CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Raven's Vengeance

I open my eyes, and wish that I had not; for my head is hammering with pain, and my stomach churns sickly. I know that I am lying upon the ground, but I cannot tell whether it is stone or earth. I cannot see, though I think that there is light: all is blurred, and I struggle to think, for my mind will not settle. There is only one thought in my mind other than my hideous nausea: where am I?

I think I must have passed out, for when I next open my eyes, my head still hurts, but I do not feel as though I am aboard a storm-tossed ship. My thoughts still land, then flit, then land, like flies swarming about a piece of abandoned meat - and my vision is still disturbed. There is definitely light - a flickering yellow light that suggests candles; but then it all seems to spill into some madly churning maelstrom and I sink into darkness again.

It is impossible to count how many times I open my eyes and close them - for I cannot tell if I have blacked out, or merely blinked. Gradually, my headache eases, but I cannot find it in myself to move, for if I do, all spins about, and I feel sick again. I just wish I could remember why.

After what seems like an eternity, my head is calm, and so is my stomach. I can sit up without feeling as though my surroundings slop like water in a jar that has been knocked and righted. I have no sense of the passage of time, so I cannot begin to guess how long I have been where I am - though it is only now that I can identify my location - or, at least, my immediate location - for I am in a dark, vaulted space that is either a cellar, or a crypt. With no windows, it is impossible to know whether it is night, or day. All the light about me is provided by stinking tallow candles set into small sconces that are attached to the various pillars of the vaults.

My first thought - oddly - is that I am dreadfully thirsty. I have no idea how much time has passed since I last drank anything, and the desire to find something - even water would do - is very strong. The second thought is that I am alone. It is only then that the third thought finally arises as my memory begins to stir: I have been abducted.

I should be afraid. I think, once, I would have been utterly terrified. None were present when I entered my chambers and found only Campofregoso awaiting me. I do not know how much time has passed since then - but I am certain that I shall have been missed, for Cromwell was expecting me to sup with him. But who knows where I am? For I most certainly do not.

I can, at least, arm myself, so I hold out my right hand, and utter the call that Wolsey taught me, "Lezviye k moyey ruke". In moments, I have my sword; though I still feel endlessly uncertain that such a call would truly work. It does - and that is all that matters to me now. I fancy Campofregoso chose me over Cromwell as I am not a Silver Sword, so I would be far easier to take. In that, alas, he was right - for I was fool enough to think that all was safe and secure, and thus forgot to be aware of my surroundings. Cromwell would have been a far harder proposition - I consider it almost an amusing idea to imagine the battle that would have ensued had they attempted to abduct him.

At least now, however, the former Genoese Ambassador shall find himself to be incorrect in thinking that I am helpless against him. I am armed, and I am fully awake. I am ready.

Unfortunately, I am not ready to be faced by five large men in the distinctive green livery of Campofregoso's retinue. Even with my back to a pillar, they are quick to surround me, and the man himself stands at the doorway, watching with amused interest as I hold my sword up to fight them. I know that I am not Cromwell - that I lack his speed and skill, but I have skill of my own, and the first of the men who attempts to grasp at me falls back, shrieking as the Damask blade cleaves his right hand from his wrist, and stumbles to the wall, clutching the fountaining stump to his chest.

For a moment, I am shocked - for I have never used the blade to harm another human being; only demons. But it is now my life or theirs, and I know I must not hesitate: not even to kill if I must. Wolsey told me that the blade can cleave through anything without punishment - and that is my only hope of escape from this place. Campofregoso would not have brought me here for any reason other than to end my life - presumably to exact vengeance upon the Raven - and if I am to survive, then I must be prepared to end the lives of others.

The sight of one of their number so grievously injured holds them back, until another aims to reach for the sword as though intending to grasp it from my hand. Again, I slash with it, but this time my aim is higher, and it is not his hand which is hewn from his arm, but his head from his neck. God help me, I have killed a man - and I must kill again if they are not to kill me.

I am, however, not granted that opportunity, for the three who remain rush at me at once, and I cannot move fast enough to strike out at them. In seconds, it is over - I am on my knees, the Damask blade kicked from my hand, and then off into the darkness beyond the light of the candles.

