A/N: A quick thank you to Anne for your lovely review. I'm delighted that my tale featuring lesser used characters has gone down so well. Not many chapters left, I'm afraid - but enjoy those that are still to come!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cleaning up the Mess
My legs are shaking, and I am not sure I can stand up for much longer. Concerned, Wyatt comes back to me and leads me to the steps that rise from the doorway. As soon as he has seated me, he sits down beside me, "You do not have to pretend to be well if you are not." He says, quietly.
"It's not that." I say, "I am just tired - for I know not how long I have been here, or even if it is night or day." Then I sigh, "Though I am most ashamed that I screamed as I did. Campofregoso was intending to stab out my eyes with that blade of his."
Wyatt shudders at the thought, but then turns to me, "But for your scream, we would not have secured where you were within this house. We came here, and did not know where to look - it was your voice that brought us to you, so do not be ashamed of it."
He rests his hand upon my shoulder, which aggravates the wounds that I have upon me, and I cannot help but flinch sharply away, which sets the others to throbbing, too. Startled, Wyatt apologises hastily, "You are hurt?"
I have no wish to remove my shirt, but I nod, "He heated that misericorde in a candle flame and stabbed me with it. Repeatedly."
"Are the wounds deep?" Cromwell asks, concerned to discover that I have open wounds.
"Not particularly." I look up at him with a glare, "You are not going to submit me to that damned sovereign specific again."
He smiles, "If you insist."
"How did you discover I was gone?" I ask, to distract myself from my discomfort. Wyatt stands again, and holds his blade threateningly at the retainers, who are still at the back of the crypt, while Cromwell sits beside me.
"When you did not arrive for supper, I sent Dickon to your chambers to find out where you were. He discovered you gone, but your simarre draped over the back of a chair, and then John unconscious in your bedchamber. He ensured that John was safe, and then came back to me to report that you were not in your chambers. There was no sign of a struggle, but even as I entered the room, I knew what must have happened."
"John is well?" I ask, concerned.
"He is - though his head was sore for two days." Cromwell sighs, "I should have realised that Campofregoso would not let it go so easily. I must have been blind - what was I thinking?"
"How long was I gone?"
"We had no idea where he would have taken you, for we did not know if he had found accommodation elsewhere in London, or even if you were still in the country. For all we knew, he could have taken ship with you at his mercy. And thus we made no progress for two days." He looks most concerned, for he does not know that I was not subject to Campofregoso's tortures during that time.
"I have no knowledge of the passage of time during that period," I tell him, "I was struck over the head, and I did not fully regain my senses for a long time. I suspect Campofregoso had no interest in harming me if I was not conscious to endure it."
"I think I understand something of your anxiety during Eastertide, when you could not find Red Fire, Richie." He says, "For I was utterly at a loss - I had no idea where to look for you, and I knew that I must find you, for after the humiliation the King laid upon Campofregoso, I dreaded to imagine what punishment he might extract from you."
"How did you find me?" I ask.
"Wolsey came to me in a dream last night." He answers, "He told me that you were in great peril, and that I must find you. I told him that I knew not where you were - and he slapped me, for he was most angered by my foolish words, as he had discovered your whereabouts and was about to tell me. We are within Campofregoso's town house: not two miles from Whitehall. I imagine it is not much more than an hour or two after dawn, for we left as soon as I had woken and gone to raise Wyatt."
So he did hear me. I had hoped that he might, but as he could not reply to me, I had only that hope to rely upon. How odd that Wolsey knew where I was hidden, when he could not tell me where Cromwell was when they were in the Tower. But then, as we do not communicate through the medium of dreams, Wolsey must come to me, and thus sees where I am and what is happening around me - though he must be able to anchor himself if we are to easily speak to one another. With Cromwell, he is not granted that privilege.
"Once we arrived here, there was no one to prevent our entry - but we did not know where to look. Wyatt, naturally, assumed you would be in the cellars, for that is, in his mind, exactly the place where a madman would incarcerate a prisoner. Sometimes, I wonder how his mind works."
