Out of the Deep Chapter 22: De Profundis, a tudors fanfic

A/N: Thanks for your review, Lilac and Lilies - I'm pleased that the intensity is still good and high!

I suspect that not even a spoken confession by Fitzroy himself with his hand on a Bible would've worked with Henry had it not been under the auspices of someone he trusted absolutely (well, as absolutely as Henry ever trusted anyone); and only Brandon really fits that bill - hence his about-turn in the face of overwhelming evidence.

Mary's role in the story is - admittedly - largely background and serves really as a device to illustrate just how much Henry showered adoration on his only (at that point) male child. She really did return to court to find that Fitzroy was occupying her former apartments - though whether she reacted as she does in this tale is pure conjecture. Given her relationships with her siblings during their collective childhoods, I imagine she was not as overtly resentful of Fitzroy as she appears here.

But now the time has come for Fitzroy to face his accusers. What will he do? Read on to find out...

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

De Profundis

A deluge of icy water cascades over Rich's head, dragging him back from the peace of unconsciousness into the searing pain of his ordeal. He does not know how long he has been here; all that fills his awareness now is the agony of his arms as he hangs, the gripping pain in his wrists from the chains that bind them. He throbs from shoulders to waist, the cold air upon bare flesh that is welted and bloody from the strap that has been struck against him again, and again, and again…

A face emerges into his confused vision, and he moans, weakly: Fitzroy…

"You do not escape from your punishment so easily, sinner. Not if you are to be redeemed. Speak!"

How can he speak? It is an effort even to breathe…

Fitzroy raises his hand, the long leather strap that he clutches hanging from it, his eyes crazed but his expression beatific despite the viciousness of his words, "Speak!"

And then he steps back, raises his arm, and lashes at Rich with the leather, landing yet another welt upon his back amidst the others, that burn and even, in some cases, bleed. He cannot keep back a scream.

"Speak!"

"Confiteor Deo omnipotente, et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi nimis…"

He is struck again, and screams again, for this time the pain is stronger as the strap reaches around his back and flicks against his side, magnifying the intensity of the contact, "…cogitatione, verbo, opere, et ommisione…" he moans, partly from the pain, but mostly from fear, for he cannot remember what comes next. He should…he was brought up speaking this…but it has escaped his memory; either that or the pain has driven it out. He has been speaking it interminably from the moment he was first stripped of his doublet and shirt, and hung by his wrists from the ceiling of the cell…he cannot have forgotten.

Fitzroy utters a horrible growling sound, that might be rage, or frustration, and begins to lash at him violently. There is no diminution of the force in his strikes, "Speak the words, you foul sinner! Speak them!"

And he remembers, the words tumbling from him in a frantic rush, "Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper virginem, omnes, angelos et sanctos, et vos fratres, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum!"

There is suddenly a hideous pain in his side as the strap curls around his back to strike there, though he does not know what it is. It is far, far worse than the strikes of the leather, and his scream ends in a gasp as the very act of breathing seems to exacerbate it, "God! God help me! Oh dear Christ! Save me, I beg you! Oh God!"

"Not until you are redeemed, sinner. For with the Lord there is plenteous redemption. Speak!"

Rich cannot keep back a sob, "Confiteor Deo omnipotente, et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi nimis, cogitatione, verbo, opere, et ommisione…" he breaks off with a scream as the whipping continues, the blows reaching across his chest and belly as Fitzroy moves around him, "Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper virginem, omnes, angelos et sanctos, et vos fratres, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum."

He has forgotten now what it was like not to be like this - not to be hanging; his shoulders burning, his wrists throbbing, his hands numb and tingling. He has no memory of a time when his torso was not afire with bloody welts. It shall be like this forever…forever…until he is dead…

And he is struck again, "Speak, Sinner!" Fitzroy demands.

"Confiteor Deo omnipotente, et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi nimis, cogitatione, verbo, opere, et ommisione: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper virginem, omnes, angelos et sanctos, et vos fratres, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum."

