A/N: Welcome back to my alternate universe! I left my trilogy open-ended, though I hadn't thought of where to take it. But then I decided to see what would happen if I took things on beyond the reign of Henry and into the Reign of Edward - and this tale was born.

To everyone who read, followed, favourited and/or reviewed my trilogy - this one's for you. Hope you continue to enjoy my retelling of historic events - reviews are most welcome.

As always, I own nothing here other than what came out of my own imagination.

Six years have passed since Lamashtu was destroyed, and both Thomas Cromwell and Richard Rich continue their work as Silver Sword and Second in the Court of Henry VIII. All is quiet, and their primary concern now is to ensure the safe succession of the Prince Edward as the factions gather in the twilight years of Henry's reign.

But something strange is happening, as Richard's bond with the Damask Blade starts to grow to a point beyond his ability to control. To make matters worse, it could not be more obvious that Thomas's age is beginning to tell against him, and he is no longer as capable a warrior as he once was.

And, as if that were not enough, the endless battling in the demonic realms as the higher-placed infernals seek to take England for their own has granted an opportunity to one of the darkest of their kind. Suddenly, not only do the Raven and his Second have to protect the Prince as he comes into his inheritance, but it seems that they must once again work to save the Kingdom from a powerful demon.

Whether they're ready or not.

PART ONE

Twilight of the Lion

Chapter One

Three are Two

I am standing in the midst of a silent crowd; held to stillness by a raging voice that causes everyone to fear for their heads when it rises above the general hubbub of conversation in the Presence Chamber.

"And yet," the speaker cries stridently, "his most duplicitous Imperial Majesty demands my aid against France? Regardless of his endless treachery towards me, damn him?"

How many times have I heard this throughout my career? I fear to attempt to count; for Henry, eighth of that name, makes, and withdraws, overtures to his continental neighbours with such frequency that he is hardly a fit man to complain when they do likewise to him. But then, how long has it been since we could say with certainty that his temper was truly stable? Of all the evils that I have faced, I think it is perhaps that deadly, unpredictable rage that is the most likely to end my tenure at Court - or even my life.

I suppose the truest irony is that this is now the greatest danger to the security of our Kingdom, for six years have passed since I watched the destruction of a deadly demoness at the hands of the man who stands beside me now - a rock of calm amidst the choppy nervousness of the assembled throng.

Sir Thomas Cromwell, Knight of the Garter, Earl of Essex and Lord Chancellor of England is, nonetheless pale. All of us know better than to dismiss a kingly temper tantrum; and perhaps none more so than he - for he is a member of that band of rare survivors; men who have been sent to the Tower, but who emerged with their lives. His reaction to Henry's anger is to remain silent and allow the tempest to run its course; it has served him well since his return to favour - and it is a lesson I have taken care to learn equally well.

There was a time when I hated this man - loathed him and wished to remove him so that I could advance my own career in his place. But then I drifted off to sleep at my desk, and woke to find him dying at my feet - and my decision to aid him changed my life forever. Back in those days, I was the hated Solicitor General; but now I am a Baron, and Lord Keeper of the King's Privy Seal - and the man I loathed is now the closest and truest friend that I have ever known.

Much has changed in the half-decade since we dispatched the demoness Lamashtu into nothingness - particularly the faces around us. That is the way of things, I suppose; new people arrive, old depart - either to their estates or to the grave. Those who remain seem more careworn nowadays - the burden of a world in which the bright star of its firmament is withering and growing dim; but does so with fits of violence that can even now sweep away one whom we all thought to be basking most warmly in its light. For a King who has not one, but two, sons to carry on his line, Henry remains fearful and suspicious of all, and sees plots where there are none. All are wary in their associations - but we are not blind: even now, factions are forming, ready for that moment when the sun goes dark, and a new one rises in its place. My concern, and Cromwell's, is to ensure that the people who stand at the head of Government when that dread moment comes are those who will ensure that only a royal hand holds power.

