A/N: Happy Sunday and welcome to Chapter II! I hope you all enjoy it, and a hearty thank you to my first reviewer, MrsPhantomSylvia!

19 April 1536 - Afternoon

Daniel leaned against the grimy wall of the kitchen, waiting for the cook to come out so that he could relay His Majesty's dinner orders. His mind went over and over the orders, determined to keep them as clear as when King Henry had spoken them to him. He must not make a mistake; the king would know who had erred, and Daniel would receive a lengthy rebuke. He was sated with the king's shouting, and had actually been relieved to leave the royal chambers to report to the cook. Daniel rubbed his eyes, pushing against the sides of his nose. His head throbbed from being in the king's chambers lately. There was so much noise, anger, distress everywhere in those rooms. The king had, in earlier days, been kind to Daniel. Lately he would cuff him as soon as speak to him. Any time that the king was angry with an advisor, with parliament, with his wife, with his courtiers, it was his servants who bore the brunt of his temper. Daniel was a faithful servant to His Majesty, and always would be, but he was aware and fearful of Henry's changing personality.

The conversations in the royal chambers lately had seemed to Daniel immensely duplicitous. He had little opportunity to glean information from the rest of the court as he usually inhabited only Henry's chambers, but Daniel had known for some time that there were intrigues afoot. He had no choice but to overhear conversations between the king and his various companions. In particular, Daniel feared for Queen Anne. He knew that some trouble was being brewed by Master Cromwell at her expense. He knew not what – it could be anything, he knew, as the king had become so unpredictable of late – but it bothered him intensely. Queen Anne was very kind to him, and to the other servants with whom Daniel had seen her interact. He could never share in any of the ill-themed conversation about her, most of which centered around her background and her haughtiness. He had seen her kindness and he was aware that she loved her husband, and Daniel, despite his young age, realized that this was an important quality in a woman. She had little choice but to be haughty, he reasoned, since most people at court were turning their backs on her. He had looked her in the face, and she was beautiful; he could not understand why the king neglected her so. So, when Daniel listened to King Henry's conversations with the ominous Master Secretary, his heart sickened a trifle to hear the queen's name mentioned. He had held his breath, hoping that they would spell out their 'plans,' as Henry had called them – but they had not. Where in God's name was the cook? Daniel wondered absently, an idea forming in his mind.

Queen Anne had lost her child, a son, that Daniel knew. He had been at the court long enough to know how momentous and awful a tragedy this was to the royal couple. For this reason he sensed that the queen was in danger: her husband was disappointed in her, less in love with her all the time, and courting one, another one, of her ladies. Daniel's nerves were on edge around his master; when Henry was the slightest bit irritated with him, he would smack his hands, his neck, his shoulders, his head, whatever was closest. He would call him 'knave,' 'idiot,' 'fool,' 'imbecile,' and so on. Daniel was certain that Henry did not treat his wife that way, but he was anxious about what his plans were for her. He had heard him shout at Queen Anne several times, and there was little between shouting and violence where the king was concerned. Daniel chewed on his lip. He could not. He could not possibly.

Finally, the cook appeared just when Daniel had forgotten about him. Pleased with himself, he rattled off Henry's detailed dinner orders – seven courses, Daniel marveled – and bade the cook farewell, reluctantly heading back toward the royal chambers. I could not. It is not my place, Daniel thought to himself. He turned the thought over and over in his mind. Yet even as he denied himself the right to carry out the action that had occurred to him after the last conversation between King and Secretary, he was taking a detour to his own room. Small it was, desperate it was not; His Majesty took good care of his own servants. At this thought Daniel checked, less sure of himself than ever. He could not betray his king and his intentions. He was a mere servant. He knew nothing of politics.