I snort with mild laughter.
"Our quandary then was to find the entrance - for there are numerous doors about us. It was, eventually, your scream that alerted us to where you were. If you had not cried out, then we would not have been able to prevent Campofregoso's intentions for you."
I stare at the floor for a while. It is not the pain I endured that troubles me now - nor is it the near loss of my eyes. Eventually, I speak, "I killed a man."
"I can see - it seems that your sword indeed cleaves through all; it is much harder to sever a head than most would suppose. It would normally need a heavier blade than…"
"I killed a man, Thomas!" I interrupt, sharply, "God forgive me, I took a life! I killed him - he was in front of me, and I cropped his head from his neck without a thought!" I am trembling again.
"And what would he have done to you if you had not?" Cromwell asks.
"I…" the words dry in my throat. Even acting in desperation for my life, I cannot reconcile myself with what I have done. I have killed - and that is against God's commandments. I have committed a mortal sin…
"The words may seem trite, Richie - but they are true. The Mission is All. If we are required to act to defend our own lives, then God does not look away from us in the committing of that act. Did I not kill Campofregoso?"
"He was coming at you with a knife, Thomas. There is a difference."
"What difference? Did you know with all certainty that the man who died on your blade meant you no harm?"
I do not - but…all that blood…
Cromwell rises, "Sit with him, Tom." He says quietly, "Leave all to me."
As Wyatt sits down beside me, Cromwell turns and addresses the three surviving retainers, for the man whose hand I removed has now joined the one who lost his head, "You three. Clean up this mess - there is a drain here. Fetch water, and brushes." He clearly intends to follow them, so they have no alternative but to do as he asks. They saw how easily he fought their crazed master. Wyatt shifts to sit behind me as they exit up the stairs, Cromwell behind them, and they are gone only for a short time before returning with buckets of water and a pair of brushes. Between them, they wash and sweep away the hideous mess of blood into the drain until the floor is largely clean again.
"Now." Cromwell orders, his face hard, his voice like stone, "Your master lost his reason. He severed the hand of one of his servants, then beheaded another before throwing himself upon his sword in an act of suicide. Is that clear?"
The three men look most uncertain, but Cromwell continues, remorselessly, "If you say any different, I shall deny all, and you shall be blamed for murdering your master in hopes of securing his property for yourselves. I have the absolute confidence of his Majesty - so you can be assured my word would be accepted without question. Thus I put it to you again. Your master lost his reason. He severed the hand of one of his servants, beheaded another and threw himself upon his sword."
Between them, the three men nod fearfully. His expression brooks no argument - they must do as he says, or he shall see them sent to the gallows. I have not seen him so utterly implacable since he questioned the men who went to their deaths with Queen Anne, and I am just as unnerved by it now as I was then.
When he turns to me, however, the coldness is gone, "Come, Richie. Let us leave this place. I suspect you would welcome your bed, would you not?" He hands me my doublet, though I do not don it - I think it might be too uncomfortable.
He is right. I am exhausted - though I am too sore to sleep, I think. My wounds are very tender - but I am damned if I shall let him near me with that filthy sovereign specific.
There is a watery autumn sun shining as we emerge from the house. I wish, so much, that I did not have to walk the distance that lies between this house and my rooms at Whitehall - for two miles is no distance when one is fit to walk it, but it is interminable when all one wishes to do is sleep.
"Do you think Campofregoso's servants shall do as you demanded?" I ask, mostly to distract myself from the awful sense of distance that lies ahead of me as we commence our walk back to the palace.
"I think they shall." Cromwell says, bleakly, "If they did not fear me, then they shall find out the hard way that I intend to make good on my words."
"Even though they did not murder their master?" I am shocked by this - though why, I do not know.
"They would have murdered you, Richie." He advises me, firmly, "And that, I refuse to countenance. They are not deserving of any consideration or care, for they cared nothing for you, and would have willingly taken you, or your corpse, to a place of concealment where they would have left you without ceremony or headstone. None would have known where you lay, and none would have been any the wiser as to your fate. It has taken me many years to avenge Joachim. I could not have abided to be forced to avenge you, too."