Now that the violence is over, Campofregoso enters the room. His eyes are glittering in the light, the shadows from the flickering flames dancing across his angular face and serving to highlight his horribly intent expression.

"How well you fought." He says, softly, "Almost as well as the Fox, the Hawk and the Wolf - though none could stand against me. Ah, if I had known then that my enemies could reside in the courts of Europe, then the would have been no limit to the destruction I could have wrought upon them. None - and I could rule all, all…but then that damnable Raven flapped his wings in my face - and brought me down and I have nothing, not even a Crown of gold, so much what I wanted - so much what I deserved since that bloody House would not give me my due. So I shall clip his wings - for Lady Lamashtu told me of his weakness, and his weakness is you."

There is an odd sound to his voice - almost amusement, a sick, gloating delight that seems crazed. God help me, he has gone mad. All his grand plans brought to nothing, humiliated beyond endurance, his mind has cracked.

"Oh, the look upon his face when the masters told him he would have to whip that german dog…such pleasure I felt…and when I left the corpse of his servant for him to find…but nothing compared to the moment when he comes upon your tormented remains - every single mark of your death as clear as his…" Campofregoso is rambling, and I have no idea if he has intended to tell me all that he has; for he killed William - stabbed him to death…killed him…

That he intends to kill me is no surprise - for I assumed as much when I saw him.

"His death was easy…" Campofregoso goes on, crouching so that his mouth is alongside my ear, "Yours shall not be - and I shall make sure that the Raven shall know it…you are far from aid, Second: far from aid - and none shall hear your screams…"

I will not scream. I will not…not even as he withdraws a long, slim-bladed dagger from his belt. From his expression, I realise that I am looking at the blade that was used to stab William to death.

And now it is to do the same to me.

Still muttering to himself, Campofregoso nods at me before turning away to fetch a candle from one of the sconces and setting it down on a ledge. As he does so, one of the retainers starts to wrench at the buttons of my doublet, and it is soon pulled away and cast aside. The other two pinion my arms firmly as he moves to the side of the crypt, and releases a chain.

The sound of links clattering above my head is not sufficient to ignite my curiosity, for my concentration now is upon one thing, and one alone: not to lose my composure, or to panic. It shall not help me, but shall certainly serve to entertain Campofregoso, who is meticulously examining the point of his long dagger. It is thinner than my poniard, and I recall Cromwell telling me that it could have been a misericorde - that mercy-bringer that ended the agonies of mortally wounded knights upon the field. It might even be that new Italian development he mentioned - a Stiletto - but that I could only determine by asking - and I do not trust my voice to remain steady. God help me, I shall not show fear. I refuse to. Not to this lunatic - I would not give him the satisfaction.

My resolve falters for a moment as my wrists are locked into a pair of manacles that were lowered from the ceiling: the clattering links that I refused to watch. The chain is pulled back, raising them again - and taking my wrists with them. I will not shout. I will not cry out. I will not show fear. I will not. I will not.

I am not suspended, that is something to be thankful for - but instead I stand at full stretch, my arms taut, as Campofregoso nods again, and holds the point of his misericorde in the candle flame.

"I intend to exact my vengeance upon all of the House." He says, as he does so, "My talent was second to none - all said so - and yet I was denied. And now I know all - for there are others that do as the Raven does. I came so close…so close…and he escaped the noose as I drew it tight. Damn him. And damn you - for I knew not of Seconds until Lady Lamashtu told me. And she is gone. Gone…my queen is dead…"

I stare at him, my eyes widening; queen? He thought himself to be a king over demons? Then he truly is mad - and he must have been so a long time ago, for who could believe themselves to be equal to that abomination?

"That is my weapon - I shall destroy the Seconds of all the Silver Swords in the courts, and then, while they mourn, I shall destroy them all…all…for who cares for the words of that fool Henry? He thinks he shall bar me from royal service? I am greater than he, and I have better blood, for all know he is the son of bastard stock who took a throne that was not his to claim. I shall destroy him, and his filthy bastard brood and rule this island in her name…and demons shall feed…"

His mind is wandering again, I think. Does he wish to destroy the Order, or carry on Lamashtu's grand plan? Perhaps he thinks that he can do both. God above, now that Cromwell knows what he is capable of, he shall warn the High - and all shall be set against this madman. If he does kill me, then at least I know that his plan shall be stopped, for he has shown himself for what he is. And that means that my death shall mean something - and so I shall not have died in vain.

