CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Conspiracy of Silence
The atmosphere aboard the barge is sombre. The need for urgency past, neither man is concerned that the oarsmen are not pulling at their hardest - not in the thick darkness of the early hours. Why bother? The only destination is the Privy Chamber, where the King must learn that his son is dead.
As he looks out over the black waters, Cromwell wonders how his Majesty shall receive such news. He is not unaware that, had it been he who had pulled the trigger, this would almost certainly become a return trip back to the Tower - for the King would never have countenanced such an act from a man as low as he. Even though Brandon fired that fatal shot, he cannot avoid a cold shiver; it was his revelation of that ghastly evidence that brought them to this, and how likely is it that Henry shall forgive him for it?
In light of Brandon's revised decision, no barge has been engaged to transport Fitzroy's remains back to the Palace; instead, the corpse is being transferred to the Chapel in the Keep, where it shall be kept secretly until a decision is made on what to do next. The four men who accompanied him shall reside in widely separated cells, for the same reason.
"What of the retainers?" Brandon asks, quietly, intent upon the shipping that surrounds them in the Pool of London rather than the man to whom he speaks.
"I shall interview them." Cromwell answers grimly, "For though we know that Fitzroy was responsible, and they assisted him, we do not know how. Their involvement must be clarified; I suspect that they were fully aware of their actions, and willing participants. If, however, they were not, then we must take care not to act against them in a permanent fashion. There has been enough innocent blood spilled in all of this."
Finally, Brandon turns to look at Cromwell. He has the chain that he took from Fitzroy in his hands, carefully examining the four remaining items upon it, "Why would he take something from them?"
"That, I cannot say." Cromwell admits, "Perhaps he wished to keep a reminder of the women who died - a token of his murders. That the deaths were so well planned suggests a mind keen upon the act. Perhaps the collection of small items was to remember them - to keep a connection to the women he killed – as though they were lovers whom he had kept and from whom he had parted on good terms. I cannot fathom how a man could think so; and thus I cannot determine whether that is truly the case."
"We shall not be able to allow the truth to be spoken, my Lord." Brandon says, suddenly.
"Of that, I am also aware." Cromwell agrees, "I do not know how that shall sit with Sir Richard; whether the death of the perpetrator shall be a sufficient vengeance for him. Fitzroy caused him great suffering, and to live on, knowing that the youth shall not answer for his crimes before an Earthly court may be a burden that he shall struggle to carry. Until I have spoken to him, however, I cannot say how he shall think on it. He must know of it, and agree with it, if any tale we tell is to become the truth of this."
Brandon shakes his head, "I wish that we could be so considerate, my Lord Cromwell; but we cannot. The truth shall be far more destructive to England than a lie shall be to one man - grieving though he is. It would be impossible for his Majesty to admit that his son was insane, for to do so would cause men to think that perhaps it was inherited from his father. It is far too dangerous to allow such a rumour to escape - not after the spilling of so much blood to restore the King's authority in the face of the rebellions. As for the opinions of Princes elsewhere..." he shudders at the thought of such a diplomatic calamity.
"We cannot construct a false tale until I have interviewed the accomplices, my Lord." Cromwell adds, "Whatever tale we tell must not conflict with theirs. If their involvement was coerced, then to destroy them would be unacceptable. If, however, they are as guilty as their master - perhaps that can work to our advantage. But only if they are guilty."
Brandon resumes his perusal of passing ships, "Such consideration, my Lord. What if we had shown such care to our late friends Sir Thomas More and John Fisher?"
"Then I should sleep better at night, and be haunted by fewer ghosts." Cromwell answers, bitterly.
They pass the rest of the journey in silence, each buried in their own thoughts. We have won - and yet, have we also lost? Cromwell thinks to himself. Fitzroy is dead; but in that, at least, we are spared the need to place him on trial. That, the King could not stand.
