, vaguely; but seems disinclined to move. Cromwell knows that they have only a limited time, for with the King intent on another hunt this morning, the only remaining cold room in the palace is likely to be demanded to house game, and he has no intention of forcing such an indignity upon Kat's mortal remains as to be obliged to share it with maturing quarry awaiting the Court's consumption.
"We must go, Richard. You do not need to be present if it is too painful…"
"No. I have to." Rich looks up, his expression much firmer now, "For her. For Kat. I have to."
Somehow, despite all, Cromwell knows that his determination is forced, that he is pushing the pain back as far as he can so that he can continue - but whether or not Rich seeks justice or vengeance, he cannot say with any certainty. Should whatever it is that Butts has found prove to be a false find, then Lord alone knows what shall happen.
Butts is waiting for them in the corridor outside the succession of cold rooms, his expression grave. He does not comment at the sight of Rich, but instead takes them to one side.
"In my examination, I found all was as we have come to expect from this individual." He explains, quietly, "There was, however, one thing that was not; for Miss Silverton was grasping something very tightly in her hand." As he speaks, he raises his right hand and opens it to reveal a stiff fragment of something that looks almost black, "I think it might be a piece of cloth, though I cannot tell what sort, or ascertain a colour, for it is stiff and covered with blood; forgive me, my Lord." He finishes, looking towards Rich, who seems to sway slightly.
Butts says nothing more, but Cromwell wonders how he extricated it from Kat's hand. If it had been so tight a grip that the killer had been obliged to leave a rent piece of his garment within it, then it is likely that Butts had no choice but to break her fingers to extract it.
"She knew." Rich murmurs, softly.
"My Lord?" Butts asks, confused.
"She knew - she must have known why he was there. She did this to grant us some aid, even as she knew she could not save herself…she knew…" His eyes are brimming again, but he does not break, "Her last gift. Kat's last gift…"
"A truly courageous woman." Cromwell agrees, "And we must endeavour to ensure that her brave act was not in vain. Doctor, fetch a basin of water - we must ascertain the type of cloth with which we are dealing."
Butts is not gone long, returning with a large pitcher of water in one hand, and a copper basin in the other. Slowly, carefully, he washes the stiff fragment in several changes of water, gradually revealing its form.
It is quite thick and quilted; a piece of velvet - though the nap is utterly ruined, but as its colour is revealed, and its decoration, they all stare at it in confusion - for it cannot be possible.
"Crimson," Butts whispers, "And the embroidery of the quilting is gold thread…"
"It is no wonder that we could not find the killer amongst the Courtiers," Cromwell says, his voice equally low, "for, if this cloth speaks truth, then our killer is not a Courtier. None would dare to wear a cloth as fine as this."
That can mean only one thing: the killer is a noble, or possibly even higher.
They are silent for several minutes, attempting to process the discovery that has changed everything so utterly. The rank of their suspect is now far, far higher than they could possibly have imagined, for only the most highly ranked at Court would be permitted to wear crimson velvet embroidered with gold thread.
All know the requirements of the Sumptuary Laws - designed to prevent people from being overly luxurious in their dress and living. Even the garments that are worn are subject to restrictions - none below the rank of Earl would be permitted to wear something as fine as this - and most even at that rank would not dare to in this Court.
"A Duke, perhaps?" Rich hazards, "Norfolk might be able to wear crimson velvet - and possibly Suffolk - though Norfolk has the stronger pedigree and more royal credentials. I have never seen any Earl dressed so; the King would never permit it - even though the Law would."
While the discovery has significantly narrowed down the pool of available suspects, it has equally increased their danger if they attempt to identify their man. Not one of the Dukes at court, royal or otherwise, would be likely to acquiesce to their demands to question them, and all of them have the ear of the King to a sufficient degree to see all three investigators to the block. That they must now tread carefully is obvious, for their adversary is far more powerful than they.
"I shall compare records." Cromwell says, quietly, "Now that we know our suspect is of the highest rank, it shall be a far simpler task to match their presences and absences than it would otherwise have been. If we can at least divine a name, we can then concentrate our resources upon finding irrefutable evidence to bring them to justice. In this case, I fear, nothing but absolute proof shall do."