Those whose enmity we feared the most are no longer here to trouble us. The highest noble in the land, Thomas Howard, third Duke of Norfolk, is rarely present, though he is returning more frequently these days in hopes of obtaining influence over the Prince; while the rabidly obsessive Bishop of Winchester, Stephen Gardiner, has spent the intervening time tending to his flock - and, I'm told, has benefited greatly from this change in fortunes; to the point that he is far too busy engaging in altogether more charitable acts to be bothered with forcing people to the fire for heresy. The man that Cromwell loathed most of all, Thomas Boleyn, has also gone to his maker - and it was said at the time that the only mourners at his graveside were the ghosts of his children.

The Ambassadors are new faces too; gone is Castillon, replaced by the wily - but not too dishonourable - Charles de Marillac, while the Emperor is now represented by a doughy faced, stuffy Fleming: François van der Delft, following the retirement of our old sparring partner, Eustace Chapuys. Unlike his predecessor, van der Delft has not yet experienced the hottest of Henry's anger. His fortune, however, is that Henry is far too corpulent, and crippled, to grasp him by his lapels and shake him like a rat - as he used to do to Chapuys.

That, perhaps, is the greatest change of all. King Henry is not yet even close to his four score years and ten - but his health is becoming ever poorer as he continues to gorge himself upon endless streams of victuals and his girth expands ever more. Perhaps it is the pains in his legs that fires his raging appetite, for both are now bloated, ulcerated and reeking hideously - and the pain they bring him if he stands upon them for more than a brief time shortens his temper to such a degree that all who are near dread to be so. He can no longer walk far, and thus is transported in a great chair; while riding is equally difficult - though he is still able to do so, thanks to the gift of a fine Boulonnais horse from the King of France that is strong enough to carry him.

Even now, as he shouts furiously from his seat at the cowering ambassador, his face is a fearfully deep red, and he has broken out in a sweat. Standing beside him, one of his truest friends, Charles Brandon, remains silent - if sympathetic; for even he is not immune to an outburst such as this. There was only ever one man who did not fear these dread fits of temper; and he is long dead.

At length, Henry is finished shouting, and dismisses van der Delft, "Get out, damn you! Begone from my sight and be grateful that you are not sent to the Tower!" As the unfortunate man bows and makes a swift exit, the atmosphere seems to lighten a little, though the thick odour of suppurating flesh remains, as it always does nowadays. His complexion still deeply flushed, even though his temper has cooled, Henry is conversing with Suffolk as though nothing happened, and things around us return to normal - or at least as close to normal as can be expected in this place.

"Come, Mr Rich." Cromwell guides me to the side of the hall, maintaining his formality in public - even though we are now regarded somewhat as a David and Jonathan by all around us, "I have heard from an old friend. Tom is returning to Court for a brief time, and shall be with us within the week."

I am most pleased at this news. We have not seen Sir Thomas Wyatt now for nearly two years - for he is generally overseas on Diplomatic service. His most recent assignment was at the Court of the Iberian Union, where their newly crowned King, Miguel, holds court with his beloved wife, Maria - who was known to us until her marriage as the Lady Mary, "It shall be good to see him again." I agree.

In Wyatt's absence, we have missed him greatly for his friendship and humour - but equally, it shall be strange to see him, for we have not been required to take up weapons at all in the time since he left us last. Other than regular patrolling of the corridors, we have not hunted, nor have we fought, any kind of demon - and it as been as though our clandestine services are no longer required. How long that shall last, I cannot begin to guess, but nonetheless, I think we both enjoy the respite.

As the evening draws to a close, I return to my quarters - altogether finer than those I once occupied before I rose to my present state - and spend a while seated by the fire in my chamber. Above, mounted on the overmantel, is my cherished sword - sitting quietly ready for a time when I require it once more. I still spar, of course - not to do so would be madness - but I do so with a wooden practice sword, or a less fine blade. A gift from Cromwell, it has saved my life, and his, many times - and it is the most precious thing I own. It seems so odd to me now that, after such adventures, we seem to have settled in to a comfortable retirement, and our mission now is to ensure that our next King gains his throne in peace.

The King might have his council, but there is another within the English Court - one of which he is entirely unaware. Presided over by his Queen, it is far smaller, but those who sit upon it are the most trusted in the Kingdom, and there is no room for factions as we work together to protect the interest of his heirs.

Like Queen Anne before her, Queen Jane was a Lady in Waiting who caught the eye of a dissatisfied King. Unlike Anne, and Katherine before her, Jane was saved from her husband's displeasure by one feat, and one alone: she bore him the sons he craved.

