CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Race to the Tower

I turn to Wyatt, who looks at my expression of horror, "What?"

"She knows." I whisper back, "His Eminence told me - she knows. I cannot believe she cannot move as quickly as Mortimer did - she shall get there first…God help us…"

Immediately, Wyatt fishes into his scrip, and pulls out a gold mark, "If you can get us to the Tower before the clock strikes the hour, you shall have this mark! Pull with a will, my man!"

The Wherryman stares at the coin, but only for a moment, instead pulling furiously at his oars. A gold mark is more than a man of his trade could make in a month; no, more than a month - and he has no intention of letting it pass him by. Such is his expertise with the oars that I know I could be of no help to him if I took one of them, and I doubt that Wyatt could manage any better. We have no choice but to put our trust in our oarsman, and the ebbing tide, to get us to the Wharves as soon as is possible.

There is no doubting that Lamashtu shall get there before us - for it seems impossible to me that a lesser demon such as Zaebos could move with immense speed, but she could not. Our only hope is that the Royal Rosary shall protect Cromwell from her - for he is now in deadly danger, and we cannot help him, for we are trapped aboard a boat in the midst of the river. Oh God - I cannot even warn him.

There is very little river traffic now, for night has all but fallen. As the Wherryman cannot see behind him, Wyatt and I must act as lookouts for him to avoid the risk of collision - but there is nothing in our way, for he knows the river thoroughly and is not too close in to the bank. It is just as well, for my mind is racing, and I am far too inattentive to be of any use as a watchman.

Remarkably, the Wherryman has indeed managed to get us to our destination before the clock struck - though his expenditure of energy is such that Wyatt would have granted him the mark for his effort alone even if he had failed to achieve the target that had been set for him. Astounded by his reward, the Wherryman waves us goodbye with a cheer that I wish we could return - but we are both now dreadfully fearful for Cromwell's safety. He does not even have his swords to keep him - even though they would not destroy Lamashtu; we have them, and thus he must rely only upon the Rosary. If that is not sufficient, and she is able to kill him, then all is lost.

God - I must stop thinking such panicked thoughts - what help is that to anyone? But how can I think anything else? If I thought the Tower forbidding in the daylight when I first escaped the Palace, then now it appears truly terrifying. I cannot begin to imagine how it must have been to have been escorted in there as a prisoner. It was bad enough entering as an interrogator.

"It is quiet." Wyatt observes, softly, "Perhaps she has not reached here yet."

That, I cannot believe, "I suspect she has been more subtle than we would expect for one of her kind. If she is to achieve her aim, she must rely upon stealth - even without any means of defending himself, I have no doubt that Cromwell would be prepared for her should she be disruptive enough to have caused the hue and cry you expect. Come - do you have Hertford's warrant?"

"It is in my hand, Richard. Let us hope that Hertford's word is sufficient to gain us entry - or we shall have to find a way to break in."

"Please do not say that, Tom. I have no wish for us to tempt providence."

As there is still some light, though not much, the main Gates shall be closed by now - but the Byward Tower postern is still open to admit guards and the Constable's staff. Wyatt's steps seem to slow as we approach, and for a moment I wonder why - and then I remember: the last time he was within these walls, he was a prisoner - and it was here where he watched his beloved Anne die, "Courage, Tom." I whisper to him, "We are rescuers now, not prisoners. Our purpose is for the good of all."

It is easy for me, of course - I have never come here in chains.

I have no recollection of the Guard at the postern, though I have not entered the Tower in nearly two years. Even were I not so disguised, I doubt that he would recognise me anyway. Certainly he does not recall Wyatt, who presents him with the Warrant. I have no idea what Hertford has written - though the Guard reads it most carefully, and several times. Finally he nods, and waves us through.

We are, however, still only within the outer bailey, and must be admitted through another gate near the Wakefield Tower to enter the inner bailey, for it is certain that Cromwell shall be held in one of the towers of that structure. But which one? I turn to Wyatt, "Does the warrant give us a reason to be here?"

