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Chapter Text

The sound of drunken voices echoes down the passageway, and we wait in silence for the owners of the voices to continue on their way. We have no expectations of finding anything on our hunt, but - with so many people abroad, and in various stages of drunkenness - it pays to be cautious.

Such hunts are fruitless most of the time these days, which is something for which we are grateful, but by no means always so. The demons that we are chasing, despite being the most commonplace of their kind, are not gregarious, and defend their territories with such vigour that there are occasions when they destroy each other without any assistance from us.

None of us are wearing our finest clothing - the fine suits we would wear in the presence of the King; partly to avoid damaging such expensive garments, but mostly to conceal who we are. It would serve us ill for people to witness the Lord Chancellor, the Solicitor General and a recently elevated Privy Councillor lurking in servants' corridors. We are engaged in the government of England in daylight hours, but after nightfall, our duties are her protection.

The festivities have been going on for some hours now, as tonight is the first of two long weeks of celebration to welcome the first birthday of young Prince Edward: the first - and only - legitimate son of Henry of England - eighth of that name. Few are aware that his birth was hard-fought, and hard won, and fewer still of the battle that took place to save him, and his mother. All that matters to most is that the babe lived, and so did the Queen. We, who were present to battle for his life, continue to protect him from the shadows.

Perhaps because there are so many people about, and so much light, we have no success tonight - though, to us, a fruitless hunt is always preferable, as the creatures we hunt are hunters themselves, and people are their prey. In the two and a half years that have passed since I first found myself in this strange new world of darkness and demons, I have learned a great deal, and I think now that I can reasonably call myself competent at the role that I chose for myself when I found Thomas Cromwell supposedly dying on the floor of our offices at Hampton Court.

As we often do, we adjourn to Cromwell's apartments to see out the last of the evening with a cup or so of hippocras. The halls and passages of Placentia are growing quiet now, and the watch are about, so it is never wise to be seen with our weapons; not when the King is in residence.

It has been strangely quiet in the year that has passed since Edward was born, and Jane was crowned Queen. That which came against her, the demoness Lamashtu, has not shown her face since she was driven from the Presence Chamber - forced out by the sign of the Cross. Even though we have been at Whitehall for some of the year, and Placentia for the rest, she has not moved against us. Perhaps the sting was sharper than we thought.

"It is strange." Cromwell muses, turning his cup in his hands, "I have not seen the court so peaceful since the days when Katherine was Queen; but then, I did not know at that time of the presence of Lamashtu. To me, the court was simply quiet - there have been no revenants, and few raveners; and that is, to me, a most peculiar state of affairs."

"I do not dare to complain." Thomas Wyatt, our other companion, smiles, "If I did, I should make it quite certain that another monster of ghastly proportions might fall upon us. I have no desire to tempt providence."

Cromwell returns the smile, "If that were so, then we would have no fear at first, for it would certainly attack Lamashtu before us. She is one of the most powerful of her kind, and even if she is dormant, she would not permit any other to attack us in her stead."

"I am just grateful that she is still dormant." I admit, "I have still not found any reference to the jewel Red Fire - even though Blue Fire sits on Jane's Diadem." I do not have to say much more to either Cromwell or Wyatt - they know that it is my deepest frustration. I cannot find it, neither can the spies retained by the Order of the Silver Swords. It must exist, for Blue Fire is in the court as we speak; but without it, we cannot destroy Lamashtu - not that I have even managed to find any means to explain how we use the two jewels once we manage to find them. A sapphire, and a ruby, each containing a twisting column of flame within their faceted depths: together, they are promised to be the undoing of Lamashtu, but we know not where the ruby lies, nor how they are to be used, assuming I ever manage to locate the blasted thing.

The following morning is a lazy, restful affair for some, though for those of us who have work to do, there is still the need to be in the offices for at least some of the day - and, for the first time in my life, I feel rather guilty that we are granted at least some free time, while the servants have none. As our hunts oblige me to traverse corridors that, when I was not the Second to a Silver Sword, I knew not at all, I have seen much more of the drudgery that supports our far easier lives. It makes me less resentful of being obliged to spend even a few short hours at my desk to ensure that all does not go to hell while the court is at play.

The weather is being most kind to us, with warm sunshine that seems most odd for the middle of autumn. This morning there is to be a tourney, which I am happy to miss, while this afternoon there shall be a masque in the great hall. As Cromwell and I are expected to be present at at least some of these fripperies, being Privy Councillors, both he and I have elected to work in the mornings only, while he has arranged with Wriothesley to organise the clerks into shifts so that everyone has the opportunity to participate in the celebrations to some degree.

As the largesse extends to lavish arrays of victuals both in the middle of the day, and at the end, we are more than happy to end our work in time to visit the hall. As Privy Councillors, we are able to secure seats at a table set for us, while all about, servants are busy and musicians are tuning their instruments amidst the hubbub of noise of hundreds of people talking together. All of the Queen's ladies are to dance this afternoon, and Lady Rochford, who is our window on that hidden world, will be chief amongst them.

The high table is empty at present, as the King and Queen are yet to arrive. They shall have the Ladies Mary and Elizabeth with them, as Jane has been quite determined to keep the family together as much as she can. Both of Henry's elder daughters have held, and lost, his affection thanks to the fates of their mothers; a situation that their stepmother has been most keen to resolve; particularly as Mary has been obliged to swallow a great deal of her pride to remain at court - even to the point of publicly declaring against the faith in which she was raised. That she loves her stepmother as much as she does is testament both to Jane's kindness, and her willingness to compromise.

At the bray of trumpets, we all rise to greet the Royal family. The King and Queen lead the way, and I note that Queen Jane is wearing her magnificent jewelled diadem again - which is intended, with its worked ears of wheat and sprigs of mistletoe, to signify fertility and long life. It also holds the resplendent sapphire Blue Fire, which I am still amazed that I failed to notice when I first saw the jewels upon her head. I do not have much time to take this in, however, as we all bow at their approach.

As soon as all are seated, the King makes a short speech proclaiming his love for his wife, and the son that she has granted him, before inviting everyone to set to with the victuals - and for an hour everyone feasts while musicians play for us. It will be another hour before the masque begins.

Most of the other Privy Councillors tend to avoid talking to Cromwell or I, as they despise him, and distrust me. This is, I think, partly owing to my previous untrustworthiness - but mostly to my association with Cromwell. Instead, they talk amongst themselves of matters that would be of little interest to either of us even if we were included in the conversation. Thus we find ourselves engaged in conversation with the Imperial Ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, whose rank allows him to sit with us.

Were it not for the politics between us, I think we would be far greater friends than his station permits us to be. I have not forgotten last Christmastide, when I overheard him call Cromwell a 'scorpion', but - when politics is put aside - he is urbane and charming, and very pleasant to talk to. Certainly his conversations with Cromwell are always very interesting - as they seem able to talk on matters that mean nothing to anyone else, for both men are remarkably well read, learned and irritatingly clever. That said, the unexpected improvement in Cromwell's relations with the Lady Mary have probably also helped, now that she has forgiven him for his involvement in the ending of her Mother's marriage.

Wyatt does not arrive until quite late on, having been socialising with friends at the Tiltyard. He is, naturally, very keen to enjoy the ladies dancing, so he is quick to find a seat on the bench beside me, and I leave Cromwell and Chapuys to their conversation, as it has moved on to matters of philosophy that are of no interest, or understanding, to me.

"When is the masque to begin?" Wyatt asks, keenly, "I am told it shall be quite a spectacle!"

"In what way?" I answer, "It is merely the Queen's ladies - do you expect a Volta? Or perhaps some spectacle akin to the debauchery of ancient Rome?"

"Now that would be a sight to behold!" he grins, cheerfully, "Perhaps based upon the more salacious works of Catullus?"

God, I hope not.

Those who were not fortunate to be seated are already moving to the sides of the hall to open the space where the ladies are to dance, and the musicians are tuning again. There is a singer with them now, a youth with plump cheeks and rheumy eyes who looks remarkably out of place in the glittering splendour of the Court. It is then that Will Somers, the King's Fool, suddenly lets out the most astonishingly loud whistle, silencing the entire hall in an instant.

"Bring forth the Cloud maidens!" He announces, and the musicians strike up.

The song, while new, contains words of antiquity. Being acquainted with Greek, I listen to the Song of the Clouds by Aristophanes, while the Queen's ladies, clad in white, dance with modesty and precision. Not all of them are present, however, and as soon as they finish their dance, they move to the side and hold poses as the music becomes altogether more lively - and three more, including Lady Rochford, enter, dressed in red, to dance to a song whose words are taken from the Song of the Furies by Aeschylus. Even for those who have no understanding of the Greek, the dance is swift and sharp enough to convey the famous myth of Alecto, Megaera and Tisiphone without the need for the words.

The Masque ends with another singer, a woman dressed in white, who banishes the Furies, and sings a gentle air set to the words of Children in the House by Euripides - celebrating the joy of a child to a couple who has longed for a babe, while the ladies in white dance about her. They end with a deep curtsey towards the King and Queen, and Henry rewards their efforts with enthusiastic applause, rising to his feet - thereby causing everyone else to be obliged to do the same. The women blush at the ovation, but it is a good start to the celebrations to come.

I am amazed that it is possible - but it seems to be so. Everyone is bored of tourneys, masques and ballets, and is very keen to get back to the politicking, backstabbing and gossip that prevails when there is nothing else to keep one occupied at Court.

I have, where I can, spent time at my Library at Grant's Place, supervising the work that Molly, my apprentice Second, has been doing, and undertaking work of my own. I have had little success in finding more information about Red Fire, or the use of the jewels to destroy Lamashtu - but I am pleased to note that the Grand Master of the Order - who is referred to as 'The High' - has acknowledged and recognised my position as Second to the Raven, and his spies are delivering reports and papers to Grant's Place now and again, which Molly is keeping careful notes of, in order to keep me apprised of what is being delivered.

This has been interspersed with the occasional Privy Council meeting, though these are perfunctory and short as most of the greater Lords wish to be elsewhere - as does the King, and the events at which I must be present; primarily the enormous river Pageant that the King demanded to ferry himself, his Queen and his Children to Westminster Abbey, along with half the Court, for a service of thanksgiving. The wily Bishop of Winchester, Stephen Gardiner, had hoped to lead that service; but even he could not stand in the way of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and so Thomas Cranmer came back to court for a brief time, which is always a pleasure for Cromwell, as the pair are great friends. Despite being less committed to reform than either of them, I find Cranmer to be humorous, friendly and enjoyable company, so our evening suppers dwelt upon matters other than demons and darkness - and instead on general gossip and matters academically theological.

He returned to Canterbury two days ago to continue to deal with a long-running dispute involving the Dean that has kept him there far longer than he would normally be present, and we resumed our normal activities again. The noise and hubbub of the festival has kept the raveners at bay - but we were obliged to dispatch one at the end of the first week, and so we shall hunt again tonight, as the celebrations will end this evening with a magnificent display of fireworks. The combination of people out late, and the distraction of the display, is something that is likely to attract a ravener, and keep our activities out of sight.

As expected, most of the court are lining the banks of the river, as most of the fireworks are to be launched from boats, and from the northern bank. This leaves the passageways empty but for the servants - an ideal hunting ground both for a ravener, and for a Raven. We are, as always, clad in black, and each of us carry a sword of silver, though mine, and Wyatt's, were gifts from Cromwell, and are not officially sanctioned by the Order.

There is no longer a need for the three of us to hunt together, as a ravener is usually solitary - and it was only the compulsion of Lamashtu that forced them to band together against us last year. It has, however, become something of a habit and, as Cromwell was obliged to hunt alone for some years after Thomas Wolsey - his previous Second - died, he welcomes the company.

The display begins with a mighty explosion, and then the sky lights up in an array of colours that sets all about in the weirdest casts of light. Even though they cannot enjoy the display itself, the lights and sounds of the fireworks captures the interest and attention of the servants, which places them in far greater danger as they would not expect to be ambushed by a creature that delights in torments before death.

Despite the strange colours that flash into the courts and passages as we hunt, Cromwell remains absolutely singleminded. He always is when he hunts; and he is soon rewarded for his patience as he looks around a corner, and indicates with his hand that he has seen a ravener. As there is only one - for usually there would be only one - we opt to allow him to deal with it, as watching him fight one of these creatures is always fascinating. They are fast, and extremely agile - but so is he.

Drawing the swords that are set at his waist, he advances into the court, where the ravener appears to be watching something - doubtless a servant or guard. I have found that Raveners have remarkably keen hearing, and this one is no exception. Despite being almost silent, Cromwell's approach is overheard, and the thin, gangling creature turns, and hisses at the sight of him. As he has not expected to be unnoticed, he is not fazed by this at all, and merely stands ready, as the light about him turns red from an explosion high in the sky above.

The ravener launches itself at Cromwell, who merely rolls beneath it and comes back to his feet again without effort. I recall the first time I saw him fight one of these creatures, and it is as though that fight is happening all over again. All that is different now is that I am armed - whereas before I was not. As always, he is intent on the creature he fights, his eyes alive and his expression exhilarated. This is where he is at his most content - battling darkness, rather than politics.

Now the light is green, as he leaps over the skittering creature, and lands easily as it scrabbles on the cobbles to turn and come back at him. Another slash with his sword, and it is over - the ravener falling to dust at his feet, as the light turns red again. Like blood.

Needless to say, now that we are free to enjoy it, the display is at an end.

There is a small heap of papers awaiting me on my desk as I return to work the next morning. Today shall be a long day, as not only do I have to work through the accumulation of papers, but also work with Lady Rochford to get into the Queen's apartments without being noticed - always rather difficult and something of a performance. Ever since Cromwell pledged himself, and us, to her service last year, she has expected to meet with us regularly. At first, it seemed a mad thing to do - as we are meant to operate in secrecy - but it has proved to be highly useful, as the Queen has access to information that we could not hope to touch. She has retained a largely Catholic outlook despite conforming outwardly to the Church of England, which is one of the reasons why Mary adores her, as she turns a blind eye to Mary's private masses. She also has the confidence of Stephen Gardiner - which is even more useful for us, as we know that he has no liking for Cromwell, whom he considers to be a closeted heretic.

The Queen knows all, for she herself has been menaced by Lamashtu; and, but for her kindness to us, we could not have saved her. Thus she tells us all she hears from her ladies, and we, in return, tell her all that we do; she also does all she can to keep our activities protected - and the assistance of her Page, Jonathan, and the intensely loyal Lady Rochford, ensures that we know more now about the Court than we ever did before.

The problem we face with such meetings is that the court is full of prying eyes - and none miss the opportunity to gossip. The Lord Chancellor to be spending time in the Queen's presence chamber is an event that could hardly go unremarked, and even more so if I were in attendance. People still do not know quite what to make of me, for I still retain the reputation for being a scoundrel, liar and unprincipled coward - and that I spend so much time in the company of one so disliked as Thomas Cromwell has rather foxed those who observe, and comment upon, the people about them at Court.

Thus we vary the times and days of our meetings, and even the locations where we hold them - as it is sometimes easier for the Queen to disguise herself and come to us, than the other way about. In the warmer months, we were able to meet quite coincidentally in the gardens, and few noticed; but now it is too cold and dark to do so. Generally, we use the servants' corridors - which seems to aid us well.

Tonight, we have met in the Queen's Privy Chamber. She has dismissed all but Jonathan and Lady Rochford, both of whom are so known for their loyalty to her that none remark when she dismisses all but they. As they are the only two people in her retinue who know of our work, she trusts no one else to be present when we are.

"So," she says, as I finish our report to her, "the number of raveners is no greater than it has been all year - and there is no indication that Lamashtu has emerged from her place of hiding."

"That would appear to be the case, Majesty." I confirm, "I have not heard from Cardinal Wolsey in some time, though he comes to me now and again - perhaps to remind me that he is still present - but he has offered no warnings to me."

She knows that Wolsey and I have some sort of connection. I do not understand how it works - but now that I have committed to being Cromwell's Second; Wolsey, who is in Purgatory, is permitted to communicate with me. He can only do this in the Library, and in my Quarters where I keep a fine wooden coffer from the Library, as he requires something with which he was once bonded as a Second to be able to reach me. His presence was once deeply upsetting to me, as it seemed to be the greatest demonstration of my unfitness to be a Second; but no longer. He insults me regularly, but as I insult him back, we now work together surprisingly well.

"But there is no progress upon the location of Red Fire?" she asks.

I cannot help but look downcast as I shake my head, "None, Majesty," I admit, "My researches have failed to elicit any additional information."

She smiles kindly, something she seems to do a great deal to many people, "We do, at least know where Blue Fire is located, Mr Rich. It is held upon my diadem, ready to be granted to its true purpose."

That is, I think, why people love her so much.

Jane does not need to tell us that her brother, formerly the Viscount Beauchamp, has been elevated again, this time to the Earldom of Hertford. His younger brother, the hot-headed Thomas, has joined us on the Privy Council, and neither are particularly well disposed to us. I inadvertently insulted Hertford only a year ago, and it took a remarkable time for him to let the hurt pass; while Thomas generally follows where his brother leads - albeit with mild resentment, as he has not received honours akin to Hertford's. She does report, however, that Henry is altogether more serious now about securing a husband for Mary. She is now at an age when most Royal women would have been long wedded, and had at least two, or even three, babes - but is still a maid.

"She longs for marriage," Jane sighs, "for it is her duty as a woman of Royal blood; but her age, her legitimacy, and her place in the succession all tell against her. His Majesty is also still most unclear about to whom she is meant to be betrothed. I do," she adds, "hold hopes for the prince of Portugal and the Asturias, however, for he is of an age that would match her, and seems to be a kindly, honest young man."

"Then we must hope that all shall be concluded, and that she shall be happy." Cromwell agrees. Now that her enmity to him has been resolved, he has no wish to reignite it, and we all hold out hopes that she might find happiness that shall not be snatched away from her on little more than a royal whim.

Then Jane looks more serious, "You should be aware, my Lords," she advises, "I have noticed my brother seems to be spending rather more time with Bishop Gardiner than I should have expected, given their opposing religious views. From what I can gather, his Grace seems to be quite intent upon you, Mr Cromwell, for he knows of your own inclinations, and considers them to be dangerous to his own intentions. You have the ear, and favour, of the King, and he wishes to take that from you for himself."

Cromwell nods, "Thank you, Majesty, while I was not unaware of his Grace's enmity towards me, it is useful to have it confirmed. I shall take care about him - for I have no wish for him to undermine my work."

"As shall I." Wyatt agrees, "I think I shall keep an ear out for any news about him - for if his spite is matched by his honesty, then I am truly the Archbishop of York."

"You consider him corrupt?" I ask, surprised.

"Of course. He is a personification of a whited sepulchre. He preaches love to all men, and beats his servants. He calls for charity, yet embezzles whatever he can. There are but two differences between him and Wolsey - he wears only purple, and he has no mistress - though he is such a wizened creature, who would have him? Oh, and Wolsey never struck his servants, to my knowledge."

"He struck me." Cromwell tells him.

"You were not a servant of his, so you are different." Wyatt grins back at him.

Jane watches us all, amused at our light talk between one another, "I plead with you to be careful," she advises, "I can protect you from many things - but I fear that I could not save you if the Bishop took steps to bring about your undoing."

Wyatt bows to her floridly, "I shall make it my business to ensure he does not."

Now that we are aware that Stephen Gardiner is watching us - Cromwell in particular; it is almost comical to see him in his plotting. For that is what it is. He is surreptitious, almost ostentatiously so, and his behaviour would be amusing were it not for the danger in which we are placed by it. I cannot fight Lamashtu - only Cromwell can; and, while I am safe from his conspiring, I would be helpless against a demoness if his plans were to come to fruition. He seeks the removal of the Lord Chancellor - perhaps with a view to gaining the power he holds, not to mention the favour of the King.

Hertford, on the other hand, is infinitely more subtle. Were it not for our prior knowledge of his involvement, I should never have guessed it - and I suspect that Cromwell would have missed it, too. He is careful never to be seen openly talking to the Bishop - for that would draw suspicion given their opposing views on religion - but they share the same goal, and a desire to topple an enemy leads to the strangest of bedfellows.

Wyatt keeps a close eye upon their activities, using his network of friends to assist him - and I think he is the only one of us who would ever have noticed that Hertford is involved in the plots against Cromwell. While he is now known to be an associate of ours, Wyatt's friendly, cheerful personality serves to ensure that no one holds this against him. He is, after all, now on the Privy Council, so he has every reason to be seen to be talking with either Cromwell, or with me. Given that absolutely no one other than Wyatt and Cromwell trusts me at all, everyone assumes that he talks to me out of pity - for I have no others that I could call a friend.

While the plotting is irritating, it remains only a background problem as long as Cromwell retains the King's favour - which he achieves through the simple medium of being utterly indispensable. His presence removes the burden of administration from Henry's shoulders - and, as no one else seems likely to be as capable, the King considers him with far more regard than his behaviour would suggest. Henry might slap Cromwell from time to time - but he knows better than to dispense with him. As long as we can keep things that way, then we are safe.

Gardiner's main concern this morning, however, as we assemble for the Privy Council meeting, is the loss of one of his pages. Being a man who does not regard his servants highly - indeed, if Wyatt is to be believed, he treats them very poorly - it is not unknown for him to lose them now and again. Judging by the expression upon Suffolk's face, he considers this to be another such occasion, as he mutters to one of his closer colleagues, "He might find it easier to keep staff if he thanked them now and again rather than berated them endlessly for faults both minor and imagined."

The King's arrival puts an end to the complaining, and we take our seats. The meeting is not expected to take long, as there is little to discuss today. Parliament has risen for the approaching Christmastide holiday, to ensure that the Commons can return to their homes before the roads turn to mud. While they have approved the proposed programme of road-building, this is yet to begin, as finding the money to pay for it is proving to be rather difficult.

Cromwell reports to the Council on the progress of the King's reforms to the religious houses, which has - it must be said - brought extensive revenues back to the Crown. While he is keen to funnel as much of this into suitable causes as he can, Cromwell is well aware that the King is equally keen to funnel it into an ambitious programme of palace building, arms collecting and general frittering away that seems to have been the hallmark of his reign from the beginning. He is hopeful, however, that the Council will today approve the institution and funding of schools for poor children, to be established in the name of the Prince Edward. The plan seems, to most present, to be a very fine idea that can only be of benefit; but for reasons of his own, Gardiner seems quite determined to oppose the suggestion that people of little or no means should receive at least a simple education.

"Are you suggesting that Children should be required to read the Gospels?" he demands, for the reading of the Gospels is - to him, at least - the prerogative of the priests, who then preach upon them to the people in their congregations. To read the texts themselves is - it appears - a dangerous pursuit that can lead only to heresy and damnation.

Rather than engage in an argument, Cromwell shakes his head, "I consider it worthwhile that the people of this nation be able to read the law, to understand the taxes they pay, the wages they receive and to learn all that they wish to know. It is not for me to lay bear men's souls - that is a matter for their own consciences." As he holds the rather odd post of Vice-Regent of Spiritual Matters, he has at least some authority to speak so to Gardiner, though the Bishop looks at him with venom when he does so.

The rest of the table is silent, as they await Gardiner's response. Most of us know that Cromwell has used a significant portion of his own money to pay for the printing and production of an English Bible, thus giving people the opportunity to read the Gospels if they so choose. I have not, and I know that Suffolk has not, for he retains most elements of his Catholic faith - albeit tempered with the requirements of the Church of England. While he does not say so publicly, Cromwell considers God's word to not be exclusive only to the Priests - and their jealous guardianship of it offends him.

Unfortunately, his offence at this seems also to offend Gardiner in his turn, and the conversation continues to be punctuated with tiresome loaded comments about heresy and the destruction of a great Nation in chaos and disorder, as people aspire to positions beyond their appropriate state. He clearly means Cromwell, whose education and ability has raised him far above his position in the order of things. I cannot help but shudder at this, as he is becoming almost openly accusatory, and the King has said nothing to stop him. Opposite, I notice that Suffolk rolls his eyes; we have heard this sort of thing many times, and he clearly finds it tiresome.

Finally, the Bishop runs out of complaints, and the King brusquely asks Cromwell for the next order of business. He has not stopped Gardiner, but then he has not answered him either, so it seems likely that there shall be no further comment upon the matter.

The meeting soon breaks up, as there is little else to discuss. Gardiner bustles off, complaining about his missing servant again, while Hertford and Seymour leave together a few paces behind him. Suffolk is in conversation with the King, while the other lords disperse, leaving Cromwell and I to gather papers. Wriothesley attends the meetings these days as he is now the King's Secretary, and he takes them from us without comment before leaving for the offices.

Wyatt casts a glance in our direction before heading out in search of the Seymour brothers and their likely meeting with Gardiner - as they left in close order - and we follow Wriothesley back to the offices. Wyatt shall meet us to sup tonight, and advise of anything he has uncovered.

"What do you think of the missing servant?" I ask Cromwell, as we make our way through the corridors.

"At this point, I would not wish to speculate." He admits, "His Grace is known for driving servants away, and it is quite possible that he has done so again. I shall ask William to make enquiries, if he has not done so already."

"He is remarkably perceptive." I observe.

"He is indeed." Cromwell agrees, "I should be lost without him, I think."

As we sit down to sup, Wyatt is able to report that Hertford and Seymour did not meet with Gardiner after the Privy Council meeting. While they may be conspiring together, they do not like one another, so they must confine their meetings to necessity only.

"Are you aware that one of Bishop Gardiner's servants has gone?" Cromwell asks William as he pours out claret.

"I am, Mr Cromwell. I was planning to report to you after you had eaten." William advises, soberly, "None can offer a reason for his disappearance - he has served his Grace the Bishop for a number of years, and was not known to have mentioned any abusive act that might give him cause to leave so precipitately."

Cromwell sighs, and I do not have to guess what he shall say next.

"Then it is likely that he has not acted willingly."

"It would appear not, Sir. Nor would it appear that he is the first."

"There have been others?" I ask, startled.

"Just one - one of the scullery girls. She was presumed to have fled last week, as she had been here but a few days, and was known to be unhappy."

"Have we missed a ravener, then?" Wyatt asks Cromwell, worriedly.

He shakes his head, "If that were the case, we would already have found their bodies. Raveners do not hide their work. It would appear that something more threatening has arrived at Court."

He says nothing more, and we sit and stare at victuals that have suddenly lost their appeal. It seems our holiday period is over.

Chapter Text

Our mood remains somewhat sombre, despite the rising excitement elsewhere as Christmastide approaches. As we have found no bodies, there are no indications as to what has taken the missing servants, and thus neither Cromwell nor I have any idea what might be responsible. We cannot even be sure that their disappearances relate to demonic activity - but until we are sure, we must assume that they do.

"I am most perplexed." Cromwell admits, as we search through passageways, "Whatever is responsible for these acts has taken great care to blind us as to their identity. I cannot sense their presence, as I can detect no more than the faintest background odour of ichor - which I would expect to be the case with the degree of visitations we are receiving from raveners. But the lack of bodies to find suggests that they are not responsible."

The weather has broken, and most people do not venture out of doors now unless obliged to, as we have experienced almost constant rain for nearly a week. With the winds as strong as they are, no wherrymen are prepared to bring their boats down to Placentia, so it has not been possible for me to reach Grant's place without facing a long ride without an escort - which is not wise when the roads are in such condition.

Thus, while the courts are being decorated with green branches, drapes of silver and gold tinsel and wreaths of pine and fir, we continue our hunts. While we do not see any sign of the creature that may - or may not - be responsible for the loss of two servants, we see no raveners either. This might be owing to the additional activity at night - but Cromwell is more certain now that something more powerful than a ravener has entered the palace. Being so lowly, no ravener will share territory with a stronger demon, and it is this unknown being that is keeping them at bay.

As we cease activity for the holiday, no progress has been made. We continue our nightly hunts, and occasionally Cromwell will report that there is a stronger odour of ichor, but we see nothing. None are reported missing, and I am beginning to wonder if the two servants really did run away.

Once again, as we have no pressing requirement to be active during the day, we resume our all-night patrols; which still reveal nothing.

Cromwell once again carries his hidden silver knife as we attend the Midnight mass to welcome the Christ Child. I am not sure whether I am relieved or disappointed that we are denied the amusement of Mary's wild ardour for him while she was held by the malevolence that inverted all of her beliefs. Though it is easier for all, as the Queen wishes to offer her greetings to us for the Season, and there is no need for him to flee with the crowds. Mary is clearly more friendly towards him these days, but she is not ardent for his love as once she was. Even her wishes for the season are sincere, despite their clear differences over religion, and we bow deeply as they depart.

As he did last year, Cromwell returns to Austin Friars for the Christmastide feasting, as Gregory - now at Cambridge - has returned for the holiday, and it is one of the few opportunities he has to see his only surviving child. Wyatt is happy to spend the day in my company, as I would have no one else to dine with, which causes amusement amongst his friends for the pity he shows the friendless Richard Rich.

We have prevailed upon Cromwell to remain with his extended family and his son for more than a single day - and so Wyatt and I don our swords and set out to hunt. I have gained a much greater understanding of the passageways and alleys of the Palace, but Wyatt is far more expert than I, and I tend to follow his lead more often than he follows mine.

"Do you think that we might see this unknown creature tonight?" he asks, not particularly seriously, as we make our way down a truly malodorous passageway that seems to be used as a latrine by those who cannot be bothered to visit the nearby jakes.

"If we do, then Cromwell shall be most disappointed if we dispatch it for him." I answer, "For now that we two have our own blades, we could very well do that."

I am, I must admit, almost childishly proud of the silver sword that Cromwell presented to me last year - as is Wyatt of his. There is, however, something remarkable about mine - Lamashtu recognised it when I had it in my hand in the Queen's Presence chamber - she called it 'The Damask Blade', and mocked me for not knowing its purpose or power. I still have no idea what she meant - but its beauty, and that it was a gift given to me as an act of trust, cause me to value it greatly.

"I think I should give my sword a name." Wyatt says, suddenly.

"Pardon?" I look at him, surprised, "Why?"

"Yours has a name. All the great swords of legend had names, so I think mine should."

"I think mine might have a legend." I admit, "Though God alone knows what it is."

"Mine has two stripes of silver along its length." He declares, "Therefore, I shall call it the Striped blade."

"Is that the best you can think of?" I ask, "I thought you were a poet."

"I could call it the 'banded' blade - but I prefer not to alliterate. That is far too obvious." He replies, loftily.

Our hunt is, as it has been for the last fortnight, fruitless. We see nothing, and without the ability to sense ichor, we cannot determine if anything has visited, and departed. Without Cromwell, we are very limited in the protection we can give.

With no reason to continue, we go our separate ways, and I return to my apartments, "Can't you give me any suggestions, Eminence?" I ask the empty air.

Why should I? That's your job. I thought you were the Second now. Wolsey's voice is rather insulting, but tinged with amusement. Rude though he is, I know that I have earned his respect, and as I reciprocate, it is inevitable that I am rude back to him whenever the opportunity arises. He is, admittedly, also right - but with the weather still being most uncooperative, I cannot return to Grant's Place. Cromwell was fortunate enough to secure one of the lesser royal barges to get him back to the Tower Wharves, but I would only be able to use a wherry, and there shall be none available until the weather improves.

Cromwell returns after a day, as Gregory must return to Cambridge. While he is always pleased to spend time with his son, the separation tells upon him, and his expression is sad as he joins us in the Hall for yet another celebratory feast. The new year is soon to be upon us, and we are still unable to identify the reason for the disappearance of the two servants. Fortunately, no others have been reported missing since - but this is likely to be thanks to the large numbers of people, the noise and the light of the festivities. None of us can be certain that it will not start again once the holiday is at an end.

Wyatt joins in the dancing that follows the feast, while Cromwell and I sit to the side. Cromwell does not dance - never having been taught to do so - and I am so poor at it that I could not inflict my incompetence upon a partner, assuming that any would consent to dance with me. Instead, we sip at mulled cider, and watch.

"How much longer shall Gregory be at Cambridge, Thomas?" I ask. I know that Cromwell intends to bring his son into royal service as soon as he has completed his studies.

"Less than a year, I think, Richie." He says, as we are secluded, and no one hears his informality, "I intend to introduce him to Wriothesley in a few months' time - to begin learning the mechanisms of Government; though if he can enter the Commons, that would also please me."

Not as much as Gregory being back home on a permanent basis would, I suspect.

"I assume that you have heard nothing more of our more immediate issue?" he asks, guardedly.

I shake my head, "We have seen, and heard, nothing. William's enquiries have also been fruitless - whatever is causing the issue of which you speak, there is nothing to identify it, and it has not been active again."

"I am not sure whether I find that to be a relief, or disturbing." Cromwell admits, "If I see a wasp in a room, I prefer to be able to see it leave, rather than find that it appears to have gone."

"Perhaps it shall reveal itself to us in the New Year - then we can dispatch it, and all shall be well."

"And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride." He smiles, tiredly, "We shall find it - if it is to be found. I cannot be convinced until I have seen it at work - for it may yet still be simply the flight of two poorly treated servants."

"I rather hope that it is." I admit, "For if it is not, then they have died - and, I imagine, died cruelly."

"That is indeed so." Cromwell agrees, "But, even if they have died, at least they are no longer in pain. That is another comfort. We must ensure that no others endure their fate, if that was indeed their fate." He looks up, and frowns. I turn to follow his gaze, and see William making his way through the crowds.

"What is it?" He asks, as his manservant comes up to us, before guiding William to a secluded corner. As it would look strange for me to follow, I remain where I am as the music ends and Wyatt returns to join me. He gives me a questioning glance, and I shrug. Once Cromwell knows what has happened: if it concerns us, he shall tell us.

A few moments later, William departs, and Cromwell beckons us over, his expression concerned, "One of Suffolk's retainers has returned to his dormitory in a very poor state." He advises, quietly, "William was present at the time, as he is good friends with one of the pages, and they were playing at cards. He reports that the youth was weak, and faint - and seemed to have no memory of what had happened to him, but he looked extremely pale, and William is of the opinion that he has lost a great deal of blood. They put him to bed, and the page has fetched Suffolk, while William came to me."

"Do you think he has met the same creature that is responsible for the disappearances?" Wyatt asks, softly.

Cromwell nods, "I should like to see the man myself to be sure." He admits, "I shall visit Suffolk, I think. As it is one of my duties to investigate assaults, he would not be surprised to see me. I hope that he might permit me to speak to the youth."

"We shall await you in your apartments, Thomas." I tell him, as we are as keen as he to uncover the source of this mystery. He nods, and departs.

He is gone for an hour, and we sit by the fire in his quarters, while William serves us more mulled cider. When he returns, his expression is grave, "It is as I feared. The youth is still unconscious, and - all things being equal - I do not expect him ever to wake. He was tainted by ichor, and there seemed to be very little blood left in him. Suffolk is most saddened, for the boy is the son of one of his older retainers, and he regarded him well."

"Have you identified what might be responsible?" Wyatt asks.

Cromwell nods, "There was a scarred patch upon his throat, and his blood was supped. There was none about his mouth, which suggests that that which supped from him did not require him to sup in return; but it is unmistakeable. He has been the prey of a revenant."

This news gives me a most unpleasant thrill down my back, for the only revenant I have ever encountered was Zaebos, and his acts against me haunted my dreams, and my thoughts, for nearly a year afterward, "But I thought that there were no others after we destroyed Zaebos?" I ask.

Cromwell shakes his head, "Zaebos was the last of his kind, yes - but his was a far higher order of revenants, who had lived for so long that they had gained the ability to move about by day, and disguise their inhuman aspects. They were akin to an aristocracy amongst their kind; the peasantry are still extensive, and we have been most fortunate that none have come here in the time since his dispatch. I think it possible that Wolsey's blessing has kept them at bay as much as it has Lamashtu."

"They are stronger than raveners - that much is evidenced by their absence." Wyatt muses, "How strong would this creature be?"

"Strong enough." Cromwell advises, "Though they are as vulnerable to silver as any demons, and are also destroyed by daylight - while they fear, and are repelled by, the Holy Cross. There are other, stronger demons - but I can only imagine that they are held from our shores by Lamashtu. For I have never seen any stronger than revenants in all my time as a Silver Sword."

"Can they compress moments as Zaebos did?" I ask, at once.

"Most cannot - but if this creature is active, and I have not seen it, then it is quite possible that it has learned how to do so." Cromwell admits, "So we are reliant upon you, Tom, to find it. For none but you can see it when it moves at such speed."

And so, again, we resume our all-night patrols, only with Wyatt taking the lead. As Cromwell can sense their presence, but cannot see them move, while Wyatt can see them move, but cannot sense their presence, they must work together, and I am little more than the one who trots along behind, ready to fling a sword about if needed.

We see nothing for several nights, until - finally - with one night left before the Year's end, Wyatt sees it - moving with that same disjointed swiftness that is visible only to him. With the assistance of a full moon, we are finally able to locate where it hides, as it has found a place out in the ornamental gardens beyond the Palace and before the large park. Set into a hill is a secluded grotto, highly popular with the ladies during summer days for its coolness in hot weather, and equally popular with the rest of the court during the hours of darkness for the seclusion it affords for behaviour entirely unbecoming in a public place.

With the weather as cold as it is, however, it is abandoned - and so the revenant has taken up residence within it. Given the speed at which it moves, we shall need to plan our hunt against it, for it is too fast to easily fight. With this in mind, we leave it be and adjourn back to Cromwell's apartments to decide what to do.

"We must trap it." He says, as William pour us warmed hippocras, "I think that there is a secluded arbour within the gardens that would do most well, for there is but one entrance, and one exit - at either end. If you, Richie, were to guard one end, with sword and Cross, and you, Tom, the other, that would leave it with no choice but to fight - and with four silver swords against it, we could dispatch it in short order."

"In which case, it must be lured to that point." Wyatt agrees, "I do not consider it likely that it would willingly consent to enter such a spot of its own accord. We must bait it."

"Indeed we must." Cromwell sighs, "You have the ability to see where it goes - so that must be your task. It is my ability to fight it. Therefore…" his voice trails off, and I know what that means.

I must be the bait.

To say that I look upon tonight's hunt with a mild sense of dread is the height of understatement. This shall be the best opportunity for us to act unobserved, as the celebrations of the New Year shall be confined largely to the inside of the Palace, thanks to the bitterly cold weather.

The paving is already sparkling with frost as we depart from the Palace, leaving from a servant's entrance to avoid being seen by any who might know us. The gardens below are secluded and shall easily hide the hunt to come; and our plan is simple enough - so there is little opportunity for something to go wrong. At least, that is my hope - for if something does go wrong, I am likely to pay for it.

"I suspect that the revenant has not fed for some days, given the time that has passed since the damage that it wrought upon that poor boy of Suffolk's retinue." Cromwell advises quietly, and his comment leaves us largely silent, as the youth did not see the next morning, and is to be buried on the morrow, "If that is the case, then it will likely be most keen to hunt, so to offer it all that it could wish for would almost certainly bring it out." Then he turns to me, "Assuming that it does emerge, Richie, you must show fear when you run - as that shall excite it even more, and it shall certainly follow you."

How charming that he thinks I shall not show fear. That is one thing that I know I shall not make a pretence of showing.

Cromwell stays behind, hidden carefully in the enclosed arbour that we intend to use to trap the revenant, while Wyatt and I continue on to the grotto. I am not sure whether it is the cold, or the sense of dread that I feel that is making me tremble as much as I do, but I hope that Wyatt thinks it's the cold. I wish that I could think the same.

"I shall keep careful watch upon it, Richard." Wyatt advises, firmly, "Try not to let me lose sight of you, however, for it shall be set upon you, and I cannot watch it if I cannot see you."

I do not trust myself to speak, so instead I nod.

I am supposed to be a drunken courtier, who has lost their way in the gardens; but, as Wyatt has already noted, I am utterly unconvincing as a drunk when I am not inebriated, so instead I have opted to be a courtier intending an illicit liaison. We are all well wrapped up, not just to keep out the cold, but also to keep our weapons out of sight, and Wyatt stays in the shade of a yew hedge as I depart from the gardens and make my nervous way towards the entrance of the grotto.

"My Lady?" I call, a hoarse whisper that suggests that I am searching for someone, "Are you here?"

Moving slowly, I approach the entrance, and risk calling again, "Lady Scrope?" As though I should be meeting her - she is eighty years old if she is a day - but it is the only name I can think of.

I can hear movement now, something shifting, and moving towards me, "My Lady - is that you?"

I dare not risk venturing closer - as I do not want to be snatched and dragged into the grotto. Instead, I crane forward slightly, and call again, "My Lady?"

"I am no lady." The voice that responds is sibilant, low and almost sepulchral; and I am unable to stop myself from taking a step back.

"Then who are you?" I demand, now grateful that my voice is shaking, "Show yourself!"

And it does.

It is not as ugly as Zaebos was, in his true form, but it is horribly similar: skin stretched tautly over thinly muscled limbs, ribs showing, an almost skeletal body. Its mouth opens to reveal two long fangs that gleam in the moonlight. I do not need to be an actor now, for my fear is absolutely real, and I back away with such speed that I lose my footing and fall backwards, where I scramble desperately to get back to my feet.

It hisses with excitement, and as soon as I am up again I take to my heels, running wildly back towards the gardens. I do not need to look behind me to know that it follows - for it is, as Cromwell predicted, hungry and ready to hunt: and I am its prey.

It sounds horribly excited: breath hissing out of an open mouth almost dribbling with anticipation of my blood, and it moves with appalling speed. My only hope is that it wishes to toy with me; for, if it does not, I cannot reach the place that we have chosen, for I am not fast enough. Each time I reach the exit from one garden to the next, it is there, fangs bared, and I skid to a halt and bolt for another exit. It is as though it has heard our plans, for each exit it blocks is one that brings me closer to Cromwell, and safety - worse, I know that not all of the gardens have two or more entries. If it blocks me into one that has only one way in and out, then I am truly helpless, and there is one such garden, near the far end. If I trap myself in there, then I have but one means of escape. As I have lost all sense of direction now, I cannot begin to guess where I am.

Again, it pounces at me from my intended route of escape, and I stagger back. With time running out, for I cannot go on for much longer, I begin to contemplate fighting it myself - but I am shaking with tiredness, and I know full well that such a move would truly doom me. Instead, I step backwards, attempting to get my breath back, and find myself against a yew hedge, rather than the entrance through which I came. Like an idiot, I have trapped myself.

Snarling horribly, the revenant closes in upon me, and I have to fight with myself not to plead with it - for I know that it would have done nothing to save those who had done the same, and it shall not save me. Instead, I reach into the folds of my cloak and fumble for that which I require.

Just as it is within reach of me, I finally find it - and wrench out the large gold cross that has been hanging about my neck for just this eventuality. It was given to me by an elderly grandparent when I was a youth - and this is the first time that I have worn it. But then, this is the first time I have found a use for it; I am convinced that the old man saw a future for me in the Church - rather than repelling blood drinkers.

To my relief, the creature recoils from the sign of all that is holy, hissing in revulsion. It is momentarily stunned, enabling me to rush past it and through the exit that had been my intention all along. Within a few moments it is trailing me again, but I have achieved my aim, and finally emerge into the secluded garden to which I had been heading. Badly blown, despite being in far better condition than I had once been, I hurry to the other way out, and stand with the cross visible, and finally draw my sword.

At once, the creature stops, nonplussed by my sudden change of behaviour. A few moments ago, I had been a frightened, fleeing fool - but now I am armed, and protected by a cross. Even as it considers this, Wyatt emerges at the other end of the garden, a cross of his own clearly visible, and his blade also drawn.

Then, at last, Cromwell emerges from the darkness. He did not seem to have sought concealment, so I have no idea how he remained hidden when I entered the enclosure - I wonder how he does it.

As it thought to trap me, now the revenant itself is trapped. It cannot get past the crosses that we carry - even if it could easily destroy us to escape - and it must face one of the deadliest Silver Swords in the history of the Order. Does it even know? I suppose it probably does not.

