A/N: Heyo, everybody! I'm glad everyone is liking the fic thus far; here's some more, which I hope is likewise enjoyed. Sorry about the long wait; I work retail, and it's the holiday season, so I've been having to work a lot. And then I was going to update on Saturday, but my computer was ravaged by this horrible virus and I had to give it to the Geek Squad for a couple of days so they could fix it. It's all nice now, but it was kind of a bugger at the time.

Now, for ficness!


Chapter 2:

10 November 1528

It was hard for Benedict Gage to catch Cardinal Wolsey alone for even a moment, even though they dwelled in the same household and though Benedict had been a faithful servant of the Cardinal for more than a decade. Though perhaps it was only because Ben had been such a longstanding retainer that he was able to see Wolsey at all. The man was, after all, utterly consumed with the business of the king's Great Matter in addition to the running of the country, and he had little time for anything else. But Wolsey had found a little time to talk to him, and Benedict was glad of it.

"What can I do for you, Master Gage?" Wolsey asked with a smile, after Benedict had entered his study and kissed his hand.

Benedict stood and smiled sheepishly. "Your Eminence, I am here on behalf of my sister, Lady Clara Tyrell. She was widowed in the sweat of this past summer, and now her son's wardship is to be given to George Spencer, of Berkshire," he explained. "My sister means to fight for custody of her son in the courts, and requests your Eminence's support, assistance, and any advice that might be helpful."

Wolsey sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. "I see," was all he said in return. After a long moment of silence, in which Benedict fought the urge to fidget, the Cardinal spoke again. "This is a complicated situation, Master Gage."

"How so, your Eminence?" Benedict inquired curiously. The situation didn't seem at all complicated to him; Clara was asking for help, and if Wolsey agreed to support her, she'd win her case without problems. Wolsey was Lord Chancellor, after all, and the most powerful man in England, after the King, and he'd surely agree to help such a loyal retainer as Benedict.

"I try to learn things about those who wish me ill, which is why I know that George Spencer is related to William Carey, the recently departed husband of Mary Boleyn," Wolsey explained, giving a sage nod when Benedict winced at the magic name—Boleyn. "I trust you comprehend the difficulty."

Benedict did not, actually, comprehend the difficulty. He was not a stupid man, nor an inept courtier, but he did not always understand the subtleties of the world around him, neither able to pinpoint nor interpret them with the same alacrity of, for example, Thomas Wolsey or even Thomas More. Thus, he was aware that the involvement of the Boleyn family—Wolsey's sworn enemies—in Clara's wardship case was going to complicate things, but he couldn't contrive an explanation as to how. All he could do was smooth out his face, hoping that Wolsey didn't notice the expression of confusion which had been painted across his countenance before he pulled his courtier's mask over it, and later ask a discreet someone else to clarify the matter for him.

But of course Wolsey noticed his bafflement—Wolsey always noticed those little tells, being a far more worldly, canny courtier than Benedict Gage. "As Master Spencer is connected to the Boleyn family, he will have their support," the Cardinal explained patiently, with a kindly but condescending smile on his face and an amused twinkle in his pale blue eyes. "And if I support your sister, Master Gage, I will be setting myself against them."

'Will be setting himself against them'? Wolsey was already firmly set against the Boleyns, simply by being himself. Benedict knew this full well—half the country knew it full well—and therefore couldn't stop a slightly incredulous lift of his brows, though he thankfully held his tongue.

Thankfully, Wolsey didn't seem offended by Benedict's disbelief; rather, he was smiling indulgently. "With the opening of the legatine court in the new year, at the moment the Boleyns need me, and thus we have achieved something of a détente," Wolsey elaborated. "They despise me, and I have no love for them, but at the moment neither one of us can move against the other. But if I set myself against them... ah, if I set myself against them now, and over something so trivial as a wardship, that détente will go up in smoke, and it will make everything that much more difficult, which is something I cannot afford at present. Perhaps after the trial is over I could be of more help to you, but not now."

Benedict might not have been the smartest gentleman in London, but even he could understand what Wolsey was saying. "You can't help my sister and I, your Eminence?" he said, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice.

"Not openly, Master Gage, and I am sorry for it," Wolsey admitted, looking earnestly apologetic. "But I will help in what little ways I am able." That said, he reached for a sheet of parchment and a quill. "I shall direct your sister to some of the best legal minds I know," he promised, beginning to write. "I will write her these letters of introduction, and these other men shall help her, in my stead—and they shall certainly have no compunctions about doing so," he added wryly. "Tell her to go to Sir Thomas More, and Thomas Cromwell."

"Thomas More, and Thomas Cromwell," Benedict repeated. "Thank you, your Eminence."

"You're quite welcome, Master Gage," Wolsey replied warmly, still bent over the parchment. "You have been a loyal man of mine for many years; it would be a shame if I could nothing at all to help you. I seem to recall your sister, as well—you have two, correct?"

"Only one now," Benedict said quietly, crossing himself.

