Chapter Four
An Arrogant Earl
I have missed being here; seated in the chamber that contains the secret door to my library. I have always enjoyed the peace of this room, sunlight filtering in through the diamond panes of the windows at my back, the air scented by the herbs in the garden beyond. Peace seems to be something that eludes me so much, even in the years after the destruction of Lamashtu, as I am surrounded by petty politics and the endless risk of losing all that I have thanks to the fears and uncertainties of a King who trusts no one. At least here I can set my thoughts out on paper without fear of being seen or challenged. The only person who is present to witness my activity is now my apprentice, and believes as fervently as I do that the realm's best protection is the avoidance of disturbance and chaos.
Cecil emerges from the Library with a small coffer that is clearly still sealed, "I have spent much of this morning examining the structure of the Index, Richard. I think I am gaining a reasonable understanding of how it operates."
I am not surprised to hear this; whether I like it or not, Cecil's ability to assimilate and absorb information is far faster than mine, and much as it rankles with my pride, I am grateful for it, "You should bear in mind that Wolsey and his clerk were not always consistent in the placing of their cross-references, William; we nearly came to disaster on one occasion thanks to that."
He nods, and carries the coffer across to the smaller table on the other side of the room. It is not a desk, and neither Cromwell nor I ever used it as such, but it is sufficient for his purposes, and he sets the coffer down, then returns to the Library to retrieve the enormous Index. As he sits down with it, I am embarrassed to feel a stab of jealousy. That is my Index…
Oh, stop being such a fool, Rich. Wolsey snaps at me, Do you want an apprentice, or not?
Despite the fact that he was just as bad when the Index came into my care; he is, of course, right and I shake myself briefly, before turning my attention back to the matter in hand.
We have the beginnings of a plan: no Lord Protector, the Queen as Regent supported by a Regency Council; but the legal structure upon which we shall pin that edifice must be absolutely secure, or all shall falter and crumble before our eyes. There are too many people who are keen to gain power for themselves for us to fail in our lawmaking. For the first time in many years - the entire enterprise seems to hinge upon me. I had forgotten that sense of uncertainty and near-fear. This time, however, the challenge of combating it is absolutely in tune with my strengths, and the sense of nerves is tempered by excitement and anticipation. Old habits die hard.
I spend much of the morning making notes, consulting a large set of legal papers that I have brought with me for reference, crossing out, rewriting and thinking. That Edward shall rule is not in doubt - for he is the heir. The real difficulty is in ensuring that the Prince's royal prerogative is not usurped. After a long sequence of Kings that were, in all honesty, usurpers one after the other, I am determined to bring that to an end.
"William, are you busy?" My fingers are cramped, and I need a second opinion, "I have my first draft ready."
Cecil abandons his papers and crosses to join me, taking the proffered paper. While I have a strong grounding in Law, I have not taken a personal role in drafting laws for several years, so a more expert eye than mine is most useful. While his interest might not be as great as mine, Cecil has been at Gray's Inn for some time, and thus is more aware of ongoing legal cases than I. He concentrates upon the paper for an unnerving period of time, clearly reading, and re-reading, the various clauses with great care.
At length, he sets the paper down, "I think it covers all eventualities," he says, "I am not aware of any immediate matters of precedent in common law which might be problematic in its application."
"But?" I prompt. I cannot believe that there shall not be a 'but'.
"Only that I think we should word the opening preamble more carefully, Richard. This document must be approved by his Majesty and granted Royal assent. Given that this is the first draft, and the primary goal is to ensure that the intention and wording of the Act itself are of primary importance at this stage, I did not consider it necessary to raise the matter. I assumed it would be considered and addressed during the second draft."
I smile at him, "I was advised of your legendary diplomatic streak, Mr Cecil; indeed, I am most impressed. Come, sit alongside me, I am not convinced that we have rendered the legal clauses to be absolutely watertight. As Thomas is not here to aid me, and we are in a place where we can be absolutely frank about the King's health and likelihood to leave us sooner rather than later, I think that we should settle upon a second draft here and now, before we set it aside and dine."
