CHAPTER TWO

A Revenant for Christmastide

Our mood remains somewhat sombre, despite the rising excitement elsewhere as Christmastide approaches. As we have found no bodies, there are no indications as to what has taken the missing servants, and thus neither Cromwell nor I have any idea what might be responsible. We cannot even be sure that their disappearances relate to demonic activity - but until we are sure, we must assume that they do.

"I am most perplexed." Cromwell admits, as we search through passageways, "Whatever is responsible for these acts has taken great care to blind us as to their identity. I cannot sense their presence, as I can detect no more than the faintest background odour of ichor - which I would expect to be the case with the degree of visitations we are receiving from raveners. But the lack of bodies to find suggests that they are not responsible."

The weather has broken, and most people do not venture out of doors now unless obliged to, as we have experienced almost constant rain for nearly a week. With the winds as strong as they are, no wherrymen are prepared to bring their boats down to Placentia, so it has not been possible for me to reach Grant's place without facing a long ride without an escort - which is not wise when the roads are in such condition.

Thus, while the courts are being decorated with green branches, drapes of silver and gold tinsel and wreaths of pine and fir, we continue our hunts. While we do not see any sign of the creature that may - or may not - be responsible for the loss of two servants, we see no raveners either. This might be owing to the additional activity at night - but Cromwell is more certain now that something more powerful than a ravener has entered the palace. Being so lowly, no ravener will share territory with a stronger demon, and it is this unknown being that is keeping them at bay.

As we cease activity for the holiday, no progress has been made. We continue our nightly hunts, and occasionally Cromwell will report that there is a stronger odour of ichor, but we see nothing. None are reported missing, and I am beginning to wonder if the two servants really did run away.

Once again, as we have no pressing requirement to be active during the day, we resume our all-night patrols; which still reveal nothing.

Cromwell once again carries his hidden silver knife as we attend the Midnight mass to welcome the Christ Child. I am not sure whether I am relieved or disappointed that we are denied the amusement of Mary's wild ardour for him while she was held by the malevolence that inverted all of her beliefs. Though it is easier for all, as the Queen wishes to offer her greetings to us for the Season, and there is no need for him to flee with the crowds. Mary is clearly more friendly towards him these days, but she is not ardent for his love as once she was. Even her wishes for the season are sincere, despite their clear differences over religion, and we bow deeply as they depart.

As he did last year, Cromwell returns to Austin Friars for the Christmastide feasting, as Gregory - now at Cambridge - has returned for the holiday, and it is one of the few opportunities he has to see his only surviving child. Wyatt is happy to spend the day in my company, as I would have no one else to dine with, which causes amusement amongst his friends for the pity he shows the friendless Richard Rich.

We have prevailed upon Cromwell to remain with his extended family and his son for more than a single day - and so Wyatt and I don our swords and set out to hunt. I have gained a much greater understanding of the passageways and alleys of the Palace, but Wyatt is far more expert than I, and I tend to follow his lead more often than he follows mine.

"Do you think that we might see this unknown creature tonight?" he asks, not particularly seriously, as we make our way down a truly malodorous passageway that seems to be used as a latrine by those who cannot be bothered to visit the nearby jakes.

"If we do, then Cromwell shall be most disappointed if we dispatch it for him." I answer, "For now that we two have our own blades, we could very well do that."

I am, I must admit, almost childishly proud of the silver sword that Cromwell presented to me last year - as is Wyatt of his. There is, however, something remarkable about mine - Lamashtu recognised it when I had it in my hand in the Queen's Presence chamber - she called it 'The Damask Blade', and mocked me for not knowing its purpose or power. I still have no idea what she meant - but its beauty, and that it was a gift given to me as an act of trust, cause me to value it greatly.

"I think I should give my sword a name." Wyatt says, suddenly.

"Pardon?" I look at him, surprised, "Why?"

"Yours has a name. All the great swords of legend had names, so I think mine should."

"I think mine might have a legend." I admit, "Though God alone knows what it is."

"Mine has two stripes of silver along its length." He declares, "Therefore, I shall call it the Striped blade."

"Is that the best you can think of?" I ask, "I thought you were a poet."

"I could call it the 'banded' blade - but I prefer not to alliterate. That is far too obvious." He replies, loftily.