"Louder!" He is struck again, forcing another scream from his raw throat.

"LOUDER!" The lash is brutal, and again Rich screams.

"CONFITEOR DEO OMNIPOTENTE, ET VOBIS, FRATRES, QUIA PECCAVI NIMIS, COGITATIONE, VERBO, OPERE, ET OMMISIONE: MEA CULPA, MEA CULPA, MEA MAXIMA CULPA. IDEO PRECOR BEATAM MARIAM SEMPER VIRGINEM, OMNES, ANGELOS ET SANCTOS, ET VOS FRATRES, ORARE PRO ME AD DOMINUM DEUM NOSTRUM!" The pain is all but unendurable; he can barely breathe, "Oh God! Oh Christ! Enough! I cannot endure any more! I beg you, enough!"

"It is not enough. It shall not end until you are redeemed." Fitzroy whispers in his ear, "Now, speak. Shout out your confession!"

"I cannot…" Rich groans, "I cannot speak…I cannot breathe…"

Fitzroy's answer is another outburst of violent lashes with the strap; Rich's cry is agonised, and once again he screams out the words that are demanded of him, "CONFITEOR DEO OMNIPOTENTE, ET VOBIS, FRATRES, QUIA PECCAVI NIMIS, COGITATIONE, VERBO, OPERE, ET OMMISIONE: MEA CULPA, MEA CULPA, MEA MAXIMA CULPA. IDEO PRECOR BEATAM MARIAM SEMPER VIRGINEM, OMNES, ANGELOS ET SANCTOS, ET VOS FRATRES, ORARE PRO ME AD DOMINUM DEUM NOSTRUM!"

He is going to die here…in agony…alone…no one who cares for him nearby to comfort him in his last hours…Kat…oh, thank God…she will be there once this is ended…take me to her, oh Lord…take me to her, let me be with her in eternity…please…let it end…let me come home…let me be where she is…

He does not notice that the lashing has stopped, but continues anyway, "Confiteor Deo omnipotente, et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi nimis, cogitatione, verbo, opere, et ommisione: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper virginem, omnes, angelos et sanctos, et vos fratres, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum."

Then it begins to dawn upon him that he is reciting in silence. Where is Fitzroy? Why is it so still? Despite his pain, Rich looks up, and forces his eyes to focus. And realises that they are no longer alone.

"Enough, your Grace. Step back from him." Brandon's voice is low, almost deadly. If he had not believed the youth to be capable of almost inhuman cruelty, he can see now that he must. His eyes widen at the sight of Rich, hanging by his wrists, bared to the waist - his garments replaced by a gruesome coat of red, throbbing wounds, some of which weep blood in small rivulets over the livid skin. The boy is but eighteen…and he does this to a man? God help England if we do not end this now…

Fitzroy eyes the Duke of Suffolk without any apparent recognition, "I answer not to you; for you are but a man." It is as though the boy is not present - as though he has cut himself away from his true self, and imagines himself to be another person entirely.

"I am your equal, your Grace. In almost every aspect. I am created a Duke by his Majesty, and I am of illegitimate birth. Step away from him, and set down the lash."

His eyes half closed, Rich continues to speak, faintly, and Cromwell recognises the words of the Confiteor. It seems that, even now, in the presence of rescuers, and the halting of his torment, he does not dare to stop.

"I am not a Duke." Fitzroy says, his eyes glazed and his expression almost alight with religious fervour, "I am of the Angels."

Brandon stares at him, utterly unable to find words to respond to such a statement. Is Fitzroy truly so mad? Is it self-deception? Is he possessed?

Then Cromwell speaks, quietly, "His Majesty has the ebony coffer, your Grace."

Fitzroy goes very still. Then, slowly, he turns his head and looks upon Cromwell as though seeing him for the first time, the beatific expression vanishing as a deadly truth reaches through his delusion and forcibly restores him to the present, "My father…the coffer…"

"He has read the papers it holds. He knows now what you have done. What you have become."

