CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Payment for the Lack of a Knighthood
As the King departs the Privy Chamber, the Lords exchange glances, whether bemused or disgruntled - for some had points they wished to make on the items that were to have been discussed. Points, admittedly, that were intended to be critical of Cromwell rather than of any actual use, but still - they have been denied, and they are not happy.
Cromwell gathers his papers together, paying little attention to the high-born men about him. His eyes are on Rich, who has not moved in the slightest. His eyes are a little wide, and - as always - his expression gives away his thoughts. Fortunately, none of the departing Lords seem so much as to even notice. It is not long before they are alone.
"Come, Richard." Cromwell urges, "You cannot remain here. There is little we can do by sitting at this table in silence."
"He cannot come back, Thomas," Rich says, urgently, "surely there is a way that we can delay his return? Even though it has been but a week since he departed, and it is hardly likely that his retinue have even unpacked yet…"
"What would you have me do? I cannot cause the weather to change, and turn the roads - such as they are - to sloughs, nor can I bring down every tree that might lie in their path. Given his Majesty's decision, I fear that to do even that would be a simpler matter than to attempt to persuade him to delay recalling his son to Court."
"And if he proves us to be right? Could our consciences truly stand that we permitted another unfortunate woman to die as Kat did?" Rich is trembling, "I do not - I cannot stand to look upon another room befouled. I cannot…"
Cromwell rests a hand upon his shoulder, "I suspect that, with his determination to raise Fitzroy to the succession by whatever means he can, he shall monopolise the youth's time as he did through much of the last two months. Should he do so, then it shall be all but impossible for him to act. I think, perhaps, I shall see if I can devise some means to keep the boy as tightly watched as possible - for his safety, of course - and thus deny him any opportunity to commit acts of harm. Now that we know what we do - we can take what steps we can to keep him from those who might be in danger."
The suggestion causes Rich to nod, and he finally gathers his papers. As they return to the offices, Cromwell turns the matter over in his mind. How to do it? Sporting activities in which Fitzroy must participate - tennis, hunts…not Tourneys; the King will not permit Fitzroy to joust. Court functions - a feast to celebrate his arrival…private dinners with his father…lessons in statecraft…keep that blasted boy captive to his obligations from morn to night. Have him surrounded by a retinue of Guards - in honour of his soon-to-be royal estate. Much as is the case with his Majesty.
There are papers upon his desk that require his attention - but they must wait. Not only must he now take steps to introduce the Bill that shall legitimise Fitzroy to Parliament, which is - fortunately - in session, but he must sit down and put together a list covering every single activity or privilege he can think of that shall ensure that Fitzroy cannot escape the scrutiny of those who are not loyal solely to him. If he cannot keep the bastard from Court, then he shall do all he can to keep him from harming anyone while he is present. It is not only Rich who cannot face another room befouled with blood.
At least, unlike keeping Fitzroy away, this argument shall please the King.
A courier, using several changes of horse, reached Collyweston in just over a day, and returned by the same means to advise that the retinue was barely unpacked, so Fitzroy shall be back at Court by the end of the week. The King is, naturally, delighted at the news. Cromwell, on the other hand, feels rather unwell. Perhaps Rich's aversion to the youth is infectious.
If it could be possible, Rich seems even more withdrawn. He is present at Council meetings, but is so inactive that he might as well not be there at all; not that the King notices - he is far too pleased at the notion that his boy shall not only be back in his company again - barely two weeks after leaving it - but shall soon have his promised legitimacy, and his place in the succession.
"What progress on the Bill?" Henry asks, once the meeting is ended and the Councillors have departed to leave him alone with Cromwell.
"Progress is good, your Majesty." He advises, quietly, "There are no clauses within it that have given much cause for concern amongst the Commons, and I am confident that it shall be passed within a week; a week at the half at most."
The King nods, approvingly, "I have reviewed your paper discussing my son's return to Court and I am most satisfied. As a prince, he must be closely guarded from harm - and I expect you to hand-pick the guards whom you deem most trustworthy to escort and protect him."
"That I shall do, Majesty." Cromwell says, bowing deeply. You can be most thoroughly assured of that.