Growling now, it crouches and backs away from the crossed silver swords that Cromwell holds before him. He does not take his eyes from the creature, and waits calmly for it to strike - for strike it shall.

Perhaps it is the presence of the crosses, or that it prefers to use violence rather than extreme speed, but it does not use the same compression of time that it used to try to herd me, and instead flies at him with only one intent: to kill.

Having seen Cromwell fight Zaebos, I assumed that I had seen him fight to his fullest ability - but then I had never seen him fight a lesser creature that was not held from its powers by the words of a Grace. Even his fights with raveners are not as fast, or as furious, as this - as he swoops, leaps and turns, his swords whistling musically as they cut through the air. Every attempt that the revenant makes to reach him fails - either he evades, rolls or leaps over it, and the singing blades leave cuts in their wake.

The killing blow, when it comes, is so unexpected, and so fast, that even the revenant does not seem to realise at first that it has occurred - but the vile creature, even as it hisses and tries to move forward to continue the fight, is already falling to dust, and is soon gone. As the last motes wisp away in the chill night air, the palace clock strikes midnight.

Sheathing his swords, Cromwell turns to me, "Happy New Year, Richie, and to you, Tom." He adds, turning to Wyatt.

Wyatt smiles, "And to you, Thomas."

Given the lateness of the hour, and the cold, we do not linger, nor do we return to Cromwell's apartments. Instead, we head to our own quarters. I am most relieved that I am no longer bait.

It is as I cross a silent court that I hear it, a faint scrabbling sound; and I know that I am being followed. The sound is familiar, and it inspires a slight chill, for I realise that a ravener, which appears not to have realised that a revenant was - until a few minutes ago, at least - in residence, has me in its sights.

At least I have my breath back, I suppose.

I take care to draw my sword slowly and quietly, before turning to look about me, and I spot it - clinging to the bricks a few feet above my head. The wretched creature was clearly expecting to ambush me from above, and its initiative is lost as I back away, blade at the ready.

Fortunately, it does not flee, as they are ridiculously stupid creatures; and instead drops to the cobbles, hissing aggressively. I hold my ground, and keep my sword ready. As most people are unarmed, it seems quite nonplussed - but as it has speed as its ally, it seems willing to try me; thus I must be prepared to defend myself - for if I flee, and it loses me, who else might pay for my flight? Besides, I have fought raveners, albeit as part of a group. If I am not ready to fight one alone, then I shall never be.

I am not as fast as Cromwell, and I am utterly lacking in his swift agility, but as it leaps at me, I quickly twist aside, and it skids past me into the opposite wall. Snarling in rage, it leaps up the bricks and comes at me from above, as it had originally intended, causing me to drop and roll beneath it - though I do not come to my feet with the elegance of a Silver Sword, but instead have to clamber back upright in a most ungainly fashion.

Raging, it leaps again, this time with the intention of sinking its teeth into my face - or at least, that seems to be its intention from its angle. Ducking, I slash the blade upwards, and it slices cleanly through the creature's neck, sending it to a cloud of dust that seems not even to touch the floor before a gust of wind blows it away.

It seems to bode well for the year to come. For the first time, I have fought a ravener entirely alone, and without being obliged to rely upon luck, or berserk madness. And I have won.

Chapter Text

With the passing of Twelfth Night, marked once more by another sumptuous feast in the hall, we return to work. With the continued failure of the Council to agree funds for the new system of roads that Cromwell is keen to commission, Parliament will not be recalled until the winter is over - though, if he had his way, the King would happily manage without them. As he needs them to grant him monies, however, he has little choice.

The chill of the new year is still present, and I am grateful for the warmth of my furred simarre, while the clerks frequently gather beside the fireplace in the antechamber. Given the large quantities of paper in the offices, it is the only fireplace that we have, and even those of us who can afford warmer clothing are not averse to doing the same. As there is ice even inside the mullions, Cromwell has already advised the clerks that, should he join them at the fire, he is doing so for the same reasons as they - and they are not obliged to hasten back to their work if he does. Only Wriothesley seems not to be pulled to that welcoming blaze - as though he enjoys an almost monastic devotion to discomfort.

The weather, while bitter, is still dry, however, and we do not have the pleasure of snow to distract bored courtiers. Instead, they wander about dressed in furs, bickering and gossiping; and the news from the Continent seems to add fuel to their waspish conversations.

As Privy Councillors, we are fully aware of the problem - for Charles, Holy Roman Emperor, has taken it upon himself to menace the tiny state of Genoa. With little else to recommend it, the small republic has become something of a centre for banking, and thus has amassed great wealth in doing so. In his eagerness to maintain a state of conflict and expansion of his empire, Charles has borrowed enormous sums from Genoese banks; so much so that he can no longer repay them. Cromwell's spies have already reported long since that the Empire has suffered a series of bad harvests, and the cost of the Emperor's wars have left his coffers depleted. Like Philip of France did with the Templars, it seems that Charles wishes to quash his debts by removing the creditor.

Ever eager for military glory, Henry is most keen to flex his muscles in the face of such apparent aggression on the part of a fellow Prince, though we are not yet sure whether he intends to do so as an ally, or an opponent. It is only later in the afternoon after the meeting that we can be sure - as his voice cuts loudly across the presence chamber, "And to what do we owe this pleasure, Excellency?"

The recipient of this comment, the Imperial Ambassador, turns in surprise, for Chapuys has not expected to be addressed. He is often about the court, politicking, socialising and listening for gossip - so much so that many pay him no mind. Hastily, he bows deeply, "Forgive me, Majesty, I am merely engaged in discourse over the weather."

"Of course you are." Henry's observation is loaded with sarcasm, and even the newest at court could not miss the inevitability of a coming outburst, "And what of your royal master, Lapdog?"

The room goes quiet at once. If the King is offering insults, then it is clear that the coming conversation shall be most uncomfortable for all present - particularly Chapuys. I can see Castillion nearby, smirking into a cup of wine.

Henry is now on his feet, limping with surprising nimbleness towards the Imperial Ambassador, his expression frighteningly hard. Having been the focus of a rage such as this myself, I feel a sense of real sympathy at Chapuys's expression - though he was present at that incident, and looked much the same then when the anger was aimed at me.

The King goes on to subject Chapuys to a shocking tirade of invective, insults and accusations against his Royal master. Whether or not he is being gratuitously provocative, or actually means all that he says, none of us know - but he punctuates his words with sharp stabs of his finger into the Ambassador's shoulder, his reddened face unnervingly close to Chapuys's ear. Accusations that Charles is a thief, a bad debtor, an aggressor and an unwelcome invader…the list goes on and on until, at last, he shouts at the unfortunate man to get out of his presence - and he is allowed to escape.

Looking rather pleased with himself, Henry returns to his throne and continues to accept petitioners as though nothing has happened - albeit that he has made himself exceedingly red in the face. I almost wish I could go after Chapuys, as he is - when not politicking - a most gracious man, and to see him so humiliated is very sad. As I turn, I note that Cromwell looks no happier. They might have their differences, but he is as well disposed to Chapuys as I - for the Imperial Ambassador has been a presence at court for many years.

"Do you think the Emperor shall recall him?" I mutter, quietly, as we opt to return to the offices, rather than linger.

"It is possible - I imagine a strongly worded report is being composed as we speak." Cromwell agrees, "I am told that Genoa has dispatched an Ambassador to speak upon the behalf of their Doge - for they are seeking alliances to protect themselves from the Emperor's forces; though I doubt that such overtures shall succeed in the end. Charles is too strong - even if his exchequer is empty."

"And he risks travel at this time of the year?" I ask, surprised.

"He was based in Paris for a time - and has been resident in Calais since Christmastide. All he requires is a fair wind, and he shall be here. I suspect that, with the roads as they are, he shall make the entire journey by ship and disembark in the Pool of London - for I understand that he is extremely wealthy, and could meet the costs of such a journey even if his master could not."

Within a few days of the incident, the weather changes, and Cromwell learns that the Genoese Ambassador has departed France - and admits that he has been using messenger pigeons following Wyatt's suggestion that I do so from Hampton Court. If the winds continue fair, this new man should arrive in London within two days, and the King is most keen for him to be offered all available hospitality. With his habitual rudeness, he places the task upon Suffolk rather than his chief Minister; as, in his view, it should be a Peer that makes the welcome, not a commoner - and he ignores the smirks of his high-born lords at the obvious insult to Cromwell, who equally ignores the insult.

We are at work when the new Ambassador arrives - a Signor Campofregoso. We know nothing of him beyond the already well-known facts that he is wealthy, but also that he has connections with some of the most highly placed churchmen in the Holy See - which can only serve to increase his standing with the Courts of Europe, though I cannot say for certain that it would do so with Henry, the self-declared head of the Church of England. I suppose it shall not be long before we find out, however, as Suffolk has organised an official reception to greet the new arrival, at which the Privy Council shall be present alongside the higher placed court officials and Lords.

The gathering takes place in the King's Presence Chamber, and only those who are invited are to be present. Those who are not remain gathered in the outer halls, as though forming a guard of honour for Campofregoso as he is escorted by Suffolk and four Palace guards with ceremonial halberds. When he comes into the presence of the King, he makes a most impressive sight: an emerald green velvet doublet liberally slashed with blood red satin and thickly embroidered with gold thread - over which he wears a heavy, dark green simarre trimmed extensively with sable. His upper hose extends down to his knees, and is puffed and slashed with the same red satin as his doublet, while his shoes are green satin trimmed with gold. He positively drips with jewels, which seems to me to be almost unforgivably crass; but he does not compound this as he bows floridly, and waits for the King to speak.

Remarkably, Henry seems quite impressed by the Ambassador's rather spectacular entrance, and stands to greet him, "Your Excellency - welcome to my court."

"Thank you, your majesty," He answers, his words heavily accented, "Forgive me, but I seem to have inadvertently bedecked myself with your jewels. If you could kindly grant your indulgence, I shall remove them and have them sent to you at the first opportunity."

Everyone about me exchanges shocked glances at his presumption; but the King finds the comment most amusing - possibly because of the obvious statement that he is to be gifted a fine array of new baubles - and he laughs delightedly, "And so I do, Excellency - so I do. We shall talk anon over wine - but first I introduce you to the nobles and highly placed men of my court." He indicates that Campofregoso join him, and the new ambassador turns to stand beside the King to accept a bow from all assembled.

It is then that I feel Cromwell stiffen almost violently beside me, for it is only now that the Ambassador's face is fully visible. Startled, I look at him to see that his expression has gone terrifyingly hard, and his bow is as shallow as he can manage without drawing comment. It appears that he knows this new arrival - and there must be bad blood between them. As I have not seen Cromwell with such an expression since he faced Thomas Boleyn, I can only imagine how bad their relations must have been - and I dread to imagine what must have happened.

As we rise again, the King waves everyone away, and guides Campofregoso through to the Privy Chamber beyond. The assembly disperses, and I turn to Cromwell, "What?"

His expression remains hard, but I can see an edge of pain in his eyes as he continues to look at the door through which the two men have exited, "That is one of the vilest men I have ever encountered. God help us all if he is involved."

"You know him?" I ask, "How?"

He sighs, then, and looks at me, "I knew him many years ago, Richie, and I have never forgotten. I never could."

The remainder of the day is very uncomfortable for all in the offices. Cromwell says nothing more to me about his sour mood as we return, and his silence and ill-temper unnerves everyone - even Wriothesley, who does not approach him unless he must. As he is not normally so put-out, we are all bemused - and things only seem to get worse as he tells Wriothesley to leave him be in such a rude manner that all are surprised - not least the Secretary himself, who withdraws with a most injured air.

Even as Daniel refills his inkhorn - never an easy task to do tidily at the best of times - the spillage of a few drops as he lifts the jar causes Cromwell to turn upon him with startling venom, "God above, Daniel - can you not be clumsy for at least a few minutes?"

"I'm sorry my Lord." Daniel stutters, almost fearfully, and hastens away. I shoot a rather aggrieved look at Cromwell on Daniel's behalf, but he ignores me, and goes back to scratching away with his quill.

His displays of temper have so cowed everyone that all move about as quietly as they can, and none dare to speak, except for Peter, who has been working elsewhere for much of the day, and arrives in full flow - for he has seen the Lady Mary again, and the clerks are always most competitive over their rare glimpses of the royal family.

The noise of his excited chatter, as he is oblivious to the atmosphere until it is far too late to stop himself, causes Cromwell to stand up, his expression so enraged that I cannot believe he could show such anger to anyone that is not infernal, "God's Blood, Peter! Cease your pointless chatter! Why should any of us care that you have seen the Lady Mary! Is she an item to be collected and compared like a vase or a jewel? Get yourself back to work, or God help me I shall slap your head!"

That is more than I am prepared to accept, and he sees me stand, which - somehow - causes him to pause, and his expression falters. He turns to Peter who, as the youngest of our clerks is easily cowed, and realises the boy is near to tears; and I can see that he has recognised that he has overstepped the mark.

"Forgive me, Peter." He says, much more quietly, "I have spoken out of turn. As I have to all of you today. I am out of sorts - but you are not to blame for that, and it is most remiss of me to turn my poor mood upon you all. My apologies - I shall leave you in peace." With that, he turns and leaves, and all are silenced, not knowing what to make of it all.

I know I must follow, but I turn to the chastened clerk, "Could you see to tidying the Chancellor's desk, Peter?" I ask him, "I suspect he shall not return tonight - but he shall be in a better temper on the morrow, I am sure of it."

Looking happier, both at the apology, and from my kinder words, Peter nods, and I quickly tidy away my own papers. Hopefully Cromwell has retired to his quarters - I shall seek him out there.

William admits me with a look that suggests that I have deduced correctly, and as I enter, I see Cromwell is sitting before the fire, a cup of ale in his hand, and a sad expression upon his face. He looks up as I approach, and he waits for me to sit and accept another cup from William. I do not need to ask.

"When I knew Campofregoso last, Richie," He says, very quietly, "he had no family name - for none of us did. We all gave them up when we entered the House - for we became just citizens of the towns from whence we had come. He was, to me, 'Alessandro of Genoa', as I was 'Thomas of London'. He arrived at the House when I was in my second year there, and came with wealth and an arrogance so towering that he thought himself the greatest creature to ever have walked upon God's earth.

"His education was already fit for one of his class, for he was an aristocrat, as most of us were not. Thus he joined with those of us who had been present for longer than he - including myself. Our education at the House was not fixed to a limited term - those who showed promise could stay as long as needed to learn all, and swords were only granted when they became available; but failure was rarely tolerated. At each year's end, the student, and the Masters, would agree between them whether or not they felt ready to continue, or to hold from the final trials for another year. I was one of a few who showed such ability that we were taught separately, and it was to our group that Alessandro was joined."

"Why was that?" I ask, intrigued to be learning more about this strange Order of Warriors.

"He showed great skill with weaponry, and his abilities with languages had also grown apace. Such was to be expected of a man of his class; for most of us had had to learn these from the beginning. There was no need to place him with those whose skills were less than his - for he had been found to be capable of detecting ichor, and his abilities placed him in our company." His expression darkens, "But he found no favour with us, for his class had made him arrogant, and he was not willing to set that aside and mingle with those he considered to be lesser beings than himself."

I know that this alone would not be sufficient to earn Cromwell's ire, "There is more than that, though, is there not?"

He nods, "At that time, I was closely bonded in friendship to another student - from Nuremberg. Joachim was his name." He pauses, and for a moment I see such great sadness that I wonder if I need to know more, "We had become fast friends when I arrived, for he had been there a year before me, and I was in great need of companionship. There were no others from the northern countries of Europe at that time, and we were alone amidst a sea of southerners - and we soon became as brothers. He was as bright as I, strong and with clever wits. Between us, we became quite a handful - I remember the Masters used to refer to us as 'the Northern Rogues' for our japes."

Japes? Somehow the word does not fit with the man sitting before me. While I know that he appreciates humour, it had never occurred to me that he might be responsible for tricks and foolery.

"We fitted together well - for we competed with one another, supported one another and thus excelled in all that we did. As none of us knew - for we were not told so until after receiving swords - that some Silver Swords are assigned to work within Royal Courts, we planned to ride together when we received ours. We neither of us doubted for a moment that each of us would do so, and we saw ourselves as Knights Errant, travelling the world to rescue those in need, destroy darkness and save all about us. Such was our youthful ebullience.

"We cared nothing for the arrogance of Alessandro, for the fine cut of the clothes he wore, and for the gifts with which he purchased friendship. He never sought trouble when the Masters were near, but did all he could to bring trouble upon those he considered to be more favoured than he. He continually failed to do so with us, however, for we had learned one of the great rules of the House: never to be caught."

This is a side to Cromwell that I have never seen - and I find it hard to imagine him so, "This alone could not have caused you to be so offended, Thomas." I say, "What did he do that brought down your ire upon him?"

"I can recall one midday, as we were gathering to dine, that Joachim had succeeded in thieving a bottle of fine Hock from the Master's cellar." He continues, "I had not been present when he did so, and had not known that he had taken it upon himself to try - for all knew how guarded the cellars were. We joked between ourselves over the tasting of it that night in the cell that we shared, and I went out to my afternoon lessons quite at ease; for at no time had we ever been caught in our thefts. I recall that afternoon well, for I had spent many painful hours learning to mount a horse at the gallop, as the horse-men of the eastern steppes were reputed to be able to do. It was upon that afternoon that I succeeded in learning whatever trick they used, and I returned in much joy to our cell - to find our Master present, and Joachim - with the bottle of hock."

"What was his punishment?" I ask.

"For most infractions, even minor ones, we were birched." He says, quietly, "God knows I was obliged to receive such punishment frequently when first I arrived, for I disliked the constraints of the rules placed upon us - but it was used for even a failure in language; I can remember occasions when students were birched for speaking in the wrong tongue. This, however, was different. Joachim had been caught stealing from the Masters - and such an infraction earned him ten strokes of the lash."

I wince at the thought.

"His crime was not so much the theft itself - but to have been seen carrying it out; as I have already said, the great rule of the House is to not be caught. But, as my friend, it was thought that he had placed me at risk of guilt by association, and thus I was tasked with administering the whip."

"You?" I stare at him, astounded - why not one of the masters?

He nods, "And it was made clear to me that I must not flinch from it, nor stint in the application - or I should face the same punishment myself. I think, and thought so at the time, that they knew I had been aware of the theft, even though I had not participated in it, and so they were punishing me as much as Joachim. Or perhaps they thought it a lesson that I required to learn - for all Silver Swords must be absolutely ruthless, and I had not learned to set my feelings aside. And so, I did as required of me, and flogged my dearest friend."

He goes silent for a few minutes, gazing into the cup of ale, and I do not feel I can prompt him to continue - but instead he raises his head and speaks again, "He had fainted by the eighth stroke, and as the Masters carried him away to receive care, I overheard Alessandro boasting that it was his word that had brought Joachim to this. He did so within my hearing - perhaps in the hopes that I might turn upon him and be lashed in my turn - but I did not, for it would have choked me to give him such satisfaction. If I had disliked him before, now I despised him.

"Joachim told me later that he had indeed reported the theft - and had earned a slap from the Grand Master for his tale-bearing; but the damage was done. I think Joachim's greater ire was inspired by his loathing of Alessandro's excessive religious piety - for Alessandro was quite determinedly Catholic, particularly in the face of those who were not; for Joachim was a Lutheran, and we had both a Jew and a Saracen amongst us.

"From that point, however, a state of enmity grew between us - for Joachim intended to exact payment for Alessandro for each cut he had received from that whip, and I shared that aim, for I had been forced to apply them. Our battleground was our learning, and we strove with all our hearts to outdo him in all things, to make him appear a fool, and perhaps even trip him into a failure that could see his departure from the House - for any who failed in any task could expect such an outcome."

I am intrigued to discover that Joachim was a follower of Luther - and I find myself wondering if this, coupled with Alessandro's excessive piety, has inspired Cromwell to cleave to the Protestant faith himself. His expression, however, has changed again, and I suspect that the worst is to be told.

"It had been agreed that eight of us would undertake the Trials of the House that year - Joachim, Alessandro and I were three of those eight youths. The trials began with tests of our learning of languages, manners, history and politics; while those of our abilities with weapons and stealth would follow. Those who came through the trials would then face that which all aimed for - the final Trial, which would test our stealth, silence and ingenuity - for it was this that would determine which of us would be granted swords.

"We did not know it at the time, for I learned it only afterwards, that the Trials only occur when there are swords to be claimed. Two Silver Swords had returned their weapons in that year - one had died, the other retired to take up a post as a Master; and their gauntlets awaited two of us in a tower at the far end of the complex of buildings that was the House. All routes to the Tower had been cleared - and were to be patrolled by the Masters. It was the task of the five of us who remained after completing the first Trials to reach that tower undiscovered, and claim one or other of those pairs of gauntlets. Those who succeeded would be granted swords. Those who reached the room undetected, but too late to claim, would be granted another attempt when there were swords available. Any who were caught would be required to leave the House immediately, and not return."

I recall now that Cromwell once told me that he had claimed his Raven gauntlets in one of the fastest times anyone had ever achieved, though he had never told me how he had done so. It seems now that I am to find out.

"We were granted two hours to undertake the task. All of the routes had ample places of concealment for those who opted to use them - but I chose a different method. Many of the outer walls of the House could be easily traversed without being seen from windows, and I had achieved many of my finest thefts from the Kitchens by using them, for they were old and liberally scattered with hand- and foot-holds. As the day was warm, I discarded my doublet - and my shoes, for as you know, I never climb while shod - and I took to the walls to make my way upwards."

So that was how he did it.

"The journey took me little more than a half hour - for I was well acquainted with the walls, and I was soon able to enter the tower - at the very foot of the stairs that would lead me to the place where the gauntlets lay. There was but one master patrolling the one corridor that led to the room; and, while it was a route that contained many places to hide, the need for absolute silence was paramount. I concealed myself, and waited for him to depart on his patrol, before climbing the stairs to the tower room, and snatching up the Raven gauntlets - which I still wear today.

"As I had reached the goal so quickly, I was obliged to wait with the Grand Master - who was seated in the room to await those who reached it undetected - until the other arrived. Such was my faith in my friend that I was convinced that it should be Joachim who would collect the Hound gauntlets. All, however, was silent until I heard the sound of scuffling from the unglazed window nearby. I could not restrain my interest - and I looked out to see Joachim, attempting to climb for that same window from which I was looking down. I knew that only one thing could have driven him out onto the walls - Alessandro must be near; and it was now a race between the two."

And then I remember what happened next - for he mentioned this incident when he was describing his time in that awful nightmare inspired by the malevolence that possessed him.

"I heard a shout from the corridor, and I could not suppress a stab of wild exultation - for I knew that someone had been caught, and it was almost certainly Alessandro, so he would have to leave with nothing. And then…" he stops as his voice catches; he clears his throat and tries again, "And then, I turned to look at Joachim, who now had no one to reach the gauntlets ahead of him, and thus I was made to watch him lose his footing upon the stones, and plunge to his death upon the flags of the courtyard below."

"I am truly sorry, Thomas." I murmur, quietly. What else can I say?

"When Joachim fell, he took much with him - his intelligence, his humour, and - for many years, at least - my wish to ever grant friendship to that degree ever again. I no longer despised Alessandro - for now I hated him, and wished him as much suffering as he had settled upon me. I should not hate - it is not right for a Silver Sword to hate; but I have never been able to let that leave me. And now I must, for he is the Genoese Ambassador, and I am His Majesty's Lord Chancellor."

"And I am a Privy Councillor, Thomas," I remind him, "As is Tom. There are few occasions when you shall be obliged to deal with him alone; and, if you must, then hold back your anger, and release it when you are in our company - for we shall understand, and shall not be offended."

He smiles, then, "And hope that more raveners enter the court."

"He is but an Ambassador, Thomas," I add, "What can he do? The King's Grace never treats the representatives of foreign courts with excessive respect - for he considers himself far above them. I cannot see how this man could ever hope to cause harm - for all that he is here to do is petition for aid on behalf of his master, who is not Royal anyway. He is not even on the same level as those who represent the European Courts, so why should his Majesty pay him any mind?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "You have not seen his ability to ingratiate himself with those he views to be above him, Richie. It was perhaps his greatest talent of all, and you have already seen it - for did he not arrive bedecked in jewels that he claimed were intended for the King? That alone sparked a great deal of interest, and I fear that he shall build upon it. I shall not be at ease until his mission is ended, and he is gone from the court."

Cromwell's ability to hide his ire is put to the test the very next morning, as we of the Privy Council are summoned to meet with the King and the newly arrived Ambassador. As Campofregoso has a number of requests to put to the King, his Majesty wishes us to be present as well, whether we wish it, or not.

Perhaps it is no surprise that the King is wearing a fine emerald-bedecked chain about this neck, which was last seen decorating the Ambassador's shoulders - the easiest way to gain Henry's interest is to present him with valuable gifts. All that says to me is that the Ambassador has taken care to investigate his audience in hopes of gaining favour - I should have done much the same myself.

We are all introduced individually to the man from Genoa, who is far more soberly dressed today - albeit still very richly, for his garments are of the finest cut, and the cloth is of the best quality. He greets all before him with aplomb, though his responses seem very much tailored not so much to the man before him, as to his status, and his expression when he greets me is one of mild disinterest, for I am nothing more than a Knight, so I am not ennobled, and I have a functional role within the Court. To him, I am but a common worker, and he considers me beneath him - I can see it in his face, and hear it in his voice.

Finally he is introduced to Cromwell, in terms of both name and rank. While the Court position he holds is powerful, and he has the King's favour, Cromwell is still very much a commoner of base-birth, and the King has no qualms about saying so. I cannot avoid a sense of tension - for I have no idea if the Ambassador recognises the man he once trapped into whipping his best friend; but it seems my fears are misplaced, for either the former Alessandro of Genoa has no memory of the man Thomas of London, does not see him standing before him, or is a very capable actor. The contempt he seems almost to exude is purely for a man of common blood, and he is quite content to ignore Cromwell from that point onwards. I am not sure if I am the only one of us that gives a sigh of relief as he does so.

The request is simple enough - that the King sign a treaty with Genoa pledging both political and military support should the Holy Roman Emperor take it upon himself to invade the Republic. Given the distance between the two realms, the entire treaty would be for appearances only - or so it would seem to me - but Henry has always been swayed by the promise of glory in battle, and the thought of leading troops into the fray, crowned helmet upon his head and a glorious surcoat with his royal colours over his finest armour, can always be counted upon to awaken his bellicosity. That he is stiff, gouty, crippled by his ulcerated leg and has a massively expanded girth seems to escape his notice.

It is, naturally, the detailed terms of the treaty that shall require discussion and consideration, for which the Ambassador shall not be present; but it seems that, today at least, we are not required to commence those discussions. The King has invited Campofregoso to dine with him, so we are all dismissed to go about our business.

As we return to the offices, we make a short detour into a quiet chamber to discuss our observations, for it seems that the Ambassador shows no remembrance of Cromwell at all.

"He seems not to recall you, Thomas." I say, as he sits down beside a chill, empty fireplace.

"Indeed he does not." Cromwell agrees, "I cannot help but wonder if it was his dispatch from the House that has led to this - for I was not aware until I received my swords that not all Silver Swords are itinerant. We had always thought that we roamed and sought out evil - and it was only upon gaining the name Raven that I discovered that some are planted in the Royal Courts to protect the Princes of Europe. Alessandro would not have known that, I think - so he does not see me for what I am; nor does he know what a Second is, Richie, so he certainly does not know you for what you are."

"He does not even recall your name."

Cromwell snorts with amusement, "There are so many Thomases in this Court that he would be hard put to place one. I am but one in a hundred."

The King's apparent fascination with his new Ambassador has one unexpected effect, in that it completely diverts his attention away from his wife and children. Tonight, he is to sup privately with Alessandro, despite having dined with him earlier in the day. With all eyes upon this new partnership, none are interested in our arrivals in the Queen's Presence Chamber, where Jonathan and Lady Rochford preside over another of our meetings.

As with the King, her Majesty is also bedecked with some very fine new jewels, though I suspect she is wearing them more for our benefit than her own, as her first comment is an observation about them, "See my new finery, Gentlemen. It appears that our new Ambassador is most free with his purse, does it not?" her tone is sarcastic, for she sees the gifts for what they are - bedazzlement.

"They are very fine, Majesty." Cromwell responds, diplomatically.

"Fine, yes - but they are intended to purchase my favour, and I am not so willing to grant it as my husband appears to be." She smiles, "Perhaps it is feminine intuition, but I find him a most objectionable creature, who seems to have more than one agenda in the Court. Somehow, I do not think that England shall be well served by an association with him."

"I fear the same, Majesty." Cromwell admits. Wyatt, who was not present when Cromwell told me of their mutual history, looks at him in surprise, "He is an unwelcome face from my past - and I learned then that he was not to be trusted. I have not yet found reason to reconsider that opinion."

Jane looks at him for a moment, her expression quite intent, and then she speaks, "I do not see dislike in you, my Lord. I see something far stronger. He has not merely earned your distrust. Has he?"

He takes a deep breath, and then speaks again, "Indeed, Majesty. He earned far more than my distrust - he earned my hatred, and I am striving with all I have in me to quell it, for one such as I cannot afford to feel such an emotion. Hate serves only to harm the one who hates, not the one who is hated - and it can cause acts of great rashness that have consequences that last for the rest of one's life."

"So he has caused you pain, my Lord?"

"Yes Majesty." He is not ashamed to admit it to Queen Jane - for he knows that she will understand, and will also keep it to herself.

She smiles at him, kindly, "I hope that he shall not stay long, then; for my husband is most impressed by his wealth, manners and humour. It has been a long time since any man has caused him to laugh as much as he has recently, and his freedom with his gifts has caused him to gain much favour - though not with me. Nor, for that matter, has he earned the friendship of the Lady Mary, or the Lady Elizabeth. It appears that they have no more liking for him than I do. They are both most wise, I think."

She is right - for they have learned the hard way that flattery is empty, and earns nothing of true value - after all, they held, then lost, then regained the King's affections, and they know from experience how to keep his love. It is through appearing that their joy in life, their happiness, stems entirely from him; but even that was not enough when their mothers fell from favour. Their only certainty in this shifting world of alliances and loyalties is their stepmother - for her love for them is truly unconditional. Perhaps, in time, they shall learn, as Jane has, that our loyalty is equally firm and unbending - and that we can be trusted as no others can. I can no longer imagine what it must be to live in a world where no one is to be trusted.

But then, no one is as mercurial and uncertain as King Henry - for he changes his mind on a sixpence. Today, Alessandro Campofregoso is a great friend to the Realm, a wonder to behold and the truest friend he might ever have - but tomorrow, he could find himself despised and expelled from the Court. There is no way to know. Only those of us who have had long experience in dealing with one such as he can hope to survive - and that in itself is a fragile hope. Why else do I trust no one but Cromwell and Wyatt?

It seems, however, that the Genoese Ambassador is a wily man - for he has worked out a means not only of gaining the favour of the King, but of keeping it. He has been in the court barely two weeks, and is now almost as much a fixture at court as any of the favoured young bloods that the King kept about him in the early years of his reign. The gifts keep on coming, today a bolt of the finest cloth of gold, yesterday a fine bay palfrey for the Lady Elizabeth, the day before a coronet for the Prince Edward. All of these gifts are bestowed with almost outrageous flattery, and Henry accepts it all with the air of one who expects such adulation. Already, the highest placed Lords are attempting to emulate this ghastly display - except for Suffolk, whose friendship with the King is such that there is no need for him to do so, and for us, as we are not the King's friends, and if we did so, he would look at us as though we were mad.

Astonishingly, he is now so much in the King's company, that they seem almost to be like David and Jonathan - and if one is present, all are bemused if the other is not. They walk together, hunt together - and Campofregoso is even permitted to attend the meetings of the Privy Council, albeit in an observational capacity. Not that this stops him from commenting upon our discussions if he sees fit.

Cromwell is, yet again, attempting to secure agreements to fund the road-building programme that he has been attempting to settle now since the autumn. That we need them is beyond doubt - but no one seems interested in finding the money to pay for them, nor do they seem to have realised that the cost will be recouped in terms of increased trade if goods can be moved more easily and swiftly. He has managed to obtain agreements over the funding of the schools that shall bear the Prince's name - though Gardiner still has many barbed comments about the risk of spreading heretical thoughts in such institutions. The roads, however, remain a sticking point.

"You seem so intent upon them, my Lord." Campofregoso says, urbanely, from the chair he occupies, close to the King, but not at the table, "But then, you are a tradesman yourself, are you not?" he makes the word 'tradesman' sound like 'traitor'.

Henry laughs at this, "Indeed he is, my dear Alessandro - a cloth trader, of all things. Perhaps he might have goods you would wish to purchase?"

"I think it unlikely that he could provide anything of the quality I prefer, Majesty." Campofregoso responds, loftily, which then causes more laughter. While Cromwell has the King's favour, his Majesty is never above taking the opportunity to humiliate him - particularly so now that he has an ally in his new favourite.

Those about the table who view him with enmity are smirking, and some even laugh with the King. Suffolk, however, does not, any more than I do. There is nothing dishonest in being a tradesman, and indeed, his solid business sense is one of the reasons for his wealth - not to mention his understanding of the need to increase England's trade. That the King finds it amusing is insulting - but he does not rise to it. He never rises to such barbs. Instead he waits for the laughter to subside, and tries again.

"Come now, your Majesty, are you truly willing to endure such boredom?" Campofregoso interrupts almost immediately, "I am sure I saw a new white stallion being delivered not an hour ago - shall we not investigate it?"

Astonishingly, the mention of yet another gift - for that is surely what it is - captures the King's attention at once. How can he possibly be so blind to such a blatant act? But it seems that he is, and he dismisses us with no more than a wave of his hand. Apparently, if he is not present, then we cannot continue. Within five minutes, only Cromwell, Suffolk and I are still at the table.

"God above, this Ambassador has him in his thrall." Suffolk says, crossly, "How can he be so wilfully blind to such acts of flattery?"

"I know not, your Grace." Cromwell admits, "Perhaps it reminds him of his younger days, when he could take such things for himself. An alliance with Genoa could bring us strong connections with the bankers of the republic, and reciprocal wealth, so perhaps he permits it with a view to securing England's financial future."

"I suspect your first assessment is more likely to be correct." Suffolk's comment is very dry, but we know that he is right. Henry has always lapped up flattery - as long as it is not too fawning. Campofregoso seems to have struck the correct balance between the two, and it has earned him an unprecedented level of favour for a man of his standing. In doing so, he has thrown the whole court into a state of almost completely unpredictable topsy-turvy. Even so, that it is a shock to us both as we return to the offices to find the Lady Mary concealing herself in a doorway in one of the lesser corridors.

"My Lady?" I stutter, as we both bow to her.

"Forgive me, Gentlemen," she says, though we can see that she is greatly distressed, "I did not know to whom else I could turn - but I beg your help."

"What has happened?" Cromwell asks, quietly.

"His Excellency the Imperial Ambassador has been banished from Court - not recalled by his master, banished. He has long been one of my dearest friends and allies - when I was separated from my Mother, he was one of the few who could pass messages between us…" she stops, nervous at how her words sound.

"And you value his counsel, my Lady." Cromwell finishes, "He regards you most highly - almost as though he were a favoured Uncle."

Her eyes show relief - for he has said what she could not find the words to say, without sounding as though she was enamoured of Chapuys, "Her Majesty trusts you, and I have learned from her to do the same; so, I beg of you, my Lord - please, you have the favour of the King, can you not speak to him on the Ambassador's behalf?"

We both know that such an act would be largely fruitless, as the King is currently very much against the Emperor, but I am not surprised at Cromwell's response, "I can make no promises of success, my Lady - for I am but a commoner, and the King does not always listen to me - but I shall do my best. That, I can promise."

She is profuse in her thanks - but at least she does not bob any curtseys as she did that shocking Christmastide. Instead, we bow to her, and she departs.

"He won't listen to you, Thomas." I advise him, sagely, "Chapuys is as far out of favour as it is possible to be without being in the Tower."

"Perhaps - but then, if he is not present, how can our negotiations be reported to the Emperor? After all, if we are to conclude a treaty with Genoa, then surely it is best that he knows, in which case he might withdraw? It is better to find a peaceful way, and if Chapuys can carry messages between here and Charles, then all might be resolved without commitments to wage war. If nothing else, we cannot afford the cost of doing so."

"In which case," I smirk, "I suppose we should just ask Alessandro to pay for it."

Chapter Text

It feels as though winter has been storing up its ire against the world - for the dry chill of early January falters into heavy snow and howling winds by the end of it. While most appreciate the white blanket that looks so delightful when one can view it from a room warmed by a cheery fire with a cup of mulled ale in one's hands, it brings all to a halt, and Cromwell's spies warn him that things are going very hard for those who are not so fortunate as we. Without hesitation, he sets to work on releasing what funds he can to the institutions that he, as Wolsey had, maintains for the assistance of those in such need.

His Majesty, meanwhile, has no interest in such matters. His ale is mulled with spices of almost obscene expense, thanks to his continued friendship with Campofregoso, while he has received a heavy velvet robe trimmed with the most magnificently spotted fur, which, we are told, comes from a leopard - that great cat that is found in the forests of Africa. Christ alone knows what that must have cost to seek out, never mind buy.

The continuing snows bury the gardens to such a degree that they seem to vanish - and none venture out into them to indulge in the hurling of snowballs, for there were times when the younger men of the Palace would soak themselves in the midst of wild, running battles where the ammunition was all about them, and inexhaustible. Now, however, the only paths that have been broken through the drifts are those that are needed.

Then, as February begins, the winds drop and the skies clear somewhat. The temperature does not rise - so now the fields of snow sparkle as the sun rises each morning, and the views seem altogether more pleasant. For those of us at work, however, our views are of ink-bedecked paper - or the blazing fire in the antechamber that we all visit regularly to attempt to regain warmth in our hands. We all look most strange - working at our desks while wrapped in thick cloaks, as though we have just arrived and are not planning to stay long.

I am not sure when I become aware of it this morning, but some of the clerks are quietly gossiping together by the fire, and the conversation appears to be growing rather sharp. As the volume starts to rise, so do our heads, as two of the youths seem most aggrieved with one another over something. I begin to move, but Cromwell is already on his feet and marching swiftly through the offices towards them, as their words become shoves. He reaches them just in time to intervene as one throws a mighty punch at the other, deflecting it expertly, yet in such a manner that those who do not know the skills he possesses assume it to be luck.

"What on earth is wrong with the pair of you?" he demands, "David - Stephen, the two of you would be thick as thieves in normal times. What has happened to bring you to such enmity?"

Neither seem willing to say, but they glare at one another with shocking venom, before one of them says, "It's nothing, my Lord." in such sullen tones that none could believe the words to be true.

"Very well, then." Cromwell is angry now, for he does not appreciate being lied to, "David, remove yourself to the Accounts offices. Stephen, you shall remain here. I will not have such behaviour in my presence. Do you understand?"

Scowling, David turns on his heel and marches out with such an air of wounded innocence that everyone is most bemused by it all. Stephen also seems loath to offer any explanation, other than a similarly wounded countenance, and he returns to the papers he was sorting, shuffling them about rather more viciously than he needs to.

"What is wrong with them?" I ask, as Cromwell comes back through to his desk again.

"God alone knows." He admits, "I imagine it is over something trivial - most such fights seem to be. I cannot imagine what has come between them, for they are as close to brothers as friends can be."

I shrug, "I would wager that it is a woman."

Cromwell cannot hold back a smile, "That seems logical - even if their actions do not."

Wriothesley approaches us, "Perhaps it might be wise to keep them separated for the moment, then?"

"I would agree with that." I admit, "If they are truly such enemies now, it is best that they avoid one another - at least in the offices. We cannot afford the mess if they are not stopped from fighting as they were today."

The strange behaviour seems to be infecting quite a few of the men at court - though neither Cromwell nor I have been able to track it to a specific source. The arguments always seem to be over a woman - as the words 'she' and 'her' feature regularly - but who this woman is remains unknown. Lacking the subtlety and deftness of Cromwell, I have not attempted to intervene where fists are thrown; I am well aware of my limitations and have no wish to sport contusions upon my face. He, however, has personally halted at least three fights, one of which broke out only just outside the Privy Chamber.

"Who is this woman?" I mutter, crossly, as he sends one of the Stewards out of an outer chamber to regain his temper, "She is setting the place afire - and yet I have no idea who she might be."

As we are leaving a Council meeting at the time, Wyatt is with us, and finally we learn the information that we have been missing, "I am told it is the mistress of a minor Baron who is currently at court." He says, "The Lady Midday."

"Midday?" I ask, bemused at such an odd name.

"Midday." He confirms, "She is not seen about the court during the busiest hours - we hear that she is shy - and she avoids those places where the highest born are to be found; but she is, many say, a great beauty. I am yet to see her, myself," He adds, with the air of an expert critic, "So I cannot say with any certainty whether or not this is true."

"If she is causing such havoc, then at least we should be grateful that she is avoiding the King." I mutter, "The last thing we need is his Majesty threatening to fight one of his Lords."

"Amusing though that would be," Wyatt says, "It is unlikely. Our dear Signor Campofregoso has introduced him to a most precious little jewel with whom he currently sports. I have no doubt that this Lady Midday holds no interest for him."

Despite himself, Cromwell stiffens at the mention of Alessandro - not only is he a flatterer, but also a procurer. I have no doubt that what little admiration he might have had for the Ambassador's abilities has now drained entirely away.

Wyatt promises to make more enquiries, and departs from us, leaving us to adjourn back to the offices. Our Council meetings are achieving so little, with the King as distracted as he is. Given that he cannot ride, or hunt, thanks to the excessive snow, one would have assumed he would have become so crazed with boredom that even our squabbling politics would provide some entertainment for him - but it seems that Campofregoso is able to command his attention quite utterly, and so we waste our time in the Council Chamber, and return to our work frustrated at the lack of progress we make.

The snow is also keeping raveners at bay, though we do make occasional patrols to ensure that this is still the case. We have not seen another revenant since the one that we dispatched at the start of the year, and - as far as we can tell - Lamashtu remains largely dormant. Consequently, our suppers are now merely a gathering of friends, though for several nights now, Wyatt has not joined us - and has given no explanation for his absences. As he is not beholden to us, Cromwell does not demand his presence, but it seems most strange that he would be so keen now to avoid our company.

Eventually, I decide to ask him what has distracted him. I cannot imagine what has given him cause to avoid us, and I am sure that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation - but I just wish to know what it is.

His manservant admits me, but looks rather embarrassed, "Forgive me, my Lord - but Mr Wyatt is not present."

He is holding a sheaf of papers in his hand, but in such a manner as one would hold a week-dead fish. Bemused, I hold out my hand and ask to see them. From his expression, I am not sure what to expect - and within reading the first lines of one of the poems on the uppermost sheet, I immediately understand his embarrassment, "Lord above!"

While I am well aware that Wyatt frequently writes appalling doggerel for lovelorn courtiers eager to impress their amours, I have never seen anything as bad as this; but - worse - I have never seen anything from his pen that is so utterly lewd. I am not one to shy away from such matters - God knows I have committed enough sins of the flesh in my time - but the words on the paper refer to places upon a woman that are always best kept covered in public. What on earth is he thinking?

The next poem is almost as bad, as is the third - but the fourth finally gives me the clue that I am seeking, for it is dedicated to someone; and I am not sure whether to be relieved or alarmed at the name Lady Midday.

I desperately wish I could tell Wyatt's manservant to put them on the fire, for they are truly some of the worst poems I have ever seen to emerge from his quill - and their salaciousness is such that most would be truly scandalised. Though it has to be said that some of them are rather amusing in their awfulness - and I am very tempted to steal one - just to see the look upon Cromwell's face.

"God have mercy - Tom wrote this?" as I hoped, his response is shocked, and rather embarrassed - and it was indeed worth concealing one of the less ribald of the poems to show him. I did not dare take the worst.

"One among several." I agree, "And this is, I think, by far the least salacious of them."

"The least?"