Wolsey echoed the gesture. "Requiescat in pace," he intoned perfunctorily, before returning to his writing. "I'm afraid I can only remember the one—the dark-haired maid on whose behalf you were always borrowing books. And who was always doing your Latin translations, as well," he added dryly, with a stern look.

Benedict grinned a little sheepishly, feeling his cheeks flush. He'd never been any good with Latin—he still wasn't, for that matter—and had often gone begging to his clever sister (that being Clara; she'd been the clever one, and Rosamond the beautiful one) for help. Apparently he hadn't been as subtle about doing so as he'd thought, if even the Cardinal himself had been aware of it and remembered years later. "That's Clara, your Eminence, Lady Tyrell as is," he confirmed. "I must own a measure of surprise at your memory. I did not think you ever met my sisters, nor would remember them if you had."

Wolsey's expression turned amused. "I had wanted to meet the person who was reading my books, and managed to catch your sister one afternoon before she departed. She was a sweet little thing, if shy. Very clever," he recalled. "I'm sorry I can't do more for her." The Cardinal finished writing the letters of introduction and applied his seal to the parchment. Once the wax had dried, he handed the letters to Benedict. "Please convey my apologies to Lady Tyrell, as well as my condolences for her loss," he requested.

Benedict bowed again, assuring his patron that he would carry the sentiments to Clara, and left the Cardinal's office. Once he was back in the hallway, he blew out of a breath and turned his steps towards the stables. Clara had probably arrived in London by now, and he was of a mind to go and see her. His duties were light at the moment, and it wasn't too arduous a ride from Hampton Court to Lord Sedley's house near Whitehall; he could make it in a couple of hours. He wouldn't be quite bringing the promise of overwhelming support that Clara had hoped for, but the promise of help from other quarters was better than no help at all.

Within the half-hour, Benedict Gage was off on the road to London.


Clara's calculations had been off; due to rain and the consequent state of the roads, they hadn't reached London on Tuesday. Today was Wednesday, and they would arrive at Lord Sedley's house in time for dinner. She silently but heartily thanked God as the carriage rattled into the yard, wanting nothing more than to get out of this cursed contraption.

"Praise God," Marion muttered, echoing Clara's thoughts.

Five days. Five days in a rattling, rocking box with a four-year-old who was becoming increasingly more fretful as the time passed. To be fair, Arthur had behaved well for the first two days—better than most four-year-old boys would, Clara allowed proudly. But by day three he was tired of being cooped up, and it got harder to keep him from sulking. By day five, there was no point in trying; at least as they reached the outskirts of London, Clara was able to amuse Arthur by having him look at the buildings. And now they'd arrived, and her son would be able to get out and run around.

Clara was the first to step out, needing to support herself on the door as her legs, now forced into movement after so long being immobile, protested by cramping. Soon enough, though, she was upright and helping Arthur down onto the ground. Her son needed no help, though; he was tottering around happily on the gravel path, running around in circles. "Don't go near the horses, Arthur!" Clara called, worried as one of her son's rotations came too near the front of the carriage.

As Marion stepped down onto the ground, Clara's ears pricked up, hearing footsteps on stone. And within moments, Lady Agnes Sedley emerged into the yard. She was dressed in a sky-blue gown that nearly matched her eyes and a cap studded with seed pearls, and as she stepped out into the sunlight her smile lit up her face. "Clara!" she cried happily. "You've arrived!"

"Agnes!" Clara smiled. She dropped a quick curtsey, but Agnes waved the deference away, coming down to embrace her friend.

"None of that, Mistress Mouse," she chided fondly. And Clara was too happy to be out of the carriage and to see her old friend to take umbrage at the application of that particular sobriquet, which she had so hoped would die a natural death after her marriage. Agnes went on brightly, "How are you, Clara? How was your journey?"

"Tired, and long," Clara replied, stifling a yawn and stretching her back a bit. Marion and Arthur had come up beside her, and Arthur was clinging to her skirts and looking apprehensively up at Agnes with huge brown eyes. "May I present my son, Arthur?" she asked, placing her hand on her son's head. "And my sister-in-law, Mistress Marion Tyrell?"

Agnes smiled at Marion. "Mistress Tyrell, how nice to meet you," she said kindly. "Clara writes of you often. And this is little Arthur! Clare, he looks just like you! How do you do, Master Tyrell?" she inquired warmly, bending to give her hand to the little boy.

Arthur, making Clara excessively proud, took Lady Agnes' hand and bowed over it. "Very well, thank you, Lady Agnes," he said politely, and then looked up at his mother for approval. Clara beamed down at him.

"What a sweet darling!" Agnes cried, leaning down to give Arthur a kiss. "Come now, dear boy, you shall share the nursery with my own son, and we have many fine toys for you to play with. Clara, I've had chambers made ready for you and your sister-in-law; go freshen up, and I'll be in the great hall when you're ready."