The youth's eyes glaze again, but his expression now is savage, violent, as he addresses the retainers who came with him, "They are but two men - kill them!"

They had been watching Rich's torture with enjoyment, and its cruelty has awakened their own savage temperaments. Their eyes as vicious as their master's, the four that were named by Stephen Mount: Herbert, Colling, Stacke and Bellman, advance. They are, to a man, tall and powerfully built, and each is ready to inflict violence upon the two who have interrupted their entertainment.

Without hesitation, Cromwell and Brandon draw their pistols, and each stands ready to fire, "We have both fought in wars, your Grace," Cromwell advises, coldly, "and we have both taken lives. Do not think that we shall not do so again if we must."

Brandon says nothing, but his expression is set, and his stance firm. He, like Cromwell, is ready to kill if the need arises. Behind Cromwell's head, Rich whimpers the Confiteor again, utterly exhausted, but unable to cease that endless plea for atonement while Fitzroy stands beside him.

The four men pause, uncertain in the face of weaponry, "The guns have no slow-match," one says, "They cannot be fired - it is nothing more than a trick!"

"Are you willing to trust that?" Brandon asks, coldly, "Can you be sure that these guns even need a slow-match? Perhaps they are the newest of their kind - the wheellock. It needs no slow match, for it is self striking, and it could end your life before you even take a step toward me. Thus you must consider: do you feel willing to take that risk? That luck is upon your side, ruffian? Truly?"

His expression equally cold, Cromwell deliberately takes aim at the one who spoke, the gun primed and ready to fire. Their attempt to ignore the threat of the weapons and resume their advance suddenly stilled again.

"Stand down." Brandon orders, "You shall be arrested and taken to cells by the Tower Guard. If you refuse, you die here and now." He does not need to add that they shall instead die later. That seems, at least to him, to be an inevitable conclusion. The sound of a multitude of footsteps as all available warders make their way to the cell is an additional incentive. Their eyes suddenly fearful, the four men raise their hands in supplication.

"Constable!" Cromwell calls through the door, "Arrest these four. We shall deal with the Duke."

Both men stand firm as the four retainers are surrounded, arrested and bundled from the cell with surprisingly little difficulty. With his protectors gone, Fitzroy glares at the two armed men with dangerous eyes. Behind them, Kingston steps back and waits by the door.

Unfazed, Brandon raises his arm, and aims one pistol at the mad prince, "Enough, your Grace. Step aside from Sir Richard, and submit yourself to the King's justice. It ends here, and it ends now. Do not force me to shoot you - for if I must, I will."

His eyes vicious, Fitzroy steps behind Rich, as though intending to use him as a human shield, "I shall not comply with your demands, Brandon. You are a mere Duke. I am a Prince of the Blood." As he speaks, his hand slowly, meticulously, moves up and down Rich's back, deliberately pressing down roughly upon the bloody welts, "I am above your orders, or your considerations. I answer only to his Majesty, and if he is not here to order me, then you have no authority to demand anything." He ignores his victim's hoarse groans as he continues to prod, and - yet again - Rich whispers the Confiteor, his throat too sore to manage anything louder.

"You have no alternative but to stand there." He continues, still prodding, "Stand there and watch as I do as I will. I am the Son of the King, and I shall walk from this room a free man. I shall then return to him and tell him that he is deceived by a vile plot to destroy me - a plot in which you intend to take the throne, to rule as Protector over one of the royal girls, for I am to be a victim of your jealousy."

"It is too late for that, your Grace." Brandon advises, "He has seen the coffer. He knows your writing as well as he knows his own."

Finally abandoning Rich's wounds, he steps out from behind his hanging victim, "And does he not believe every word that I say? Did he not believe me when I told him this whining fool beside me destroyed five women?"