By the time hunger drives us out of the chamber in search of a meal, we have the second draft. Cecil's aid has been quite invaluable, and I am even more grateful now that he came to Court at the time that he did. As we are soon to depart from London to spend the remainder of the summer, and possibly even as late as Christmastide, at Hampton Court, his willingness to remain behind and continue working in the Library is a greater help to me than I could have hoped for. While the spies shall still report to me, as they have been directed to, I can easily refer them back to Cecil in order to ensure that all papers are appropriately catalogued and archived. Yes - it really could not have been better.
Our dinner - a fine boiled ham with some of Goodwife Dawson's best manchet bread - is enlivened by further discussion of the world into which Cecil has now flung himself with something akin to the impulsiveness that drove me to do likewise nearly ten years ago. Remarkably, despite his obvious superior talent in terms of research and investigation, he regards me with a great deal more respect than I think I probably deserve. But then, unlike Cecil, I have taken up arms alongside my Silver Sword - something that most Seconds would not even consider doing. It is these adventures that fascinate him the most, and I am more than happy to reminisce. Times are changing, and sometimes it is comforting to remember that which has passed, and recall a time when we were not overshadowed by the impending demise of our King.
By the end of the day, I am more than content with the final draft of the Bill that we hope to put before Parliament - assuming Cromwell can persuade his Majesty to countenance the idea that he shall not see his son reach an age where he can accept the throne in his own right. Thus, Cecil and I spend the last hour or so of usable daylight examining the work that he has done to catalogue the papers in the coffer he fetched out this morning. He has done well - though I am relieved to find that he has made one or two errors that I must correct; I would have been most discountenanced to have been outstripped intellectually by my own apprentice on the first day that he took up the post. My character might have improved beyond measure in the years since I became a Second, but I am not that improved.
Our work complete, I lock that vital draft bill in a small box and set it in the Library alongside the reading stand. There it shall be safe from discovery, but ready to be retrieved when the time comes; for come, it shall. Until then however, there are other matters to be undertaken. I shall be happy to leave Cecil here with the Library, while I return to Whitehall to prepare for our move out of London.
Wriothesley is hunched over his desk, working through lists that shall determine which papers are to remain at Whitehall to be archived, and which are to come to Hampton Court. While many departments shall remain at Whitehall, those which are closest to the day-to-day workings of Government still travel with the King. The entire business is much more carefully organised these days, as Cromwell's efforts to reform matters of Governance have led to a sequence of departments, each responsible for specific tasks. Most of these can remain at Whitehall, reporting to him while he is at Hampton Court, but others must be present where he and I go, and so the extensive organising to work out what must come with us, and what can stay.
As the weather is quite warm, it is our intention to ride to Hampton, though the King's discomfort aboard a horse means that he shall travel with his family by barge, as will many others where they can. Riding in carriages might appear a more pleasant method of travel, but I certainly would not relish most of the day being rattled violently in a wooden box, no matter how comfortably upholstered the seats might be. Most of the clerks shall be obliged to do so, and none of them look forward to such a journey.
My own papers tidied and organised, there is little else to keep me, so I plan to return to my apartments to irritate John by interfering and attempting to 'help' as he packs my personal effects. While Cromwell and I shall not depart for another two or three days, most of my property shall be packed up and loaded onto a barge tomorrow along with coffers belonging to other highly-placed Courtiers, ready to for my arrival. I am, therefore, not surprised to find my quarters in a fearful state of disarray; but I am surprised to find that John has a note for me from the Master of the Horse requesting my presence in the Mews.
I am surprised to find that Sir Anthony Browne is present personally, alongside the chief of the Grooms. As the title of Master of the Horse tends to be ceremonial rather than practical, his presence is quite startling, "Is there a problem, Sir Anthony?"