The promise of new toys brightened Arthur's outlook, as the promise of freshening up brightened his mother and aunt's, so the party moved indoors. Agnes had a fine house; as she'd said, Arthur was going to share with her son, and Clara and Marion had rooms of their own. Clara and Agnes settled Arthur into the nursery with young Henry (who was almost three, and having a nap at the moment), setting him up with a hobbyhorse and some blocks, and Clara was thereafter heartily glad to retire to her chamber and wash the dust of travel off her skin. She wanted to fall into bed and sleep, but there was too much to be done. So she washed up and changed her dress—still black, of course, but at least it was clean and fresh—before stopping back by the nursery. Arthur, as she'd expected, had fallen asleep, and she carried him to the bed and tucked him in beside Henry before wafting down to the great hall.

Lady Agnes was waiting in the great hall, as promised, with some platters of bread and cheese and ale. She smiled warmly when she saw Clara coming in. "Silent as always, I see," she remarked amusedly. "Sit down—you look exhausted."

"I am quite tired," Clara admitted, collapsing into a chair next to Agnes. "It's been a very long... week? Month? Year?" she tested, realising that all of them were true. She shook her head again and rubbed her eyes, giving Agnes a wry, tired smile. "It's been very long."

"I don't doubt it," Agnes agreed compassionately. "I'm sorry for your losses. It was a bad summer."

"It was," Clara murmured. "Did you hear about Sarah?"

"Yes," Agnes nodded, genuflecting sadly. "May she rest in peace. Only two of us left, now."

The "us" in question was the coterie that had formed while they were all serving as maids of honour in the Duchess of Norfolk's household. There had been four of them—Agnes Heywood, Sarah Bradshawe, Elizabeth Finch, and Clara Gage—and they had formed a little salon, reading books and talking of ideas and pretending to be humanists while the other maids of the household regarded them as though they were all a strange sort of bug. (It was thanks to Agnes and the others that Clara knew the Mores, actually; after reading Utopia, the four of them had managed to prevail upon the Duchess of Norfolk to introduce them to Thomas More.) One by one, they had all married and travelled to other parts of England, but they had written faithfully to each other as long as they were able. Bess, though, had died in childbed a few years ago, and now Sarah had fallen to the sweat. Only Agnes and Clara now remained.

Marion came down shortly thereafter, and the three women chatted companionably—though Agnes did most of the talking as she caught Clara up on the latest gossip from court, most of which was centred around the Lady Anne Boleyn, the newly-arrived Cardinal Campeggio, and the impending hearing of the king's marriage.

"I wonder if Cardinal Wolsey will have any time for me," Clara commented with a frown after the fount of Agnes' information had run dry. "He seems as though he might be very busy with other things."

Agnes opened her mouth to reply, but was forestalled when Benedict Gage was announced. "I suppose we'll find out," she said instead, standing to welcome her guest with a giddy sort of smile on her face.

Clara rolled her eyes. All her friends—except for Marion, come to think of it—made no secret of the fact that they thought her brother to be extremely handsome. Back before any of them had been married, Clara and Rosamond (who had eventually come to London as a maid of honour in the Duchess' household as well) had made a pact to ensure that Benedict was in the company of the other maids as little as possible since they had all flirted with him, and none more brazenly than Agnes. It seemed, given the flush in her cheeks and the gleam in her blue eyes, that marriage hadn't done much to dim her high spirits.

Clara didn't hear Benedict until he was nearly in the room, a moment or two before she saw him—the first time she'd laid eyes on her brother since Rosamond's wedding. And then there he was, striding carefully into the great hall, placing his feet softly as to make less noise, the way all John Gage's children did. His green eyes fixed on Clara instantly, and he smiled widely at her before turning to greet Lady Agnes first, as courtesy dictated. "Lady Agnes, it's always a pleasure," he said warmly. "Thank you for receiving me."

"You're quite welcome, Master Gage," Agnes replied sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes and smiling invitingly. "I hope to see more of you during Clara's stay in London. And you had better go and greet her at once," she added, "though I am much desirous of your company. I hope you will stay to dine with us this evening; it will give you more time with Clara. I know how much she must have missed you."

Benedict accepted Agnes' invitation with a bow, and immediately moved to embrace his sister, wrapping her up in his arms and nearly lifting her all the way off the floor. Clara threw her arms around his neck and held on, closing her eyes and breathing in the smell of her older brother. Agnes was more right than she'd known: Clara had missed Benedict terribly. "Hello, Clara," he whispered into her hair.

"Hello, Ben," Clara whispered back. Her older brother was here, and a small part of her—the part that was still a little girl—now felt that everything would be all right, that nothing could stand against them, that together they'd be able to fix anything. She knew full well it wasn't that simple, but she felt better now that she'd seen Ben again. They'd always been close, and now that they were all that was left, that closeness had taken on a new importance.

Ben set her down and grinned at her, looking very much like Rosamond. They had the same green eyes, the same nose, and the same smile, while he shared his brown hair and the shape of his face with Clara. The resemblance to their late sibling made her heart ache—she missed her younger sister very much—and she wondered when the pain of the losses would stop hurting... if they'd stop hurting, or if there'd be empty, aching places inside her heart for the rest of her life.

Then she shook off the gloom and smiled back. She also gestured to Marion, who was standing rather stiffly and uncomfortably near her chair. "Ben, you remember Marion, my sister-in-law? She came with me to help look after Arthur."