I think, had she done so, then Katherine would have remained Queen for the rest of her days; but the interference of Lamashtu in her pregnancies ensured that not one of the boys she bore lived - one stillborn, while two breathed long enough to become Henry, Duke of Cornwall - each in their turn - before departing from life as swiftly as they arrived. In killing the babes, Lamashtu killed King Henry's love with them, and the dark-haired, fiery young Anne was too great a temptation to resist.

Seven years it took to gain her hand - and even then the fight to settle the validity of that union took the lives of two good men. I still remember those times with shame, for I presided over the trial of one, and perjured myself to bring down the other. It is comforting to know that Thomas More forgave me for my crime - but still I cringe inside at times when I recall what I did. And, in the end, it was all for nothing - for Anne also failed to provide the son that she and her family promised. Coupled with her temper, it was a toxic mixture that proved to kill the marriage - and then the wife; for by that time Henry's eye had settled upon Jane, and her altogether calmer temperament was a balm to ease the fire.

Of course, by this time, we knew of Lamashtu, and I had taken my place at Cromwell's side. Thanks to her attempt to destroy us, we were obliged to bring Queen Jane into our secret, and so she became aware of the Mission to which Cromwell was pledged: to maintain the peace of the Kingdom, and defend it from the predations of demons. We did not know it at the time - but her involvement with our work was vital, and saved us all.

And now she presides over an inner circle of Courtiers dedicated to the safe transfer of power from her husband to her son. Despite our hopes - and the endless prayers we offer for the King in our daily devotions - none of us are fool enough to assume that the King shall live long enough to see Edward reach his majority; his health is precarious at best - and he seems far older than his actual years. Consequently, he refuses to countenance any suggestion that he might not live forever, and we all live in times where discussion of the succession is highly dangerous: for fear of losing our heads if we are overheard.

"It seems most strange to me that, despite the assurance that he has two sons to keep his name alive, his Majesty will not countenance discussion of that which must be considered for the future of the realm." Lord Hertford, the Queen's brother, merely expresses the concerns within all of us, and none of us know how to address them.

"He knows he is losing ground, brother." The Queen sighs, sadly, "Doctor Wendy has confided to me that his sleep is constantly interrupted, for he ceases to breathe for brief moments, and wakes. The only remedy is for him to sleep upon his side, but he ever rolls onto his back, and refuses to accept the presence of a bolster to prevent it. He also has great concerns that the ulcers upon my husband's legs are growing ever worse; for he still eats as though he were an active young man - even though he is not - and grows heavier."

Cromwell nods, "For a man keen not to die, his Majesty seems most determined to secure the opposite. But then, has he not ever been contrary at times? It may yet be that he shall survive - but we must be prepared for fear that he does not. And there's the rub, for should he discover that we have been doing so, we shall almost certainly be for the block."

"Perhaps we should welcome a few of the more trusted councillors into this circle." I suggest, "Suffolk, for one, for he is as close a friend as the King has ever had, and his presence might quell suspicions that we are acting against his Majesty's interest. He considers treachery against the King to be the greatest sin a courtier can commit - and all know it."

The Queen nods, "I agree that Suffolk would be a most suitable member of such a Council, though I fear my brother Thomas would be too impetuous to join us; he is too eager for the advancement that Edward has earned, but he has not."

"If we are to do so," Cromwell muses, "I think it should be one at a time as we consider it safe to do so. The lack of a plan for the succession is causing courtiers to make plans of their own: plans that exclude those who are closest to the King and the Prince."

"That is my greatest fear." Queen Jane agrees, "For my intention is to keep power out of the hands of the most rapacious Lords, and ensure it remains in the hands of my son." She looks around the table at the three of us, "You, gentlemen, are at present the only Lords whom I would trust to do that, for those who sit with you are either too recently appointed to the Council to have proved their loyalty, or have shown themselves to be too self-interested to be trusted."

"We are all self interested, Majesty," I admit, a little shamefacedly, "it is merely the Mission that has quelled such instincts in me."

She smiles kindly - she knows that I do not jest.

"I shall approach his Grace." Hertford volunteers, "While he has lost his absolute distrust for the two of you, he still does not fully trust you - for he does not know what we know. Thus, if he is to join with us, he must learn the truth of what you are, my Lord Cromwell."

