CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ugly Rumours

The night has been unpleasant; thick with dark dreams and frequent wakings in equal darkness. For the first time in years, he dreams of Liz - always ahead of him, always out of reach - as though she is waiting for him, and, if he were to try just a little harder, he could stretch out and take her hand. But always she seems to pull away, and as she departs from him, he hears the sound of laughter, the voices of two little girls…

Dawn's arrival feels almost unwelcome, for Cromwell's head is doped with tiredness, and he wishes he could spend at least some more time trying to seek the deep sleep that has eluded him since Kat died. His only consolation is that Fitzroy is to leave Court again - if only for a month and a half - thus granting him some peace, and safety to the lower-ranked women in the Palace.

He does not break his fast, for victuals have no appeal to him. Instead, he returns to the investigation room, and resumes his almost obsessive perusal of the papers. Why does Fitzroy only seem intent upon the lower ranked Ladies? Those of gentler birth are hardly better behaved at times; he is well aware that Viscount Beauchamp's wife is still visiting Francis Bryan - and the maids are not exactly free of taint. Perhaps the higher-born women are protected by the auras of their highly placed husbands, while the maids are of too little worth. Fitzroy is, after all, half-royal.

Cromwell is not entirely sure when it was that he travelled from possibility, to probability, to certainty. Despite the care that he should be taking to be objective, the only firm evidence he has speaks so strongly that he cannot place any culpability upon any other. And he has Kat Silverton to thank for that - her courage in her last moments granting them the breakthrough that they needed; but not in the manner that either of them would have wanted.

He sighs again as he reads the paper that Rich prepared for their evidence yesterday. The blots where the tears fell have dried, a permanent reminder of his grief. Now that he is reading it, he notes that the writing is not as neat - for Rich's hand must have been shaking as he wrote. Only the last part, the descriptions of the jewels that Fitzroy took, bears that same tidiness as the other papers.

The door opens, and he looks up to see Rich. He is in clean clothes, and his hair has been combed; but other than that he looks little better. He is pale, and there are shadows under his eyes - though there is no sign that he has shed tears again.

"His retinue is gathering to go." Rich reports, his voice still much quieter than usual, "But there seems to have been some discord - one of his Ushers has been dismissed and is staying at Placentia." There is no mistaking the thought behind his words - it is written upon his face.

Cromwell's eyes narrow in an unnervingly predatory fashion, "Then we shall seek him out. If he is disgruntled at his removal from the retinue, he may be willing to divulge information that would otherwise be out of our reach."

"That is my hope."

The Usher concerned proves to be somewhat elusive, and they are obliged to ask several of the Ushers of other households for information as to his whereabouts.

"You mean William Gresham?" One says, his expression almost dismissive, "Frankly, my Lord, it is no surprise to me. My only astonishment is that it took so long for him to be dropped. He is a truly objectionable individual even at the best of times - and his behaviour has earned him no friends."

"Where might we find him?" Cromwell asks, keeping his manner one of polite enquiry.

"At this point, it would be difficult to say, my Lord." The youth admits, "The Prince's Ushers had their own dormitory, from which he has been obliged to remove himself - and until he has secured an alternative appointment, he shall have nowhere to rest his head. I suspect he is currently with the Gentleman of the Chamber, attempting to seek another retinue that might accept him."

"I take it that he shall find this something of a fruitless enterprise?"

"Most assuredly - for who would want a man dismissed from the retinue of the Duke of Richmond?"

Cromwell thanks him for his information, that Rich has noted down carefully. A disgruntled ex-employee is one thing - but one that cannot secure another appointment could well be an ideal starting point to seek something - even bitterness-induced innuendo is better at this juncture than a single fragment of battered velvet.

Further enquiries serve merely to reinforce the young Usher's assessment. William Gresham has earned himself a poor reputation during his time with the Duke of Richmond; and, as a consequence, there is suddenly a dearth of alternative positions for him occupy. More importantly, however, his disgruntlement is starting to become more evident; by the midday meal - which neither Cromwell nor Rich attend - there are rumours that he is making wild claims of information that he holds about the man he is now calling the 'bastard prince', as though this might make some difference to his situation.

It does - but not in the manner that he intends.

He is sitting in one of the alcoves in a dormitory, holding court to a small number of lesser servants who are hanging on to his every word when they find him, "…and if I spoke of his vices, then even his father would wish to…"

"Wish to what, Mr Gresham?" Cromwell interrupts, his expression intent; deadly, "Perhaps you and I should have a talk. This way, please."