All that remains now is to uncover how Fitzroy's retainers helped him. Were they present in the room when the killings took place? Did they disguise their master? How did they select the victims? If they cannot bring Fitzroy to justice before an Earthly court, then the four who helped him must not escape it. Fitzroy's judgement is in God's hands now.
Mounting the Privy Stairs, the two men make their way through the darkened corridors to the Privy Chamber. Neither are surprised to see a light still burning, though it seems to them that the King has not moved even a muscle since they left him. He is not asleep, but he gives no sign that he is aware of their presence.
"I told you to bring my son back." He says, suddenly, startling them, "Why have you not done so?"
"He has remained at the Tower, Majesty." Brandon explains, knowing that the King shall not welcome this news from Cromwell, "I fear that I must inform you that he is…he is dead."
Slowly, Henry's head rises, "How? Was it Rich? Did that duplicitous scoundrel act against him before you could reach him?" Even now, it seems impossible to him that his son could be the perpetrator of the crimes.
Brandon shakes his head, "No, Majesty. Sir Richard could not have acted against him, for it was your son who had him helpless and about to be murdered. He was preparing to drive a poniard into Sir Richard's side to pierce his heart. Thus…" he pauses, clears his throat, and continues, "…thus I was obliged to shoot him."
"Poniard?" Henry's expression seems almost uncomprehending.
"Majesty," Brandon sits down alongside him, "Forgive me, but I must tell you - when we found your son, he was holding Sir Richard in the deeper of the cells, where he was in the process of beating him; and, we fear, with the intention of continuing until his victim was dead."
"And why would he do such a thing?"
"Sir Richard recognised him to be the killer; thus he decided to pre-empt any possible accusation and accused Sir Richard instead. He and his accomplices suspended him from the ceiling of a cell by his wrists, bared him to the waist and proceeded to flog him most brutally with a leather strap. I am given to understand that he has killed servants before using the same method."
Henry's gaze fixes upon Cromwell's hands, "Why do you have my son's jewel chain?"
Finally, Cromwell speaks, "Forgive me for saying so, Majesty - but this carries items that he stole from his victims. There was one token from each of the five women at Court who died; I removed one of them, for it was an item of great importance to Sir Richard. It is in his hands now."
"I remember…" The King reaches out to take the chain, "I have seen him wearing it, and seen each item appear upon it, one after the other…"
"I can only beg your Majesty's forgiveness." Brandon says, sadly, "Had it been possible to avoid taking the Duke's life, then I would have done so - but I had no alternative. Had I not fired, Sir Richard would have died. His only crime, if crime it be, was to discover Fitzroy's culpability. No man should have to die for discovering the truth behind a criminal act."
Slowly, achingly slowly, Henry's head turns and he regards his friend in silence for a long time, "I grant my forgiveness, Charles." He says, quietly, "If there was no alternative, then I cannot blame you for what you did."
Cromwell stands silent. Though he is grateful that Henry has not referred to his involvement in this sorry business, and that he has accepted Brandon's obvious remorse, it is not lost upon him that the King has shown not one jot of concern for Rich. Would he truly have been willing to demand that sacrifice? An innocent life discarded in order to spare a guilty one? He does not dare to follow that thought to its conclusion - it is quite possible that he shall not like the answer at all.
"What is to be done?" The King sighs, eventually.
"At this time, Majesty," Brandon continues, knowing it shall sound better coming from him, "The Constable has arranged for the Duke's mortal remains to be placed under guard in the Chapel in the Conqueror's keep. There prayers shall be said over him - though his identity shall remain concealed. We should not reveal his passing at this time. That should take place once his accomplices…"
"Accomplices?" Henry asks, dully.
"Four of his retainers, Majesty. It appears that they aided him in the committing of his crimes. At this time, we do not know the extent of their involvement. Thus, we must ensure that as much information is available to us as is possible before we can construct any explanation for all that has passed."
Henry nods, his expression miserable, "Let it be done. I shall consider whether or not to see the…remains in the coming days. Get to it."