Rich is not in the offices when he returns, and Wriothesley looks up at him in surprise when he questions his colleague's whereabouts, "I assumed that there was more to discuss than usual."
Cromwell sighs, inwardly, and leaves his papers on his desk. Rich is unlikely to be in his chambers, so there is only one other place that he can be.
The papers on the wall have curled even more, and dust crowns them once again. Seated at the table, his head in his hands, Rich sees nothing of the slow decay of their work. Fitzroy is coming back to Court. The man who killed his darling Kat…who mutilated her…who took her from him…
He does not look up as the door opens, "I cannot stay, Thomas." His voice is breaking with pain, "I have to leave Court. I have to go - if he is here, I cannot remain."
"You are Chancellor of the Court of Augmentations, Richard. The King shall not grant you leave to go." Cromwell's voice is kind - but firm.
"And if I leave anyway?" he looks up, and Cromwell flinches inside at his expression, "I mean what I say. I cannot be here if Fitzroy is present."
"I have done all that I can to ensure that he is unable to cause any more harm. His Majesty believes my precautions are for the benefit of his son - when they are instead intended to keep him under close watch. I am to secure a dedicated squad of the Palace Guard to stand at his rooms and escort him wherever he goes. It is on the pretext that, as a Prince, he should be accompanied by an appropriate escort - both to protect him and to demonstrate his status. His Majesty has tasked me with selecting those who shall be granted this privilege - thus I can ensure that those who do so are loyal to my agenda, not his."
Rich says nothing, but his shoulders droop somewhat, and Cromwell knows that he accepts that he is trapped at the Palace as much as though he were imprisoned there.
"We have the advantage of knowing him to be guilty, Richard." He resumes, more kindly, "I shall set all precautions that I can - and, if he returns, so does his retinue. It may be that we shall be able to find some breach in the armour he has set about himself; perhaps even obtain that damned coffer. Our objective now is not merely to bring a murderer to justice - but to ensure a youth such as he never gains the authority of the Crown. God help us all if he were to become King - for I fear that, if he were to be placed in the succession, he would find a way to stand at its head - even to the point of removing a newborn rival."
Rich's eyes widen, "Surely you do not think him capable of such an act against his own father?"
"At this point, I would think him capable of anything."
Strangely, it is this - the suggestion that their quarry might attempt to claim the Crown for himself - that finally breaks through Rich's inertia, "Then we must away to the Constable and secure the most trustworthy of his Guards."
"I think the most suitable would be Woodrow, Turner, Goode, Sharp, Johns, Byrde, Maxwell and Dowland." The Constable muses, "I shall place Lambton in charge as their Sergeant - he is worthy of the promotion." He looks up at Cromwell and Rich, "They are, without doubt, the most trustworthy of my men, and they shall work at your behest as honestly as they would work to mine."
"Thank you, Constable." Cromwell says, "It is essential that they remain entirely loyal to the King, and not to his Prince - for their task is to ensure his safety, regardless of his wishes. Even if her Majesty bears a son, he shall be too young to rule for many years yet - and thus his Grace the Duke of Richmond's welfare and security is of the highest priority once his legitimacy is confirmed."
The Constable's expression grows rather knowing, "And, I think," he continues, in a much lower voice, "You wish to ensure that the child grows up to take the Crown that is his by right of blood…"
"I believe our minds are meeting, Constable."
"I am not blind, my Lord. I am well aware that the youth is, shall we say, not the most stable of individuals. The son of Queen Jane must be protected - even from those who might be considered to be closest to him."
"It is essential, Constable, that they guard him close at all times - but most importantly after he has left the King's company at the end of each day. He must not, under any circumstances, be able to wander the palace corridors in the hours of the night - for that is the time when the risk is greatest." He does not suggest what risk he means.
"I shall draw up an appropriate roster, my Lord."
The clattering of hooves as Fitzroy's retinue enters the mews is all but deafening, though any dust has been laid by the thick drizzle that clouds the city. Despite the wet, the King has demanded that his highest Courtiers assemble to greet their prince, and he himself is at the forefront. Fitzroy is, after all, still his only son.
