CHAPTER SEVEN

Henry's Two Easter Gifts

The passing of Collop Monday and Shrove Tuesday casts the entirety of the court into the Lenten fast - though, in our terms, 'fast' merely means eschewing rich foods, something from which we could all benefit, I suppose. Thus my fast is broken with bread and ale, but no butter, cheese or eggs; and our dinners and suppers consist of endless different ways of presenting fish, though the cooks are proving to be highly inventive in their arrangements of ingredients in the sallets.

While we continue to work, the pace has slowed again, as the Commons have returned to their abodes, leaving Parliament in abeyance. The clerks are revelling in the reduction in their workload with endless pranks and japes. They are, fortunately, discreet in this so as not to annoy us - though I find that Cromwell never seems to mind their foolishness; it's really Wriothesley that seems to take issue with their high spirits. I was much the same as the Secretary at one time, but, in following Cromwell's example, now I find it less bothersome - though Daniel made few friends thanks to the over-large spider he managed to find in one of the attics. While I have no fear of such creatures, I never knew that Wriothesley could scream at such a pitch: a discovery that we were most startled to make when the wretched creature escaped the pot in which Daniel had been keeping it, and managed to find its way onto the Secretary's desk.

I almost wish I could have captured it myself and released it onto the table in the Council Chamber. Such is the infuriating boredom of the endless arguments that Cromwell is obliged to battle as he still attempts to secure funding for the simplest, most worthwhile of tasks for the nation as a whole - while his fellow Councillors aim to curry favour by suggesting some new project that benefits only the King's personal happiness. I suppose I cannot blame them - for Campofregoso still retains an extraordinary degree of favour, particularly as he is able to secure an astonishing array of exotic fishes to adorn the King's table. As the six weeks of Lent require abstinence of a carnal nature as much as any other pursuit, his Majesty has abandoned mistresses for the moment and seems more interested in his family. He rides with Mary and Elizabeth, walks with the Queen, and dotes upon Edward - who is still at court and revelling in being a child. This is all but unheard of, and something that we had never expected to happen. Her Majesty is clearly very good at persuading her husband to secure the happiness of his brood. I have no idea how she succeeds in such endeavours, as she cannot command, and even to suggest is dangerous. Perhaps she is able to create a belief in him that her suggestions are his own idea.

While we all find it rather uncomfortable to hear such things, the Queen has reported to us that, prior to the beginning of the fast, he had visited her on several occasions. Although she has not gone into any deeper detail than this, thank God, the implication is clear - the King desires another son.

Another benefit of the reduction in workload, coupled with the availability of boats, is that I can return to Grant's Place. I have fully recovered myself following my poisoning by Pscipolnista, though it has left me with a lingering sense of cold that requires me to bundle myself in warm clothes when others about me are complaining they are overly warm - and I am unable to keep myself from shivering slightly as the wherry pulls into the Tower Wharves. As I had intended to come today, I find Dickon awaiting me, as he has brought the small carriage down for my convenience.

"Molly asked me to see that you were well, Mr Rich." He advises, sagely. I doubt that most Seconds are placed at risk to the degree that I seem to be - but the thought that her work could lead to her death is possibly quite sobering for her.

"I am far more well than my rather bundled appearance leads me to look, Dickon." I admit, "I hope that this thin blood will settle in time; but at the moment it is all that troubles me, and that can be mended with the simple act of donning another garment."

Thanks to the carriage, we arrive at Grant's Place in barely a quarter hour, and Goodwife Dawson welcomes me indoors to a cup of warmed cider and fresh bread. Molly is awaiting me, alongside a small leather-bound wood coffer, "This came from the House." She explains, as I sit down. I need no clarification; as I am the Raven's Second, all papers and items pertaining to his work come to me - though I am surprised to find that Molly has not broken the seal and opened the coffer herself.

"I felt it wasn't my place, Mr Rich." She admits, "You're Mr Cromwell's Second, not I."

"Then we shall open it together, Molly." I advise her, "I cannot stay for much more than a day or two, so I suspect that much of the cataloguing that is to follow shall fall to you."

