A/N: Sorry - went a bit GRRM there, didn't I? I wanted to mark 28 July, so I couldn't resist popping up the first chapter of this story ahead of time.

Being based in a distinctly AU/Supernatural universe, history will - during the course of this story - look distinctly nervous, back away slowly and rather hastily exit the room to go and find something more historic to do, leaving all protagonists free to do whatever they like without causing mayhem for future generations. And also giving me the opportunity to cheerfully continue to revamp and revise the characters of personages who have (often completely deservedly, I'll admit!) not been treated kindly by history.

That said - on we go...as always, I own nothing other than that which has emerged from my own imagination...


CHAPTER TWO

Welcome to Whitehall

Cromwell is summoned to meet with the King before business begins for the day, and it is some time before he returns to the offices. As soon as he arrives, he immediately takes Wriothesley to one side, and they confer. I notice the Clerk's eyes rise in astonishment, before Cromwell shakes his hand. His expression then becomes slightly apologetic, and Wriothesley sighs visibly. Whatever the first message was, I cannot fathom - but I can guess the second, purely from their faces. We must prepare ourselves to move - and it is not a moment too soon.

September is at a close, with rain and gales that have not abated for nearly three days. Consequently, the middens and cesspools are starting to become waterlogged, and the 'sweetening' cannot be delayed any longer. Now that the risk of plague or the sweat has declined with the summer heat, I suspect our destination shall be Whitehall, or possibly the old palace at Westminster - though I should much prefer Whitehall, as it is more newly built and, consequently, conforms to more modern living standards than the palace formerly occupied by the Plantagenets. That said, either would do for choice, being in considerably easier reach of Grant's Place than Placentia, Hampton Court or, worst of all, Windsor Castle.

My speculations are interrupted by a sudden sharp clapping of hands as Cromwell demands our attention, "I have two announcements to make," He begins, "The first is likely to be more welcome than the second, so I shall begin with that. The King's Grace has decreed that Mr Wriothesley is to be appointed in my former role as King's Secretary." He smiles, and the clerks dutifully applaud. I am not sure whether or not I like Thomas Wriothesley; there is an edge to his demeanour that makes me nervous - as though he would willingly stick a knife in my back if it would gain him advancement. Perhaps I recognise that because it was once something I knew in myself. I do not begrudge him this promotion, however, and my own applause is sincere.

"My second announcement is likely to be less welcome," Cromwell continues, and the clerks all seem to sag somewhat. They know what he is about to say, "His Majesty has also decreed that we are to move to Whitehall. Mr Wriothesley will assign you your duties to file and gather all papers for storage and packing in preparation for the move. We are, as always, the first to depart, so we must be ready to do so in three days."

Someone groans, rather theatrically, which sets the boys sniggering slightly - though they all know that they have been set a fearsomely ungenerous deadline that will require them to work much longer hours than usual. As Christmastide is approaching, however, I have no doubt that some additional largesse will make its way into their purses in compensation. Even if the Royal coffers are not so forthcoming, Cromwell's are.

Work is suspended for the duration, to avoid generating even more paper on top of that which is already present. I have dispatched a passing steward to advise John of our impending move, as I will not have time to pack; the extensive work in the Offices, particularly thanks to the short notice, taking priority. The rest of the court has another six days to prepare, as the office staff always move first, so most are not in such a lather.

Matters are not helped by the continual appearance of raveners. They still display that odd behaviour - never attacking anyone, just lurking in the dark as though waiting to be dispatched; but they are always present, and again there are two of them - against all their natures, they seem to be sharing the space in which they roam. Worse, the two that Cromwell manages to dispatch may have gone, but then we find another one as we are returning to his quarters. It looks as though our patrolling must now go on much later into the night.

This does nothing for our tempers during daylight hours, and the Clerks feel the brunt of it. They are working as quickly as they can, so they are also tired, and it is making them careless. Consequently, the atmosphere in the offices is not particularly pleasant.