"The worst contained descriptions of intimate bodily parts, Thomas. Believe me, this is by far the most tame."

"What on earth is wrong with the man? I know that he enjoys his whoring as much as any of his group of comrades - but even he has never written such…such…" he fishes for a word.

"Tripe?" I offer. Cromwell glares at me.

"Were you able to determine a reason why he has taken to writing such rubbish?"

"It appears that he has encountered the mysterious Lady Midday. She seems to have worked her apparent magic upon him as much as upon any others who vie for her attention."

"Perhaps, then, we should find some means of meeting her." He sighs, "If she has this affect upon people, then she could cause a great deal of disorder. The last thing we need is for the King to come across her."

Despite our best plans, we seem resolutely unable to find this woman - and I am beginning to wonder if she even exists. Wyatt daydreams in Council meetings, and draws upon his papers, before departing as soon as he may. We see him but rarely, and never at all when we sup. Tired of this, I decide to pay another call, in the hope that he is there. Again, he is not, but there are still more poems - and, if it were possible, they are even worse than the first set I encountered. The last of them is so grotesquely descriptive of carnal acts that I immediately tear it into pieces and throw it on the fire. Imagine if someone such as Gardiner found that.

Enough. He must be somewhere about the court, and I need to find him. I am much better acquainted with his habits now than I used to be, and I find him in one of the lesser halls, where he is scratching away at a piece of paper with a quill. I dread to imagine what he is writing now.

"So here you are, Tom!" I pretend that I have happened upon him by chance, "We miss you at our suppers. Are we truly so dull these days?"

He looks very startled, but makes no attempt to hide the paper. Fortunately, his poem now is far more benign, though it is still dreadfully mawkish from the few lines I can make out - which refer to eyes as green as the depths of the pools of Hebron, and skin that would put alabaster to shame. Had I not seen the others, I would have assumed that he has been asked to write it by a lovestruck courtier. Except it appears to be he that is the lovestruck courtier…

"I am in love, Richard." He sighs, almost melodramatically, "For truly she is the most beautiful creature I have ever had the fortune to lay eyes upon."

Jesu - even his speech is laden with doggerel.

"Who?" I can guess - but I prefer to hear the words from his mouth.

"Why, she…she who is most wonderful! She who I am sure could transport me to the highest degree of earthly delights…she who…"

"Who, Tom?" I interrupt, before he can get any worse.

He does not answer. Instead, his eyes go wide, and he seems to shiver. Then he points, almost like one possessed, and I turn - to finally see the Lady Midday.

She is dressed in a dark over-gown of green, over a yellow-gold kirtle, while her head is framed by a gabled English hood, as are all women at Court, for such is the fashion led by her Majesty. Her sleeves are long and trimmed with sable, and then she turns…

God help me…she is by far the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes upon. Now I understand why Wyatt has been writing as he has - but I am glad, for one so fine as she could never, would never, give herself to one who so lacking in sense and maturity. I would have no competition from him - none at all, for I do not waste words in such childish fashion.

She is in conversation with one of the other young men, who looks up at her adoringly. How dare he? She is not to be so viewed! She is mine - I will not have any other look upon her.

Look at me…turn and see me…my hopes are so great that she might do so, for now I want nothing more than for her to look at me, and I am grateful that I am not in the black ensemble that I wear when we hunt. Why bother hunting now? All is right with the world: for here is the Lady Midday, and she shall make me truly content.

Then, at last, her eyes rise to look in my direction, and I feel my cheeks growing hot. God, am I blushing? I am not some wet lipped adolescent, for Christ's sake! What is wrong with me? I am a man grown, I have more experience of women than any of the youths about me, and I could offer her more - far more than they if she were but to let me.

I can feel my heart racing as she approaches, and her eyes are as deep and green as Wyatt's idiotic scribblings declaimed - and her lips are red as blood: God, I want them on mine. I would reach for her, here and now, if I could - and yet, there is that fragile innocence that she exudes like a fragrance. She is helpless, trapped in thrall to a man who keeps her for himself. No, that cannot be right - she is so…so…

Then she smiles at me, and I am utterly lost. I would have her here, on this very table before all of the men in the room, for she has granted me her favour above all of them, and I step forth in hopes that she might speak to me.

"My Lord…" even her voice is musical: rich and warm with a timbre that speaks of a greater fire to come, if a man could ignite it. None of these milk-sops could hope to do such a thing - for they are mere boys, and I am a man.

"My Lady." I bow to her, but without the fulsome fluidity of the youths - for she deserves better than to have some fool waving his arms about in ridiculous flattery. She is…God, I want her…

She smiles again, and her eyes flick to the side. Jesu - she wishes me to follow her. And I have not needed to say so much as a word. Does she see into me? Does she know what I want, and more importantly, does she intend to allow it?

Her every move is sensual, inviting - and I am hard put not to trot after her like a lovesick sheep. I know where she is leading me: to the quieter passages of the Palace, where we can be left in peace, and none shall disturb us.

"Richard?" I cringe inside, for that is the one voice I did not wish to hear. I turn, and try hard not to scowl in annoyance as Cromwell approaches us, "Where have you been? Did we not agree to…"

And then he recoils, gagging violently as he does so, and steps quickly back from us. His eyes are wide, and he has gone rather pale - though I am pleased, for why on earth would Lady Midday find that attractive? Perhaps now he shall go away and allow me to continue on our excursion.

But he does not. Instead, he steps forward again, though he looks most uncomfortable at having to do so, "Forgive me, Madam," his voice is a little wan, as though he is struggling to contain nausea, "I must perforce remove Mr Rich from your company - we are required by the King's Grace on a matter of some urgency."

"I have no doubt that he has no need to see me." I am furious - how dare he try to do this? He wants her for himself, and now he seeks to separate us and inspire sympathy in her.

"I understand, my Lord." She purrs, curtseying exquisitely, "Perhaps another time, Sir?"

God, yes.

She walks away, her skirts swishing in all sorts of interesting directions, and I wish that I could follow; but now Cromwell has a tight grip on my arm. Scowling at him, I wrench myself free, "What are you doing?"

"I could ask the same of you." He retorts, still looking rather ill, "God help me, I have never known such foulness to exude from any creature - it was all that I could do to retain my supper in my stomach."

"Blame William for that, Thomas." I snap back, "It is no concern of mine if your supper has poisoned you."

He frowns at me, "What is wrong with you? Why are you consorting with a woman?"

"I am a man, Thomas. I am allowed to associate with women, am I not?"

"A married man." He says, more pointedly.

"And has that stopped the King?" I ask him, "If it is good enough for his Majesty, is it not good enough for me?"

"Who was that woman?" he asks, attempting perhaps to change tack.

I stare off down the corridor, growing rather hot again, "That was her…the Lady Midday."

"Oh God." He mutters, like one who is facing a trying problem, "Come with me, Richard. We need to hunt, and you must be dressed for it."

"There have been no raveners for days - and it is not as though you require my assistance to dispatch them." I insist, stubbornly.

He rolls his eyes, "I am not asking you, Richard. I am telling you. We are to hunt, and you must retrieve your sword. Come with me." Without giving me the opportunity to object, he grasps my arm again, his grip far tighter this time, and pushes me ahead of him.

By the time we reach our quarters, I am burning with embarrassment at being treated like a recalcitrant schoolboy; and Cromwell makes it clear that he shall wait for me, so there is no opportunity for me to slip back out again without him stopping me.

Bemused, John assists me as I change, and I emerge from my bedchamber again - now dressed in black, but looking very sullen, I'm sure, to join him by the fire. His expression rather annoyed, he holds out my scabbarded sword, which I take.

"Why so irritated, Thomas?" I ask him, at once, "You are not normally so piqued before a hunt."

He frowns at me, "Pardon?"

"Though," I continue, "Quite why you felt the need to await me while I made myself ready, I cannot imagine. It is not as though I need your guidance to change my clothes."

"Would you not have left if I did not?" he asks, still rather cross.

"Why would I have done so if not to join you? Besides, if you are here, it saves me the bother of trying to find you."

Now he looks most confused, "And what of Lady Midday?"

"What of her?" I ask, "I saw her earlier today - and, while she is indeed reasonably pretty, she does not appear to me to be a woman for whom Tom would write such hideously lewd doggerel. In all honesty, I am at a loss to understand what it is that he sees in her."

"And yet, not ten minutes ago, I was obliged to all but pry you away from her?"

"That is patent nonsense, Thomas!" I insist, confused myself, now, "Why on earth would I be so brain-sick? I leave that idiocy to the younger bloods of the Court!"

He is frowning again, though with bemusement now rather than ire. I have no idea why he should think me enamoured of the Lady Midday, for she is - if I am truly honest - no more beautiful than any of the other ladies at court. Indeed, I can think of at least five women who would be far more attractive. Rather than comment further, he rises from the chair in which he was sitting, and we depart together to hunt.

It does not take us long to track down a lurking ravener, who is too cold to put up much of a fight, and our patrolling does not last for much longer. Even as wrapped up as we are, the air is bitter, and I would much rather seek a warm fire, and a hot drink; so we repair back to Cromwell's apartments, taking the quieter passages despite the lack of people about.

As we are about to emerge from a servant's passageway into the corridor that leads to his chambers, Cromwell stops dead. I am used to this sort of thing by now, so I do not crash into him. Instead, I join him, and look to see what he has noticed.

"Jesu!" I whisper, almost dropping my sword - for I have never seen anything like the creature before me - not even a ravener could be as grotesque as this. It is tall, powerfully built and covered with skin that has the texture of a lizard's. Its face is vilely ugly, with long fangs that protrude from the upper lip, while vicious looking claws emerge from hands and feet that are unnervingly spindly and lengthy - like gnarled twigs.

"What do you see?" Cromwell asks, sharply, as it appears he is not seeing what I am seeing.

"Something truly hideous…a demon unlike any I have seen before…" I manage, nervously. What the hell is it?

Without hesitation, Cromwell steps out into the corridor to confront the beast - but, to my confusion, it flees. Oddly, he does not give chase, but instead looks at me, "Are you sure that is what you have seen?"

"Of course it is. What did you see?"

He frowns again, "I saw the Lady Midday."

Cromwell is still most bemused the following morning; and, to my confusion, much of his bemusement seems to centre around me. His determined assertion that he came across me last night so enamoured by this new arrival that he was obliged to force me to part from her is most odd. Why would I be interested in someone such as she? I do not recall anything about her that was of interest - she was quite plain, quite…dull, really if I recall correctly. I certainly do not understand why Wyatt is so determined to shower her with such awful poetry.

"I think you should, if at all possible, repair to Grant's Place at the first opportunity," He says, worriedly, "The River is, I am told, quite passable - and I have a warrant here for you to use one of the lesser barges to ferry you to the Tower wharves. It has no date - you can use it as soon as the weather is clear enough."

"Very well, Thomas," I agree, "Though I am still at something of a loss as to why you consider this to be so urgent? She does not seem to be causing that much disruption about the court - unless you consider a few black eyes to be disruptive?"

"I do not know what she is, Richie." He says, firmly, "Only Wolsey's index can assist us - you must seek out any demon that inspires amorous feelings in those that see it."

"Other than you." I add, for I recall that he found her most offensive to be near, though his insistence that I was somehow in her company for reasons of an amorous nature still makes no sense to me.

"She is, without doubt, of infernal origin, Richie." Cromwell warns, "Though quite what it is about her that caused her ichor to reek as it did, I cannot fathom. I can only say that, from the moment that I set eyes upon her, I felt only a strong desire to vomit. It is not my preference to be that close to her again."

If that is his reaction, then it is not my preference, either.

The weather is still set fair, and I do not have a large amount of work awaiting my attention, so today seems as good a day as any to make the journey. If the weather breaks, and I am stranded at Grant's Place, it is therefore unlikely that I shall find myself overwhelmed when I return. To ensure that there are no arguments or complaints from the boatmen, Cromwell accompanies me to the Water gate, where we are told the barge can be ready in an hour. As he has some coffers which also need to be transported to Whitehall, I shall be accompanied by one of the older clerks: not that I am concerned - for old Wat is a garrulous fellow with many amusing anecdotes from a long life in royal service. The journey may be cold, but it shall at least be entertaining.

With little to occupy me for an hour, I opt to take a walk along the riverfront; though I am sure that I shall regret it once I become cold enough. I am not, however, the only soul taking a healthful stroll in the bitter air. A few are about - though the snow, once powdery, is now too icy to risk snowballs, so even the youths I see about are not throwing any.

The path, though cleared, is still rather slippery, so I soon change my mind, and return indoors to finish my wait in the warm. I do not, at first, notice the gaggle of young men who are seated - rather spaced apart - in one corner of the chamber, while a woman sits near the fire, embroidering silently. It is only as she looks up, that I recognise her, and I stop dead in my tracks.

God have mercy...she is as magnificent as she was the first time I saw her - and again, all I want is to approach. After Cromwell so embarrassed me last night, however, I feel I cannot. Instead, she smiles at me, sending a shiver down my spine, and rises to curtsey, "My Lord."

"My Lady," I try to think of something to say - something that she will find impressive, but I cannot; held in silence by the bottomless fathoms of her deep green eyes. I am sure that my face is growing hot again, but as that is not the only part of me that is reacting, I perhaps no longer care. She is glorious - wondrous. I want nothing more than to reach out to her…to…

"Forgive me, my Lord," she smiles, incandescently, "I am required to be elsewhere. Tonight, perhaps?"

Oh God, yes…

"Of course, my Lady. I shall await your presence."

She drifts past me, her fragrance intoxicating, and departs - her skirts swishing all over the place again. How does she do that?

The younger men are looking at me with hatred, for she seems to have granted me some of her time - but not them. Not that I care - after all, they are naught but boys. What would she want with them?

Naturally, to spend time with such a woman requires some consideration and preparation, for my garments are entirely inappropriate, and I should return to my quarters to replace them. John is most surprised to see me, "I thought you were to depart to Grant's Place today, my Lord? I received a note to that effect from Mr Cromwell."

God, not him again - always determined to thwart my seduction of the Lady Midday; well, not today. I shall see her; and, if all goes as I hope, I shall see more of her than most others in the Court. Ignoring John's confusion, I remove to my bedchamber, and wonder what on earth I should wear.

I am still dithering when Cromwell arrives, and he is most displeased, "For God's sake, Richard - if I hadn't had those coffers to travel to Whitehall, then I should have looked an utter fool! What made you change your mind about Grant's Place?"

I glare at him, "I had a better invitation."

He stares at me for a moment, then sighs, "Her, again. I take it?"

His tone is such that I feel I should strike him for it - and I would if I did not know that he could deflect me without effort. Instead, he looks at me, "How is it that, when we saw her last night, you all but cried out in shock at the sight of her - for her countenance and appearance was most hideous to you?"

"Why should I consider her to be hideous?" I demand, furiously, "She is incandescent as the sun! Her beauty is far greater than even that idiot Wyatt could describe with his flowered words! I could never see her so!"

"Oh, God…" He rolls his eyes. Then pauses, "Richard - take up your sword."

"What? Why?"

"Just do it."

Now I roll my eyes in turn, but I do as he asks and reach out to take up the blade from a nearby table where I had left it, "There. Why did you want me to do that?"

"We must find Lady Midday."

"Why - what has she done?" I am shocked - has the demon struck?

"Nothing as yet," Cromwell admits, "But it is what she has done already that concerns me. Until you took up your sword a moment ago, you were as enamoured of her as Tom has been."

"I?" This I cannot believe - there is nothing about her that I find particularly attractive, so why should I do something so ridiculous?

"Yes, you." He is looking at me oddly, "You do not remember?"

"Remember what? I saw her briefly earlier, but then returned to my apartments. I am not sure why - but I presume that, as I was cold and wet, I wished to change into dry clothes and get myself warm again. In such a chilled state, I could not countenance hours upon a barge on the river. Perhaps that is weakness on my part - and I should have remained at the water gate near the brazier the boatmen had." My tone is apologetic; for I have indeed embarrassed him.

"This is most strange." Cromwell sits down in a nearby chair, "When you see her, you become utterly enamoured of her - but the effect is stopped by your sword; and you remember neither state when you change from one to the other. Furthermore, if you see her while you bear the sword, she looks entirely different to you."

I find his assessment most unnerving - I have no memory at all of the situation he describes - I know that I have been without female company for some considerable time given my absence from my home, and the lack of a mistress or any other woman in my bed - but this? Surely this cannot be so - I have committed myself to being a Second, have I not? I find the entire suggestion bizarre in the extreme, but I also know that Cromwell would never, ever lie to me over something like this - and I have no choice but to believe him. Then a thought occurs to me, "She seems not to affect you, Thomas."

"She would not." He says, "The Rosary is protecting me from her. But for that, I suspect that I should have killed you to possess her by now."

I shudder, for that is certainly true. If it came down to a fight between the two of us, there would be no doubting the outcome.

"While I do not require monastic devotion, Richie," Cromwell continues, quite calmly, "I cannot have you distracted so. If you wish to indulge yourself, I shall not impose, enquire or intrude - but if you are prevented from carrying out your duties as my Second, I have no choice but to do so."

Now I am deeply embarrassed.

"What am I to do?" I ask, "I cannot bear arms at court, not while the King is in residence - and if I am as affected as you say, how can I avoid her without remaining wholly in my rooms?"

He sighs, "That, I cannot answer, Richie. I have no idea. If she is keen to meet with you, then I cannot stop her. I would suggest that you return periodically to your apartments for your sword - but if you are affected, then you would not do so. I think we must get you to Grant's Place - but without access to the barge, for it is now at Whitehall, I do not know when we will have another opportunity."

"In which case, I can only ask that you resume your escorting of me as you did when I was threatened by Zaebos. If you are with me, then perhaps she may avoid us?"

He nods, "I think that you are right - and we shall resume our nightly hunts; if only to ensure that you are always recovered when night falls. My only wish is that we could find some similar means of freeing Tom from his adoration as your sword frees you. His poetry is becoming so gratuitous that I am concerned he might find himself arrested for obscenity."

I dread to imagine how embarrassing that would be.

Chapter Text

As it is not possible for me to go to Grant’s Place, for the weather has broken again, and more snow is falling; I instead divide my days between the offices, Cromwell’s quarters and my own. He tells me that we have encountered Lady Midday several times, and on each occasion, I have become hideously in love with her - and it is only by forcing me to return to my chambers and take up my sword that he has prevented me from making a dreadful idiot of myself.

Short of using silver upon her, I have no idea how we can possibly dispatch her without causing a scandal from which even the Queen cannot save us. We almost never see Wyatt now, for he broods amongst the other rejected beaus, or writes yet more awful poetry; and he looks upon me with emotions akin to hatred, for I have been seen in the company of the Lady, while he has failed to secure so much as a glance. I cannot even dispatch a messenger to Molly to search the Library on my behalf, as none will venture out in the storms that batter us with wind and snow. She is not a committed Second, so I cannot ask Wolsey’s assistance either. God alone knows what he must think of me at the moment - I dare not ask.

Today has been a long drag of endless clauses and codicils. I am tired, my eyes are strained, and I am absolutely fed up with the clattering on the mullions of the pellets of snow that have not ceased for much of the day. It is only as the evening draws in that the skies clear, and the night promises to be truly bitter. There is another layer of fresh snow on the ground, and all in the Palace are gravitating towards those places that are likely to be the warmest.

Given the weather, Cromwell has decided that we shall not hunt tonight, so instead he walks with me back to my apartments. To set his mind at rest, I produce the sword, and he smiles a rather embarrassed, yet sympathetic, smile at my humiliating predicament, before bidding me goodnight, and departing for his own quarters.

It is as I sit down to a cup of warmed cider that I realise that I have left the keys to my work coffers upon my desk in the Offices. As the papers within them are of a highly confidential kind, I need to keep those keys about my person, for those coffers could cause me great trouble if their contents are disclosed. I have no choice: I must venture out. Cursing to myself, I plan as circuitous a route as I can contrive - as far from the places that the wealthiest of the palace inhabitants would frequent as possible. That way, I should hopefully avoid her: I do not wish to risk carrying my sword - there are too many people about.

My route to the offices is slow, but effective, and I am back at my desk to find that the keys are still where I left them. I am unwilling to leave without being sure that all is well, so I open the coffers, and find that the papers within are undisturbed. Relieved, I lock the coffers again, and return the keys to my scrip.

“Have you been hiding from me, my Lord?”

I turn, and a nervous gasp escapes me - for she is there, beautiful as ever, and her eyes look upon me with a universe of invitation. I look about, furtively, in case any others are present.

“Is this where you work?” she asks, entering the office, her eyes deep, her steps as sensuous as ever. Unable to say a word, I nod. God, she is so beautiful…

“I find that those who work…” she looks up at me, almost inviting me to drown in those green pools, “are truly the ones to admire. After all, but for them, we would be truly…helpless…”

I could have her here - now, on my desk, for God’s sake…I could…

“I find most of the men of this court - so foolish…pointless…immature…” she continues, softly, “I value experience above all things.”

Her hand is rising to my face, but then pauses. “No…not here. I would not wish us to be disturbed. Come to the gardens - to the summerhouse.”

“In this weather?” It’s perishing outside…hardly conducive to what I assume she has in mind.

“In the summerhouse, we shall warm all - but bring no weapons, for I cannot bear the…hardness…of blades.” her voice is laden with suggestion. I have succeeded where all others have failed - for I have her. I have the Lady Midday. Best of all, Cromwell thinks me to be in my chambers, so there is no risk of his disturbing us.

Smiling, her eyes laden with promise, Lady Midday departs. A few moments later, I follow.

The sky above is clear, and the stars sharp. The moon is waning, but offers just sufficient light to see my way through the snow-bright pathways of the secluded garden where we hunted the Revenant when the year turned. I avoid the grotto, for that shall truly be a dreadful place at this moment - stone, water and nothing but cold. The summerhouse, on the other hand, shall be wood and warmth. It shall certainly be warm when we are done.

I know I drew some rather angry stares as I made my way through the passageways of the Court, for I suspect the men who look at me know who I am following, and that I do so at her invitation. Her steps, and her skirts, have cleared a wide pathway through the ice-crusted whiteness, marking an easy path to follow. I imagine I am leaving one equally clear - but all that will do is proclaim my conquest in the face of other, younger men who must wish that it is they following this trail rather than I.

The summerhouse is set away from the ornamental gardens, on the other side of a rather pretty lake that houses trout in the summer for the kitchens. Despite its name, it is a solidly built affair intended to resemble a bucolic peasants’ barn, where those highly placed enough can rest beside the lake and pretend that they are poor, without the requirement to actually be poor. Today, however, it sports a thick layer of ice that helpfully reflects the moonlight, and leads me on. Lady Midday awaits me in that summer house…

By the time I reach the door, she is there, her eyes vivid with light, her expression luminous. God, she is so magnificent, and she has come here for me. For me…

No sooner are we inside than she has her hands at my throat, reaching for the clasp of my cloak, which quickly falls to the ground. Her hands then reach for my face, and she is so close to me that I can hardly breathe for excitement, “You have come to me…” her voice is low, laden with promise, and I lean forward to snatch a kiss - only for her to pull back with a light laugh, “you poor, stupid fool - you have come to me. And I shall kill you.”

Even as she speaks, her words do not reach my inflamed brain, for I am far too enthralled at the sensation of her hands at the buttons of my doublet, unfastening them as fast as she can, until she can reach in to the thin cambric beneath, her lips at my throat, as I stumble back to the wall, “When I have bared you,” she continues, breathily, “I shall carve open your belly and feast upon your spleen.”

Her words make no sense to me. All I can feel is her closeness, that maddening fire of need. God, she is intoxicating…I want this…God, I do…

“And as I chew upon your bloody liver,” her voice reaches my mind through the rushing of blood in my ears, “I shall give thanks to my goddess Lamashtu for my feasting, and the rewards she shall place upon me for destroying the Second of the Raven, as Zaebos failed to do.”

My doublet is unbuttoned, and she reaches up to my shirt, clutching each side in her hands as though she intends to rip the garment open - and I want her to. I don’t care that it’s cold. I don’t care about the damage - I have plenty of shirts. I just want her to…

“What the hell are you doing?” An angry voice cuts across us, “You bastard! She’s mine!”

I am startled from my reverie by the sight of Wyatt, his eyes mad with rage and jealousy. How is he here? God, he must have followed me - and I thought I would not be disturbed…

“If she is yours,” I snap back, “Then why is she here with me? She has no wish to be with a mere boy such as you! Get away from here and leave me to my pleasure, damn you!”

“What can you offer her? You are nothing but a lawyer, how can that excite one so vital as she?”

“I am not a boy!” I shout back, as furious as he, “And I can offer her far more than vile poetry that speaks of private parts - and seeks to find five hundred words to describe her quim!”

“I can offer her my soul!” Wyatt cries back, wildly, “For at least I can say that I have one!”

“And to how many whores have you offered that soul? Can they even be counted? I cannot claim that mine is truly clean, but it is cleaner than yours!”

“Says he who perjured himself in open court to send a man to his death!”

“And what of you, he whose calf love drove a woman to the block?” Even as the words are out of my mouth, I know I have gone too far, but it is too late now, and he stares at me, his eyes filled with pain. Oddly, however, it seems to cool his ardour for the Lady Midday, for now he is looking at her, and at me, as though he has been somewhere entirely different.

“God, Richard - what is happening? Why are we arguing like this?” He is confused - and no longer interested in the woman whose tryst he has interrupted. For a moment, I frown. What does he mean?

“Enough!” the voice I hear is no longer sweet, or laden with promise of sweeter things to come, “You are here now, Second, and that is all that I need!” And I turn back to her.

“Jesu, God and all the Angels!” Appalled, I stumble back into the far wall of the summer house, for her beauty is gone, replaced by a creature of hideous aspect that I cannot ever have imagined could have existed. Or have I? Somehow, there is something there as though I dreamed it…

“Run, Richard!” Wyatt shouts at me, “For God’s sake, run!” and he wrenches open the door. I am not far behind him.

The screech that our flight inspires is terrifying, but I know that it is I she intends to capture - if Wyatt can escape, then he can find Cromwell. If I can last long enough, then there may be hope yet that I shall live. Thus, as he runs about the edge of the lake, I attempt a more direct route, and step out onto the ice.

I have no idea if the ice is thick enough to bear my weight - but such is my fear that I do not care. Whatever is behind me is far more deadly than that which is beneath my feet, and I run as fast as I can manage on the snow-covered surface. I can hear horrible cracking beneath me, but as long as I keep going, with God’s help, I should be safe.

I know that I cannot hope to reach the safety of the palace - despite being in far better condition than I used to be. It is too far away; I should be run to ground and murdered long before I could find help - and the only help that could possibly be effective now is Cromwell’s. God help me, how could I have been such an idiot? I have left myself in the sights of a demon, with no weapon and no means of either escape or assistance. I cannot be certain that Wyatt has escaped, for he is lost to my view now, and my only concern is reaching the other side of the lake without slipping on the ice or, worse, falling through it into the water below, as some of the cracking sounds are truly frightening.

As I reach the other side, and return to the solidity of the ground, I know that I am leaving a trail that even Will Somers could follow. There must be some parts of the gardens that are trodden - even though more snow fell today - if I can reach those, then I have more of a chance to hide: for hide I must. I cannot outrun her.

“Run all you want, Second!” her sibilant voice rings in my ears behind me, “I shall find you, for I am the Huntress! Lamashtu knows the threat you bring, for without your knowledge, the Raven cannot defeat her! I shall eviscerate you, and feast upon you! And then she shall destroy the Raven once and for all - and this island shall be ours for all time!”

Even as I stumble on through the drifts, I am not sure whether I am afraid of her words, or irked at her rather childish need to gloat at me. Once, I would have known only terror, but now that is mingled with an experienced annoyance at the need all infernal beings seem to have to mock those they chase or capture. Then I trip over something I cannot see in the snow, and I fall. As I look behind me, I realise how close she is, and suddenly my annoyance is gone - and all that remains is fear.

Scrambling back to my feet, I finally manage to get into the concealment of the high hedges. There is still snow here, but much less - though the ice is thick and I keep slipping. If I can find somewhere that will truly conceal my footprints, then I can force my way into one of the yew hedges - and that might be sufficient to conceal me; depending upon how good her nose is. I can only hope that it is less keen than her eyes.

I emerge into a wide space set with parterre beds. Here, the snow is thick again - but has been trodden, as I had hoped. Scurrying across a path, I head for the thickest of the yew, and force myself in between the branches at the base. Please God, don’t let her see what I am doing…it would be all but impossible to escape if she came across me now…

There is, fortunately, no sign of her, and I force myself to calm down, to quell as best I can the fear that is beating at me almost as violently as my racing heart. I must not move, I must keep my breath as invisible as I can…there is a long icicle nearby, hanging from a thicker branch. I pluck it down and suck upon it - if my mouth is cold, then my breath should not mist. Now to remain still - absolutely still…as Cromwell does…if she finds me, then I am a dead man…

I stop moving, and shut my eyes. It is my ears that I need now, for her steps upon the crusty snow are my best hope of knowing she is near; and I hear them…God help me, I can hear them…

Cardinal…I need your aid - there must be something I can do to escape this…help me…

She is close…Jesu, she is close…keep still…keep still…she is breathing…I can hear it…like a death rattle…like my death rattle…God save me…

Her footsteps continue, and I risk opening my eyes to see her move on, exiting the garden. Perhaps I should flee - but I do not dare. If she were to hear me as I fought my way out of the hedge…but I know I cannot stay much longer, for the cold is bitter, and I have no cloak. My doublet is still open, and the air is cruel as it cuts across my throat and blows under the cambric of my shirt.

I have no idea how long she is gone, as I cannot hear the Palace clock: it feels like forever. My teeth are chattering, and I cannot stop myself from shivering violently - if I stay for much longer, I am sure that the cold shall kill me; but, I think to myself, it is better that than to be devoured alive…

“I know where you are, Second. The hedge shakes with you. Come out - or be dragged out. Which is your preference?”

I feel as though my limbs have frozen solid, but I refuse to let her have power over me - not while there is still time for Cromwell to find us. As long as I am free to move, I can still run; or, at least, I think I can. Moving slowly, for I cannot move quickly, I emerge from the hedge, and stand to face the hideous demon that had so startled me when I held my sword in my hands.

My sword…God, what wouldn’t I give to have that in my hands now…

She is staring at me, her eyes evil where once they were pools of green in which I could have happily drowned myself. How on earth did she manage to seduce me so? Each time I saw her, it was as though my reason fell away, and all that I knew was desire. I can remember it now - all of it - and it both sickens and embarrasses me. No wonder she made Cromwell gag in her presence.

It’s then that I hear Wolsey’s voice - weak, faint…he has nothing here to anchor himself to, and yet still he tries…and finally, the words come to me…Lezviye k moyey ruke

The words make no sense to me - but I know full well that Wolsey would not betray me. Insult me, pick holes in my arguments, yes - but not that. Keeping my eyes on the Huntress, I repeat the words. They must make sense in some context. I can only hope that it shall do so in a fashion that shall keep me alive for a while longer.

For a moment, all is still - until I feel a strong urge to hold out my right hand. As I do so, my fingers close about the hilt of my sword. How the hell did it get here? What did I just do? I stare at it, dumbly, but only for a moment, as the Huntress laughs at me.

“A weapon? Is that all that you can offer against me? No weapon can harm one of my kind - I am but one step below dread Lamashtu! Even a silver weapon has but little effect upon one such as I!”

I cannot answer her; I instead pull away the scabbard and discard it. All that I need from my sword is to keep her at bay until help reaches me: nothing more. If I can repel her until we are three again, then we can drive her away and I can return to the Palace, and then find my way to Grant’s Place to find a means of destroying her - even if I have to row there myself.

Screeching with laughter, she launches herself at me. I have little time to react, and my strike is instinctive, thanks to the hours of practice that I was obliged to undertake. The blade connects, and I hear a shriek - but a shriek of pain. I turn, and she is clutching at her arm, which bleeds black bile from a wound that does not close. My God - the blade…it’s wounded her…

“This cannot be!” she wails, raging, “Not even a silver blade can harm me!”

Finally, I have something to say to her, “And what of the Damask blade?”

It is immediately clear to me that the words mean nothing to her, but she screeches again, this time in anger, and comes at me a second time. As before, I react instinctively, and she stumbles away, her clawed hand now clutching at a cut in her side, “This cannot be!” her plaint rises once more, “This cannot be!”

“But it is.” I tell her firmly, “Do you wish to withdraw, or shall we end it now?”

Her head turns, her face a vile grimace of fury, “Curses upon you, Second! Curses upon you! Lamashtu demanded your death from me, and so I shall supply it!” And she hurls herself at me, her arms flailing wildly, the claws sharp and flashing through the air. Quite why she has done so from so far away, I do not know, for she has given me ample time to prepare, and my cut as I deprive her of her head is absolutely clean.

Her head topples to the side, and her body seems to hang where it is for a moment - until it, too, falls. I am, however, not quick enough to avoid the left hand as it slices past me, the two longest claws cutting a pair of thin gashes through the cambric of my shirt and drawing blood from the skin beneath. Damn and blast it - I should have turned and taken it upon my arm - my sleeve is padded. I am still annoyed with myself as she falls to dust. At least John can clean the wounds - I shall not need that blasted remedy that I hate so much.

“Richard? Where are you! Call to me!” I can hear Cromwell’s voice at long last, as he seeks me out. He shall be most impressed, I think, that I have saved myself…I turn to call him, and my balance falters, causing me to stagger slightly. Clearly the cold and tiredness is stronger than I expected. Perhaps Cromwell shall lend me his clock…no, cloak…what was I saying?

Bemused, I try to walk towards the exit of the garden, but my legs seem to no longer want to obey me, so instead I try to call out to Cromwell…but the words that I speak make no sense. Then, as he appears at the entrance way, I notice that there are two of him, and that they look oddly blurred…I cannot understand why, but then everything turns over, and goes black.

Chapter Text

I am wrenched back to awareness by the worst pain imaginable - blazing agony that courses through my veins and drags a scream from my mouth, despite the presence of the stick that I can feel between my teeth. God, not again…not again…

I have no idea where I am, as my vision is still troubled, but I can feel something upon my chest, a cold pressure of some sort, and my hands are being clasped tightly as my head rests upon something. I know that I must not make so much noise, but this time I cannot keep myself from howling out even as I clench my teeth against the stick, and I kick wildly, my heels drumming the floor violently.

"It's poison, Richie," I hear, somewhere in the distance, "the sovereign specific is having to burn it from your blood."

It seems to go on forever - far longer than it had when I first experienced its torture; and the pressure remains upon me for longer. I want to wrench my hands free, to knock that pressure away, for it is there that the burning is at its worst, as though a bonfire has been lit upon me.

"It's killing him, Thomas!" another voice speaks now, one that seems to be even further away, "Stop, for God's sake!"

"Be silent, Tom." The first voice admonishes, "This is the only hope he has. The venom is deadly, and I have never seen the like. This can cure any wound or hurt - and it needs time to do it."

I am aware of a dampness about my eyes - tears drawn out by the pain that seep away as I continue to cry out. Somehow, I remember vaguely that I knew I must not do so, for fear of bringing the…something…I cannot remember, and the thought fades again.

"Come on, Richie…come on…" the first voice speaks again, but it is fearful now, "Don't give in to this…hold on…"

And then, at last, it begins to fade away - the hideous fire dying down to be replaced with just that vile sensation of grit in my joints. And I remember what must be done now, as I feel the pressure lift from my chest, and the stick is removed from my mouth. God help me, it is almost more than I can stand to endure...

"A cupful, Tom. Set the basin down upon the floor. It is very possible that he shall not tolerate the cordial. We needed six attempts the first time."

"What?" the second voice sounds rather nervous.

A cup floats into my unreliable vision, and I know what it contains - that I need to swallow it, but also that it does not seem to wish to be swallowed. I am on my knees now, and a pair of firm hands holds my shoulders to help me remain upright. Forcing my arm to move, I raise the cup to my lips, pause for a moment to steel myself against its ghastly reek, and drain it. Again, the taste is truly foul, and I lean forward, already feeling the sense that my stomach is not willing to retain it. I cannot keep back a miserable whimper, but sure enough, I tense, retch and the whole damn lot is splattered into the copper basin before me.

"Try again, Richie. It won't be so bad this time - you've had it before. It's never so bad the second time." The voice is kind, encouraging, and I do as it asks; not that I want to. Again, I feel it going down, and that horrible sense of nausea sends waves of discomfort through me. As before, I retch; but this time, as I have been assured, nothing comes out. I am, however, not permitted to move for a while, until the owner of that voice determines that I should - presumably to ensure that I do not bring it up after a few moments rather than immediately. I cannot remain upon my knees any longer however. Instead, I slither sideways and find myself sitting - though the hands holding my shoulders keep me from toppling over completely. Should I not feel recovered now? Why do I feel so ill?

"He's still burning, Thomas." The second voice says, "Is this not meant to be quick?"

"It was poison, Tom." The first replies, "The fluid can heal all, but there is likely to still be some of the venom lurking in his extremities. That shall also need to be eradicated. His cuts are already healed - see?"

I wish that I could - but the room is still moving somewhat, and I am not sure whether that which I see before my eyes is real, or false.

"Come, Tom. Help me put him to bed - he needs to rest. We can discuss this with him when he is more able to understand us."

That would be nice. They sound like my father admonishing me from the bottom of a well - I should very much rather they didn't.

I vaguely note that I am being lifted from the floor again, and I am carried somewhere before being laid down, "It's your own bed, Richie," the voice murmurs, rather faintly now, as I think I am falling asleep - at least I hope I am, "So you will not need to be moved again…" and it falters to silence.

Time passes in something of a blur. Sometimes, I think myself to be awake, and talking to people - but I cannot fathom who they are, or what we are talking about. Other times, I am lost in a maze of high hedges, and I cannot find my way - and then I am on an icy lake, and the ice cracks beneath me; and I am falling. Now and again, there is something deadly behind me, and my flight is impeded; either my legs will not obey me, or I am wading through thickness that holds them fast; I try to scream, but no sound will emerge from my mouth - and again, I fall into darkness...

When I open my eyes again, and feel that I might truly be in my right mind, John is nearby, and he looks at me with great relief before hastening from the bedchamber. I have woken - and he has fled. That seems most strange. I try to sit up, but find that I cannot; my arms are weak, and I can barely lift myself.

When John returns, he has Cromwell with him, and Wyatt is not far behind, "Thank God, Richie - had I not been obliged to report to the King I would have been here when you woke."

I try to speak, but my mouth is dry.

Cromwell pulls up a chair as John carefully pours a herb cordial into a cup and assists me in drinking it. As he helps me to lie back again, I make another attempt, "How long have I been asleep?" God, my voice sounds hoarse.

"You have drifted in and out of consciousness for the last four days." He advises, quietly, "For some of the time, you were delirious, but for much of the time, you were beyond waking."

"You said something about poison…" I have a vague memory of lying down, voices addressing one another as I burned in torment from the ministration of that vile curative from the ebony coffer.

He nods, "When we found you in the gardens, you were shaking upon the floor as one afflicted by the falling sickness, and foaming at the mouth. I was fortunate to have my coffer of sovereign specific in my chambers when Tom arrived at my door, and I dispatched William to prepare the cordial and bring it to your quarters. Then we came in search of you, and I carried you over my shoulder to bring you safely indoors - God be thanked that none saw me do so, for you made a fearful sight. You were so close to death, and so deeply poisoned, that I took the risk of using four drops of the fluid to combat it. I have never used so much before."

I frown, dredging up the memory of our final encounter, "She came upon me when I was in the offices. I forgot the keys to my coffer - there were confidential papers within it - and I had attempted to evade her…but in the moment I laid my eyes upon her, I was as enamoured as ever; and followed her out to the gardens without so much as a second thought."

"It appears, however, that she was sent against you, does it not?" Wyatt adds, "For that is what I heard her say as I fled. What was she?"

"I do not know." I admit, "She claimed to be called 'the Huntress', and Lamashtu sent her to kill me so that I could not complete my task. If I falter, then so do you, Thomas."

"Thank God you had your sword with you." Wyatt says, quietly.

"I did not."

Cromwell and Wyatt look at me, surprised.

"I left it in my chambers - for I did not wish to risk being caught with it in the corridors. I was not expecting the demon to come upon me in the offices - and when she did I was so keen for her that I did not care. I do not yet understand how it came into my hand, so I cannot answer any question you might have. If anything, thank God you followed me, Tom. If you had not, then I should be dead."

Wyatt looks deeply embarrassed, "When I saw her, and then you, I was enraged that you had taken her from me. She had said nothing to me, not even looked upon me - and yet still I thought her to be mine. Thus I followed you, with the intention of ensuring that whatever you had planned would not come to pass; instead intending that the encounter should be with me. And when I found you together…"

"You took issue." I interrupt. I really do not want Cromwell to know that she had me half undressed. Then I remember something, "Tom - please forgive my comment about Anne. I knew even as the words emerged that I had spoken wrongly."

"Willingly, Richard - for it awoke me from that enamoured daze under which I had been living. And, I think, it woke you also, for it was only then that she revealed her true form."

"The weather broke while you were unconscious, Richie," Cromwell advises, "I took the liberty of visiting Grant's Place myself - as Tom stayed with you during that time. With Molly's assistance, I was able to secure this." He hands me a folded paper, "I think it shall keep you occupied while you rest - you should not rise until you are strong enough. The poison has taken a great deal of your strength."

I have no objection to his words - for I know them to be true. I can barely hold the paper, and it weighs almost nothing. Even the weight of my arms seems insurmountable, and I am still dreadfully tired.

I suspect that I sleep for much of the day, and the night that follows; but when I wake again, I feel somewhat stronger, and I can at least sit up; though even this is achieved slowly, as I cannot do so quickly without becoming dizzy, so I must be helped up in gradual stages with more pillows at my back. My attempts to eat have so far been rather poor, as the most I can manage is broth, which I despise, and cordials thick with herbs that are supposedly restorative, but taste bad. I do, however, have the paper to occupy me.

The creature that Lamashtu sent against me is indeed a huntress - known by the name Psciponista. In her human form, she is truly called Lady Midday; at least by those who fear and revere her. Now that I think about it, I can recall the words she spoke as she unfastened my doublet, and I wonder that they did not make sense to me at the time - was I truly so keen for her that I did not hear that she was intending to slice me open and devour my insides while I still lived? God have mercy, what was I thinking?

Worse, I had thought nothing of descending into the emptiness of the gardens in search of something of which I had no knowledge and without any means of defending myself. Have I learned nothing since I first became a Second? I grow hot with embarrassment at my ineptitude: Cromwell was right - I certainly have not ceased to make mistakes. In which case, I must endeavour to learn from them, and thank God that the only man to suffer the consequences of my foolishness was myself.

I read on, and find that she did indeed exude venom from her claws - both on her hands and feet. If I had thought to turn away as she fell, as I thought at the time, then her claws would have merely sliced into my padded sleeve and done me no harm. Instead I stood before her, and she cut me. I am most fortunate, I think, that Cromwell has the sovereign specific - for the paper says that the venom has no cure. Perhaps, as she fell, whatever passes for a soul that she had might have exulted for she thought that I should die with her, regardless of her failure to feast upon me. Thank Christ for that foul fluid. I may despise it, but if it did not exist, I should not be here.

As I set the paper aside, I turn my thoughts to my sword. How did it get to me? What were the words that Wolsey said? And where is he? Why has he not come to me to berate me for my foolishness?

"Eminence?"

He is silent for a worrying time, and when his voice finally emerges, it is rather faint, What do you want? If it were possible for a soul in purgatory to feel exhaustion, then I do so.

"Why?"

Have you any idea how hard it is to reach someone who is not near the library, or something to which I can anchor myself? You were out in the gardens - it took all I had to get to you.

"Then I am even more grateful that you came to my aid in my stupidity. I have no idea what words I spoke - but without them, I should have died - for I had no means to defend myself."

I shall tell you how much of an idiot you are when I have rested. Leave me be.