Except that I do not want to die…

Cardinal…Eminence, help me - I do not know where I am. Tell Thomas - tell him to find me…even if I am dead, he must know what is happening, for the House must be warned - all must know…but help me…please help me…

I have not internalised my words inside my head before - but I cannot speak aloud. Wolsey does not answer - but then I did not expect him to, for he has no means to anchor himself. I must now hope that he has heard me, and will reach Thomas in a dream - though I have no idea now if it is night or day. My only chance of survival is to hold out as long as I can. From what I can remember of William's wounds, they did not bleed excessively - so if Campofregoso stabs me, perhaps I shall live longer than I might had he used any other blade.

But he does not stab me - not deeply. Instead, he pauses, then drives the point into my shoulder no more than half an inch. Despite my determination to be silent, the heat of the metal is such that I cannot stop a sharp cry from escaping my throat, and then there is a foul stink: burned cambric mingled with roasted flesh. Withdrawing the blade, he stabs it again, a few inches away from the first hole, and I cry out again - for I cannot stop myself.

"First," Campofregoso says, as he steps back to reheat the knifepoint, "there was Fox. Now he was very capable, you know. One of the oldest Silver Swords still in service. I took the time to gain his confidence - for I can, after all, sense ichor as the Raven does - and pretended that I had not known its importance. He had never discovered one who could sense ichor; and he was so pleased to have done so. That was his downfall - compassion. He never learned detachment as I did - for I was the best there had ever been; but that fool at the House would not see it. And nor did Fox. I ingratiated myself with a bishop who had quite the penchant for little boys - it was a simple matter to gain his confidence once I found him a doe eyed, blond little creature. He was used to dark haired Spanish children, of course."

I feel sick inside - Cromwell despised this man as a procurer of women for the King, but he stooped to this? For his own gain, providing a foul pederast with children to despoil…

"And then, I convinced him to denounce that poor, trusting Fox - who was helpless against the corrupted evidence that placed his neck in the garrotte. He was so brave, of course; but his last moments were filled with fear as the band tightened - I so enjoyed the sound as he choked."

The blade is heated to his satisfaction, and he comes back to me. I tense up, for now that I know what to expect, I cannot stop myself. This time he pushes the point into my back, sending that foul mixture of burned cloth and flesh into the air again, and again, and again - until the blade is cold, and the wound bleeds rather than cauterises.

Rather than reheat the misericorde, instead he drops it alongside the candle on the ledge, and says, "Forgive me. I am rather hungry, so I shall dine. I shall see you later, when I have eaten." And he leaves me - with the body of the man I killed, and the moaning man whose hand I severed. His remaining three retainers follow him, and I am alone.

The stab wounds throb rather, but otherwise, I am relatively unhurt. If he continues to do this, then there is a real hope that Cromwell shall find me, and that I shall live. But, God - I am thirsty, and that alone is sufficient to cause me unexpected distress, and I whimper, but then force myself to shut my mouth. I will not be afraid! Damnation, I will not! I have been considered a coward for almost all of my adult life - and, to a degree, I have been; but not here. Not now. I am a Second, and I intend to prove it…God give me strength, I shall not let him hold that over me! Even if I die here, I want my Silver Sword to be proud of my sacrifice, for that is what a Second should do!

And then I cry.

With no means of telling the time, I have no inkling how long Campofregoso is gone - though it is probably not as long as it seems to me. I have long since recovered my composure, but it is hard to maintain it as he lifts the blade and begins heating it again, though he has had to find another candle, as the one he was using has burned down.