I have had more success liaising with the Household department, who are fully accustomed to the delicate art of balancing noble expectations with availability of suitable accommodation alongside dealing with the awful mess that we always seem to make with our endless stocks of paper, files, vellum, quills and ink. Everyone else is so taken up with packing, that it seems only fair that one of those who is not visits the relevant offices to ensure that all is in order - and I am that one. The Master of the Household, a highly organised, inoffensive gentleman from Norfolk by the name of Timothy Cheeseman, has assigned suitable quarters with remarkable efficiency, and he reports to me - to pass on to Cromwell - that all is organised and complete.

"All is done, Sir Richard," Cheeseman smiles, calmly in the face of my strained tiredness, "Whitehall is, by far, the easiest of the Palaces to settle, for its size and grandeur is of the highest order."

He has a point - there is unlikely to be any palace of equivalent size anywhere, so everyone should have accommodations fitting to their station. Whether they like them or not is - in my view - immaterial. It's not as though I shall have anything so fine to reside in. As I shall see Cromwell to sup tonight, I can pass the message to him then, so I decide to return to my chambers in hopes of a nap. We shall hunt again tonight, and I am not sure I can continue to do so unless I snatch at least an hour or so of sleep. Certainly John has been giving me worried glances, as even I can see the shadows under my eyes in the silvered looking-glass in my bedchamber.

I groan inwardly as I hear my name called as I cross one of the courts. Now that I have decided to seek out my bed, or at least a couch, for some badly needed rest, I am not well disposed to conversations with anyone - particularly as the tone of voice is so discontented. God, don't let it be someone annoyed at the rooms they've been assigned at Whitehall: it's nothing to do with me, for Heaven's sake…

"I just been advised of the location of my new Quarters, Sir Richard," Edward Seymour declares, rudely, "I am not best pleased. I should be in considerably closer proximity to the King's apartments. I am, after all, the Queen's Brother. I should have expected you and your fellow pen-scratchers to know that."

The insult 'pen-scratcher' seems to freeze inside my head. Zaebos called me that…called me that before he threatened to carve into my face with a knife - and again before he tried to set a bonfire alight beneath me…

"I am well aware of your status, my Lord," I am fighting to shut the image of the revenant out of my mind, that awful moment when he had me pinned to the floor…the feathery sharpness of the blade on my cheek… "There are, however, others of higher status who must take precedence in terms of both rank and protocol. The Household officers have assigned your quarters as appropriately as they can. If they are to reassign your quarters, it would be necessary to ask one of the higher nobles to give up theirs. I'm sure you can appreciate that this is out of the question." God, no - my voice sounds squeaky, and it's not even Seymour that is making it so; despite his enraged expression. I feel myself going cold inside, and I am sure the colour is draining from my face. I imagine he thinks himself responsible for that; he has no idea, none at all…Christ, am I going dizzy?

Seymour glares at me, "I shall speak of this to the Queen. I have no doubt that she shall require me to be moved to more…appropriate…quarters. I shall not forget this insult." He brushes past me, his shoulder battering into mine. I feel myself sway slightly, and somehow I am convinced that the destroyed revenant is standing nearby, enjoying my tremblings. What the hell is wrong with me?

It takes me only a few minutes to reach my chambers, though I almost fall through the door, and John is obliged to catch me to stop me from tripping over an open coffer into which he is packing my belongings. Rather than comment, he immediately guides me to my bedchamber. I promptly flop down onto the counterpane, and remember nothing more.


When I wake, it is morning. I realise that I have slept through last night's hunt, and berate myself for my inability to be useful. What help am I to Cromwell if I keep passing out all the time? What happened to me yesterday? I shudder, and try to work out what I recall.

As I am thinking, the door opens and John brings in some bread and cheese, and I immediately turn my annoyance upon him, "Why didn't you wake me, John?" I don't even give him time to set down the platter.

"Mr Cromwell asked me not to." John advises, "You were deeply asleep, and he had no wish to disturb you. He, and I, were both in agreement that you had become very over-tired, and needed to rest. In his words you would 'have been no use to him in that state'. Also, in his view, he is used to short sleep - while you are not."