Then Rich turns to Butts, "Thomas said you had kept a lock of hair for me."
Butts nods, and with great care, retrieves a small packet of paper from his robes, "It resides within here." He pauses, then continues, "I promise you that I undertook my examination with all due respect to her, and I shall do all that I can to ensure that her last journey is carried out with dignity."
Rich takes the packet, though his attempt to speak his thanks is a failure, for the words are little more than a silent whisper. Equally carefully, he sets the packet into a pouch at his belt, and fights with himself not to break down. After a few minutes, he raises his head again, "Let us to the investigation room. I want to find this bastard."
The palace is busy with people as they emerge into the upper halls, and Cromwell makes a detour to the Mistress of the Maids, for even the most highly placed Lords make use of the chambermaids to clean their apartments. Having already returned the ledger, he assumes he is to retrieve it - but, instead, he is handed a thinner volume bound with red leather, "This is the ledger for the apartments of the higher nobles." The Mistress advises him, "I have recorded all occasions where maids are required and when they are not - including the royal apartments."
"I do not think I shall need to review those - but I am grateful that they are also listed. Thank you." He retreats with his prize.
Butts is overseeing the removal of Kat's remains to the care of those who shall oversee her burial, so Rich awaits Cromwell alone in the investigation room. His eyes are fixed determinedly upon the papers, reading each line almost obsessively, as he has no wish to think of what is happening to his Kat - or that he cannot be present when she is consigned to the ground.
He looks up as Cromwell enters, "I have it."
Together, they set to work, listing the names of the Dukes and Earls that are resident at Court. Despite their numbers being smaller, the most highly ranked are still not exactly few in number, and examining the records is as slow and laborious an enterprise as it was when Cromwell was researching the movements of the Courtiers.
"What of the Duke of Norfolk?" Rich asks, as they have now dismissed seven names from their list.
Cromwell does not bother with the ledger, "He was in the North over Christmastide." He sighs, "He could not have carried out the killings of Miss Knotte or Miss Culver. Thus, I think it highly unlikely that he was responsible for the others. The method of dispatch is too consistent."
By late afternoon, they have researched the whereabouts of each of the highest nobles at Court, and even the lesser nobles. In each case, however, none have been consistently at court, and each has missed at least one of the deaths.
Cromwell curses, softly; he had hoped that the piece of cloth might have identified their man…
"There is one Duke we have not researched." Rich murmurs, quietly, "Richmond."
"That, I cannot countenance." Cromwell admits, "It cannot be someone royal - how could it be?"
"Why should it not be?" Rich counters, "If we are to seek our killer amongst the highest-born, then we must check them all."
"You spoke in jest, Richard, when you mentioned him."
"Perhaps - but nonetheless, it is better that we demonstrate that it is not he, rather than assume it."
Sighing to himself, Cromwell returns to the ledger and begins to check entries.
"July…then away...back briefly...then away during the risings…back Christmastide and the new year…then away again for the Bigod rising…back again in early summer…" his voice trails away. With few exceptions, his times at court, and away from court, coincide exactly.
"God have mercy…" Rich whispers.
"No - it cannot be him." Cromwell insists, "For if he has been here since the summer began, why is it that he did not act until now?"
Rich flinches, briefly, then makes himself speak, "Do you not recall - when he returned in the summer, the King demanded his constant attention - morn, noon and night. I talked of it with…with Kat…she said then how harsh it must be, and I told her that the King is never alone, so it is something to which Richmond must become accustomed if Queen Jane bears a daughter and he is invested as Prince of Wales…he could not kill, for he was under constant surveillance…it can be no one else."
They stare at each other, horrified; for they have found their killer.
Henry Fitzroy.
Some considerable time passes before either man can speak. This cannot be possible - surely it cannot? And yet, it seems that it cannot be anything other. No one with the right to wear such fine garments has been present, and absent, at the same intervals to coincide with the killings.