"My next Silver Sword was Hawk." He says, conversationally, "As with Fox, I used my ability to sense ichor to interest him. Do they know how easy they are to find? I suppose my inherent superiority must be their downfall." The blade hot enough for his satisfaction, he approaches me again, "Once they know they have found someone who can sense demons as they can - they become so trusting; for they can share their great secret, and they think that the one with whom they share it is as keen upon secrecy as they. He thought that even as I struck him over the head." Grinning viciously, Campofregoso pushes the hot blade into my left shoulder, "Though he changed his mind when he recovered, and found that I had placed his head in a noose as he sat in a chair. His gurglings as I pulled him up from that chair by his neck…" he stabs into me again, "were delightfully entertaining. As are your cries."

He steps round to face me, "Oh, yes. Your cries are highly entertaining."

I am staring at him, trying with all I have to glare at him with something akin to steadfast determination. Cromwell knows that I am missing - for I had planned to meet him, and I am still alive. As long as I am still alive, I have hope. It is all I have - and I cling to it.

Campofregoso returns to the candle and reheats the point of the misericorde. He does so with meticulous care, watching it almost obsessively - no, lovingly. Then, still smiling rather weirdly, he comes back, and immediately pushes the point into my shoulder; but this time says nothing, as he repeats the process over, and over again, until the pain makes my head spin and I think that I might faint.

I think my drooping head concerns him, for he has no wish for me to die too soon, or even to pass out. Instead, he clicks his fingers, and one of his retainers leaves the crypt. When he returns, he carries a pitcher and a cup - and I think for a moment that Campofregoso expects me to watch him drink, which would almost certainly drive me to lose my composure, for my thirst is now dreadful, and I cannot prevent myself from looking at the pitcher with almost desperate eyes.

Setting the misericorde beside the candle, Campofregoso pours some liquid or other out of the pitcher into the cup, and brings it to me. Still he says nothing, and I wonder what it is that the cup contains. It might be poison - but so keen am I to slake my thirst that I no longer care - and gulp gratefully at it. It seems to be a cordial based upon mead, with some herbs or other. It is not poison - or at least I do not think it to be - but it is cold and it is wet, and I welcome it, and the second cupful that follows.

It is, however, the only mercy that Campofregoso is prepared to extend to me, as he sets the cup aside, and retrieves the misericorde.

"The last to meet his end at my hand was Wolf." He says, as he starts to heat the blade again, "He accepted my ability to sense ichor as easily as the others had done. Do they not communicate with one another? I did not wish to take my time with him, though, for he was most dull. Instead, when he woke, he was bound and hanging in chains, and I packed his garments with straw. His screams as he burned were even more entertaining than the screams of the Hawk." He jabs the hot blade into my back again, and again, and again. Then he returns to the candle, reheats the blade, and comes back to me to resume the stabbing. Each time, I cannot stop a cry; even something so small can hurt immensely - but now I am beginning to wonder if Wolsey heard me, for why has no one come? Can they not find me? Am I somewhere beyond their power to deduce? God, no - please, I cannot have been so abandoned. I cannot…

"Oh, God, this is too easy!" Campofregoso cries, suddenly, "Why should the Raven mourn you? Better that he find you alive, I think - but as good as dead!"

I have no idea what he means - though the realisation that he has changed his mind about killing me is deeply welcome. At his command, his retainers lower the chain again, and free my wrists from the manacles, and I find myself wanting to thank him profusely for not ending my life; but there is something about his expression that warns me to remain silent. He has other plans.

I am still held by two of his retainers, and Campofregoso steps horribly close to me, "I am told that Seconds undertake research for their Silver Swords. Is that right?"

I nod, still not willing to trust my voice.

"And can you undertake your research without eyes?"

His expression becomes horrible as my own reflects the horror that rips through me. Not my eyes - God help me, not my eyes…

I am forced to my knees, two of the men pinning me in place, while the third stands over me and wraps a thickly muscled arm about my throat, pressing my head against his arm with his other hand against my forehead. This, I cannot endure - I cannot lose my sight…what would there be for me if I am blind?

"Please…" I know I was determined not to show fear, not to give in to it…but this is more than I can stand, "for pity's sake - not my eyes! I beg you, not my eyes!" my voice rises in volume as much as pitch in my fear.