"You sound like my mother." I growl at him, crossly, as he sets the platter down on the bed beside me and adds a cup of small ale, which he sets on a nearby table before fetching out a suit for me to wear, as I am still in yesterday's clothes, which are very crumpled. Then I remember how rude I was to the Lord Seymour yesterday, and sigh, inwardly. I have no doubt that he will expect me to pay for that; though I can only hope that he is not the sort of fool that goes tale-bearing to the King over such matters.

I am not surprised when Cromwell arrives. I have, fortunately, had time to wash and change, and am perched on my bed, halfway through the bread and cheese, when John shows him into my bedchamber. I expect him to be scornful, for some reason, but he is not; instead he sits in a nearby chair and asks if I slept well, as I had clearly needed to when he called upon me last night.

"I can only apologise," I admit, rather glumly, "I had planned only to snatch a few hours before joining you on the hunt."

Cromwell shakes his head, "I ask much of you, Richie, but not that you place yourself in jeopardy through exhausting yourself. I have lived on short sleep for years, and have learned to manage it. You have not. I consider it more important that you be awake enough to manage the library. While I appreciate your growing ability to fight, that is not why I asked you to become my Second. I fear that I have given you the wrong impression that I demand your sword at my side as much as, if not more than, your intellect."

"And what of the numbers of raveners that we are now facing?" I ask, "Surely you do not expect to face them entirely alone?"

"Raveners are remarkably stupid beasts, Richie," Cromwell smiles, "It shall take them some considerable time to discover our whereabouts once the court removes. We shall have some respite for a time as we settle at Whitehall. They are almost certainly gathered hereabouts - and not in the City. Thus I can grant you time to continue your researches - at least in the short term. I have already written to Goodwife Dawson to advise her to maintain rooms for you at Grant's Place. I think it may be wise for you to base yourself there until we need you back at night."

There is a slightly odd look in his eyes, "I see why you would wish me to do that - but there is another reason, is there not?"

Cromwell nods, "I am not sure how much you remember of your conversations yesterday - but you have, in some fashion, singularly insulted the Viscount Beauchamp. Tom reports that he was speaking of you last night in the most uncomplimentary terms - and that he intends to make good his injury."

I sigh, "He demanded that I find him better rooms at Whitehall - as though it were my responsibility to do so. I suppose my response was less than diplomatic. I told him that there are more important people in the better rooms."

Despite himself, Cromwell snorts with amusement, "As you say, less than diplomatic."

"He called me a 'pen-scratcher'." I say, flatly.

The amusement vanishes at once. Cromwell remembers as I do that the last person to insult me in such terms was a revenant that nearly killed me. He clearly knows that the insult touches a nerve that is still very raw.

"How are things at the offices?" I ask, rather keen to change the subject.

"All but complete, I think." Cromwell accepts my wish to avoid the topic of Zaebos, "The boys have, as always, exceeded expectations. The porters can begin work on loading the barges that shall transport the coffers to Whitehall later today. Given a favourable tide, we should be in our new quarters by tomorrow's eve."

"I think, then, that I should offer all assistance," I say, standing up to brush crumbs off my doublet, "I may do less damage to people's over-excessively good opinions of themselves."

As Cromwell predicted, we are all safely arrived at Whitehall the following evening. He has not come with us, as he wishes to remain at Placentia until all have departed - in case the plague of raveners opts to switch lurking for killing. I leave John to set out my possessions in the chambers that have been assigned to me. They are very well appointed, with a view out across a court that has an ornamental garden in the midst of it. As I would normally find myself looking out of mullions towards a blank wall of bricks on the other side of a narrow passageway, I consider myself most fortunate. Not that I intend to spend much time here; I need to be in my Library.

As there are no horses that I can borrow at the Palace, the Royal Horse still being kept at Placentia, I go down to the watergate instead, to hire a wherry. John has already arranged for some of my belongings to be transported to Grant's Place; so, thanks to a favourable tide, I am at the Tower Wharves in less than an hour, and have nothing heavy to lug with me on my walk up to the house. The heavens open as I trudge through the streets, and I am drenched, and shivering, by the time I reach the gates. To my relief, Goodwife Dawson is awaiting my arrival and has assigned one of the older gentlemen to look after my needs while under her roof; a hot bath, dry clothes and a pottage thick with pork and fennel seeds soon serve to restore me.