Once we have transferred the coffer to our Chamber, I break the seal and open the coffer. It is not large, and holds a few packets of papers that have been delivered by the Order's spies. There is, however, a letter at the top - the only mark upon it a black, inked drawing of a Raven. As it is in the coffer, I know that it is intended for me, and not for Cromwell, so I have no concerns about breaking the seal and opening it.

The letter contains news that sounds good, until I realise that it is, in fact rather more bad than good. I sigh, and Molly looks worried, "What is it, Mr Rich?"

I turn to her, "The Order's spies located Red Fire - or at least a ruby that seemed likely to be the jewel."

"But is that not a good thing?"

I shake my head, "Not when I learned where they discovered it. It was rumoured to have been in the hands of a jewel cutter in Antwerp. That can only mean that it has been set - in which case, God alone knows where it is now. A sale of something so valuable could only be undertaken in secret to avoid the risk of robbery - and whoever has it is certain to be wealthy enough to have it well guarded. We must now wait in hopes that it will appear on some rich man's doublet."

The news is not perhaps the worst I could have received - as it does, after all, offer hopes that the Order's spies might be able to retrieve it through theft at some point - but it is still deeply disheartening, and I find myself afflicted with what has begun to become a regularly present sense of stomach-churning worry. No matter what progress I might make today if there are papers in the coffer that are of assistance, I am still helpless without Red Fire.

Rather than dwell on the problem, I force it from my mind was best I can, turn to the papers in the coffer, and set to work with Molly on reading them. They are largely treatises and essays on demonology, witchcraft and magicks that I still struggle to accept, despite the evidence of my own eyes. While not useful to solve our immediate problem, there is no suggestion that they might not be of aid to a future matter, and between us, we categorise them within the system that Wolsey created until we are satisfied with the places that they should be stored.

"I shall house them, Mr Rich." Molly says, gathering the papers into their respective piles, "I think that dinner shall be ready soon, and Goody Dawson does not like to be kept waiting - the carp does tend to overcook so easily."

I think I might be being dismissed.

While I am not overly fond of river fish, as I find them rather muddy in flavour, Goodwife Dawson has done the best that she can, covering it with a spiced oil that does a commendable job of disguising the inevitable undertone of silt that seems to pervade the otherwise fine flesh. The sallet that she serves alongside it is a remarkable concoction that seems to consist of almost anything that she was able to locate in the garden so early in the year. Being unable to garnish it with eggs, as she normally would, she has instead scattered it with mushrooms fried in dripping. I suspect, however, she has only gone to such trouble for my benefit - as the household would almost certainly be eating vegetable and barley pottage were I not present.

With nothing to keep me at Grant's Place, I return to the Palace that afternoon, arriving in the fading light of early evening. As I have no plans to sup with Cromwell, I instead make my way to the Hall, as there will certainly be a meal there from which I can make a supper for myself. Wyatt is already present, drinking ale with some of his friends, but he cheerfully abandons them to keep me company.

"Any news?" I ask - he is our only link to the middle levels of the Court.

"Not at present, Richard." He says, taking another pull at his ale, "other than Chapuys almost certainly packing up to return to his estates in Savoy. I'm amazed he's stayed as long as he has - the King is absolutely immoveable about having him back."

I sag slightly at this news, and sigh, "The Lady Mary shall be most distraught - she has valued his friendship and loyalty almost all of her life. He was a friend to her when she had almost no others."

Wyatt nods, "I think, however, that Thomas is taking a great risk in trying to persuade his Majesty that Chapuys is better located in the Court than outside it. Campofregoso is so firmly installed now that the King has no interest in any but he. It is as though no other Ambassador exists. Castillion is equally cold-shouldered." He leans a little closer, and drops his voice, "It might also be wise if he is more discreet in his meetings with Chapuys - only I have noticed it, but it cannot be long before others do. He is sensible not to use the written word - but nonetheless…" his voice trails off, and I feel cold inside. The last thing we need is for Cromwell to be thought to be conspiring with the Imperial Ambassador - even though his actions are entirely innocent. What on earth has possessed him to be so clumsy?