"I was present by chance, my Lord - and I thought it best that you be informed immediately." He sighs, "I am afraid the grooms have found that your horse is in a state of considerable distress; it appears that he has developed a congestion in his lungs."
While I have grown in skill as a rider, and now maintain a well stocked stable, I only have one horse at Court, that steady, well governed gelding Adrian, who I purchased from the Royal stables as no other courtier would ride such a placid beast, and named after a Pope. He is my favourite, and I feel a cold chill in the pit of my stomach - for I suspect that I have been called because there is a painful choice to be made.
To my dismay, once in the stall, I can see immediately that my faithful Adrian is indeed in great distress, and he is down - his breathing laboured and weak. While the Ostlers would have acted to end his misery immediately had he been one of the Royal Stable; he is not and thus they must consult me. God, I wish that they had not.
I wish I was alone; for I can already feel a sense of deep, painful grief that I Have no desire to put on display for people who do not know me. Slowly, I turn to Browne, "Might I have some time to think, please? I know what must be done…" my voice catches. Damn - I had hoped that I could avoid that…
His expression sympathetic, Browne nods, and ushers the chief Groom out. On my own, I sink down beside my fallen horse, and stroke his neck gently, "We had such times, did we not, Adrian? You have been a truly faithful beast, and…" and then I cannot stop myself; slumping over the gelding's neck to sob in misery at the loss that is to come, and must be at my instigation. I feel a fool, but this good horse has been as much of a companion in my adventuring as any man, and now I must bring him to his death.
Somewhere behind me, I hear footsteps, and then there is a hand on my shoulder, "I have just been told, Richie. I am truly sorry."
Cromwell. Of course he would come - for I am in pain, and he has never abandoned me when I am in pain.
"Forgive me, Thomas," I try to speak firmly, but the words come out in an embarrassing series of hiccups, "I am being a child."
"As I should be if this were Clement, and you had come to my side." He advises, kindly, "Adrian has been a good horse."
I nod, but sit silently for a while, stroking Adrian's neck. I almost cannot bear to accept what must happen now, but to delay any longer is merely cruelty. My horse is suffering, and there is no remedy. Thus, he should be allowed to go, "I should call the Groom…"
"I shall see to it." Cromwell offers, "You stay with Adrian."
The groom, and Cromwell attempt to persuade me to leave while the matter is dealt with, but I cannot do it. Instead, I remain where I am, speaking softly to my good horse, and forcing myself not to look as the groom carefully approaches from behind Adrian's head, and with remarkable efficiency, crouches down and dispatches the sick beast with a nail in the skull. Unable to move, I stay on the floor, heedless of the ruin of my clothing in the rather befouled straw. This is ridiculous…I am mourning for a horse…
"Come, Richie." Cromwell sets his hand upon my shoulder again, "Let the Grooms see to him. There is nothing more that you can do now."
I do as bid, and we return to Cromwell's quarters, where he sits me down with a cup of sack, and I spend some time regaining my composure. Now is not the time to be foolishly grieving for a horse; I can do that once the move is complete. Except now I have no horse to ride…
"John has sent word to your groom at St Bartholomew's, Richie." Cromwell advises, seating himself opposite with another glass, "He shall send across one of your other horses later today."
How remarkable that people consider him to be a cold, ruthless creature with no feelings. Yes, there are times when he is - but that is not all that he is, not even remotely; for here he is, sitting alongside me and offering me his moral support as I grieve for a horse. And to think that there was a time when I would have been quite content to have no true friends at all. What a dreadfully miserable figure I would have been.
"Forgive me, Thomas." I feel altogether less wretched now, "I have been a fool, but I am grateful for your kindness. I have interrupted your work, have I not?"
"Sometimes there are more important things than work, Richie." He smiles, "It took me a long time to learn that lesson; I think, to a degree, that it was thanks to you that I learned it."