His red, angry complexion suddenly drained to the colour of whey, Gresham nods, rises, and follows.

Seating himself in a room near to the Placentia Waiting Chamber, Rich sets out his papers and watches, intently, as Cromwell brusquely pushes William Gresham into a chair. While he has always been quite fascinated at the Lord Privy Seal's ability to intimidate, it is only when he sees him do so - in close quarters such as these - that he appreciates the effect that Cromwell has on those against whom he unleashes that ability.

"I must warn you," Cromwell's voice is low and threatening, "not to repeat anything that is discussed in this room. If I find that you have done so, matters shall become…unpleasant." He does not offer any further detail. He does not need to - the imagination of the young man in the chair is doing that for him - interpreting all from the narrowness of his eyes and the hardness of his stare.

"It does not do to speak ill of those close to the throne, Mr Gresham." Cromwell begins, his voice dangerously calm and benign, "Particularly when it is so easy to be overheard. I am an inquisitive man; and I do not wish to be kept in the dark about matters of importance to the safety and wellbeing of his Majesty the King. Tell me: of what vices were you intending to speak?"

"I…I, nothing my Lord - I swear to you…I was being foolish…speaking wild words…"

Cromwell smiles; a fearsome, shark-like smile that speaks only of a predatory instinct, "I beg you, Mr Gresham, do not think that I am a fool, and do not lie to me. I object in particular to being lied to. Believe me; you are but one step from my leaving this room and sending a Steward to summon the Palace Constable to arrest you for slanderous talk. After which, that same Steward shall repair to the Privy Stairs to arrange a barge to transport you to the Tower."

Rich stares, his pen frozen in his hand, Jesus - he is terrifying…God forbid that I ever find myself in that youth's place.

Gresham stares at Cromwell, his eyes wide and filling with tears, "My Lord!" he cries, fearfully, "I beg you - do not send me there! I have committed no crime - I swear it!"

"And why do you think that innocence shall protect you?" Cromwell leans in close, his eyes narrowed even further. He knows that he is bullying this idiotic youth - but there are lives at stake, and he has no time to care for the sensibilities of an obnoxious servant caught in a trap of his own making, "I serve the King - and the Law is that of the King. I do what I must to achieve that which the King desires, and thus he trusts in me absolutely. I have the authority, and the will, to send you not only to the Tower, but also to the rack if I must. I am also told that 'Little Ease' is most uncomfortable."

"I shall speak!" Gresham blubbers, piteously, "I shall tell all that I know, my Lord - I beg you, do not send me to the Tower!"

"That depends," Cromwell says, ominously, "upon the value of what you tell me. I demand the truth from you - absolutely and utterly. If I find that you have lied, even if only to tell me what you think I wish to hear, then I shall show you no mercy. Do you understand? Truth - and only the truth. Tell me exactly what you claim to know. Exactly." His eyes dreadful, he seats himself, sits back, folds his arms and keeps his gaze fixed entirely on the quivering Usher.

"I have been with the Duke of Richmond's retinue for three years, my Lord." Gresham begins, his voice shaking, "I was not privy to all that he did; but I know of a number of strange practices - of a religious nature."

"Go on."

"Like most of his rank, he maintains a private devotional area in his rooms - a cross and candles, and a prie-dieu; but he also has a number of devices in order to undertake mortification of the flesh - most notably a wooden lattice upon which he kneels as he speaks the Confiteor repeatedly. I have seen him in this practice only the once - and then only by chance; for we are kept from him by his closest retainers when he does so, but we all know of it."

Cromwell frowns - such actions are of Popish origin in his mind, and he has no involvement with such behaviour; though he recalls that More was known on occasions to wear a hair shirt, as was the late Queen Katherine. Finding such behaviour rather bizarre, and mildly offensive, he has no such items in his possession.

"Do you know why he does this?" He asks.

"I do not, my Lord." Gresham says, nervously, "We are told not to enquire. One youth who did was knocked down - his nose was broken - and all were reminded that, should they ask again, they would find themselves equally punished. There were, however, rumours."

"Rumours?" Cromwell prompts.