"Of course. Mistress Marion, good to see you again," Ben said, his smile twitching as his inherent friendliness came up against Marion's stiff aloofness.

"Master Gage," Marion acknowledged with a curtsey, curling her full lips into a faint smile, though her pale blue eyes were still chilly.

"How's my nephew?" Ben asked, turning away with a rather desperate grin from Marion, now that courtesy had been paid.

"Arthur's fine," Clara replied with a wry look. "Tired, of course—he's having a nap in the nursery right now—but he's doing well. He's reading now, and starting to learn Latin."

"Just like his mother, then," Ben laughed. Then he paused, before going on. "Er. I saw Cardinal Wolsey earlier today. He remembers you from when you used to borrow books from the household and did my Latin translations, and sends his regards and his condolences."

"He knew about that?" Clara asked, surprised. She thought they were being subtle; then again, they'd been practically children, and children weren't known for their subtlety. But nearly decade-old shenanigans weren't at the forefront of her mind; there were more important things to be dealt with. She grabbed her brother's arm and dragged him to the table, pelting him with questions as she went. "What else did he say? Is he going to help me? What should I do next?"

"He can't help you," Benedict admitted, fidgeting awkwardly.

Clara nearly slipped off the bench she was trying to sit down on, getting her feet tangled in her skirts. "What? Why not?" she demanded.

"It's complicated," Ben demurred, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Ben," Clara growled.

Benedict sighed, and sat down on the bench next to her. Clara was distantly aware that Agnes was pulling Marion away and giving the siblings some privacy, but she kept most of her attention on her brother, who was looking very uncomfortable. "Wolsey can't help you because of the Boleyns," he explained.

Clara frowned, entirely confused at this new obstacle in her path. She knew that the Boleyn family hated Wolsey like poison—everyone in England knew that, it seemed—but what on earth did that have to do with her? She wasn't connected to the Boleyns at all.

"It's because of Spencer," Ben elaborated, correctly interpreting her expression. "According to the Cardinal, George Spencer is related to the Boleyns through Mary Boleyn's husband, which means—"

"He'll be able to call on them for support, and therefore Wolsey can't help me without making even more an enemy of the Boleyns," Clara finished, understanding immediately the dilemma Wolsey found himself in. She scowled fiercely. "So what do I do now? I'm not a lawyer, I don't know..."

"Well, Wolsey apologised for being unable to help, and he wrote you these letters of introduction," Benedict remembered, fishing inside his doublet for the letters. "They're addressed to Thomas More and Thomas... erm, Thomas Cromwell," he said, after a quick check of the direction. "Wolsey said they're both excellent legal minds who'll have no issues with assisting you."

Clara accepted the letters with a relieved smile. "I'm glad to hear it. I was already planning to ask help from Sir Thomas More—I still write to his daughter—but I wasn't sure if I could presume upon his help on my own. I'll feel a good deal more confident about approaching him with this," she admitted, tapping Wolsey's seal with her finger. She peered at the other letter. "Who's Thomas Cromwell, though? I've never heard of him."

"He's the king's secretary," Benedict replied promptly, "though he started out as one of Wolsey's men. I know he's a trained barrister... I think he's got some ties to the cloth trade and the bankers, too, but I'm not sure. I don't know him well... or at all. But he's supposed to be quite clever."

"Do you know where he lives?" Clara inquired, tucking the letters into her pocket.

"No, but I can find out," Benedict promised. "Don't worry. Even though Wolsey himself can't help you, you'll still win."

"Your mouth to God's ears," Clara murmured. She fixed her eyes on his, and asked, "Have you any advice for me?"

Ben grinned at her, reaching out to tweak her nose. "I'm your older brother, Clare. I always have advice for you. Very little of it is going to be of use to your case, of course, since your older brother is not a lawyer; thus, I can only advise you to talk to those Thomases," he said, pointing to her pocket. "They're the legal minds, so I advise you to get their advice, since it will be far superior to mine. But I also advise you to stop thinking about the whole thing, at least for tonight. Get some rest, eat some food, spend time with your family and friends, and don't think about it, or you'll end up with one of those terrible headaches that mother used to get and you'll have to take to your bed like she did and snarl at anyone who makes any noise and then where will you be?"

"In bed," Clara replied, making a face at her brother. "But we've no worry of that. I don't get headaches like Mama, thankfully, no matter how much I do or don't worry."

"Fine then," Ben sniffed, mock-pouting at her. "Don't listen to me."

Clara laughed softly, and rose to embrace her brother. "I always listen to you, Ben," she promised, squeezing his shoulders and pressing a kiss to his temple. "Now come, let us go and talk to Agnes, and be engaging guests. Arthur should be awake within an hour or so—I'll have Marion wake him if he's not—and you can spend some time with your nephew. It'll be good for him. He needs more men in his life, I think. If I am awarded Arthur's charge, I wonder if I shouldn't consider remarrying," she mused quietly, almost to herself. "He will need a father; he can't grow up surrounded by women."