"Maybe so, but I fear we cannot set work aside any longer, Thomas. Not if we are to complete the move to Hampton Court on time."
"Alas." His smile becomes a wider grin, "That would indeed be a calamity."
The late summer weather has been remarkably kind - balmy without being too hot, but not too cold either. No longer able to hunt, as even his great French horse cannot carry him so far these days, the King instead watches as others sport for his entertainment. They joust in the great tiltyard, risking their lives for his pleasure, or play tennis in the court that he built so many years ago to play the game himself. The Court is there today, watching as some of the young bloods participate in a hard-fought match that the King watches avidly, for his expertise is such that an error is never missed, and is guaranteed to bring royal scorn down upon the perpetrator's head.
One of the players is newly arrived at court - the fourth of Northumberland's sons; whose name I can never remember, Richard? Robert? Yes - Robert. His two elder brothers are regularly here now, though his eldest is not. The Duke's second son, John, and third, Ambrose, are doing what they can to forge careers for themselves given that they shall not inherit their father's estate. It seems that Robert is also intent upon that great gamble that is politics in England; and what better way to do so than excelling in a sport at which the King himself once excelled?
I have no interest in tennis, any more than I have in the joust, so I do not spend much time at the court. I have little enough to myself as it is, so my visits are generally brief, and related to work. Cromwell has never darkened the doors of this particular building - and thus I am here alone, and only because I have some papers that the King should see, and which cannot wait.
Needless to say, the King is not pleased to have matters of government interrupting his pleasure, but at least he does not strike out at me; though I think this is more because he lacks the energy than for any other reason. He tires so easily these days. Instead, he curses me loudly, and dismisses me without thanks - but then, I expected nothing else, and I am equally unsurprised by the snide glances of those who spend equal time at the King's side rather than in the offices. After all, were I not so busy in the offices, and not the man I am now, then I have no doubt that I should be among them.
Her Majesty is not present at the game, for she has no liking for it. Instead, she is with her sons and Elizabeth, as Edward is still at court. Now that we are at Hampton, of course, it would be less of a journey between the palaces were he to return to his own household, but Queen Jane is is nothing if not determined to keep her sons at her side as long as she can. Despite the pressure of convention, and the raised eyebrows of those who consider her actions to be overly sentimental, there is no denying that remaining with his immediate family is proving beneficial to the Prince. If only he could escape the confines of the palace walls, however, for the King will not countenance any excursion that might place his son at risk - however minor.
It seems that I am not the only one concerned at this lack of fresh air and exercise, for Hertford raises it as we gather in the Queen's Privy Chamber for our regular Queen's Council meeting, "Forgive my presumption, Sister, but I am becoming concerned at his Highness's wellbeing. He seems to be rather pale, and even his games with his brother and sister in the gardens seem not to have brought a blush to his cheeks. It is not healthy for a child to be so confined - particularly a young prince. How is he to learn the arts of war?"
Queen Jane smiles, "I should prefer to avoid war, Brother, but I, too am concerned. My husband is most fearful of losing his two children, for he has seen too many babes lost before they have become men. His requirements for the welfare of both Ned and Hal required an astonishing degree of cleanliness - and even now he will not agree to any activity that might place his son in even the slightest danger."
"I am in agreement with his Grace." Cromwell sighs, "While the welfare of his Highness is indeed of paramount importance to the Realm, it should not be at the expense of his overall health. Perhaps it might be possible for him to be able to ride out in the Park with a few trusted members of the Court? Such as his uncle, and - if it can be arranged - two well armed men of your inner circle."
We all share a few smirks - such an oblique description of himself and me.
Hertford nods, approvingly, "I would consider that to be suitable - for his Highness needs to spend time with those who are most intent upon his safe succession. Better to learn now that the Lord Chancellor and Lord Privy Seal are the most trustworthy of all his servants than to find out almost too late - as I did."
