A/N: Just a quick note to say thanks to my lovely readers, followers and favourite-ers. I really appreciate your views.
On we go!
CHAPTER NINE
Shifting Sands
The move to Whitehall is, as all such moves are, a great upheaval, though the weather remains kind, and the journey is not even remotely as bad as it had been on the way to Hampton Court. The sun is warm, the air fresh, and even the tracks have dried to the point that the hooves of the horses do not splatter mud up to our boots as we ride.
Our discussions are cordial, and largely neutral, as it is most pleasant to pretend that nothing hangs over our heads. I have no wish to consider that we are leaving the one Palace that Lamashtu seems unable to enter - for Wolsey confirmed his sign of the Cross was responsible for her absence. At Whitehall, there shall be no such protection; but at least we are both in close proximity to Grant's Place, and - almost certainly with the Queen's help - the jewels are now in our reach.
The keeper of the inn at which we stop to take a midday meal is most pleased at the sight of Court officials clearly journeying back to London. We are the first indication of the torrent of people who are to follow, though I suspect there is also an air of apprehension as he begins to calculate in his head - even as he sets out bread, cheese and chops - how much he must prepare for the stream of customers that shall become a flood before the week is out.
I am almost dozing in my saddle by the time we finally reach the gates of Whitehall Palace, having traversed several miles of rough road lined with fine townhouses that have sprung up in recent years to show off their owners' proximity to Royalty. They are the newest homes of highly placed Lords, and I think Castillion has one here, too, though I am quite close enough to Royalty as it is, and I prefer to be located further away on the rare occasions that it is even possible for me to escape the palaces in which I work.
Cromwell takes pity upon me as we depart in search of our apartments, for I am far too tired to sup, and instead wishes me a good night's rest. He does not seem to be as tired as I, and I suspect he shall make a sweep of the palace later tonight to ensure that nothing infernal has taken up residence in the areas that are most likely to be occupied. I wish I had the energy to join him.
The remainder of the week is spent watching the population of Whitehall increase as the rest of the Court arrives. Wyatt joined us early on, and we have accompanied Cromwell on several additional hunts, though this is more to reacquaint ourselves with the passageways of the Palace than to seek out raveners or other creatures.
As soon as the King is in residence, we are - formally - back at work again, and the first Council meeting is a surprisingly efficient affair that secures the agreement we have been seeking for the plans to build a system of roads. As it has taken almost the entire year to achieve this, I wonder why even Gardiner has offered no objections or opposition - as this is truly an about face for him. In some ways such acquiescence makes me very nervous, and I can see that it has unsettled Wyatt in equal measure. Cromwell says nothing, but he watches Gardiner leaving the Council chamber with rather narrowed eyes, and it is clear that he is wondering much the same as we are.
I am not sure whether to be fearful or mildly relieved when the Lady Isabella Sofre reappears at Court, having been - we are told - back to Portugal during the summer, as her father has recently died. A plausible excuse for absence, certainly - and many at Court offer her their sympathies, for she is a very beautiful woman, and the unattached men are as keen to befriend her as they were Lady Midday. As always, Cromwell's presence - bolstered by the Royal Rosary - keeps her at bay from the King, while the blessing keeps her from the Queen. There is, however, no denying his interest in the woman that is so enigmatic; and, as he is still close to Campofregoso, I am deeply nervous that he is hoping that the Ambassador shall engineer an introduction at some point.
As I change my clothing prior to this evening's hunt, I ask a question to the apparently empty air, "Is there any form of blessing that we could use to keep Lamashtu away from the King, Eminence?"
He is silent for a moment, before disappointing me, I am not aware of one, Richard. I did not come across one to my knowledge when I created the Library - but even if one existed, there would be no way to bestow it without alerting the King to his danger. The Queen might have the calmness of character to accept all that we do, but the King would not. The secrecy of our protection must remain intact - for he lacks the self-control to confront the danger that the realm faces, and would either disbelieve, or react in such an over-zealous manner against it that we should be thrown into the pit of Hell in an instant.
I sigh, for Wolsey is right, "I shall see if anything has been uncovered by the High in my absence at Hampton, then. Perhaps something new has been found."
Better than asking me to do it for you, I suppose.