The queen reminded him of his sister. Arbella had been dead for three years, having passed the year that Daniel came into the royal service. Queen Anne was admittedly fairer, but they had similar faces, lovely eyes, laughing countenances. They were both kind. Daniel sighed as he thought of his departed, beloved sister. He did not want the queen to be dishonoured in any way, and he feared that without help she would be thrown to the wolves. Queen Katherine, God bless her soul, had suffered many tribulations after being cast aside. Queen Anne was too fair a jewel, too kind and generous a consort, to be forced into the same sort of emotional purgatory. She had done, Daniel reasoned, nothing wrong. The king had turned against many of his loved ones, even in the short years that Daniel had known him – most notably Sir Thomas More – and even a servant outfitted in Tudor rose-embroidered livery had the good sense to realize that there was no reason for much of it. Daniel's resolve was bolstered at this: he had to, he knew, do the right thing. It was not his place, but his conscience could bear no other. He leant against the closed door of his small bedchamber, listening. Would anyone have noticed his absence, and come looking for him? It would be a sign from God if he were intercepted before he could commit this betrayal of his master. But as he breathed deeply and counted to fifteen, he heard nothing. Onward. Daniel extracted a quill from a drawer of his small desk and laid a small piece of parchment on the desktop.

At the sight of the parchment, Daniel almost faltered. He put his hand to his forehead and rubbed his fingers over his temple. He was sweating, he realized. Damnation. He resolved to clean himself up before he presented himself to the king. As he thought of Henry, Daniel ran his fingers over his head and sought the bump on the back of his skull. It was still there, still raised, and still quite tender. He had relayed dinner orders incorrectly last week. Pray God he had not made any mistakes with the cook just now. Daniel rubbed the bump gently, staring at the blank parchment before him. What in God's name was he to do? If he took quill to parchment and was discovered, he would be butchered at Tyburn. If he did nothing, he would feel as though he could have helped the innocent Queen Anne, aided another queen from being cast off for no reason, and had done nothing. Were it worse to suffer physically or mentally? Daniel was no fool, and he was no heretic. He felt God's eyes on him. He shut his eyes and lolled his head forward, twisting it to one side and then the other. Whatever his decision was, he had to make it quickly. God forbid the king actually notice where he was and how long it took him to order dinner.

Frustrated with his own indecision, Daniel shoved his chair back as he jumped to his feet, then began pacing in the little space between his window and the side of the desk. His chamber was small; he could cross it in four steps. One, two, three, four, turn. One, two, three, four, turn. One, two, three, four – Daniel paused at the window and gazed up to the heavens. Guide me, he begged. What should I do? Pressing his palms flat together, Daniel bent his head and touched it to the tips of his middle fingers. An image of Arbella came to him, startling him, followed by one of the royal couple on their thrones, and then, lastly, his most personal memory of Queen Anne.

At a banquet, one – no, two years ago, Her Majesty had sat, slumped forward slightly, in her chair at dinner. Her husband was not there. She pretended that she did not notice. Behind Henry's chair stood a servant, one of her husband's personal attendants. His presence signaled that the king should have been in attendance; Anne looked at the young man, no more than twenty, for a moment too long. He glanced up at her through his eyelashes, his head still bent down deferentially. Anne looked away guiltily, then realized her posture and sat up, smiling proudly at no one. Where in God's name was Henry? Where were her father and brother? A queen is not meant to be alone at state banquets, Queen Anne must have been thinking. Daniel, his head bent in silent apology for his master's actions, agreed. He came forward to fill her wine glass. "Would Your Majesty desire more wine?" he asked, trying to be unobtrusive.

She was distracted, picking at the table draping. "Yes, thank you," she responded, her voice hollow. She barely turned her head. Then, suddenly, "Where is the king?"

Daniel tried not to allow the shock to register on his countenance. The Queen of England asking a servant the whereabouts of her husband? "I know not, my lady," Daniel replied, his voice low and apologetic. "His Majesty must be indisposed."

At this Anne gave a ladylike little gurgle of laughter. "I am certain." She paused, then looked at Daniel once more. "You have been in service at court for a year or so, yes?"

This time the shock did show. "Yes, Majesty." He had finished pouring the wine. What should he do now? She was clearly lonely, to be chatting with a servant, and he did not want to leave her by herself. Yet he could not presume to entertain the queen in her husband's stead. He had, after all, spent the afternoon helping His Majesty to choose one of the best doublets from the royal wardrobe, which Daniel suspected was now being pawed at by one of Her Majesty's lovely ladies-in-waiting. Daniel sneaked a look at Queen Anne. She was dressed flawlessly, as usual. He wondered whether she had hoped to entice the king to her bed tonight, and immediately his cheeks were aflame with internal embarrassment. That was no way to think about his queen.