"Yes, Eminence. I look forward to it." I sit back amidst the heap of pillows. I am still weak, but not so tired as I have been, so I cannot escape the encroaching boredom with sleep. Fortunately, Wyatt visits frequently, and Cromwell spends as much time with me as he can afford, for I have missed several meetings of the Privy Council, though it seems that the King is no more interested in them than he was when I was there.

"Alessandro still seems to hold him in thrall, Richie." Cromwell sighs, "At any hint or suggestion of discontent or boredom, he seems able to reveal some new bauble or wonder. The King still demands his company at all times - and has no wish to recall Chapuys. How he can receive news from the Emperor if he will not receive the bearer of it, I cannot say. I am doing all I can to secure news from my spies - but it is not enough. I do not dare to raise it too frequently, for the King is already averse to the name of the Imperial Ambassador quite enough as it is."

He then retrieves a paper from his robes, "Her Majesty asked me to send you this."

It is a brief note, asking after my health and hoping that I recover swiftly. In the face of such indifference from the King, that his Queen is still concerned for us is quite heartwarming, "Do you expect to see her before I emerge from this blasted bed?"

He nods, "I shall pass on your thanks. She has been most concerned about your welfare, as have the Ladies Mary and Elizabeth. It seems that they follow our adventures with fascination."

"I am glad they didn't see this one."

After four days abed, I am becoming desperate to escape, but John is insistent that I remain, "Mr Cromwell has made it clear that if I assist you to rise before you are strong enough, he shall personally remove certain parts of my anatomy with his knife."

"And what if I consider myself to be strong enough?" I demand; though, that said, it is not my anatomy that is under threat.

Such is my boredom now that I decide to risk annoying Wolsey again, "Eminence, are you stronger? I am going mad at the dullness of my situation, and I have questions."

For you are an idiot.

He seems to be better.

"What were those words that you spoke to me in the garden? The ones that made my sword appear in my hand?"

That I do not know - they were given to me to give to you. It seems that it not only I who is charged with saving you from your stupidity.

"How charming. Why not ask whoever gave them to you to tell you what they are? That would be more helpful than admitting that you know no more than I do."

He stays silent for a while, I am not sure that I can.

"Why not?" I need to know what I have in my hand - and if the only information that exists is available solely to Wolsey, then he must get it.

The information is held by Cassandra - a fact that I distinctly recall revealing to you. She does not reside within Purgatory, and thus I cannot reach her.

"Don't make such excuses Wolsey." I snap, "If you cannot reach her, then who gave you those words, and how? You did not allow your red robes to keep you from breaking rules when you lived - and you were forgiven for that. Break some more now, for God's sake! I need to know about that damned sword!" I sink back on the pillows again, surprised at how my outburst has tired me. No wonder Cromwell is refusing to allow John to let me get up.

Do not disturb me. I shall come to you. And then he is silent.

I am obliged to remain abed for two more days, and my temper deteriorates further as my strength returns. I am sick of broth, and of gruel, and of bloody cordials that taste like cat's piss. John endures my frustrated anger with loyal aplomb, and continues to serve the damned stuff in the face of my childish complaining.

I have received more kind letters from the Queen, alongside one from the Lady Mary and another from the Lady Elizabeth, wishing me well. It seems that they have indeed accepted that our loyalty is unimpeachable in the face of all - which seems odd to me given my once-deserved reputation for untrustworthiness. I have re-read that paper on Pscipolnista more times than I wish to count, lost my temper with Wyatt because he can get out of my bedchamber and I can't, and called Cromwell some truly vile names - some of them to his face.

It is as John has departed in the face of another childish tantrum that Wolsey finally returns.

How pleasant you are to your staff, Rich. He must truly value you as a master.

"Shut your mouth up, Wolsey." I snap.

So you don't wish to know more about the Damask blade, then? Fair enough.

"Please God, my patience is at the end of its stretch! What do you know?"

It seems that Lamashtu was correct when she spoke of power in that sword, Richard. I was able to speak to Cassandra, for a short time, at least. The blade was forged many hundreds of years ago by a group of wise men - for metalworkers were thought to be wizards in those far off days. It was created for a man descended from Scythian warriors, who ruled great grasslands beyond the Hellespont. When they did so, they imbued it with certain properties.

I frown, a little nervous at this. It sounds like magic - in which I absolutely do not believe.

Nothing can stand against it - it can cleave through bone, metal and stone without punishment. It cannot blunt, and cannot break. But most importantly, it forms a bond to the one meant to wield it - when it does so, that individual cannot be fooled by any demon's false form, and, should they speak the four words you were given in the gardens, it shall come to their hand - no matter where they, or the sword, are.

That explains how it was that my ridiculous behaviour around Lady Midday vanished in the instant I lifted the blade, and why I saw her as the demon she was when I had it in my hand. Now I think upon it, did I not see, for a moment, Lamashtu in an inhuman form while in the Queen's Presence Chamber? Perhaps even at that early time, the sword was beginning to forge this supposed bond. Clearly this sword was indeed meant for me - and now, if I speak the four words Lezviye k moyey ruke, it shall come to me. Fortunately, as I turn the words over in my mind, nothing happens - clearly I must speak them aloud. Thus I can repeat them over and over again in my head to ensure that I shall not forget them should I need to speak them in future.

"If nothing can stand against it, then can it destroy Lamashtu?" I cannot believe that we could be so lucky, but I need to ask.

It cannot. Cassandra knew that you would ask that question - even as I thought you would not have the wit. It seems that there is but one thing - and that is the Gemfire. She knew not what that was, and I cannot enlighten you either.

I sigh, disappointed. It was worth asking - but if we cannot use the sword, then this 'Gemfire' it must be, "As soon as I have recovered myself," I tell Wolsey, "I shall add that to my collection of tasks alongside finding the missing ruby. I suspect that the stones shall provide the answer, given that they are known also as 'Fires' - but I must make that final connection."

Indeed. Wolsey sounds almost disappointed, And I was so looking forward to telling you not to expect me to do that for you.

After another night of sleep, Cromwell finally agrees that I may leave my bed. I am, remarkably, still rather lacking in strength, but the true weakness has departed. I am able now to sit beside the fire in my main chamber, and the ghastly broths have been replaced by proper victuals. That is, we think, all that I now need to complete my recovery - and God, I cannot wait to escape the confines of my chambers. Even boring codicils are preferable to the boredom of nothing at all.

The following day, I am back at my desk. The clerks are very conscientious of me, and ask after my health - to the point that I am becoming very tired of explaining that I am well again. No one particularly cares amongst the men of the Privy Council, though Suffolk, in his usual, quiet way, asks after me once the Council meeting ends. Despite the minor baron to whom Lady Midday was supposed to be attached still being at court - everyone seems to have forgotten she was ever there; but then, given the havoc she caused, and the embarrassment, perhaps it is just as well that a collective forgetfulness seems to have descended, and we can all concentrate instead on Lent, and its journey towards Easter.

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But is that not a good thing?"

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

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

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

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

I think I might be being dismissed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It takes all I have in me not to scream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

Now that Red Fire has finally been found - with absolutely no assistance from me - my dreadful tension is gone, despite the presence of Lamashtu at the court. She rarely shows herself in the presence of the King, for reasons we cannot fathom - and even Wyatt cannot determine where she hides during her periods of absence. All of his usual sources speculate endlessly, their ideas becoming wilder and more foolish with each passing day, but none can say for certain. Perhaps I should now be experiencing the same nerve-shredding worry about this - but the discovery of the second jewel, and my understanding of that which drove me to near-despair, seems to have quelled it.

Instead, I consult with Wolsey - who has confirmed that the blessing he bestowed upon the Queen remains intact; but we agree, once he has roundly insulted me for my foolish over-worry about the jewel, that he shall remain prepared to speak it again should the need arise. If nothing else, the child is protected for the moment. Our primary concern now is to ensure that Lamashtu does nothing precipitate in person.

To that end, Cromwell is spending as much time as he can in the King's presence. He is careful to ensure that he is no more obviously present than usual - as Wyatt has mentioned to him that his meeting with Chapuys was not as discreet as he had assumed, and he has no wish to give the impression that he is keeping watch upon the King for reasons of a treacherous nature.

"That concerns me greatly," Cromwell admits to me, as we depart from the offices to another meeting of the Privy Council, "I appear to have become complacent - and that, I cannot afford to be."

"But you know of it now, Thomas." I remind him, "And thus you can be more careful."

He shakes his head, "I think there is too much risk to meet Chapuys again. He knows the same, and I suspect that he has already begun to settle his affairs in England. In all honesty, I cannot see his Majesty relenting while Campofregoso remains at court. Nothing that he does seems to do anything other than make the king more pleased - though I am wondering if his presence at Council meetings has palled, for he has not attended the last two."

"Given how little we seem to be achieving at present, Thomas," I admit, "I could not blame him - for I should be happy to miss them too."

As expected, Campofregoso is indeed no longer present, but the King's mood seems very strange. He eyes us all with a most unsettling gaze, though Cromwell in particular. Discussions are, for once, sensible, and we make some progress with the bills that Cromwell intends to introduce in Parliament shortly. They are largely inoffensive, and are aimed very much at bettering the lot of the ordinary people, as there are reforms to the system of taxation that places more strength upon ensuring that none pay more than they can afford. Had he been able to, he would almost certainly have included Peers - but he cannot afford to increase their enmity even further, and so he explains that the tax burden upon them remains the same as the requirements of old: to furnish the King with an army in times of War.

"And how shall this affect my exchequer?" the King asks, in almost hostile tones.

"I anticipate that the gains to the exchequer in terms of more efficient collection of taxes should be significant, Majesty." Cromwell says, at once, "I have some initial projected calculations, if you wish to see them." If he is unnerved by the King's mood, he does not show it; an inscrutable façade concealing any emotion that might display weakness to the predatory Lords around him.

The King snorts, derisively, and waves his hand dismissively. I exchange a confused glance with Wyatt, who sits opposite me, does the King not believe Cromwell? I have never seen such a thing before, and neither has he.

By the end of the meeting, the King's behaviour has not changed, and as we rise, dismissed, Cromwell stays at the table when all others have departed. His carefully constructed veneer has dropped away: he is pale, and his expression is worried, "I am losing his patience, Richie," He says, tensely, "He has refused to see me twice, now - and gives no reason for his refusals."

Wyatt and I exchange another nervous glance; without the King's favour, Cromwell is largely helpless against the enmity of the great Lords - who would destroy him without hesitation. Of all the times for such a thing to happen…

"Could this be the work of Lamashtu?" Wyatt asks, as I open my mouth to ask exactly the same.

"I cannot see how," Cromwell shakes his head, "If she were in sufficient favour, then we should know it - for the Queen's ladies would see and comment - and so Lady Rochford would have told us."

Strangely, that afternoon, the King demands Cromwell's presence - and their meeting is as cordial as ever, which confuses him all the more when he returns to the offices. Despite his remarkable ability to read people, he cannot understand why the King is dismissive of him at some times, but not others. We all know that the King's moods have been unpredictable and volatile ever since his jousting accident two years ago, so reading them has always been highly challenging; but he seems far harder to understand now than he has ever been, and none of us can fathom the reason why.

Matters continue in this vein as June passes - and brings with it a dreadful heat almost akin to that which drove us all to near-madness the previous summer. Once more, the King's temper becomes dangerous, and all speak with great care in his presence, for fear of provoking it. His leg also begins to flame, and the reek of his ulcer - always unpleasant these days - becomes utterly horrible in the confined space of the Council chamber. All at the table know that an explosion is imminent, and all equally hope that, when it comes, it shall not be directed at them. I think we already know, however, who shall be its target; and we are correct.

The heat is dreadfully oppressive as we gather for yet another meeting at which none wish to be present. We are all mopping at our faces with kerchiefs, for we are obliged to dress formally, and I know that I am most uncomfortable in my padded doublet, encased in a simarre that would otherwise be draped over the back of my chair in the offices. Indeed, such is my discomfort that I feel rather unwell.

As the King enters, he is limping visibly; always a worrisome sign, and the stench of his leg is almost palpable. He has an expression like thunder, and slaps his groom away as the youth inoffensively does nothing more than set a silver flagon and goblet down on the table beside him.

It is impossible to avoid speaking nervously - and our discussions are remarkably free of dissension, as the King's expression continues to darken like a thundercloud. The matter of funding for roads rises again - but this time might even be resolved, so fearful is everyone of arguing in the presence of such a furious monarch. It is, however, the mere mention of the topic that finally ignites the thunderbolt.

"God above, Charles!" he shouts, suddenly, glaring angrily at Suffolk, who has committed no crime other than to raise the subject, which was planned to be discussed anyway, "Are you truly so useless that you cannot even agree something as simple as this? How many months has this dragged on?" Rather than give Suffolk the opportunity to reply, his comments degenerate into a string of invective that is quite shocking, particularly against the man who is one of his closest friends. He attempts to rise as he speaks, and loses his balance - falling against the nearest man at the table: Cromwell.

And thus his temper fails utterly - for to show such infirmity is more than a man of his pride can bear. Snatching at Cromwell's simarre, he pulls his Lord Chancellor out of his seat and deals him such a blow that he staggers back against the panelling of the wall. From that moment, the King loses all restraint, and begins to throw more and more punches at Cromwell, who can do nothing but attempt to protect himself with his arms - he does not dare to attempt to restrain his attacker.

"Majesty!" Suffolk shouts, frantically - God above, is he trying to kill the Lord Chancellor? "Majesty - in God's name!" No one else dares to speak - though I have no doubt that those who despise Cromwell are hoping that the King will not stop, or that, if he does, he shall demand that his Chancellor be taken forthwith to the Tower.

The King is shouting as he continues to batter away at the man that is now at his feet - though his words are jumbled and make no sense, such is his rage - except for the word 'Traitor', that seems to feature with fearsome regularity. He shows no sign of stopping, until he reaches round for his stick - God have mercy, is he going to use that?

Suffolk takes the moment to rush forth and grasp the King's arm, "For the love of God, Majesty! Not your stick!"

For the briefest of moments, we are all frozen in horror - will his Majesty now strike Suffolk? But instead, he seems to come to his senses, and begins to almost visibly calm himself; though his expression is not contrite - not, at least, for Cromwell, who is still on the ground. Without another word, he takes the stick, grips Suffolk's arm tightly for a moment - as though in apology for his rudeness - and limps out, his groom hurrying behind him, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.

I know that, despite their enmity for Cromwell, all the Councillors are shocked at such a display of violence, and none speak as they depart from the room. Only Suffolk and - oddly - Hertford remain, and they assist us as we help Cromwell back to his feet and seat him in a chair. I have never seen him so battered, not even after a fight with a ravener. He is dishevelled, his simarre torn. His lip has burst again, and his left eye is bloodshot, the skin about the eye starting to swell, while one of the King's rings has left a deep gouge in his left cheek. I can only imagine the bruising that shall start to grow upon the rest of his body, for that we cannot see. If we are shocked, this is nothing compared to the look of utter disbelief upon Cromwell's face - for, no matter how many times the King has struck him, he has never before assaulted him with such violence.

"Return him to his quarters." Suffolk suggests, "His injuries require attention, I think."

"I shall, your Grace." I agree, "God, let this heat disperse soon - for what else could have caused the King to behave so?"

"Yes indeed." Hertford murmurs with an unnervingly loaded tone, "What else?"

It takes all I have in me not to turn and stare at him; it is nothing short of a blatant suggestion that the King has turned upon his Lord Chancellor. God help us - that must not happen, or all are lost…

Cromwell has said not a word as I have escorted him back to his chambers, and William has tended to his injuries. Even over a restorative cup of wine, he seems too shocked to speak, and I wonder what on earth I can say to him that might be of use. While the weather, and the ghastly reek from the King's suppurating ulcer explains his temper, it does not offer any reason for the degree of violence he used in his attack. Doubtless the entire incident is all over the Court by now - and probably with additional embellishments, too. For the first time, however, Cromwell cannot seem to let it pass, and instead stares morbidly at the fireplace, lost in thought.

Wyatt has spent much of the rest of the day circulating to assess the rumours, and joins us as the light of the day begins to fade. In all that time, we have not spoken to one another, and Cromwell has not lifted his gaze from the empty fireplace.

"The Court is all a-buzzing like a kicked hive with this." He admits, quietly, "For the King to have behaved so is unprecedented. He has beaten servants to this degree before - but never anyone higher in importance. His leg, however, has become congested again, and the doctors are with him now; so most are attributing his behaviour to that."

"He called me a traitor." Cromwell says, suddenly; his voice very low - the first words he has spoken since the King struck him. Of all the insults that the King could throw at him, that is - in his mind - the cruellest, and I can see that the word has pained him. Despite his faults, despite the enmity of the grand Lords about him for his base birth, the one thing that has always been unimpeachable is Cromwell's absolute loyalty to the King. Even Gardiner cannot deny it - though he is certain to claim otherwise.

"When his temper has calmed, Thomas," Wyatt says, "He shall see otherwise - even if he cannot admit to it, and will not seek your forgiveness, he shall still see it."

I am not surprised when, the following morning, Cromwell does not appear in the offices. Given that his bruising must be far worse by now, he has no wish to set the clerks to staring at him, so instead he remains in his apartments, and sends a steward to the offices to ask Wriothesley to dispatch some papers to him. Thus it is the Secretary and I who receive the news that we were expecting, but is always still a surprise: the King is to remove to Hampton Court. It is - officially - summer.

The hot weather continues without respite as the court removes to Hampton - so much so that the King and his family intend to undertake the transfer by water in hopes that the river might offer some coolness in comparison to those of us who must travel on appallingly dusty tracks that have seen no rain for at least a month. We of the offices are, as always, amongst the first to make the move, with the clerks travelling in a covered wagon that must be dreadful, as it bounces horribly over hardened ruts that crumble into drops, while they swelter and grow covered in dust.

It is not much better for those of us who ride. Freed from the requirement for formality, Cromwell and I have abandoned even our doublets, and ride in our shirtsleeves like a pair of peasants, grateful for the shade of the trees that line the track. The flies are horrible, however, and I am heartily sick of waving them away from my face as we reach the inn that we plan to stop at to dine. The wagon is already there, though most of the youths within are too sickened by the bumping ride they have endured to consider eating. That said, the heat has killed my appetite as well, and not even a mug of ale chilled in a cold cellar seems to inspire it.

The inn is set close to the river, however, so those who are not sitting in the shade groaning from their nausea are seated at the banks, or even wading up to their knees in the cool water - free here from the foul effluvium of endless London drains and cesspools. I envy them, though Cromwell merely fetches out a kerchief, soaks it in the water and drapes it over the back of his neck. His look of relief is such that I copy him, and we must make quite a sight, improperly dressed as we are, the backs of our necks drenched in water and slumped in the shade of a nearby tree.

I am not sure whether to be relieved or dismayed as the skies darken during the afternoon, as we are still an hour's ride from Hampton Court. Despite the clouds being before us, the wind comes at us from behind, and Cromwell is looking concerned, "I suspect that it is a large thunderstorm, Richie," he advises, "the wind is blowing towards it, which is never a good sign." We immediately urge our horses to a trot, as unlike the clerks, we have no shelter at all: they can roll down the sides of the wagon.

By the time the roofs of the palace are visible, we are riding the horses at a brisk canter; for we dare not risk a gallop for fear of exhausting Clement and Adrian. Thunder is now rumbling with worrying regularity, and I have seen fingers of lightning now and again - though fortunately far away from us. Then Cromwell curses, and turns to me, "We must be quick if we are to avoid a soaking." He points ahead, and I can see that there is a curtain of rain that conceals all behind it: it is now a race.

We are in luck - the first drops are falling just as we enter the stable block, and we are able to retrieve our rolled cloaks and doublets, along with the saddlebags containing our weapons, before the drops become the torrent we saw in the distance. I do not yet know where I am to rest my head, so I do not wish to be drenched without any means of changing my clothes.

Most of the court is either still at Placentia, or travelling. I suspect that those who can do so shall already be seeking shelter at the places they had chosen to stop for the night - as there are plenty of inns. Most do not make the journey in a single day, as we have.

Despite the dreadful roar of falling water, punctuated with vivid lightning and violent claps of thunder, it is impossible to not feel relief, for the air is already cooling, and we make our way to the one office that is open; that of the Household department. Mr Cheeseman is not surprised that we are the first to arrive, and advises us of the apartments we have been assigned. As I dispatched John yesterday to make arrangements for my arrival, as Cromwell did with William - most have sent their servants in advance - all we are required to do is make our way to our new accommodation.

With so few present, other than servants, William has already made arrangements for us to sup, and I am deeply grateful that he has - for having eaten nothing earlier in the day, I am - naturally - ravenous. Wyatt has not yet made the journey, so Cromwell and I sup alone. As it has been nearly two weeks since the King beat him, his bruises are fading now - though some are still quite livid - and he has recovered his equilibrium, as there have been no further incidents to give him cause for concern. Henry seems to have forgotten his accusations of treachery, and demands his Chancellor's counsel as regularly as always - though he effects to not notice the obvious injuries upon Cromwell's face.

It is still raining, though the storm seems to have abated, and Cromwell is looking out of his window as I arrive. He is more fortunate than I, for, once again, my window looks out upon the bricks of an opposite wall. His, however, looks out across to the river, and he has an excellent view of the rain, "I am glad to see this rain, Richie. I was becoming concerned that the harvest would be parched in the fields." As always, when he is not thinking of demons, he is thinking about keeping the Kingdom safe from chaos. All I have to concern myself with is the need to find out how to use a pair of jewels, and I find myself feeling deeply embarrassed at my ridiculous behaviour in the period before Easter.

The rain continues into the evening, and is still falling when I wake the next day. And the next. Those who have been obliged to travel on horseback are arriving hideously wet, and there is much envy for those who have travelled in carriages or - as the King and Queen have, on a covered barge. By the time all have made the journey to Hampton Court, we are heartily sick of the rain - but still it falls, utterly unconcerned at our annoyance. It is as though that storm had heralded God's wrath, and a new flood is upon us. Forty days and forty nights of rain? Lord, that would not be welcome. Now Cromwell is worrying that the harvest shall fail for excess of water, not lack of it, and he sits down with Wriothesley to discuss measures for the relief of the poor should there indeed be a failure.

"One of the Cardinal's most worthwhile measures was to purchase large stocks of grain," he explains to me later at supper, "He would then store them and release them at prices that the poor could afford - the first to suffer when a harvest fails are those who cannot meet the prices that are levied by those who wish to gouge the market. I have not been obliged to institute this measure before - but I think we may need to if this rain does not let up."

"Do you think the Council might block it?" I ask, "It seems mad to think that they would - but they seem to oppose any measure you introduce almost upon principle these days."

"Most would not, I think." He admits, "Certainly Suffolk would agree to it, and I do not doubt that he would donate from his own income to support it, as would several of the others - even though they despise me, they would not wish to appear so utterly cruel. There is one, however, who I am sure would speak against my measures."

"Gardiner." I say - it is not a question.

"We may not need to do anything, Richie," He sighs, "If the rain stops soon, then all might still be well."

It might be well within the court, too - for the King is becoming ever more bad tempered. He can no longer sport in the tennis court, and with hunting and riding out of the question in such endless wet, he has no outlet for his energies. Even Campofregoso's endless gift-giving is beginning to pall with him - an astonishing thing - though the Ambassador himself seems as much in favour as ever. Perhaps it is Cromwell's presence with the King, and the Rosary he wears, but Lamashtu does not seem to have made the journey to Hampton Court. Given that she is only on the other side of the river, however, it is no difficulty for her to reach us at speed should she so wish it. Her absence is both a relief and a worry. While I do not want her here, at least I can see what she is doing if she is.

With Chapuys still persona non grata at Court, news of the doings of the Holy Roman Emperor is patchy at best. Reports are received from spies - some reporting to Cromwell, others apparently reporting to Campofregoso - but they contradict one another, for those who report to Cromwell advise that Charles is holding back, while those beholden to Campofregoso insist that he is increasing in aggression. Without Chapuys there to offer a direct conduit to the Emperor, it is impossible to say whose reports are correct. As Henry is, as always, bellicose in outlook, he prefers to hear stories of aggression, and is always keen to hear more suggestions that Charles is pressing for war. Those reports that are received suggesting otherwise are largely ignored - including, Cromwell reveals to me, those which are coming from spies engaged by the House. Their reports are absolutely unimpeachable, for they are loyal entirely to the High and the Silver Swords over whom he watches: not to any Princes or Lordlings with agendas of their own.

As July drags on, there are few days where rain does not fall, and the risk to the harvest is now so great that decisions must be made for the safety of the kingdom. Having already made plans, worked out costs and projected how beneficial those plans shall be, Cromwell is easily able to set out his intended protocols for the relief of the poor should the harvest fail. As he has Wolsey's example to build upon, the idea is not new - though when Gardiner makes his expected objection, he behaves as though it has never been done before.

"So you suggest that the power of prayer is not sufficient?" He asks, obtusely, "Truly this is now a matter of faith - for it is trust in God that shall bring the harvest home, not such measures as this!"

It seems ridiculous that he should object to such a plan, and on such grounds; but Gardiner seems fiercely determined to portray Cromwell as a faithless heretic and, from there on, a traitor - almost to the exclusion of all else, including sensible pragmatism. To object to something so worthwhile draws raised eyebrows even from Cromwell's worst enemies, for even they can see the merits in the plan.

"Should we not use the gifts that God gave us, your Grace?" Cromwell asks, completely calmly, "For has He not blessed us with the wealth, and the wisdom, to seek to ensure succour for those who might be harmed by the failure of the harvest - should it happen? Is it not better to prepare for the worst, only to find that we have not needed to, than to presume the best, and find ourselves helpless in the face of calamity? Would God not expect that of us as true Christian men?"

It is such a ridiculous argument - for even the most devout layman at the table: Suffolk himself, considers Cromwell's plan to be wise. All know that the Bishop is merely being contrary, and seems to have set aside his perspective in his determination to paint the Lord Chancellor as a treacherous heretic. My only disappointment is that the King is not present to witness this idiocy on Gardiner's part.

The Council, it appears, agree with my assessment, and approve the plan. As there is no need to enact it at once, there is still time for the weather to improve - but why should the poorest of the nation suffer over a Bishop's desire to appear more pious than a Chancellor? Gardiner, however, merely wears a vicious scowl upon his pinched face, and leaves the meeting as soon as it is over. Suffolk looks across at us, sighs visibly and shakes his head as he gathers his papers to depart.

Before the end of the afternoon, Cromwell and Wriothesley have, between them, prepared the necessary papers and warrants for the purchase of grain should the harvest be likely to fail. They shall not need to be dispatched yet - but if the weather does not improve, and very soon, we shall have to act. Starvation brings discontent, and discontent brings rebellion. Rebellion, it need not be said, brings chaos; and that, above all, must be averted.

"What do we do now, Sir?" Daniel asks, as he gathers the papers into a coffer in preparation for their dispatch.

Cromwell sighs, "Pray for the sun."

The weather is still poor, and every Mass that we attend includes a prayer that the rain might stop. Even though continued wet would prove that Cromwell's plans were wise, none of us wish to see that happen - for it would be better to have a good harvest, or at least a reasonable harvest, than to enact measures to save us from a bad one.

Still trapped indoors, the King's temper is volatile again, and we all bear the brunt of it, though none more so than Cromwell, who endures dreadful insults without so much as a flicker of a response. How he can stand such rudeness, I cannot imagine - for he does nothing to earn it; Henry requires a whipping boy, and his common-born Chancellor is that unfortunate individual.

As I am almost never with him when he meets with the King privately, I rarely see how his Majesty behaves - and certainly not when he has been so ill-tempered for so long. Today, however, Cromwell has decided that, regardless of whether or not the rain ends, he shall enact the procedures that he has laid down in the event of the harvest failing, and, as I shall draft the final warrant to enact the plan, I have come with him to seek the King's consent.

"Gardiner claims you have no faith." Henry says, as Cromwell finishes his opening preamble.

"His Grace is entitled to his view of me, Majesty," Cromwell says, gravely, "we both desire the same end - the safety of the harvest. I must, however, view practical measures should the harvest fail. I should much rather the weather turned for the better."

Henry glares at him, as though he views Cromwell's carefully diplomatic answer as something entirely different. I feel a ghastly chill in the pit of my stomach - for it is clear that the King is keen eyed with spite. His leg is reeking again, and I suspect that this is the other reason for his temper.

"So Gardiner is a liar?"

Now, I shudder inside, for how can Cromwell answer this without suggesting that Gardiner is lying - or, worse, that the King is wrong to think so? It is a cruel trap to set; and, either way, it shall end in punishment - regardless of my presence.

"I…" Cromwell begins to speak, but is not permitted to. Instead, the King lashes out and slaps him violently across the face.

"Do not speak, you knave! Get you gone from my sight!" the King turns to me, and I instinctively flinch, "And you, Rich! Get to it and draft that bloody warrant!" then he turns on his heel and limps away as fast as his stinking leg will permit.

Our return to the offices is much slower than usual. I think perhaps that Cromwell is not happy that I have witnessed how the King can treat him when the Council is not present. I had no idea that there were times when Henry would trap him into an impossible position - and strike him for whatever answer he gave.

"He does not behave in such fashion often, Richie." Cromwell says, quietly, "His leg is bothering him again - and his temper is short."

"But even so, Thomas…"

"It is the way that it is, Richie." He sighs, "I am used to it - I grew up with it. My father was a brutal man who drank heavily and often - and was free both with his fists and his belt. We were all fearful of him when in drink, or in a temper, and it was to be endured - for to whom could I complain? None would have taken my part against my own father. The Pater Familias is master of all in the household, and his word is law. For my part, when I became a husband and father, I swore to myself that my children should not know such fear - and even though only one child remains, he knows the security of a father's love - of which I only became aware as I grew to trust Cardinal Wolsey, who viewed me as the true-born son he never had."

And now he must endure it from his King. Another Pater Familias who takes pleasure in his pain. Yet still, he is loyal unto death. He smiles, bleakly, as though he has heard my thoughts, "I begrudge the King nothing, Richie; his safety, and that of his family, is all that concerns me: for the welfare of the Kingdom depends upon it. The Mission is All - and shall remain so until Lamashtu is destroyed, or I am dead." Then he stops.

"What?"

He points at the floor, "Look."

For the first time in weeks, a shaft of sunlight is being cast across the wooden floor of the corridor through one of the lancet windows. Almost like a child eager for the first glimpse of winter snows, I am at the glass, peering out in the hopes that this is not some fleeting sunbeam - and I am filled with a sense of relief, for the sky is clearing, and perhaps today might be dry. The first fully dry day since that storm that almost washed us into Hampton Court.

The day continues fair, and the air begins to grow a little warmer as the sun continues to shine. The sunset that evening is a rich red and gold - a sign of hope that perhaps our prayers are being answered after all - though with a mere few weeks before the first signs of autumn appear, there is still no certainty that the sun has returned in time to save the harvest. I have, therefore, drafted the warrant to implement Cromwell's plans to avoid the grain prices being gouged.

The week ends with no sign of rain, though the ground remains saturated, and the King returns from his rides and hunts spattered with mud. Gardiner shoots smug glances at Cromwell, who ignores them. Then, as the month ends, he stops dead as we are returning to his apartments for supper.

"What?" Wyatt asks.

"Ichor." Cromwell sighs, "We must recommence our hunts."

Queen Jane is disappointed that our grace period has ended, though she does enjoy hearing of our exploits when demons are being fought. We have met only rarely during the summer - partly because there have been no demons present, even Lamashtu herself making only occasional visits, and partly because the opportunities to meet with the Queen have been limited. Being with child again, she finds it much harder to dismiss her ladies, for people tend to notice such things in her current state, and comment upon it.

Tonight, however, she has dismissed all but Jonathan and Lady Rochford, but as Mary has insisted on being present, this has helped her to do so. Mary knows our deeds as much as her Stepmother, and the ending of her hostility towards us has made her keen to keep our secret as much as any.

"Signor Campofregoso has presented his Majesty with another fine new charger." Jane reports, a little tiredly, "It has, I must admit, pleased his grooms very much, for none of them have come through the summer without at least one beating. Some as bad as that which you received, my Lord Chancellor." She was as shocked as everyone else by the news of that incident.

"It would appear that Lady Sofre has not returned to Court, Majesty." I add, "Though I believe she has been seen now and again; I think perhaps she is merely observing matters, for the presence of the Royal Rosary is repellent to her - and it is also possible that her banishment from here by Cardinal Wolsey still lingers somewhat."

"Then we must act?" Jane asks.

Cromwell shakes his head, "That, alas, is not something that we can do - for we do not yet know how to use the jewels - and even if we did, securing Red Fire would be something of a challenge." Despite everything, she cannot help but chuckle - for he is right. The King is immensely enamoured of his gift from Suffolk, "He loves it greatly," she says, "for he is fond of the colour red. He has not, however, noticed its flaming heart."

"He has not?" I find this astonishing.

"It is not easy to see, Sir Richard." She explains, "The jewel must be held very carefully - at just the right angle, so that it catches the light in a certain way. The flame is hard to find: that is why it took me three days to be able to confirm to you that the ruby was, indeed, Red Fire."

Mary's concern is, perhaps, less surprising. Despite his best efforts, Cromwell has not been able to persuade the King to recall Chapuys to court. The practicalities of doing so seem lost on Henry - and the fact that Campofregoso is even able to interfere in the intelligence that is being gathered has muddied everything considerably.

"Forgive me, my Lady," he sighs, "I have tried all measures that I can think of. His Majesty will not countenance the return of the Imperial Ambassador to court, and I cannot risk asking again."

"You have done your best, my Lord." Jane agrees, for it is clear that Mary is disappointed and intends to ask him to keep trying, "We cannot risk your safety - not when there is so much at stake."

With her stepmother's veto, Mary sighs, "Thank you for trying, my Lord Chancellor. I shall dispatch a letter to him privately."

"I am sorry, my Lady - truly; for I know that it would be of benefit to us all if we could speak to one close to the Emperor. I do not think that he is as keen to go to war as we are being led to believe - but without the Ambassador to question, I cannot fight against the slew of ill reports that are being fed to his Majesty."

He does not need to name his suspected culprit.

We depart from our meeting with little progress other than to see that the Queen's pregnancy is progressing as it should. There are no raveners lurking, so we go our separate ways. As the sunset was fiery again, tomorrow should be set fair.

The letter that Cromwell has in his hands this morning is not encouraging. While the weather has improved magnificently, and the air is warm again; the ground is still rather waterlogged, so we are still at risk of a reduced harvest. Despite Gardiner's apparent smugness at the improved weather, we shall still need to take some steps, so I sign the warrant and hand it to Daniel, who prepares to dispatch the necessary orders to the Commissioners who have been tasked to undertake grain purchases.

As we reach the end of August, even Gardiner has to admit that he was only half right. The improved weather has perhaps saved around half of the available fields of wheat, so grain prices are set to soar. As we have already acted, however, the risk of merchants gouging their customers has been met, as Cromwell intends to ensure that the prices are kept as low as possible. Wolsey set the example, and he intends to follow it.

The news that disaster has been averted seems to bring a sense of relief to those of us in the Council, for the battles over it have verged upon the ridiculous, and shown only some pointless divisions that are an embarrassment to everyone when we should have been working together towards a common goal. How can they be so obsessed only with their rivalries? No wonder Cromwell is so keen to bring in Councillors who are appointed on merit alone. It is not something he discusses much - but I am aware of it, and I am beginning to think perhaps that he is right.

As we sit down to supper, however, Wyatt seems rather subdued, "There is something in the air," he admits, "I cannot pinpoint it - but something is brewing; people are wary, and that never bodes well, for there are factions forming again. I know that they are ever-present, but there are some odd alliances between them."

Cromwell and I are denied access to such circles, so if Wyatt is noticing something going on, we must trust his judgement - for he is rarely wrong. As he takes a sip of his wine, Cromwell turns to Wyatt, "Watch it carefully, Tom. If you sense trouble, then it must mean that there is indeed trouble in the air. Things are delicately balanced at the best of times - I have no wish to become embroiled in foolish infighting between the various retinues of our feuding Lords."

Wyatt nods, and our conversation turns to other matters.

The next morning, however, such thoughts are banished as we have greater priorities. A pipe has burst in the King's chambers, and he has abruptly decided to move. Thus we are to depart for Whitehall.

Chapter Text

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?

Chapter Text

The Council chamber has emptied, except for me. Wyatt has gone, at my insistence - for, despite my sense of encroaching panic at what has happened, the one thought in my mind is that, if Cromwell has fallen, then I am in serious danger of equal opprobrium. Thus the jovial Thomas Wyatt must, for his own safety, flee from me and repudiate our apparent former friendship to avoid being dragged down with me should I not escape. For escape, I must.

I cannot turn away from Cromwell. Even if I could find it in myself to betray him now as once I would have done, our close association is too well known, too commented upon. If I were to claim that I was no true friend of his, who would believe it? No. Even if it could serve me, which I doubt now, I could not do it. I could never betray the Raven. Not even if my life depended upon it.

"I suggest that you not remain here, Sir Richard." The voice startles me, and I look up to see Suffolk standing in the doorway nearby, "Though I think you should know that his Majesty has been informed of the incident that took place. While he is reunited with the brooch, he has ratified the warrant to send the Lord Chancellor to the Tower. In another hour, or perhaps less, he shall dispatch commissioners to seize Mr Cromwell's property."

That can only mean one thing - and Suffolk confirms it, "You should also know that the King has granted approval to the Council to enact a Bill of Attainder against him." He sounds sympathetic - for he knows as I do that this act has been carried out through jealousy and malice, not truth. He might not like me, or Cromwell, but he is a fair-minded man, and I have never seen him act out of vindictiveness. His eyes sad, Suffolk turns and leaves. While he has said nothing of it, I am not fool enough to think that suspicion is not already being directed towards me: as an accomplice if not an equal partner in this wholly fabricated affair. I have very little time to act - possibly only minutes - before the Palace Guard comes to escort me to a barge, and then to the Tower.

I do not dare to return to my own quarters, for that would be expected of me; but where can I go? Grant's Place, assuming it is not seized; but how can I depart without being seen? Even if I could, hiring a wherry would be impossible, as my purse is in a coffer at my desk, and to walk alone through Cheapside in my current garb, unarmed and looking so wealthy, would leave me at risk of being murdered for my fine clothes and my chain of office, so I must disguise myself in some manner. Even a cloak would do - but I have no access to one. There is no one left that I can trust - Wyatt must pretend that we have turned upon each other to save ourselves, Cromwell is even now being transported to the Tower, and may already be there for all I know. Who can I turn to? Oh God, I am so alone…

"Sir Richard?" This time from behind me, this time the voice of a woman. Startled, I turn, and find Lady Rochford nearby, her expression worried, and her movements somewhat furtive, "Come with me - quickly."

I do not doubt her - for only the Queen could have sent her in search of me. There is still someone I can trust. Keeping away from all who might see us, she leads me through the servants' corridors to the Queen's apartments, where her Majesty has again dismissed all but Jonathan. As soon as we arrive, she turns to me, "Jonathan came to me with the news of Mr Cromwell's arrest, for it has spread all about the Court, and I knew that it could not be an arrest based on truthful charges. Thank God Lady Rochford found you - you must leave the Palace, Sir Richard: immediately. The King has agreed to your arrest upon sight."

"I have no cloak." I say, stupidly, for my eyes are now filling with tears as the shock becomes more than I can stand. I never imagined that our mission could be destroyed so easily…and by such means…

Then I am furious with myself, and I pinch myself hard. I am not in the Tower - I am still able to get away from here, what the hell am I doing, crammed with this damned self-pity? I have left that cowardice behind, for God's sake! What use am I to my Silver Sword if I let myself falter now?

"Forgive me, Majesty," my voice is firmer, "I am being a fool - though I should still appreciate a cloak, if there is one available."

The Queen smiles at me, "That is no hardship - for my brother left one here not a day ago. I give it to you with pleasure, for I am deeply vexed with him for his act." She nods to Jonathan, who fetches it for me, "Now, Jonathan shall take you to the Queen's water gate via the lesser known passages - there are some which are for the exclusive use of my servants. I singularly doubt that these would be watched, for none of the council would know of them, so why would you be seen there? Take this purse - for you shall need to hire a wherry to carry you away from here." She hands me a small leather pouch.

"Thank you, Majesty." I drop to my knees before her, for she is our best hope of salvation now. No wonder Cromwell called her the one true hope of the Kingdom. Then, as I rise, I pause, "Majesty - what of my manservant, John? I cannot abandon him, for if I am gone they might harm him in their search for me." Wyatt whispered that he would take Dickon into his service as we hastily agreed how he would appear to have abandoned Cromwell and me, but I have made no provision for John.

"I shall arrange for him to transfer to my service - on the grounds that you have treated him poorly and he deserves a better position." The Queen promises, at once, "I shall also do all that I can to help your cause within the Palace, and I shall make contact with Thomas Wyatt so that we can arrange a means to keep you informed of all that happens here." She advises, "Now go, Sir Richard, and God keep you."

Jonathan says nothing as we make our way through alleys and passages that I have never visited before. I have no idea if Cromwell knows of these, but I suspect that he does. I am in constant fear of discovery, so I call upon my limited skills at silence and stealth, watching Jonathan carefully so that, if he draws to the walls to conceal himself, I do the same. As the Queen hoped, none here are searching for me, though I have no doubt that I am being hunted in the other precincts of the Palace where I might be more likely to be hiding. Thank Christ Whitehall is so large.

The Queen's water gate is well concealed, for privacy; and Jonathan waves down a passing wherry with little difficulty, for many of the Ladies hire them. As no Wherryman would know me on sight, I have no fear of betrayal now, and I thank Jonathan as I board. I suspect that I am viewed to be a fleeing amour of one of the Ladies in Waiting; for the Wherryman's expression is quite knowing. Thus, I am one of many faces, and my departure in his boat shall go unremarked. Once out on the river, our boat shall be one of many, and no one shall notice as we sail past the windows of the Palace.

I am free from the Palace - but God alone knows if I have anywhere to go now. I can only hope that the commissioners did not seize Grant's Place. If they have - then we have all gone to hell.

As the wherry pulls in at the Tower Wharves in the growing darkness, I look about for fear that there are guards waiting; for I cannot shake a conviction that our enemies know where I have gone. There are, of course, none, for my escape thanks to the help of the Queen, could never have been anticipated. I imagine they shall think me to be hiding in hopes of getting to the mews to take my horse.

Never before have the walls of the Tower looked so forbidding - for no one of importance to me has ever been incarcerated there in anticipation of death. Wyatt might have been held there, but he was found innocent and released. Cromwell is inside that fortress somewhere, imprisoned and alone. I wish, so much, that I could tell him that I am safe, and that I have the support of her Majesty to help him. Perhaps Wolsey shall tell him when he dreams tonight. Assuming he can sleep.

To my relief, Grant's Place is occupied and unmolested. We have taken such care to keep its existence hidden, so the King's commissioners missed it. Austin Friars has been confiscated, along with all that it contains, leaving Cromwell's extended family with no home, and no means of securing alternative accommodation. Grant's Place is not sufficient for their requirements, so Goodwife Dawson tells me that they have looked to friends for assistance. She also tells me, to my dismay, that Gregory is here.

"Gregory?" I ask, hoping that, if I question her statement, she might suggest instead that she is wrong.

She nods, "He is the only member of the family who knows of this place - and when he heard the news, it was to us that he came once he found that all of his father's property had been seized."

I do not need this - how can I work if Gregory is present? He knows nothing of his father's true mission; how can I keep it from him if he is in the house all the time? And yet, I cannot help but feel sympathy for the young man who has seen his world collapse in but an instant. He knows that his father has been imprisoned, and the claimed crimes that have led to it; but he cannot fathom how anyone could think such a thing. He is entirely unaware of the depths of vindictiveness that can run riot in the English Court; he does not yet appreciate how deeply men covet access to the King, alongside the financial and political rewards that can accompany it.

"Sir Richard?" he is there, in the doorway of a chamber, as I enter the building and remove Hertford's cloak, "What has happened? Why is my father arrested?"