Cromwell smiles, "I look forward to seeing how he takes such tidings, my Lord Hertford."

As we are at Whitehall - the biggest of Henry's Palaces, I have been granted a separate office of my own, similar to that of Cromwell. Our offices are linked by a private corridor, which also links to the main office chambers - which are overseen by the King's Secretary, Thomas Wriothesley. During my time as Solicitor General, I was busy enough as it was - but my promotion so high has left me in much the same boat as Cromwell: suddenly all sorts of strange things have become my problem to solve. I have also learned remarkable new things - such as the odd nickname 'Call me' that the Clerks have for the Secretary, thanks to his manner of explaining the pronunciation of his name to those who have only ever seen it set down on paper. How is it that I did not notice that while I shared the room with them? I suppose it just goes to show how preoccupied I was when I was so set upon my advancement, and even more so when I became Cromwell's Second.

A light knock on the door that leads to the offices heralds the arrival of the Secretary, a tall, thin man with a remarkably inscrutable face and a monotone voice. Again, as I always do, I feel an uncomfortable shudder down my back, for he has always intimidated me. Why he does so, I cannot begin to guess - but I have never been able to rid myself of the conviction that he would drive a dagger in me to snatch my position. That he was prepared to destroy the only evidence that would exonerate Cromwell after the false accusation of treachery that sent him to the Tower does nothing to ease it. He has never acted against me - but still I am afraid that, one day, he might.

"What is it, Mr Wriothesley?" He looks perturbed; which is never a good sign.

"I'm afraid it is the Earl of Surrey again, my Lord." He says, rather more conversationally than usual, "He has been in another fight."

Oh God - not again. Henry Howard is a rambunctious owner of the hallowed Howard name - impetuous, arrogant and quite convinced of his superiority thanks to the accident of birth that placed him in such an illustrious family. When he is not being impetuous, arrogant and convinced of his superiority, however, he can be remarkably personable, intelligent and cultured. Unfortunately, when he is, he embraces those traits with wholehearted enthusiasm, "And you feel we must take the matter to his Majesty?"

Rather than make him stand over me, which I dislike intensely, I indicate that he sit.

"I think not," Wriothesley, admits, pauses, then continues, "though I have heard it reported that he has been consuming meat during Lent."

Ah - so that is the problem. I have seen God's power, and felt it - and both Cromwell and I learned the power of the Word - so I no longer feel convinced that those who approach God in a manner other than my own are absolutely wrong. Besides, Cromwell has reformist beliefs, and our friendship has taught me to respect them. I am, however, not fool enough to think that others look upon reform with the same degree of enthusiasm as Cromwell, and certainly Wriothesley is as conservative as Gardiner used to be.

While the King has rejected the supremacy of the Pope, he has not rejected the faith of his fathers. Thus Lent is observed as it has always been - no meat, no rich foods and no rich living. Those who wish to consume meat may receive a licence to do so, but nonetheless, any who do are at risk of accusations of heresy. Only London's very small Jewish population are exempt - so they are still able to obtain meat during our times of abstinence and fasting - and butchers thus remain open to serve them.

"Does he have a licence?" is my immediate question.

"He claims to do so, and I believe he has been purchasing his meat from the small butchery in Honey Lane; near the Church of All Hallows." He finishes the sentence with distaste: there are suspicions that All Hallows is a hotbed of Lutheran sentiment that Wriothesley would very much like to destroy. Hell, I thought we had got rid of that sort of sentiment when Gardiner was banished. "His Grace the Bishop of London and I would are concerned that he may be spending time there."

God no, not another one. I had quite forgotten about Edmund Bonner - as hot for the destruction of Heretics as Gardiner had been. The last thing we need is an outbreak of religious persecution seeding chaos in London, "I would advise against it at this time, Mr Wriothesley. If his Grace does not moderate his behaviour, either temporal or spiritual, then it may be necessary to approach his Majesty; but not now."

His attempt to conceal his disappointment is not as successful as he thinks it is; but he rises, bows and departs. Immediately, I shudder again, and I find that I am most relieved that he is gone. Why does he discomfit me so? I am vastly more powerful than he - and he has no means by which he can outstep me - but still, I feel that same stab of cold nerves when I see him, and I cannot fathom why.