Having eaten, there is nothing to keep me from the Library, and I am soon amongst the papers again. I am relieved to discover that I have not forgotten all that I learned while there last - but as the hour is late, I decide to wait until the morning to continue my explorations. I am still, I must admit, tired out from the lack of sleep that all but felled me the previous night - and the prospect of a comfortable bed is most welcome.

As the King and the rest of the Court will not begin to remove for another day, and the offices will be a disaster of cluttered unpacking, I know that I shall not be missed - in fact, my absence is likely to be appreciated, as I would merely get in the way. So I descend yet again into the cellars and allow myself to become absorbed in my continued studies.

The notes and scribbles in my hand upon the margins of the pages continue to grow, as I write reminders and cross-references to myself. I hope that they might be as useful to any Second who comes later as this entire index has been to me - as, despite my intention to consider this to be 'my' Library, I still cannot quite rid myself of the view that it is - in every meaningful sense - Wolsey's.

The thought catches me for a moment, and I find myself sagging a little. After my woeful performance of the past two days - sleeping when I should have been hunting, insulting a man who could make life difficult for my Silver Sword - I wonder if I shall ever become even a quarter of the Second that Wolsey was. For so long, I was in his shadow in Cromwell's esteem, and even now, I sometimes wonder if he still wishes that he had Wolsey at his side instead of me. For all of his fraternal care: calling me 'Richie', clasping my hand tightly as I burned with the sovereign specific - was he thinking 'Wolsey would not have needed this'?

The thought of that hideous pain, and the wound that it cured, suddenly almost causes me to choke, and I feel the need to escape. Fleeing upstairs, I almost hurtle out through the concealed door, and find myself unexpectedly face to face with someone who most certainly should not have been there.

"Molly?"

Her eyes are wide, as she knows she is trespassing, "Mr Rich, Sir! I'm sorry, I didn't mean any harm - I was just…" she looks behind her, "The door was open…" her voice falters.

"Why did you come in here?" I ask her more firmly. I can guess - but I want it confirmed.

"There's something secret in here." She says, still nervous, "Goody Dawson doesn't speak of it, but we all know there's a secret in this house." Then she looks at me a bit more closely, "Are you alright, Mr Rich?"

I imagine I must look as though I have seen a ghost, or something; but I nod, "Yes Molly, I'm quite well." Sighing, I seat myself behind the desk where Wolsey had once sat. It does not offer me any comfort - and instead I find myself feeling almost rebellious against that passed Paragon, "You're right about there being a secret in this house. Do you want to see what that secret is?"

Her eyes widen, and I realise that she is misinterpreting my invitation, "Believe me, Molly, I have no intention to harm you. The secret in here is something that I suspect may astound you. Goody Dawson tells me that you are exceedingly intelligent." I don't need Goodwife Dawson to tell me that - I can hear it in the way that Molly speaks to me - her language has improved, as has her grammar. I can still recall her rather mangled speech when Cromwell first spoke to her after her boy Dickon went missing. Add that to a good memory…a thought is starting to grow in my mind.

I stand up again, and cross to the secret door, "Come with me. You don't need to know how to get in here - not yet. I just think you should see what this room contains."

She still stands where she is. Apparently she doesn't realise that droit de seigneur is just a myth. Maybe to women of her standing, it isn't, "Molly, I promise that I am not going to hurt you. You'll not regret seeing this." I just hope that I'm right in my guess.

Finally, she moves, and follows me down the stairs. The lantern is still burning where I left it when I fled, and its light is sufficient to show her just the nearest edges of the shelves. To her, as it did to me the first time I saw this, it must look as though they stretch off for miles without interruption.

"Saints preserve us…" she whispers, and I know that my guess is correct. She is as fascinated as I was.

Even as she wanders unprompted into the midst of the collection, she is reaching out to examine papers in astonishment. Goodwife Dawson has done more than begin her education, it seems that she has awakened a keen intellect, and a strong desire to learn as much as this world can teach. I know that feeling well; and did not Cromwell tell me that not all Seconds are men?