Our hunt is, as it has been for the last fortnight, fruitless. We see nothing, and without the ability to sense ichor, we cannot determine if anything has visited, and departed. Without Cromwell, we are very limited in the protection we can give.

With no reason to continue, we go our separate ways, and I return to my apartments, "Can't you give me any suggestions, Eminence?" I ask the empty air.

Why should I? That's your job. I thought you were the Second now. Wolsey's voice is rather insulting, but tinged with amusement. Rude though he is, I know that I have earned his respect, and as I reciprocate, it is inevitable that I am rude back to him whenever the opportunity arises. He is, admittedly, also right - but with the weather still being most uncooperative, I cannot return to Grant's Place. Cromwell was fortunate enough to secure one of the lesser royal barges to get him back to the Tower Wharves, but I would only be able to use a wherry, and there shall be none available until the weather improves.

Cromwell returns after a day, as Gregory must return to Cambridge. While he is always pleased to spend time with his son, the separation tells upon him, and his expression is sad as he joins us in the Hall for yet another celebratory feast. The new year is soon to be upon us, and we are still unable to identify the reason for the disappearance of the two servants. Fortunately, no others have been reported missing since - but this is likely to be thanks to the large numbers of people, the noise and the light of the festivities. None of us can be certain that it will not start again once the holiday is at an end.

Wyatt joins in the dancing that follows the feast, while Cromwell and I sit to the side. Cromwell does not dance - never having been taught to do so - and I am so poor at it that I could not inflict my incompetence upon a partner, assuming that any would consent to dance with me. Instead, we sip at mulled cider, and watch.

"How much longer shall Gregory be at Cambridge, Thomas?" I ask. I know that Cromwell intends to bring his son into royal service as soon as he has completed his studies.

"Less than a year, I think, Richie." He says, as we are secluded, and no one hears his informality, "I intend to introduce him to Wriothesley in a few months' time - to begin learning the mechanisms of Government; though if he can enter the Commons, that would also please me."

Not as much as Gregory being back home on a permanent basis would, I suspect.

"I assume that you have heard nothing more of our more immediate issue?" he asks, guardedly.

I shake my head, "We have seen, and heard, nothing. William's enquiries have also been fruitless - whatever is causing the issue of which you speak, there is nothing to identify it, and it has not been active again."

"I am not sure whether I find that to be a relief, or disturbing." Cromwell admits, "If I see a wasp in a room, I prefer to be able to see it leave, rather than find that it appears to have gone."

"Perhaps it shall reveal itself to us in the New Year - then we can dispatch it, and all shall be well."

"And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride." He smiles, tiredly, "We shall find it - if it is to be found. I cannot be convinced until I have seen it at work - for it may yet still be simply the flight of two poorly treated servants."

"I rather hope that it is." I admit, "For if it is not, then they have died - and, I imagine, died cruelly."

"That is indeed so." Cromwell agrees, "But, even if they have died, at least they are no longer in pain. That is another comfort. We must ensure that no others endure their fate, if that was indeed their fate." He looks up, and frowns. I turn to follow his gaze, and see William making his way through the crowds.

"What is it?" He asks, as his manservant comes up to us, before guiding William to a secluded corner. As it would look strange for me to follow, I remain where I am as the music ends and Wyatt returns to join me. He gives me a questioning glance, and I shrug. Once Cromwell knows what has happened: if it concerns us, he shall tell us.

A few moments later, William departs, and Cromwell beckons us over, his expression concerned, "One of Suffolk's retainers has returned to his dormitory in a very poor state." He advises, quietly, "William was present at the time, as he is good friends with one of the pages, and they were playing at cards. He reports that the youth was weak, and faint - and seemed to have no memory of what had happened to him, but he looked extremely pale, and William is of the opinion that he has lost a great deal of blood. They put him to bed, and the page has fetched Suffolk, while William came to me."

"Do you think he has met the same creature that is responsible for the disappearances?" Wyatt asks, softly.

Cromwell nods, "I should like to see the man myself to be sure." He admits, "I shall visit Suffolk, I think. As it is one of my duties to investigate assaults, he would not be surprised to see me. I hope that he might permit me to speak to the youth."

"We shall await you in your apartments, Thomas." I tell him, as we are as keen as he to uncover the source of this mystery. He nods, and departs.