"Yes, my Lord. Stories of his childhood. It is said that he was bullied badly as a child until his tutor discovered and ended it, and that his bastardy was thrown in his face in his youth by those born within wedlock. But the rest of the time, he was given endless honours by the King - but not made legitimate. We are not to talk of his bloodline - for those who do are punished with severe violence. I heard a story of one servant being whipped to death with a leather strap while he was hung by his wrists from the ceiling and forced to recite the Confiteor over and over again. When he fainted, they revived him with cold water so that they could continue - and they kept on until there was no breath left in his body." He looks fearful, "But that was a rumour, and I did not attach any credence to it, for it was told to all the young men when first they entered service so I think it is naught but a story to scare them. I saw nothing of that nature while in his service."

"Is this all that you have?" Cromwell asks, his tone dismissive, "What scandal is there in this? That his Grace the Duke is a religious fanatic? Lord above, even the Lady Mary has been found with a hair shirt before now! In what way do you think his Majesty would act against his son for this?"

"There is more, my Lord!" Gresham pleads, rather desperately, "I know that he keeps something - something so secret that there must be something of illicit origin within it!"

His expression cold, Cromwell leans forward, "Then speak."

Gresham is shaking violently, and his terror is such that, from where he sits with his paper and quill, Rich almost sniffs the air for evidence that the youth has pissed himself. Cromwell is right - this is not enough. This is nothing close to enough.

"His Grace's activities are, I think, related to a coffer that he keeps in his quarters, my Lord." Gresham continues, fretfully, "I know not what it contains - but…but, there was one day when I was in his bedchamber hanging his suits in the closet after our removal to Collyweston from Whitehall a year or so back. I heard him approaching the chamber, so I hid - for though we must enter the bedchamber as part of our duties, he forbids us to do so, and punishes those he finds there with severity. The coffer had not been with his other possessions; and he guarded it with great care, for it was held closed with a mechanical padlock that requires no key."

"Then it contains something valuable." Cromwell scoffs, "What scandal would be attached to that?"

"My Lord," Gresham continues, frantically, "I know not what it contains, I admit it, but if it is something merely valuable, why is it never far from his side when he undertakes his mortification of the flesh? If it is merely a valuable jewel, what would drive him to seek such violent atonement? As I hid, he set it down beside the table where his Cross and candles lie, drew out the lattice and began to recite the Confiteor - I was there for nearly two hours, for I did not dare to move. Surely there is nothing other than a sinful item that would require such self-punishment?"

"How do you know that it is never far from his side, if you have seen it but the once?"

"I have heard rumours - for others have been caught as I have, and have been obliged to hide. One told of his examining the contents of the coffer - though he could not see what it was, for he was unsighted. He said…he said that, the Duke became greatly…excited…and…and…" he stops, reddening.

"Excited?" Cromwell prompts.

"As one does when one is overly enamoured, my Lord?" Gresham says, struggling to find words that are not too offensive.

"Aroused, then." Cromwell snaps, annoyed at such beating about the proverbial bush.

"Yes, my Lord - and he then proceeded to, well…"

"Deal with the matter." Cromwell finishes, equally delicately.

"After which, he proceeded to lock the coffer, set it alongside the table with the cross, and fetch out the lattice. That, I am told, the servant saw."

"Could it be considered that his Grace is inclined to undertake such activities frequently?"

"That I cannot say, my Lord - though he practices his mortification as many as two or even three times a week. Sometimes more - though there is no regular pattern to it."

Cromwell sighs, "Is that all that you have to tell me?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Then go. Let this be a lesson to you not to pry, or to make threats to spread rumours again. If I find that you have spoken of this to anyone - anyone - then know that I shall have you dragged to the Tower and racked until the strings in your joints are snapped. Do you understand me? His Grace the Duke of Richmond is not to be spoken of so, by you, or by any. Ever again."

The youth nods, tearfully, and flees.

Cromwell turns to Rich, who shakes his head, "I think it best that I transcribe it immediately - before your recollection of what was said becomes clouded."

"Do you not have work to do?"

"That can wait."

Bemused, Cromwell follows his colleague back to the investigation room. They have gained some insight into Fitzroy's habits, yes, but in what way does any of this count as evidence? It is mere speculation - and some of it quite prurient. He finds himself hoping that Rich has not put too much investment into Gresham's interview. It might lead them nowhere - and what then?

"How long shall you need?" he asks, as Rich sets his notes down and refills the inkhorn.

"An hour, if that."

"I shall see if anything has come in for your attention that cannot wait. My signature is as valid as yours."

Rich looks up, his quill poised over the inkhorn, "Thank you, Thomas."