Cromwell sits alone in the investigation room, brooding over all that has happened. Outside, dawn is breaking, and those who have business at such an hour are busy at work.
He looks up as the door opens, "I thought I might find you here." Doctor Butts joins him at the table.
"Richard?"
"He is as well as can be expected. He is currently lodged in the Constable's house; I should prefer not to bring him back to Placentia until he is more rested and in less discomfort. I have only come here myself to apprise you of his condition. I shall return later today; I think it likely that he shall sleep until then."
"How long do you think before he shall be well enough to aid me?"
Butts shakes his head, "Even were he fit to do so, it shall be some time before he shall be able to write again - his wrists are raw, and I suspect the damage to be quite deep. The weals upon his flesh are still tender, and shall remain so for some days; though they shall ease rather sooner than his wrists and his rib."
"So a rib is cracked?"
"Yes. It shall be painful for him to breathe for a few weeks - but there is no significant damage other than bruising. He has been fortunate - the use of the leather strap has saved him from almost certain death."
"That was my thought. Thank God Fitzroy did not use a scourge; they have them at the Tower."
"I have not yet granted him the pearl, my Lord; but I did find the lock of hair in the pocket of his doublet, so he shall find that at his bedside should he wake before I return."
"When do you intend to bring him back to Placentia?"
"Not for a few days yet, my Lord. I think, if you wish to see him, you shall need to come to the Tower."
"That, I shall do. I must return there to interview the men who aided Fitzroy."
"Then take the pearl, my Lord. Give it to him yourself - for it was you who recovered it for him." Butts holds out the jewel.
The pearl is cold and hard on the palm of his hand, and he gazes at it. Unlike most pearls referred to as black, this gem is indeed a true black - something extraordinarily rare, and a fine example of probably the most highly prized of all pearls in the world. Rich must truly have valued Kat to have given her an object of such rarity and expense: it is not a throwaway bauble for a woman in the midst of a temporary liaison.
Burn in hell, Fitzroy. I hope you rot in agony for all time for what you did to her. And to him.
With infinite care, Cromwell wraps the jewel into a clean kerchief and sets it gently into a pouch at his waist. Despite his tiredness, he has no time to waste in sleep. Not yet.
There are four vile Courtiers to interview first.
Thomas Bellman sits in the chair and squirms, fearfully. Like many bullies, he sweats and trembles in the presence of one he considers to be stronger than he; and, despite being considerably lighter in frame, Thomas Cromwell's danger is not his brawn, but his brain.
His expression hard, he stands over Bellman, "Tell me, Mr Bellman; what was your procedure when procuring women for Henry Fitzroy? How did you choose them?"
"We…we did not, my Lord." Bellman stammers, "His Highn…his Grace made the selections for reasons of his own. We assisted in their procurement, but did not choose them."
"And how did he make his choice?"
"I do not know - he would merely demand that we obtain them."
"I take it this was how he behaved when at Collyweston, or one of his other houses?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"And what of his activities in the Palace?" Cromwell leans low and murmurs the question in Bellman's ear. He looks across at the Clerk, who is labouring to keep up with their discussion. If only Rich were here, making notes in his speed-hand…but his wrists are in bandages, his hands cramped to stillness; it may be that he shall never even be able to write again.
"We considered it to be sport, my Lord…" Bellman admits, trembling under the Lord Privy Seal's dangerous glare, "His Grace despised all women - and where he led, I suppose we followed…"
"By choice?"
"I…" he does not continue; he knows from Cromwell's face how admitting to such a thing appears.
"How did you reach the women's quarters?"
"We dressed as servants. It amused his Grace to do so - he would wear a tunic over his doublet to conceal his true identity in the corridors, while we would take turns carrying a bag with spare garments and shoes. None take note of the servants, and so they did not take note of us."
"And when he reached the quarters of the chosen victim?"
