A/N: My goodness! Thank you for your comments; I'm so pleased that you're on the edge of your collective seats - things are singularly ratcheting up, are they not?
The stakes are high - but what's Fitzroy up to while Brandon and Cromwell are realising just how far this could go? Read on to find out...
CHAPTER TWENTY
A Comparison of Commandments
The stark bulk of the Tower looms over the boats and barges that ply the waters of the Thames. Amidst them, one barge has travelled the three long hours from Placentia, while those aboard laugh and jest. All but one.
Sitting on a bench, chained and gagged, Rich huddles, partly from the cold, for he has no cloak, and partly from misery. Fitzroy exchanged the royal guard at the Privy Stairs for that band of four new knights in his retinue; and they have spent the entire journey joking and discussing the crimes of which he has been accused, secure from the ears of the oarsmen by the closed doors of the cabin. He recalls their names; Herbert, Colling, Stacke and Bellman - but their cruel faces seem almost interchangeable, and he cannot for the life of him tell which is which.
"And what of that fulsome little wench from the wayside inn?" One of them asks, grinning horribly, "I thought her to be most uncommonly pretty."
"Not when you'd finished with her, right, my Lord?" another smirks, his voice thick with innuendo. Sitting amongst them, Fitzroy snorts, cruelly.
"No indeed. Vile little whore - at least she would never corrupt another man with that slick little countenance."
Rich wants to scream at them, demand to know why they consider it acceptable to do what they are doing - but the gag is thick in his mouth, and he cannot get words past it. He tried when they were pulling him to the Privy Stairs - and all that came out was muffled grunts that caused them much amusement. He cannot bring himself to try again: they would just laugh all the more.
Another of the men gets up, "And then there was that one with the pocks."
Rich's eyes widen…God, not Kat…please not her…
Grinning horribly, he begins to thrust his pelvis back and forth, an unmistakable mime, "I love you Richie! I love you! Wonder who that fucker was."
Rich screws his eyes tight shut. He knows full well who that fucker was. Tears drain into the thick cloth of the gag. Not his Kat…dear God, even as she was dying, she still thought only of him…
I must not weep. I must not give them the satisfaction of knowing who Kat loved…
"And we are free to continue our work." Fitzroy adds, brightly, "For my beloved father, God rot him, believes me to have found the man who killed the five Palace whores. He was sending his idiot friend Brandon in search of the Crow Cromwell when I was leaving. I did not even need to ask - once he is out of the way, then all is mine."
"All?" another of the four asks, "Could you really take the Crown?"
"God yes. Why not? I shall be legitimate in days. His fat Majesty is such a ball of lard that he might drop dead any day - or his stinking, befouled legs might poison him into his grave. If he does, and there is no boy from the Queen in time, I shall lead the succession. Perhaps a little help courtesy of his ravening appetite, even?"
For a moment, the four retainers fall silent, and Rich wonders if Fitzroy has shocked them to the point that they might deny him.
"What of his taster?" One asks, sounding intrigued rather than repulsed, "How could you evade discovery?" It seems that they are not shocked, then.
"Something slow, but effective; hemlock for choice - by the time the taster was sickening, the old man would have winnowed his way through the entire remove and there would be no return from the track to hell. It would be a simple matter to repudiate the little slut and claim the brat to be that of another Courtier, and hold him responsible for all. You, perhaps?" he laughs as he leans over and ruffles Rich's hair, insultingly, "And she goes to the block. Brat in the belly or no. God above, I am chosen - has he not said so? If I am chosen, then I shall take it for myself and you shall all be Dukes!"
The men cheer, delightedly. If they had ale pots, Rich is convinced they would smash them together.
God help us…God help me…Oh dear God help me…
Fighting to keep his tears back, Rich keeps his eyes closed. The Tower is above them now. He is not blind to his plight: Fitzroy has brought him here to kill him, and he has no wish to see the place in which he is to die.
"Where is the Constable?" Fitzroy demands, loudly, almost drunkenly, "Fetch him to me! Fetch him now!"
He mounts the steps from the water gate, while the four men behind him bundle Rich out of the barge and drag him up in the Duke's wake, still chained; still gagged.
The warders stare at Fitzroy in bemusement, "My Lord?" One of them ventures, bemused that someone so highly placed would be escorting a prisoner.
"Do I have to have you flogged at your post, you knave? Fetch the Constable - fetch him now!"
They do not need to be told a third time. One bows hastily, and flees through the outer ward to the gate that shall admit him into the main fortress.
As they wait, Fitzroy remains silent, but his eyes flit about wildly, and he fidgets - as though he wishes to be anywhere but where he is. Rich remembers that behaviour from the Midnight Mass.