"I do not know what to do." Cromwell admits, eventually. A man of Fitzroy's rank would be all but impossible to accuse - even if they could prove his guilt - which at the present, they cannot. How can they persuade the love-blinded Henry that his adored son is a depraved murderer? For only someone depraved could do what has been done to those poor women…
Rich is silent, but his expression speaks for him. Cromwell knows that they have no choice - they must try. Somehow they must find something that will keep Fitzroy from doing further harm to the women of the Court. But what?
"It answers some questions." He ventures, eventually, "For who else could command the degree of assistance that the killer receives? How else can it be that none see anything untoward? He is wealthy - only the King is wealthier - and he has been taught that nothing he does shall ever lead to censure."
"That is not proof." Rich says, eventually.
"Then we must find it - and find it in such an unimpeachable form that none shall have any claim that we acted against him as we did against Anne Boleyn." He stops. He has no idea how to find such evidence, or even if there is any that can be found. Fitzroy has taken such care to cover his tracks.
In the silence, they hear the distant chimes of the palace clock, "We must away." Cromwell says, quietly, "The council meeting…"
"I cannot…" Rich says, weakly, "Fitzroy shall be there - I cannot…"
Cromwell regards him; he is right - for he cannot keep his emotions from showing upon his face, and there is no guarantee that he shall not act in an untoward fashion that could send them both to the Tower, "I agree, Richard." He says, quietly, "I shall offer your apologies and tell his Majesty that you are unwell - and that you shall need a few days to recover. His fear of infection is far greater than his annoyance at Councillors' absences."
"I shall remain here and consider the evidence that we have in the light of this…outcome."
"I shall return after the meeting." Cromwell advises, "If you find anything, we can discuss it and consider our next move." And you shall not do anything foolish or rash.
As he returns to the offices to collect his papers, Cromwell wonders what on earth he shall do. He has no more wish to be in the same room as Fitzroy than Rich, and he has not suffered such a loss at the bastard prince's hands. How could we have been so blind? He thinks to himself; they had spent months thinking that the killer was a Courtier. It had never occurred to them, not for a fraction of a second, that their prey was royal - an assumption that has cost four lives additional to that of Miss Hamme's. An assumption that they had made without so much as a thought - and a thoroughly stupid one.
"Forgive my tardiness, Majesty," he says, as he hastens in just as the King is arriving, "Mr Rich was taken ill a few moments ago; I had to supervise his return to his chambers. I think it is nothing more than a minor infection, however, so he should not be absent for more than a few days."
Henry seems monumentally unconcerned about Rich's health or welfare other than in terms of its possible impact upon himself, "Then ensure that he is kept well away. I do not wish to acquire his illness."
"Yes, Majesty." With luck, he can keep that going for at least a week if need be. Any longer, however, and the King shall insist that Rich leave Court.
He ignores the mildly scornful glances being cast between the various Lords at the table, but there is one face that he has not yet sought out to see, and when he does, he feels a cold shiver passing up his spine.
Despite his mastery of control over his emotions, the presence of Fitzroy at the table causes Cromwell considerable difficulty as he forces himself to keep his expression inscrutable. If he is struggling, then he knows that Rich could not have done so.
Looking at the youth with new eyes, he keeps his surveillance as surreptitious as he can. Fitzroy seems calm, well governed and attentive - his presence at meetings has been educational enough to enable him to follow discussions between the Councillors…and yet…and yet it is there - that ever-present air of superiority, almost scorn at those he considered to be lesser beings. He is only half-royal, and yet he sees himself as being second only to the King himself in importance. Unfortunately, Henry has done nothing to discourage him from thinking so.
What have you created, Henricus Octavus? A youth who thinks himself free to act as he wills - a boy who thinks himself greater than all, and yet who knows that he is not…
He shakes himself. Now is not the time for this - not when all are expecting him to report on current matters. Rising to his feet, he begins to read from his notes.