He is gone for an hour, and we sit by the fire in his quarters, while William serves us more mulled cider. When he returns, his expression is grave, "It is as I feared. The youth is still unconscious, and - all things being equal - I do not expect him ever to wake. He was tainted by ichor, and there seemed to be very little blood left in him. Suffolk is most saddened, for the boy is the son of one of his older retainers, and he regarded him well."

"Have you identified what might be responsible?" Wyatt asks.

Cromwell nods, "There was a scarred patch upon his throat, and his blood was supped. There was none about his mouth, which suggests that that which supped from him did not require him to sup in return; but it is unmistakeable. He has been the prey of a revenant."

This news gives me a most unpleasant thrill down my back, for the only revenant I have ever encountered was Zaebos, and his acts against me haunted my dreams, and my thoughts, for nearly a year afterward, "But I thought that there were no others after we destroyed Zaebos?" I ask.

Cromwell shakes his head, "Zaebos was the last of his kind, yes - but his was a far higher order of revenants, who had lived for so long that they had gained the ability to move about by day, and disguise their inhuman aspects. They were akin to an aristocracy amongst their kind; the peasantry are still extensive, and we have been most fortunate that none have come here in the time since his dispatch. I think it possible that Wolsey's blessing has kept them at bay as much as it has Lamashtu."

"They are stronger than raveners - that much is evidenced by their absence." Wyatt muses, "How strong would this creature be?"

"Strong enough." Cromwell advises, "Though they are as vulnerable to silver as any demons, and are also destroyed by daylight - while they fear, and are repelled by, the Holy Cross. There are other, stronger demons - but I can only imagine that they are held from our shores by Lamashtu. For I have never seen any stronger than revenants in all my time as a Silver Sword."

"Can they compress moments as Zaebos did?" I ask, at once.

"Most cannot - but if this creature is active, and I have not seen it, then it is quite possible that it has learned how to do so." Cromwell admits, "So we are reliant upon you, Tom, to find it. For none but you can see it when it moves at such speed."

And so, again, we resume our all-night patrols, only with Wyatt taking the lead. As Cromwell can sense their presence, but cannot see them move, while Wyatt can see them move, but cannot sense their presence, they must work together, and I am little more than the one who trots along behind, ready to fling a sword about if needed.

We see nothing for several nights, until - finally - with one night left before the Year's end, Wyatt sees it - moving with that same disjointed swiftness that is visible only to him. With the assistance of a full moon, we are finally able to locate where it hides, as it has found a place out in the ornamental gardens beyond the Palace and before the large park. Set into a hill is a secluded grotto, highly popular with the ladies during summer days for its coolness in hot weather, and equally popular with the rest of the court during the hours of darkness for the seclusion it affords for behaviour entirely unbecoming in a public place.

With the weather as cold as it is, however, it is abandoned - and so the revenant has taken up residence within it. Given the speed at which it moves, we shall need to plan our hunt against it, for it is too fast to easily fight. With this in mind, we leave it be and adjourn back to Cromwell's apartments to decide what to do.

"We must trap it." He says, as William pour us warmed hippocras, "I think that there is a secluded arbour within the gardens that would do most well, for there is but one entrance, and one exit - at either end. If you, Richie, were to guard one end, with sword and Cross, and you, Tom, the other, that would leave it with no choice but to fight - and with four silver swords against it, we could dispatch it in short order."

"In which case, it must be lured to that point." Wyatt agrees, "I do not consider it likely that it would willingly consent to enter such a spot of its own accord. We must bait it."

"Indeed we must." Cromwell sighs, "You have the ability to see where it goes - so that must be your task. It is my ability to fight it. Therefore…" his voice trails off, and I know what that means.

I must be the bait.

To say that I look upon tonight's hunt with a mild sense of dread is the height of understatement. This shall be the best opportunity for us to act unobserved, as the celebrations of the New Year shall be confined largely to the inside of the Palace, thanks to the bitterly cold weather.

The paving is already sparkling with frost as we depart from the Palace, leaving from a servant's entrance to avoid being seen by any who might know us. The gardens below are secluded and shall easily hide the hunt to come; and our plan is simple enough - so there is little opportunity for something to go wrong. At least, that is my hope - for if something does go wrong, I am likely to pay for it.