Perhaps, then, he had acted already to kill - and was in a maddened state because of it. Or maybe he was desirous to do so - and could not, for he was in the Mass.
Cromwell's words surface in his memory, and his knees almost give beneath him. Fitzroy was like this on the night that Louise Knotte died. Is he beginning to go into that same maddened state again? No…God, please no…not with me…not with me…
He is not strong. He thought that he could bear death if it would reunite him with Kat - but he cannot…not at the hands of this man. Not by whatever means he intends to use. Despite his gag, Rich utters a frantic plea for his life, but it comes out in nothing more than hideous mumblings.
Fitzroy turns, and looks into Rich's wide, terrified eyes. He says nothing; but merely smiles.
The Constable is hastening out from the inner ward to the newly arrived party, his expression concerned, for he was not expecting prisoners tonight, "Forgive me my Lord, I was at supper." He says, bowing deeply. Then he looks up, and realises who has come, "Your Grace?"
"I bring a prisoner, Mr Kingston." Fitzroy says, boredly, "Give me your keys."
Rich stares desperately at the Constable. This man is his last hope of salvation: his only chance to live. If Cromwell is also arrested, there shall be no other help for him. For God's sake - tell them to remove the gag…please, please, please…
"I was not expecting prisoners this evening, your Grace." Kingston tries again, nervously. The men with the Duke are not palace guards, and the man in their grasp is a highly placed courtier - a member of the Privy Council, no less. And, more importantly, he is terrified. Most of those who come here are in such a state - but it seems to him that this man is fearful not so much of the Tower itself, but of the captors who have brought him here.
"That may be, Mr Kingston. I require your keys."
"I must protest, your Grace." Kingston says, "the Tower is in my charge, and I report only to the King and the highest officers of the Land - the Lord Chancellor and the Lord Privy Seal. It is only they who could demand the keys to this fortress. I would fail in my duty to my King if I granted them to any other."
Oh, thank Christ…he means to help me… Rich sags, gratefully.
"The bill to grant my legitimacy is passed, Mr Kingston. And Royal Assent shall be granted within a day. Thus I shall become Duke of York, and one of the highest officers of the land. Give me the keys."
"Your Grace," Kingston protests again, "I cannot do so."
"Give them to me, or I shall have them taken from your corpse. Do not think I shall not order your death, Constable. I am the son of the King, and I have his absolute confidence and love. If you do not comply with my demands, he shall grant my request that you lay your own head upon the block at Tower Hill. Give me the fucking keys."
Kingston stares at them helplessly. He is known for his scruples, his humanity and his decency - and he is being asked to act in a manner that is - at the very least - highly dubious. Fitzroy is not acting legally; that much is clear, but if he refuses, then he shall be dead, and who shall protest to the King then?
Wordlessly, but his expression speaking for him, he retrieves the bunch of keys that are largely his badge of office, and hands them to Fitzroy. Behind the Duke, Rich moans and his legs give way beneath him. The two men hold him grapple with his arms and prevent him from falling to the cobbles, while a third leans in and slaps him back to consciousness.
"You do not follow us." Fitzroy hisses at Kingston, "Not you or any of your guards. If any do, they shall die."
The Constable stares at him, "Your Grace!" he says, horrified. What on earth are they planning to do to the man in their clutches?
He has, however, no choice but to watch as Rich is marched away into the inner ward. Kingston does not know where they are taking the Privy Councillor, but he can make a highly educated guess. Furious, he turns to one of his guards, "Prepare a barge. I must send word to the King."
In the inner ward, the great Conqueror's Keep rises above them, while the main palace buildings are nearby. Fitzroy, however, has another destination, and they move past the finer buildings, towards those of a far ruder aspect.
Rich has not been here in months, and has never wanted to come back. Not after those horrible interrogations. A man of his status should, all things being equal, be lodged in one of the towers of the ward, but their route is familiar for reasons he cannot bring himself to recall. They are going to those places where those of lesser state are held. The places that he remembers with dread. This is where they came to interrogate Mark Smeaton - and now it is to hold him.
The cell is empty, but for a wooden stool in the middle of it and straw scattered across the flags of the floor. There are chains set across the ceiling, the ends of which drape downwards, but otherwise the room is bare.
Forcibly seated, Rich looks up at the men who have taken him prisoner, as one of them steps behind him and finally removes the gag.
"You are a vile sinner." Fitzroy says, softly, "For you have broken all manner of God's Commandments, have you not? You have killed. You have committed adultery and you have borne false witness. All mortal sins, my Lord. All of them."
Rich does not reply. He wants to - but the words will not come.
"All men are born in sin. For woman created sin and infected men with it. Perhaps you are not to blame - for your mistresses corrupted you, did they not? If you atone, you may yet still be redeemed."
