CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A Devise for the Succession

In the week that has passed since Fitzroy left, Cromwell has made no progress in his investigation. The only rumours he could secure were from Gresham - who has now left court. With Fitzroy also absent from Court, so is his retinue, so there is no one else to question.

He looks across the offices to where Rich is working diligently. It is all now that he seems to do - for he is never present anywhere that he does not have to be. He is at his desk in the morning, attends Privy Council meetings, and then retires to his chambers. He speaks only when he must, and is never present in the Hall for meals. Cromwell is aware that Kat was buried in her family's tomb in the West Country a few days ago - a funeral at which her lover could not be present - and the lack of progress in their investigation into her death is eating away at him.

If only they could find more information; more evidence. That it can only be Fitzroy does not matter - all that it means is that they know there shall be no more deaths until he returns for Queen Jane's confinement - Rich cannot lay his beloved Kat's soul to rest by obtaining the justice she deserves. Even in the few days since they last worked on the investigation, he can see that Rich has lost some weight - he is not eating, then. Instead, he still looks pale, and a little drawn. When did he last have a night's uninterrupted rest? Cromwell knows it cannot continue, and that he must act.

With the day drawing to a close, he approaches his silent colleague, who is writing carefully and precisely - even more so than usual, as though spinning out the work to delay the inevitable moment that he must go back to his rooms, knowing that the woman he loves is not there to greet him, and never shall be again.

"I am famished, Mr Rich. If it is not too much trouble, I should appreciate it if you could join me to sup tonight."

Rich raises his head and looks up. As always, his face displays all that he thinks, and Cromwell is struck by his expression of sheer pain, "I should prefer it if I could sup alone, my Lord."

"I think not." Cromwell says, his voice lower, quieter, "If you do, I suspect you shall not sup at all. I have not seen you depart to dine at any time this week - have you eaten anything?"

"Enough to keep from fainting. If I attempt more, then my throat constricts and I cannot swallow." He says, almost rebellious in his confession.

"Join me. Even if you cannot face victuals, it is not good to be alone at such a time. I know that to be so from my own bereavements."

Rich transfers his attention to his papers again, but there is the briefest, smallest of nods. Satisfied, Cromwell returns to his desk to wait for his colleague to complete the work he is doing. Sure enough, once he has signed off the last document, he sets his papers into a coffer, locks it, and approaches Cromwell's desk.

Their meal is taken silently, and - as he admitted - Rich does little more than pick at the food set out before them, swallowing perhaps two or three mouthfuls.

"Was this what it was like for you?" He asks, eventually.

Setting his knife down, Cromwell regards him for a moment before replying, "Yes. It was."

"I would give everything I have - everything - if I could just see her once more. To tell her…tell her…what I did not…" his head is bowed, and a small droplet falls from his face to the tablecloth. Without a word, Cromwell reaches out and rests a hand upon his shoulder. There is nothing that he can say - but he knows. He knows what his colleague - no, friend - is suffering, for he has suffered that pain, too.

"I do not think I can continue, Thomas." Rich whispers, painfully, "I thought that I could - for her - but I cannot."

"I would not press you to do so, Richard." Cromwell says, quietly, "And I release you from any obligation to this enterprise. Should you change your mind, however, I shall welcome your assistance - but I do not demand it."

"Let me think on it. I shall give you my decision on the morrow. Forgive me, but I think I shall retire." He rises from the table, bows briefly, and departs.

Cromwell watches the door close with misted eyes. "Damn you, Fitzroy." He hisses, bitterly, "Damn you to hell. I swear I shall bring you down for what you have done to them. And to him. I swear it. Even if I have to fall with you - I shall do it."

Another night during which sleep has eluded him; or, if he has slept, he has slept but little. His eyes gritty, Cromwell sits yet again in their investigation room, his gaze fixed upon the papers that they have accumulated.

It is Fitzroy. He knows that it is Fitzroy, for it could not be any other - unless it is someone of his retinue; but why steal one of the Duke's doublets in order to commit the crimes? No. He is convinced it is the bastard prince. Fitzroy has never, at any time, shown the strength or wherewithal to protect anyone who might damage his personal standing at Court - so why would he do so? Despite his almost limitless protection from a Father who sees no wrong in anything that he does, could he truly escape censure for failing to keep control of his retinue?