He opens it and reads it by the light of a nearby torch that flames in a bracket, "It does not - it just requires the Guards to admit the two of us on the King's business."

Hell. We have no reason to ask Cromwell's whereabouts. He could be anywhere.

"At least let's get into the inner ward, Richard." Wyatt whispers, "All but the meanest and lowest of the prison cells are contained within there. No matter what his station, I do not believe for a moment that the King would have permitted him to be placed in such a rude accommodation."

I recall the cells in which the four co-accused of Anne's were held - each according to their rank. I do not, however, wish to recall the circumstances in which Smeaton was incarcerated. Cromwell is a commoner, as he was - please God don't let him be held in a cell like Smeaton's. Then I recall Wolsey's message, and tell myself to stop thinking so - for the Cardinal told me that Cromwell's accommodation was not so poor as that.

As I am posing as a servant, I cannot lead the way, so Wyatt approaches the gate and presents our warrant again. The Guard shrugs, re-reads the warrant as his colleague did, but waves us through. I suppose he must think we intend to report to the Constable. We are, however, now within the walls of the inner ward - and far more easily than I anticipated.

I had forgotten, however, just how large the Tower is - as on each of my previous visits, I had a known destination in mind, and we were following a guard. Now, however, we must search as best we can without anyone wondering why we are doing so. There are so many towers - and what of the cells in the keep?

Wyatt is standing still, and as I move closer to him, I realise that he is trembling. He does not wish to be here - anywhere but here. Thus I take the lead, and we move past the wall that separates us from the Palace buildings and up towards the Chapel of St Peter.

"It was here." He whispers, faintly, as we step out into a wide space, "This is where she died."

The space is bare now, but when there is need, this is where they construct the scaffold for those privileged to die in private. Others, such as Cromwell, are expected to walk to the permanent scaffold above us on Tower Hill for the gruesome entertainment of the public. God, I don't want to think about that…

"Concentrate, Tom." I whisper back to him; though I think I am advising myself as much as he, "She is with God now, and safe. It is Thomas we need to think of."

He closes his eyes tightly, and sighs painfully, "Forgive me, Richard. I have not been here since that time."

"Nor have I," I admit, "It was a harsh time for us all - even for Thomas and I, though I know it to have been far more so for you. I cannot censure you for feeling so - there is nothing to forgive."

Wyatt seems to make a visible effort to regain his composure, "Can Wolsey aid us?"

I shake my head, "I suspect not. He must have used a great deal of energy merely to intervene when the King held out the jewel to the Queen. He sounded most weak when he warned me of Lamashtu's knowledge, so I cannot ask him to help us now - for I doubt that he could do so."

"Then it is for us to do."

I nod, but then my attention is caught by a strange rumpus somewhere to my left - above my head. Turning, I look up to see a group of ravens, who seem most perturbed by something. Such birds are not unusual within the Tower, for the stone structures give them shelter from their forays to raid rubbish piles and remnants from Smithfield; but the behaviour of this group seems most strange - they flap about the walls of the tower, and cry their ghastly cries to one another as though something dread is nearby.

"Tom - which tower is that?"

"I think it to be the Beauchamp - God, what has disturbed those ravens?"

There can be only one thing that could have done so - of that I am sure. While I lack the superstition to believe that the birds are attempting to rally to the aid of their namesake, their presence suggests that something vile is nearby - and they wish to mob it to drive it from their presence. That said, it would seem a most fine coincidence that the ravens are warning us of danger to our Raven. Seeking to aid one of their own…

As I approach the base of the tower, I can see a prone body, and hasten to find one of the Tower guards has been felled beside an open door - a door scarred by scorch marks…

"She is in here - she must be!" I call back to Wyatt, who hurries to me and crouches beside the guard.

"He lives, Richard - at least that is something for which to be grateful." Then he stops, as do I.

Even here, at the foot of the tower, we can hear the sound of battle - there is a violent fight in progress above us - and it can mean only one thing: Cromwell is above - and Lamashtu has found him.