"We would advise her that she had caught the eye of the Duke of Richmond - they always agreed to let him in; maybe they thought he would pay them well. They only wanted something to sell."
"It was their only means of earning money to supplement what little they had to maintain their position, Bellman." Cromwell growls, viciously, "What choice did they have?"
"We did not see it that way." Bellman says, his eyes defiant, "They could have found some other means of making money."
"And what would that have been?"
Bellman stares at him, fumbling for an answer.
"What happened then?" Cromwell resumes, without giving the man a chance to think further.
"We remained outside, my Lord. We saw nothing; but we could hear."
"And?"
"There would always be a scream - just a short one. Then, nothing much. We would wait until he knocked upon the door - and then would enter to assist him."
"And the room within did not disturb you?"
"There have been lots of rooms like that." Bellman says, "We had become accustomed to it. It mattered not at Collyweston for he could act unencumbered, and those who cleared the chamber did so under threat of the same fate if they spoke of it. But when we were at Court, we carried extra clothes for his Grace, clean shoes for him - and for us, as the floor was always grotesquely befouled - and his scent. They always reeked like hell, so he put on a lot of it. Then he would put the tunic on again, and we would depart."
"Then he knew that what he did was utterly wrong, and would have brought the greatest of censure upon him?"
"Perhaps, perhaps not. It seemed not to concern him that others might object to his activities; he considered it his duty to cleanse the women we visited, and that was of greater importance - as was his assurance that his prostrations before God cleansed him of all taint. It was our purpose to ensure that none would discover him."
"In which case, you have assisted him - and thus you are as culpable as he, for you knew his designs and yet did nothing to prevent his acts, or to save those who were brought to him. Instead, you did all you could to ensure that he was not discovered and stopped."
"But he killed them, my Lord!" Bellman says, a little desperately.
"And you helped him." Cromwell snaps back, "You and your foul cohorts not only did nothing to aid those against whom he set himself, but aided him in reaching them, and then in preventing his being apprehended and stopped!"
"But…I did not! It was the others! They were the ones who did the most! I did not dare to refuse, I…"
"How interesting." Cromwell interrupts, boredly, "That was exactly what Herbert said about the three of you, and then Colling, and Stacke. Each one of you was acting under the duress of the others. How remarkable."
"I beg you, my Lord! Do not send me to the block! I do not want to die - it was the others, I swear it!"
Suddenly the realisation that he has talked himself onto the scaffold is emerging in a torrent of panicked words, pleas to live…to be allowed to go on breathing…
"Did they plead?" Cromwell asks, suddenly, remorselessly, leaning in horribly close to his blubbering prisoner, "Did they beg for their lives as Fitzroy tortured them for his own pleasure and yours? His papers tell much; that he was not alone when he acted at Collyweston, or at his other houses. I think there might even have been references to your actual involvement - though I would have to return to the coffer to find the appropriate papers…"
"Oh Jesus Christ…God…oh God Almighty…spare me! Spare me, I beg you!"
Cromwell glowers at the man in disgust. Of them all, only Stacke had managed to keep his composure once he knew - rather than feared - that his words had condemned him to die.
"You are not for the block, Bellman." He says, quietly.
"Oh, thank Christ…thank you, my Lord…thank you…"
"You, Bellman, as are your cohorts, are for the noose, followed by drawing and quartering. You conspired with Fitzroy against the King's Majesty. Do not think I am unaware of that. It shall be a traitor's death for you all. One after the other - and only the first of you to die shall not watch the others meet their end."
"My Lord! Mercy! I beg you, mercy!" he is wailing now, rising from his chair as the guard hastens to restrain him.
"What?" Cromwell asks, turning back as he prepares to leave the room, "I thought you derived pleasure from watching others die in agony?"
Bellman's howls follow him as he departs; his expression stony. There is someone else he wishes to see, someone far more deserving of his sympathy.