The weeks drag on, subdued and punctuated with fish at mealtimes. We have seen few raveners, and no revenants have appeared. The failure of Lady Midday to destroy me has left Lamashtu with few remaining options, I suspect - but the lack of a son in the belly of the Queen keeps her dormant; after all, what can she do? Edward is well guarded, and is a babe no longer; and both Mary and Elizabeth are back in the King's favour again. We are, however, careful - for complacency could bring us all to our deaths - and we hunt regularly. At every opportunity, I return to Grant's Place in hopes that more information might have come to light - but always return disappointed and still more worried. There is no further news on the whereabouts of Red Fire, and absolutely nothing at all on what on earth we do with the jewels - assuming we ever locate the one that we are missing.

As Holy Week approaches, all begin to sigh with relief, for this ensures that we are spared any further Council meetings until the celebrations are over. The King is behaving astonishingly badly - rude even to Suffolk, his closest friend - and free with his insults to all. It is, as always, Cromwell who is obliged to bear the brunt of the worst venom; the ever-present Campofregoso happy to lap up his stoic refusal to rise to the provocation. God alone knows what he shall reveal as an Easter gift - but I cannot imagine he must have anything left that could out-do the gifts that he is still giving even now.

With the arrival of Holy Week, Campofregoso is proving all the more annoying for the high-born Lords, as his gift-giving reaches ever greater heights, with silks specially commissioned in far off Cathay, elaborately chased gold plate and all manner of gems that require only to be cut and set - as the King desires, and at the expense of the Ambassador. None can hope to match the largesse in terms of source or expense, though some are trying their best to emulate it. Despite being a Privy Councillor, I could not hope to match the cost, and a gift from me would be regarded more with suspicion than gratitude, so I am grateful not to be involved. Wyatt and Cromwell are equally spared the foolishness; but we are fortunate in that Suffolk does not participate, and nor does Hertford. In Suffolk's case, I imagine that he shall give a gift at some point, though privately and with thought for their friendship rather than show - with Hertford, it is likely the reason is the same as ours.

Enjoyable though his gifts must be for the King, the tiresome Ambassador is not, however, permitted to attend the Maundy ceremonies in any capacity other than his official one - as are we. The Queen is ornately bedecked in black and gold, the King equally resplendent, as they attend the Maundy Mass. Despite Gardiner's best efforts to steal his place, as the celebration is held at Westminster Abbey, Cranmer leads the service, and accompanies the Queen to greet those fortunate poor who have been invited to receive alms from her. The presence of his old friend pleases Cromwell, and we shall dine - on fish, naturally - after the service has ended.

As always, Queen Jane is extremely popular with the assembled commons, as the ladies hand out alms, and she dons an apron, before kneeling before an elderly man to wash his feet. There is no need for us to be present, but I have noticed that Cromwell is wearing his doublet with the concealed pocket again. It is at times like this that her Majesty is at her most vulnerable - though the merest thought that any of these people could wish her ill seems preposterous.

It is as we return to his Quarters afterwards to dine that I realise why he stayed to watch, "There are rather more supplicants than we used to see." He observes, "I think I shall ask my more trustworthy commissioners to investigate the work of the poor-houses. I am concerned that people are not being helped as they should be. That was not my intention."

He says nothing more than that, as Cranmer is with us, "That is something that I am also concerned about, Thomas," the Archbishop adds, "When I am in Canterbury, I make personal visits to the institutions we have established for the comfort of the poor - and that ensures that they are kept well, for I do not announce my visits in advance. Surprise is key: ensure that the commissioners do not give prior notice of their inspections."

Their conversation moves on to other matters, and we repair to Cromwell's apartments, where William has taken pity upon my dislike of river-fish and secured an excellent roasted turbot for us to share. Neither Wyatt nor I interrupt Cromwell's discussions with Cranmer, as they have few opportunities for relaxed conversation - particularly as the remaining services are to be held in the Chapel at Placentia, and Gardiner has elbowed his way forth to lead them, while the Archbishop oversees worship in his own See; unlike the congregation at Winchester, who have been left in the care of the Dean in their bishop's absence. Cranmer shall begin his journey back to Canterbury this afternoon and overnight in order to lead services for Good Friday.