In that, at least, I can be truthful, "He has made many enemies in the Council, Gregory." I advise him, "For reasons of their own, they have acted against him."

"He is not a spy!" Gregory cries, angrily.

"Indeed he is not." I agree, "Nor is he a thief, and most certainly not a murderer. The charges against him are all false - but I know not how they were planned, and, if I have nothing to counter them, I cannot defend him, or myself; for I, too, am so accused - as an accomplice. That is why I am not in the Palace, for I cannot grant him my aid if I am also in the Tower. And aid him I shall - I promise you."

Supper is most subdued, for Gregory fears for his father, and I fear for him, too. Molly fears for Dickon, despite my assurances that Wyatt has taken him into his service. Dickon has not been Cromwell's servant for long enough to be of interest to those who would bring him down, so he is most unlikely to be molested: for what point would there be? As soon as we have eaten, Gregory withdraws to his bedchamber, while Molly joins Goodwife Dawson in the Kitchens. I do not ignore the opportunity, and hasten to the Library.

Before I do anything else, I hold out my right hand, "Lezviye k moyey ruke." To my great relief, the call works, and my sword is safely in my possession again.

Setting it down at the reading desk, I sit for a while, my head in my hands, and allow myself some time to lose the tight control I have had over myself since I pinched myself in the Queen's chamber. I suppose it helps to cry, for a while at least, to get rid of the tears that have been building from the moment I thought myself utterly alone. Once they have gone, I can get to work.

"Eminence," I venture, once I have recovered myself, "I need you to tell Thomas that I am safe - that Gregory is here at Grant's Place, which is undiscovered - and that Tom and the Queen are working for our salvation. He at least needs some hope in the midst of this disaster."

For once, Wolsey's shade does not insult me for my tears, but instead consents, Consider it done. As soon as he dreams tonight, I shall speak to him.

Now that I am unable to return to the Palace, I am - naturally - in the most desperate need to be there. How am I to know what is happening? There was no time to arrange some means of conveying messages, and now there is nothing I can do to establish something. How ironic that, now I have all the time in the world to search the library, it is the one place I cannot truly afford to be.

I still retain some of my property at Grant's Place, so at least I have clothing other than that which is on my back, and the bedchamber that was set aside for me is always prepared. Having thought that I should be far too tense to sleep, instead I am exhausted, so I set my sword carefully to one side in the Library, and emerge upstairs again. How strange it is that we were burying William this morning, and now, suddenly, all that we thought we had built has collapsed about us - in a single day. It feels like weeks have passed, not hours. All but asleep on my feet, I drag myself to my bedchamber, and fall into a dreamless sleep.

Two days pass before I hear any news. Wolsey has reported to me that he has passed my assurances to Cromwell by that strange means they use thanks to the presence of the Rosary. It appears that the manner in which Wolsey is in contact with Cromwell is very different from that which he approaches me. As Cromwell comes to him, rather than he to Cromwell, the Cardinal cannot see where he is held - and Cromwell himself does not know exactly where he is kept. Fortunately, what he does know is that he is being kept in reasonable quarters, though not of the high standard that would be afforded to one of true noble rank. They have, at least, not placed him in one of the dank cells at the waterline, where the damp is cruel and the light poor.

A butcher's boy calls at the side door with a leg of mutton, and a letter. We are fortunate in that Goodwife Dawson is so highly respected in these parts, and the butcher is such a friend to Dickon. Between them, they have contrived to find a means of transferring messages between the Palace and Grant's Place, so at last I have a method to communicate with Wyatt. Dickon would come himself, as his wife lives here - but the risk of being stopped, particularly if he travels more regularly than usual, means he has opted to use a more circuitous method.

It is as the Queen feared - my apartments were searched shortly after Jonathan saw me away from the Water gate, but John did as told, and made out that I was such a cruel master to him, that he was only glad that I had fled the Palace and offered his best hopes that I should be arrested and tried as the Lord Chancellor had been. I had never once spoken to him of the work that I did, for I demanded he be silent and have no involvement with me except to serve my immediate personal needs. He is now in the Queen's service as an Usher, while Dickon is in Wyatt's service. He had needed a new Man for some time anyway, so none remark at his usurpation of Cromwell's manservant.

All of my possessions within the palace have been confiscated, though there are no current plans to confiscate any other of my properties in the hope that I might run to one of them and, finding it still in my possession, think myself safe. At least, then, my own extensive family shall not suffer for this debacle - or at least, not yet. I can only hope that things do not worsen.

Wyatt's letter goes on to tell me that, as soon as the opportunity arose, Dickon and he crept into the offices and emptied out Cromwell's weapons cupboard. Given the degree of fascination all have with it, for he keeps it carefully locked at all times, there is no doubt that Wriothesley shall be asked to account for its contents at some point. As he has no knowledge of what the cupboard contains, he shall have no answer and must search for it himself. Indeed, it seems that Wyatt's action was not a moment too soon, for the very next day, Wriothesley had the cupboard broken into - and found nothing. But for Wyatt's quick thinking - and the keys that Cromwell entrusted to us, we would have lost the Raven swords.

There has been no progress yet on the Bill of Attainder against Cromwell - though Wyatt has been questioned, but he has taken great care to paint a picture of enmity between himself and I, a falling out that has caused him to abandon me altogether, and with great relief, for he was tired of pitying my friendless state. In doing so, he seems to have convinced Hertford, who has no interest in pursuing him, and Gardiner, who cannot see any hope of finding more evidence to destroy the man he longs to replace. Thus they have left him be; not that he was fool enough to be open in sending a communication to me. I dread to imagine the efforts he must have been put to in order to ensure he was not seen dispatching it.

"The butcher's boy says that he can take any letter back as we need him to." Molly advises, as she hands me a badly needed cup of small ale, "He visits us every day, so there is no need to send for him."

All of this effort - from so many people. And I had thought myself to be alone.

I have been trapped at Grant's Place for just over a week now. Wyatt cannot risk sending regular communications to me, but when he does, the news becomes ever more frightening. It seems that more evidence is emerging, courtesy of the spies retained by Campofregoso, of Cromwell's alleged duplicity - making out that his plans to marry the Lady Mary would have been a forced marriage, for none are fool enough to implicate her in the so-called plot. His Majesty would have been poisoned, as would Edward - for Cromwell was so trusted, who would have thought to keep him from their food? I groan in frustration - how can people believe this nonsense?

Wyatt is becoming particularly concerned that Lamashtu's inactivity against the Queen is merely through an alliance with Campofregoso - for she has been seen in his company, and did he not bring her to Court in the first place? She is now well installed - and, to my horror, is now the King's mistress, as there is no Royal Rosary to keep her from him. All that protects the Queen now is Wolsey's blessing - and if that were to fail, there is no means to re-establish it, for Wolsey needs to use me to do it, and I cannot get to the Palace.

I am beginning to strongly suspect that Lamashtu and Campofregoso have colluded to the point that she has told him that Cromwell is a Silver Sword. As the Genoese was expelled from the House for his failure in the final Trial, the discovery that he can inflict such punishment on the man who succeeded at his imagined expense must have been too great a temptation to let by. He must have been using the King's favour to erode his trust in Cromwell for months - though I cannot believe that Hertford could have conspired with someone so foreign. Gardiner yes, for his desire for favour and the opportunity to counter Cranmer's efforts to progress the Reformation of the Church has blinded him to his principles; but not Hertford. Lamashtu has what she desires - open access to the Royal Family to destroy them as she wishes. Campofregoso has revenged himself upon a Silver Sword. I imagine they are both very happy.

The work on the Bill of Attainder is still in progress, but the debate is likely to be within a few days. The degree of suspicion is such that all seem to have been touched by it other than Hertford and Gardiner. They, of course, being the accusers, appear above suspicion. Wyatt adds that, for a brief time, even Queen Jane was accused - though the King is not, it appears, so enamoured of his mistress that he has forgotten the woman to whom he is married. No one knows who raised the rumour, but the King's rage was such that it was quickly dropped again.

I hate being so helpless - for I have no means of aiding Wyatt, or Dickon, or the Queen as they risk all for our sakes. I know that Wolsey is doing what he can, in his own fashion, to assure us - for he no longer insults me when we talk, and instead makes suggestions and offers ideas in terms of the papers in the library that might aid me in making that final link in the puzzle. If I knew how to use Red Fire and Blue Fire, then I could prevail upon Queen Jane to help me secure them. Though it would still require me to break into the Tower and find Cromwell - but as he has no idea where he is within that great fortress, neither does Wolsey. For every plan we make, there is an obstacle that seems insurmountable.

I must wait another week for Wyatt's next missive, and I groan as I read it.

My dear R,

Things are worsening by the day. His Majesty saw fit to declare Eustace Chapuys a traitor at the end of the last week, and a fugitive from the King's Justice. A mob descended upon his house and surrounded it, hurling stones and crying out for the Ambassador's head. Windows were broken, and the house set alight - but the King's guard did nothing to stop them, or to hold them back, and only worked to put out the fire when it became clear that other houses were at risk. Fortunately, Chapuys was not present at the time - but has fled the realm with naught but the clothes upon his back.

The Holy Roman Emperor has taken great offence at the manner in which his Ambassador was treated, and has written to the King in the strongest terms. Such is his Majesty's fury that he has sent a response couched in the rudest of language - the Council were told of its contents, and thus the news has inevitably spread beyond the Privy Chamber - demanding that Charles stay out of English business, and send less duplicitous Ambassadors in future. Only a fool would not think that he is spoiling for war - as he has not seen conflict since his youth, and is still desirous of military glory.

We await the Emperor's reply - but none of us expect it to be any less than a declaration of war. That which we most fear may well be upon us. For God's sake, R - you must, must, must find the means by which the stones can be used. J promises to take steps to secure Red Fire, and to grant us Blue Fire immediately that Red Fire is claimed All we need is the word from you that this can be done.

T

He is doing what he can to disguise both himself and me - as the front of the letter bears only the Raven sigil. There is no further news relating to Cromwell's fate, but a worse one for England could not be stated. Henry wants to take us to war - and is doing all he can to bring it about. Is he mad? We cannot afford conflict - the exchequer is too depleted; worse, the chaos it would cause, particularly if we lost, would grant Lamashtu the free rein she has wanted from the beginning. Richard Crookback died to stop her - must Cromwell die, too?

Not if I can avert it; and I shall do all I can to do so, even if it means my own life. God, all this talk of dying, and I haven't even started looking for that last instruction. If I find it, then it may well mean that we all live, and isn't that the better goal to aim for?

Despite the rather desperate tone of Wyatt's letter, I must not allow myself to sink into panic - that would serve no one but Lamashtu. Instead, I seat myself at the desk that was once Wolsey's, resting my elbows upon the table and forcing myself to breathe in and out slowly and calmly. There must be something in that library. There has to be - or what was the point of creating it? God would not place this task upon us, and leave us without that which we need to bring it about. I must have faith, not only in God, but in Cromwell, in Wyatt, in the Queen and - most of all - in myself.

Tomorrow, I shall fetch Molly, and the pair of us shall shake out that bloody library until there is not a paper left in it.

Chapter Text

It is difficult to ask Molly to assist me in the Library, as Gregory is with us as we break our fast. He is not a boy any more, and I know that he would not thank me for keeping something such as this from him; but I have no choice. We are sworn to secrecy, and he does not need to know. Not yet.

He is, not surprisingly, still deeply worried for his father, and for his extended gathering of cousins that have been evicted as he has. We say little, for what can we say? Instead, none of us eat much, but instead sit and tear at the bread stressfully, dropping crumbs everywhere. Eventually, he leaves us alone, and I am able to turn to Molly, "I need you to join us in the Library, Molly. We must search all that we can as hard as we can. Wolsey shall aid us."

She nods - for she knows that I can communicate with my predecessor, "I am not sure that there is anything in the Index that can aid us," she admits, "unless I am missing some context or other."

"Has anything new come from the House?" I ask, hopefully, and feel a sigh of relief escape as she nods again.

"A coffer arrived but a day before you did, Mr Rich." She says, "I did not have the opportunity to open it before your arrival - though I did spend some time yesterday looking through it. There are several large books, some packets of papers and a set of loose parchments. I also came across an unregarded heap of books and papers at the far end of the Library a few weeks ago - but I have not had the chance to read them as of yet."

"Then there is hope." I smile, "We might yet find that which we need to save Mr Cromwell."

"Save him?" Gregory's voice is unexpected - and I curse myself for my indiscretion, "Save my father? What do you mean?" He is standing in the doorway looking at us both with a mixture of anger, confusion and - oddly - hope.

"We are considering legal remedies, Gregory." I venture, hopefully.

He glares at me, "Do not lie to me, Mr Rich." His voice is chill, "I may not have my father's brilliance, but do not think me to be a fool. Why is it that all of his properties have been confiscated but for this one? What does it contain that must be so secure? What is the 'House'? I do not even know who you truly are - or why my father trusts you to the degree that he does. You are the Solicitor General - I know that much, and you have worked alongside my father in guiding the course of the Reformation of both Church and Government - but he does not grant his trust lightly. What have you done to earn it?"

Molly and I exchange a glance, and she rises to leave, "It is your decision, Mr Rich." I nod, and she departs.

"Sit down, Gregory." I tell him, and wait until he is seated, "What do you know of your father's work?"

"I know that he is the King's Lord Chancellor, and that, until but two weeks ago, the King trusted him absolutely. He was responsible for ensuring the good governance of this realm, and administering the King's will." He pauses, and sighs, "I know, too, that he was hated for his work by many, until the reforms he instituted began to filter down to the common people, and they saw his actions were carried out with thoughts for their benefit as much as those of higher blood."

I am relieved to hear that - for the one thing we had feared was rebellion, and I know that it came close to it in the North some months ago before the reforms for the benefit and education of the poor began to be properly implemented by the commissions. Dispatching his most trusted commissioners to conduct unannounced audits as Cranmer advised had saved us from a fearful rising, of that I am sure.

"And that is all that you know?" I ask.

Gregory nods, slowly, "I was never sure why I was asked not to mention Grant's Place when I was at home, or at Cambridge. I assumed it to contain treasure of some sort - for Father was always concerned that the King's favour might be lost, and he had no wish to leave me without means should he falter."

"It does contain a treasure, Gregory," I say, quietly, "but it is not money, or jewels, or gold. It is information."

"About what?" the youth asks, "What information would need to be kept so secret?"

"Information that could put nooses about our necks, or bind us to stakes. For it contains books that are banned, tracts that are considered so blasphemous that to merely possess them could condemn us. We move in a world that travels with that of all people - but is far more dangerous and dark. None know of it, and we do all we can to keep it that way, and to protect others from its risks."

I have no choice. Gregory is still looking at me as though I am lying to him - and I cannot ask him to keep a half-secret: to do so would insult him. I am sure that Cromwell shall forgive me; for he had intended to bring his son into royal service as soon as he had finished his studies, and in doing so, he would have had to reveal his secret to him. I am Cromwell's Second, and if he cannot tell his son himself, then it should be I.

"Gregory," I turn to face him, and look him in the eyes, "What I am about to tell you sounds ridiculous, and fantastical - but it is absolutely true. Your father is engaged in a battle against the forces of darkness that encroach the Court. He is a member of a secret order of warriors known as Silver Swords - and he bears the name 'Raven' in doing so."

Gregory looks at me steadily, but says nothing.

"As a youth, younger than you are now, he survived an assault upon a household in which he lived by a creature that was neither dead, nor alive. By the good offices of God's love, he was saved from death by another Silver Sword - who discovered your father had the ability to detect infernal creatures. Consequently, he was placed into the Order to be trained in diplomacy, languages, manners, stealth and fighting. When he left that place, he was considered to be the foremost talent the Order had seen in two centuries or more, and so was sent to the English Court, for the danger there was considered to be the most great."

"And what are you to him?" Gregory asks, apparently taking my words in good faith.

"There are very few Silver Swords, Gregory," I continue, "Many are itinerant, and seek out trouble - it was one such as these who came upon your father in his hour of need. Some, however, those who are considered the most capable, are placed in the Royal Courts of Europe. In order to assist them in their work, they are assigned a companion, known as a Second. It is their job to search out information, keep watch and assist their Silver Sword in all that they do. I am your father's Second. He has saved my life more times than I can count - and I have been privileged to return that favour. I would risk all, even my life, for his."

"Is this why he is in prison now?"

I shake my head, "No - not entirely, for those who have acted against him have done so out of jealousy over the favour he had with the King. I think that one of those involved may have done so out of a desire for revenge, however, for he was also learning at the Order when your father was there. He failed to complete his training, and was expelled, while your father earned his swords at the same time. It is a coincidence - a cruel one, but a coincidence nonetheless."

Gregory makes to speak again, but I forestall him, "I wish I could be more thorough in my explanation, for I know even now that it sounds as though I am making up stories to gull you and keep you from learning some other truth - but I cannot afford the time to tell you in better words. Time is short, and we must seek out vital information that shall aid us in bringing all the threats against England to an end in one stroke."

"Then let me help you." Gregory says, at once.

"I…" how can I refuse him? He is desperate to aid us in saving his father from a cruel fate, and even if he does not believe me, he still knows that I am working to the same end. I must do it - he does not deserve less.

"Come with me," I say, rising from my chair, "I shall show you the treasure that this house guards."

Molly is hunched over the reading desk when I bring Gregory into the Library, and she turns in surprise to see that I am not alone. As mine did, and hers did, Gregory's eyes widen at the sheer size of the library, and all that it contains. We are most fortunate that he is as academically minded as we are.

"If I did not believe you before, Sir Richard," he says, very quietly, "I do now."

I reach for my sword, "Your father gave me this, Gregory; last summer when we were faced with large hordes of demons that were being sent against us - primarily in hopes that I should be killed in the fight. He has two that are very like this - though not so highly decorated." I draw it for him, and his eyes widen at its simplicity of form, and its complexity of decoration. Molly has never seen the Damask blade either, and she is equally fascinated by it.

"What is Molly's function?" Gregory asks, suddenly, clearly wondering why she is there.

"We discovered that she has a remarkably quick mind, and a great deal of natural intelligence, Gregory." I tell him, "She is therefore apprenticed to me as a Second in training."

He nods, then frowns briefly, "Who assembled this library - my father?"

"No, his former Second did that - Cardinal Wolsey."

Again, I hear incredulity, "Wolsey?"

"Cardinal Thomas Wolsey was probably the most highly trained Second the Order had ever seen, Gregory." I explain, "He was selected and began training for the role while your father was still a youth - for none had yet been sent to the English Court following the death of Richard Crookback - who was the last Silver Sword in Royal service. When he died, and the King's father took the throne, he brought peace for the first time in many years - and thus stopped the plans of a demoness in their tracks. She has been doing all she can to end that peace, and it is to that end that we have been fighting; as she must be destroyed. We thought that Wolsey would be the one at your father's side when he faced that final battle - but it seems that it was not for him to do."

"Even though he had been so highly trained?" Gregory asks, "And I assume you had no training at all?"

"None." I agree, "I did not even know what a Silver Sword was until two years ago - when I found your father in our offices, near dead from a stab wound. But for a remarkable fluid that he carries, he would not have lived that night. Indeed, but for that fluid, I should be dead twice over."

"We shall have much to discuss when this is done."

I nod, "But it is not done yet - so we must set to work." Besides, I know that if I do not chivvy us up, then Wolsey shall almost certainly start flinging insults at me, "Molly, could you show the Index to Gregory, please? We should exhaust that before we begin working on the uncatalogued papers." I pause, "Oh, you should not be alarmed if I start to talk aloud, Gregory - for Cardinal Wolsey may be dead, but he is in Purgatory, and has been granted the facility to talk to me. I suspect he shall hear all that we say, but only I can hear him when he replies."

I return my sword to its scabbard, and set it aside, as Wolsey comments, Do you think Thomas shall thank you for telling his secret to his son?

Rather than startle my helpers by speaking aloud nearby, I head away, amidst the shelves to where the more obscure tracts are kept, "It is better that he knows now, Eminence. He can help us - and it keeps him occupied, for while I worry, I have no doubt that he worries far more. Besides, Thomas intended to induct him into royal service before the year was out, so he would have to have been told sooner or later. I should have preferred it to be Thomas that told him - but we were not granted that luxury."

Try the papers in the packet MLVI.

As I reach for the packet Wolsey indicated, he speaks again, Tell the girl not to bother with MII

"Molly," I call through.

"Yes, Mr Rich?" she asks.

"Wolsey says not to bother with MII."

"Yes, Mr Rich."

As I emerge with the papers, I can see Gregory looks most unsettled, "You did ask, Gregory." I remind him, as I take the papers to a spare space on the nearby dresser and examine them by candlelight. There seems to be little in them that is of immediate help to us, so I set it aside to take upstairs for a closer examination later on.

Now that Gregory is more acquainted with Molly's method of interrogating the Index, he begins to take over, as he has no idea where the papers are once she identifies them. In short order, we have found a means of working as quickly as we can - Gregory identifies something, Wolsey confirms or rejects it if he can remember what it contains, Molly finds it, and I examine it. Some are immediately of no use, and she returns them, while others are set in a pile for further perusal in better light.

Hunger drives us out of the Library in time for dinner, and we eat as quickly as we can before returning to the darkness again. Even as we descend, I know that we have no choice - the papers already in the library are of no help to us - we must look to the uncategorised papers again, and hope that there is something there. The only problem with that is the sheer quantity, and that we must examine them with far more care than anything in the Index, for there is no short note explaining what the papers contain, so they must be read in detail. While Wyatt has not sent a letter recently, I am aware that the Bill of Attainder must be under discussion by now - and if it is enacted, then the time we have available to us rests entirely upon the whim of the King. He might keep Cromwell locked up for months, or send him to the headsman in no more than a few days - we have no way to know.

With so much to examine, I ask Molly and Gregory to go through the uncategorised papers already present in the library, while I search through the coffer most recently received from the House. There is less there, so it is easier for me to work alone, while two pairs of eyes search the greater quantity of papers below. Wolsey cannot see inside closed books or packets, as he was relying upon his extraordinary memory in order to tell us what might be useful and what was not. As he has never seen these, he can offer us no more aid.

The papers in the coffer are numerous, and many are in Greek, which only I can read, unless Gregory has some ability with it. They cover mythical beasts, the pantheon of Greek gods, legends and tales that might, or might not, be allegorical; but there is nothing that leaps out at me as being relevant - none of the goddesses have two mouths, there is no mention of two coloured fire, or of anything that might mean something akin to 'Gemfire'. By the time Molly and Gregory emerge from the Library, barely a quarter of the way through their pile of papers, I have finished mine and found nothing. They are hungry again, as am I, so we repair to a chamber to sup. We are all tired, and our eyes are strained. My head aches, so Goodwife Dawson offers me a cup of warmed perry steeped with feverfew to ease it.

Gregory is keen to return to the library to continue to work, but I know that we would not work well now, as we are tired and strained, "No, Gregory - I should like to do the same, but it is at a point like this where we might miss the very thing that could save all. It is better to rest tonight, and resume on the morrow, for then we shall be refreshed, and my head shall - I hope - not be aching so much."

He sighs, but does not argue.

My sleep that night is broken by dreadful nightmares, dreams that show me terrible failures, death and suffering beyond any possible understanding. First I see Cromwell on the scaffold, surrounded by people shouting for his head - and he must submit. I am amongst the crowd, and I try to call out to him, but my voice makes no sound. Instead, I must watch as the executioner stumbles, and then makes four hideously failed attempts to remove Cromwell's head - until one of the guards pushes him away, snatches the axe, and finally ends it - and I wake, damp with sweat, and sit up in the dark, trembling, until my tiredness overtakes me again and I sink back amongst my pillows.

Then I am walking amongst long lines of burdened people in slow, shuffling flight from something that I cannot identify, for none will speak to me. The men seem bitter, the women miserable, the children hollow-eyed and tearful. What are they fleeing? Where are they going? None will say - except for one, and I realise that it is my own wife - who looks at me as though I am the devil. It is your fault she hisses, viciously, all of our babes are dead on the altars of she with the snakes on her hands! You did not find the Gemfire! You are to blame! And then she is gone - but I am surrounded instead by raveners. And then she is there - Lamashtu, resplendent in her victory. The Raven is dead, Second, she says, and now, so are you - and then the raveners are upon me, ripping into my body, tearing out my organs and feasting as I must watch them…

This time, I know that I scream out as I wake. I am not sure whether this is my own mind playing cruel tricks upon me, or something telling me what shall happen if I fail - though I suspect it is the former, for I do not believe in precognition. I have been so afraid of failure for so long, that perhaps it is only to be expected - but still I cannot bring myself to sleep - not again…

But I do - I must do, for the next thing I know, it is morning, I am slumped awkwardly over the pillows and there is sunlight streaming in through the dormer alongside my bed. Despite all, I am more refreshed than I expected to be, and I hope that no one heard me as I shouted in the night. Fortunately, if any did, none mention it as we break our fast, and Molly, Gregory and I return to the Library to pick up where they left off while I was working through the coffer.

The pile is discouragingly large, but there is no point in complaining, and we split it between the three of us, just as Cromwell, Wyatt and I did when we were looking for the bestiary that was claimed to offer us information about Lamashtu - but which turned out to be a book of shadows. Rather than battle with poor light, we bring the piles up into the daylight-bright chamber, and seat ourselves upon the floor.

Our progress is painfully slow, for we cannot afford to miss anything. Fortunately, most of what we have consists of individual papers, some of them short, and these are quickly checked and discarded. Cataloguing them can wait for another time - all we want is that one, vital instruction that shall tell us how to summon the Gemfire, and, hopefully, an explanation as to what it actually is.

By the time Goodwife Dawson knocks upon the door to advise us that dinner is ready, we have perhaps cleared a half of the pile, but as the other half contains the books - some of them large - this afternoon promises to be slower even than this morning. I do not admit it, nor do my fellow searchers, but I know that I am dreading the task.

Having dined on beef, bread and a sallet, I know I am not the only one to feel a sense of reluctance to have to endure dragging through the books that lie in wait for us. The papers were a simple matter, but these shall require endless concentration, for we cannot afford to miss even the smallest hint that might lead us to the help we seek.

The light is starting to fade in the late afternoon as Gregory stops and frowns, concentrating upon something.

"What is it?" I ask, trying not to sound as desperately hopeful as I feel.

"A note in the margin of this book, Sir Richard." He advises, "It seems to have no relevance to the text - as though the writer placed it there for want of anywhere else to write it."

"What does it say?" I prompt, rather unnecessarily.

"In manibus Corvus et succendetur et igneous hostium premum tenebris lumen." He does not translate, for he knows I understand Latin, and Molly is also proficient, though she frowns as he has spoken rather more quickly than she is used to, so I translate for her, "In the hands of the Raven, the two fires shall burn and the light shall chase out the dark."

Her eyes widen, as she realises the significance of the words, and her excitement matches mine. It cannot be anything else but that which we have been seeking. In the hands of the Raven, the two fires shall burn. The Raven is Cromwell, the fires are the jewels - the light that chases out the dark must - must - be the Gemfire. Did not Cassandra say that only the Gemfire could destroy Lamashtu? In a single sentence, Gregory has told me all that I needed to know. I must secure Red Fire and Blue Fire, and give them to Cromwell - in his hands, they shall form this strange Gemfire, and he shall defeat Lamashtu once and for all. We have it - oh dear God, we have it…

I am on my feet, and so is Molly, and we are all but dancing in our excitement at the discovery. Even at our feet, Gregory is laughing - for it seems such a magnificent victory, even though we have done nothing more than find the instruction. Actually carrying out the plan is entirely another matter.

"What must we do now, Mr Rich?" Molly asks, excitedly.

"I must find a way to obtain the jewels Red Fire and Blue Fire," I tell her, "The Queen can assist me in that - and so can Mr Wyatt. Then we must find a way to get into the Tower, and hand the two jewels to Mr Cromwell…" and my voice fades. God, it sounds so simple - but I know it cannot possibly be. I cannot get into the Tower - I should need a warrant to do so, and who would give me such a thing?

No. No - I shall not kill our victory, small though it is, with such thoughts. We should revel in it tonight, and the practicalities are something I can consider tomorrow. It is too late to send a message to Wyatt today anyway - so I can draft it in the morning, and dispatch it via the hand of the butcher's boy. He can then plan with the Queen, and we can set all in motion to destroy Lamashtu - we are so close to winning…so close…

Our supper is celebratory, though we are all dreadfully dusty from having to replace all the papers back in the Library before we came out of the Chamber in which it lies. I am still refusing to think about the plans that I must make in the morning - that we have reached the point that we have is further than we have gone in all the time that I have been searching, and I have no doubt that Cromwell shall be most delighted that it was Gregory who found the words that shall prove our salvation.

We are sharing a pitcher of hippocras when there is a knock at the door, and Goodwife Dawson's face when she enters the chamber in which we have supped is one of bemusement, for she is not alone. Wyatt is with her.

"Tom?" I ask, confused - God, please don't say that he has had to flee the palace, too…

"I had to come myself, Richard," He says, then stops, as he sees Gregory at the table.

"Speak, Tom - he knows all, here, sit down." I guide him to a nearby chair.

"I cannot stay here tonight - there is an Inn nearby that I shall use instead," he says, "but I could not put this in a letter - for I know it shall inspire questions."

"What is it, Mr Wyatt?" Gregory asks - for he has met Wyatt as well as I. From his face, I think he has guessed what I am also beginning to suspect myself.

"I bring grave news, Richard. I'm sorry Gregory, though I am glad that I can tell you as well, rather than leave you at the mercy of rumours and gossip." He turns back to me, "The Bill of Attainder has passed - and it is now an Act. As of this moment, all of Thomas's property belongs to the Crown, and he is stripped of all honours granted to him. It has been agreed that he shall die a traitor's death, though at this moment it is not known whether that shall be hanging, drawing and quartering, burning - for he is also condemned as a heretic - or whether his Majesty shall commute the sentence to beheading. I suspect that he shall do so, but nonetheless, the warrant is being prepared, and Thomas's life is now in the hands of the King."

I cannot move, nor can I speak. Beside me, Gregory utters a faint groan, and Molly is quickly beside him to offer what support she can. I feel as though my legs shall give way beneath me - we had come so close - but how on earth can we act now? What if the King decrees that Thomas die in a matter of days? Might he wait longer? How can we know?

"Her Majesty promised me that she shall do all that she can to persuade the King to wait - though her influence is limited, and I shall do all that I can, too - but again I can do little."

"I have the answer…" I whisper, faintly, "I know what to do with the gems…I must speak to her Majesty, for I need her help…" then I drop back into my chair again, weakly.

"Give me the message, Richard - you cannot return to the Palace. I shall pass it to the Queen tomorrow."

No. It must be in your hands, Richard. Wyatt cannot replace you. The jewels must be placed in the hands of the Second by the one who shall save all. From that point any can carry them - but it is her blessing, and your loyalty, that are key to what follows."

"What?" I say, aloud, for Wolsey has spoken again - how did he know that? Did it come to him because we found what we did?

"I shall pass your message onto…"

"No, Tom - not you. Wolsey said something. The gems have to be given to me by the Queen - not to you. After that, it doesn't matter - but she has to give them to me herself." I pause for a moment, "But that was not mentioned in the marginalia, Eminence - how do you know that?"

I continue to break rules. Cassandra knows you have found it, and what must be done. There is, after all, a Greater Good to be maintained.

"He has managed to speak to Cassandra - the other Second we know of." I explain to Wyatt, who is bemused and awaits an explanation for Wolsey's interruption.

"But there is still the problem of transferring the Jewels - the Queen cannot leave the Palace - not without all knowing."

I turn to Wyatt, "Then I shall have to go back."

Chapter Text

Wyatt is not happy at my decision, "If you are seen, you shall be arrested, and all of this shall be for nothing, Richard. You may not be one of the great Lords, but you are hardly nondescript - all the guards know you, and shall be looking out for you."

"Then I must not be seen - speak to Dickon, and John - there must be a means by which I can enter that is not watched?"

He sighs, as he realises that I am quite serious, "Remain here - dress as roughly as you can on the morrow and await a note from the usual route. I shall speak to John if I can, and he can then speak to her Majesty. She is aware of the danger we face, and is most keen to help us avert it - so if I do not include her in this, she shall be most vexed, I think."

"Besides," I remind him, "she is our best hope of success, regardless of any plans that we might make."

Wyatt turns to leave, and I grab his arm, "Do not abandon me here, Tom. If I do not hear from you, then I shall come anyway." I cannot help but fear that he shall leave me waiting, in hopes of keeping me safe.

He turns back to me, resting his hands upon my shoulders, "I promise you, Richard, that I shall do as you ask. Please be patient - I shall set to work first thing tomorrow, for it is too late to return to the Palace tonight. You may need to come on foot, so I shall attempt to set things in motion as early as I can. The first act must be to bring you safely into the Palace again; we can take further steps once you are there. If I cannot arrange for you to be housed tomorrow, I shall send word to ask you to be ready for the next day."

He departs into the growing night, leaving us silent and fearful in the chamber where our supper remains largely untouched. All depends now upon my returning to the Palace, where I am a wanted man and could be arrested on sight. It that happens, then we are truly helpless, for even Wyatt could not talk his way out of that.

Gregory is silent, his eyes fixed upon the cup that is still in his hands, the drink within unsupped. He had been so jubilant barely an hour ago, for he had found the words that could save his father - or so we thought. Now, all hangs in the balance, and I cannot give any assurance of success, for - again - it seems to hinge upon me.

Despite my simmering tension, I am deeply tired, and I retire to my bedchamber. As I have some garments, including one that could be considered akin to that which I have long since called my 'hunting' outfit - battered, black and rough - I can comply with Wyatt's first instruction. His promise that he shall not leave me here to protect me is one that I know that I can count upon - but God alone knows who he must bring into our plot in order to transfer me safely back into Whitehall. If he were to choose poorly - then we are all dead.

Wyatt? Choose poorly? Dear God, I am being stupid - he has never misread any man in his life.

While I wish that I could sleep, I am still rather afraid to, for I dread the risks I must take in the morning. I am well known within the Palace walls, albeit as someone to be disliked, and I lack the deep knowledge of the hidden ways known only to the servants. I have some awareness of them, but not sufficient to use them as Cromwell does.

I sink down on the bed, wishing I could speak to him, to hear his assurances that he trusts me. I do not trust myself - for never before has a plan hinged so utterly upon my succeeding in my endeavour. How many times have I failed now? If I fail again, then all goes to hell.

I shut my eyes, and feel only anger at myself. If all hinges upon my not failing, then I must not fail. It is as simple as that. I. Must. Not. Fail.

When I wake the next morning, I can hear rain battering against the mullions on the dormer, and against the tiles upon the roof. My momentary disappointment at the lack of dry weather in which to make my journey is dispersed by the realisation that bad weather is now my greatest ally. Who will notice another wet servant in the pouring rain - what guard will want to be lingering beside gateways when warm shelter is nearby? No - I could not have hoped for better.

I am in a fever of anticipation for much of the morning, until Goodwife Dawson enters the chamber in which I am waiting, a note in her hand which bears the sigil of the Raven.

R

Come today. D shall await you at the small door by the Deal Yard, and from there take you to the Ushers' Dormitory - neither are watched, for none of the great Lords would even know of the door and the passages that lead from it, though we have hunted there.

Remain there until I come. JR is aware, and LR shall assist us. Bring damask with you if you have it.

T

I have to think for a moment before I remember that 'D' indicates Dickon; but now I know where I am to go. As I have traversed Cheapside frequently enough, albeit on horseback, I shall at least not lose my way between Grant's Place and the Palace. Strapping my sword to my back, I wrap myself in the heaviest of the cloaks in the house, and a wide brimmed leather hat rather than a bonnet, which would simply get soaked, for the rain is still very heavy.

The walk to the palace is cold and horrible, for there is no shelter from the pelting rain, and the paving is slick with unmentionable substances amidst the mud that spatters my boots. It also takes far longer than it would on horseback, for even though Adrian tends to plod rather, he still moves faster than I do. I am not noticed, however, for though there are not many people out in such vile weather, those who are tend to be wrapped up as thoroughly as I, so I draw no stares.

By the time I reach the approaches to the palace, I am drenched, shivering and I have a blister on my left heel. Having approached from the East, however, I do not have to skirt around the enormous complex of buildings, for the Deal Yard is one of the first locations that I approach. Most men of my standing would be on horseback, and would enter the Mews - which do have guards stationed. I am not so important that they are set there for the sole purpose of capturing me, however, for guards are always present. Instead, I make my way down towards the river, and am brought to a halt by a sharp hiss as I pass a doorway.

The man within is bundled up as I am, but he pulls the folds away, and I recognise the birthmarked face of Dickon, who is both pleased, and perturbed, to see me.

"Are you well, Sir?" he asks, nervously.

"Wet to the skin, cold as death, but otherwise unharmed, Dickon." I tell him, "How are we to proceed?"

He instructs me that I should follow him, keep my head down and stand to his left, so that I am closer to the walls. Most do not notice servants or tradesmen; but I must not look too furtive - if I do, I shall stand out like a rook in a dovecote.

Thank God for the rain. There is not a soul in the Deal Yard as we enter, and make our way across to a door that leads to a maze of corridors known only to the servants. I have probably traversed these routes myself when hunting, but they are as resolutely unfamiliar to me now as they would have been two years ago, and I am entirely reliant upon Dickon to guide me.

I am, however, astounded at how populated the Palace is with servants - I had no idea that there were so many. Busy as I am with legal matters, I have no involvement with the running of what is - in terms of population - something of a small town, and the sheer numbers of people could not be a better disguise if I asked for it. None question my presence, for there is not a soul anywhere who could truly say that they know every face in the servants halls. There are no guards nearby, and those who would know my face are conspicuous by their absence. I should be lying, however, if I said that I was not afraid of discovery.

The blister bursts, and I curse - unable to stop myself from limping at the sudden increase in pain. Fortunately, we are but a few steps from our destination, and Dickon ushers me into a wide hall in the attics, where the ushers for the higher born ladies of the Court rest their heads at night. John sleeps in a place such as this. I had no idea.

There is but one other person in the room, and that is Jonathan. Being one of the Queen's pages, he seems to have some seniority amongst the young men who reside in the attics and he takes me through to his own quarters, which are separate from those who serve lesser beings.

"I have found a steward's uniform in the Queen's livery, My Lord." He advises, "I was, alas, obliged to guess in terms of size, so I cannot vouch for the fit. If you could change into it, I shall advise Lady Rochford of your arrival." He then turns and leaves. Fortunately, Dickon is able to help me untangle myself from the sopping cloak, and I am more than grateful for the dry clothes, even though I am now dressed as a servant, and in a livery that is slightly too big. Better that than too small, I suppose.

By the time he returns, with Lady Rochford at his side, I have changed, and done what I can to dress the blister - for I cannot afford to draw attention to myself by limping. I suppose I must look most ridiculous, for the first thing that Lady Rochford does upon seeing me is burst out laughing.

I wait for Lady Rochford to stop laughing, for I am not sure whether it is that the suit is too large for me, or that I wear it at all, that is responsible for her mirth. I have not seen myself in a mirror, so I have no idea how well disguised I appear in the Queen's livery. I can only hope that the clothes themselves serve to make me invisible - for who notices a servant?

"Forgive me, Sir Richard," she says, eventually, "I am unused to seeing you in such garb. Mr Wyatt could not come, for he is in Council and could not be seen to be absent from it. Follow me, I shall take you to the Queen's Chambers. You shall pose as a Gentleman Usher - though as this is your first day, you are present to observe, not to serve."

"And you'll call me Sir Richard in public?" I ask her, raising an eyebrow.

"Do you have any other names?" she counters, facetiously.

"I have plenty - though most cannot be repeated in polite company." I admit, "I think it best if you just drop the 'Sir'. I cannot be the only Richard in the servant's quarters."

Then she sees my sword, "You cannot carry that openly." Immediately, she turns and leaves. I wait, confused, until she returns with a large bundle of folded bedlinen and conceals the blade within it. Apparently content, she turns to me, "Come on then." And we depart.

I keep my head down, even though we are still in the corridors that are used solely by servants - and hunting Silver Swords, for I am horribly afraid that I shall be recognised, even in my borrowed livery. As before, however, few of the servants care, for they have their own concerns; and, when we do leave the safety of the back corridors to enter the halls used by those of higher rank, none pay me any mind. It seems that my clothing does make me invisible. To them, I am just a nobody following a Lady in Waiting - and it is a most sobering thought.

The Queen has, again, dismissed her ladies when we arrive in her apartments, and Jonathan is already present, a tray bearing a flagon and a goblet upon it in his hands. As he sets the tray down upon a table, a man's hand reaches for it, and I am suddenly terrified, for I am not the only member of the Council in the room. Hertford is present, too.

Her expression gives nothing away to me as the Queen enters the room. It is only then that Hertford turns to see who has come in. His eyes pass over me only briefly, and he notes Lady Rochford - but then he pauses, and his eyes flick straight back to me again, "You…" he hisses, and he is on his feet at once, "What the hell are you doing in the Queen's Apartments?" He draws in breath to shout…

"If you so much as speak a word, Edward," her Majesty says, suddenly, "then God help me, I shall have you thrown bodily from the window!"

"This is a known traitor, Sister!" Hertford counters, "Why is he in your chambers? He is to be arrested on sight - and we have been seeking him for near on a fortnight!"

"He is here, Brother, because I asked him here, as I asked you." She snaps, "Of all the creatures upon the King's Council, you are the only one that he trusts whom I also trust. I beg you, in God's name, do not prove me wrong."

"You forget who I am…" He begins, but she is far more assertive now than she was when we faced another argument over who had authority over whom.

"And you forget who I am. I am Queen, and you are my subject. Only one man may command me, and that is his Majesty. You are as much my subject as you are his."

Hertford glares at her, but changes tack, "Why Rich? He is a known associate of the traitor Cromwell - and his freedom is forfeit - perhaps even his life! What have you done, bringing him into your presence?"

"What I have done," Jane says, angrily, "is to offer my aid to two men who are all that stands between this kingdom and disaster! England is on a precipice, Edward - and beyond lies a degree of hell that no man could ever wish to envisage - and it is you who has put her there! If we are to draw this realm back from a horror and slavery that could bring all of mankind into darkness, then you must not stand against us - you must help us!"

He stares at her, open mouthed, and for a moment I let myself believe that he is horrified at her warning - but his words prove otherwise, "Lord above, Jane - what nonsense to you speak? Have you truly allowed that base traitor to fill your head with dramatic foolishness, or perhaps you have read too many romances! The only threat to this Kingdom is the duplicity of Cromwell and the Holy Roman Emperor - for it is their plotting that has brought us to the brink of war!"

"I speak no nonsense - you are oblivious to all that happens within this court that is truly dangerous - for only we see it! The threat to this Kingdom is not the Emperor, nor is it even the King of France! The danger we face is here: she is among us and has the favour of the King, and the only man who can destroy her now lies in the Tower awaiting the headsman!"

"She?" Hertford scoffs, "Can you truly claim that England is threatened by a woman?"

"God have mercy upon us all!" the Queen cries, suddenly, "Every minute that you waste in this is a minute more that endangers your King - and all of England!" She turns to me, "Tell him, Sir Richard. Tell him all."

For a moment, my mouth goes dry - for I had not expected to be drawn so precipitately into their argument. How many more people must know the secret of the Raven? It is meant to be just Cromwell and I…

But I have no option - either I speak, or we lose all; so I must, if I can, persuade a man who despises me that I am telling the truth.

"Her Majesty speaks the truth, your Grace." I begin, somewhat nervously, then clear my throat and try again, "The 'she' of whom she speaks is a Demoness of such power that she unbalances all of creation. Her name is Lamashtu - and we have been seeking the means to destroy her for two years or more. Almost none know of the undercurrents that swirl about them - for those who do are few in number, and those who can fight the darkness within those undercurrents smaller still.