"Worry about that later—win your case first," Ben suggested, standing up. "And for tonight, sister, there is no case. Tonight, you are spending time with the people who love you. Tonight is for fun, tomorrow is for worrying."

With that, he led her over to where Agnes and Marion were standing by the brazier, and all talk of legal cases and courts was put on hold for the rest of the afternoon and evening. The conversation was lively and witty that evening, carried mostly along by Ben and Agnes; Clara and Marion were too tired to contribute much. They sat down to dinner without Lord Sedley; Agnes said, with a dismissive flick of her wrist, that he was often late home from Whitehall, and they usually dined without him.

Ben departed for Hampton Court not long after the meal was over, and once he was gone Clara excused herself and went upstairs to bed, weary from the journey. The moment her head hit the pillow, she fell into the deep black sleep of the truly exhausted, and slept utterly without dreams.


11 November, 1528

Clara woke late the next morning, when the sun was already high above the London rooftops. Annoyed with herself for sleeping so late (though she acknowledged she'd needed the rest and that the long sleep had doubtlessly done her good), she rushed through her morning ablutions, having a bit of a wash, throwing on a clean dress, tucking her brown hair up into a snood, and bolting down a breakfast of bread and ale as fast as she could. She greeted Agnes and Marion, checked on Arthur, gathered her things, and within an hour was seated in a public barge being rowed out to Chelsea, wherein dwelt Sir Thomas More and his family.

It was a pleasant autumn day, cool and crisp with a light breeze. Clara was just glad it wasn't raining, since she was carrying with her a folio of papers and a book, into which she stuck her nose as the barge rowed through London. It was one of her old favourites today, and one she considered quite suitable given the person whom she was seeking out: In Praise of Folly, by Erasmus, who was a dear friend of Thomas More. The title of the work in its original Greek—Moriae Encomium—might've even been an oblique reference to the man whom Clara meant to see. At any rate, it was an enjoyable read with a plenitude of admirable sentiments, and carrying it into More's house wouldn't raise any eyebrows. Admittedly, this copy was the English translation rather than the original Greek or even the Latin, but Clara's Greek was patchy at best and she didn't have the patience for Latin today.

It took a few hours to row out to Chelsea, and the scenery began to change from buildings and water stairs to grassy banks and trees, still with some lingering greenness among the autumnal shades of brown and gold. Clara, however, was more aware of the growing quietude as the noise of London faded—she'd forgotten how loud it was in the city, having spent the past few years in the country. The sounds of people shouting and wagons creaking and animals bawling gave way to the wind through the trees and the sound of the river, and Clara relaxed as she sank deeper into her literary daze.

Around mid-afternoon, the barge docked at Chelsea with a thump, and startled Clara out of her book. "We've arrived, madam!" the steersman shouted.

Clara looked up from the pages, returning to the world with a jolt and blinking confusedly in the sunlight. Then she shook her head and stood carefully, marking her place with a bit of string before standing and making her way along the boat towards the dock. "My thanks, good sirs," she said, taking the hand of the steersman and leaping lightly out of the barge, landing on the dock with a soft thump. "I pray you wait for me; I may need to return to London later." The steersman nodded in acquiescence, and the rowers were raising their oars as she turned around and made her way towards the house, the only sound as she passed the rustle of her skirts brushing against the dirt path and the grass.

A servant came down to meet her as she approached the gatehouse, passing under the mulberry trees which were now mostly bare of leaves. "Good day to you, madam. May I ask your name and your business?" he inquired with a bow.

"My name is Lady Clara Tyrell, and I have come to see Sir Thomas More and Mistress Margaret Roper," she explained.

The man nodded, recognition dawning on his face. Apparently, she was either expected or remembered, but either way the man was going to let her into the house. "Of course, Lady Tyrell. Mistress Margaret is in the study; if you'll come with me, I'll ask if she's able to receive you," he offered, ushering her along the path.

Clara started up the path again with a resolute smile. "Thank you."

She was shown into the house, encountering at first the painting of the family hung therein. Sir Thomas was in the centre, and Meg was at his feet with a book, and they were surrounded by the rest of the family (but Clara couldn't recognise them offhand the same way she could Sir Thomas and Meg). The servant accompanying her let her stare up at the painting—perhaps he was used to guests to the house being struck by the likenesses on the wall—and only when she herself was finished looking did he direct her into the great hall.

Not knowing how long she'd be waiting—perhaps Meg was involved with something and couldn't extricate herself immediately—Clara settled down on a bench, set her folio on the table, and opened her book, sinking once more into Erasmus' satirical prose. But not fifteen minutes later, her attention was diverted by the sharp click-click of heels on wood and the rustle of long skirts, and Clara marked her place and stood. That was Meg, she'd bet.

Sure enough, the familiar form of Margaret Roper, née More, emerged into the great hall. Clara recognised her, of course, though she was older now; it had been nearly five years since they were last in company, after all, and time had wrought a few changes, making Meg's face a little more angular and her body a little taller. But her clever, sparkling dark eyes were the same, as was her curly brown hair and the welcoming smile curving her full lips as she approached.