Fortunately, I do not have the time to think about it, as I have a council meeting to attend.

The reek in the room is almost palpable, despite the early spring chill. The council chamber is always packed with thickly dressed bodies, though I sometimes feel that the King, his already enormous frame padded out even more by his equally enormous garments, takes up half the space by himself.

Some of the faces have been present for years - such as Hertford, his brother Thomas and Suffolk; but others are much newer - particularly the powerful frame of John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland. It cannot be denied that we need men of the North on the Council, for the North of England is a place where the old ways hold strong, and the progressive ideas of those of us in London are not always welcome. Indeed, not two years ago, his Majesty travelled to York with the Queen, where he held court and was made welcome by those who - some four years before that, had come close to rising against him. Had Cromwell's reforms of the law to aid the poor not begun to bear fruit, I fear we might have seen a dreadful uprising.

There is little to discuss today. Most of Cromwell's projects are progressing well - the road system he has been planning has been mapped out to link up the larger cities such as Norwich, Winchester, York, Doncaster and Coventry, and further roads to connect other towns as funds can be assigned. It's hard to find the money, as the King is still most eager to continue spending large amounts of it upon himself. Keen to recapture his youth, he has been talking of making war again - a ghastly enterprise that would certainly bankrupt us. Much of our discussions seem to consist of Suffolk and Cromwell carefully attempting to steer him away from such foolish thoughts. Instead, the one thing that we most need to consider remains unmentioned - for the King still refuses to discuss any topics that touch upon his own mortality.

After an hour and a half of stilted talk in an atmosphere of pus and stink, the King finally dismisses us, and heaves his bulk into his great carrying chair to be transported back to the Privy Chamber. While he had walked to us, the effort of that has tired him, and he must be conveyed away.

"God help us, we must discuss the succession." Suffolk mutters as the councillors depart. Sitting beside him, Hertford nods, but says nothing until only Cromwell and I remain in the room. We do not want those whose loyalty we cannot be assured of to hear what is to follow.

"It is a matter of great concern also to her Majesty." He says, eventually, "For her younger age, and better health, leave her concerned that she shall be obliged to protect the right of a youthful prince alone. Without an agreed path for the succession, she is fearful that his Highness shall be robbed of his inheritance."

Suffolk nods, "Woe unto the realm whose King is a child." He pauses, "I will not join with factions, my Lord. I trust this is not what you are asking of me."

"Absolutely not, your Grace." Hertford says, firmly, "Our greatest concern is that factions are already forming. We must ensure that they do not vie with one another to oust her Majesty and attempt to rule through Prince Edward; that would lead only to chaos and disorder at a time when we must be strong and united."

The Duke eyes Cromwell and I with a mild frown, "And, I assume, their Graces the Earl of Essex and Baron Rich of Leighs are also members of this 'Queen's Party'?"

I am not surprised when Cromwell bows his head to acknowledge Suffolk's words, "I am aware of, and understand, your distrust both of me, and of the Lord Privy Seal. I am also aware that my assurances alone shall not convince you of my absolute loyalty to his Majesty. Your own loyalty is unimpeachable - and you have shown many times that you consider treachery to be the greatest crime a Courtier can commit, for you spoke in my support at a time when I was at my most lost, knowing that I had been a victim of such treachery."

Hertford takes over, "If we are to serve his Majesty, and ensure the safety of the Succession, there are certain…facts…of which you should be aware. With that in mind, her Majesty has asked that you join us in her Privy Chamber this evening. I appreciate that there is no reason for you to trust us - but I hope that my assurance, and hers, shall convince you that we are concerned only for the future safety of the Realm."

Suffolk remains still for some time, clearly thinking the matter over. I know better than to speak, for I lack Cromwell's persuasiveness, and I have worked to keep my own reputation as murky as it was before I abandoned my former ways. Finally, he nods, "I shall give you my trust, Gentlemen. Advise me of the time at which you wish me to present myself to her Majesty, and I shall be there. Furthermore, I shall speak nothing of it to any other - unless I feel that I must."

Hertford nods, "I understand. I shall send word to you to join us by the hand of her Majesty's Principal Usher."

The Duke eyes us all, one by one, "I am agog with anticipation."