"He shall never agree to it." Suffolk sighs, sadly, "No matter how trustworthy his companions might be, the risk of the Prince being injured, or waylaid, is ever present in his Majesty's mind. I fear that he would willingly, if unintentionally, damage his son's health out of fear for his safety."
"We can but try, I think." Her Majesty says, "I have long learned, as have we all, that the best way to bend the King to your will is to persuade him that in doing so, he is merely acting upon his own idea. See if you can persuade him, Edward; it is not at all healthy for the Prince to be enclosed within the walls of the palace, with only the Gardens to explore."
"If need be," Suffolk adds, "I shall offer my support."
Hertford nods, gratefully. With that decided, we move on to other matters.
Our attempt to get Prince Edward out into the fresh air of Home Park is almost felled at the first hurdle the following morning, when Hertford requests consent for us to do so. The King is immediately against the idea, as his son is now in his direct control, and his absolute conviction that something dreadful shall happen to the child if he is not watched at all times has become all consuming.
"Absolutely not!" He shouts, loud enough for us to hear him beyond the curtain that separates his most private chamber from the Privy Chamber, "I shall not put my son at risk!"
We do not hear Hertford's reply, as it is spoken, not shouted. I have no doubt that he is soothing, and assuring his King that, as the child's uncle, he wishes no harm to come to the boy - and will take every care to ensure his safety. God above, Edward has been trapped indoors from the moment he arrived at the palace; his daily rides in the Park at Windsor stolen away from him in the King's fear of those who might wish to steal him and place him in their thrall. Surely it is not too much to ask to allow him just a hint of freedom? If we do not, then what shall happen when the time comes that he can make such decisions for himself?
After much argument, however, Hertford talks the King round - presumably by suggesting that a lack of fresh air, and being cooped up in a stuffy suite of rooms is hardly better for his health than any ailment that might be lurking outside. Finally, he emerges, though his victory is a small one: the King has insisted that we be accompanied by a virtual battalion of palace guards. So much for a small ride with family and friends.
"He fears for the safety of the Prince," Hertford sighs, though this is something that we all know full well, "but in doing so, I fear that he might bring about that which he fears the most."
Cromwell nods, "He has been so shielded from infirmities that he has no means to combat them should they strike him. It is most unfortunate - but then again, it is equally possible that such an illness might have struck him yet - so who can say whether it has been the right thing to do? At least we can escort him out into the sunshine for a time. He shall be pleased to do so, I think."
"I should have preferred it if we could have been less heavily escorted." Hertford adds, "Such a large number of guards can serve only to show people that the prince is riding abroad. I should have preferred it had he been granted at least a pretence of anonymity."
Cromwell nods, "I shall speak to the Captain," he advises, "Thus they shall follow at a discreet distance and behave as though they are engaging in some form of riding practice."
The days when I was incapable of riding well have long gone, thanks to Cromwell's patient tuition, and thus the Prince rides out with his uncle at his side, and the two highest Courtiers in the land to his rear. My new horse - Urban - is considerably more mettlesome than Adrian was; perhaps a reflection of my increased prowess in the saddle. Cromwell has also procured a new beast, Clement having been retired to pasture in the large parkland around Austin Friars, and he has continued, as I have, our rather silly practice of naming our horses after Popes. This new animal being called Benedict.
Edward knows our calling, and thus shows no surprise at the twin swords fixed to Cromwell's saddle, though he has never seen the Damask blade, and is quite startled to see it across my back. To keep all even more secure, Cromwell has also added his wheellock pistols; but I doubt that we shall need them. With a large squadron of cavalry to our rear, apparently practising pacing and formations, there is nothing that I can think of that might come at us with anything approaching success.
As we move out over the parkland at a brisk trot, the brightening of the Prince's expression is quite heartwarming. He is but a child, yet is required to think and act like a Man - and a Royal man, too - but now, with us, he can be a boy again, riding with his Uncle, and two friends. As we go, a pheasant cackles in a nearby stand of trees, and a hare flees away across the grassland.