There are few questions, for his speech is not contentious. He has deliberately avoided mentioning the bill that shall legitimise Fitzroy, for he has not yet introduced it to Parliament. Despite the King's promise that they would have a prince by the new year, summer is reaching its height, and he is still a prince only in name. So mercurial is Henry's will, however, that he also seems to have forgotten his promise - and still he does not raise the matter. As far as Cromwell is concerned, now that he is strongly certain that Fitzroy is a dangerous murderer, he would prefer it if the King forgets the matter entirely, and Jane bears a son. If she does, after all, it is quite possible that his Majesty shall abandon Fitzroy as he so easily abandoned his once beloved daughter Mary. A true-born son would edge out a half-blood one - and Henry would almost certainly devote his entire energies to a son fully of the blood. Perhaps Fitzroy shall be consigned back to his estates at Collyweston and left to end his days as Duke of Richmond.
His eyes stray back to the youth again. Like his father, Fitzroy is richly dressed: velvet of the finest quality, quilted and embroidered with gold thread. The only difference is the colour - a spectacular dark blue. It could almost be the twin of the garment from which Kat grasped a fragment.
It is not enough. A similar garment is not equal to the torn one. Without that, they are helpless. No matter what evidence they find - unless it is unimpeachable proof, it is no better than none at all.
When he returns to the investigation room, Rich is still perusing their collections of reports and papers. There is one more document on the table, which he clearly has not touched, for it is as far away from him as he can set it. Cromwell takes it, quietly. He knows why it has been left: it is Butts's post mortem report concerning Kat.
"Anything?" he asks. He is not surprised when Rich shakes his head.
"Then we must start again." He says, firmly, "We must start with the servants, for they see and hear that which we cannot. Even if all that we have at the outset is rumour or innuendo, it is something we can track to it source and investigate more thoroughly."
"And what if there is none?" Rich asks, bitterly.
"I cannot accept that there is nothing. Not in an ants nest such as this. There are too many ears; too many eyes. Servants see more than we recognise - and I have been damnable fool for not tapping into that resource from the very beginning. Perhaps we might have reached this point sooner."
Rich shakes his head, "We would not." He says, "Even had we done so, we would not have considered any rumour about Fitzroy - our assumptions would have prevented it."
Cromwell sighs; for he knows that Rich is right.
"What if we cannot do it?" Rich asks, suddenly, "Even if we prove him guilty, his Majesty might well not believe us - and then we shall die." He seems far less concerned about the prospect of the scaffold than he did when he considered it last October.
"We must do what we can - and trust in God's protection." Cromwell answers, "I cannot stand by and allow this to continue if there is even the faintest hope that we can end it."
"Nor can I." Rich admits, "I could not forgive myself if I did not try."
"We have at least some grace, however, Richard." Cromwell says, "The King told us that Fitzroy is to return to his estates until her Majesty enters confinement. Thus we shall have August and half of September without his malevolent presence hanging over our heads - and the women of the Court shall be safe."
Evening is drawing in, and there is little more to be done. Leaving Cromwell with the one paper that he cannot bring himself to read, Rich departs back to his chambers. He has no more wish to be there than anywhere else; but where else can he go?
John has set out a plate, cup and knife for his supper, and is setting a flagon of claret upon the table. One setting. One.
"I am not hungry tonight, John." He sighs, quietly, "Leave the wine - but I shall not require victuals."
Once alone, he leaves the flagon where it is; it is quite likely that he would not be able to stop himself from draining it - and if he is to be fit to continue in the morning, then he must not be fogged with wine. Instead, he sits beside the fire - still small given the warmth of the last days of July - and carefully retrieves the packet that contains Kat's hair.
"Forgive me, Kat…" he whispers, softly, "If I had known you were in danger - I should have insisted that you leave court."
Carefully, he sets the packet on the table, and stares at it for a while. He has no wish to visit the Chapel, and he has no devotional items in his chambers. Instead, he turns and kneels on the fine wool rug at the fireside and bows his head in prayer. She is safe now - safe in God's care. Her skin shall no longer be pocked - she shall be as beautiful as she was before the pox destroyed her…as beautiful on the outside as she was within…
But she is gone. His precious, wonderful Kat. He shall never see her again, never look into her eyes, hold her close…stroke her hair…never hear her voice again, or her laugh…
He sits back on his heels, trembling with emotion, "I love you, Kat." He says, suddenly, out loud - words he could not say to her face when she lived, "Oh God, I love you - I loved you more than I knew I could…I love you…"
And then he falls onto his side, and cries.