"Father!" the youth calls, brightly, "I am right glad to be returned to Court and your august presence!"
"As I am glad to see you returned, boy!" Henry shouts back, as Fitzroy dismounts and approaches him to be enfolded in a thick bear-hug, "Come - refresh yourself and then we shall talk. I have much to tell you." Ignoring all about them, he turns and walks his son back through to the main Palace, leaving the assembled Lords in the rain.
As the disgruntled, and wet, Peers disperse, Cromwell makes his way to Rich, who has been standing as far away as it is possible to be without actually being entirely absent, "Return to the offices, Richard." He says, quietly, "I shall supervise the assignment of Guards to Fitzroy - if only to see the look upon his face…"
Rich is staring at something behind him.
"What?"
"Look at the retinue - well, one of them. That one over there with the broken nose." Rich says, keenly.
Cromwell turns, and watches as the man Rich has identified dismounts. He is some distance away from the others, his expression surprisingly sour. The others ignore him, jesting and laughing between themselves, "That is Stephen Mount."
"He seems somewhat disgruntled by something." Rich observes.
"He does indeed." Cromwell agrees, "I think it may be worth enquiring as to why."
"I shall see to it." Rich says, "You are required with the King, are you not?"
Cromwell nods, and departs. As he goes, Rich steps back to conceal himself behind some bales of straw, and waits for the noisy retainers to depart. While he cannot hear the jovial conversations, the Grooms can.
As they go, Mount trailing along in their wake, he emerges and approaches the assembled Grooms as though he has no specific intent.
"Good morning, my Lord." One of them, a youth who seems most often to be present when he requires his horse, looks up at his approach, "Do you intend to ride? I fear it shall be a while before I can harness your horse."
"No, Paul - there is no need. I came only to enquire as to his wellbeing, for I have not been free to ride recently."
"He required the replacement of a shoe my Lord, but nothing untoward beyond that."
Rich nods, "I await the farrier's bill with bated breath. What was all that jesting about?" he asks, as though as an aside, "They seemed to find much amusement in their conversation."
"His Grace's men?" the boy Paul says, "Ah, they are most pleased - for it seems that his Grace the Duke has knighted them all - well, all except Mr Mount." He frowns, "I thought only the King could do that?"
Rich shakes his head, "Any noble can confer a knighthood, Paul. I was fortunate to receive mine from his Majesty - but even her Majesty the Queen could confer one if she so desired. I think that they can be granted as easily as sweetmeats."
"Perhaps - but they are all delighted with their rewards for their services. Except for Mr Mount, of course."
"Of course. But then, would you not be?" Rich says, "My thanks to you, Paul. I shall be by as soon as may be - I suspect that my poor horse has forgotten what it is to be ridden."
As he returns to the Palace, Rich turns the thought over in his mind. While it is the right of any high-placed noble to confer a knighthood, none here would dare to do such a thing; his Majesty guards his privileges like a lion, and would not countenance such activity. If anything, he would see it as a usurpation of his royal prerogative, and almost certainly react with violence. Not even Charles Brandon, one of his closest friends, or Thomas Howard, the most high-born of all the Nobles at Court, would be such a fool. In years gone by, when his Majesty was not so suspicious of those about him, they could -and did - but no longer.
"Indeed no." Cromwell agrees, once they have returned to the investigation room, "They might not dare - but Fitzroy is entirely different. I have no doubt, none, that his Majesty shall merely laugh, and ratify the knighthoods - to reinforce his own authority if nothing else. If he is not warned of his son's presumption by this, however, I can only fear the depth of his wilful blindness." He pauses, "Though the lack of such a reward for Mount would seem to be quite remarkable - and an opportunity that we cannot let by, I think."
"Indeed we cannot." Rich agrees, "He might be able to enlighten us as to the contents of that coffer."
"Indeed he might."