"Perhaps he did, once." Cromwell answers, quietly, "But no longer – for he has seen the proof of your actions written in your own hand, and thus the scales have fallen from his eyes."

Fitzroy snorts with disdain, "He is blind to everything that I have ever done! I am his beloved son, and his only son! In his eyes, I can do no wrong, and I shall prove it to you!"

His smile widening, almost like that of a shark, he draws his poniard and steps back again, "I shall kill Rich - here and now; before your helpless eyes. You shall not stop me, for I am a prince of the Blood. I shall then walk from here and return to the Palace to inform his Majesty of your duplicity. And so you shall join him in death."

Still smiling, he sets the point of the weapon against Rich's side, ready to drive it in between his ribs to the heart pulsing beyond, calmly ignoring his victim's fearful moan at the sense of the point against his bruised flesh, and the pistol aimed at him even as he speaks.

His expression set, Brandon speaks only once, "You shall not. If you do, I swear before God and these witnesses that I shall shoot you - do not think that I shall not."

Fitzroy's eyes narrow, his smile widens with cruelty. Ignoring Brandon's order, he turns back to Rich to check the position of the point, before looking once more at the two men he thinks to be helpless against him, and tenses to deliver his killing blow.

Without even a flicker of emotion, Brandon pulls the trigger.

The explosion of sound is enormous in the confined space, sufficient almost to drown out Rich's hoarse scream. Then, as the smoke clears, everything seems utterly still.

His face still wreathed in a smile, Fitzroy stares glassily at Brandon. Between his eyes, there is now a hole in his forehead where once there was unwrinkled skin, and a rivulet of blood makes its way down the side of his perfect, aquiline nose like a Saint's tear. Then, the poniard drops to the stone floor with a shocking clatter in the sudden silence, before the mad, now dead, prince topples in its wake.

The silence seems to last forever, as Brandon slowly lowers the pistol that has ended the life of the Son of the King. His expression is sorrowful, but implacable. He did what he did because there was no other choice. Enough innocents have died at the hands of that twisted youth; no more. If he is fortunate, perhaps - in time - Henry shall forgive him.

Cromwell has set his pistols down upon the floor, "Help me, your Grace." His voice is urgent, and Brandon is pulled from his reverie to see that the Lord Privy Seal is now engaged with releasing the chains at the wall to lower Rich to the floor. Abandoning his weapons, he steps in to assist, grasping Rich's arms to stop him from falling. Even now - even after all that has happened, the Chancellor is still speaking, whimpering faintly, his eyes screwed tight shut, "Confiteor Deo omnipotente, et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi nimis, cogitatione, verbo, opere, et ommisione: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper virginem, omnes, angelos et sanctos, et vos fratres, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum…"

"Help me to sit him on the stool, your Grace."

"He is severely injured, I think."

"Not as much as he might have been. We should be grateful that Fitzroy did not use a scourge - or he would almost certainly be dead."

As they seat him, Rich screams again. His breathing is shallow, as though to do so too deeply is impossible; his head is bowed, his face ashen and sheened with sweat as though upon the point of fainting, his eyes tightly closed.

"Where is the worst of the pain?" Cromwell asks, crouching before him.

"Richard - you do not need to speak the Confiteor any longer. It is over - Fitzroy is dead. You are no longer in his power."

Rich shakes his head, fearfully, "I cannot…I dare not…I must not until I am redeemed…Confiteor Deo omnipotente, et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi nimis, cogitatione, verbo, opere, et ommisione: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper virginem, omnes, angelos et sanctos, et vos fratres, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum."

Cromwell looks up at Brandon, who turns to the door, "Mr Kingston?"

"I am here, your Grace." He has not left his post.

"Summon a physician to tend to Sir Richard."

"At once, your Grace."

Brandon returns to Cromwell, "Why will he not stop speaking the Confiteor?"