"Each Royal Court has a single agent installed within it - they are of a Secret Order of warriors blessed with the facility to sense Demons - and are known as Silver Swords. Others are itinerant, but those who are the most talented serve Princes. The one assigned to guard the Court of Henry is named 'Raven', and I am sworn to his service."

"And Cromwell is this 'Raven', I take it?" Hertford asks, his voice dripping with scepticism.

I nod, and I feel my hopes shrivelling, for it could not be clearer that the Earl does not believe me; but still I must try to convince him, so I continue, "He possesses two blades, a merging of steel and silver, which can destroy demonic creatures - for they cannot survive the touch of silver. I also have one, which Cromwell gave me when we fought to keep the Queen safe as she carried the Prince Edward." I turn to Lady Rochford, who carefully opens the folds of the bedlinen to allow me to reach for my sword. Surely this - with its unusual form and shape - should serve as some evidence of my honesty?

"Your Majesty - may I?" I ask.

She nods, "Draw your sword, Sir Richard - show my thick headed brother the gift that the Raven granted you."

Without hesitating, I pull the weapon free, and even Hertford cannot help but admire the beauty of the blade, "This is an antique, my Lord," I say, "I have used it to kill demons with my own hands. For they are real, and they threaten us more than you could imagine. It is Lamashtu that both keeps them at bay, and sends them to us - for she answers to none, and all that is infernal on these shores fear her. Given the opportunity, she would turn this island into her own fortress to launch darkness upon all of mankind. That opportunity is chaos - and that comes from War. All that matters to us is to avert that, and keep the realm safe."

Hertford snorts, as though amused, "You are deluded, and you have gulled the Queen with your fantasies."

I glare at him, but still he goes on, "It is the orderly government of this realm that is of most importance, and that is achieved by those born to do so - Cromwell is a commoner who sought only to empower himself. He gained far too much power for one so low-born, and that is contrary to the order of things. Besides - he has stolen from the King, and that is, above all, unforgivable."

That is more than I can stand - after all that I have endured since Cromwell's arrest, my flight, my helpless imprisonment at Grant's Place, being unable to do anything to assist my Silver Sword…to hear that…

"Thomas Cromwell is no thief!" I shout, furious, "God above: of all the things that we have been obliged to do in the King's name - his loyalty is unimpeachable, and he would never - never - steal from the King who granted him such favour and trust! NEVER! He has risked his life time and time again for a Kingdom that sees nothing of his sacrifice, nor cares - and he has never once demanded a reward, or sought thanks! He would, if he had to, lay down his life to save that of the King, and his Majesty knows nothing of it - nothing!"

I pause for breath, and realise that I have shocked Hertford into silence. He stares at me, and for the first time, I think I might have persuaded him that I am not lying. Mad, perhaps - but not lying.

"You did not faint when my son was born, Edward." The Queen says, much more quietly, "You were rendered unconscious by the very demon that even now holds sway as the King's mistress. She had come with one express purpose - to kill the Prince. Now she is in a position, should she so wish, to destroy the child I carry within me, along with me, Prince Edward, the King - and whoever she wishes. And - as I have said already, the one man who can prevent all of this is now helpless within the walls of the Tower - and his life is forfeit."

His expression uncertain, Hertford turns and sits down on a nearby divan, where he remains silent for some time, as though turning a thought over in his head, "I cannot help but feel that I am being used." He admits, eventually, "Perhaps I have acted wrongly - though I thought my actions to be right. We are of the Gentry, Jane, which grants us privileges above those of the commons - Cromwell has no noble blood of any description."

"He has talent, Edward." Jane reminds him, quietly, "Talent in such measure should outweigh blood or rank if it is of benefit to the King's service, surely?"

"It is not the way of things - it is the natural order that those of high birth govern those of low birth - not the other way about." It is as though he is trying to find some justification for his actions and thoughts.

"I thought like that, once." I add, "But as I was of higher birth than Cromwell, I believed I could think so. I am not much more than a commoner myself - so that merely made me a hypocrite."

"Perhaps I too willingly followed Gardiner's lead." He adds, "For his arguments were most persuasive - Cromwell's presence was an affront to the government of England, and, by extension, an affront to God. Those of high birth are granted the responsibility of governing those of low blood - and he served to overturn that. Or, at least, that was how I saw it."

"Gardiner is interested in only one thing." I cannot keep the bitterness from my voice, "He wanted to steal Thomas Cromwell's political power and favour with the King. That is all that matters to him - other than the accumulation of wealth, and the destruction of all whom he considers to be heretics."

Hertford utters something that sounds like a snort - but without mirth, "That, I cannot deny."

"How long before he considers you to be a heretic, Edward?" the Queen asks, then, "He has the power he seeks almost within his grasp - and, once he has it, do you think he shall still desire your allegiance?"

"He would drown England in blood." Hertford admits, "He would wade in it if it brought him the chance of a Cardinal's hat - for he is as fanatical for the Catholic faith as some are for the reformation. If he could drag each of those speakers to the fire, he would do so - with his own hands if need be."

"And, in doing so, he has brought England to the edge of disaster." I finish, quietly. Please God - let him see…

Finally Hertford sets down the goblet that he has been toying with, "I allowed myself to be wilfully blind. In my quest to prove myself a Noble, I allied myself with a blinkered fanatic and it appears that I have done a greater harm than I could possibly have imagined when first I agreed to talk to Gardiner. And as for you, Rich, I have never seen sincerity so great from you - for you know as well as I that your reputation for duplicity and untrustworthiness is extensive and far-reaching. And, of course, you have done the unthinkable - instead of fleeing, you have come back into the lion's den - an act singularly out of character for one such as the man I thought you to be"

"Brother," Queen Jane says, earnestly, "time is short. If you have helped to pull England to the edge of damnation, then now is the chance for you to help us pull her back from it. Prove yourself to be as honourable as our father was - God rest his soul - and stand with us. We cannot do this alone, for I lack your freedom to act, as does Sir Richard. I am a woman, he is a hunted man. Only you can move freely about the court now, for Thomas Wyatt is equally lacking status - and that is what we need the most."

Hertford remains silent a little longer, "I have been blind - but now I see." He says, eventually, then rises to his feet, "Sir Richard - I must ask that you forgive me, for I have allowed my desire for honours to guide me into perilous waters, and in doing so, I have endangered an entire Kingdom."

I bow to him, "I do so, willingly, and I ask you to forgive me for our foolish trick last year when we drugged your wine. We needed to speak to the Queen on a matter of her safety - and we could find no other way."

I hear an amused chuckle from the Queen, but Hertford merely sighs at her mirth, "Then we are even. I shall do all I can to assist you in your endeavours. Whatever aid I can offer you, I shall."

Chapter Text

The Queen eyes her brother, firmly, "Then you are with us, Edward?"

He returns her flinty gaze, "I am, your Majesty." The fact that he has called her neither 'Sister', nor 'Jane' says much for his sincerity, which is only compounded by his bow.

"All, then, is as it should be." She smiles, "For I have taken steps already to put a plan into action. Lady Rochford?" she turns to her Chief Lady, who nods, turns to a small coffer, and retrieves a black velvet pouch.

"This was a costly purchase, I fear," the Queen sighs, as she takes it, "but in the face of all that might be lost, it is a cost worth bearing." Opening the pouch, she carefully tips a gloriously red gem into her hand.

"God above, Majesty!" I cannot help myself, almost overwhelmed by my relief that all has been accomplished so easily and quickly, "You have it! How did you obtain Red Fire?"

She smiles at me, "This is not Red Fire, Sir Richard; but, in my study of it to seek out the flame at its heart, I became well acquainted with its looks. This is also a great ruby - and of identical cut - from the finest gem-cutter in London. It is my intention to swap it for Red Fire. As the King has never found the fire within it, he shall never see that it is not the gem he believes it to be."

"How much did it cost, Jane?" Hertford asks, almost nervously.

"If I told you, then you might truly faint." She admits, "I was obliged to part with some of our mother's pieces in order to pay for it."

"Then tell me where they were placed, Sister. I shall purchase them back, for the sake of our mother's name and for those that the King might wish to see you wear. Please, God, tell me you did not include any of the Royal richesse in your haul."

"I am not that much of a fool." She retorts, "Though Lady Rochford was kind enough to offer some of her own pieces - those that she was able to save when her husband was attainted."

Hertford sighs, "Perhaps you should furnish me with a list."

"I shall." She smiles at him sweetly. Hertford rolls his eyes, and I think I might be seeing a sibling ritual that has been a long part of their lives.

"How do you intend to switch the gems, Majesty?" I ask, for, if Wyatt is to be believed, the King is so enamoured of Isabella Sofre that I cannot imagine that he has even considered her presence for some time.

That is more simple an affair than you might suppose, Sir Richard," She says, briskly, "His Majesty has indicated to me that he would appreciate an invitation to supper from me at some time in the near future - and he has made it quite clear that it is at my discretion, and if I invite him, he shall come. I suspect that the presence of my rounded belly has reminded him that he has a prospective Duke of York to be thinking of."

She may love him, but she is not blind to his faults.

"As we have time to prepare, I shall issue that invitation today, for him to sup with me tonight - and perhaps even play cards for a while. Since he recovered the brooch, he has never let it from his sight, and wears it at all times that he is not sleeping. Thus I know that he shall wear it."

"Do you suppose that he shall allow you to work it from its setting, Jane?" Hertford asks, sceptically.

"Of course not, Edward," she replies, "When I was examining it to seek out the heart of flame within it, I noticed that it was loose in its settings, and I suspect that a solid knock - such as falling to the floor - could well dislodge it from its mount. I know my husband well, Brother; and I am more than able to charm him into allowing me to examine the brooch."

"Even after he lost it?

"Even then." She glares at him, "Thus, when the jewel is in my hands, I shall drop it - and claim that my hand was moved by my babe's kick - for it is moving within me now. Should the jewel come free, I can then reach for it and replace it in my hand with this ruby, and restore them to his Majesty with great remorse."

She seems to be waiting for a comment from us - but receives none, so she continues, "I shall then contrive to pass the gem to you, Sir Richard, and you can remove it to Mr Cromwell. I have already prevailed upon Jonathan to work Blue Fire from its housing upon my diadem - and I have it here." She reaches to a purple velvet pouch on a nearby table, and holds it out to me.

"If you are to pass the jewel to me, Majesty," I add, "then I must be in the room - though I fear I should make a dreadful servant."

"You shall stand to the side, Sir Richard - I have a number of ushers, who stand ready in anticipation of need. I suggest that you come to my aid when I drop the ruby."

"At which point the King recognises the missing Sir Richard Rich and calls the guards to arrest him." Hertford says.

"I rather think you overestimate his Majesty's ability to notice servants, Edward." Jane bristles.

"Livery or not, I recognised him the instant I saw him. He is a Privy Councillor, for heaven's sake - even the King could not be so blind!"

"Perhaps I should pass them to Lady Rochford, then…" she muses.

I shake my head, "That, you cannot do, Majesty. I am given to understand that they must pass from your hand to mine - I think it centres around being passed from the hand of the one who is to save all, to the hand of the Second." I screw my eyes shut as I dredge the words back up from my memory, "Your blessing, and my loyalty, are key to all."

"That I never expected to hear in the same sentence, Rich." Hertford smirks, "You and the word loyalty."

"Stranger things have happened, your Grace."

Queen Jane watches us a while, and sighs, "I agree, Edward. I think we would be most foolish to risk the King seeing Sir Richard as he is - even in the livery of an Usher."

"Do you wish me to hide, Majesty?" I venture.

"Yes - but in plain sight. I think there is one way that shall certainly cause the King to fail to recognise you."

I stare at her, dumbly; what does she mean?

She smiles again, "It's quite simple, Sir Richard: you must shave."

The invitation that Queen Jane dispatches is beautifully composed and written, and she is quite convinced that it shall bring his Majesty to her door this evening. In the care of Lady Rochford, it shall be delivered to the King via the Groom of the Stool.

I, on the other hand, have a far more disconcerting appointment, as Hertford grabs my arm and all but drags me into the Queen's bedchamber - a place I have absolutely no wish to go even if it were not to have my beard removed - while dispatching Jonathan to his quarters to fetch his shaving kit, for I certainly do not have one.

As Hertford sets to with a pair of scissors, trimming my beard almost to my chin, I imagine that he is relishing this; repayment for being made to fall into his own supper when we drugged him. By the time Jonathan returns with a wrapped bundle, I cannot imagine the disastrous mess that has been made of my previously neat and well tended facial hair. As I have no mirror in which to view it, however, I am not obliged to endure the sight of it.

Having deposited the shaving accoutrements, Jonathan leaves again, but returns with a basin of hot water. He views the floor at my feet with a sigh, for Hertford has not thought to lay down anything upon which the bristles are falling - so instead they adorn the carpet, and are scattered all over the front of my servant's livery. Sometimes, it seems that the high born are so high minded that they forget to be practical. But then, that is - it seems - what servants are for. Hertford does, at least, have the thought to stand aside with a sheepish air as Jonathan rather pointedly brushes down my doublet, and drapes a cloth about my throat to catch what ragged stubble remains.

I sit very still as Jonathan carefully lathers the wreckage, before beginning to work with a horribly sharp looking razor. I have not been shaved for longer than I can remember, and it is now that I realise why; for my chin feels as though it is being peeled. Slowly, almost painfully so, Jonathan patiently scrapes away, though his expertise is such that he avoids cutting me - but, again, I think this is because I do not dare to move.

When, at last, he is done, I feel a strange sense of chilliness against my throat and my face, for the air is reaching the skin for the first time in many years - I have not been clean-shaven since I was a youth. Almost tentatively, I reach up and touch the newly bared skin; and then Jonathan brings over a looking-glass, causing my eyes to widen in disbelief. I can barely recognise myself, so I have no doubt that the King shall fail to do so.

"Most impressive." Hertford approves, "Between your face and your livery, I think you can hide in a corner and, as the Queen wishes, be in plain sight." He pauses, then turns, "Remember: say not a word. While I doubt that his Majesty can recognise most of us from our voices, it is not worth the risk."

I nod - still rather shocked at my appearance.

Hertford waits only for Jonathan to re-pack the shaving equipment and pass it back to him - for Jonathan must remain, but the Earl should not.

"I shall deliver your sword to Wyatt, Sir Richard." He advises, then departs, while the Page sets to work on clearing up my scattered stubble from the carpet as best he can.

As he does so, I sit still, and ponder the one part of our scheme that is the most open to failure. While Red Fire might well be loose in its mount on the brooch, this does not mean that it shall fall from the mountings upon cue - and what if it does not? It could all fall apart in a single instant…

Jonathan leaves the chamber with the bundled cloths and the basin. With no one else present, I risk seeking help from the one untapped quarter, "Eminence, I think we shall need your help this evening - we cannot guarantee that the stone shall fall from the brooch if it is dropped. Can you assist us?"

There is no answer - but then, as the Queen's apartments are far from mine, and I do not have the coffer that Wolsey uses as his anchor, I should not expect one - not if Wolsey is to have sufficient energy to do what must be done. But then, I am not sure that he would even have that - so I cannot help but wonder if I have placed an unfair burden upon him. I do know, however, that he shall try; and that is all that can be hoped for.

I am still seated in the bedchamber when the Queen enters, and laughs at the sight of me, "My poor Sir Richard - what a change! I think that his Majesty most certainly shall not recognise you, for the difference is quite startling!"

"He has accepted then, Majesty?" I ask.

She nods, "He shall be here in an hour, which give us ample time to make arrangements. Jonathan shall serve us, for he does so frequently, and the King expects it. There is usually at least one other usher present, as is Lady Rochford, but I shall replace Paul with you, and send Lady Rochford to the Hall - I can say with certainty that the King shall not notice the change, for he pays no attention at all to the young men in my service. If our plans succeed, then you shall need to have a reason to depart, so I shall send you out to fetch Lady Rochford to me."

"What if his Majesty attempts to help you while you swap the jewels?" I ask.

She smiles, a little sadly, "That, he shall not do - for he lacks the agility to rise from a kneeling position, and thus shall not attempt to assume one. You should remain in place until I am upon the floor myself. Do not take too long to come to me, or he shall almost certainly strike you for being tardy."

"Yes, Majesty."

Jonathan hastily shows me where I should stand before he sets to work on the table. While supper would not be the largest meal of the day, the King seems quite able to gorge himself on a repast that would look excessive in comparison to a midday dinner to be shared by Cromwell, Wyatt and myself. The sheer quantity of victuals is astounding: a stuffed capon, a roasted carp, a fricassée of quail's eggs, a baked ham, several loaves of bread, roasted artichokes and that strange new vegetable from the east, that I have not yet dared to investigate, that they call cauliflower - liberally spiced and roasted. I suspect that is there purely for show - for such exotic foodstuffs are expensive. Perhaps Campofregoso paid for it.

It is, however, only as I smell the abundant victuals that I remember that I have not eaten since I left Grant's Place this morning, and I wish desperately that I could steal something from that table. So quickly have events piled upon me that I had not noticed whether I was hungry - but now I am. To see such a repast laid out before me, and yet to be forbidden to touch it, is a surprisingly miserable experience.

Jane smiles at me with sympathy, for I think she can hear my growling stomach; but even were it possible for her to offer me something to eat, there is no time. A discreet knock upon the door sends Lady Rochford to open it, and she admits the King, leaning upon his favourite Groom, Culpepper. He is dressed in a fine purple doublet, over which is a black, furred simarre that reaches to his knees. His jewels are, as always, extensive and ostentatious - and he wears the brooch, even though the ruby clashes ridiculously with his garments.

"Madam" the King says, as she curtseys deeply to him.

"Your Majesty," she smiles, "Welcome, please - be seated."

With Culpepper's assistance, the King lowers himself into the thickly upholstered chair set for him, before dismissing the youth. Still smiling, the Queen also dismisses Lady Rochford, who bobs a curtsey, "I shall be in the Hall should you need me, Majesty."

And it is just the four of us: The King, the Queen, Jonathan - and me.

"Are you well, my Lord?" Queen Jane asks, warmly, "You look well, but for your leg - is it troubling you again?"

"Not overly much, sweet Jane." Henry smiles at her, "Though I have been most pressed today. It is hard sometimes to accept the duplicity of those one trusts."

Despite herself, I can see her pale at this - for all dread the King's declaration of distrust, but he continues, oblivious to her sudden fear, "I was obliged to sign the warrant for the execution of that traitor Cromwell this afternoon. I have commuted his sentence to beheading. He shall die on Tower Hill two days from today."

Thank Christ I am standing against a wall. If not, I should surely have swayed and fallen - and I can feel the colour draining from my face at the thought. This cannot be happening, it cannot…we have only two days to save Cromwell, or all is lost. What if this does not work? What if we cannot switch the jewels? What if…?

Focus, Rich. Focus! Do not falter! Stand up and stand up straight! I keep the thought in my head and do all that I can to force the dreadful horror out. I cannot afford to show emotion now: I must be detached. I must focus - for Cromwell needs me now more than he has ever needed a Second before. If I fail him, then I have truly killed him - and I will not do it. I will not.

Queen Jane has the presence of mind not to look at me, I note, as I pull myself together. Instead, she nods, "That is most sad, my Lord - for I had thought him to be most loyal. How he has deceived us." Despite her calm, I can hear a brittle note in her voice. She does not wish to describe him so - even in order to retain the King's sympathy.

"Indeed so, my Beloved. It is, perhaps, my own fault - for I should have known better than to allow a man of such base blood to rise as high as he has. Only a Noble could truly be trusted - and if I find that equal traitor Rich, then God help him, for there shall be no mercy! It shall be Tyburn for him, dragged there on a sheep hurdle!"

And he has no idea that the equal traitor Rich is standing barely five feet away from him. God above, what if he recognises me now? But he does not even spare me a glance, instead reaching towards the capon with hand and knife, "But let us not talk of such things - for the Kingdom is safe from their wretched plotting, and they shall both pay for their calumnies with their lives. Our little Duke of York shall be born safe into a world where we are undisputed, and unmolested."

Slowly, gradually, and with great skill, Queen Jane charms her dangerous husband. It is, to be sure, a true education in how, as a woman, to manage Henry: for it is a perfect balance of flattery and compliments, seasoned with a light tang of teasing that pleases him inordinately. She might lack education, but she is both filled with common sense and skilled at seeing to the heart of people. Were she not pregnant with the King's babe, I could not help but imagine that her manner could be a precursor to attempting to conceive one. I am grateful that I can so enjoy her expertise - for it distracts me from my fears. Not so much for myself - for it is patently clear that the King has not even noticed me, clean shaven or otherwise - but for Cromwell: who could be destroyed by the simple act of a malicious accusation and a wrongly convinced King.

Jonathan expertly clears away the victuals to a sideboard, and replaces them with plates of comfits and sweetmeats. How on earth the King can still stand to eat, I have no idea, for he has devoured an almost impossible quantity of the enormous repast set before him. But he does - reaching for a handful of sugared almonds, and dropping them into his mouth, one by one, crunching them with his teeth with a sound like a dog crunching at a bone. For a moment, I feel quite sick.

"I am so glad that you have retrieved your brooch, my Lord," the Queen smiles, "I was so dismayed when I heard that it had been taken from you."

"Another crime for which that damned bastard Cromwell shall pay, my beloved," the King belches.

"Might I be permitted to see it? I do love the cut so much."

For a ghastly moment, I think he might refuse - but I have underestimated Queen Jane, for her smile is so coy, her eyes so wide and doe-like that he laughs indulgently, "Of course you may, lovely Jane - for I know that you of all people would not steal it from me - for you have stolen my heart first."

God, now I really do feel sick.

Smiling, he unfastens the brooch from his doublet, rather clumsily with his large, grease-covered fingers, and holds it out for her to take. As he does so, however, his hand seems to leap violently to the side, sending the jewel hurtling from his grasp to land not on the carpet, but upon the marble tiles of the floor. Such is the shock of the landing that, as we had hoped so desperately, the ruby is shaken from its moorings and leaps away from the filigree gold to land right at the feet of the Queen.

Wolsey. I think to myself. How he did it, being a shade, I do not know, nor do I care. Even so, I remain still, for neither the King nor Queen move - until she hastily slides out of her chair to crouch on the floor, fumbling for that fallen jewel, as she equally carefully reaches into a concealed pocket under her skirts. As she does so, I hasten forward to assist her, for the last thing I need is for the King to start berating me, in case he realises who I am.

As her babe is causing her belly to protrude now, she has no difficulty transferring the false ruby to her hand, and she then palms Red Fire as I reach her, passing it to mine as I carefully take her hand to help her back to her seat, for Henry has not moved. It's in my hand now. I have it…I have Red Fire…my God…

"My Lord!" she says, her expression mortified, "Oh dear, my Lord - the ruby has come adrift!"

To the relief of all of us, the King's answer is kindly, "Fear not, my lovely Jane, for it is still here - and what has fallen from its mount can be placed back there. Here, let me take it back and set it in my scrip for safety."

Without hesitation, she returns the brooch, and the flame-less ruby, to the King - before grasping my wrist, "Please fetch Lady Rochford to me, she is in the hall."

Rather than speak, I bow - rather more deeply than I would if I were not playing a servant, and hasten from the room.

I cannot believe it - the ruse worked. It truly worked! I dare not run, but still I walk as swiftly as I can through the corridors that I know shall lead to the Hall. While I am not as capable at finding my way as Cromwell is, I shall…

Oh God…I almost stop, as I remember the words of the King. In two days' time, Cromwell is to go to the block…

It takes a great deal of fortitude to make myself continue; for I know that, even if he must die, Cromwell shall gladly do so if he has destroyed Lamashtu first. That is all that matters to him now - and if it is the last thing he does upon this earth, then he shall be glad of it. I just wish I could be sure that it isn't.

Lady Rochford does not see me at first, for she has seen me only briefly without my beard, and it is only as I am almost beside her that she notices. I nod at her, and she nods in return - rising from her place at the table where she has supped, and departing the Hall.

Now to find Wyatt.

I can only assume that he is awaiting me in his quarters, so I hurry there. The ruby is still in my hand, gripped tightly, while the purple pouch containing blue fire is in my pocket. Despite my livery, I do not stop to knock at Wyatt's door, but instead burst in without preamble. He is sitting by his fire, and turns in surprise, "Who are you? Did the Queen send you?"

Heavens - he has not recognised me, my disguise is clearly better than even Hertford thought it might be.

"It's me, Tom." I step forward, so that he can see me in the firelight, for while there is still some daylight, it is fading, and little is reaching into his chamber.

"Richard?" He leans out of his chair, squinting, "God's blood! Richard! What do you look like?" and he is laughing.

"Stop your mouth up, Wyatt!" I shout, for the urgency of our situation cannot be more desperate, "Time is short - the King has signed the warrant, and Thomas dies in two days!"

He is immediately silenced, "God, no - what do we do?"

"I have them, Tom." I manage, my voice shaking a little, "I have the two jewels - I have Red Fire and Blue Fire." I open my hand to show him the ruby, and fish out the pouch to retrieve the sapphire. For a moment he is frozen, open mouthed at the sight of the gems that I hold. I have not searched for the fires within them, for it took Jane three days to catch the trick of finding the red fire, and my sighting of blue fire was naught but a fortunate fluke, so I have not the time to waste. As they sit together in my right hand, however, they seem almost to glisten for a moment - as though they are alive, and know one another.

"Then let us away, Richard." Wyatt is out of his chair and hastening across to a sideboard, "Hertford came by a while ago - it seems that he has changed his heart and is now with us. He left your sword and a warrant to enter the Tower. I did not know what to make of it - so I was perhaps rather wary, but it seems that he was not deceiving me."

"He was not. Come - we need to get to the Privy Stair - the light is fading, so God knows if there shall be a wherry we can hire at this time." I carefully replace both jewels in the pouch, and set it in my pocket again.

Our journey to the riverside is taken with great care, for we are both now armed, while Wyatt carries Cromwell's two swords as well as his own, and I have no cloak to conceal my sword. Fortunately, the weather is balmy, so cold shall not trouble me for lack of the cloak, as long as we are not seen with the weapons.

By the time we are at the Privy Stair, the number of boats is small - but one lone Wherryman answers Wyatt's hail, "Can you take us to the Tower Wharves?" he shouts across.

"That I can, Master - for I wish to tie up there. Come aboard!" he replies.

I cannot believe our good fortune, and we board hastily. It is then, as the wherry pulls away into the ebbing tide, that I hear it - a faint, faint voice that I can barely make out.

She knows, Richard. She knows - when the stones spoke to one another, she heard them. Lamashtu knows that the stones have been united - and she knows where to go to find the one for whom they are meant. Hurry, for God's sake, hurry…

Wolsey - Lord, he sounds so weak - but he has nothing to which he can anchor, and it must have taken so much out of him to call to me so far from my quarters - and after he had struck the King's hand, as well. But his words are the worst I could have imagined. Lamashtu knows that we have the two gems - and that we are taking them to Cromwell. She has only a short time left to destroy him, so we are racing her to the Tower, and it is almost certain that she shall get there first.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

At first, nothing seems to happen, and I wonder if I have done something wrong - for shouldn't something be happening? Where is this Gemfire?

Lamashtu screeches with laughter at my failure - yet another failure… "He has the jewels! And yet he stands dumbly before you, Second! You have failed - and this shall be your last failure!"

Cromwell does not speak - nor does he turn to look at me; though if he had, he would see only devastated horror upon my face - for nothing has happened. What did I do wrong? Oh God, what did I do wrong?

Moving slowly, he transfers the sapphire from his right hand to his left, and now has a gem in each hand. Calmly, without a word, he stands still, and eyes Lamashtu - as though waiting for her to act against him.

Grinning vilely, she laughs again, and shifts her feet to step forward - but does not move. Her eyes narrow, and she frowns - but still her legs refuse to obey her. As a look of confusion and disbelief crosses her face, it is nothing compared to the wild hope that I feel - for something is happening. Why else would she be so held?

"Release me, Raven!" she screeches, "Or, if you will not, fight me!"

He still does not move - his eyes upon her, his expression implacable.

"If you do not fight me, then I shall destroy your Second, Raven!" she screams, and she is facing me again. I cannot stop myself - I shrink from her, for I could not stand to be pulled back into that hellish nightmare in which she held me before I dropped the jewels.

"Stand still, Demoness. You shall not harm him, nor shall you harm the Poet. They are under my protection."

The voice is not familiar - and yet, at the same time, it is. It is Cromwell's voice - but it has a strange, crystalline quality to it, a chill, brittle tone that has the clarity of glass. He is speaking - or perhaps something else is doing so; I cannot be certain, for I have no idea what is happening.

Slowly, flickering tongues of flame begin to spread from Cromwell's palms to the backs of his hands, then they gradually extend to his wrists - one blue, the other red - fire and ice together. Yet he is neither frozen nor burned. The fires spread onwards, up his arms - flickering about the linen of his shirt that does not shrivel or scorch - until they move across his shoulders and torso, moving downwards and meeting like the waves from the trail of two ships at sea.

As they do so, the red and the blue begin to merge, becoming a luminous violet that begins to spread back and forth as the two flames blend into one - from the neck down, he is alive with that shimmering aura, and I stare at his face, for there is no expression now - and the colour has vanished from it as though Cromwell is dead, and all of the blood in him has drained away.

Then the violet flames begin to move upwards, spreading about his head to enclose him utterly, and his eyes glow brighter still - two glittering crystals that flash that same bright lavender-toned fire. He is there - and yet, at the same time, he is not. His humanity is gone - and all that remains is his form.

Lamashtu stares at him, her eyes wide and vicious, "None are protected from my wrath, Raven - the Second and the Poet are at my mercy - and I shall destroy them both in agony for your presumption!"

"I forbid it." That same, crystalline sound - and yet Cromwell's voice is somewhere within it. He is there…and yet he is not…

"You cannot forbid me!" Lamashtu screeches, mockingly, "I answer to none!"

The strange creature that stands before us in Cromwell's form eyes her without emotion, and then speaks, "You answer to one. You answer to me - for my power is that of the very beginning of all things. I saw the birth of the universe, I saw the creation of all things and that imperative that drives all creatures to live. I am all the power of the Word, held in a single point in time and space. I am the Gemfire."

She screams out, though I cannot tell if it is anger, chagrin or disbelief that calls that wordless noise from her mouth. Her eyes maddened, Lamashtu turns to us, and raises her hand to snatch at me - but cannot. It seems that this strange thing - this amalgamation of man and crystal - this…Gemfire…has her entirely in its thrall.

"Face me, Lamashtu." That strange, glass-like voice commands, "In the Beginning was the Word, and its power resonates throughout all of creation. You would overturn the Word if you could - and end all of existence. That shall not be."

"There is nothing that can command me!" Lamashtu screams back, as though she believes sufficient repetition might make the words true.

"Those which are created cannot." The Gemfire says - for that is what it claims to be, "He who spoke the Word will not - for that would destroy all things. Thus there is but one - neither creator, nor created. The essence of the Word, encased in two crystals, brought together by blessing, loyalty and forgiveness. The conditions have been met. Thus each of us hold human form - and your time is done."

"I shall fight you!" she declares, madly, "You cannot destroy me!"

"I can. And I shall."

I stare in dismay as, as she did in the priory, Lamashtu extends her hands and appears to draw two great black, smoke-like swords from the air. Cromwell is unarmed – Wyatt has the Raven blades – so I dread to imagine what she shall do this time. He could not defeat her; she was too strong…

The Gemfire does not seem perturbed. It watches her impassively, before also extending its arms. To my astonishment, an equal pair of blades extend from the flickering violet hands; one red, one blue. As the smoke of Lamashtu's swords encompass the darkness of night, the blades of the Gemfire glitter like the crystals from which they were born. The Raven blades could not defeat her – but perhaps these might?

Lamashtu utters a snarl of anticipation, taking up her stance and watching as the Gemfire matches her. Despite its apparent absorption of Cromwell, it still stands as he does, the coloured blades held ready as they would be were he the one about to fight. Perhaps he is – I cannot tell. Instead, I turn to look at Wyatt, who shakes his head in wonderment; smoke against jewels. I can almost imagine the poetry that such a sight shall inspire. God above, what am I thinking?

The Demoness and the Gemfire face one another: one snarling, the other silent. It seems to me that they shall never move again – until Lamashtu strikes out with one of her smoke-black swords. Immediately, the Gemfire parries the blow, before striking back at her. It is not a forceful blow; but still, as the blade slips past her extended arm, the blade slices into her – and this time, the wound it draws does not close.

She shrieks – not so much from the pain, but from the discovery that, this time, she cannot heal herself as she did when sliced with a silver blade, "No! You cannot harm me! I am beyond the command of all things!"

Instead of continuing to rue this discovery, she hurls herself at the Gemfire, the two swords slashing viciously at those of her opponent. And yet – as she strikes, those blades open wounds in that flickering violet flame; but they close as soon as the blade has passed by. This time, it is she who discovers her blades have no effect. Her voice rising to a furious scream, she begins to lash violently against the jewel blades, a strange amalgamation of red, blue and black sparks and shards flying about in all directions as the blades connect. In that instant, I notice the expression on the Gemfire's face – for it shows that same exhilaration that I see in Cromwell when he fights; it is not him – but it is…

Neither seem likely to tire – for both are non-human. As their battle becomes ever more violent, Wyatt and I find ourselves retreating from the fray. Lamashtu falls back against a wall, stone shards scattering, as she evades a determined slice of the Gemfire's blade; but then she leaps forward, hurling herself at the flaming, crystalline being and causing it to tumble backwards, before it leaps back to its feet as I recall Cromwell doing the first time I witnessed his fight with a ravener. They slash at one another, and strike out with such violence that each in their turn seems to be thrown either against the wall, or even the ceiling. And yet, each time, the one who falls gets back to their feet and resumes battle. God, they shall be at this even as the dawn comes at this rate.

Finally, the Gemfire's swords slash forth with such speed and strength that the two blades in Lamashtu's hands are scattered into nothing, as though all that had gone before was merely for the sake of fighting, "Enough, Demoness. Your power is at an end. You cannot fight. You cannot harm those under my protection. Thus you shall meet your fate." He does not even sound vaguely winded.

Her eyes become fearful, and it is clear to me that she cannot disobey the commands of that strange, violet-flamed form that stands before her. Her beauty is fading, as the evil within her is drawn inexorably to the surface - a cankered rose in the Garden of Eden. Was she the Serpent, perhaps? Was that not one of her totems?

She cannot harm us, nor can she fight the Gemfire - but there is still one option that is open to her, and she turns back to the flaming form before her, "Then I shall flee - for you cannot remain in that form for long, even less now that you have wasted your energy fighting me - you must return to the stones that contain you! Why do you think I fought you? I shall not be taken!"

"You shall not move."

And again, she is forced to obey that crystalline command. The words are utterly devoid of any emotion, though there is an expression upon Cromwell's face - one of implacable determination. It has no feelings, this Gemfire - it does not care whether she pleads, whether she fights again after her first attempt achieved so little or even if she might beg. Thanks to its strange amalgamation with Cromwell, Lamashtu cannot harm him, she cannot harm us and she cannot flee. Such is the reward for her presumption.

"I am the living form of the Word." The Gemfire says, the words cold and dead, "All that you are is an abomination, for you are a disturbance of the balance between light and dark. All that is, all that was and all that shall be will not stand for such an aberration as you. You have taken that which was not yours to take - and thus you shall pay the price."

Those violet eyes flash fire again, and Lamashtu screams. All that remains of her beauty is torn away by that livid brightness, and I see again that creature that I glimpsed so briefly in the Queen's apartments on the night that she attempted to destroy Prince Edward. As she was then - she is horrible, a vaguely human form with the feet of a bird, grey, leathery skin with two horrible scaly wings, while snakes writhe from her hand and her woman's part. It is her face that is truly ghastly - for it appears almost split in two. Two chins, two mouths and noses - but only three eyes, each like that of a snake, though her left eye is red, and her right eye is blue and the middle is black. Her hair is gone - I can remember it from that night in the priory when she taunted Cromwell in that chair; long, black and lustrous - replaced by lank flaps of that horrible, leathery skin.

The eyes are maddened, and the two mouths open as the demoness roars her rage - but still the Gemfire shows not even a flicker of feeling, as it steps forth, the twin blades retreating back into the form of the jewels that bore them; Red Fire in its right hand, Blue Fire in its left. Even as her twin mouths gape, the creature of violet flame and crystal forces its hands into those fanged orifices, depositing the gems within.

"Stop up thy mouths, Demoness." The Gemfire demands, "They shall not depart from thee until all is done."

It seems ridiculous that she should do so - but Lamashtu, despite all her efforts, cannot disobey that implacable command, and her mouths close, the Gems still within. Red Fire beneath her red eye, and Blue Fire beneath the blue one. Ever emotionless, the Gemfire steps back, and waits.

Strangely, despite all that she has done - the harm that she has inflicted, the horrors she has sent against Cromwell and against me - I find that I pity her. I do not know why, but I do. She is helpless against a being more powerful than she, and even though she has brought this end upon herself, the destruction she faces now is truly absolute, and there shall be no comfort, or mercy.

She utters a long, drawn out groan, that would have been a scream had she been able to open the two mouths that scar her face. At first there seems to be no reason for her to do so - but then I notice her skin beginning to crack, and peel away - as smoke exudes from the openings that form. The fires that neither burned nor froze Cromwell are within her, too - but she is not so fortunate. Blue fire causes her skin to crack, while red fire burns her from the inside out. The groans become more agonised as she burns, writhing and twisting. I shudder, for I have witnessed burnings, and those who are bound to the stake do much the same - as though there is something human about her after all.

The Gemfire watches her impassively, showing neither compassion, nor mercy. Even though she burns, she does not combust - her form still writhes and cracks, showing flames within her - but still she stands. How can this go on? Surely she must be able to die and end this horror? I cannot help myself, for the awful sounds of her agonised torment are beginning to distress me, "For God's sake, Thomas! End it for her! Please!"

For a moment, the Gemfire does not move - as though its pitiless lack of concern is greater than my need for the horror to stop. Dear God, I have had my fill of torment tonight - after what she did to me, I do not want to witness any more…

"Thomas Wyatt. Bring me the Raven Blades." The Gemfire is looking at Wyatt now, who stares at him in deeply unnerved uncertainty, before retrieving the two swords from the bundle of his cloak. Dodging around the writhing demoness, he hands the sheathed weapons to the violet-flamed shape that is, and yet is not, Cromwell, before hurrying back to my side again. The blades did not harm her before; so I can only assume that, as the jewels are now within her, she can no longer withstand the power of silver.

Setting the two blades at his waist, the Gemfire draws them, and holds them aloft, the blades crossed, "For your presumption, aberration, this is your reward." Still without emotion, the Gemfire sets the blades against her throat at their crossing point, and slashes each outward - scissoring through that leathery, bony neck in a single stroke.

For a moment, it appears as though nothing has happened - she is still standing, and her head still rests upon her as though the blades passed through her and left no cut behind. Instead, she is still; as though frozen in that moment, her three eyes wide and staring at the Gemfire, her previously shut mouths now open in shock.

Within her, through the horrible ice-rimed cracks in her skin, I can see the fire seem to swell, then recede, then swell again - the rhythm going faster and more violently with each passing second. I have no idea what is happening and, when I exchange a glance with Wyatt, it is clear that he is no more certain than I.

Then - without warning, the demoness suddenly bursts apart; the explosion silent, but sufficiently violent to sweep all of the wood and dust in all directions away from the source - and both Wyatt and I are thrown heavily backwards to land painfully upon the flags several feet away.

Winded, my vision rather blurred, the first thing I can just make out as my sight settles again is that same figure, flicking violet flames - standing as unmoved as it was when first it came into being. It is, however, alone; for Lamashtu has vanished, and there is not so much as a mote of dust to show that she ever existed.

She is defeated - and she is gone.

For a moment, both Wyatt and I are too stunned to move, and we remain where we are as the Gemfire slowly replaces the blades in the scabbards at its waist. Then it looks about at the devastation, and finally speaks, "As it was, so it shall be again."

While I have firmly resisted any suggestion that there are supernatural powers at play in this world - for almost the entirety of my adult life, there is no escaping the evidence of my eyes as I watch what follows. The shattered and splintered wood reforms into a chair, a rough truckle bed, a table, and the door. The bars within it return to their form and merge back into the wood of that door again, as it lifts itself into the hinges that are now protruding from the visibly rebuilding wall. Everything that was broken, or shattered, or disassembled, has rebuilt, restored or mended - and in a matter of minutes, we are in the antechamber, while the Gemfire stands within the cell. The door, however, remains open.

Tentatively, I get back to my feet and approach the cell. I can see, hanging in the air as though held in flight, the two gems, Red Fire and Blue Fire. Lamashtu may have vanished, but they are still where they were when they were in her mouths, and they begin to glow brightly. As they do so, that strange violet fire begins to subside, fading and dying away as the twin fires separate and return to the stones from whence they came. Then they drop to the floor, landing in unison - though the neither bounce, nor scatter apart - and seem to be nothing more than a sapphire and a ruby once more.

As the flames die away, the colour comes back to Cromwell's face, and he starts to droop, as though weakened. The injuries that Lamashtu had inflicted upon him are gone - taken when the Gemfire merged with him, I suppose - but then I remember that he is not wearing the Rosary; and the abrasion upon his soul is robbing him of his strength.

Wyatt joins me, still looking rather shocked, as I drop to the floor and start searching desperately for the fallen relic. Without it, Cromwell shall fall into a deep sleep and never wake…there…fallen into a corner, just behind the leg of the repaired table. Grabbing at it, I turn and hastily crawl across to Cromwell, who has fallen to the ground, slumping forward as his strength continues to falter, "Here - I have it." without hesitation, I press the rosary to his chest, for he no longer seems even able to lift his arms. As I do so, he looks at me, rather vaguely, "You have no beard."

"I shaved it off, Thomas." I do not bother to explain, for he seems too tired to listen.

After a few minutes, Cromwell reaches for the rosary and takes it himself, "Thank you, Richie - it protected me for a considerable time, and deflected her violence back upon her - but in the end, she reached in and tore it from about my neck. From that point on, I could not withstand her attacks."

"But still you fought her." Wyatt observes, quietly, "We saw that when we arrived."

"I did." Cromwell agrees, "For she gloated to me that you would arrive too late to save me - but in doing so she told me that you were coming. Thus I had hope, and that gave me the will to fight her with all that I could muster." Carefully, he untangles the beaded chain to return the Rosary to its customary place about his neck; but then finds that he cannot, for the chain is still broken.

Astonishingly, he utters a faint moan at the discovery, as I thought he had no attachment to the relic; but he seems most distressed, "I cannot even have the chain repaired." He says, quite miserably. I had no idea that he cared for it so. He is, however, right. If it is apart from him, no matter how quickly a jeweller worked, he would be left drained again. How it is unmended when all about us returned to its former state at the command of the Gemfire, I cannot guess; perhaps its power defies even so strong a command as that of the Word.

"Did not the Queen state that it should be near your heart, rather than about your neck?" Wyatt says. At Cromwell's nod, he immediately reaches into the collar of his doublet, and fishes out a pouch that was about his own neck, "I can replace this easily enough."

Tipping out the contents - which turn out to be a few coins that he claims to keep 'for emergencies', Wyatt hands the pouch to Cromwell, who carefully inserts the rosary, and replaces the pouch about his neck. Despite himself, he cannot help but look much happier for its return.

Hastily, I get back to my feet, "Come then, Thomas - we must away. The King has signed the warrant, and there is but one day left before they carry out the sentence."

"I am aware of that." Cromwell says, quietly, "Mr Kingston told me of my fate this morning."

"Then we must go!" I prompt.

"You must go." He replies, still quiet, "I must stay."

I stare at him, "What? Why? How can you say that? The King has decreed that you die! What use are you to anyone if you are dead?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "I cannot become separated from the English court. I was assigned to protect it, and that is what I must do. There is still one more day, and I am not without friends."