"Clara, welcome," Meg said warmly, opening her arms and embracing her guest warmly. "I'm so very glad to see you—did you get my letter?"

Clara shook her head, smiling at her friend. "No, I likely left for London before it arrived."

"No matter. In the letter you didn't get, I invited you to come to Chelsea once you arrived in London, and you're here, even if you didn't get the letter," Meg laughed. "Father's not here, though—I assume you've come to see him as well?" she inquired with an arch of her brow. Clara nodded. "He should be back for supper, and you can see him then. Will you stay to dine?"

"If you'll have me, I'll be most happy to stay," Clara accepted with a bright smile. She'd hoped the invitation would be extended.

Meg led Clara to the library, where Clara wrote a letter informing Agnes and Marion that she wouldn't be back until later, and Meg dispatched a servant to take the barge waiting for Lady Tyrell back to London with the message; the More's barge would bear her back to Lord Sedley's house after dinner. Business matters seen to, the two women settled down among the books to pass the time until supper.

"What are you reading?" Meg inquired, gesturing to the book resting atop Clara's portfolio. She squinted at the cover. "Is that Erasmus?"

"In Praise of Folly," Clara confirmed.

"The English translation?" Meg inquired, taking up the book and paging idly through it. "Ah yes, this is a fair decent edition. I prefer the Greek, myself, or the Latin. Weren't you learning Greek, once? And I know you read Latin."

Clara shrugged, ignoring the subtle rebuke to her scholarship. "My Latin remains as proficient as it ever was, though my Greek did indeed take a lower place to the demands of my married life. I chose the English translation because I wanted to read something that would not tax my mind over-much, given all the other demands placed on it," she explained. "I'm no lawyer, and have little idea of what I'm doing. Hence my need to see your father. Cardinal Wolsey wrote me a letter of introduction... I don't think he's aware that I was already acquainted a little with the family. Still, I'm grateful for his consideration."

"Is the Cardinal not helping you himself?" Meg asked, setting down Clara's book.

"No," Clara sighed. "Apparently Master Spencer has connections which make the Cardinal leery of assisting me openly."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Meg replied, her fox-like face taking on an expression of curiosity.

"Boleyns," was all Clara said.

"Oh." Meg grimaced a little. "I see."

From there, the conversation veered back to literature, and remained there for the rest of the afternoon. Meg was currently working on a translation of Homer from the Greek, which she hoped would be published one day, and she was happy to show it to Clara. Clara thought it was very well done—not that she would've known if it were badly done, of course, since her Greek was inferior to Meg's—and learned a few new Greek words.

The light began to fade, and the candles were lit as the sun sank beneath the horizon by no less a person than Lady Alice More, who came into the library to greet the guest in her house. She remembered Clara from her visits to the house before her marriage and welcomed her warmly, reinforcing her step-daughter's invitation to dinner. She left shortly thereafter, leaving the younger women to Cicero, who, being a lawyer himself and therefore relevant to Clara's case, had been brought out with the candles. Cicero occupied the two of them until a servant came and informed them that Sir Thomas had arrived home from Whitehall.

"Come now, let's go down," Meg bid, putting the books back on the shelves as Clara collected her papers and her book and tucked them under her arm. "I think we're having baked lampreys for dinner. You like lampreys, don't you?"

Clara did not, in fact, like lampreys. Her innate honesty warred with the reminder that she was a guest, and in the end she kept silent and followed Meg downstairs. The children of the More family—and there were many of them, between wards and marriages and Sir Thomas' own children—were congregating in the hall, including Meg's husband, William Roper. As Meg drew away to greet her spouse, Clara drew away, feeling her grief for her late husband rising up in her heart as she saw Meg and Will's happiness. Instead, she turned her eyes to the man in the centre of the throng.

Sir Thomas More looked just like he had the last time she'd seen him, down to his very garb, dressed simply in black with a golden chain of office around his shoulders. He was still a doting father, dispensing smiles and affectionate touches freely, and Clara felt the old sting of wistfulness, wishing that she'd had a father like Sir Thomas. She loved her own father, of course, and honoured him as the Bible dictated, but John Gage had always been a man to fear before being a parent to love, quick with his temper and capricious in his good moods. Thomas More wasn't like that; it was apparent in the way his children interacted with him. Though they were respectful, they weren't afraid.

Which was more than could be said for Clara. She knew that if this doting father she was watching embrace his son had any idea about the books she kept in her walnut chest, he'd have no compunctions (no matter how fond of her he might or might not be) about having her tortured and burned as a heretic. And she couldn't let herself forget it, in her longing for the kind of father Thomas More was or her admiration for his scholarship and his integrity, or she'd say something imprudent and her secret would be out. Then, there'd be no question of getting Arthur's guardianship—she'd be lucky to keep her own life.

Don't forget that, Clara, she reminded herself inwardly as Sir Thomas' kindly dark eyes found her, standing hesitantly on the edges of the More family throng. No matter how much you like these people—how much you like this man—don't forget their danger.

