CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
EPILOGUE
A Tomb in Norfolk
As dawn breaks over a small wayside inn on the Norwich Road, Cromwell looks out of the window of the room he has engaged for the night to see a dank, dull day beyond the leads. He has not slept as well as he had expected, despite a long, tiring day in the saddle yesterday.
In the weeks that have passed since the horrible events in the Tower, the discoveries that have come to light from Collyweston are even more grotesque. Far from being servants, those who were engaged to cleanse the chamber in which Fitzroy committed his atrocities were held at the house, and their work was not merely part of their duties, but instead their only hope of remaining alive. Their testimonies confirmed all that the four retainers had told him - and far more that he would not even have wanted to know.
How on earth had Fitzroy managed to keep such activities hidden? If he has been so prolific, surely the degree of disappearances would have been noticed? But then he remembers - only a few of the victims were from a background considered to be modest. Most of those who died in that house were prostitutes; despised trulls without any to defend them - and none would remark upon it if such women vanished without trace. He shudders at the thought - those poor women: they must have known when all was too late that none would know of their peril, or care enough to come to their aid even if they did. On the contrary - most so-called gentlefolk would consider it just punishment for the immorality of a whore. And that makes it all worse, for the horrible papers in that black coffer suggest that most of those unfortunate captives were held in misery for several days - and even in a few cases permitted the illusion of escape, only to be hunted down and recaptured - before death ended their torment.
One of the imprisoned servants also said that the victims' remains were disposed of not in a grave, but upon bonfires in the midst of woodland far out in the park. The commissioner who had been sent to speak to them was taken to the spot, and admitted to Cromwell in his report that he had been so sickened by the ghastly heaps of ashes and charred bones that he found amidst the trees of that lonely copse that he had vomited. So they did not just die horribly, but their burial was prevented. It seems that Fitzroy's disdain of them knew no bounds.
Despite all that has happened over the past year, Cromwell is surprised to find that he has retained the King's favour, to a degree that ensures he is still safe at Court. He is, however, not blind to the realities that surround him; for even though his Majesty still looks to him as his Chief Minister, something has changed - changed utterly. There is a darkness to Henry now: a sense of brooding malice in the face of a great, deep betrayal by one of his own blood. He has no choice but to accept the truth of Fitzroy's actions - but still he seeks to find others to blame if he can. After all, such madness must have come from somewhere - and he has no wish for others to believe that it came from him. Thus no one who was present to witness that madness speaks of the once-lauded Henry Fitzroy, Henry Son-of-the-King; an unspoken silence that was never ordered or decreed, but is obeyed without question.
Norfolk might well be charged with the burial arrangements of his son-in-law, but there is nothing in the funeral arrangements that suggests the deceased is of noble descent or birth. None of the Howard family are expected to be present today, for they have no desire to see the mortal remains of a murderous youth whose sanity was doubted laid to rest amidst their more august relatives - even though he was a Royal Duke when he lived, and was almost made a Prince of the Blood, too. That it must happen is one thing, but their presence is quite another, and not a single one of them has any desire to participate in the ceremony to come. They know that dreadful truth - and are as silent about it as the rest who are so burdened.
How ironic, he thinks to himself, that the only person who truly wishes to be present is the one whom Fitzroy hurt the most.
While he is well enough to have returned to his desk, Rich struggles to write for long periods, and his once fine Chancery hand is no longer neat. He cannot set things down quickly in his remarkable speed-hand; nor can he use swan quills any more and must instead settle for goose, for he has lost some of the dexterity in his fingers. Whether it shall return, Doctor Butts has not been able to say, so he continues to write untidily in longhand, and is forced to stop writing far more frequently than he would once have done.
He has not spoken of his ordeal in the Tower to Cromwell - and probably not to anyone else, either. Other than that which he saw himself, Cromwell knows nothing of what passed between captor and captive. It is not, however, over. He can see that from the shadows under Rich's eyes, the slightly fearful expressions that he sometimes shows when in a crowd amongst the Courtiers - as though he imagines he has heard Fitzroy's voice nearby, or seen him amongst a sea of faces. Did he not say that he wanted to be here in the hope that the youth would cease to haunt his thoughts, or his dreams? Not that he has said so since - the stiff formality that once marked all their conversations has returned, and Rich's dealings with him are courteous, but quietly detached. Perhaps he is embarrassed over his outburst of tears in that cell, or the humiliation of being so wounded in the presence of higher-ranked men - Cromwell is conscious enough of human nature to appreciate it likely. Regardless of its source, however, he has resumed that initial aloofness, and it is as though the friendship they had formed never existed at all.