"No!" suddenly my voice is a scream, "For God's sake, you cannot stay here! You must flee - you have to get away from here! Think of the good you could do - even if you are itinerant in Europe, or even as a Master at the House, are you not the finest Silver Sword to have been found in two centuries? How can you let yourself be destroyed so? How? I cannot stand by and let you do it! My own life is forfeit - the King will not grant me the clemency of beheading if I am captured - we can both be gone from here!" My voice begins to crack, "Thomas - I beg you, beg you, please do not ask me to repatriate your gauntlets and swords! I could not stand it! I could not!" and then, stupidly, idiotically, I am sobbing. I am so tired - the day has been so dreadful, I have been forced to conceal myself, and exist for more than two weeks in fear of capture, Lamashtu attempted to drive me out of my mind - and now this? After all that we have done - is Cromwell truly willing to lay his life down in so brutal a fashion? Why does he think the King will even care to save him? Why?

"Please, Thomas - just go, get away from here, even if it were not for Lamashtu, this court is poisoned…"

Wyatt echoes my words, "If you will not flee for yourself, then think of Richard - he faces a worse death than you if he is captured. The king has made it plain that he shall not receive the same clemency as you - he made that clear to all of the Privy Council. If he is captured, he shall die as a traitor at Tyburn - the Bill of Attainder against him is to be debated in two days' time."

Again, Cromwell shakes his head - but he rests his hands on our shoulders as he speaks, "I cannot run. I swore to protect this court - and I have done so. I am reconciled to death if that is what the King wills - for Lamashtu is destroyed. I would not ask you to stay, Richie - not if your life is at risk. But I ask you to trust me - and to have faith. I do not think for a moment that all we have endured shall be ignored and count for nothing."

He reaches to the swords at his waist, removing the scabbards from his belt and handing them to Wyatt, who is now as anguished as I. Then he crouches, retrieves the two jewels, and replaces them in the pouch, which he hands to me, "If nothing else - these must be delivered back to the queen - and, disguised as you are, who would know?"

I cannot stand this, "Don't do this, Thomas. Don't - I could not stand it if you threw away your life in such a manner - I could not endure to be robbed of the first true friend I have ever had…"

Then he draws me into an embrace, "Courage, Richie - have faith, as I do. We both know of the power of Heaven, you saw it with your own eyes when the Queen set the Rosary upon me that night. We serve a higher power, and I am certain that we shall not be abandoned by it."

As I step back, he turns to Wyatt, and embraces him in turn, "Trust me, Tom. You must use your picks to re-lock that door, and depart as though nothing happened this night. Do not lose heart - either of you. What will be, will be. Trust in God, trust in her Majesty, for we are not friendless if they are upon our side."

Even so, I make one last attempt, "There is not sufficient time, Thomas - it is one day, just one day…"

For a moment, he smiles, "A lot can happen in a day."

Chapter Text

I do not want to leave the Tower - but there is no choice. We have done what we set out to do - Lamashtu is not only dead, but so destroyed that there is nothing left to even show that she ever lived at all other than the memory of the cruelty she inflicted upon two Queens of England.

Even as we depart, the warrant securing our exit as much as it secured our entry, I cannot speak. We have left Cromwell behind - at his insistence, perhaps, but still we have left him behind. He has one day left to live: tomorrow he shall be obliged to walk from the Tower to the public scaffold, where he shall die. My own life appears to be in equal tatters - for if I am found now, then I too shall face such opprobrium; though my hopes for a merciful end appear to be pointless. My escape has embarrassed the King, and he shall have no hesitation in condemning me to the death of a traitor in all its bloody glory, regardless of my previously high standing - for I am no more a Noble than Cromwell. Thus tomorrow my Silver Sword shall die, and, once I have handed the jewels back to the Queen, I must flee the palace - and probably England - and never return. If I am obliged to return Cromwell's swords and gauntlets to the Order's Factor in Padua, then I might as well take them myself. God knows what would happen to my family - that I cannot even begin to bear to think about.

There are a few Wherrymen about, as dawn is close and the tide is racing. One agrees to return us to the Privy Steps at Whitehall, and we seat ourselves in the stern. My sword is strapped to me again - for the broken strap repaired as everything else did when the Gemfire restored all - not that I care if it is seen. Wyatt sits beside me and engages the Wherryman in conversation, his sword, and the Raven swords, bundled up in the folds of a cloak. I, on the other hand, sit and stew - trying with all I have not to think about what lies ahead, and unable to think of anything else.

As we disembark at the Privy Stairs, Wyatt pays off the Wherryman generously, and then turns to me, "Give me your sword, Richard. You can't be seen with it here."

I look at him almost dumbly for a moment, before complying. Now that we are back, my thoughts are racing again, and I have little concentration to spare. I have one day - one day to save my Silver Sword from an ignominious death on the scaffold, and I have no idea how I can do it. If I enter the Palace, and my disguise fails me, then I shall lose even that opportunity.

There is someone waiting at the top of the stairs, concealed in a voluminous cloak and leaning close to one of the buttresses of the walls of the buildings that close about the alley. Frowning, Wyatt moves slowly, and I remain behind him, for fear of discovery. As we approach, however, the figure moves forth to reveal that a woman awaits us; and, as she removes her hood, we can see a most welcome face.

"Mr Wyatt," Lady Rochford whispers, "Come quickly, the Queen asked me to wait in hopes of your return. Is all done?"

"I shall tell all once we are safe within the Queen's chambers, my Lady." Wyatt whispers back, "Now is not the place."

"Of course, follow me."

She leads us through a carefully chosen route - a labyrinth of servant's corridors and passages that are far from the routes that would lead to our being recognised; or, rather, would lead to my being recognised. Despite being dressed as a servant, and without my beard, I am dreadfully afraid of being seen - and if I am, who on earth will dispatch Cromwell's swords and gauntlets back to Padua? Oh God - I cannot think that…I must not think that…

Her Majesty is waiting for us as we enter her apartments, and only Jonathan is present. So heavily pent up is my anguish that I cannot hold it back any longer, and I burst into tears at the sight of her. We have succeeded, but the cost is so high - so dreadfully high. After all that we did - must we pay such a price?

The Queen's eyes widen, but her expression is filled with sympathy, and she does the unthinkable, crossing to me and holding out her arms like a mother. I don't care that it is embarrassing, or that I should not be seen so close to her Majesty's person - instead I slump on her shoulder and weep like a wounded child.

"What happened, Mr Wyatt?" Queen Jane asks, her expression deeply concerned as - surely if we had won a victory against Lamashtu, I would not be so distraught, "Is Lamashtu not defeated?"

"She is, Majesty." Wyatt confirms, "Destroyed utterly and gone from this earth as though she was never a stain upon it. I would explain more - but I do not understand how it happened. I think the only person who could tell us is Mr Cromwell, but he is still within his cell, and so - if his execution proceeds as planned - we shall never know."

And now she understands.

"He would not leave," I groan, tearfully, "He could have gone - he could have found a ship in the Pool and been away from here - but he will not go. He has saved us all, and now he must die for it."

She guides me towards a chair, and bids me to sit before indicating that Wyatt should do likewise. He sets the swords down on the table, and sits beside me, "I refuse to believe that all is lost, Gentlemen, for we have another ally that we did not suspect, or consider: Suffolk."

We look at one another, bemused; why Suffolk? He does not like me, nor does he like Cromwell. Why would he help us?

"Regardless of his opinion of you, Sir Richard, or Mr Cromwell, Charles Brandon is a fair-minded man who views treachery to be the greatest of sins a courtier can commit against his King. He is, however, certain that the treachery committed is through the action of factional manoeuvring, and attempting to deceitfully manipulate the King's will for the benefit of one other than his Majesty; for the speed at which all came together, and the remarkable convenience of the evidence found, and where it was found, rankled greatly with him. He says little, but sees much."

"Has he spoken to the King?" I ask, at once.

"He has - albeit obliquely - for even his Majesty, now that his temper has cooled sufficiently, is of the opinion that there is something odd about all that has happened. He has not, however, acted to stay the execution - for, above all, he is a proud man who does not like to be found to be wrong."

That is true - for all of us are well aware of the risks we run at our high level of Government. He is a dangerous man: capricious, hot-tempered and increasingly suspicious of his Councillors as the years pass. These hazards are countered by his education and natural intelligence, of course, but also accented by his fearsome pride and the conviction that he answers only to God. That he can be won over through flattery and the giving of fine gifts is perhaps a blind spot - either that or he allows himself to appear so in order to benefit from the largesse of those who aim to win his favour. I had not thought of it in such a light before, and I wonder if it is so.

I am roused from my speculation by a light tap at the door, and Jonathan hastily opens it but a crack, then opens it entirely to admit Hertford, whose expression is one of enquiry.

"We won." Wyatt supplies.

"But we might still lose." Queen Jane adds, quietly, "Have you news?"

Hertford shakes his head, "Alas, no. Suffolk has spoken to me of his conversations with his Majesty - for he considers it most peculiar that a man known to be as intelligent as Cromwell would choose to hide such incriminating documents in the first place that anyone would be likely to look for them, and even more strange that he would equally hide a brooch so unique, so much likely to be missed. Now that his Majesty has had time to consider those comments, he is coming to much the same conclusion."

"Another stole them." I say, firmly, "The brooch, too - and hid them in Thomas's apartments so that they could be found. There is no other explanation - but who? Even Gardiner is not so lacking in subtlety."

Hertford shakes his head, "It was he who suggested we order the search of Cromwell's apartments when we did. He seemed remarkably keen for us to do so."

"But surely he would not have ordered the theft of the King's brooch?" Wyatt argues.

"If not he, then who?" Hertford counters.

I have a solid suspicion - but who would believe it? They do not know of any reason why…

"Might I say something, your Majesty?" Lady Rochford says, suddenly, a slight frown upon her face.

Queen Jane nods, and the Lady continues, "I was on an errand a while ago, taking a message from Dr Butts to leave with Mr Culpepper, for it was he who was present that day. When I approached the King's apartments, I saw two men leaving - but they were in the livery of servants, so I did not pay it any mind."

"What was their livery, Lady Rochford?" Hertford asks, keenly.

"It was not the palace livery, your Grace," She admits, "they were wearing Piedra de Ijada velvet slashed with Malachite silk."

This means nothing to me, and the other men in the apartment are equally baffled, so the Queen translates for us, "A dark green velvet with paler green silk slashes."

Hertford's eyes widen, "Campofregoso."

"Are you sure?" Queen Jane asks.

He nods, "They have been everywhere about the Palace since that blasted Genoese found his way to the King's favour. None question them - so it is no surprise to me that you did not, Lady Rochford. Can you be certain of how long ago this was?"

"I can tell you exactly," She says, "It was the seventeenth - I had taken particular care to remember that date, for it was Lisbet's birthday two days after and I wished to purchase her a pair of perfumed gloves from a lady who visits but rarely and had promised to come by on that day; but those two days later, the loss of the brooch was noted."

God help us - can we truly be so lucky as this? A witness who can place Campofregoso's servants in the King's apartments on the day that the brooch was thought to be stolen? Even with the favour shown to the Genoese Ambassador, his servants would have no valid reason to be present without their master, surely?

Hertford is pacing back and forth, "While I cannot deny that I was rather too keen to accept the possibility that Cromwell was involved, my suspicions were first aroused by Gardiner, and by Campofregoso - for it was he who mentioned Cromwell's apparent keen interest in the jewel. He was subtle - and my animosity carried me the rest of the way."

"He would have been right about the interest - but not the reason for it." Wyatt observes, "The one obstacle we faced was securing a legitimate reason to obtain the ruby - but we would never have been so unutterably stupid as to try to steal it."

I might have been, had it come to it - but I decide it best not to say so.

"But why would Signor Campofregoso attempt to implicate the Lord Chancellor in a petty theft?" Queen Jane asks.

"Because they have clashed before, Majesty." I say, "I suspect that, when he first arrived, Campofregoso did not recall Thomas Cromwell, for they had not seen each other in many years - but Thomas recognised him in an instant - for there was bad blood between them. I think that it was his alliance with Lamashtu - though how he entered into such a partnership I do not know - that alerted him to the presence of a Silver Sword in the English Court. Thomas thought that he did not know of the presence of Silver Swords amongst princes - for he was expelled from the order, having failed the final Trial of the House. It is only those who gain Swords who know of such appointments - for that is the greatest secret of all. Except here." I add, a touch ruefully.

"Then he has an axe to grind." Hertford murmurs, thoughtfully, "A truly strong motive for treachery - if he is seeking vengeance."

"And if we are not quick to act," I remind everyone, "He shall gain it."

I can hardly believe it - we have a suspect now instead of Cromwell, and the evidence to support our suspicions; but that is not enough - we must now try to convince the King.

Our discussions are silenced by another knock at the door. Hastily, Wyatt flees into the bedchamber with the swords, while I get up and stand in the spot in which I was placed when the King came to sup. Jonathan goes to open the door, and admits the Duke of Suffolk, who approaches the Queen and bows, "Your Majesty, forgive my intrusion. The King wishes to speak to some of the Privy Councillors as a matter of urgency. Your Grace," he turns to Hertford, "He has asked for you; and for Thomas Wyatt - though I am yet to find him. He has not spoken of a reason, but I suspect it may involve recent events."

Hertford nods, but does not reveal that Wyatt is hiding nearby, instead he turns to me, "You - go and find Thomas Wyatt, and bring him to the King's Privy Chamber." He turns back to Suffolk, who nods to indicate that he has guessed the location correctly. Not daring to speak, I nod and hurry out of the Apartments, before finding a convenient spot to hide and wait for the Earl and the Duke to depart. Thank God Suffolk did not recognise me.

I do not have to wait long for Wyatt to emerge. He has left the swords behind, "Lady Rochford will arrange to get them back to my quarters while we are with the King." He advises, quietly, as we go, "I shall see if you can stay in the room - I suspect it would not be fair to leave you outside."

As we approach the Privy Chamber, it is clear that the King is in full flow, "…how Cromwell, as wily as he is, could be so foolish as to…"

Culpepper leads us in, "Mr Thomas Wyatt, your Majesty."

Henry nods, and waves Culpepper and - by extension - me, to stand to the side and keep out of discussions. The King's Groom looks at me oddly now and again, for he has not seen me before, but does not comment as my livery suggests I am a servant of the Queen's.

"I have acted in haste, Gentlemen - if my Lord Suffolk is to be believed." The King resumes, though he does not look pleased to have been deceived - or, at least to have been seen to have been deceived.

"In all honesty, Majesty," Hertford looks contrite, "I fear that I, too, was led rather by the nose, and my own prejudice caused me to act rashly and in too much haste. I was too quick to believe that which I suspect I was meant to believe." He is speaking with absolute honesty - and, more importantly, accepting his own culpability, which is likely to achieve more than trying to drop the blame elsewhere.

"And what of the murder of the Manservant? Was he not found with the corpse?"

"I am given to understand, Majesty," Suffolk adds, "when I questioned those in the Offices, that Mr Cromwell was present throughout the morning - during which time his manservant was known to have been seen alive - and only returned to his apartments because he had spilled ink upon his clothing. Thus, it would seem entirely impossible that he could have committed the act."

"It has since come to my attention - for the witness did not realise until today the significance of that which she had seen - that two of the Genoese Ambassador's retinue were seen leaving your private apartments on the very day that has been identified as that upon which the brooch was taken." Hertford says, quietly.

"Campofregoso?" the King stares at him, incredulous, "Campofregoso?" His voice rises not only in volume, but also in pitch, "If he has acted against me, then I shall…I shall…"

He clearly has no idea what he shall do that would be sufficient to assuage his anger, but before he can suggest anything, Gardiner comes hastily in - and catches both the name and the King's newfound view.

"We cannot be certain that Campofregoso was directly involved in what would equally appear to be the planting of incriminating papers in Mr Cromwell's Chambers." Hertford continues, "If we cannot be certain that he was not involved in the theft - for the presence of his servants in your private apartments seems at the very least, most strange - for what reason would they have to be there?"

"None!" the King snaps, furiously, "Not even Campofregoso himself had such access, so his creatures would not!"

Gardiner has no more recognised me than any of the other Lords who do not know that I am present, but it is quite extraordinary to watch his expression change as he sees the direction of the conversation into which he has walked all unprepared. I have no doubt that he intended to do all he could to redirect the King back onto his course of having Cromwell executed - but now that it is clear that the scheme to which he must have tied himself is coming apart at the seams, he must free himself from it, or be dragged down with the sinking ship.

"Why are you here, Gardiner?" The King demands, angrily, "I did not summon you!"

"Forgive me, your Majesty," the Bishop stammers, "I have made a discovery that - under the circumstances - could not wait."

I feel a horrible sense of cold fear - has he managed to manufacture stronger evidence to overturn that which Hertford and Suffolk have presented?

"In his diligence to uncover the absolute truth of this affair, Secretary Wriothesley made a remarkable discovery - for he has access to information from a number of spies, and I find this most useful in serving your Majesty's interests."

I want to rush at the pinch-faced old man, and strike him - how dare he claim that any of his work is for the benefit of the King's interests? Even the Councillors are glaring at him with distaste - for they know that his most diligent work of late has been to remove the Lord Chancellor. Please, God - do not let it be falsified evidence…

"I…er…I fear that Signor Campofregoso has indeed been acting with duplicity, Majesty," the Bishop says, nervously, "It would appear that he has been in communication with the King of France - intending to create a state of war between the Holy Roman Empire and England, with a view to snatching what territories he can while we are otherwise engaged in hostilities. He has been promised great riches if he can succeed in this endeavour."

Everyone is staring at him - as am I.

"It seems that the threat to Genoa was entirely false - a ruse established by Campofregoso's spies to convince all at the English court that the Emperor was threatening a small state for his own gain. Thus when Campofregoso arrived to beg for assistance, he would be welcomed with warmth. From that moment on, he was determined to ensure that no sensible discussion could be entered into with any representative of the Emperor."

That explains the extraordinarily contrary reports that Campofregoso was providing, and that Cromwell was receiving from the Spies, then...

"This evidence seems remarkably well timed, your Grace." Suffolk says, dryly.

"I have had my suspicions for quite some time, your Grace," Gardiner says, still rather nervously, "but Mr Wriothesley's discovery of the papers served to assure me of the false trail that the Ambassador has laid."

As I look at the Bishop, every move he makes, every syllable he speaks, suggests that he is making up his argument upon the spot. He had never intended to reveal anything that might help Cromwell - only to try to absolutely ensure his downfall. It is only thanks to the evidence that has so captured the King's attention that he has lost his nerve and thrown in his lot with those who would act to save the Chancellor.

All know that Cromwell is to die tomorrow - and I cannot be certain that the King would be willing to make such an abrupt about-turn upon his own decision. To do so would show that he has allowed himself to be deceived by false counsel - and nothing hurts his pride more than to appear deceived. If he cannot swallow that pride and withdraw the warrant, then all of this will have been for nothing. Pardoned or not, a head cannot be restored to a body once it has been struck off.

Of the men in the room, only Suffolk and Wyatt can safely claim to have been free from the conspiracy that seems to have surrounded the Lord Chancellor - though Wyatt does have his abandonment of friendship with me to count against him in the eyes of those present. They are not to know that I expected it of him.

The King is silent, but only a fool could miss that gradual reddening of his features as his temper begins to build - like a storm in the making. The Lords that stand around him wait, equally silently, for the storm to break.

The tempest, when it comes, is savage. The King's anger is directed almost entirely at one man and one alone: Gardiner, who cowers from his rage as his words grow more and more violent, "You are a liar and a deceiver! Can you dare to call yourself a Christian when you have conspired against the most faithful of all my servants? You spite-weaving, double dealing toad! You are a disgrace to your vestments! You do not deserve to wear purple - for you would have stained it with the blood of my Lord Chancellor for your own gain! Do not think I am not aware of your greed for my favour, damn you! At least Hertford had the courage to admit to his own failings! But you - you! You would lay all blame at the door of another to save your own, worthless, cringing bloody skin! Get you from my presence! Return to your damned Bishopric and never darken the doors of my Court again - and be bloody grateful that it is not the Tower!"

Gardiner stands there for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like that of a landed fish - but he does not wish to invite an even greater outburst, and hastens out of the room with as much dignity as he can muster. I fancy it is not much.

"Hertford!" The King turns to the Earl, who visibly flinches, "Get word to Kingston at the Tower immediately! I want Cromwell released at once - and back in the bloody Palace before the day is out, do you hear me? And get that Act of Attainder quashed! If it can't be done now, a Pardon instead until it can be!"

"Yes Majesty." He bows, relieved not to have received a similar brow-beating from the King, but as he rises, he nervously asks a question, "And what of the Solicitor General? Sir Richard Rich is facing arrest as an accomplice of the Lord Chancellor - but if one is innocent, would not the other be? The only evidence that was ever held against him was his association with Cromwell."

For a moment, I think that the King might explode - for his face is now cherry-red. Hertford seems to unbalance slightly, as though he wishes to take a step back, but dare not, "Damn you, Hertford! Do I not need him to overturn the Act of Attainder? I rescind the order to arrest him - find him, for God's sake!"

I am so overcome with surprise at the speed at which the entire disaster has turned about and been averted that, for a moment, I do not hear the King's words and do not realise that I am also now safe from arrest should I reveal my presence.

"I do not need to find him, your Majesty." Hertford advises, gravely, "He has been here all along."

"What? Where?" Henry is looking about wildly, but still he does not seem to see that there are two servants present where there should be one. I doubt that it is my face that is the issue - it is the livery. He sees the livery and sees only a servant, not a man. Marvelling at how well I have been concealed by something so simple, I step forth, and bow, "I am here, Majesty."

For a moment, I think the King might refuse to believe me, for he stares at me as though I have been dropped there by the gods in some Greek play - the very soul of deus ex machina. Perhaps he cannot believe it possible that a man of my standing, such as it is, would deign to wear the garb of a servant. God help me, I should have worn the garb of a vagabond if it could have brought me to this outcome.

If we thought the King to be the keenest example of absolute monarchy, then this can only prove it - for in the space of minutes, he has overturned Cromwell's fate, rescinded the order of arrest against me, and demanded that we be welcomed back to the palace. The Act of Attainder can easily be overturned - and I am eager to flee to the offices to set to work upon it, except for the fact that I have not slept for more than a day, I am drained from all that I have experienced, and I think I might be about to fall down from sheer exhaustion.

"I think it best, Majesty, if the legal work wait until tomorrow." Suffolk says, quietly, "I do not think Mr Rich is in the best frame of mind to compose the relevant paragraphs. I shall speak to Mr Wriothesley to arrange the interim pardon for the time being."

The King nods, "Make sure Cromwell's apartments are worthy - and ensure that all property is restored to both Mr Cromwell and Mr Rich."

Suffolk bows and withdraws, indicating that I should follow. As I do so, despite the fact that I am now trembling with tiredness, I turn to him, "But what of the Genoese Ambassador? Does the King not have anything to say about him?"

"I know his Majesty far better than you do, Mr Rich." He answers, "He shall act against Signor Campofregoso - but he greatly dislikes to be duped, and so his action is likely to be violent, and public."

Within half an hour, I find myself installed in a suite of rooms vastly superior to those I occupied before Cromwell's arrest. By the Palace clock, which I can see from my window, it is barely ten o'clock. So quickly has all happened, that only three hours have passed - and yet it feels like a lifetime.

John has been restored to me, as have the coffers which contain my confiscated property. Shedding the livery, I am glad to be back in my own clothing again, but I cannot stay awake any longer, and all but flop onto the large tester bed to fall almost at once into a deep sleep.

By the time I wake, it is late afternoon, and Dickon is in the main chamber when I emerge. I rush to him to shake his hand, "Thanks be to God that you are well, Dickon - but for you, we should have foundered and all should have been lost. You were my window upon this place in my absence."

"All is well, Sir Richard," He smiles, happily, "And I am come to take you to Mr Cromwell's new quarters."

"He is returned?" I ask, rather stupidly, for why would Dickon have come here if he had not?

"Returned, bathed and back in his best garb, Sir Richard." Dickon grins, "He is awaiting you."

I draw bemused stares as I go, for though I am dressed in the clothes of a courtier, the lack of my beard confuses all about me and few recognise me. I am not sure whether I am amused or disturbed by this - but more than that, I am most confused as to what to say to Cromwell when I arrive at his apartments. I wish it could be something witty, urbane or smart - but I suspect I shall be lucky to get any words out at all.

If my new apartments were well appointed, Cromwell's are magnificent: rooms which would befit someone of far grander status than a commoner such as he. And there he is - in one of his finer brocaded doublets, rising from his chair with a look of great relief upon his face, "Thanks be to the Lord that you are well, Richie - my God, you look most strange without your beard!"

It is as though I have no control over myself. I suddenly stride forward, and lash out, striking Cromwell hard across the face with the flat of my hand - and it is truly a violent slap, with all my strength behind it, "Don't you ever do that to me again!" I shout at him wildly, "I thought you were going to die - and I couldn't stop it! God help me, if you do, I'll do what Wolsey said he'd do and set about you with a horse whip!" and then, to my utter embarrassment, I am in tears yet again.

His hands are upon my shoulders, and he watches me quietly as I sob. He does not have to wait long for me to regain my composure, for I have shed quite enough tears since last night, and before long, I am scrubbing the teary mess with a kerchief and feeling very foolish.

"Forgive me, Richie." He says, contritely, "I never meant for you to be so put upon - but with no warning of my arrest, I did not know what to do, and could do nothing to help you. Though, I think, I would not have needed to, for you did remarkably well on your own."

"I did not." I admit, "But for the Queen, you would not be in these chambers, and I think it most likely that I would have been imprisoned with you, for I was frozen in my chair in the Council Chamber and could think of no one to whom I could turn for help. It was her actions that brought us to your rescue - for she aided my escape from the Palace, and, when I returned, convinced Hertford to join with us, and secured Red Fire for us from the King. It was she who laid all the plans - not I."

He sighs, "You are ever one to dismiss your own actions, Richie. Do not so - for all hinged upon you to secure the Jewels and bring them to me. But for you, I could not have acted to destroy Lamashtu. All that was done, was done to aid you - and you alone. Do not forget that."

I do not have time to reply, for the door opens, and Wyatt comes hurtling into the room, "Thank God!" He cries, happily, "You are returned, and all is made well again!" and then he is all tears as well. Lord above, could we look less like heroes?

We remain together in Cromwell's apartments, seated by a cheerful fire, until Dickon advises us that we are required to attend the King's feast tonight - for we are celebrating Prince Edward's second birthday. With all the upheaval, there has not been sufficient time to arrange something akin to the wildly over-done show that accompanied his first - but instead the court shall feast magnificently. As Privy Councillors, we are expected to be present - so I must change into something entirely finer than that which I am wearing now.

"I shall see you in the Hall." Cromwell advises, as we depart.

When I rejoin Wyatt, we have both changed into far finer garments, and we are the same as all about us - richly clothed and bedecked with ridiculous amounts of jewels. It seems to me that some of the men are wearing more than the ladies; though I have restricted myself to a gold chain.

We seat ourselves with the other Privy Councillors, who largely ignore us, for what could they say? Other than Suffolk or Hertford, none spoke for us, and even if they did not speak against us, they were quite content to let events play out, and I have no doubt that all of them cried out that Cromwell was a traitor when they debated the Bill of Attainder. As I look about the hall for Cromwell, I cannot see him - though I note that Campofregoso is still in a place of high favour, seated in his customary place at the King's table. As I am still lacking my beard - though my chin is now becoming rather rough with stubble - the Ambassador does not see me, so he is clearly not aware that something is amiss.

We all stand and bow for the King and Queen as they enter with the Ladies Mary and Elizabeth, accompanied by brazen trumpets, and they take their seats at the table. Rising to his feet, the King holds out his hands for silence, and all quickly settle.

"My Lords!" he declares, loudly, "I thank you for your presence at our celebration for the second birthday of our well beloved Prince Edward - before we eat, I wish to welcome an honoured guest to our proceedings!" and he looks across to the Garter King of Arms, who bashes the foot of his staff to the floor and proclaims words that leave everyone shocked.

"The Lord Chancellor, Mr Thomas Cromwell!"

Everyone is staring at the door as Cromwell enters the Hall. He is dressed in black, as always, though his doublet is brocaded and he is wearing the finest of his simarres - the one with the wide sleeves. His chain of office, which Hertford so cruelly wrenched from him, is back about his shoulders again, and he wears it with astonishing solemnity for one who is being paraded before all as the most highly favoured man in the entire place.

I cannot help but steal a glance at the high table, where Campofregoso is staring, thunderstruck, at the man he thought he had destroyed. Cromwell should be in a cell, perhaps receiving a confessor to make his last peace with God before his death on the morrow - but instead he is here, in the hall, bowing with that smart neatness that always puts the more ostentatious homage of the Lords to shame.

"Forgive me, Mr Cromwell," The King says suddenly, "There is nowhere at this table for you to sit. Allow me to correct that oversight."

Even Cromwell is clearly not expecting this - I imagine he had assumed he would join the other Privy Councillors - but I realise then what Suffolk told me this morning. The King said nothing of his plans for the Genoese Ambassador - and it is now that he intends to act: both violently, and publicly.

Moving with astonishing speed for a man in his condition, the King suddenly grasps the shoulders of Campofregoso's simarre, wrenches him out of his chair and forcibly drags him out from behind the table and into the hall to throw him to the floor at Cromwell's feet.

"You lying, duplicitous knave!" he screams at the cowering Ambassador, "I know all your plans - there was no invasion of Genoa, you bastard! Your master was the King of France! God help me, I shall make him pay for his act against us - but not as high a price as I shall exact from you! Thief! Traitor! You have betrayed not only England, but Genoa! And the Empire! I do not stand to be so rudely used, damn you! Get you gone from my Court! And do not think to find favour with any Prince in Europe after this! You double dealing, duplicitous, treacherous serpent! God help me, if I had a whip to hand, I should flog you! Get you gone!"

Campofregoso is stunned, cowering upon the floor under the King's verbal onslaught - but, as quickly as it blew up, the King's anger is gone, and he turns, quite calmly, to Cromwell, and warmly invites him to take the vacant chair at the high table.

He has never seated himself there before, and almost certainly never shall again - but for one night, Cromwell is in a position of the highest favour, and the man who tried to rob him of it is grovelling upon the floor.

As the King returns to his own seat, he notices that Campofregoso has not moved, "What is that Genoese bastard doing cluttering up my floor?" He declares loudly, "Guards - throw this piece of shit out of my presence! And if you are still to be found in my palace by morning, Campofregoso, I shall have you fed to the dogs like the worthless pile of rotted meat that you are!"

I feel a sense of almost spiteful satisfaction as two burly guards bodily wrench the fallen Ambassador from the floor and drag him, backwards, out of the hall, screaming wildly at the King - though he is speaking in his own tongue now and none can make out what he says. I am sure that Cromwell enjoys it even more than I - but he does not show it, his expression inscrutable as the King seats himself, and the trumpets bray again to welcome the first remove.

I exchange a glance with Wyatt, who shrugs. Such is life in the Court of a King with absolute power, I suppose. Shrugging myself, I reach for a leg of capon, and try as hard as I can not to madly devour it like a starving dog, for I have not eaten since I left Grant's Place yesterday.

"And that is that." Wyatt says, helping himself to some bread.

"Until tomorrow." I add, trying not to speak with my mouth full, "I imagine it shall all be most strange."

Wyatt smiles a slightly lopsided smile, "I imagine that it shall not."

I shrug again, and reach for another handful of food. Tonight, I am starving. Tomorrow can take care of itself.

Chapter Text

I have slept well overnight, and I feel greatly refreshed - albeit rather nervous. I have not stepped into the offices since I fled the palace a fortnight ago, and it seems odd to me that I should return there with so little fuss. I do, however, receive some odd looks from the Clerks, as they have never seen me without my beard, and the rough stubble that will eventually grow into a new one still looks truly dreadful. It feels dreadful, too - and I shall be glad when it is as it was again.

No one quite knows what to say to me, for the reasons behind my departure were probably extensively discussed - and I can imagine not a few of them exchanged knowing glances that I had finally proved that I was not to be trusted. Those who did so are now probably deeply embarrassed at my exoneration and return, but as I do not know who spoke against me, and who did not, I do not particularly care. I know the reputation I have, despite having abandoned such an outlook two years ago.

My former desk is bare of my writing equipment, and seems to have been hastily cleared. I imagine it had been serving as a dumping ground for papers since I was no longer present to use it. No one claimed it for their own, then. That surprises me, for it is slightly set apart in an alcove - and I certainly valued the privacy it afforded me. Smiling almost triumphantly, Peter brings over a coffer that contains my inkhorn, a leather portfolio of which I am particularly fond, my quill knife and sand pot. He has clearly kept them safe, and I realise that he is almost certainly one of the few that did not think me guilty on the basis of my reputation alone.

Then Wriothesley enters the offices, and seems to freeze at the sight of me, before hastily setting some papers down on his desk and looking most uncertain over what to do next. I have never before seen him so uncomfortable, and I wonder why. Does he think I shall embrace him, or shout embarrassingly loud thanks to him for uncovering the papers that proved to be our salvation? It seems odd, for he looks almost guilty.

Since I am back, the Clerks must know that Cromwell shall be returning. I imagine he is currently with the King, for we have both missed a great deal of business while we were away from the Palace. I noticed almost as soon as I returned that the carefully established bureaucracy that he had built was starting to crumble in his absence, despite the presence of the equally efficient Wriothesley, and the clerks are frantically trying to clear the mess of papers that have accumulated. They know he shall not be pleased if he sees how lax they have become in their filing.

Eventually, after a few minutes' dithering, Wriothesley approaches my desk, "It is good to see you returned, Sir Richard," He says, almost as though each word is a ball of acid upon his tongue, "We were all most shocked at what happened."

"As were we," I agree with him, "but all is mended, and we are restored to our former posts."

"Indeed." Wriothesley concurs, and hastens back to his desk, clearly relieved to have crossed that hurdle, and to be free to escape to his own work again. Why on earth is he so keen to be away from me? I cannot fathom it.

After an hour, Cromwell finally makes his entrance, and, once again, the offices go silent - though the clerks seem more eager to state their loyalty to him than they did to me. Proof, I suppose, that his approval is more important than mine.

As before, Wriothesley seems most uncomfortable, and his greeting of the Chancellor is as strained as his was with me. Cromwell's expression as the Secretary returns to his desk is as bemused as mine probably was. Why is Wriothesley so nervous around us? It was his action that helped to save us - and yet he seems not to think so. It is truly odd.

My first order of business is, as the King commanded, to draft up the bill that shall overturn the Act of Attainder against Cromwell. I find it a most enjoyable activity - and I am hard put not to taint the paragraphs with loaded comments that are aimed at those who decried Cromwell as a traitor. Having examined the Act that was passed, I have taken care to ensure that every clause is included and overturned. Most particularly, I want the bill to categorically state that the charges were entirely false and largely malicious. I do not have to do this for myself, as the bill drafted against me was never debated, so it has not passed into law. Not that I would have wanted to read what had been set against me.

I ask Peter to arrange the copying and proofreading, though the King has no intention of sending this to Parliament - he wants it drafted and put before him for immediate Royal assent, so I am determined that it shall be correct from the outset. I am sure that Peter was the one clerk who remained loyal to us, and to ask him to undertake the task is - despite appearances - the best proof that I can give him that I am grateful.

"I shall take great care with this, My Lord." He advises, as I hand him the papers, "Things did get rather behind while you and Mr Cromwell were not here."

"I am surprised by that, Peter," I tell him, "Didn't Mr Wriothesley keep things in order?"

"Oh, he did," Peter says, blithely, "Though as it was only he, it was rather difficult. He very nearly threw some papers on the fire - I was so surprised when I came upon him, and so was he! For he only throws scraps away in such a manner - but he had forgotten what he had, and almost destroyed vital papers."

"Vital papers?" I ask, a vague suspicion beginning to form in my mind.

"Yes, my Lord." Peter continues, "He had set them on a table with the scraps he was burning. I saw them - they were letters in French, which is my particular language, as you know. I do not know where they came from, but they concerned some communications between the King of France and the Genoese Ambassador about the Empire and the state of Genoa - though I had little more time than that to examine them, I drew his attention to the papers, and what they signified - for did they not show that Mr Cromwell had been impugned? The other clerks were most surprised; and he was most annoyed - at his mistake, I presume. So he returned them to his desk."

Now I understand the reason for Wriothesley's discomfort around us. As Gardiner claimed, Wriothesley had indeed managed to uncover evidence that Campofregoso was conspiring with France against us - and had planned to destroy it. Perhaps he had been searching for more evidence to incriminate us, but had exonerated us instead. Had it been Gardiner's idea to burn the evidence or Wriothesley's? I suppose I shall never know; though I have a sense that the Secretary is quite capable of acting in so underhand a manner. He seeks high office, as we all do, and I am quite certain that, had I been in his position two years ago, I would have done exactly the same thing. Had Peter not seen him with the papers, and known what they were - he could have burned them, and instead of sitting at his desk, working his way through the business of the day, Cromwell would by now be dead.

I must tell Cromwell - he should know that it was Peter who saved us, not Wriothesley.

By midday, the clerks are still uncomfortable around me - not as a consequence of recent events, but thanks to the maddening itching of my chin as my beard re-grows. I cannot stop from scratching at it, and they all avoid me - I can only assume they think I have acquired an infestation of lice.

"Come, Mr Rich." Cromwell is at my desk, "I am not sure about you, but I am famished. The King has apprised me of his plans for the coming session of Parliament, and I need to discuss them with you. Perhaps it would be best to do so over some dinner."

I cannot help but notice the relief upon the faces of the clerks as I depart.

Dickon has secured us a rather fine roasted capon upon which to dine, and Wyatt is soon with us. I wonder how he knows that we are dining - it seems as though it might be some innate sense; though I suspect that Cromwell sent him an invitation earlier in the morning.

"Did I not say, Richard?" He grins, "It is as though nothing happened yesterday. The Court has seen fit to collectively forget all."

"As all resolved in the course of a single day," I admit, "I suspect the shock of it might have led to Mnemosyne's all-encompassing descent. But it still amazes me that it could have resolved so utterly in so short a time. I cannot help but feel that we have benefited from a deus ex machina."

Cromwell shakes his head, "Perhaps not - for after all, the entire construct was naught but a house of cards built upon a foundation of sand - as are all conspiracies founded through lies. Campofregoso might well have laid his plans well, but even as he diverted the course of the river, he found, too late, that it can just as easily be diverted back again."

"If the Queen had not helped us," I admit, "then I suspect it would not have been. If you had not pledged yourself, and us, to her service, then we would not have had her aid - and I should be lamenting your death, and my failure to prevent it. Quite probably from a cell. God above, I might even have been obliged to stand beside you upon the scaffold - though I think the King was most keen to see me face far crueller end."

"I doubt it." Cromwell disagrees.

"I do not. For I heard him say it with my own ears." I tell him, rather dejectedly, "He might have been willing to commute your sentence to beheading - but not mine."

"Then I am most glad that the Queen's plan saved all. For did I not say that she was the one true hope of the Kingdom when I fell at her feet? That is, after all, what you claimed I said."

"The conspiracy fell as quickly as it did," Wyatt muses, "because that which caused it to fall began to be set in place two years ago - before the conspiracy even began to be laid." He pauses, and looks at Cromwell, "What?"

I turn and see that he is smiling - albeit a rather snide smirk, and I can guess why.

"I cannot deny that I was most pleased to enjoy Campofregoso's humiliation last night." Cromwell admits, "And it is perhaps unbecoming of me to be so gleeful at his misfortune; but he placed me in the hideous position of applying chastisement upon my dearest friend - and I have never been able to forgive him for that. Or myself." He sighs, "But now he is undone by his own scheming, and I am content."

"Do you think he has acted against other Silver Swords?" I ask. I am not sure why - but I feel a very strong suspicion, and I am sure that Cromwell does, too.

"That I cannot say with any certainty; but I am aware of some cruel accidents that befell two Silver Swords - for there was one, who went by the Sigil 'Fox', who was garrotted in Seville for unspecified crimes, and another, 'Hawk' who was found hanged. A third, 'Wolf' disappeared, and none could say what happened to him. Consequently, the High decreed that his Sigil should not be used again - for it could not be certain that he was dead."

"But you have no evidence." Wyatt says, quietly.

Cromwell nods, "Only suspicions - and they are not sufficient. It would not surprise me if Campofregoso were not involved in some way, but I cannot claim to be unbiased. But now that the King has so roundly brought him down, I think his time of causing trouble is over. He needs access to highly placed men to make mischief, and that is now denied him - for who would accept his service if he has been so utterly captured in the act of his conspiracy against the King of England? None would trust him now, for his competence has been called into question. No, I think we shall not see his face again - and I am glad of it."

"And what of Lamashtu?" Wyatt asks, pointedly, for I think we have all been rather skirting about that topic, "What destroyed her? For I cannot say whether it was you, or something in your place."

Cromwell sits for a moment, clearly thinking through his answer with care, "I wish that I could answer your question fully, Tom." He says, after a while, "But I cannot - for my own memory of the incident is hazy at best. When you threw the pouch to me, and I set the jewels in my hand, from that moment my actions were not entirely my own - and became less and less so as each moment passed. I was present - but at the same time, I was not."

I can understand that - for it is very similar to my experience of being overtaken by Wolsey.

"I felt no fear - for I knew that that which was present with me meant me no harm. I do not know how that is so, for no words were spoken. It was a sense of safety, and of peace. If that malevolence had shown me hell, then I think this might have shown me a glimpse of Heaven, for it was of Holy origin, of that I am certain."

"I agree," I add, "For it claimed to be the living spirit of the Word. And was that not all that there was in the beginning?"

"In the beginning was the Word." Wyatt says, quietly, "and the Word was God, and the Word was with God."

"As a man, I could not fight Lamashtu." Cromwell says, quietly, "But, for the Almighty himself to have destroyed her, all would have been destroyed with her. There was but one thing that could undertake the task - but it needed to combine with a powerless mortal: the power of creation itself."

"The Word." I confirm, "Though I know not what the Word is. Perhaps we are not meant to."

"I know what it is." Cromwell says, "It is the one thing that remained in my mind, even if all else is vague."

We look at him, almost nervously, and he eyes us gravely, "It was: 'Be'."

"What of the Gems now?" Wyatt asks.

"They can remain where they are." Cromwell says, firmly, "I may have a reputation in some quarters for being inhuman - but that truly was. I would want nothing more to do with either of them, and I am most glad that they are far beyond my reach. I have no wish to invoke that strangeness ever again."

It seems such a simplicity - the entire complexity of creation obeying a single command: to be. I turn the thought over in my head as I return to my quarters. My scratching at my chin has left me quite sore, and John has obtained a soothing oil from an apothecary of his acquaintance. If that can - at least briefly - ease my discomfort, then I shall find the afternoon altogether more easy to complete at my desk.

I have not thought about the awful visions that Lamashtu imposed upon me when she discovered I had the jewels in my hand - nor the voice that came to me at the last, which caused me to drop them into Wyatt's hands. Were those visions from my own mind - or did Lamashtu put them there?

Both, I think.

Wolsey.

"Both?" I ask.

Indeed - it is far easier to use what is already present than to create something, Richard. Your guilt over More's death - your fear of the Huntress. Why not bring them together? And then, that which Thomas told you of the five men who tormented him and tried to wall him up - she brought that upon you, did she not? As the Huntress threatened to eviscerate you. Thus she brought both together again - and you found yourself about to drown in your own blood. It was most interestingly inventive.

"Not to me, it wasn't." I snap, not wishing to remember it. It was not just the ghastly experience itself - but the dreadful sense of being so utterly alone and helpless. Until someone came…

"There is one thing, Eminence." I say, suddenly, "When the Gemfire told Lamashtu what it was, it mentioned three conditions had been met - Blessing, Loyalty and Forgiveness. I am aware of the Blessing, for that came from the Queen - and the Loyalty came from me, or so I am told. What of the Forgiveness?"

It is quite simple, Richard. The Forgiveness was gifted to you. I could not reach you, nor could I help you for I was too weakened. It was another who saw your need and came to you; and, in so doing, forgave you for your act against him.