Without evidence, however, he cannot proceed; and the prospects for obtaining any of sufficient use seem slim at best. No wonder Rich is losing hope. In some ways, Cromwell wonders if Rich shall even be able to remain at Court if they cannot bring Fitzroy to justice - at present, he cannot even stand to be in the same room.

He pauses. Even if he did have such evidence - and more: irrefutable proof that cannot be denied - he cannot be certain that his Majesty shall even accept it. He almost worships the very ground upon which Fitzroy steps; for did he not blame the youth's retinue for his failure to keep his promise to raise a force to join Norfolk in the North? Had he wished to go, then who could have prevented him? If Henry cannot accept that his son is capable of any wrongdoing, then not only might such an accusation be the last thing he does at Court - it might even be the last thing he does at all. Even an accusation based upon absolute proof that his Majesty cannot deny shall likely send him to the block. Perhaps Rich was right to withdraw from the investigation.

He sighs, for he knows that the stakes are now considerably higher. Not only must he seek justice for those who have died; but he must also ensure that no others meet the same fate - and grant Rich the satisfaction of knowing that Fitzroy shall not escape punishment for his cruel murder of Kat. After all that Rich has done - taking such excellent notes despite his desire to flee the scenes, transcribing them and organising them into a logical arrangement - he deserves better than to be left without a fair resolution.

Sitting back in the chair, he continues to peruse. It might not advance his investigation any further, but he does not know what else to do.

The papers on Rich's desk have remained untouched for nearly an hour, despite his apparent fixed perusal of them. They are there, but he does not see the words upon them. Last night was the first through which he has slept in its entirety, though it has done little to drive away the sense of tiredness that presses down upon him like stone weights; but it granted him one refuge - he dreamed.

He wishes that the dream had been more than merely that - for she was there, her smile as loving as it had ever been, and her eyes lingered upon him as he remembered. He had wanted, so much, to speak to her - to tell her those words that he could not speak when she lived; but he had not been granted that privilege. Instead, he watched as she smiled at him, briefly, and then walked off into some indefinable mist. And he could not follow her; no matter how hard he tried. He recalls that he must, somehow, have known that he was dreaming, for he distinctly recalls that he had not wanted to wake - but he did; and woke alone.

What to do? Can he truly step away from the hunt for evidence to bring Fitzroy to justice? He was not present to save Kat from her terrible death - but she had done what she could to grant him some help, even as she knew that she herself would die. It would be a gross betrayal of that courageous act if he does not stand with Cromwell to bring this entire nightmare to a conclusion. How can he leave a man that he has come to regard as a friend to face that journey alone?

And yet…

Each day seems to be another hell - passing from one minute to the next, and the next, and the next, knowing that the only woman he has ever truly loved is gone, and he can never be with her again until all are with God and all is mended. If he is to do so, however, then he must recall her ghastly end, discuss it with Cromwell, and Butts - speak of the horror…the blood…what she must have suffered when she knew that she was facing death, and he was not there for her…Rich shudders, closes his eyes and attempts to drive the horrible visions from his head. Remember her eyes…remember how she looked at you…remember how she used to say that she loved you…

Does he regret knowing her? God, no - it was, despite all, an act of random violence that destroyed their joy in one another. Kat deserves better than regrets. She deserves justice - she deserves to have the man who killed her made to face punishment for his crime.

Setting the papers aside, Rich rises from his desk. He is doing no good where he is - and he does not wish to be excluded from the hunt for evidence. He thought he did - but his dream has convinced him otherwise.

Cromwell looks up as the door opens, and his eyes widen in surprise at the sight of Rich, though he is pleased to see that he has reconsidered his intention to abandon the investigation.

"I cannot let the matter go." He says, simply, and sits on the table, facing the papers that promise so much - but give so little. Rising from his chair, Cromwell sits alongside him, and they read the notes in silence for a while.

"How long has Fitzroy been absent now?" Rich asks, after a considerable time.