I cannot reply: my heart is too full to speak, and I am also too tired. Each step is almost its own universe of agony, and I concentrate only upon placing one foot in front of the other, propelling myself forward in order to achieve that which I now desire more than anything else - to reach my bed, and to sleep.
By the time the outer walls of the palace are in view, I have dropped my doublet, and now Wyatt carries it. Every muscle in my legs is tense and trembling, and the need to rest is overwhelming. I think, once, I would have long since given up, and perhaps thrown a humiliating, tearful tantrum at the awfulness of it all - but that was a long time ago. I have learned much better now how to endure, and I am damned if I am going to let Cromwell carry me.
Our pace is now almost ridiculously slow, as Cromwell and Wyatt guide me through the corridors of the Palace to my chambers. My previous accommodation was much closer to the entrance we used, and I almost curse my elevation in comfort, particularly as I must now climb a set of stairs, which is the last thing that my legs are prepared for. It is, however, soon over, and John is ushering me to a chair in my chambers, concerned over my wounds.
"Let them wait." I think I mumble, as John carefully lifts my holed and burned shirt over my head, I am not entirely sure, as my tiredness is such that thinking is now somewhat beyond me, but he intends to clean my wounds, and thus delay me from the bed that is all I can think of now that I am safely home again.
He is most careful, but it still hurts, and seems to go on for far longer than I want it to. Now that I am sitting, my head keeps nodding - but then he cleans another of the holes in me, and the pain wrenches me back again. God above, I am going to either burst into tears again, or strike him. I am not yet sure which it shall be.
Finally, at length, he is done, and he helps me to my feet. With Cromwell's assistance, he guides me - almost tottering - through to my bedchamber, and at last: at long bloody last, I am allowed to sleep.
When I wake, it is dark, and I am most uncomfortable. I almost wish that I had agreed to Cromwell using the sovereign specific, for then I would not be in such pain - but, equally, given how many wounds adorn me, I imagine that it would have been far more dreadful than it was just for the single stab wound I received from Zaebos. I have no idea if it would need to be applied to each and every hole in my body.
The Palace clock strikes three quarters, so I have only another quarter to wait to discover the hour. Moving is painful, so I have no wish to aggravate things by getting up. I only hope that it is not the early hours, for I do not think I could go back to sleep - and I would much prefer not to have to lie awake, for that would give me no refuge from the unpleasant memories that are lurking in my mind.
So much has happened - and I wonder how things might had been had I not fallen asleep over my papers that night - near on three years ago now. Cromwell would almost certainly have died that night - for with no one to fetch the sovereign specific to him, he would have been unable to reach it. What would have happened then? I cannot even begin to imagine that, for there is not a single soul in the palace that could match him in terms of managing the operation of Government. Perhaps that was all that Lamashtu would have required to bring all to hell. Not that I shall ever know - and I am profoundly relieved that I have not had to find out.
Finally, the clock strikes six, and, from the quiet outside, I know it to be six in the morning. Early, yes, but not as bad as it might have been. It is not unknown for me to rise at such an hour - though it is most certainly rare. I cannot stand to remain abed, however, and slowly, carefully ease myself up.
The air is quite cool, and I can hear John in the chamber next door, where he must be rebuilding the fire ready for my emergence later on. My unshaven chin is itching again, which is infuriating, but not as unpleasant as my wounds when I shrug into a robe and go through to my main chamber, where John is, as I surmised, lighting the fire.
"Good morning, my Lord." He says, with aplomb despite my unexpected appearance.
"How long have I been asleep?" I ask.
"All of yesterday and last night." He says, at once. Jesu - I must have been exhausted to sleep that long, "Do you require victuals?"
I shake my head, "Not yet - though I should welcome something to drink: I am utterly parched."