Our hunt is, again, fruitless - and I am sure we are doing so only for the sake of keeping Cromwell busy, for he is becoming increasingly concerned at how the Council appears to be treating him. For most, the apparent warming of relations would be a good thing - but he has been a hated outsider for so long that he cannot believe that there shall not be a sting in the tail. He is fearful of what that sting might be, and who it might harm if it strikes.
Such is his tension that he has become uncharacteristically clumsy, and proves it this morning as he catches the edge of his inkhorn with his wrist, which tips it and sends ink cascading over his desk, dripping a fair degree of it upon his breeches. Cursing, he attempts as best he can to mop up the mess, though Peter is quick to come to his aid with some rags; then he hastens from the offices to return to his apartments - for the ink must not dry too much, or the laundresses shall never eradicate the stain. I have no doubt that William shall be quite relieved, however, to be seeking the removal of ink from his master's clothing rather than the more usual blood - or whatever bile demons might exude if they do not fall to dust.
There is no point in my following him, so I remain at my desk to observe the bemusement of the clerks at Cromwell's unusual awkwardness, and continue with my own work. Thus we are all startled when a steward comes rushing up to my desk, skidding to a halt in front of me, "The Chancellor asks that you go to him - at once, my Lord." He says urgently, once he has his breath back.
I do not care that people might stare, or that they might think my behaviour odd. Abandoning my papers where they lie, I scramble from my chair and bolt from the offices. Cromwell would not have sent such a summons to me unless he was in the direst need, and it matters not to me that people see me running at full pelt through the corridors. I am at his door in less than two minutes, but William does not answer my knock. In his absence, I shove the door open and rush in - but Cromwell is not present, "Thomas?" Oh God, please do not say that I have left it too late…that something has happened to him…
"In the bedchamber, Richie." His voice is odd - something has happened. Without hesitation, I hurry in, and stop still in utter shock.
Cromwell is on his knees, cradling William - but the servant's clothing looks oddly mottled in the poor light, and why is he so still? I cannot take it in…my mind will not accept what my eyes are telling me. For it is blood, William is blood-stained. God, no, there is a reason why he is not moving, other than in time with the almost gentle rocking as Cromwell cradles him. His eyes are open, but sightless…and it can only mean one thing: he is dead.
"Fetch the sovereign specific, Richie," Cromwell begs, his eyes anguished, "It is in my weapons cupboard - I need to use it - I have to save him…" he droops, and tears fall.
He is asking the impossible. I cannot retrieve the coffer from the cupboard - it is in the offices, which are full of people - even though Cromwell has now entrusted both Wyatt and me with keys, I cannot hope to enter the offices, open the cupboard and remove the coffer without attracting attention. Besides, while it can heal any wound or hurt, I cannot believe it could recall one from death. Instead, I approach, kneel beside them and set my fingertips against William's throat. There is no pulse - he is gone. I shudder slightly, for his skin is cold and a little clammy: he has been dead for at least an hour, if not more.
"I cannot, Thomas. You know I could not retrieve the coffer unseen."
"For God's sake! Have some pity, Richard!" Cromwell is desperate, "I cannot let him die in such manner! Not stabbed like a common footpad!"
"It is too late - his pulse no longer beats. He is gone, Thomas - can the sovereign specific heal death? It has brought us both back from the very edge of that abyss, but would it have been able to do so once we had fallen to it?" it is taking all that I have in me to retain my own composure, for I value William's counsel, wisdom and advice very greatly - but I have not had him at my side for more than ten years, so I cannot begin to touch the depths of Cromwell's grief.
"Fetch that damned coffer, Richard!" he demands, "Just fetch it!" His misery is becoming anger, and I almost fear that he might strike me if I refuse again - but I must.
"You ask the impossible, Thomas - I cannot turn myself invisible, or demand that all leave the offices while I open the weapons cupboard. God help me, if I could find some way to bring William back, I would do so - as you would, but it is done, we cannot bring him back. It is beyond both our abilities and our right."
For a moment, he tenses, and I see his free hand bunch into a fist. God, he is going to hit me…
But instead he hammers that bunched fist against the floor; then he goes limp again, slumps over William's corpse and weeps.