Rich shifts in the bed, and moans, softly. He has been awake now for longer than he would have wished, and cannot get comfortable. His back is sore, his front is sore and so are his sides - and if he attempts to lie upon the side with the cracked rib, then it is as though his entire chest shall explode. Doctor Butts has refused to allow him any more poppy juice to ease the pain, for he has seen men become dependent upon its effects, and does not intend to inflict such a plight upon his patient. Instead, he must now endure, and he has no wish to do so.
At least Butts found the packet in his doublet. Had he lost that, then he could not have stood to go on living - for in place of Kat's pearl, it is all that he has left of her; a touchstone to her memory that keeps him from utter collapse in the face of his pain, humiliation and grief. He cannot hold it; for his hands are still oddly numb, and he does not want to risk dropping it.
Cursing again as his bruising aches, and the declining welts throb, he wonders what is happening. He is still at the Tower - that much he has been told, but Butts has not been to see him in a day or more, and while Mrs Kingston is a commendable nurse, she knows nothing of the events that have led to his being here…
No…do not think of it…not now…not yet…not ever…
He closes his eyes against the encroaching sunlight that is his one comfort after his night in the cell. The darkness, even lit by candles, is almost more than he can bear - and he only accepts it in the knowledge that the dawn shall come. Fitzroy is dead. Dead and gone - answering for his crimes before the seat of God's judgement. If that is the only judgement that he shall face, at least there is no court higher.
The door opens, and he shifts slightly, with another faint moan from the pain, to see Cromwell, "My Lord." He says, quietly.
"Richard." Cromwell draws up a chair and sits alongside the bed, "I would ask after your wellbeing - but I think I can anticipate your answer."
There is something wrong - he can sense it: that stiffness that had once been between them appears to have returned, and the formality with it. Rich is keeping him at arm's length, it seems.
"What is happening? Goodwife Kingston does not know anything."
"I have completed the interrogations of Fitzroy's retainers." Cromwell opts not to notice Rich's slight flinch at the mention of Richmond's name, "They have advised how they committed the murders, and their means of hiding their involvement."
"How was it done, then?"
"Through deception. They dressed in the livery of Stewards - including Richmond - and called upon their victims. Each of them admitted Richmond on the grounds that he was a Duke. They waited outside while he committed his crime, then provided him with the means to clean and fragrance himself before they returned to his apartments. The befouled clothes were sent to a laundry close to Smithfield that served slaughtermen."
"That is not what happened to Kat, is it?" Rich says, his tone hostile, "I heard them mocking her when we were aboard the barge."
Cromwell sighs, and shakes his head, "They were all involved in that - for she refused the Duke entry. Once she was restrained, they departed and allowed him to his business."
Rich's head sinks back to the pillows, and he closes his eyes.
Without another word, Cromwell reaches carefully into the pouch at his waist, and retrieves the kerchief. He has taken care of the pearl, but also obtained a chain so that it can be worn once more, "I retrieved the chain, Richard. The pearl was upon it - and I have found a new chain so that you might wear it."
Rich's eyes flicker open again, and he stares at it, "I thought I should never see it again." Fumbling awkwardly, he takes it and carefully eases the chain over his head so that it is about his neck, as its weight makes it easier to keep hold of than that packet containing Kat's lock of hair. Even as he does so, Cromwell can see the rising tears, and stands, "I shall leave you in peace, Richard. When you are well enough to return to the Palace, I shall speak to you again."
His eyes closed, his right hand clutched about the pearl that now rests upon his chest, Rich nods, but says nothing as the tears escape down his temples and soak into his hair.
Brandon reads the report, and sighs, "So they are involved."
"Utterly, your Grace." Cromwell agrees, "I think that we can, under the circumstances, feel no shame in laying the blame at their feet. While they did not commit the kill itself, they helped to set the circumstances in motion and aided Fitzroy throughout. With Miss Silverton, however, they were present to force her to allow Fitzroy into her rooms. She knew more details of the murders than any other, for Rich kept her informed of our progress. Her insight was invaluable to us, for we knew nothing of the workings of the women at Court. Her courage when faced with her end was admirable - though I wish that it had been rewarded in this life, and not in the next. Rich is quite lost without her."