"If only I had brought a bow!" Edward cries, gaily, as he watches the wild animals fleeing in all directions at our approach. I know that Cromwell used to enjoy falconry when he had the time to indulge, but not being given to bringing innocent creatures out of the sky, or off the ground, however, I am glad that the prince has not brought weapons to hunt with - though I note that there is something bulging in Cromwell's saddlebag, so perhaps he has planned for us to remain out for longer than anticipated.
Sure enough, as the day grows warmer and the sun reaches its zenith, we halt in a wooded copse, our escort close enough to come to our aid but far enough away not to intrude, and seat ourselves on the ground in a rather ungainly manner. Reaching into the saddlebag, Cromwell produces a large venison pasty wrapped in a cloth - more than enough for us to share - and a bottle that contains weak ale alongside a stack of wooden cups. I suspect that, had the Prince not been present, it should have been claret - but he is, after all, a child.
Having never been given the opportunity to indulge in such a pastime as this - sharing a meal in the field - Edward is delighted, "Tell me of your exploits, my Lord Cromwell," He asks, happily, "For Mother has told me only what she feels I should know."
There are many at Court who believe that Cromwell has no heart, or no soul - possibly both - so Hertford is quite astonished at the open, friendly manner of the Lord Chancellor with the youth. For this short time, he is just Thomas Cromwell, and the boy is just Edward Tudor - and he regales the child with the story of his early days as a Silver Sword under the care of Thomas Wolsey. I have no doubt that many of his adventures in those days were harsh, and violent - but he takes great pains to offer tales of high adventure, and not a few comical mishaps, that Edward finds deeply amusing. I imagine it is quite an education for the elder Seymour to see someone he nearly drove to the block prove himself to be entirely unlike the man he is considered to be.
Then I am obliged to retrieve my sword, for Edward has never seen it. He knows why I have it, but his expression of wonder as he examines the intricate pattern of the blade is quite heartwarming, for it is the fascination of a child, not a Prince. God help us - we must keep this child secure, and keep him from being turned into something dreadful by those who would try to rule through him. He could be a greater King than his father - or he could be a nightmarish despot. Much revolves around how his future is overseen. Despite myself, I find myself again making a firm commitment in my own mind that I shall give my all to ensure that we give this boy the chance to be a boy as much as a prince. We cannot risk him coming to the Crown unprepared - but if we push him too hard…
"Come, Nephew." Hertford says, after a while, "We must away - your father shall be concerned if we stay out too long."
Edward does not complain, though it is impossible to miss his expression as his face falls somewhat. At least, however, he has spent some of this day away from the cares of his position.
As we ride back, Cromwell allows Benedict to slow a little, causing Hertford and the Prince to travel a few paces ahead, "I think we should do what we can to persuade his Majesty to allow more excursions such as this. The Prince's cheeks are rosy, and his countenance is happier than I have seen it in many days. While we must educate him in statecraft, it would be sheer madness not to intersperse such lessons with leisure."
I nod in agreement; while it might have been intended as a brief holiday for his Highness, I cannot deny that it has also been an enjoyable excursion for me.
As is usual, our move to Hampton Court has granted us a grace period from the presence of creatures that might see the residents as prey. Even though we have not encountered any other creatures since the ravener that Cromwell dispatched when we introduced Cecil to his new calling, we still undertake periodic searches of the palace. Even if it were not necessary, I think we have simply got into the habit, and I certainly could not imagine ending my day without a sortie into the passageways.
Returning from another search that has proved to be nothing more than a gentle stroll, Cromwell pours out two glasses of hippocras that James has prepared for him, and we seat ourselves before a small fire in deference to the summer warmth. Cromwell is, to my surprise, looking remarkably pensive, "What is it, Thomas?"