Trembling in my own grief, I look about the room - but there is no indication of the weapon used, and no sign of any intruder. It would be impossible to know who carried out the killing - for the finest apartments are traversed only by the richest, most highly placed courtiers and their servants. Even the chambermaids who clean these rooms are of a higher standing than the rest. Nonetheless - surely someone must have seen something; so, as Cromwell is in no state to do so, I must act in his stead.
"I shall speak to Tom." I say, quietly, "We shall see what we can do to find the…person who did this."
"And then I shall kill him." Cromwell mutters, bitterly, his expression suddenly dreadfully cold.
I sigh inwardly. I am not surprised at his vengeful words, but we do not need him to lose himself in revenge - not now, "Leave the investigation to us, Thomas. Look after William, and his final journey from this world. Grant him that last kindness."
He nods. For a moment his eyes were so hard, so angry - but now he is miserable again. God help us all, why William? Who would have done such a thing? I wish I had an answer - but I do not.
Wyatt's expression is grim, and he sighs as he sits beside me, "There are rumours, but nothing substantial. No one claims to have seen anyone enter Thomas's quarters but for Thomas himself just before he found William, and that was the Steward that he sent in search of you."
I had no wish to do so, but as I had committed to investigate the death, I was present when the women came at Cromwell's request to prepare William's corpse for burial. There were a dreadful number of wounds - but they were most odd; small incisions that were deep, but did not bleed excessively - for while his clothes had been mottled with blood, there had been little upon the floor about him.
"What sort of weapon could do this?" I ask Cromwell, for I have no idea. While I have slaughtered demons, I have never used a weapon upon another human being.
"A poniard, or possibly a misericorde." Cromwell murmurs, "Any nobleman in the Court would have a poniard - though the misericorde is less prevalent. I have heard tell of a newer weapon that the Italians use - which they call a stiletto after the Roman stilus. That, too, has a narrow point."
So the wounds are of no help to us, either. We have no evidence to assess - no motive, no suspect. It appears that we shall never know who carried out the murder.
"Make sure that your report into this is as full as possible, Richie." Cromwell says, painfully, "I could not abide it if a commission were to demand exhumation after we have laid William to rest."
The priest of St Leonard's Church in Shoreditch is waiting for Cromwell when we return to his Quarters, but he is not alone, for Dickon is with him.
"Goody Dawson has dispatched me to offer my services in place of the late Mr Carter, Sir." He advises gravely. I was vaguely aware that the Goodwife had been educating him to undertake such a role for a high-placed Gentleman - but I cannot imagine that either of them would have thought that Gentleman would end up being Cromwell himself.
He nods, quietly, "Thank you, Dickon. I should be most grateful for your assistance. If you could give me some time, I must discuss matters pertaining to William's funeral." His voice cracks briefly on the word 'funeral'.
"Come with me, Dickon." I advise, "I shall introduce you to John - he can advise you upon the necessary protocols for a manservant in the Palace, and we can arrange for appropriate livery for you."
"Yes, Mr Rich." He bows with appropriate formality.
"It's 'my Lord' here, Dickon," I advise him, "most would find it odd if you referred to me as 'Mr Rich'."
"How silly." He murmurs. Despite all, I smile at his observation.
The day of William's funeral dawns dull and damp - and only two days after his passing. Cromwell had asked that we be excused from the morning's Council meeting, but instead the King has decreed that it shall be shifted to the afternoon instead. I am not sure whether I am pleased or unnerved at such an act - though Cromwell seems too miserable to care.
All of the household of Grant's Place are present at the graveside, as are the three of us, and Molly and Dickon. William was valued by all of us, Cromwell most of all, and none feel shame in shedding tears as the coffin is lowered into the ground. As a servant, William would not be entitled to the more ostentatious graves that mark the final resting places of gentlemen, but I am not surprised that Cromwell could not countenance the small, barely marked graves that most of William's class would expect to have. In time, he shall have a fine granite headstone; but, for now, we must make do with a wooden cross until the ground has settled over him.
The funeral completed, Goodwife Dawson leads her brood away, to walk the short distance back to Grant's Place as a light drizzle begins to fall. Briefly exchanging a sympathetic glance with me, Wyatt follows; but Cromwell does not move - standing still at the edge of the grave as though he wishes that his stare alone might lead to a knocking upon that coffin lid, by which he could leap in and retrieve the resurrected man within. William had been his manservant for so long that - to a degree, they were more friends than master and servant, and even though Dickon is proving to be as capable and discreet, he does not have the sheer experience to anticipate his master's needs and wishes. Not yet.