"What does this say, Mr Rich?" She asks suddenly, holding out a paper that must be in another language. I hope it is one that I can read, too. Fortunately, as I take it, I discover it to be in Greek - one of the few languages I read better than Cromwell does.

"It's Greek, Molly. They don't use the same sort of letters that we do." Tracing my fingertip along the unfamiliar alphabet, I read it aloud, then translate it for her.

"Can I learn that?" she asks, at once.

"I would have to talk to Mr Cromwell about that, Molly." I admit, "I think that you could be most helpful to us as more than a house servant. But I must ask you to keep this place a secret. Don't tell anyone - not Dickon, not Goody Dawson. They must not know of this Library - we keep it hidden to protect them. There are things in here that could put our heads in nooses, or bind us to stakes."

Her eyes widen at such a threat, but her keenness to explore and learn is such that she nods immediately, "Not a word, Mr Rich, I swear."

"Good girl - now go. I shall need to discuss this with Mr Cromwell. Until then, I'm afraid you must keep out of this chamber entirely. Don't let anyone see you leave."

She nods, and departs.

I am positive that she can be of use to us in our fight - after all there are times when it is simply impossible for me to come here, and we need someone in the house working on our behalf. I just hope that I can convince Cromwell.


'You've done what?" Wyatt asks, his jaw flopping almost to his chest - or so it seems to me.

I take a rather nervous gulp of claret, "I found her in the chamber when I came out of the Library. She was curious, so I decided to reward her curiosity."

Cromwell has not yet spoken, but I can see that his brow is furrowed; that look that he used to have whenever I did something stupid early on in our relationship as Silver Sword and Second. I find that same thought in my head: Wolsey wouldn't do this.

"What if she starts blabbing about it?" Wyatt continues.

"She won't. She knows the risks that we would run if she did. I don't think you realise how intelligent she is. The first thing she did when I explained some Greek text to her was to ask if she could learn to read it."

"She's a woman - they always blab!"

"The women you know might - but she won't. Besides, why should her being a woman stand in her way? I would have agreed with you until yesterday, but if you'd heard her speak, you'd realise that she absorbs knowledge like a sponge absorbs water. Goodwife Dawson herself has been marvelling at how quickly she picked up reading and writing, and her memory is phenomenal! We'd be mad to let an intellect like that go to waste!"

"Thomas - surely you know he's done something foolish?" Wyatt appeals. As someone forever surrounded by the feather-brained women of the Court whose primary aims are to secure rich husbands, or men who will grant them gifts of value as a mistress, he is unused to the presence of intellect in a female brain; other, perhaps, than that which existed in his beloved Anne whom he kept permanently on a pedestal anyway. All Silver Swords may be men - but not all Seconds. Has he forgotten that? He was present when Cromwell told us - wasn't he? I can't remember now.

Cromwell remains silent, and I sigh again, "I know, Thomas. Wolsey would not have done this."

Finally he speaks, "Actually, he would have. He respected knowledge, and appreciated its importance. Had Molly come into the household and shown such aptitude when he was there, he would have done exactly as you did."

I turn to him, surprised, "He would?"

"Of course he would. Wolsey may have been a corrupt, self-seeking politician who spent much of his time lining his own pockets and sleeping with his mistress, but he was absolutely committed to the Mission. The only reason he had no Second in training was because he had found no one to take that role. Had he found someone, then I would not have become so isolated - and you would not have needed to batter me so completely over the head with my refusal to fully accept you as my Second."

"Perhaps I should have told you first." I say.

"Why? I trust your judgement - and when it comes to securing the passage of knowledge from one Second to the next, I would expect that to be your responsibility. As you told me so firmly - Wolsey is no longer with us. You expect me to accept that - but it appears to me that you have not accepted it yourself. Besides - you have not waited to tell me; you have done so immediately. That, I would expect, and you have met that expectation."

Perhaps I am not as talentless as I suspected after all.