He looks up at me, startled, then sighs, "Forgive me, Richard, I am becoming concerned that the factions surrounding us are growing more and more overt. Despite all efforts to pretend that his Majesty shall live many more years yet, no one is truly fooled by such sentiments. While we have plans of our own, and are working with the Queen to ensure they come to fruition, others at the table are equally determined to lay plans of their own; plans that do not include you or I. Or Hertford, for that matter. My greatest fear is that the Queen shall find herself set aside - for there are some in the Council of such stature that her Gentry birth stands against her; crowned or not."
"Surely the only one who might try would be Norfolk?" I ask, "He is too old now to even consider such a move. Besides, he has earned the King's ire before now and thus is more circumspect."
"No, not the elder Howard," Cromwell shakes his head, "The younger."
"Surrey?" I stare at him, "Is he sufficiently capable of such a move? As far as I can see, his primary talents appear to be poetry, carousing and brawling."
Cromwell snorts with amusement, "I wish it were so, Richie. Truly I do - but those talents you refer to are matched evenly with a towering ambition. Surrey is of royal stock, and wears that ancestry with great pride. In some ways, his royal credentials are greater than that of his Majesty; and he knows it. His father might well be chastened by his activities to promote Anne Boleyn - and all that followed - but Surrey does not have his father's sense or wisdom. The King's infirmity might well prove to be the opportunity that the younger Howard shall grasp to obtain power for himself and his family."
"He would not dare - would he?" The thought horrifies me.
"Oh, I think he would."
As I look at Cromwell, I know that he is right. Howard the younger makes no secret of his disdain for 'new' men such as Cromwell and I; nor does he hide his equal dislike of the Seymours. They, like me, are of Gentry stock, while Cromwell is truly base-born. Talent means nothing to those who see the government of the Kingdom to belong solely to the nobility, regardless of whether or not they are fit to do so. And yet, that same noble blood demands that he form a part of the Regency council. While his father might be willing to set his disdain for us aside, he most certainly could not.
"You intend to keep him under observation, do you not?"
He nods, "I do. While it is my great hope that we can persuade the Howards that they are a vital presence upon a proper Regency Council that shall support her Majesty as she teaches his Highness to rule; I am not convinced that such a partnership shall be possible."
"But we shall try, shall we not?"
"We most certainly shall. There is a wellspring of talent in Henry Howard; if we can harness that, and persuade him to see past his wish to rule, then his Highness shall be well served. He might see me as an upstart determined to steal power for myself; but I have a greater purpose than something so pointless and fleeting. I have seen too many people seduced and ruined by the pursuit of power - and those who wished to take that which they believed I held came within an ace of sending me to my death. I am not one to ignore lessons - no matter where they come from."
I am about to agree, but instead I yawn widely. Today has been a long day - even without a hunt at the end of it.
Once again, we are all sitting uncomfortably in a cramped chamber, trying as best we can to ignore the putrid stench of the King's diseased legs. Cromwell is reporting progress on the network of roads; ungoverned tracks gradually being replaced by paved routes that can be travelled in safety. Some are complete now - especially the long road to York. His Majesty is clearly pleased by this news, "If that is so, then we shall make use of it to visit our subjects in the North. See to it."
If he is fazed by this sudden order, Cromwell does not show it, "Yes, Majesty." His report complete, he seats himself and makes a quick note on a scrap of paper to remind himself to set matters in motion as soon as he returns to his desk. His Majesty is radiantly unaware of the sheer degree of work that goes into organising a progress - and shall assume all is done before the day is at its end. Assuming, of course, that he has not forgotten he made the order in the first place.
As we move on to other matters, I find myself looking around at the various men seated at the table. Suffolk is, as always, quiet but attentive - ready to speak when required, but otherwise silent. Northumberland is watching, too; though in his case, he is more likely to force his way into discussions whether his words are wise or not. That is a man with ambition almost as great as the Howards, I think. They are here as well - father and son - and they have another relative recently arrived at court, too; a young prattling cousin of the Earl by the name of Catherine, who has joined the Queen's ladies. God above, they look at us with barely concealed disdain; though the elder conceals it rather better than the younger. It could not be more obvious that they would remove those of us who are not noble from the room at the first opportunity if they could. Unfortunately for them, however, they cannot. Fickle though the King's favour can be, when it is held, it is unassailable; and Cromwell holds it - and holds it well.