He seems to show no sign of any intention to leave, so I join him, "We must go, Thomas. We cannot stay any longer."
"If I could leave, and never return, I would do so, Richie." He sighs, "For this death has left me with a dreadful sense of foreboding. It was an act against me - of that I am sure - but William has paid a cruel price for his association with me. I have led him to his death, and I wish more than anything that I were not who I am, for then he would still be living."
"There is only one surety in life, Thomas," I remind him, "and that is death. It is something to which we all come - and I have no doubt that, were you able to ask him, William would not have wished his life to have been any different. He has not wasted it - for he has stood at your side, the side of a Silver Sword, and aided you as you have carried out your mission. Between us, we have kept a Prince, and a Queen, alive - and those great acts shall be upon his soul now that he is in God's care."
"I cannot leave him, Richie," Cromwell's voice breaks again, and the tears that he did not shed while the priest spoke of the resurrection, and the life to come, fall as free as the rain that falls all about us.
It is only when his tears finally dry that he consents to leave the graveside, and we return to the Palace in a most sombre mood. It is only as we are about to part to visit our apartments in search of dry clothing that Wyatt hastens across to us, having got back an hour ago, "God above, you would have thought the sky had fallen in!"
"What do you mean, Tom?"
"All is in uproar - for the King's new brooch has gone missing!" There is no missing the sarcasm in his voice, "Even though he knows not what the ruby is, none have ever seen him so enraged at a loss of a jewel - for he lost a great emerald chain while out riding some years ago, and cared nothing; but this? It is as though he has lost Saint Edward's Great Crown!"
I stare at him, my eyes widening, "He has lost Red Fire?" I ask, much more quietly.
Wyatt sighs, "Doubtless he has dropped it and it has fallen beneath a dresser, or some such similar item of heavy furniture. Regardless of his view of the brooch, he is most careless with his jewels, for he has so many. I do not think for a moment that it is not in the Palace."
"Then we must hope that it is found - or we are lost."
"Perhaps." Cromwell sighs, "If we are fortunate, then it shall be found while we are at our meeting - and the King's mood shall be eased."
As we re-gather in dry clothes, the news is no better. As far as can be determined, the King has not seen the brooch for two days. He has rarely been seen without it, so it is most likely that it has fallen from his clothing, and shall be found in due course by one of the drudges. He, however, is not so certain, and demands that the thief who stole it be found and punished at the first opportunity. He is the King: therefore he is not clumsy, things do not fall from his person. It is theft - nothing else. A thief would normally lose a hand, but in this case, he intends that the thief shall lose his head.
Such is his distraction, that the King has decided not to attend the Council meeting after all. Consequently, as Chancellor, Cromwell has been deputed to chair it, which he would much rather not do. Besides, in such circumstances, this rather dubious honour falls to Suffolk, so he is rather bemused as to why he has been asked to do it.
Wyatt and I are already in the Council chamber, and I can see that he looks most perturbed. At first, I am not sure why - but then I begin to notice it, an odd calm: something is in the air, and then, for reasons I cannot fathom, I am suddenly very afraid.
Cromwell arrives, Wriothesley behind him, and moves to take the seat at the head of the table. None stand for him, but he did not expect that, and instead he begins to speak, "Gentlemen…"
Hertford, however, is on his feet, "Cromwell, do not sit there. Traitors do not sit at this table."
Across from me, Gardiner's eyes are dangerous, his expression one of almost gleeful anticipation, while the faces about the table show a range of emotions from those who seem to know what is happening, and others who do not - but are keen to see it play out. Suffolk, at the end of the table, seems as surprised as I.
Cromwell, distracted by his bereavement, seems utterly confused, and stares at Hertford without speaking - for what can he say?
"You have been consorting with the traitor Chapuys - meeting with him in secret, his servant has told us as much! Communicating with the spies of the Emperor against us! Do not deny it, for you have been seen with him!"