He breaks his fast alone, and does not see Rich until he emerges into the yard where their horses have been stabled. They shall commence their return to Court later today on horseback, but - as mourners should - they shall follow the coffin on foot. While Cromwell habitually wears black, he has rarely seen Rich attired so, and the sight of his mourning garb is quite startling. From his drawn, pale face, it is clear that he has slept no better, and he does not seem even willing to look across at the man that he had once considered a friend.
With no member of the Howard family present, they are the only mourners to escort the coffin as it is drawn from the nearby church of St Cuthbert on a simple wagon, resting upon a bed of straw. To any casual observer, it would appear to be the funeral of one barely more than a peasant - the shrouded corpse coffined only for transportation to the church, before being removed from it for burial in a shroud once that final journey was complete. Hardly a fitting cortège for a Royal Duke: mad or no.
As he walks alongside the Lord Privy Seal, Rich attempts to forget the brutal dreams that broke his sleep throughout the night that has passed. Even that cold presence of the black pearl upon his chest served only to scream at him of his loss, and the pain grew so great in the darkest hours before dawn that he almost snatched it from about his neck and hurled it across the room.
As long as you are with me, Kat; I shall always care.
But she is not. She is gone - and all that remains of her now is a lock of hair and a gem. He shall always wear it - always; but without her, he has lost that will to care, the sense of joy in the presence of another human being. The need for friendship. He gave his heart to Kat, and it was torn out of him. He shall not make that mistake again. Yes. It is better not to care - so he shall not. Once that bastard is in the ground, perhaps then the horrible memories shall also leave him be.
As always, he does not notice that his expressive face is telling Cromwell everything. The stiff formality was signal enough, but that quiet determination to never feel pain again is equally telling. It seems that, when she died, Kat took something of Richard Rich with her. That thawing of his colder instincts has ceased; and he shall not trust anyone from this day forth. Equally, he shall neither accept - or grant - friendship to any beyond a guarded degree of acquaintance. All that matters to him now is to serve the King to the best of his ability, and throw himself into work that shall gain him advancement and wealth - just as he once did. It was a strategy that served him well throughout his first years at Court, and so he shall resume it. The love he had once possessed has caused him almost unimaginable suffering - and he has no wish to endure it ever again.
Does he know that his colleague can see it all? Even if he did - would he care?
And so they follow the wagon the short distance from the Church to the Priory, together, and yet apart, while small wisps of mist curl about the trees that seem almost like clawed hands, reaching upward in vain supplication to an uncaring sky, and crows call dismally to one another from the branches. If their thoughts are desolate, then so are their surroundings.
There is no sign from the Brothers that the two men are unwelcome. Either they are remarkably forgiving of the two royal ministers who are overseeing the closure of their houses, or they do not know who the two mourners are. Perhaps they are setting their opinions aside out of respect for the Dead; for they stay silent, and escort the coffin into the great Priory church, where a place amongst the tombs of the Howards awaits the mortal remains of Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond.
It has been as Brandon and Cromwell predicted. No one at Court has wanted to be seen to be deceived by the non-existent deception, and so all have either believed without question, or claimed that they, too, were aware of it. The false tale has been accepted, and eventually those who claim to believe it, shall believe it. Histories shall be written and - while Cromwell has no doubt that any histories that shall be written of his years at Court shall not serve him kindly - they shall speak of the tragedy of Richmond's death from consumption in the month of July, barely two months after the death of Anne Boleyn. They shall not know that the date that was written is that of the finding of the first of the Court women that he killed.
Given Rich's wish to be at this ceremony, it was something of a surprise to Cromwell that he did not attend the executions of those four retainers who had watched so eagerly as he suffered before their eyes. They met their end ignominiously and ingloriously at Tyburn, accompanied by the jeers of a raucous crowd who thought them to be murderous traitors that plotted the death of the King. They are dead and gone: and that, it seems, is enough for Rich. He has no wish to recall his pain, misery and humiliation - even if it is through the witnessing of a just punishment upon those who helped to bring it about, and who were so entertained by it; his interest is in what shall happen today.