Although I suppose my silence is taken as courtesy to the two men who are talking so animatedly across the table, it is more thanks to that encroaching worry over the location of Red Fire. I know that Lamashtu cannot possibly be kept at bay for much longer - what if her Majesty conceives again? The trail went cold in Antwerp - and Red Fire has not been seen again since. Not that the suggestion of Antwerp was truly firm: it was naught but a rumour. The jewel could be anywhere, and without it, the Raven cannot destroy the Demoness. It all rests upon that ruby; all - and I cannot find it.

While Cromwell sees his friend off, I return to my desk to ensure that I have nothing outstanding to clear before tomorrow. Once Good Friday begins, we shall not be back at work for a week. Most of the clerks have already dispersed, many to visit families, others to celebrate with friends. Only Wriothesley is still at his desk, and he departs after an hour, leaving me alone - and immediately I start worrying again. I should stop it - after all, nothing was ever achieved by worrying - but somehow this makes it all seem worse.

I am silent through much of our evening supper, and my attention is not on the hunt at all, so it is just as well that we see nothing. The fear that I might fail to find Red Fire has been creeping up for a long time - but now that I have had that insubstantial rumour, it has begun almost to consume my waking thoughts. And then, overnight, I dream that I have found it - and the bitterness I feel when I wake in the morning is almost tangible.

"Are you well, Richard?" Wyatt asks me, his eyes worried. I have sat through the Good Friday mass quite mechanically: rising when required, sitting when required, kneeling when required. I have said nothing, and have failed to cross myself several times, such is my preoccupation. Indeed, the majority of the congregation have departed, but I have shown no sign of moving - as though I had failed even to notice the service was at an end.

I shake myself, "Forgive me, Tom. I am preoccupied - it is no matter." Now is not the time to unburden myself - I can do that after we have celebrated the Resurrection.

Unfortunately, I am not granted such grace. As the day draws to evening, the court gathers in the Hall to close the day with a grand feast of abundant fish and bread, for Campofregoso has a new distraction for His Majesty in the form of a troupe of dancers from Portugal - the foremost of which, he claims, strikes sparks with her heels as she dances.

Intrigued, Henry has the centre of the hall cleared, and we assume that musicians shall strike up - but they do not. Instead, we hear the sound of sharp, rhythmic clapping, as two women, and two men enter the hall, their heels striking the stone in time to the percussion of the hands. They do not dance, however, instead singing a complicated tune with a strange harmony that sounds quite alien to my ears, as a lone figure, dressed in black and red, dances on light feet from the entry into the centre of that space, her face covered by a black veil. In time to the clapping and the strange singing, she moves alternately with sinuous grace, and sharp, percussive stamps with her heels that really do - as promised - strike sparks from the flagged floor.

All are entranced by the remarkable display - none more so than the King, who is leaning forward, his eyes wide. Even Jane seems fascinated, and both the Ladies Elizabeth and Mary are keen eyed at this extraordinary talent - for they are enthusiastic dancers. I just wish I could let my worry go for long enough to enjoy what I am watching; but the woman that strikes sparks with her heels merely fills me with a sense of terrible foreboding, and I cannot understand why.

Then, at last, with a shout, the singers stop, and the dancer halts with them. The hall erupts with applause, and Campofregoso steps forth to take the woman's hand, "Your Majesty - not only a magnificent daughter of Terpsichore herself, but a great Lady in her own right - please allow me to introduce to you, the Lady Isabella Sofre!"

As he cries out her name, she raises her hand and tears away the veil. The revelation of her face completes my sense of helpless dismay, for Lamashtu herself has come to visit us.

I have to lean back against the wall for a moment, such is my sense of horror. Lamashtu has come to Court, and I have no means to combat her - I cannot find Red Fire. What on earth are we to do? God help me, we are lost - and I have truly failed…

Cromwell is at my side, though he looks rather pale - having almost certainly received a sharp sting in his head, "Come with me, Richard." His hand is on my arm, and he guides me outside, as he can see that I am starting to breathe rather too quickly. Once out of the thick atmosphere of the Hall, and in the fresh air of the gardens, my head clears somewhat, and I sink down on a bench, trying to stop my hands from shaking. We are not ready…I have not found that which we need…

"She is here because she has failed, Richie - not you." Cromwell says, firmly, "All that she has sent against us has been repelled - and she has little left to her now but this. It is weakness that has drawn her here, not strength."