He nods, and departs to the Buttery in search of some small ale as I sit down beside the growing fire and lose myself in the hypnotic dance of the flames.
Perhaps I should not be surprised when he returns with Cromwell in tow. Does the man ever sleep? He seats himself opposite me as John pours ale out of a covered flagon into a pair of cups and hands them to us before busying himself elsewhere.
We sit in silence for a while. It is reassuring to know that we do not feel the need to fill up such silences with pointless conversation. I have nothing to say - not yet; and Cromwell both knows and accepts it. While the ale is bitter, and weak, it is still cold from the cellars and I am grateful for that, as my throat is rather raw, having been dry for so long. I am still not particularly hungry, but I suspect that we shall wait for Wyatt before we break our fast, so I am quite content not to have to request something.
Eventually, I turn to Cromwell, "Have I missed anything?" God knows why I am asking that - I was only gone for two days. Three, if one counts yesterday.
He shakes his head, "The Queen shall go into her confinement at the end of today, so the King is holding a feast to celebrate the final stages of her pregnancy - and to wish her well. With Lamashtu's disappearance, he seems most attentive to her again. I think she might even have managed to swap Red Fire back into his brooch - though I should have preferred it if she had asked Lady Rochford to sail out in one of the barges and drop it into the deepest part of the river. He never discovered its secret, so he shall not miss it if it is not returned to him."
"Has Wriothesley regained his equilibrium?" there is a slightly wicked tone in my voice as I ask - I rather hope that he has not.
"I believe so." Cromwell smiles, "Perhaps he believes that we have not discovered that he intended to burn the papers he found, rather than highlight their discovery. I think he covets my chain."
"I should like to see him cope with the burden it brings." I add, "For, God knows, I would not wish to carry it. My own responsibilities are quite enough."
We lapse back into silence, until the palace clock strikes seven, and I return to my bedchamber to dress. When I emerge, Wyatt has arrived, and he notices my flinching with sympathy, for my clothes shall be aggravating my wounds for some time to come. I have not yet even considered a simarre.
As John has been busy assisting me with my garments, Cromwell prevailed upon Dickon to seek out victuals for us - and he has found a fine beef pasty, with bread and more ale.
Our conversation as we eat is - for the large part - neutral and covers the inevitable Court gossip that Wyatt is able to secure for us. Naturally, nobody at all cared that I had gone missing other than the Queen. Not even the King asked after my whereabouts - though I am not surprised. He tends not to notice the lesser Councillors if he does not require their services. I am, it seems, as resolutely unpopular as ever.
"Since he departed Cambridge in the light of my arrest," Cromwell advises, helping himself to some more bread, "I think I shall induct Gregory into royal service before Christmastide - though I am somewhat surprised to find that he seems to know rather more about my work than I expected."
"I think that was my fault, Thomas." I admit, "When I fled to Grant's Place, he was already there. It was not possible to go to work in the library, for he refused to accept any explanation from me other than the plain truth. He is no fool - he knew that there was a great secret at that house - and though he knew of the Library, he did not know that it was the Library that was the secret."
Cromwell watches me, chewing at his mouthful of bread.
"I am sorry - I had no choice but to tell him all; or, at least, all that there was time to tell him. I have no doubt that he would have come upon us in the Library, for he was angry, confused and fearful for you. It should have come from you - I know that. But with time so short, and matters so desperate, I could not keep him in the dark, and I was obliged to act upon my own judgement."
He sits for a moment, and I am worried that I have offended him, but he takes a sip of his ale, and nods, "You did the right thing, Richie. Yes, I am sad that it was not I who told him the truth of the Mission - but I was far from him, and he demanded the truth. Had all that happened not occurred, I would have told him myself before I brought him into Royal service; but it did - and so I could not. If any other than I was to have told him, then it is appropriate that it was you, for you are my Second - and he must know of your importance to the Mission as well as mine."
He still looks rather sad, "If it is any consolation, Thomas," I tell him, "it was Gregory who found the key to the entire puzzle - for he discovered a note in the margin of a book, translated it on sight, and understood its significance. It is thanks to your son that we learned how to use Red Fire and Blue Fire."