I do not need any further prompting, nor does Wyatt. We race for the stairs and climb them as fast as we can. The first floor has no tenant, but the noises from above grow worse with proximity, and we rush up again to find a scene of utter devastation.

Before Lamashtu arrived, the second floor of the tower was separated into an antechamber and a cell - but now the wall that divided the spaces has been reduced to rubble, while the door that once granted or denied admission is nothing but splinters. The bars within it twisted and melted into slag. Beyond, there was furniture once, but that too is now reduced almost to sawdust, and the walls are thickly rimed with a vile soot from malodorous smoke that even now still curls about the ceiling.

She is there - a terrifying sight; her fine clothing slashed, scorched and torn while she herself has sprouted wounds that bleed as black as Pscipolnista's did when I cut her. How could that have been possible? Cromwell does not have his swords - and, even had they been to hand, it would have mattered not, for they did not wound her…

Then I see him - he is on the ground, rising to his knees with the intent of getting back to his feet. If she is a ghastly mess, he is worse - bloody, beaten and as torn as she. Where is the rosary? His shirt is gaping and I can see no sign of it about his neck - God no, has she destroyed it? If she has, then she has doomed him as surely as if she had struck him down with one of those swords she formed out of smoke when we faced her in the Priory.

He turns to see us, and seems not to realise who we are - does he not recognise Wyatt? I doubt he would realise at first that I am present, disguised as I am; he must be dazed if he has not realised that Wyatt is standing before him, "Run!" He calls to us, "For God's sake, get out!"

"But it's us, Thomas!" Wyatt shouts back. I wish he had not - for we were anonymous before he did it, and if Cromwell realises who we are, then so shall Lamashtu.

But she does not - focused entirely upon Cromwell as his eyes widen, realising that we are indeed there. Relieved, I reach into a pocket of my livery and retrieve the pouch…

"The gems!" Lamashtu's shriek is horrible, and her attention is now entirely upon me instead. I have not a chance to even move, as her hand suddenly stretches out at me with an odd cutting motion. I hear a clatter as my sword drops from my back, the strap I used to secure it suddenly severed. She knows what it is - she knows that it protects me…

And then I am not in the tower any more. I have no idea where I am - for all is now darkness. Strange noises surround me, and vague shapes that have no form, but curl like wisps of smoke. For the briefest instants, they form into faces of such hideous ugliness that I try to scream - but no sound emerges from my mouth. Where am I? How am I here? Suddenly I cannot remember anything other than this place - I have always been here - always alone…always…

I am dead, you useless nothing. Dead! The King had my head severed before a braying crowd as a reward for my loyal service! What did you do to save me? Nothing! I cannot forgive - I cannot forget. You have failed me and my soul is forever damned!

Who is that? The face that forms from the smoky fog is livid and enraged with hate - I should know it, it is familiar - but. God, no - God help me, no…not Cromwell. I did not fail him, surely I did not? I cannot remember…

I want to scream, to beg - but no sound emerges from my mouth. Then there are birds all about me, their horrid wings flapping in my face, their harsh voices lamenting a failure that I cannot even recall, their claws and beaks cutting and stabbing at me while my arms hang useless by my sides.

As your failure condemned me, so I condemn you! He wanted to make you pay for your treachery, and so he shall. Face him if you can, you traitorous weasel!

And then I am standing on solid ground - though all is still dark. Even though I have always been in this place, I have a vague sense of memory, of someone speaking of a place such as this. How can I remember being told about it? I have always been here…

I hear him before I see him - a strange, shuffling sound as though he is dragging his feet - a grotesque shadow emerging out of the darkness, bringing a strange light, like a will o' the wisp. He is tall, and thin, a long cloak about him - but his head…his head is on wrong - as though it has been severed and badly replaced. I know that face…I remember standing before this man…perjuring myself…betraying him with false words...oh God…

Thomas More.

He does not speak, but drifts around me as though made of the same fog that formed Cromwell - but he is not fog. He is present…

"I am glad to meet you again." His voice gurgles from a ghastly hole in his throat, "So long have I waited for this - for the opportunity to seek repayment for your perjury."