"But does not a cornered dog fight all the more viciously?" I demand, almost interrupting him, "If she is desperate, then she is far more dangerous! And I cannot find Red Fire!"

"There is still time, Richie - the Queen is not with child, and we have Blue Fire. In that lies our best hope. We do not know that she shall stay within the Court - it may be that she has come merely to observe, and shall retreat again."

"But what if she does not?" I cannot stop myself, nor can I feel the calm ease that Cromwell seems to show, "If she can reach the Prince, what then? You know as well as I that the King has not fathered any other babe even though he has taken mistresses - what if his time is done?" fortunately, I am not shouting - for even as the words are out of my mouth, I know how treasonous they sound.

"That is not certain - and the Queen is still young and healthy. There is every hope that a child shall be conceived. That Lamashtu is here need not concern us unduly. If worst comes to worst, do I not bear the Royal Rosary? As long as I am in reasonably close proximity to the King, she cannot approach him. I also have no doubt that the blessing that Wolsey bestowed upon the Queen during her last pregnancy shall keep her safe as it did before. If in doubt, have his Eminence bestow it again."

I had not thought of that - it appears that my frantic worry has truly dulled my wits, but I cannot seem to help myself, "Forgive me, Thomas - for the lack of Red Fire has become such a burden that I do not escape it even in sleep. I dreamed last night that it had been found - and I held it in my hand. I could see it in such detail - every facet, each glint of colour; and even that twisting pillar of fire at its heart. I rejoiced, for I had secured the means by which you could destroy the greatest of threats to this entire world. And then I awoke." Now my eyes are filling with tears - and I blink furiously to dash them away. The weight of this quest is becoming almost too great to carry, for I am helpless. I cannot search for the gem myself - but must rely upon others; and they have nothing to tell me. Thus I have nothing to tell my Silver Sword; and the enemy against whom we fight has come into our presence. If I do not find Red Fire, then we cannot defeat Lamashtu - but she could, if she wished, destroy all about her, and then all would be lost.

Despite his best efforts, there are no arguments that Cromwell can offer to banish my encroaching despair. I have done all that I can - but it is not enough…

That night, I dream again that the gem has been found. Once more it is in my hands, and I examine it in wonder, for its beauty is as transcendent as that of Blue Fire. The twisting pillar of flame within its depths a captive brother to that which held the Pharaoh at bay as the Israelites crossed the Red Sea. Together, these gems shall destroy a terrible threat to all of creation - and it is in my hand…my hand…

And then John shakes me, "My Lord, forgive me, but you must rise - the Easter Mass is in less than two hours."

It takes all I have in me not to scream.

I am in a dreadful temper for the entire morning. Gardiner's resolute determination to be as militantly Catholic as he can achieve without angering the King serves only to infuriate me - for it is so blatant, so fanatical that I almost wish I could heckle him. It seems most ironic, as Cromwell, beside me, shows no such ire - sitting impassively as he hears words that are but one step short of offering obeisance to the Pope. Even the prospect of a major feast that shall break the long Lenten fast does nothing to improve my mood, which settles from ill temper to almost miserable hopelessness as I find myself searching around the assembled Court for fear that Lamashtu is present.

When the King and Queen enter the Hall, Jane is wearing her magnificent diadem again, and she has an extraordinary expression on her face - a mixture of joy and triumph. Despite my worry, I can guess what the King is to announce, even before he speaks - for it could not be more obvious; but his words confirm it. The Queen is, once again, with child. Conceived before the Lenten fast began, it is only now that she feels sure of herself - and, if we are fortunate, we shall have a babe to celebrate at Christmastide.