More approached her with a smile on his handsome face, and Clara felt the inward quake—a kind of simultaneous attraction and revulsion, flavoured now with a shiver of fear—which had and did so often overcome her in Sir Thomas' presence. "Lady Tyrell, welcome," he said warmly, taking one of her hands and pressing it between his. "You have my sincere condolences for your losses. I believe you have some questions for me, about a legal matter." She nodded, and opened her mouth, but More moved on before she could speak. "We will speak about it after we dine," he promised, leading her into the great hall and seating her at his left.

Though Thomas More's household was superior in many ways, cuisine was not one of them. It being Wednesday (and the More house being rigidly orthodox) there was no meat, but there were several fish dishes (which all tasted the same, and included the lampreys Meg had mentioned) in a thick, gritty sauce that was almost like mud, some dubious cheese which had apparently been made by one of Meg's sisters, loaves of rather rough cheat bread, and apples. Clara hadn't had much opportunity to eat any of it at the beginning of the meal, when the family focussed on her as the newcomer and pelted her with questions. How fared things in Leicestershire? How was the weather? Her journey? Her son? What of her daughter? Oh, wasn't that a shame; what brought her to London? What kind of carriage did she use? What kind of horses? She answered all the queries as best she could, feeling slightly overwhelmed by all these people and their attention, until Sir Thomas stepped in and kindly but firmly put an end to the questions.

"Poor Lady Tyrell has taken no food, you've asked her so many questions," he'd chided gently. "She'll think we're terrible hosts at this rate." More had turned a smile on her, then, which Clara had shyly returned, retreating from the centre of attention and feeling as though she was seventeen again, awkward and shy and painfully aware of her own inferiority compared to the people around her.

She nibbled at her meal as she listened to the conversations going on around her, her keen ears picking up the sounds from every part of the table. More, at her right, was talking to Will Roper and Meg about the latest news from the continent (where apparently Imperial interests were reigning supreme); in the centre of the table, across from her, she could hear John More talking with his sister Elizabeth's husband about the price of grain (high, since the harvest last year had not been good, and this year's had been little better); a little past them, Anne Cresacre and Cicely More were holding a quiet conversation about fashion (French gowns, with their slimmer sleeves and lower necklines, were becoming more popular, and the girls were speculating about whether or not Sir Thomas would ever allow them to wear such a garment); and at the end of the table, Lady Alice was chatting with Elizabeth and Jane about gardening (it had been a good year for ageratums, and Alice waxing eloquent about the best way to take cuttings for next year). Also, one of the servants standing in the room was fidgeting, shoes making little scuffling noises against the floor (Clara would wager he had to relieve himself, but couldn't abandon his post), and she'd guess there were two more outside the hall—she could hear them whispering to each other, but couldn't quite make out their words over the sound of everyone else.

The final course of supper was an apple pie, and the sweetness of the apples was enough to overcome the fact that the crust was dense and tough; Clara ate heartily as More's fool Pattinson cracked jokes and capered about. One of Pattinson's jokes was so funny she got the hiccups, and Sir Thomas and Meg gave her concerned looks as she trembled and quaked from her internal spasms. She waved them off with a smile as she reached for her wine goblet, downing the whole thing and holding her breath to stop the hiccups.

After the meal was over, when the family removed themselves to the withdrawing room to cluster around the fire while Meg read to them from the Bible (Clara thought it was the Book of Acts, but she wasn't certain, and didn't remain to make sure), Sir Thomas led Clara away into his study. The servants had already lit the candles on the desk, and their warm light flickered on the spines of the books around them and the papers on the desk's surface.

More settled into the chair behind the desk, and gestured for Clara to take a chair. She did so, clutching her folio and book tightly with trembling hands, aware of the steady weight of Sir Thomas' dark eyes. It made her feel as though the lampreys she'd eaten were alive in her stomach, squirming around, and she had to drum up her courage before she could meet his gaze.

He was smiling fondly at her, though. "Little Mistress Mouse, all grown up," he remarked. "And with a pup of her own."

Clara smiled convulsively, though she feared it looked more like a grimace; she'd always disliked that particular nickname, and was further annoyed that anyone—even Thomas More—should brand her sweet, clever, spirited son as a mousey creature sight unseen.

More didn't seem to notice, though (or he had the courtesy to ignore it), and went on, "Now, your letters indicated there is some matter with a wardship case with which you require my assistance?"

Clara nodded, plucking Cardinal Wolsey's letter from her folio as she spoke. "Yes, Master Mo—Sir Thomas," she confirmed, correcting herself as she stumbled over his title. She felt so much like her younger self that she had almost forgotten that those days were gone, that she was a knight's widow and More a knight himself.

Thankfully, Sir Thomas didn't seem to care about her slip; his handsome face was still kindly as she handed the sealed parchment to him, taking care that their fingers didn't touch, and explained what she knew of the situation as More broke the seal and began to read. "Arthur—my son's—wardship is to be given to George Spencer of Berkshire. My brother Benedict approached Cardinal Wolsey on my behalf, but he is unable to render me any assistance due to the Boleyn connection. I was directed to you by the Cardinal, who hopes you'll be able to help me in his stead. He said you'd have no compunctions about doing so."