"I suspect that the revenant has not fed for some days, given the time that has passed since the damage that it wrought upon that poor boy of Suffolk's retinue." Cromwell advises quietly, and his comment leaves us largely silent, as the youth did not see the next morning, and is to be buried on the morrow, "If that is the case, then it will likely be most keen to hunt, so to offer it all that it could wish for would almost certainly bring it out." Then he turns to me, "Assuming that it does emerge, Richie, you must show fear when you run - as that shall excite it even more, and it shall certainly follow you."

How charming that he thinks I shall not show fear. That is one thing that I know I shall not make a pretence of showing.

Cromwell stays behind, hidden carefully in the enclosed arbour that we intend to use to trap the revenant, while Wyatt and I continue on to the grotto. I am not sure whether it is the cold, or the sense of dread that I feel that is making me tremble as much as I do, but I hope that Wyatt thinks it's the cold. I wish that I could think the same.

"I shall keep careful watch upon it, Richard." Wyatt advises, firmly, "Try not to let me lose sight of you, however, for it shall be set upon you, and I cannot watch it if I cannot see you."

I do not trust myself to speak, so instead I nod.

I am supposed to be a drunken courtier, who has lost their way in the gardens; but, as Wyatt has already noted, I am utterly unconvincing as a drunk when I am not inebriated, so instead I have opted to be a courtier intending an illicit liaison. We are all well wrapped up, not just to keep out the cold, but also to keep our weapons out of sight, and Wyatt stays in the shade of a yew hedge as I depart from the gardens and make my nervous way towards the entrance of the grotto.

"My Lady?" I call, a hoarse whisper that suggests that I am searching for someone, "Are you here?"

Moving slowly, I approach the entrance, and risk calling again, "Lady Scrope?" As though I should be meeting her - she is eighty years old if she is a day - but it is the only name I can think of.

I can hear movement now, something shifting, and moving towards me, "My Lady - is that you?"

I dare not risk venturing closer - as I do not want to be snatched and dragged into the grotto. Instead, I crane forward slightly, and call again, "My Lady?"

"I am no lady." The voice that responds is sibilant, low and almost sepulchral; and I am unable to stop myself from taking a step back.

"Then who are you?" I demand, now grateful that my voice is shaking, "Show yourself!"

And it does.

It is not as ugly as Zaebos was, in his true form, but it is horribly similar: skin stretched tautly over thinly muscled limbs, ribs showing, an almost skeletal body. Its mouth opens to reveal two long fangs that gleam in the moonlight. I do not need to be an actor now, for my fear is absolutely real, and I back away with such speed that I lose my footing and fall backwards, where I scramble desperately to get back to my feet.

It hisses with excitement, and as soon as I am up again I take to my heels, running wildly back towards the gardens. I do not need to look behind me to know that it follows - for it is, as Cromwell predicted, hungry and ready to hunt: and I am its prey.

It sounds horribly excited: breath hissing out of an open mouth almost dribbling with anticipation of my blood, and it moves with appalling speed. My only hope is that it wishes to toy with me; for, if it does not, I cannot reach the place that we have chosen, for I am not fast enough. Each time I reach the exit from one garden to the next, it is there, fangs bared, and I skid to a halt and bolt for another exit. It is as though it has heard our plans, for each exit it blocks is one that brings me closer to Cromwell, and safety - worse, I know that not all of the gardens have two or more entries. If it blocks me into one that has only one way in and out, then I am truly helpless, and there is one such garden, near the far end. If I trap myself in there, then I have but one means of escape. As I have lost all sense of direction now, I cannot begin to guess where I am.

Again, it pounces at me from my intended route of escape, and I stagger back. With time running out, for I cannot go on for much longer, I begin to contemplate fighting it myself - but I am shaking with tiredness, and I know full well that such a move would truly doom me. Instead, I step backwards, attempting to get my breath back, and find myself against a yew hedge, rather than the entrance through which I came. Like an idiot, I have trapped myself.

Snarling horribly, the revenant closes in upon me, and I have to fight with myself not to plead with it - for I know that it would have done nothing to save those who had done the same, and it shall not save me. Instead, I reach into the folds of my cloak and fumble for that which I require.

Just as it is within reach of me, I finally find it - and wrench out the large gold cross that has been hanging about my neck for just this eventuality. It was given to me by an elderly grandparent when I was a youth - and this is the first time that I have worn it. But then, this is the first time I have found a use for it; I am convinced that the old man saw a future for me in the Church - rather than repelling blood drinkers.

