(Thanks to again to everyone who read and reviewed The Song of Songs. Have started the sequel with a flashback to the burning of John Lambert with Thomas narrating-it will make sense later, I promise :). Hope you all enjoy.)

London, November 1538

He does not have to die. All he has to do, is repeat the words I have told him and all will be forgiven. Why can he not see, that the world does not need martyrs? To what good do they serve? A date in the calendar in which we can all sit round the table with our families and weep...please, how does that strength our cause? I watched More stand by his beliefs but it did not stop the Reformation, all it did was tear his family apart.

I hate executions. Deep down I have no stomach for them. Anyone that enjoys the sight of a creature slowly dying, must have fevers on the brain. Burning is the worse death any man can face. The smell of burning skin claws at you and embeds itself in your nose, so that when you wake in the night, you can still smell and taste the poor bastards putrid flesh but if it's a nightmare for those who watch, then it must be Hell on Earth for the one who is suffering.

All he had to do was say, was that the wine was the blood of Christ. He does not have to believe it, he just has to say it! It's out of protection, not of fear, submission or vanity.

I stand apart from the crowds that have gathered but I have clear view of those waiting to watch John make his final journey. There are men and women stood there, their faces showing great strain and sorrow-I know most of the men, some of them were once close friends. Men who I went Cambridge with, who I use to study along side, who I would laugh with in the local tavern, which was also the place where we would discuss our new found faith. I doubt many can see me from where I stand, but I know what they think of me. To them I am a traitor, who has betrayed my conscious and God, for wealth and privilege of this world but they are wrong and John is wrong. It was not my conscious I was speaking of, when I asked him to say the words that would save him from the fires.

They light the fire and I flinch as the flames start to rise. In my hand I hold the tiny sliver cross that Bathsheba and Kate gave to me last Christmas. Running my thumb over the centre of the cross, I try to find comfort as I hear poor John's cries.

'All for Christ! All for Christ!'

'John Lambert has gone to his death, you majesty,'

'And to Hell,' replies the King and I feel the nauseas that I has been gathering in the pit of my stomach all day start to rise, as my mind races. Was John right, have I forsaken my own conscious for the whims of a the King? In my heart, I still hold to the words of Luther, but have I made a mistake in denying my heart for my worldly life?

I was convinced that the King was part of our cause. Maybe not at first, but I believed that once he had taken the first step towards the Reformation, he would come round to our way of thinking. Even with the Articles of Faith, I still convinced myself that deep down the King would see sense, but now I know I was a fool. The King does not care for our Reformation or his people. It was never about ending the age of ignorance for him. The only thing that has changed in his belief, is that he, not the Pope, who is God representative on Earth.

The King slurps his food, so much for the Golden Prince but he is not simply a prince anymore. Because of me, he answers to no one for his actions, he can do what he likes, to who he likes and to Hell with the consequences. He burns a Lutheran on the same day he'll behead a Catholic. I've created a tyrant!

He wants to see the images of the ladies of Cleves but at this moment I do not care-I just want to be out of here!

Finally I reach home. It is almost dark but it doesn't matter, as I'm paying very little attention to my surroundings. I know I did the right thing-I have done the right thing. What else could I have done? England could not carry on under the darkness of suspicion, whilst being ruled by a foreign Prince, we needed change! How can change occur when those who could enforce it are being burnt to death? Perhaps I underestimated the power that the King would wield, but it had to be done.

'Dada!,' cries Kate, running out into the stables. I throw the reins of my horse to stable lad, jump off the horse and swing my little girl up into my arms, 'dada'

'How's my Kate?' I ask, trying to remove any trace of trouble from my voice, 'have you been a good girl for your mother?'

I hold her tight as I carry her back to the house. I confess part of me was scared the night Bathsheba told me I had gotten her with child but now I cannot image my world without my little girl. As we get into the light, I see that she is wearing one of my old shirts over her dress and is covered in head to toe in flour, with jam smeared on her face.

'Been making jam tarts, dada,' she says, hugging me, 'mummy say I couldn't eat them till you got home,'

I try and smile, as my younger daughter looks excitedly at me, but this time I'm trying to hide my worry that I will have to eat Bathsheba's cooking.

'Don't look so worried, Lord Cromwell,' Bathsheba calls, coming into the hall, her beautiful hair falling out from under her cap, 'Alys helped Kate, I just stood and watched. Come here Kate, you've got flour all over your dada's clothes,'

Bathsheba comes over and takes Kate from me. I notice that my clothes are now covered in white powered, that hang in the air, as I try to brush it off.

'Sorry, dada,'

'It does not matter,' I laugh, giving up trying to brush off the flour, 'it does not matter,'

'Kate,' says Bathsheba, putting her down. Bathsheba, too is now covered with the white dust but somehow its becoming on her, 'why don't you go and get dada one of your jam tarts,'

Kate nods eagerly, her little head bobbing up and down, before running down the corridor to the kitchen. Bathsheba comes over to me and puts her arms round my neck. I suddenly feel great comfort, as I pull my wife to me.

'You have jam on cheek, Lord Cromwell,' she whispers, before removing it, with the sleeve of her dress, 'everything ok, Thomas?'

'Everything is fine,' I smile reassuringly, kissing her on the lips, 'did you have a good day?'

'Thomas,' she says, pulling away from me, her striking green eyes staring straight into mine, 'I go out into the city. I listen to what people say. I know John Lambert was burnt today and I know you were once friends...Thomas why didn't you tell me?'

'I was trying to protect you,' I say, a plea for forgiveness. I keep certain things from her, the way I use to do with Elizabeth, because I feel that if I do not think of these things when I am home, it makes them seem less brutal.

She walks away from me a little, but I reach out and grab hold of her hand, which thankfully she takes. Our fingers intertwine. I fear for her and Kate, as well as Gregory and Elizabeth. I fear my actions will lead others to take revenge on my family, as they have done already with those who have allied themselves with me.

'I don't need protecting, Thomas,' she sighs returning to my arms, 'nor do I need a martyr for a husband,'

She puts her hands on the side on my face and guides me to her, so that once again we are stood face to face.

'God understands your conscious, Thomas. He understands your actions,' she whispers, bring herself as close as she can to me, 'promise me you will not trouble yourself,'

I smile, as I wrap my arms round her waist. Her words, as always bring me comfort and as I lean forward to kiss her, I feel strangely at peace.

'Mummy! Dada!' cheers Kate, running back into the room, carrying two jam tarts, one with a massive bite taken out of it. She jumps up and down, as she hands me the untouched cake, 'that one's for you dada. I made it special,'

'Come Kate,' says Bathsheba, picking Kate up and heading for the stairs, 'let's get you cleaned and ready for bed,'

I kiss Kate lightly on the head and bide her goodnight with a smile, then take a bite out of the much man handled jam tart-God, I'm hungry, I have not eaten since breakfast. It actually tastes nice-Kate, thankfully, hasn't inherited her mother's cooking skills.

'Night, dada,' calls Kate, waving from her mother's arms, 'love you,'

Bathsheba pause as she gets to the top of the stairs and turns her head, smiling at me over her shoulder. I pause for a moment, before climbing the stairs, after them. The troubles from my mind are gone and all I desire is to be with my wife and daughter.