As the meeting ends, the King is hefted back into his enormous carrying chair, and transported back to his private chambers, while those of us who have sat with him gather our papers in relief at our freedom from that awful reek of his ulcers. Cromwell stops beside me briefly, "We shall need to discuss the King's desire to go on Progress, my Lord. If you can join me in my office, we shall begin making preparations."
I nod, before joining Mr Wriothesley briefly to exchange a few notes. Now that we are Hampton Court, I have no office of my own, so once again I am seated at a desk in the office chambers, overseeing the work of the clerks. I know that Wriothesley resents my presence in the midst of his personal fiefdom - but he cannot complain, so instead he makes the best of it and speaks to me with stiff deference. I ought not to care - but still there is that ever-present sense of discomfort that he inspires in me. I wish I could work out why.
It is as I am making my way from the main offices to join Cromwell that I find myself face to face with Surrey in a quiet corridor. As he outranks me, I immediately offer him a courteous bow, but it seems that he has other plans in mind, and glares at me in a most disquieting fashion.
"My Lord?" I decide to remain innocent, even though I am well aware why he looks at me so, "Have I offended you in some way?"
At first he does not answer, but instead reaches out to grasp a handful of my simarre, and pushes me back against the wall, "Do not think that I am unaware of your plotting, Rich." He hisses, "You and that black raven Cromwell. Do you plan to rule the nation once the Lion is sleeping?"
I shake my head, for my answer is nothing but truth, "Indeed no, my Lord - our concern is only the peace and safety of the Realm. It is not for men such as I to lead England - we are neither born to it nor made for it."
"The rule of this Kingdom is by right of blood, Rich. Mark that - mark it well."
"Then do you intend to rule the nation when the Lion is sleeping?" I ask, my own voice low, my eyes narrowed upon him. He seems surprised at my words - perhaps he thinks me too craven to ask such an incisive question.
He snarls, and draws his poniard, setting its point at my throat, "To speak so is treason, my Lord." He murmurs.
"Yet not when you speak so? Does the presence of the Royal standard in your Arms grant you immunity?"
He glares at me, clearly irked at my failure to be intimidated by his threatening behaviour. But then, he has no idea that I have faced far worse threats than he. My expression set, I reach up and grasp his right wrist with a tighter grip than he expects, and force his hand back down, "I am no threat to this realm, your Grace. I serve the Crown, and shall do so until my dying day. Your plans are your own, and mine are my own. My care is only for the safety and welfare of England - nothing more."
His eyes angry, he steps back, and he glares at me, "I am watching you, Rich. You and Cromwell. When the time comes, I shall be the one to whom the Prince turns for guidance - my blood demands it."
I watch him as he walks away. God, if only I could amend that proposed law to enact the succession - but I cannot. No one would countenance the exclusion of Surrey from the King's Council - despite the danger he poses to the safety of England's future. The world is changing, but Surrey is not. Was the death of Warwick at the hands of Edward York no lesson that a Peer does not stand above a King? It seems not to be so for Surrey.
Straightening my ruffled garments as the Earl stalks away, I make my way through to Cromwell's office. Naturally, he is not pleased to discover that I have been assaulted; but he knows, as I do, that Henry Howard is largely untouchable in such matters.
"That is not good news at all, Richie," He sighs, sitting down again and looking rather tired, "it could not be clearer that he has no intention of working with us to secure the succession. Perhaps his Grace Suffolk might have more success in persuading him that it is better to work together than at cross purposes."
A noble hope, yes; but I cannot help but feel that it is a vain one.