Then Gardiner is also on his feet, "For we have evidence not only of this, but of heresy! You have supported those who follow Luther - and encouraged them in their acts against the Church: Against the King himself! What is more, Gentlemen, I have it on the best authority that this man has even attempted to seek the hand of the Lady Mary in marriage!"
That brings about a response at once, "I have not!" Cromwell demands, rather wildly, "I would not presume to rise so high!" He is denying only this? God above, he is not thinking clearly…
"You are a traitor!" Gardiner screeches back at him, "We have proof of it!"
How? How can he have proof of treachery when Cromwell has committed none? What is happening? I look across at Wyatt again, but even he had not seen this coming.
It is then that the Captain of the Guard arrives, with two guardsmen, and hands papers to Hertford, who has clearly been awaiting them, before gravely announcing, "My Lord Cromwell, you are under arrest for treason."
Even as the two guardsmen attempt to take him into custody, he furiously wrenches himself free from their grasp, "I am no traitor!" he declares, then looks at everyone about him, his eyes almost desperate, "I ask you, on your consciences - am I a traitor?"
It is as though he has given them license to speak.
"Traitor!" someone shouts, then another and then it is a clamour. No one seems to notice, or care, that neither Wyatt nor I join them - and even Suffolk is silent, watching from the end of the table with uncertain eyes. He does not like me, nor does he like Cromwell - but this is something he had not expected, and he finds it most strange.
The guardsmen take his arms again, and pinion him far more firmly than before. They are about to depart when Hertford stops them, "Wait!"
For a moment, I think this has been a cruel trick - that they are demonstrating to Cromwell that they have power over him; but no. It is worse. His eyes narrow, Hertford speaks again, "Traitors should not wear a chain of office." And he reaches out to wrench the smart chain from about Cromwell's neck. So that is that, then. It is truly happening - they really have moved against him…God help us…God help us all…
Cromwell stares directly into Hertford's face, "I am no traitor." He says, mustering all the sincerity he can into the denial. For a moment they look at one another, before Hertford turns away, and the guardsmen pull Cromwell back.
"I am no traitor!" He cries again, more desperately, as he is dragged from the room, "I am no traitor!"
The room is silent, but the sense of satisfaction in those who despise Cromwell is all but palpable, and one of the lesser Councillors turns to Hertford, "What have you there?"
"Proof." He says, "While Cromwell was away from the palace this morning, his rooms were searched. We found letters from known Imperial spies, discussing means of ensuring that Genoa is consumed into the Empire, that Charles shall have help against the French and that…and that the Lady Mary shall be married to him to secure his power - and she shall be restored to the succession ahead of the Prince Edward, for she is the daughter of his first, and only true wife."
The various councillors object in the most vicious terms, but I cannot speak. It is nonsense - utter nonsense; who on earth could believe that Cromwell could achieve such an aim? He is a commoner, and not even the Emperor would agree to Mary marrying him. How can they not see it?
"That is not all, Gentlemen." He adds, "For it came to my attention some time ago that the traitor Cromwell was most enamoured of the fine ruby brooch that my Lord Suffolk gave him this past Eastertide. As we all know well, it has not been seen these two days past."
At this, Suffolk's head comes up, sharply.
"That, too, was found in his quarters. Perhaps he hoped to wear it when he is wedded to the poor Lady Mary!" Gardiner takes up, rather more excitedly, "And was not his poor manservant found dead in his chambers? The murderer has never been found - and yet, perhaps it is not too far a judgement to make that he himself was responsible for the crime? After all, none saw it take place in the privacy of his own bedchamber!"
I make to speak, to defend Cromwell's honour as best I may; but then I catch Wyatt's eye, and he shakes his head, the tiniest movement - but his eyes say far more. I was the one to whom Cromwell called when he found William. If I speak now, then I am also implicated. So far, none have made that connection, and I must remain silent, for otherwise they may do so, and I, too, shall be arrested. Who shall work for Cromwell's rescue then?
I cannot stand to be silent - but I must do so for the sake of the Mission. Once, I would have done so without thought for anything but my own safety; but this patent nonsense, this ridiculous belief that Cromwell is a traitor, a thief and a murderer…in their determination to steal his royal favour and confidence for themselves, Gardiner, and Hertford with him, have brought the kingdom to the very edge of ruin. We may have retrieved Red Fire - but what can we do if the Raven is in the Tower?