While all about cheer and all but weep for joy, I feel my legs begin to shake. The Queen is with child - and a demon who delights in the destruction of the unborn is now resident in the Court. God help me, what on earth am I to do? I must speak to Wolsey - reinstate that blessing if we need to…I must find Red Fire - I have to…if not, all is lost…

Thank God I am at the back of the hall, out of sight, for my legs give way and I sink to the floor. Fortunately, Wyatt is nearby, and sees me go down, as Cromwell has made good his commitment to place himself as close to the King and Queen as he can to keep Lamashtu at bay. He cannot be too close - but as long as he maintains that proximity he tends to maintain thanks to his role as Chancellor, it should be enough.

"Come, Sir Richard," Wyatt says, loud enough only for those nearby to hear, "I agree it is a sight warm in here - but if you must wear that ridiculous furred simarre…" he has my arm and helps me up. I have no idea if Cromwell has spoken to him - but I know that Wyatt is not blind, nor is he oblivious to my situation and how such events can affect me. I seem now always to be either trembling, on the verge of losing my temper, or ready to burst into tears. God above, what would I be like if we were to face a true calamity?

"Forgive me, Tom." I sigh, I seem to be asking forgiveness rather a lot at the moment, "I am being an utter fool. Losing my composure is not going to retrieve Red Fire."

There is little he can offer other than sympathy, and we walk in the gardens for a while in companionable silence. Cromwell is doing what he can to protect the King and Queen by placing them in close proximity to the Rosary. If the blessing that Wolsey placed upon her last year is no longer in place, I can always prevail upon him to re-establish it. There are palliatives that we can use to prolong the time we have. But it still comes down to one thing - I must find Red Fire, but I cannot.

I am fit for little by the following morning, as the Privy Council gathers for the first meeting after Eastertide. As we seat ourselves, the King arrives - alone; for once, the blasted Campofregoso is not with him, and we must all rise again. We bow as he seats himself, and then also sit.

"Before we commence," the King says, gruffly, "I must thank my Lord of Suffolk for his fine gift to me." We all look, and my mouth goes dry. He is wearing a fine filigree gold brooch with a large pearl drop - at its centre, however, surrounded by a ring of smaller pearls is a magnificent, multi-faceted oval ruby that is red as blood. It cannot be…I cannot be so fortunate…

I struggle to keep myself from leaping from my chair and snatching at the jewel to look at it more closely; and I feel a solid pressure on my foot as Cromwell steps on it. He, naturally, is far calmer about it, and must remember a great deal more about the meeting than I do.

As we rise to depart, several of the higher Lords gather to examine the magnificent jewel - though mostly out of jealousy that Suffolk has come up with something so magnificent, yet tasteful. Cromwell has to all but grab my arm and drag me away, "Don't be a fool, Richie - we cannot ask to see it. I shall ask Lady Rochford to secure the Queen's help to find this out."

I am not involved in that conversation, and I suspect that Cromwell has asked Lady Rochford to report back to him, rather than to me. Thus, I have no knowledge of progress on the Queen's investigation - and it is three dreadfully long days of fearful worrying before Cromwell finally asks me to join him for dinner halfway through a working day where I have achieved absolutely nothing.

The look on his face says all, and I do not need to hear his words, "The Queen has taken great care to examine the ruby, Richie." He says, "It took her some time to do so - but she finally caught the trick, and was able at last to see a twisting heart of flame within the gem. It seems that it was in Antwerp - it was set in the brooch at Suffolk's order, as a gift for the King."

I sit there, taking in his words, and feeling the dreadful sense of tension fading away, as - to my embarrassment - tears sting my eyes. We have them - Blue Fire and Red Fire. We can - at long, long last - destroy Lamashtu. Perhaps it was not, after all, for me to actually find them; perhaps they were instead intended to be sent to me, and my task was simply to identify them and be ready to put them to use. I find myself hoping that to be so, for then perhaps I am less of a failure than I thought myself to be. How, after all, can I have failed in a task if it was not mine to complete in the first place? Now I understand what it was that drove Cromwell into his melancholic state of silence when Wyatt was abducted by Zaebos. It seems that I, too, have begun to place too much upon myself, believing that all is my responsibility - even when it is not.

The jewels have been delivered to the Court. Now all I need to do is work out how to get them from their mounts and their Royal owners, and then how the hell we use them.