Campofregoso does not reply, but instead he laughs - a crazed, mad giggle, for he now knows he has found my weakness, and he spends considerable time ensuring that the point of the misericorde is as hot as he can make it. Then he turns and approaches me, holding the blade aloft…

"Mercy! I beg you, mercy!" Suddenly, I am screaming, trying to turn my head away from that lowering point, "For God's sake! For the sake of he who died! Please, I beg you! Not my eyes! Not my eyes!"

And then, there is the most hideous crash.

I am still held, but the grip loosens enough for me to see that which I thought I would not; for Cromwell has smashed in the door, and is standing at the entrance to the crypt, his swords drawn, and his expression deadly.

The Raven has arrived.

Even in his black hunting gear, Cromwell is an imposing figure as much as he was when he guarded the Queen from Lamashtu in his finest clothes. Wyatt is behind him, also in black, and his expression is one of horror at my situation, but he says nothing.

Campofregoso shows no surprise, or shock, at Cromwell's arrival, but instead smiles, "Thomas of London."

Cromwell glares, "Alessandro of Genoa."

"I must say, your timing is truly impeccable." Campofregoso says, handing his misericorde to the retainer who has my head, for him to set it at my throat, "I had thought that a blind Second would be nothing but a guilty burden upon you, but what better end than to behead him before your eyes?"

He moves into the darkness behind me, but when he returns, he has my sword. Oh, dear God…he is going to use my own sword to cut off my head…I have no time…no time to confess, no time…God, forgive my sins, accept my soul…forgive me…

The point of the knife is gone from my throat, and I am forcibly bent forward. I sense, rather than see, Campofregoso raise the sword up, and then I hear it, as he begins the downward swing…

"NO!" Cromwell's voice is livid with horror, and the helplessness of one who cannot prevent what is to happen - and then the whistle of a blade…

I have no idea what it would be like to be beheaded - but it seems that I am not to know. I feel a strange sense of air against the back of my neck, but then Campofregoso yelps sharply, and my sword is clattering to the floor a few feet to my left. What the hell happened?

The shock of the incident that I did not see causes the two men who hold me to loosen their grip. I am not fool enough to let such an opportunity by, and pull myself free from them to scramble up and rush to Cromwell's side. My sword still lies where it fell, but not for long, as I summon it to me again. I am trembling at the nearness of my escape - but still I do not know how it occurred.

"Damn you!" Campofregoso shouts, furiously, "You are mine! I shall make the Raven watch you die!"

"You shall not." Cromwell says, his voice quiet; deadly.

"He killed William, Thomas." I say to him, "And three Silver Swords have died at his hands. He is insane - he plans to destroy the Order."

Cromwell seems to draw himself up - and his eyes go hard as ice, "Submit to me, Alessandro of Genoa. You failed the final Trial, and that was your own doing."

"I shall take your swords - for they are mine! I should have claimed them - not some sewer-dwelling churl such as you! I know where you came from, you Putney guttersnipe! They all told me about you and your base birth!"

"Do you think that you insult me?" Cromwell asks, "Or that I am pained by your words? I have no fear of my origins, nor am I shamed by them. I made myself - and I was chosen to become what I am. I earned all that I have - none was granted to me by an accident of birth. I do what I must do, for the Mission is All. If you stand in my way, then I shall crush you."

"In what way are you better than Fox, or Hawk, or Wolf?" Campofregoso scoffs, "Not one of them saw me as a threat - for I sensed ichor in their presence and earned their trust at a stroke! If they are the best that the Order can send, then it is doomed!"

"They were not the best - they were fine warriors, but the best of the Order serve Princes. And I am the best even of those." Cromwell says. There is no arrogance in his voice - for he is stating straightforward facts. He is the finest Silver Sword to emerge from the House in over two centuries - there are none in the Order who could best him.

Campofregoso laughs: a wild, insane shriek, "You? Thomas of London? The fool whom I trapped into flogging his beloved Joachim? At what point did you become so great? Your base blood could never permit such a travesty of nature!"

"Then prove me wrong, Alessandro of Genoa. Prove to me that your noble blood is sufficient to best me. You leave here a corpse, or you leave here in chains. I care not which."