Standing in the Waiting Chamber, Cromwell watches carefully as Stephen Mount circulates amongst the other Courtiers. He is not fool enough to assume that the larger man shall willingly divulge all that they ask from him - for he is, or at least was, a loyal member of Fitzroy's retinue. The man's broken nose speaks rather brutishly of his love of fighting, and he has been known to wade into quite enormous brawls before now in defence of his Prince's rather dubious honour. To interview him, and demand he keep mum about their discussions, is a great risk. If he tells Fitzroy, then all could well be lost, for he shall ensure that all evidence is destroyed.
But I shall do it. He thinks to himself - five women are dead, and Rich is only now beginning to recover some sense of purpose after the loss of Kat. It is worth it - for the sake of his friend if no one else. Besides, what of the safety of other women at Court? No - there is no choice. It must be done.
Rich is waiting for him in the room that they have set aside nearby: paper, quills and ink at the ready. All that he, Cromwell, must do is find some means of getting Mount out of the chamber without people noticing, and the possibility of gossip reaching the ears of Fitzroy.
Positioning himself close to the entrance, Cromwell seems almost to blend into the walls, and gives off an air of quiet disinterest. All about him ignore him for the usual reasons - leaving him free to keep a close eye upon his prey. He pauses - perhaps he should not be surprised to be considering Mount in such terms; for now he is a hunter, and he is keen to ensure a kill.
It is the arrival of other members of the retinue that grants him the opportunity he seeks. Their noisy conversation, and boasting over their now privileged status as Knights Bachelor, causes Mount to scowl and step to the side of the room as though avoiding them. Moving through the small space between the assembled throng and the tapestry-hung walls, he sneaks to the door, and is through it without their seeing him. Equally, none see Cromwell as he does likewise, and is soon alongside Mount in the corridor, where now none are present.
"Mr Mount. A word." Despite his thinner frame, he has the edge upon Mount in height, and his expression is dangerous. He expects resistance - this man is, after all, a known brawler - but instead receives nervous deference. Mount knows that Cromwell is more than capable of having him removed to the Tower, it seems.
"My Lord?"
"In here." He says, shortly, grabbing Mount's elbow and steering him towards the room they have set aside. Rich looks up as they enter, his expression guarded and cold.
"What is it, my Lord?" Mount blusters, "Have I offended in some way?"
"Sit."
Mount complies, and looks even more nervous.
"Before we begin," Cromwell says, threateningly, "let me make it clear that nothing - not one word - of what we discuss in this room shall be spoken of afterwards. You shall not tell any that you spoke to us, nor shall you reveal to any the topics of which we speak. If you do, I have many ears about the Court, and I shall know. You have no noble rank, and thus - if necessary - I shall introduce you to a lady of my acquaintance - the daughter of the Duke of Exeter."
Mount stares at him, the stark colour draining from his face, "You would not…"
"Believe me. I would." Cromwell's expression darkens. Unlike most who are capable of bullying others, Cromwell is no coward. It appears that Mount, on the other hand, is. Using his fists holds no fear for him, but he is prey to one who knows well how to intimidate, for all know that Cromwell is the most powerful man at Court after the King himself. If he chooses to send a man to the Tower, and to the rack, he can - and will - do it.
"What do you want of me?"
"I want information." Cromwell says, leaning in close, "Information about the Duke of Richmond."
"What information?"
"All that you can supply." He rests an arm, almost confidentially, about Mount's shoulders, "Tell me all you know about Henry Fitzroy."
"I am not amongst those closest to his Grace," Mount says, rather nervously, "Thus I cannot tell you all - though I know not what you wish to know…"
"I think you do." Cromwell says, coldly.
"You would do better speaking to Herbert, Colling, Stacke and Bellman."
"I am speaking to you." Behind him, Cromwell hears the nib scratching as Rich notes down the names of the four retainers who have received knighthoods from Fitzroy, "As I said - tell me what you know of Fitzroy."
"He is a loyal and true son of the King…" Mount begins.
"Tell me information that I do not know. Madame Exeter is but a barge ride away."
Mount looks terrified - a strange, rather vile expression that belies his broken nose, "What would you have me tell you, my Lord?"
"Tell me of Fitzroy's habits. His views - his opinions. On women, for example. Or perhaps upon his status."