He circles Rich a few times, and then stops dead in front of him, "De profundis clamavi ad te Domine…" he glares at Rich, who looks up at him, "What am I saying to you?"
He struggles to reply, for his mouth is dry; but forces himself to speak, "Out of the deep call I unto the Lord."
"Finish it!" Fitzroy shouts, and slaps him across the face.
"Out of the deep call I unto the Lord, Lord hear my voice…Oh, let thine ears consider well, the voice of my complaint…" he stops, then tries again,"…If thou Lord wilt be extreme to mark…to mark what is done…I cannot remember any more…"
"That is because you are naught but a foul sinner! You have no desire to atone, no wish for redemption! You revel in your mortal sin! You have killed! Fornicated! Borne false witness!"
"I have not killed!" Rich cries back, "I have never once ended a life by my hand!"
Fitzroy leans in, sharply, and grabs his shoulders, "Not by your hand - but by the hand of others! Do you think that you are absolved thanks to the death being by another's means? Fisher! More! Boleyn! All of them through your actions! It was through your lies and perjury that they died!"
"And what of you?" Rich retorts, "If I am so great a sinner, then what of you? What of those who have died at your hand? Five women are dead! And what crime did they commit? What harm did they do you? None!"
Fitzroy's eyes grow deadly, his pupils narrowing to pinpoints, "Five? You think that they are all?"
Rich stares at Fitzroy, whose expression has changed again - almost in an instant - the pupils are wide again, his expression beatific, "If I have cleansed but five, then I have failed them. No, there are far more who were rendered fit for Heaven through my grace."
He has gone mad…he is insane…Rich pulls back, as much as he can without falling from the stool.
"Do you not understand?" Fitzroy continues, rising to his feet again, "I am not of mortal origin, and thus I am not subject to the requirements of the Commandments, for they were placed upon men, not those of us who come from God. I cannot be a mortal man, for I am not the son of a whore. Are not all women whores? Thus I can be only from Heaven. And so I cleanse women of that which makes them corrupted. For if they are not cleansed, then they are not redeemed - for with the Lord, there is plenteous redemption…"
"How do you cleanse them?" Rich asks. He knows how - but if anyone else can hear this, then perhaps there shall be a confession that might remain after Fitzroy has killed him…
"I excise their womb." Fitzroy says, calmly, "For that is the source of all female corruption. It is an organ that they have, but that we do not - for we are clean, but they are corrupt. If that is removed, then they are cleansed - and fit for heaven."
"And what of the violence you visit upon them?" Rich demands, rather more boldly, "Ripping out their insides? Slashing their faces?"
"All must atone for their sins, before they can be redeemed." Fitzroy seems quite astonished that Rich should ask such a stupid question when the answer is so obvious. He turns, and leans in again, "You are a vile sinner. Let me prove to you that I am not, for I remember what eludes you."
Rich shrinks from him again, for his eyes are still hideous, "How shall you do that?"
"By speaking those words that you cannot remember." He rests his hands upon Rich's shoulders again, "Out of the deep call I unto the Lord. Lord, hear my voice. Oh let Thine ears consider well the voice of my complaint. If Thou Lord wilt be extreme to mark what is done amiss, O Lord who may abide it?"
He rises again, "But there is mercy with Thee. That Thou mayest be feared. I look for the Lord. My soul doth wait for Him, and in His word is my trust. My soul doth patiently abide the Lord from the one morning to the other. Let Israel trust in the Lord, for with the Lord, there is mercy and plenteous redemption. And He shall redeem Israel from all his sins."
"That is a private matter between the Almighty and the soul." Rich demands, "Through the intercession of a priest. In what way do you have the right to claim to redeem any man?"
Fitzroy regards him, "For I am more than a man."
"Stop this. Let me go - I shall speak to the King on your behalf - this does not have to continue. I am a Privy Councillor…"
"You are a sinner." Fitzroy says, viciously, and then leans in again, his expression beatific once more - the sudden changes of mood as frightening as his words, "And there is still the issue of your crimes. Your mortal sins. Thus you must confess, and accept punishment in atonement for them."
"Do not dare to harm me." Rich tries again, though his words lack conviction, "I am a Privy Councillor…"
"And what is that to the Almighty?"
"I…" Rich cannot answer.
Yet again, Fitzroy stands back, "You must confess. Thus you shall speak the Confiteor until you are cleansed, and accept punishment for your crimes."
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.
The words of Gresham rise in Rich's mind, and he stares at Fitzroy in horror. Is this what he intends to do? The youth's eyes are flitting back and forth…he is fidgeting…dear God…what he intending to do?
His face absolutely calm, Fitzroy makes a single gesture. His retainers close in upon Rich, and he screams.