The offices are as busy as ever, and the degree of work that has built up during their questioning causes Cromwell to sag slightly. At least he shall be kept occupied for the hour that Rich is busy; and it seems that things have not got too far ahead in terms of the monies coming in from the Religious Houses, for there are no papers present that cannot be left for the Chancellor's attention.

A note on his desk advises that the King has decided to hunt this afternoon, and the Privy Council are therefore dismissed for the day. A good thing, given that he had forgotten all about it, so keen has he been upon securing evidence. Though, with Fitzroy on his way back to Lincolnshire, Rich shall be able to 'recover' from his 'illness' and return to the Council Table.

"Have there been any messages?" he asks Wriothesley, who is busy over his own papers.

"None, my Lord - the King has decided to see no one since his son left; hence, I think, his decision to hunt instead of meet his Councillors."

Cromwell nods, taking care to hide the mild shudder he feels at the thought of the King's devotion to Fitzroy. How on earth can he possibly combat that? God help him - even absolute proof is likely not to be sufficient. As he seats himself at his desk, he decides that, when the time comes to accuse, he shall do so independently. It is likely to end in arrest and death - and he does not have a growing family that would be left adrift by an Act of Attainder. Gregory is a man now, and married; he would find a way to survive…

Forcing the thought from his head, Cromwell busies himself with the backlog of work until the clock strikes the quarter hour that marks an hour since he left Rich transcribing. Time to go back, then.

Rich looks up as he enters, "I was about to send a steward. All is done." He hands over a set of papers for Cromwell to read.

As always, the notes are verbatim and follow the conversation with accuracy. The entire investigation would have been considerably harder to conduct without such accurate records, and he is grateful that he has Rich to assist him, despite his no longer being Solicitor General. Whorwood would have likely been hopeless in comparison - a fine lawyer, yes; but far less quick minded, and not even half as well organised.

"What impression did you gain from Mr Gresham's words?" he asks.

"He was most certainly not lying, Thomas - he was far too frightened to do such a thing - but still, how much credence we can give to his words is speculative. Much of that which he describes is hearsay from others, and usually at least third hand if not more removed. Apart from this rather strange desire to over-manage his Grace's need for atonement."

"Atonement." Cromwell agrees, his tone musing.

"Atonement for what?" Rich asks, his eyebrow raised. He is seeking an opinion, not an answer.

"The murders." Cromwell says, at once, then pauses, "Though it would seem strange to me that he would need to undertake such behaviour so frequently. He does not do it every day, if Gresham is to be believed; but he does it too frequently to be inspired solely by his killings of the women at Court. There must be another reason."

"What - playing with himself over the contents of his coffer?" Rich asks, crudely.

"Unless it is the contents of the coffer that inspires his need to atone."

"Perhaps, for he can hardly be killing two or three people a week, can he?"

Cromwell pauses.

"What?"

"Something I recall from a year back." He says, quietly, "It was the day after Anne was executed - a woman's body was deposited upon the Privy Stairs by the outgoing tide. We could not identify the corpse, but significant violence was done upon her."

"In what way would that have any bearing on this?"

"I cannot say…it is, however, something that I recall most strongly, though she died from strangulation, not blood-loss. We did find evidence of violence upon her - for she had been ravished violently and repeatedly, as far as Doctor Butts could determine."

"But how does that make any difference?" Rich asks again.

"Perhaps none at all - but she was being carried downstream - and, if I recall, Fitzroy was housed in a fine manor a few miles upstream from Whitehall at the time." He sighs, and curses, "Supposition is not truth. It is coincidental, perhaps, but nonetheless there is no evidence. Her remains were turned over to the City Authorities. Doubtless she received a pauper's burial. God alone knows where she lies now - for we could not identify her."

"Then we have no alternative but to discount her."

"We do - but perhaps there are more murders than those of which we are aware."

"He could hardly act so in the Palace."

"But what of Collyweston?" Cromwell counters.

"Christ have mercy…"

Cromwell shakes his head, "It is not enough. We are now speculating far too extensively - even though I am satisfied from what I have that we have our man; there is no suggestion that he has harmed any other, and what we have learned so far does not constitute the degree of evidence that we need. We do not know what lies in the Coffer, do we?"

"Salacious poetry? Drawings?" Rich asks.

"If that is the case, it shows merely that he is at least aware of that which he should be doing to create a child - but not that he is taking lives."

"In which case," Rich sighs, "we have done little more than demonstrate that he has a degree of religious fanaticism."

Cromwell nods. Fanaticism of a rather worrying degree, yes. But still not enough to prove him a murderer.