"He did?" Cromwell looks up, both surprised and pleased, "Then I am most glad that you told him all - for if you had not, I could well be dead."
I look up to smile back at him, but suddenly I find that I cannot. In a single moment, all that happened to me a day ago comes crashing in upon me, and I am fighting to hold back tears as I recall that dreadful moment as I watched Campofregoso lift that glowing hot blade, and knew it would be the last thing I should ever see before I was blinded forever, "He nearly stabbed my eyes out." I whisper, painfully. Both Cromwell and Wyatt know this, but still, the thought of it, and where such an assault would have left me, is more than I can bear, "What use am I to any without my sight?"
"You would not have been left alone, Richie." Cromwell assures me, his hand upon my shoulder, "We would never have left you abandoned. If need be, I should have secured a clerk to act as your amanuensis so that you could continue to work. Even if you could not work entirely as my Second, your knowledge of the library, and your memory of it, would still be essential."
"And what if he had taken off my head?" I demand, tears escaping now, "God, I had no time to be ready for the stroke - how was I to make my peace with all if I had so little time?"
"But the sword did not connect." Wyatt says, frowning slightly, "It came sharply to a halt, a fraction away from your neck - as though there was something solid beneath it, and then it flew from Campofregoso's hand."
"Why?" I ask - as though Wyatt could possibly answer such a question.
"It is bonded to you, is it not? Did you not say that the Damask blade bonds itself to the one destined to wield it, so that he can call it to him, or protects him from infernal deceit? Why should it not be that the blade would not harm the one to whom it is bonded?"
"Cassandra said nothing of that." I say, as though that in itself is sufficient evidence to deny what happened.
"That she did not know it, does not mean it is not possible." Cromwell muses, "She clearly knew much - but not everything. It seems that your sword is rather more remarkable than we thought. It can come to you wherever you are, protect you and even will not harm you."
"But why?" I ask, "Is it not better that it be bonded to you, Thomas? You are the Silver Sword. I am merely a Second."
"Do not think that, Richie." Cromwell chides, "the danger that faced this island was such that the world required the accumulation of great talent to save it. Perhaps in other courts, there are 'mere' Seconds - but I doubt it. Wolsey kept me safe from my inexperience and callowness when I first returned to England, but he was needed in another capacity, and you were chosen - yes, I think you were indeed chosen, to fill his place at my side. If you were not, then why has the Damask blade bonded to you? Cassandra prophesied that it would be placed in the hands of the Second to the Raven - and that was you. Seconds are of vital importance to those of us who protect the Courts. The Itinerants must rely upon the Spies to keep them from harm - and to return their blades."
"It still seems odd to me, though." I persist, "For, if Lamashtu is defeated, do I still require the blade? Is England still in danger?"
"Not perhaps immediately, Richie." Cromwell muses, "But there is no saying what infernal forces might seek to snatch that which she lost. She is gone, but the need to protect these shores from another who might try to do as she did is ever present. I think that we must always be ready - and, with our blades to hand, we are."
"That truly does feel odd." Wyatt says, "No Lamashtu any more. We are no longer on tenterhooks for fear of the Queen's safety."
"Instead," I smile, "We must endure the same tension as those about us - and await a hopeful outcome in an uncertain world. At least we shall have the opportunity tonight to wish her well before she goes into confinement."
"She shall be most glad to see you, I think." Cromwell advises, "We were all most concerned when you were missing, and she demanded that I keep her informed of your safe return. Which I did, of course." Then he smiles again - that same rather evil smile I saw earlier, "I think, however, I might drop some subtle hints to Wriothesley that I am not as unaware of his treachery as he thinks. I should like to see him squirm."
Even though that means I must find a simarre, I cannot hold back a snort of amusement, "Do not leave without me. I think I can stand a day of discomfort at my desk if I am able to watch the dreaded Wriothesley set to trembling."
That is most certainly something worth seeing.