To my relief, the creature recoils from the sign of all that is holy, hissing in revulsion. It is momentarily stunned, enabling me to rush past it and through the exit that had been my intention all along. Within a few moments it is trailing me again, but I have achieved my aim, and finally emerge into the secluded garden to which I had been heading. Badly blown, despite being in far better condition than I had once been, I hurry to the other way out, and stand with the cross visible, and finally draw my sword.

At once, the creature stops, nonplussed by my sudden change of behaviour. A few moments ago, I had been a frightened, fleeing fool - but now I am armed, and protected by a cross. Even as it considers this, Wyatt emerges at the other end of the garden, a cross of his own clearly visible, and his blade also drawn.

Then, at last, Cromwell emerges from the darkness. He did not seem to have sought concealment, so I have no idea how he remained hidden when I entered the enclosure - I wonder how he does it.

As it thought to trap me, now the revenant itself is trapped. It cannot get past the crosses that we carry - even if it could easily destroy us to escape - and it must face one of the deadliest Silver Swords in the history of the Order. Does it even know? I suppose it probably does not.

Growling now, it crouches and backs away from the crossed silver swords that Cromwell holds before him. He does not take his eyes from the creature, and waits calmly for it to strike - for strike it shall.

Perhaps it is the presence of the crosses, or that it prefers to use violence rather than extreme speed, but it does not use the same compression of time that it used to try to herd me, and instead flies at him with only one intent: to kill.

Having seen Cromwell fight Zaebos, I assumed that I had seen him fight to his fullest ability - but then I had never seen him fight a lesser creature that was not held from its powers by the words of a Grace. Even his fights with raveners are not as fast, or as furious, as this - as he swoops, leaps and turns, his swords whistling musically as they cut through the air. Every attempt that the revenant makes to reach him fails - either he evades, rolls or leaps over it, and the singing blades leave cuts in their wake.

The killing blow, when it comes, is so unexpected, and so fast, that even the revenant does not seem to realise at first that it has occurred - but the vile creature, even as it hisses and tries to move forward to continue the fight, is already falling to dust, and is soon gone. As the last motes wisp away in the chill night air, the palace clock strikes midnight.

Sheathing his swords, Cromwell turns to me, "Happy New Year, Richie, and to you, Tom." He adds, turning to Wyatt.

Wyatt smiles, "And to you, Thomas."

Given the lateness of the hour, and the cold, we do not linger, nor do we return to Cromwell's apartments. Instead, we head to our own quarters. I am most relieved that I am no longer bait.

It is as I cross a silent court that I hear it, a faint scrabbling sound; and I know that I am being followed. The sound is familiar, and it inspires a slight chill, for I realise that a ravener, which appears not to have realised that a revenant was - until a few minutes ago, at least - in residence, has me in its sights.

At least I have my breath back, I suppose.

I take care to draw my sword slowly and quietly, before turning to look about me, and I spot it - clinging to the bricks a few feet above my head. The wretched creature was clearly expecting to ambush me from above, and its initiative is lost as I back away, blade at the ready.

Fortunately, it does not flee, as they are ridiculously stupid creatures; and instead drops to the cobbles, hissing aggressively. I hold my ground, and keep my sword ready. As most people are unarmed, it seems quite nonplussed - but as it has speed as its ally, it seems willing to try me; thus I must be prepared to defend myself - for if I flee, and it loses me, who else might pay for my flight? Besides, I have fought raveners, albeit as part of a group. If I am not ready to fight one alone, then I shall never be.

I am not as fast as Cromwell, and I am utterly lacking in his swift agility, but as it leaps at me, I quickly twist aside, and it skids past me into the opposite wall. Snarling in rage, it leaps up the bricks and comes at me from above, as it had originally intended, causing me to drop and roll beneath it - though I do not come to my feet with the elegance of a Silver Sword, but instead have to clamber back upright in a most ungainly fashion.

Raging, it leaps again, this time with the intention of sinking its teeth into my face - or at least, that seems to be its intention from its angle. Ducking, I slash the blade upwards, and it slices cleanly through the creature's neck, sending it to a cloud of dust that seems not even to touch the floor before a gust of wind blows it away.

It seems to bode well for the year to come. For the first time, I have fought a ravener entirely alone, and without being obliged to rely upon luck, or berserk madness. And I have won.