She was speaking again. "You need not be surprised. I think it practical to keep track of the royal servants." She graced him with a smile. The effect was dazzling. "Your name is…" She rolled her eyes from the court, at which she had been gazing aimlessly, to his face, then heavenward in thought as she brought an index finger to her lips. "… John?" While Daniel was wondering whether it was proper to correct a queen, or whether he should be prepared to live out his life hereafter as John when in Her Majesty's company, Queen Anne jumped in: "Nay! Daniel, is it not?"

A small wave of flattery washed over him. "Yes, Majesty." This was too much. He could not stand here and converse with an anointed queen. He should not even be breathing the same air as she; he had bathed that day, but somehow he felt that he might tarnish her lovely purple gown or the ropes of pearls wound around her neck. He began to step away.

"Your sister died upon your embarkation to court, is that correct?"

Daniel froze, halfway behind His Majesty's empty chair, his right foot still next to Queen Anne's gilded chair-leg. He dared to look her in the face. What was she doing? Her blue eyes were wide and earnest; she meant no harm or jest at his expense. She was just asking him a question. How utterly bored she must be, Daniel decided absently. He nodded at her in response, trying not to think about his sister's death. She had been one year younger than Daniel, and had been getting progressively more ill as he readied himself for royal service. She was too weak to get out of bed and bid him good-bye, and he promised to return to visit her within a month. Coughing into a pink-stained square of linen, Arbella retorted that he would be married to a countess by then. "Promise to name your first child after me," she demanded.

"What if it's a boy?" he smiled.

"Arbeller, then." She closed her eyes and leant her head against her pillow. "Do write. I should like to know all about Her Majesty."

"Of course." Daniel brushed her hair away from her forehead. Her skin was burning. "Do get better quickly. I shall be too busy to say many prayers for you," he warned, "so you must improve apace."

"I am the picture of health," she returned. "Hay fever is all. Go catch your barge. Do write!" She waved him away. Daniel swept her a pretty bow, which he had practiced for court, and was off.

She had died the following morning, her coughing getting progressively worse throughout the evening. It was not hay fever but consumption. Daniel had composed his first letter to her at court, filled with descriptions of King Henry and the courtiers, but mostly of Queen Anne, and he received the short message from his father that Arbella was dead just after he sealed it. He had not been able to return home for the modest funeral, and had been forced to mourn on his own at court, never properly bidding his sister farewell.

Now Daniel held Queen Anne's gaze. "Yes, Majesty." Then, unbidden, "Her name was Arbella."

The queen nodded slowly, once. "A lovely name. I was told of the tragedy by one of my maids, who said you were in unbelievable grief for her. I am sorry for your loss." She paused. "His Majesty also mentioned that you were quite out of sorts for a time. I said a prayer for you and for her soul."

Daniel noticed the implication: she, not the king, had prayed for him. She was a kind woman. Arbella would have been thrilled to know that the Queen of England cared for the state of her soul. He smiled at the queen. "I owe Your Majesty much thanks. I cannot express my gratitude adequately. Please tell me how I can repay you."

Queen Anne laughed again; a giggle, halfway between endearing and seductive, bubbled up from her throat. "You need not thank me. I understand grief for a loved one. I once lost two of my maids to the sweating sickness, and contracted it myself from one of them, God rest their souls. I really hate to imagine those who serve well to be in pain and distraction. It was my duty to pray for your cause." She sat back in her chair, the goblet of wine in her hand, and surveyed the court. Her body language – overly-straight back, stiff shoulders, turned-out elbows, a stiff neck – made it clear that she was trying to play the part of the regnant queen, yet she still desired some personal interaction. Clearly she wanted Daniel's company, but they both knew that it was inappropriate that she continue talking to this serving boy. Everyone else knew it too, or would, if they bothered to pay any attention to their consort. But no one did. Queen Anne was smiling for no one. He watched the muscles around her mouth tighten; she pursed her lips a little, then drew in a great breath. He still stood, half-bent over next to her chair, completely unsure of himself. He glanced around the room. Still, no one was paying any attention to him, and by implication that meant that no one was paying much attention to Her Majesty. She continued to refuse to register this, although it must have been painfully obvious to her. Her collarbones rose toward her chin, the mounded pearls on top of them catching the torchlight, and when she exhaled another artificial smile enveloped her features. Not looking at him, Queen Anne said cordially, "I do hope that you are enjoying your time at court, Daniel. And I hope that you will continue to do so. His Majesty tells me naught but good about his servants." This was a lie, and they both knew it. Daniel could not imagine that the king made conversation about the quality of his serving staff to his wife. She was simply being polite, and the fact that she could deign to be so to him, in addition to all the kindness she had already shown, touched his heart genuinely. He sensed that he needed to retreat from her, and that she was trying to dismiss him kindly.