His eyes mad, excited, Campofregoso draws his sword, a long blade with an extravagant handguard that extends over his fist in a cage of gilt-steel filigree, "Stand back!" he turns to his retainers, "When I have killed this man, you may do as you wish with his companions!"

His swords held low, Cromwell advances slowly into the crypt. He is entirely intent upon his opponent, just as he would be if he were facing a revenant, or a ravener. Such is Campofregoso's madness, however, that I think that he might as well be facing a ravener, for each would seem to be as savage as the other.

"I shall kill you, Raven!" he hisses, viciously, "And you shall die screaming as the Fox did, and the Hawk, and the Wolf! Another of your tainted kind removed from this world!"

Cromwell says nothing, but keeps his eyes upon the ranting man before him. As he did with Zaebos, he waits for his opponent to make the first move, and he does not have to wait long. Sword aloft, Campofregoso leaps at him with a crazed scream. Without hesitation, Cromwell dodges to the side, and the blade sweeps past him. He does not, however, strike in return, but waits.

"Fight me, coward!" Campofregoso demands, spitting in rage, "Fight me!"

And he does.

The savagery of their fight is terrifying. Campofregoso is mad, and enraged, and lashes violently with his sword. He has only the one, while Cromwell has two, but this seems not to concern him, for such is his wild cutting that it is near impossible to determine where the blade shall travel next. He is not, however, prepared for the speed and agility of his opponent, as Cromwell moves as swiftly as he would with a demon, and counters with calm determination, dodging and parrying expertly.

He does not catch every slash of that sword: now and again Campofregoso's wildly wielded blade gets through to cut at him, though the cuts merely open rips in his garments, and few show the wetness of blood. He gives as good as he gets - and the Genoese is equally wounded, if not more so. Shrieking, Campofregoso has his sword in both hands now, and is hammering madly at Cromwell's raised blades, as though he means to smash them.

"Die, you bastard!" he howls, "My blood is better than yours! I was to rule by her side! I was to be a demon king! You shall die! I demand it!"

Cromwell says nothing. Instead, he pulls his blades back, allowing the next blow through - but instead sidesteps it. As the blade connects with the ground, he stamps upon the point, wrenching the handle from Campofregoso's grasp and causing the sword to clatter violently upon the tamped earth floor.

"Enough." He says, quietly, barely even winded, "You are not worth killing, Alessandro of Genoa, and I shall not do so in cold blood. I shall have you placed in chains and sent to the House to be confined for the rest of your days." He kicks the fallen sword away, and turns his back upon the disgraced Ambassador - who stares at him in disbelief, to return to us.

"Are you overly harmed, Richie?" he asks, quietly, for he can see my sword is shaking in my hands.

I shake my head, though I do not trust myself to speak. Cromwell turns to Wyatt, "Bid Campofregoso's retainers to restrain him. At sword point if need be - if they refuse, there are still four swords in the room."

He nods, and steps forward, his Striped Blade held ready, "You heard the man. Get to it."

Campofregoso screams, wildly, "I will not be treated so! I am a Nobleman!" Raging, he shoulders Wyatt aside, and rushes forth, the misericorde held aloft…

Cromwell does not have time to turn to take the blow, instead, he drops the sword in his left hand, while he twirls his sword in his right hand so that it faces downward, like a dagger - a movement that is so fast that I cannot see how he does it. Turning it again, he sets it pointing backwards, and thrusts it back with both hands as Campofregoso impacts himself on the point. His eyes hard, his expression set, he holds the blade firm, and the misericorde seems to hang in the Genoese's hands for a moment, before dropping to bounce harmlessly against Cromwell's shoulder, and falling to land upon the the floor with a clatter. Behind him, Campofregoso's face seems frozen, his mouth wide in a shocked 'O' as his eyes glaze, and his legs begin to give way. Cromwell lets go of his blade, and turns as the failed Silver Sword crumples to the ground.

"And now you have my blade." He says, absolutely without pity, as Campofregoso stares at him in his last moments, "Though I doubt this is how you would have wanted it." Taking the hilt, he shoves the dying man from the blade with his booted foot, and watches without remorse as Campofregoso's death rattle shatters the air.

"It is done." He says quietly, "Alessandro of Genoa is dead, and Joachim is avenged."