Thomas More.

Had he heard my desperate cry to him that I was sorry? I might have been trying to say it to that ghastly shade of him that was so grotesquely mangled - perhaps he heard it and knew it to be sincere? For it most certainly was.

"It seems that the forces arranged against Lamashtu were even wider than we thought." I muse.

Many souls, both living and passed. Do not underestimate your own contribution, Richard. Nor Thomas's, nor Tom's. The three of you together were the most vital of all, for all was placed in your hands. If not for the three of you, then none of us could have acted against Lamashtu.

"I am glad that it is done, Eminence - and I am more grateful than I can express for the help that came from those who are no longer with us. It gives me hope for the life to come."

In which case, you need to behave yourself. Wolsey says, a smirk almost audible in his voice.

I redden slightly, thinking of my past behaviour, "I think I need to get back to work."

I might be back at my desk, but my concentration is most certainly not upon my work, so it is just as well that I completed the bill this morning, and Peter has been working so diligently upon it. It should be ready for the King's Assent by the end of the day.

Despite all that we have managed to glean from our collective knowledge of it, the Gemfire is still a mystery to me. It was - it claimed - the living form of the 'Word', which - Cromwell says - is 'Be'. The command that caused all of creation to come into being was just that: 'Be'. If such simplicity has led to such complexity, why have we created such complexity about such simplicity? Perhaps Cromwell is right - we do not need to be so beholden to rites and rituals. My God - am I becoming a Lutheran?

Shaking myself slightly, I re-tune my thoughts to the Gemfire itself. It came from the two jewels, and returned to them, so it could be recalled if we needed it. I wonder if we might? Given how determined Cromwell is to never touch the two gems again, I do not think it likely that we could persuade him to do so even if the need arose. No matter how willing he is to sacrifice himself for the greater good - somehow I think that he would not consent to allow that twin fire to consume him again. It was too inhuman, even though he felt, for the briefest of moments, a sense of heaven's glory while within its embrace.

And that leads me on to Thomas More. When I pleaded that I was sorry - and begged forgiveness, it was not fear of my situation that pulled that from me. I have always been sorry, for I despised myself when I committed the act, and I had always wished that I could tell him that I wished to have been anywhere but there. The King wills - the King must have. He wanted More's capitulation to his will - but More would not comply. My fear of losing what I had was as much behind my act as my agreement to Cromwell's plan. I was far too cowardly to risk incurring the wrath of the King, and losing all that I had gained when I entered Royal service. I am certainly braver now - far braver; but even so, I am not sure I would have done any differently had I been faced with the same choice again.

Despite all - More heard me, and forgave me. And in doing so, was able to help me as Wolsey was not; for the Cardinal had weakened himself too much to come to my aid. I think that More must have also forgiven Wolsey for his enmity. I would be lying to myself if I did not still consider him to be bigoted at times, but he had the courage to cleave to his principles and his faith even at the risk, and cost, of his own life - and that I truly admire.

Rousing myself from my thoughts, I look down at the paper. I have not written a word. Irked with myself, I put the thoughts out of my head, and start drafting.

By the end of the day, I have more or less caught up with the work I had planned to undertake before I allowed myself to become distracted by the thoughts stirred up by my conversation with Wolsey. I have not yet told Cromwell of Wriothesley's duplicity - and I wonder if I should. It would not surprise me if Cromwell had guessed for himself, as the Secretary is still very uncomfortable in his presence; but, as I would not have acted any differently had I been in his shoes two years ago, I feel that I should let sleeping dogs lie. I shall, however, keep a very close watch on him from now on. It seems rather unfair to Peter, whose act - in all innocence - saved us; but I know full well that sometimes heroes must be unsung for the benefit of all.

It is growing late, and only Cromwell and I are now at our desks - though Daniel is still present, filing some papers. When he is done, he looks to the Chancellor for a dismissal, and is grateful to be allowed to go. As soon as he has departed, I rise from my desk and cross to Cromwell's, "So, what now? As Lamashtu is no more, do you think we shall need yet to hunt?"

"Perhaps not." He admits, "Though it would feel most strange not to. Besides, as her Majesty is to enter confinement in the next few days, it would not do any harm to ensure that there are no infernal beings on the loose in the Palace. While she is not at risk herself, that does not mean that others are safe."

I sit down, "I think you should know, Thomas. Even though I came to the conclusion earlier that it was best not to mention it. It was not thanks to Wriothesley that we were saved."

"Oh?" Cromwell looks confused for a moment, for he was - of course - not present when Gardiner made his rather ad hoc announcement that he had found evidence that exonerated us, "I thought it was thanks to the work of her Majesty."

"That, and the discovery of papers that showed Campofregoso had been in league with agents of the King of France." I tell him, "Wriothesley uncovered them - and Gardiner claimed that they had found new evidence that exonerated us; but only because he was cornered into doing so when he saw how the land lay. I think that, instead, Wriothesley and he were looking for additional evidence to incriminate you, for the King's mind was changing, and they needed to convince him. Instead, he found that which would free you. He was going to burn it."

Cromwell's eyes widen - and I realise that he hadn't guessed for himself.

"He would have done so - but Peter came across him, and saw the letters. He realised their significance, for he is fluent in French, and Campofregoso had been too arrogant to rely upon a cipher. When he drew Wriothesley's attention to what he assumed to be a mistake, he gave Wriothesley no choice but to retain them - for Peter said so in the company of others and they were astonished at his words. I suppose Gardiner seized upon them as a chance to save himself when he found that the pendulum had swung too far to for him to stop it."

Cromwell sits back in his chair with a sigh, "I must confess that, while I am surprised, at the same time, I am not."

"Neither was I," I admit, "for, before I became your Second, I would almost certainly have done as he did - with the same intentions. I have no doubt that he wishes to assume a higher office than that which he currently holds. My involvement with a higher purpose seems to have awakened a latent sense of honour in me."

He laughs, "Then I am grateful - for you are far wilier than Wriothesley. I would fear you far more as an opponent than he."

I know I should not feel proud of this - but I cannot help myself: I do. Cromwell notices, "Is that your head expanding, Richie? Perhaps I should insult you and deflate it."

As we have decided to hunt tonight, we shall sup first - as we always do. I am, however, not dressed to hunt, so we agree to go our separate ways and meet at his quarters in an hour. It seems rather pointless to go out in search of infernal creatures when we have only just defeated a creature as powerful as Lamashtu - but old habits die hard, I suppose.

There are candles lit in my apartments when I return, though John is not in the main chamber. I assume he is in my bedchamber, fetching my black 'hunting' garb from the closet, so I shrug out of my simarre and set it aside. While William is no longer here, Dickon has taken over his role with such aplomb that he must have warned my Manservant beforehand that Cromwell intends to hunt - and that usually means that I hunt with him.

It is as I emerge from that thought that I realise that I am not alone in the chamber - but the other man is not John. Instead, the stranger rises from his seat beside the fire and turns to me. I curse: even now, after all this time, I am still perfectly capable of walking into a trap.

Campofregoso says nothing, but he looks at me as though I am the Devil incarnate and makes a single gesture. In that single moment, I realise that there is a man behind me - but then stars seem to explode inside my skull, and all goes black.

Chapter Text

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."

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

In the two months that have passed since the Queen entered confinement, there has been a frenzy of wagering as to when the child shall come. All hope for a boy - as they would - though now there is less fear in wondering if the child might instead be a girl. The King, of course, has his expectations, so none speak aloud of a female child, for fear of tempting providence.

The Clerks have long since stopped avoiding me, for now that my beard is restored, I no longer scratch at it. We have all fallen back into that familiar pattern of work that maintains the Government of the Kingdom, and keeps the King from having to think too much about it.

Certainly Privy Council meetings are considerably less fraught. Gardiner's departure, coupled with Cromwell's affirmation of the King's favour, has reduced arguments based solely upon blood and birthrights to almost none. I doubt that Cromwell himself feels entirely safe - for he has experienced the terrifying fickleness of the King's favour and shall never trust it again - but those about him are quite certain that he could indeed now demand the hand of the Lady Mary from the King, and almost certainly receive it.

Relations with the Emperor have been restored, thanks to some very carefully worded diplomatic overtures that Cromwell spent a great deal of time composing. Eustace Chapuys, it seems, required some considerable persuading to return to England after the rather hasty departure he was obliged to make in the first days of autumn; but a rather desperate missive from the Lady Mary tipped the scales, and he has been back at Court now for a week or so, and the King has made much of him. So much so, it seems, that he is constantly wary, as though he expects someone to drive a blade into his back.

He has brought with him a number of proposals pertaining to the peace of our two Kingdoms in the face of the duplicity of France - including a proposal to wed the Lady Mary to His Serene Highness, the Infante Miguel da Paz of Portugal and Asturias, who stands to inherit the Crowns of Portugal, Castile, León and Aragon. There are many hopes attached to this young man, who almost died when but an infant, but who has survived to earn a whole cornucopia of compliments from all who have met him. Certainly Mary herself is most keen on the match - for all know how much she longs for a husband. Quite possibly as much as she longs to live in a completely Catholic realm, I suspect.

While no mention is made of Campofregoso, or his disappearance, there is still the issue of his deceit - for Henry despises being made to look a fool, and we are certain that he is eager to find some means of pretending that he knew of it all along. So far, however, he has not managed to find a sufficiently convincing scenario to release for the Court's consumption, and thus the matter rests. All know the story of his descent into madness - and the murder of two of his own servants before he threw himself upon his sword and ended his sorry life. None mourn him, and all about us claim that they had their suspicions from the moment he arrived. Of course they did.

Now that we have earned Hertford's trust, he is quite keen to keep us apprised of all that occurs in the Queen's apartments - for we are not able to approach her ourselves. At her insistence, I write short notes to tell her all our doings - though these are shorter than ever, for not even a ravener has entered the Court in the last three weeks or more, and our hunts seem now to be more like armed evening walks.

With Lamashtu gone, the only risk to the Queen now is from those that naturally accompany childbirth. There is no need for us to be present, which seems most strange to us after the rather desperate arrangements we were obliged to make at her last lying-in. We are surplus to requirements - and I am not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. Cromwell, on the other hand, must remain ready - for Hertford expects him to be present when he carries the news to the King.

Things being as they are, Cromwell cannot leave the Court for the festivities, though this is no difficulty for him as Gregory is now installed in apartments elsewhere in the palace, having begun work within the offices as a senior clerk. He shall, therefore, celebrate with us, along with his betrothed, for he has sought the hand of Elizabeth Seymour, the Queen's sister - and she has consented.

It is as we gather for the Midnight Mass that we discover the news, for the Queen is absent. As she would never, even if desperately ill, miss such a service, all know without needing to be told that her labour has commenced. As we celebrate the arrival of the Christ Child, the arrival of a Royal Child is under way. I doubt that many are truly able to concentrate upon the service - and the Court scatters as soon as it is over - none are likely to sleep tonight, for all wish to be amongst the first to know. It seems almost competitive.

"Come," Cromwell sighs, as he watches all about us gossiping about who is likely to find out about the birth before any other, "I doubt that we need to, but I should prefer to be ready. My apartments are closest - and even if nothing occurs, it shall be to me that a messenger shall come, so it is best that they find me quickly."

It is foolish, yes, but we have got so much into the habit of being prepared for infernal activity that it is almost impossible to set it aside. Thus we assemble, swords in hand, and settle down in Cromwell's chambers - waiting for news, taking it in turns to sleep.

Naturally, come the dawn, none of us have slept enough, all of us are stiff and our tempers are somewhat frayed. Dickon views us with amusement as he sets out a fine repast for us to break our fast this Christmas morn, "That shall be all, Dickon." Cromwell yawns, "Get yourself to Grant's Place, and to Molly - with our best wishes. We shall dine and sup in the Hall with the rampaging mob."

Despite the celebratory nature of the day - for it is, after all, Christmastide, the entire Court is tense with waiting for news from the Queen's apartments. We leave briefly to allow Cromwell's chambermaids to tidy and clear all, but we are not truly able to venture far, in case one of Hertford's retinue come in search of him to join the Earl in delivering the news of the birth. Lady Rochford is, very kindly, dispatching notes on an hourly basis, so we know more than most at Court do - but who knows for how long a labour might last?

Eventually, hunger drives us to the Hall, where an impressive array of victuals await all who wish to feast. The King is, naturally, not present, for he is closeted away - waiting for news of what he hopes desperately shall be a Duke of York. Thus, decorum is of less interest than might normally be the case, so we eat quickly, and depart as swiftly as we may. Even Wyatt, who has plenty of friends present, but prefers to wait it out with us. But then, we shall be amongst the first to know, and I imagine he would delight in standing at the gallery railings to shout out to all below if the child is indeed a Prince.

We return to Cromwell's apartments by the middle of the afternoon. The ribaldry in the Hall has become truly unendurable, as the noise of people all attempting to talk at once has long since drowned out the musicians, and conversation appears to consist largely of people claiming to be important enough to know before any other that the child is born. Lord above, I have never seen such ridiculous over-excitement. Even Queen Anne's first child did not excite such stupidity.

By suppertime, my lack of sleep has caught up with me, and I am rudely jolted awake from my slumbers by the sound of hammering upon Cromwell's door. I am slumped, rather awkwardly, across Cromwell's large table, having rested my head upon my arms at some point; but we are on our feet at once as Jonathan appears, his cheeks red from running, "My Lord Hertford asks you to join him in going to the King. For the Queen is safely delivered of another Son." He pants.

Being already dressed to enter the King's presence, Cromwell immediately leaves with the Page, while Wyatt turns to me, "Forgive me, Richard - but I cannot resist." And he is gone. I know full well that he intends to flee to the Hall, stand at the gallery railings and shout to all that it is a Prince. And they shall all hate him for it.

Being left to my own devices, I dawdle back to my own quarters, though I am most careful to keep my sword hidden beneath a cloak, grateful that the the weather is cold again. I do not expect to hear from anyone until the morning at the earliest, so as far as I am concerned, it is most definitely time for bed.

Three days have passed since Christmastide, and her Majesty, while still confined, shows no sign of infirmity or sickness following the birth of her second son. Lady Rochford reports to us that she is tired - obviously - but otherwise well, and the baptism shall take place as soon as Cranmer has returned from Canterbury, where he was celebrating with his congregation. Now that Gardiner has been banished from Court, there is no one to usurp the Archbishop's place - but he is diplomatic enough to ensure that the baptism shall serve the sensibilities of both Jane, who remains largely Catholic in her outlook, and Henry, who still sees himself ahead of the Pope.

His Majesty has determined that his second son shall be named after himself, so we gather in the Chapel Royal at Whitehall to welcome Henry, soon to be Duke of York, into the Church of England. Queen Jane carries her son, looking regal and far more well than she did when she accompanied Edward to his baptism, while I certainly look less of a fright, for I have not been obliged to attend this ceremony looking as though I have crashed into a wall.

The procession of Royals is augmented this year by another guest that would have been all but unthinkable even as little as a year ago, for the Lady Mary has now met her Fiancé, and that meeting could not have been more perfect if it had been scripted by Wyatt himself, for they were both enamoured almost as soon as they laid eyes upon each other, and he walks beside her as she follows her Father and Stepmother into the Chapel. Elizabeth follows behind her, while Lady Bryan assists the toddling Prince Edward. Any fears that he might grow bored have been forestalled by his Uncle, who has secured a new toy to keep him occupied.

The baptism passes without incident, which is just as well, for I note that Cromwell has not worn his doublet with the concealed pocket for a knife. Maybe I am too cautious - no, I am too cautious. The only great threat to the child in this Chapel is gone, and we are free of concerns of an infernal nature - even if only for this one day.

Little Prince Henry is the soul of quiet and peace as Cranmer baptises him, the order of service he uses being in both Latin and English - but then, the water is warmed, so the babe does not have to endure the shock of chill water upon his head. Two boys - two Princes to secure our Kingdom and a Princess set to seal a grand alliance between England and a great union of Spanish Kingdoms that shall create a balance of power, and hopefully maintain a long needed peace. Elizabeth is not yet betrothed to any - but with all set as it is, she is almost free to choose whom she will. In the meantime, however, her sister's wedding is set for early spring.

The celebrations in the Hall are, not surprisingly, lavish to the extreme. If he waited a long time for a Prince of Wales - though he is not yet invested as such - to have a Duke of York is almost more than the King could have hoped for, and he seems almost to have shed the infirmities that have made him so difficult for so long. We are not fool enough to think the effect permanent, but it is a relief to see him almost as lively as he was when he was younger - for has he not proved himself a true king, and a fertile man? He has done his duty to his Kingdom and secured the succession.

The dining and drinking continues for nearly two hours, before space in the centre of the Hall is cleared for dancing - and there shall be plenty of that, I am sure. But, before the musicians strike up, the King rises from his seat and calls for quiet.

"My Lords!" He calls, loudly, "Ladies of the Court! I thank you all for your celebrations and your joy at our Kingdom's great fortune. For as all know, it came close to being lost not half a year ago. The duplicity of France, and one renegade, would have pulled us all into the horror and chaos of a war that would have ruined this realm. I knew of it, as did some few of my Lords, and thus we sought to pull the teeth of this horrible conspiracy that was ranged against us."

I stare at him, bemused - what does he mean? He knew of it? None of us did…

And then I realise, this is his ruse to conceal his ignorance of the plot against him and pretend that instead he was fully aware of it. He must claim to know that Campofregoso meant the realm harm, but how can he explain Cromwell's arrest?

"To do so required the stealth of a Duke, and an Earl - and the bravery of three of my Privy Councillors, who allowed themselves to face ignominy, suspicion and false accusations for the sake of their Kingdom, and their King. Between us, we destroyed the danger, and thus I wish to bestow honours today, to recognise their courage."

God above - he means us, he must mean us. What is he going to do? I look across at Wyatt, who is staring back at me in confusion.

Rising from his chair behind the high table, the King limps around to the front of the dais and seats himself in another chair, brought for him by two of his stewards, "Thomas Wyatt." He looks about, and beckons Wyatt as he stands and, rather nervously, bows. I stare, my eyes widening, as the King bids Wyatt to kneel before him, then rises from the chair and takes a proffered sword from one of his ushers.

"For your bravery in deceiving all that you had abandoned those you loved, for the sake of saving my Kingdom." He says, "I dub thee Sir Thomas Wyatt. Arise, Sir Thomas."

There is a moment of silence, as Wyatt stands, but then applause breaks out all about the hall, for Wyatt is a popular courtier, and none would object to his elevation to a Knighthood. My own is just as sincere, for his friendship and aid has been invaluable to our fight.

"Sir Richard Rich."

This time it is my turn to feel the thrill of shock as I hear my name. Swallowing rather nervously, I rise as Wyatt did, and approach the King, who also bids me to kneel.

"For your determination and courage to bring down the vile conspiracy against me, to the point of posing as a wanted traitor, and for the loss of your beard," I hear a ripple of amusement at that quip, "I create you first Baron Rich of Leighs, and I award you the post of Lord Privy Seal."

That startles me - the third highest position in the Realm? God above, I am now a Peer, too…rather shocked, I stand again, bow, and withdraw. I can hear applause, though my own popularity is so pitiful, I think it is considerably more forced than it might otherwise have been - though I can see it certainly is where Wriothesley is concerned. I suppose he was hoping for a post so high himself.

"Thomas Cromwell."

This time, Cromwell stands, with a degree of dignity that I only wish I could emulate. As he approaches the King, who bids him kneel, I wonder what he shall receive, for none of us endured what he did.

"For your courage and endurance of the privations of the Tower, where all thought you to be a traitor when you were not, you shall be invested into the Order of the Garter. Arise, Sir Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex."

God above - dear God above, he has raised Cromwell to an Earldom. A mere commoner, to have risen so high? It is all but unheard of. Sitting beside me, Wyatt is grinning almost idiotically, and I think I am, too. And I am damp about the eyes. God, how embarrassing. Again, the King invites applause, which, while almost certainly grudging in some quarters, is most certainly not from me, or Wyatt.

As Cromwell rises, looking decidedly shocked at his sudden elevation, his Majesty raises his hands for quiet again, "It is thanks to such loyalty as that shown by these three men of my Court that I am so well served. To have seen the duplicitous Ambassador for what he was is truly one thing - but to have such as these men to rely upon in order to defeat him is the greatest gift an anointed King can hope for. I am truly grateful to God for sending me such true and faithful servants." And then, as though he has not embarrassed us enough, he leads another burst of applause, and waves at the two of us to stand and join Cromwell. I am not sure whether I am delighted, or wishing the ground would open and swallow me up.

As we turn and bow to the King again, I can see that the Queen is smiling at us, and - I'm sure I see it - she gives us the briefest of winks. Behind her, both Suffolk and Hertford are applauding with the sincerity that most behind us almost certainly lack. There is no doubting that they, as much as the King, were behind this extraordinary reward, though I am sure his Majesty is quite capable of inventing the ruse that inspired it. I never imagined that this could happen when first I woke in the Offices at Hampton Court and discovered a whole world of which I knew nothing.

The applause dies away, the King returns to his place at the table, and we are free to sit again as the musicians commence tuning before launching into a jaunty galliard that soon has people on their feet. Wyatt is immediately drawn into the whirl of dancers, but as I cannot dance at all well, and Cromwell never learned how, I am more than happy for him to enjoy his prowess with the ladies.

"So, Lord Rich." Cromwell says, sitting down beside me, and adding a rather humorous emphasis to my new title.

"So Lord Cromwell." I quip back at him, "When shall we receive our letters patent, do you think?"

"Tomorrow, no doubt." He answers, "That was most cleverly done. I wonder whose idea it was."

It comes as no surprise to me that neither of us consider such a scheme could have come entirely from the King - though he still retains at least a portion of the subtlety it would require. Perhaps it was also the Queen, or, possibly, Suffolk - for they have the talent for it as much as he, and would be keener to bestow such high honours upon men of our comparatively low state. Either way, his Majesty no longer looks a dupe, and he could not have made it clearer to all that our apparent treachery was false. At very little cost to himself, he has elevated his reputation, and who would disagree with his interpretation of events? None who wish to keep their heads; of that, I am absolutely certain.

The changes to our ranks do not make themselves apparent until after Twelfth Night, when we return to the offices. To my surprise, I have been evicted from my alcove to sit at the desk that Cromwell occupied, for now I am the Lord Privy Seal. With his new ennoblement that serves to emphasise his power as Lord Chancellor, Cromwell has an office entirely separate now, linked to ours by a private corridor, should he wish to use it, or simply through the main passageways of the Palace. The offices are now in my charge - and suddenly, I feel horribly nervous, for I have not the first idea how to manage the bureaucracy as he did.

Wriothesley, looking a little envious, though trying hard not to show it, advises that the Lord Chancellor wishes to see me, so I hasten from Cromwell's - no - my desk to his office, where he is already immersed in papers with the air of someone absolutely assured in their work. He looks up, and sees my slightly wide eyes, and smiles, sympathetically.

"If I seem to know what I am about," He advises, "it is merely because I hide my terror rather better than you do."

"I have to find the money to pay for a Royal Wedding - and I have no idea where to begin!" I babble, rather fearfully, "How did you manage it?"

"By not panicking, for a start." Cromwell says, sardonically. Then he smiles again, "Take a seat, Richie. We are both in unfamiliar territory now, and so we must work together to achieve our goals: as we have done against infernal creatures for the last two years, have we not?"

Slowly, carefully, Cromwell guides me through the extensive sets of accounts, and the procedures he has established for dealing with income and expenditure. I am perfectly capable of understanding them: after all, I have been Chancellor of the Court of Augmentations since it was established, and thus have overseen the redistribution of monies from the Religious houses. It is the sudden responsibility of my new role that has shaken me, as suddenly the revenues are much larger, and the overall scope so expanded. While it is merely nerves that has set me to such foolishness, I am, nonetheless, grateful to Cromwell for his careful explanations of all that he has set in place. It works, and works well - so I do not want to wreck it through ignorance.

Within two hours, our discussions have moved away from accounts, and more towards Cromwell's plans to continue to reform the operations of Government in terms of efficiency and skill. His ideas are interesting, and we are soon exchanging thoughts and plans, for his ideas spring ideas of my own. His plans for education, infrastructure and the realm's financial wellbeing are surprisingly extensive - for never before has he had the chance to even consider bringing them to fruition - there have always been too many demons to dispatch first; not to mention the inevitable opposition of the other Lords.

"Between us, Richie," He says, scribbling another note to complete the long list he has made of our throwing about of ideas, "I think we shall make this nation great. Do you not agree?" He is smiling, and I know that he is speaking more in jest than seriousness. The King would never permit us a free rein to that extent, and he knows it. We have, however, set down a long list of suggestions that he might gradually feed to the King, in hopes that his Majesty might bite, and allow us to keep on pulling England out of the days of yore, when all was ruled by men with Land, while those without were obliged to live unrepresented.

That said, I think our efforts to destroy Lamashtu were easier to bring about than this shall be.

The next few weeks are a frenzy of planning, book balancing and hunting frantically for more funds to meet the King's demands for a truly extravagant celebration of Lady Mary's nuptials. My replacement as Solicitor General, a highly capable and genial man from Staffordshire by the name of William Whorwood, is proving to be equally helpful to our Government work, and between us, with the aid of Wriothesley, we have managed to meet every whim.

This marriage shall not be in the Chapel Royal - for King Henry intends all of Europe to see just how lavishly he can celebrate a Royal wedding for a Princess. Now that both their mothers are no longer alive, the issue of their legitimacy might still be awkward, but as far as the King is concerned, the Infante is going to marry a Princess, not a Lady - and Whorwood was tasked with finding a way of restoring her to the Succession without too much emphasis upon the rather mangled problem of her legitimacy. I am quite relieved that such a task is not my job anymore. But then, as there are now two sons ahead of her, there is far less likelihood that she shall assume the Crown.

Furthermore, probably thanks to the gentle persuasion of the Queen, he has even agreed that - as a special favour and courtesy to his daughter, and to his soon-to-be Son in Law - the ceremony shall be conducted with full Catholic rites by the Archbishop of Lisbon, who has travelled to London specially to conduct it. It is a singular acceptance of Mary's determination never to give up her faith, and an acknowledgement that she was forced to declare against it when first she returned to Court. While not overt, it is as close as Henry shall ever come to an apology, and we all know that she appreciates it.

To see the couple together, it is clear that they are very much in love - a true rarity in an arranged marriage. Mary has, for so long, wanted to be a wife, and in some ways it was her close relationship with Ambassador Chapuys that caused him to work so hard to bring this union about. The Holy Roman Emperor has been surprisingly accommodating of a marriage that takes a large degree of Spanish lands out of his reach; but then, if it creates a solid balance of power in Europe that stops people from going to war with each other to a degree that it seems almost to be a national sport, he should not complain too freely. After all, we know from experience that peace is a far less costly proposition.

As we are now Peers of the Realm, both Cromwell and I are privileged to sit within the Quire of the abbey with those of high rank, and witness the service. With such overt Catholic ceremonial, I could not help but wonder as I came in what he would make of it - for such ceremonies are something of an affront to his altogether simpler view of man's relationship with the Almighty.

"I make nothing of it, Richie." He said to me, at the time, "For, after all, she is taking it back to Portugal with her, is she not?"

Quite.

An hour and a half of Latin later, Mary is wife to the Infante of Portugal and Asturias - thereby cementing an alliance between England and the Iberian Union that shall come into being when His Highness inherits his Crowns. It seems almost inconceivable that such a move could truly be the best chance for peace that Europe has seen in centuries, but - if all abide by it - we might indeed embark upon a journey into such uncharted waters. They call him 'Michael of Peace'. I hope that he lives up to that name.

If the Ceremony was magnificent, the wedding breakfast that follows is spectacular. Those of us fortunate to be present feast upon capon, sides of beef, carp and hams, with almost endless baskets of bread, fruits, nuts, sweetmeats and gallons of wine and ale to wash it down. Mary, or Her Serene Highness the Infanta Maria, as she will be known when she arrives in her new home, sits with her husband at the centre of the High table, almost deliriously happy in her good fortune, for Prince Miguel has proved throughout to be everything that Chapuys reported him to be. He has taken a risk of angering his master in working to secure such a match - but he loves Mary almost as a daughter, and his desire for her to be happy is at least as great as that of her real father.

As darkness falls, I decide to take my leave, for I am tired, I have eaten too much, and I am slightly drunk; so I have no wish to make a complete idiot of myself, for I think it is quite possible that I might puke if I stay where I am. I have been sitting with Wyatt for the last hour or so, in between his getting up to dance, for Cromwell departed some time ago, pleading work that would not wait.

I decide to walk in the gardens, which are alight with flares, as I think the air would do my ragged constitution some good, and spend a pleasant quarter hour's wandering, avoiding those who have slipped outside to relieve themselves, woo a woman they have danced with or…other things…and find myself approaching the balustrade that overlooks the river. It is then that I see him, still in black, as always, leaning on that same balustrade, watching the brightly lit barges upon which musicians play in celebration.

"I hope you do not intend to hunt tonight, Thomas." I mumble, "I am both too tired, and too bilious."

He laughs, "Indeed no, Richie. I have no wish to do so - for I think nothing would be found in all this noise and light other than a man in black, and a man in drink."

"Do you think it likely that we shall have to face any creature such as Lamashtu again?"

"Not immediately. If at all, I think." Cromwell says, "We have, at a stroke, set in place such alliances that we can be confident of peace for years to come. The promised Iberian Union shall be strong enough to counterbalance the bellicosity of the Emperor, and France shall not interfere. Even the King would not abrogate a treaty that could damage his daughter's wellbeing, for her Majesty would talk him from it, I think. Now that she has borne him two sons, her position is truly unassailable." He sighs, then, "I do not think it likely that she shall bear any more." His voice is now much lower.

"That we have a Duke of York is blessing enough, I think, Thomas." I say, "When Anne was still with us, such an outcome seemed to be more than we could have dreamed - though, had we known then of Lamashtu, and had we had the means to defeat her, who knows how things would have turned out?"

"Princess Mary would not be an Infanta of Portugal and Asturias, I think. Anne would have done all in her power to prevent it - as she would have wanted such a prize for Elizabeth."

"Then perhaps all has turned out for the best?"

Cromwell nods, "Perhaps it has. Jane might not have Anne's fire, but Anne did not have Jane's patience. I could never have received the Royal Rosary from Anne, for she would not have accepted it once she became convinced of the reformist cause. Hard though it was to endure, and to undertake, it was necessary for the Mission. I just wish…" his voice trails off.

I know, though, what he is about to say - if only it had not cost her life, or those of the innocent men who died with her.

"But have we not honoured her memory?" I ask, "For it was the malevolence of Lamashtu that brought her to ruin in the end, and we have destroyed Lamashtu. Elizabeth is now a Princess again, even though her legitimacy is still unmentioned, and she has a place in the Succession, just as her mother hoped. She shall not rule England, I think - but she shall make a fine Queen Consort, shall she not?"

Cromwell smiles again, "Yes, I think she shall. She is intelligent, beautiful and has excellent manners - though I think she has inherited both her Parents' tempers. God help her husband."

I laugh at that, and then my stomach churns, and I groan…not here, not now…

"Deep breaths, Richie," Cromwell sympathises, as I slump over the balustrade, retching, "It shall not last forever." He pats me on the back as I puke again. God, how embarrassing…at least I have the river below me, and not the path.

"Perhaps I should get you back to your chambers." He says, as I remain slumped over the stone, though the heaving has now stopped, "You should rest yourself, ready for tomorrow and the hang-over that shall surely follow your excess."

As though I need to be reminded of that.

I do, at least, have several days to recover from my stupidity - as, a week from her wedding, the Infanta Maria and her husband are to depart today for her new Kingdom. She has, naturally, said her private goodbyes, with the accompanying tears, and has travelled in a fine litter with the Infante Miguel to the Pool of London, where a gaily decorated carrack is berthed to carry the Couple to their new home. Further out, at anchor, is the famous galleon São João Baptista, the largest warship afloat, which those who sail her call Botafogo or 'Spitfire', set to accompany them as an escort, and as an indication of the power of Portugal, ally to England.

Huge crowds have turned out to bid her farewell - far too many for her to address, so instead she waves, and receives a great cheer from them - for she has never lost her popularity with the people of England. While the King and Queen are not present, the Privy Councillors and highest lords of the Land have escorted her, so Cromwell and I do at least get the opportunity to see her go. After all she has endured in her life, it is a good thing to see her happy at last.

"And that is that." Cromwell says, as the Carrack pulls away from the dock, "Perhaps now we shall see a lasting peace."

"I should welcome that." I agree with him, "If nothing else, it shall leave us more time to deal with Government."

He continues to watch as the vessel sails out on the morning tide, and I realise that he is shedding silent tears.

"What?"

"All is done." He says, "The Mission is complete."

Chapter Text

I have not been at court for six weeks. That the King is so amenable to my taking such a sabbatical can only be thanks to the warm summer weather that has allowed him to ride and hunt - and forget about the Government of the Realm for the season. Cromwell, Wriothesley and Whorwood have, between them, covered for my absence so efficiently that I wonder if I am truly needed at all.

In the six months that have passed since the Infanta Maria set sail for her new home in Portugal, it is as though the dark world we knew never existed - and all that we endured in our quest to destroy Lamashtu was nothing but a dream. Nothing infernal has visited the Court in all that time, and Cromwell has sensed not so much as a waft of ichor. Had he done so, I would most certainly not have remained behind when the Court removed.

My reason for staying in London was partly to catalogue a large consignment of papers sent from the House, but mostly to oversee the progress of Molly, whose prowess is such that, on my recommendation, the High has agreed that she should serve as a Second. She, and her ever loving husband, departed on this morning's tide for Padua, where she is to be intensively trained in the Spanish and Portuguese languages, and learn the complicated Courtly manners of a great Lady in the train of the Infanta Maria. I am sad to see her go, for her assistance was so invaluable that I am quite convinced I could not have managed when times were at their darkest; but I am also pleased, for her talent is enormous, and she shall certainly prove to be a highly capable Second to the Silver Sword to whom she is to be assigned. As the former Lady Mary is well aware of the existence of the Order, she shall, doubtless, expect to be as fully apprised of Molly's activities as Queen Jane has been with mine.

The sun is high as Adrian plods up to the gate of the inn at which I intend to dine. I am not surprised to see Clement tied to a railing in the shade of a nearby shed, his tail swishing back and forth to keep the flies at bay. Cromwell knew that I was returning to Court today, so he has - naturally - ridden out to meet me halfway. And there he is - seated at a quiet table well away from any other patrons. Not that any would know who he was, for he has chosen to dress quite roughly for a man of his station.

"Are the Garlants on their way?" He asks, as I seat myself opposite, washing my hands in a dish held for me by one of the servants.

"They are. Molly and Goodwife Dawson both shed copious amounts of tears - but she is excited as much as she is apprehensive, I think."

"She is very talented," He observes, "I have no doubt that she and the Princess Maria shall make a truly formidable team. I rather pity the Silver Sword who must deal with them."

I laugh, then look about, "Is Tom not with you?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "Tom is no longer at Court - since he was granted his Knighthood, he has entered diplomatic service. To remain as he was would have been an utter waste of his talents - and I am glad that he is being put to good use. He is currently in Paris, I believe."

We cannot discuss matters pertaining to our more secretive work as we dine, for there are too many other patrons around us. Instead, I catch up on what little Court gossip Cromwell is able to access, since we have lost Tom's keen observational eye. Now that Dickon has left, he is in the process of finding a new Manservant, which is proving difficult, for who could possibly reach the heights achieved by William? Even Dickon struggled at times, and he knew all about us.

Once we are on horseback again, the horses taking a slow and easy pace, matters return to those which we could not discuss in public, "How is the Queen?" I ask.

"She is most well, and her efforts to grant Ned and Hal - as she calls them - a childhood free from care continue to bear fruit." Cromwell answers, "Young Edward has begun some lessons, which he merely considers to be an extension of his play, and the household he shall eventually lead is being appointed. I believe Lady Bryan is to manage his affairs once he assumes a home of his own, though that shall not happen for at least another year."

"And Princess Elizabeth?"

"I believe she has now received at least seven proposals for her hand from various European courts." Cromwell's voice is rather dry, "She has, however, so far shown no keenness to consider any - she is a most serious young woman, and her studious nature is something to behold. Were she not a Princess, I cannot help but wonder if she might make as capable a Second as Molly is likely to become."

I am not sure if he is serious, until I see he is smiling somewhat, and I know that he jests. With a temper like hers, to be a Second would be all but impossible.

"And what of the King?" I venture, somewhat nervously - for all know that his health is not what it was.

"All things considered, Richie, he is in surprisingly good condition. His leg is as poor as ever, and his temper fluctuates with its state. He is still able to ride, however, despite his gout, and thus enjoys at least some of the pleasures of his youth. I do not, however," despite our being alone, his voice drops, "think it likely that there shall be a third child for her Majesty."

That is no real surprise - if I am to be truly honest with myself, I suspect that little Prince Henry was something of a fortunate fluke.

"He is as attentive to her as he has ever been," Cromwell continues, "and she is well able to navigate his moods, as well as turn a blind eye to his occasional philandering, for he still has mistresses now and again. Her patience is, at times, truly legendary - though that is something that all of us have been obliged to learn where we hold high office."

"Have you been obliged to hunt at all?" I venture, uncertain whether I hope that he has, or he has not.

"I have undertaken periodic searches of the Palace." He admits, "Always they are fruitless, which is a good thing. I am, however, relieved that you have returned, for I am concerned that my lack of swordplay shall impact upon my speed. I hope you are not averse to spending some time sparring."

He laughs at my nervous expression.

The Court is quiet as we arrive in the Mews, and I hand Adrian over to one of the Grooms. John has been here since the the move, so Cromwell escorts me to my new quarters - as they are far finer than my previous rooms, and I do not yet know where they are.

I am tired, hot and stiff from my long ride, so I cannot contemplate supper until I have bathed and changed into clean clothes. Evening is drawing in as I rejoin Cromwell, as he has decided that we should eat in the Hall tonight. I am, however, quite famished, so I do not care in the slightest where we eat. Though I am still rather unused to the deference that I receive as the Lord Privy Seal, and find it most odd. Not that it seems to have done anything for my popularity - unless people want something, of course.

"I have ensured that there is nothing of great import awaiting you, Richie," Cromwell advises, sagely, as we eat, "I intend upon an excursion tomorrow, for I am curious."

"About what?"

"I wish to see what has happened to the Priory now that a certain lady of our former acquaintance is no longer with us."

"Why? She is gone - it is in all certainty abandoned." I must admit that I am not keen, for I remember those ghastly heads she had on her walls. Human heads set as trophies - which would have included ours had she been able to secure them. I imagine those blasted things are still there, and I would not wish to see them again, for I remember how much they unnerved me.

Cromwell chews at a mouthful of mutton, then swallows it, "I am not comfortable with the knowledge that it remains. To me, it would seem to be an infernal refuge, and I wish to be certain that nothing else has taken up residence there."

"You wish to have it pulled down?"

"Perhaps; if it is possible. Just to make all sure."

And so, the following morning, we depart from Hampton Court, our swords carefully set on our saddles, and make the journey across the river for the first time since that day that came so close to ending our lives. I am not sure what to expect, for the last time we visited the Priory all about it seemed dead and cold - apparently thanks to the presence of something as evil as Lamashtu.

As we ride through the parkland that belongs to the King - since we are Courtiers and therefore permitted to do so - the sun is high, and warm. I have already opened my doublet at the throat, and I suspect that I shall have removed it entirely by midday, since we are not in the presence of anyone important. Around us, the grass is high and alive with crickets and grasshoppers that spring away in all directions. Now and again, we put up a pheasant or two, and their alarm calls send the distant deer fleeing for cover.

When we come upon the Priory, we are rather surprised, for it seems so unexpected. The grass is as high here as it was behind us, and the birds serenade the summer air with warbling voices that were entirely absent when last we approached. The sun is not hidden, and no mist wreaths about the trees that sprout leaves where once they seemed to be nothing more than gnarled fists.

The outer buildings and the old Priory Church are as ruinous as they were when first we saw them, but the real surprise lies before us as we enter what had previously served as Lamashtu's residence.

"What has happened to it?" I ask, astonished that the buildings that once stood here are now as ruinous as the rest of the complex - and seem always to have been so. It is as though nothing has been here since the place was destroyed when Lamashtu first arrived here.

"When she was destroyed," Cromwell muses, as he guides Clement in through what was a standing gateway when we last explored the site, "I can only imagine the place where she lived was destroyed, too. Perhaps she maintained it through whatever infernal powers she possessed."

Even as I dismount, my eyes search the now exposed walls. When I ventured inside, those walls had been decorated with panelling, the grotesque heads mounted upon plaques like those of hunted beasts and hung all about. Now, however, there is no sign that any decoration was ever present. No furniture, no panelling and - thank God - no severed heads.

"I do not imagine anything would take up residence here, Thomas." I say, turning to him as he also dismounts and crosses to join me, "It is all gone."

"Good." He approves.

With nothing to keep us, Cromwell cups his hands to boost me back into my saddle, before mounting Clement with the ease of a long-practised rider, and we commence a leisurely plod back to the Palace. The last time, we had been fleeing for our lives, so it is quite pleasant to move at such a sedate pace.

"So, Thomas." I look across to him, "Is it safe to say that the Mission is complete?"

He nods, "I think so - well, this Mission is complete. I do not doubt that others shall attempt to succeed where Lamashtu failed."

"Others? God, are you serious?"

"Absolutely. There is quite an aristocracy of demons, Richie, and now that Lamashtu is gone, there is nothing to stand in their way other than a Silver Sword and his Second. That said, none are like Lamashtu - for she was more than a mere demoness. She had been here for longer than any could guess - any creature that wishes to shatter our hard won peace shall have to start from the beginning, and that grants us an inevitable advantage, for we are prepared, but they are not."

"We are?" I am immediately nervous.

"Why - have you learned nothing from your experiences, then?" Cromwell raises an eyebrow, sardonically.

"Well - yes, I have, but…"

"There is no 'but', Richie. I once trusted Wolsey absolutely with my life, and now, equally, I trust you. There was once a youth by the name of Joachim who I regarded as close to me as a brother. Now, there is you. Not only do you have the skills to be my Second, but you can fight at my side, and there is not a soul alive whom I trust more."

"In that case, perhaps we are indeed prepared." I admit, deliberately grudging, and he laughs, "Until that night, when I encountered you in the offices, I knew better than to trust anyone, or to be trusted. It was Tom who told me that I was hiding behind that to protect myself. I think I still do not fully trust any other at court but you and Tom, for none have shown me that they are safe to be granted such faith, with perhaps the exception of her Majesty and Lady Rochford. But I know that there is one constant in my life now, and that is your trust, and your friendship. I think, without that, I should be a truly sad soul indeed - and almost certainly not the Lord Privy Seal." I add, rather facetiously.

"If we continue to serve the Kingdom to such a degree, then I fear that his Majesty shall run out of rewards to grant us." Cromwell says, cheerfully, "Perhaps we should restore the secrecy of our clandestine professions."

"Her Majesty would never forgive us." I remind him.

"That she would not."

The day is rolling into dusk as we cross the river again and return to Hampton Court Palace - where it all began. Nearly four years have passed since that strange moment when I discovered that the stranger I had seen in the Offices was Thomas Cromwell, and that my services were required to defeat a ghastly evil that could have plunged the entirety of England into a slavery so grotesque that all who lived would have envied those who had died. I am not that man now - I am stronger, braver and perhaps a little more wise, though probably not. In a single instant, the course of my life changed forever - and I shall never be the same again.

As we leave the horses with the grooms and retrieve our swords, I notice Cromwell stop dead. For a moment, he sniffs slightly, then turns to me. It is I who speaks, "Ichor."

We have our swords with us, and - while we are not in black - we are not dressed too finely. It seems the ideal time to go in search of that which has captured the Raven's attention. The Mission may have been achieved, but the War goes on. Exchanging a glance, we strap on our swords, and set out to hunt.