"I am much enjoying myself, my lady. I find my employ to be the most wonderful position in the world." He bowed again and stepped back as she nodded, giving him leave to go. Her face was serene as she gave off the appearance that she utterly loved presiding alone over a banquet that the king had ordered.

No sooner had Daniel returned to his post a few meters away than the queen's head turned, with infinite grace, to the left. She did not address him by name, but she looked at him – caught him looking at her, to his embarrassment – and inclined her head, indicating that he should return. Daniel's heart froze. He could not approach her again. Did she need more wine? She could not have drunk that much already. Cautiously, he took two steps toward her, then two more, and then, standing a safe distance away, he bent at the waist, bowing deeply and coming as close as he dared to her. She had turned her head again and was staring straight forward, again smiling her radiant smile. He wondered if this was what her life was like. She seemed ebullient at everything, but there was a loneliness in her tonight. He hoped that it was not always this way for her. Still bowing – his back was beginning to ache – he waited.

Gazing ahead of her, her cheeks dimpled with her apparent delight, Queen Anne said in a soft, almost intimate voice, "There is one thing that you may do for me, Daniel." He waited still, but she hesitated.

"Yes, Your Majesty?" The words were out of Daniel's daring mouth before he could stop them. Again he gazed up through his eyelashes at her, but she was not looking at him. Her flowing sleeves, cascading ringlets of hair, dangling earrings, ropes of pearls, and queenly manner were frozen into an implacably regal vision. She was as perfectly molded, attired, and alabastered as though she had been sculpted by an Italian. And as quiet. She remained silent for another long moment, taking a sip from her goblet. Then, without as much as a breath to preface her voice, she spoke.

"You may find my husband for me."

Daniel had nodded and hurried away, both surprised and not so. He had tried not to think of the implications of the task, the situation, the royal marriage. And in any event he had been unsuccessful, and returned to his post alone. Queen Anne threw him a sideways glance, her least graceful movement of the evening, and he looked up and shook his head minutely. Enough of an answer that was. She carried on as merrily throughout the evening as if she presided over the whole of the world.

Now, Daniel lifted his head from his fingertips and stared at the window in front of him. Did not the queen deserve some attention paid to her cause? He had failed in finding her husband that night, and in some way he wanted to repay her kindness to him. Daniel stepped forward and gazed out the window at the sky and the sun, and then, explicably, he looked down and saw the queen herself, stalking – yes, stalking, not gliding as was her custom – across the courtyard. She looked nothing like she had on that night that she had asked about Arbella: her hair was pulled back into a severe coif, her neckline was high and adorned with a collar which shrouded her pale face with an even whiter ruffle, and there was nothing fanciful or lovely about her gown. The youth was gone from her. She did not even pretend to be happy. She looked betrayed, angry, almost desperate. Yet she was the wife of his master, his true master. She was not his mistress.

As though afraid that she would see him, Daniel turned away from the window. He went to his desk, righted his chair, and sat down to the blank parchment. He reached inside the drawer of his desk for his inkwell, brushed his hand deliberately across the hard wax seal of the letter he had written to Arbella the first night he had sat at this desk, and steeled his resolve once and for all. Taking a deep breath, Daniel wetted his quill and looked once more at the clean parchment on his desk. "God help me," he muttered before defacing it with his betrayal of his master.

UP NEXT…

Queen vs. Secretary, The Confrontation:

'He kept his head bowed and looked up at her, and was startled that her eyes looked glassy. What the devil is wrong with her? He wondered briefly, as she stared him down. Then he realized that her body, despite her spirit, longed to weep. Cromwell congratulated himself on bringing her nearly to tears.'