I want to speak - to apologise - to…anything…but no words will come.

"You spoke so many words then, did you not? But now you speak nothing - for you cannot. There are no words that you could say that could appease me, you vile creature."

I'm sorry…I'm so sorry… please, I want to tell you, but I can't…please forgive me…

"I have a truth for you, Rich. There is no heaven. No welcome to love and warmth, no God, no Christ, no Spirit. I threw away my life for nothing - for a worthless faith that brought me nothing but hatred and perfidy! It is nothing but this - endless nothingness, and screaming horror as you remember all that you knew when you lived, and know that you shall never live again!"

I want to move - but I cannot. I cannot get away from this - how can he say this? How? Does he not know that I have seen the power of Heaven? I saw it in the Rosary…

The Rosary… God, I remember - where am I? Lamashtu must have pulled me somewhere - but where? Am I even still in the tower? I cannot tell - I cannot see.

There is a hand about my throat, and More is there again, his eyes hideous, "Do not think you can escape my vengeance! I have dreamed of this from the moment I became aware that this is what awaits the living! It is your fate, it is his fate, it is all our fates! There is only nothingness - but for those of us who are cursed to want vengeance upon those who destroyed them there is indeed vengeance! And I shall have it! I shall avenge myself upon you - for you spoke lies upon oath to destroy me!"

His face is changing - growing hideously ugly as his features split and smoke. Long, vicious fangs are emerging from his mouth - his fingers are lengthening…claws growing out where his nails were…Jesu no, not her…not the Huntress…

I cannot escape as More's mouth widens ever further, the teeth lengthening and sharpening; and then he lunges forward, those ghastly fangs ripping into my belly - blood splattering all about as I twist in agony. I scream - but still no sound emerges. This is not real - it cannot be real…

But it is…we are here too - let us enjoy your horror…let us be avenged for your acts against us!

Jesu no - not them…Smeaton, Norris, Weston, Brereton and Boleyn - they are here now, too. Oh God - they even have Anne with them! Witnesses to my punishment. It seems that Tartarus does exist then…but how can that be so if Heaven does not?

Is this what it was like for Cromwell? Is this what he had to endure? God help me, I cannot bear this - I cannot get away from their accusations, their hate…and even now they are setting a wall of bricks about me - and there is now a ceiling above my head - they are entombing me to drown in the blood that still floods from my eviscerated body…

Open your left hand.

More's voice - not that horrid wheeze from the hole in his throat - I remember that voice from when he lived, when he spoke so calmly and eloquently of his loyalty...when he looked upon me with disgust as I twisted his innocent words against him…

Your left hand. Open it: your left hand.

I want to scream - for there is so little space left - I am in blood, up to my neck. I shall drown in my own blood…

Do not listen to the lies. Open your left hand. Open it - it is your only hope. Open your left hand.

The command is gentle - but firm, and I strive to heed it. I feel as though my fingers will not obey me - as though each fraction of an inch is an agony that lasts forever - but then something seems to fall away…

Then a shriek - not mine, not More's…and I fall, landing heavily upon the stone floor of the same cell that I had entered with Wyatt…where the hell was I? What happened to me? Did Thomas More come to me from Heaven to aid me? Is he truly that forgiving? I cannot know, nor do I think it likely that I ever shall…

Thank you…thank you…thank you…

Slowly, I become aware again, and I realise what fell from my hand. Wyatt has the pouch now, and he calls out, "Thomas! Catch!" and he flings it to Cromwell - who catches it easily and empties the two gems out into the palm of his right hand.

Wyatt hastily crouches beside me, he must be able to feel me trembling at the horrors I faced, for he immediately speaks to reassure me, "Whatever happened - it was Lamashtu. It was not real - you are safe now - she had you in mid air, and you were held as though a fly in amber."

I cannot speak - I do not want to think of what happened; but I do not need to, for all that I hoped for is happening before my eyes. My task as Cromwell's second appears to be complete.

I have found Red Fire, and Blue Fire - and they are now in the hands of the Raven.