"A week." Cromwell replies, "Though that is not a long enough period for us to be truly assured that he is indeed responsible, and that no further murders shall occur at the Palace. I can, however, hope."

"I still do not understand why."

"All but one of the victims were engaged in illicit relationships with men to whom they were not wed." Cromwell says, "Miss Culver was, therefore, likely to have been killed in error, for she alone was not."

"Fitzroy was the result of a liaison between a woman and a man to whom she was not wed." Rich muses, "Though why should that be a source of anger on his part? He has hardly been required to endure opprobrium as a consequence of his illegitimate birth - for unlike his sisters, he is male, and has no rival in the form of a true-born son. Well - not yet. The King has always showered him with affection, gifts and praise. Why does he wish to harm women when he has been blessed by his paternity?"

"His father, yes - but his mother is of considerably lower estate. She brought him into the world a bastard - and the King has set that aside. Perhaps that is the matter that drives him? He has been rendered illegitimate not by his father, but by his mother?"

"And thus he hates those who act as she did?" Rich asks, "But why would he do so? I am given to understand that she loved him as equally as his father."

"She did." Cromwell says, "I can recall the day that Fitzroy received his first honours - for I was present. Sir Thomas More himself declared them to the Court, and his mother was present to witness him receive them. It was, however, the last day that she was permitted to be his mother - for he was then granted his own household as though he were a Prince of the Blood, and she was obliged to become just a woman who might be permitted to visit him on occasion. From that day forth - his only real parent was his father."

"Do you think that his upbringing might have driven him mad?" Rich hazards, "How else can it be that he acts as he does? You and I have seen with our own eyes the horror he has wrought upon his victims - how can any man commit such a ghastly act, and yet be sane?"

"That, I cannot say." Cromwell admits, "Though I am loath to use the term 'mad', for it is used too easily to describe acts that make no sense to those of us who see things rationally. Perhaps it is a temporary madness of some sort - for if it is permanently upon him, how is it that he is not affected at all times? Such an aberrant mind would hardly be unnoticed."

"But why remove the womb in each case?" Rich asks, though he stops, and swallows hard, for Kat endured the same brutal mutilation, and he cannot bear to think of it.

"Some form of ritual?" Cromwell asks, only to receive a scornful glance from Rich.

"Are you suggesting witchcraft, or perhaps devil worship?" he asks.

Cromwell shakes his head, "No, not in so many words - perhaps something that he has created in his own mind - a ritual of religious bent that stems from his fanaticism. Given his keenness upon acts of violent atonement, as Gresham attested, perhaps he believes it to have significance of some kind."

"And yet, he is not seen; his crimes are not heard." Rich moves on to another question, "None see him approach the chambers, none hear him commit…" His voice catches, and he tries again, "…commit his acts, and none see him leave. This palace is as populated as an anthill, and Whitehall was even more so. How can it be that none saw him? He is hardly unknown. And - as we know, he would have required considerable assistance to ensure that his damaged clothing and shoes did not betray him when he departed."

"I am given to understand that his retinue is known for its loyalty, Richard." Cromwell adds, "Of those, a small cadre of men are particularly devoted to him - they are almost always at his side. I consider it reasonable to assume that, as he is receiving help, it is they who are providing it; though how they do so, and to what degree they are involved, I cannot begin to guess, and I am not entirely sure that I wish to."

They sit in silence again for a while, before Cromwell resumes, "And, of course, there is the question of what happens to the clothes he befouls when committing his crimes. They are not laundered here - that, we have confirmed. Are they taken elsewhere, or are they destroyed afterwards? It is, after all, not as though he cannot afford to replace them so frequently. Only the King is richer than he."

"Though that is largely thanks to the accrual of funds from the closure of the Religious Houses." Rich reminds him, "How truly wealthy the…prince…is, I could not begin to guess." He cannot bring himself to speak the name.

"But still…" Cromwell says, softly, "How is it that these murders are not overheard? We know that the victims are still living when their veins are opened…"

Rich moans, softly, for he does not wish to be reminded.