"I think he is too afraid to." Cromwell says, quietly, "Richard - you can stop. You are permitted to stop. There is no longer any need for you to continue. It is over; Fitzroy cannot censure you, or beat you. It is done. You are rescued…"

Slowly, very slowly, Rich looks up and opens his eyes, "I must not…" his voice is shaking with emotion, "I must not…let me join her; please, let me join her. I have no wish to be on this earth any longer - why did you not let him end it? I wanted him to end it…I wanted to be with her again…" and then he slumps forward over Cromwell's shoulder, and cries.

"Her?" Brandon asks.

Cromwell does not answer, but looks up at him sadly. Remembering their discussion on the Barge, he nods.

"I have secured a physician, my Lord." Kingston reports, rather more quickly than expected, "Doctor Butts - he was tending to a warder's wife."

"My Lord Cromwell, I heard that a man was injured…God above, what has happened here?" Doctor Butts appears in the doorway and sees Rich, still slumped against Cromwell, still sobbing.

"Doctor," Brandon intervenes, "Before you tend to Sir Richard - I must ask you to verify the state of this corpse." He steps aside to reveal the fallen body of Fitzroy.

"Jesu have mercy!" Butts says, sharply, "The Duke of Richmond? How is it that this has happened? Who shot him?"

"I did."

"You, your Grace? But why?"

"He does not know?" Brandon asks Cromwell, who shakes his head; "We did not have time to advise him."

"Fitzroy was responsible for the murders, Doctor." Brandon advises, "It is - I fear, rather a long story."

Butts nods, "Tell me later. Mr Kingston," he turns to the door, where the Constable is still waiting, "Fetch in a truckle and some blankets for Sir Richard. I shall need to tend to him here before he can be moved to more suitable quarters. I shall see to the corpse while you are busy."

All business again, Butts retrieves the leather gauntlets from his bag, and kneels beside the corpse, "I can certainly confirm that he is dead, your Grace. From a single wound to the head. I think, however, that such an assessment is rather plainly obvious, is it not?"

"Perhaps." Brandon agrees, "If that is officially the case, then I shall see to the removal of the corpse back to the Palace, for I think it appropriate that he be transported back there in case his Majesty wishes to view his remains."

Butts nods, "That would be wise." He speaks more quietly, "I think Mr Cromwell should assist you. I do not wish to have him attempting to direct my examination of Mr Rich."

"It is nothing more than loyalty to a good friend, Doctor."

"That may be. But it's a bloody nuisance nonetheless, your Grace."

Kingston returns with two guards, who carry a simple truckle bed into the cell, while the Constable carries two felt blankets, "I trust these are suitable, Doctor?"

"Excellent. If you could assist his Grace, my Lord, we shall tend to Sir Richard." His voice is friendly, but there is a hint of steel in it; a warning that he shall not be impressed if Cromwell refuses to comply. Rich has calmed somewhat, but still continues occasionally to murmur under his breath. It seems that even now he cannot keep from reciting the Confiteor.

Butts burrows into his bag, "Do you have some ale or wine nearby, Constable? I think this man needs rest more than he needs anything else, and his pain is preventing it." Yet again, Kingston departs, with an air of such patience that Cromwell is deeply impressed at his forbearance. While he waits, Butts persuades Rich to stretch out upon the truckle, though he cries out again, sharply, as he lies down.

"What is that?" Cromwell asks, at once, "He cried out in similar fashion as we seated him."

"I think it is naught but a cracked rib, my Lord. Perhaps he had been struck in the same place too many times, or with a particularly awkward strike of the strap. Painful, but not overly harmful as long as we rest him with care." Butts advises, before shooting a look at Cromwell that all but shouts go away. As soon as Kingston returns with a flagon and a cup, Butts retrieves his bottle of poppy juice, and it is not long before Rich is sleeping.