"That said," Cromwell continues, "I should prefer to meet her before we bring her too much into this business. She may not be aware of the risks that Seconds face as much as Silver Swords do - risks that you have already run. If she is to walk this path with us, then she must know where it may lead. The King has delayed his departure by another day, so while most of the Court is present, he is not. I think I can afford to spend a day at Grant's Place. If she is to become a Second, then it is certainly sensible that she should meet a Silver Sword at the earliest opportunity. She should have time to change her mind - though, from your assessment of her, I suspect that she will not."

As much of the Royal Horse is now transferred to the Mews at Whitehall, we are all on horseback to make the journey through the city. I still have not procured my own beast, so again I am riding the placid gelding that Cromwell advised me to call 'Adrian'. Since most of the Court seem to prefer much more mettlesome animals, few are keen to ride this one - so I might see if the Master of the Horse will sell him to me. Cromwell rides his chestnut, Clement, while Wyatt is aboard a fine bay mare that he calls Persephone, presumably for poetic reasons.

While Cromwell has his swords - to show Molly - they are well wrapped to keep them hidden, and we give the impression of three court officials on business. Which, to some degree, we are. The early October has calmed considerably after the storms that battered us at the end of September, and the ride is most pleasant - even for me. While not as quick as a wherry on an ebbing tide, we make good time and arrive at Grant's Place in time for the midday meal. As Goodwife Dawson is expecting us, she does not berate Cromwell, but instead ushers us in to sit down at a well laden table, as one of the gentlemen leads the horses away.

After we have eaten, Cromwell asks her to send Molly through to join us in one of the smaller chambers, as he has not seen her in some time and wishes to ask her how she is. If she is surprised at his request, Goodwife Dawson does not show it - but perhaps she is used to odd commands from her Master. While we wait, he turns to me, "I would ask you to make the introductions, Richard - she sees you as the most experienced in this world. It may startle her less if she learns of my true identity from you."

"And it's more likely that she'll believe you." Wyatt grins, cheerfully.

While she is startled at the presence of the Lord Chancellor, who is in his best clothing and wearing his chain of office, she regards him without the shyness, and almost fear, that she displayed when he first spoke to her. As he had done his all to set her at her ease, she does not recall him as a person to be afraid of, even though he now presents a far more intimidating prospect than he did that night. Instead, she drops an impeccable curtsey, and looks to me for an explanation.

"This is Mr Cromwell, Molly. Remember?" I begin. She looks at me, and nods. It's a foolish thing to begin with, as she would certainly remember, "And you will also remember Mr Wyatt." She nods again.

"When I showed you the library in the cellar yesterday," I continue, "I mentioned the importance of keeping it a secret for the knowledge it contains. The reason for that is more than the danger in which it puts us - for its records and knowledge are essential weapons in a fight that no one else knows about. You might hear the preachers talking of the dangers of evil and devils - and perhaps you are fearful, or perhaps you might consider their words foolish. You would be right - on both counts, for the dangers are real, but the Preachers do not understand them. That is my task and, I hope, will become yours in time, too."

Her eyes widen, though I think it is because she is not sure whether or not to believe me, so I plunge on, "When I first became alerted to this world, I thought it impossible; but it's not. The Kingdom is in danger, Molly - and you can help us fight that danger, if you want to."

Rather than be shocked, she seems intrigued, and I turn to Cromwell, who is interested in her reaction, "Do you know who I am, Molly?" He asks, "Not my name - but who I am at Court."

"Yes, Sir," she says, "You are the Lord Chancellor. You are very important to the King."

"If I were to tell you that I am more than that - that I am tasked with protecting his very life, what would you think?"

"I would have thought that it wasn't real. But then Mr Rich showed me the books in the cellar, and I think that it is." Molly pauses, then looks at him quite sharply, "Does the King know?"

He smiles, impressed at her wit, "Indeed he does not, Molly. The war that we fight is all but unseen. Why did you ask that question?"

"If the King knows of it, then why is it hidden?" she says, immediately. God, she's sharp.