"He despises women." Mount seizes upon something that he can offer in order to avoid the rack, "All women - for in his mind they are corrupted by foul humours. They stain all men by their existence - and it is an affront to him that men must come from them into the world."
He pauses, nervously, as both of the men face him, frowning in disbelief, "Are you suggesting that he would prefer it if men could give birth to men?" Cromwell asks, though his eyes are keen in anticipation of the answer.
"It is, I think, because he is not true-born. His mother was a whore - of the King's, yes - but still a whore. Though he views all women so. Even those who are wedded - for their presence is a contamination upon all men. It is thanks to her that he is not a true-born son of his Majesty."
"And what of his Majesty's involvement?" Cromwell asks, "Is he not equally to blame? He did, did he not, bed Mistress Blount, and sire Fitzroy with his own seed?"
"She tempted him with her wiles - and thus corrupted him." Mount says.
"How do you know all of this if you are not amongst those closest to him?" Rich asks, looking up from his papers.
"It is not a confidence that he keeps. He speaks in such terms often - he will have nothing to do with his wife, for he has no desire to be contaminated by the humours that reside in her womb. He considers that to be the centre of a woman's evil: it is that which keeps them from the perfection of the male state - and thus requires such atonement to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. It was, after all, the woman who brought about Adam's fall."
"Do you subscribe to this view?" Cromwell asks, casually.
"I do not - and I am not sure that any of us do; but we claim to, for it does not please him if any disagree with him."
"So he avoids women at all costs. Does he prefer men, then?"
Mount shakes his head, vigorously, "No, my Lord, he is not of that persuasion - his urges are the same as that of any other man. Bellman procures trulls from the street for him to bed at least twice each week."
"He beds prostitutes, but not his wife?"
Mount nods.
"Why risk the pox when he has access to a woman who can provide him with his needs - for it is his conjugal right?"
"That I cannot say - though I rarely see them when they arrive, and never when they leave, for we are all abed by that time…" he stops.
"What?"
"I think that he wishes to perform acts that should not be performed upon a wife. For I have, now and again, heard screams." Mount admits, "Though all act as though they have not been heard. We do not ask questions - for he killed a servant who did by whipping him to death. As he did another who spoke of his bloodline."
Cromwell shudders, recalling the rumour that Gresham had mentioned. So it is true, then.
"What of his religious activities?" He changes tack.
"He is most strongly religious, my Lord. His devotions are daily."
"In what context?" Cromwell's eyes are suddenly narrow, and Mount quavers under his gaze.
"He…he is very much intent upon atonement for sins, my Lord. He speaks the one hundred and thirtieth psalm frequently, and recites the Confiteor daily - many times over and over."
"De Profundis? Out of the deep, call I unto the Lord?" Cromwell prompts.
"That is correct, my Lord."
"And his coffer?"
Mount stares at him nervously, "You know of that?"
Cromwell nods, "What do you know of it?"
"I know not what lies within it - but it is made of ebony, and is carved with many religious symbols and scenes. It is not overly large - it could hold papers, or a relic or two, perhaps. It has a remarkable padlock upon it - one that is opened by aligning several dials in sequence. Though I know not how it is done. As I have said, I know not what is within it, but it is always with him, wherever he goes, and he protects it fiercely - forbidding any to touch it or open it. It is always at his side when he seeks atonement - which is why I think perhaps it contains relics, for he requires their holy presence to assure him of God's love."
"Is there anything else you have to tell me?" Cromwell asks.
"I…I do not think so…" Mount looks very nervous, "I cannot think of anything - though I know that his four closest retainers are his protectors even as the new guard detail is not. You would gain more information from them than I can supply."
"I shall think on it." Cromwell leans in horribly close again, "Now. Remember: if you speak of this to anyone - any at all - the very walls of this palace have ears, and they report to me. If you do, I shall know - and you shall be in the Tower before the sun has set."
"You have my word, my Lord. On my mother's grave." Mount sweats.
"I accept your word." Cromwell rises, then turns to Mount, his eyes fearsome, "Get out."
His eyes terrified, Mount flees.
"God above." Rich says, quietly, "It's not just the Court women. If we do not stop him - then we are all bound for hell."