Brandon is crouching beside the corpse, having taken one of the blankets to drape over it. He looks up as Cromwell joins him, "Perhaps this is for the best." He sighs, "The evidence is beyond refutation. His Majesty would have had no alternative but to condemn his own son - or have him locked away as a madman. How could he possibly do so, given his public adulation of the boy?"

"That, I agree, would have been all but impossible for him. The injuries he has inflicted upon Sir Richard would be excused immediately and some reason fabricated to explain it - one that would almost certainly lead to a false accusation of treason, I think; but a confession to so many brutal deaths? I did not count the papers, but there were at least fifty, possibly more. How many have died at that youth's hands - and those of his accomplices? For I have no doubt that those men who are now in custody are the ones who ensured that he entered the apartments unseen, and departed without leaving any sign of his depravity beyond the door of the scene."

"I imagine that they shall tell all."

"If they do not, then I shall make them. See if they enjoy experiencing torment as much as they enjoy watching it." Cromwell says, with shocking venom. Brandon looks up at him again, startled, then turns back to the truckle bed where Butts has now draped the other blanket over Rich to warm him. It is not just the deaths of the women; but also the suffering of a friend. Sighing, he returns his attention to the corpse, and lifts the blanket.

"A moment, your Grace." Cromwell bends and carefully unfastens the top of Fitzroy's doublet, "There is still one thing that must be done."

Reaching under the fine velvet, he retrieves the chain that caused Rich to stumble headlong into the disastrous mire that almost engulfed him. Brandon stares at it, "What - are these items stolen from his victims? I thought them to be gifts from lovers. He all but claimed them to be so; such was his pride in them, I found it amusing…" his voice trails off at the realisation that they are anything but gifts.

"They are not. They were indeed trophies taken from those whom he killed. Richard recognised one of the jewels; and Fitzroy realised he had done so. Regardless of his mania, I had noticed some time ago that, when in his right mind, he was dangerously acute to all about him, and took careful account of things that others might not even have noticed. That is what led to this." Grimacing, he reaches under Fitzroy's neck to unfasten the chain, and lifts it away, "You can cover him now."

As Brandon drapes the felt over the body, Cromwell carefully removes Kat's pearl from the chain. She had done so much to help them; if only it had not been in the act of dying. "It was Kathryn who showed us the way, your Grace." He says, quietly, "She knew even as she faced Fitzroy what was to come - and yet still she did what she could to aid us, such was her courage. She grasped a handful of his doublet, and her grip was so tight in death that he had no choice but to tear his garment from her grasp - leaving a fragment behind. It was the first sign we had that the killer was not a mere Courtier. The loss of the pearl also indicated that he was stealing from them - though I knew nothing of the vials of blood until I found the coffer."

Leaving Brandon with the corpse, he turns back to Butts, "Doctor - give this to Richard when he is in a fit state to receive it. This is the black pearl drop that he begged us to retrieve for him."

The Doctor takes it, "I shall do so. Leave him in my care - I shall oversee his return to Placentia. I think it best if we find some means of transporting him to better quarters. It would not do for him to recover his senses and find himself still to be in this place of suffering. Mr Kingston, if you and your guards would kindly assist me?"

"Of course." Kingston nods, then turns to Brandon, "Your Grace, do not trouble yourself with the movement of the corpse. My men are well used to dealing with the dead. I shall organise his return to the Palace if that is your requirement."

"My thanks, Constable." Brandon agrees, "It is best, however, if the matter remains secret for the time being. I had thought to transport his remains back to Placentia, but, on thinking again, I feel he should be found an appropriate place of repose within the Tower where none but his father can visit him - should he wish to do so." He sighs, heavily, "I think, my Lord, there is nothing more that we can do here. Our only recourse now is to return to Greenwich."

Cromwell nods, and looks back briefly to where Rich now lies unconscious upon the rough truckle bed. They have ended the nightmare - but the cost…

Retrieving his borrowed pistols, he turns back to Brandon, "Lead on, your Grace. Let us to the King."