Cromwell is clearly pleased with her answer, and unwraps his swords, "You should know, Molly, that no one else at court is aware of me, or these weapons that I carry. I am what is known as a Silver Sword. There are less than twenty of us in existence, and many of us hold positions in the Royal Courts - to protect the Kings and Princes from that which would bring them down and plunge us all into chaos and darkness." He draws one of the weapons, "This blade is forged from steel and silver, its design based upon the swords used by warriors descended from the Scythians. It bears the sigil of the Raven - which is what you must use from now on whenever you refer to me as part of this business."

Molly stares at the blade, as entranced as I was when first I saw it.

"It is important that you understand, though, that this is not an easy path to travel. The Court of England is in perhaps the greatest danger of all, for we are a small nation, separated from our neighbours by sea. This land would make a fine fortress for the forces of Darkness, but they require chaos and disorder to thrive - and it is our task to ensure that this land remains peaceful, in the face of determination to ensure that we fail. To do this, we must sometimes act against our consciences. Would you be willing to do such a thing?"

What she says then surprises us all, "Like you had to with Queen Anne?"

Perhaps it is not that difficult to deduce - but she has seen exactly the problem to which Cromwell is referring; sometimes, for the sake of the greater good, we must do that which we almost cannot bear. Everyone knows that Cromwell was the chief architect of Anne's downfall, even if he was acting on the requirements of the King - but no one could know why. In an instant, she has seen it purely from the evidence she has been given.

He recovers quickly, "Yes, Molly. As we had to with Queen Anne. She was innocent - but her brother and father had fallen in with a malevolent influence, and were plotting to take the throne. She was caught in the midst of their fall - and we were obliged to act against her, regardless of the truth." He needs not say any more - his eyes say more than enough.

We sit for a moment, until I decide to try something, "Molly, do you remember the text I showed you yesterday?"

She nods, immediately, and I hasten through to 'my' Chamber to retrieve some paper and a stick of charcoal, before setting them before her, "Can you write it down?"

To my amazement, she quickly takes up the charcoal and begins to draw the Greek lettering with surprising accuracy. There are some mistakes, certainly, but it is largely legible and corresponds to the words I translated for her. Her memory is astonishing. Taking the paper, I hold it up, "This is almost completely right. I remember it myself - but I have the additional advantage of understanding it. There are one or two letters that are not quite correct - but she saw this only the once, when I showed it to her."

Cromwell nods, "Molly could you give us a few minutes, please?"

She nods, bobs another curtsey and leaves.

"You are right, Richie," Cromwell says, obviously impressed, "She has a remarkable mind - we would be fools to let her intellect be wasted. She is not ready to stand with us - not yet. She still has much to learn."

"As do I, Thomas." I remind him.

"I think she should remain here, and begin to learn the contents of the Library as you are doing. She should also be more properly educated. I think I should engage a tutor for her at the earliest opportunity. To condemn her to the life of a maid would be a travesty - not when she can offer so much to the fight we face. If nothing else, she can provide assistance when you are not free to come here. I imagine you have thought of that yourself, have you not?"

I nod, "Should we remove to Windsor, then the library would be all but beyond my reach."

"Maybe you should invest in some homing pigeons." Wyatt smiles, "Very well, I was wrong. Bake me some humble pie and I shall devour it with all speed."

When she is called back in, Molly sits in awed silence as the opportunities Cromwell proposes are laid out for her. Not only is she to no longer be a servant, but she is to be granted a fine education, and to serve at the side of one of the most highly placed men in the Kingdom in a fight to protect the King himself. She takes no more than a moment to nod excitedly at the prospect of being let loose amongst all those books. She even accepts that she is not ready to fight alongside us - though Wyatt suggests that Dickon undergo some training to act as her immediate protector, which makes her blush.

As we depart back to the Palace, Cromwell is clearly pleased, much to my relief, "You have made an excellent find there, Richie, I think we shall have a remarkable Second to offer to the Order in future. If she can become fluent in sufficient languages, there might even be a career for her in one of the foreign courts, should she wish to accept such an appointment."

While I am relieved that I have done so well, there is still one small black cloud lurking the firmament of my success. I just wish that I could translate that damned paper.