"It is, despite all, a quick end, Richard." Cromwell assures him, resting a hand upon his shoulder, "Doctor Butts has already said that consciousness is lost very quickly; but nonetheless, how is it that there was no struggle? No cry before the blow was dealt? Perhaps the victims were plied with drink, or some substance to render them unconscious. Thus they could not have cried out, and no sound was heard."

Rich shakes his head, "Kat knew." He says, painfully, "She could not have been unconscious - for she grasped the fragment of velvet from his doublet. She knew what he intended, and did what she could to leave us that one item that might help us."

"God rest her soul." Cromwell sighs, "And grant her the highest of Heavenly rewards for her bravery. But for her, we would not know even that which we know now."

Rich nods, shedding silent tears.

Cromwell sits quietly as Rich recovers his composure. Even now, it still amazes him that a man he thought to be so devoted only to his own advancement and wellbeing is so utterly broken by the loss of a woman with whom he had no formal relationship. That Rich has the capacity to care so deeply is something he never imagined to be possible, for, until this hideous ordeal began, he had seen no evidence of it.

"I am sorry." Rich says, very quietly, "It is hard to speak of her." He takes in a deep breath, and resumes, in a somewhat stronger voice, "If we could find some means of discovering what he keeps in that coffer…perhaps there is someone at Court whom we could question."

"I suspect not - for the ones most likely to know have returned to Lincolnshire with their master. We must look elsewhere, I think, for something that definitively links him to the deaths."

"Such as the jewels."

He nods, "That is so, Richard. Each of them have had a single jewel taken from them. If we could find those upon Fitzroy…"

"But we cannot, Thomas." Rich reminds him, bitterly, "For who would grant us entry to his apartments? Who would permit us to search them? He is as untouchable as he has always been. Perhaps, in the end, we shall have no choice but to end his miserable life ourselves. I would happily fire a bullet into his head, even if to do so would send me to Tyburn to face the worst of deaths for my act. If he is gone, it would be worth it."

Cromwell shudders. The thought of such an act seems almost inconceivable - and yet, it may - at the last, be their only chance to end this.

Somewhere outside the walls of the room, the faint sound of the palace clock striking the first hour after noon captures their attention, "We must away." Cromwell sighs, "The Council meets at two, and I must prepare my papers."

Neither man is keen to attend; indeed - most of the Council would rather not - for the King's leg ulcer blocked again overnight, requiring his physicians to lance it. Another scare. Another disappointment that the bloody wound will not heal.

When he enters the Council chambers, the King's expression is set, and determined. It is clear to all present that he has come to a decision that is - to him, at least - monumental, and shall require their urgent attention.

"There is only one matter I wish to discuss, my Lords." He says, as they bow - before even they have seated themselves, "And that is the status of my eldest son." He waves them to sit as he does so. All obey, exchanging nervous glances.

As her Majesty the Queen is nearing confinement, I have decided that, when the Prince returns, he shall receive that which I have promised him. For I have - thanks to your endless delays - failed in that duty to him. I have no interest or desire to maintain such a state of affairs any longer."

Cromwell tenses. He knows what is coming next.

"It is my decision that, regardless of whether the Queen bears me a son or daughter, my Prince Henry shall be made legitimate at the earliest opportunity. I shall summon him back to Court as soon as he is able to depart from Collyweston, so get that Bill before Parliament, get it agreed - and set it for my assent before the end of this month, my Lord Cromwell. I shall then create him Duke of York. If her Majesty fails me and grants me another girl, then I shall invest him as Prince of Wales, and he shall be my successor. Thus, I demand the Devise for the Succession to be before me as soon as can be done. D'you hear me, Cromwell? As soon as it can be done!"

It is because of his leg…he thinks himself to be a man on the verge of dying…and now he intends to create a successor, regardless of what happens when the Queen gives birth…

Despite his racing thoughts, Cromwell keeps his expression absolutely inscrutable, and nods, solemnly. He has no choice - it cannot be 'forgotten' any longer. As he looks up, he can see that Rich has grown even paler than he has been of late. They both know the consequences of such an act.

If Fitzroy becomes King, then God only knows what hell that shall lead them to.