"I never thought him capable of love."
"Nor did I. I think, until Kat came to him, neither did he."
They look up as the door from the King's private apartments open, and rise to bow as Henry limps into the room, "What is to be done, Gentlemen?"
"The four retainers were so utterly involved in all he did that we think it best that they carry the blame for the deaths as much as…as…" Brandon struggles to speak the name.
"As Fitzroy." Henry finishes, darkly.
"Yes, Majesty." He clears his throat and continues, "Thus they shall be dragged to Tyburn, there to be hanged until near dead, then cut down, disembowelled and quartered, for they conspired against your Majesty with the intention of claiming control of the soon-to-be-born Prince."
"And what of Fitzroy?"
"It should be given out that Fitzroy died a year ago - in St James's Palace, of the consumption. The plot began some years ago - and, in order to bring them down, you assigned them to a pretender Fitzroy, who reported to you upon their activities. Unfortunately, he was unable to prevent them from carrying out their perverted murders without risking revealing his identity. Now that they are apprehended, however, the pretender has returned to obscurity, and they shall face justice for their crimes."
Henry nods, his expression pained.
"All papers pertaining to the work to legitimise the late Duke dated later than the given date of death shall be gathered and destroyed." Cromwell adds.
"No one is to speak of Fitzroy." Henry says, hoarsely, "Not ever again. His name is not to be mentioned in my presence. Is that clear? Get Norfolk to arrange his burial - somewhere secret. He is the boy's father in law. Let him do it."
"Yes, Majesty. It shall be assumed that you withheld your grief until this time - and thus now mourn your late son." Brandon finishes.
"Let it be done."
They bow and withdraw, leaving Henry alone and brooding in the empty silence of the Privy Chamber.
"It is a ridiculous idea." Rich snaps, bitterly, as he looks up from his chair beside the fire, "Who would believe such nonsense? All have seen him; all know who he was!"
He has been back in his quarters for several days, but has not yet emerged from them. Cromwell wonders if he is hiding until he can resume his work, or simply has no intention of returning to the Court and waits until he is strong enough to withstand the ride to his estates in Essex.
"Does Suffolk truly believe that the Court shall swallow this?" He continues.
Cromwell smiles, mirthlessly, "Believe me, Mr Rich, it is astonishing what a Court can be induced, collectively, to believe. All shall accept it, for they do not wish to look as though there is a great secret from which they are excluded. Gradually, the false tale shall supplant the true tale, until, eventually it becomes the true tale. Even those who remember shall ensure that they forget."
"I shall not forget." Rich's fingertips stroke over the smooth perfection of the pearl, his eyes hard, "I shall never forget." There are no tears now; he has displayed such womanish foolishness for long enough - and has no wish to be seen to be so weak again. Weakness is exploited in this Court - he knows full well that it is, for he is one of those who has exploited it.
Cromwell sighs, "His Majesty has decreed that the Duke of Norfolk shall oversee the removal of the corpse to a place of rest. It is likely to be amongst his own relatives, I suspect. There is to be no ceremony."
"I want to see it." Rich says, suddenly, "I want to be certain that he is truly gone. That he shall not return."
There is a determination in his tone, and Cromwell knows that he shall not accept a refusal.
"If he is in the ground," Rich continues, "then perhaps he shall stop being in my head. And my dreams."
For a moment, Cromwell considers extending his hand to rest it on his friend's shoulder, but then he stops. That thaw that had occurred, that had created a rapprochement, and then a friendship, has frozen hard again…somehow, he knows, without knowing how he does so, that any contact on his part shall be utterly unwelcome.
"I shall speak to his Grace." He says, suddenly very tired. Fitzroy has taken so much away from them - and now it seems that even their friendship shall be a casualty of the Bastard Prince.