It takes some effort to move the coffin, for it is lined with lead, thanks to the time that has passed between the death and the burial. The Prior leads it into the great church, I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. Still together, yet apart, Cromwell and Rich follow in silence, I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.
All stand beside the fine vault that shall hold the vile murderer that has seen no earthly justice. Cromwell stands quietly, while beside him Rich seems to stare almost fixedly at the coffin, as though waiting for the youth within to burst out of it and demand that he speak the Confiteor once again.
Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground…
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Cromwell thinks to himself, much as his Majesty's joy was turned to dust and ashes. The Lord hath given, and the Lord hath taken away.
As the Prior finishes with the Grace, and the brothers not directly involved in the final transfer of the coffin to the vault drift back to their work, Cromwell sighs deeply, "And that, is that."
Beside him, Rich says nothing. His expression miserable, his eyes dead, he turns and walks away. He has had his vengeance - and is discovering as he departs that there is nothing left for him now but emptiness.
And so he, too, has died this day. Cromwell thinks to himself. Rich's love for Kat had reached into him so deeply that it had touched upon the better parts of his soul and pulled them to the fore. Without her to anchor them, they have sunk back into the depths, and he knows that, while there is no longer any active enmity between them, there is now only one person to whom Richard Rich is loyal - other, of course, than the King.
Standing alone as the vault is sealed, he sighs - he seems to have done that so much recently - there was so much hope…so much promise…in that young boy. All unfulfilled, all lost - and washed out in a tide of innocent blood.
"De profundis." He murmurs, "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."
Perhaps her Majesty shall yet have a son. If that is so, then the King shall, at last, have completed his first duty - to father an heir to his Crown. Yes - there is still that to hope for. Besides, Queen Jane is young, and there is every possibility that she shall bring more children into the world.
He looks at the closed vault, "Out of the deep call I unto the Lord. Lord, hear my voice…"
The words fade into echoes. There is nothing left now to say; it is done. His eyes sad and his heart heavy, Cromwell turns and departs as the echoes fade away.
A/N: A short historical note. While the dating is not correct - for obvious reasons - the circumstances of Fitzroy's burial in this epilogue are based on what was recorded at the time. Henry VIII did indeed require Norfolk to oversee the burial of his son - and this was done with astonishingly little ceremony. So much so, in fact, that the King wrote a stiff letter to the Duke after the fact to demand to know why there had been so little pomp over the burial of a royal Duke. Needless to say, Norfolk blamed his servants for the oversight.
The body was transported to Thetford from London, and carried to the Priory on a straw-covered cart. It was not accompanied by any member of the Howard family, and there were indeed only two witnesses present. History does not appear to record who they were, so I inserted Cromwell and Rich in their places.
The general consensus is that Fitzroy died of tuberculosis, or a similar disorder of the lungs, as there seems to have been a propensity for it in the Tudor family - though TB was, of course, endemic in the 16th century and beyond. The lack of reference to an illness until very shortly before his death has led to some conjecture by later historians - and the speed at which he was buried after his death equally suggests potentially a worse illness, such as the Sweat or even Pneumonic plague, which is notorious for its swift lethality. While I had him interred in a lead-lined coffin, in fact that was not the case; another thing that was quite striking at the time and suggests a burial undertaken in haste.
One conjecture which is particularly interesting - albeit something of a fringe view that I found in a blog post - is that Henry himself acted against Fitzroy. It has been speculated that the young man might have served as a focus for discontent after Henry broke with Rome; and, given that he was hopeful for a son from Queen Jane, the fear (justified or not) that Fitzroy might be conspiring against him drove Henry to have him murdered. It's even been suggested that the loss of Fitzroy was a contributing factor in Henry's descent into distrust and paranoia after the mid 1530s.
Regardless of how he died, Henry Fitzroy, 1st Duke of Richmond, was laid to rest in Thetford Priory following his death on 22 (or possibly 23) July 1536. Following the dissolution of the Priory, his remains - along with those of the other Howards interred there - were moved to the Church of St Michael the Archangel in Framlingham, where they remain to this day.
Finally:
Thank you everyone for the reads, likes and reviews. And a re-expression of thanks to the Rose of Truro for suggesting this plot bunny. I couldn't have done it without you!
Also, thanks to John Rutter for 'Out of the Deep', the second movement of his Requiem - which inspired the title, and the use of Psalm 130. And to Arvo Pärt, whose own 'De Profundis' has a dark, almost sorrowful, edge to it that felt quite fitting for this story.