"Indeed, his Eminence is correct," More agreed absently, eyes still scanning the words of the Cardinal's letter. He finished reading, and set it down on his desk, leaning forward to catch her eyes. "I cannot promise this will be easy, Clara," he warned. "You may have a fight on your hands, especially if Spencer does get the backing of the Boleyns. Are you certain you are willing to fight this in the courts?"

"More than willing," Clara replied stoutly, holding his gaze, willing him to see how adamant about this she was (and hoping he would read nothing else in her eyes). "Arthur is my only child left living. Why should I pay someone to raise him when I'm perfectly willing to do it myself?"

That made More smile a little. "That isn't quite what wardship is about," he chided her gently.

Clara was reminded that he had taken on a few wards himself, and blushed a little at the gentle rebuke. However, their situations weren't the same, and she told him so. "It's not quite the same, Sir Thomas. Perhaps if I were dead, or an unfit mother... but I'm not. I'm alive and well and Arthur belongs with me—there's no reason for him to go elsewhere!" she insisted.

"You're very young," More pointed out softly. "Young, and inexperienced in the world. That might have something to do with the decision to foster your son elsewhere."

"I'm not that young," Clara protested. "I'm twenty-five years old."

That startled More, making his eyebrows fly upwards, and his eyes flicked quickly over her from head to toe. "Are you really?" he asked, surprise flavouring his voice. "I had taken you to be much younger."

Clara shrugged, her lips twisting in annoyance. "I lost a good deal of weight this past summer," she explained.

It was most vexing; as a maiden, she had been a skinny little beanpole of a girl, with barely any hips and no bosom to speak of. After birthing two children, though, she had finally acquired a womanly figure, which her husband had been most appreciative of... only to lose it when she fell sick. Now, she was back to being skinny and flat-chested. Paired with her still-youthful face, her large brown eyes, and the fact that she would never be a very tall woman, she supposed she could understand how Sir Thomas might guess her to be younger than she was.

Not that it didn't irritate her.

"Ah. Well, my apologies," More said, shaking his head a little before returning to the original topic of conversation. "Though you are older than first I thought, there's still the matter of your inexperience, and the fact that there would be no men in the household with you and your son. You're not very worldly, Clara, and it would be just you and Arthur. I fear that will work against you in court."

"Why should it matter?" Clara demanded. "I can remarry, if the courts think Arthur needs a father. I can remarry," she repeated, though the idea held little appeal for her at the moment; to marry so soon (a mere five months!) after her husband's death seemed... insulting. Though her marriage to Sir Robert had been arranged by her parents, and she'd known him but little when she wed him, she had come to love him over time, and she still mourned his loss. Robin had been a good husband to her, and to replace him with such speed would be a poor tribute to his memory.

She shook the grief away, however, and went on. "And what does it matter if I'm experienced or not? And what kind of experience would the courts require, anyway? I was Sir Robert's wife for five years, and I've been controlling the entirety of the Tyrell holdings for nigh on a half a year! I'm no green girl, and even if there are still holes in my knowledge, I can patch them up as needed. I can learn what I need to, Sir Thomas, you know I can," she insisted plaintively, seeking perhaps personal affirmation from the man in addition to legal assistance, wishing to hear him acknowledge that she was capable. "And I can ask for help if I need it—there are plenty of people who are willing to help me—and that's what I'm doing now, isn't it? Asking for help because I need it?" She stopped, then, and swallowed around the lump in her throat, her fear rising up and trying to overcome her courage. "Will you help me?" she asked, hating the timid neediness in her voice but knowing she couldn't hide it, either.

More sighed, but the indulgent condescension in his expression gave Clara hope. "Of course I will assist you, Clara—there was never any doubt of that," he assured her, standing up and coming over to pat her on the head reassuringly. "There's no guarantee of success, of course, and I do have many other demands on my time, but I promise to do my best for you."

"Thank you. That's all I can ask for," Clara replied gratefully, relieved and annoyed all at once. More didn't seem to think they had much of a chance, but at least he'd agreed to help, though he was ambiguous about how much help he could render.

I'll have to seek out Cromwell soon, Clara mused to herself as More began to pull law books off the shelves and inform her about what her most efficacious approach would be. Perhaps he can give me an assurance of unequivocal help, because I'm getting tired of all this waffling. My son is my son, and I'm going to fight for him. So either help me, she thought, watching Thomas More move around the study, or get out of my way.


A/N part deux: So there's Thomas More, whom I never liked... until I saw how Jeremy Northam did him in The Tudors. It was at that point that I acknowledged that he might not be a total arse. But I'm still not terribly fond of him (More the historical person. Northam!More's not all that bad).

Historical Notes: Sir Thomas More has two things about him not mentioned in this chapter which make him kind of all right. One, he shares my birthday (February 7). And two, he had a pet beaver (because c'mon, that's awesome). Margaret More was already married to Will Roper by 1528, but I don't know if the two of them were still living in Chelsea with More. In the show, most of More's kids are still living with him under one roof, so that's what I did here.

Let me know what you think, and please review!