Sir Francis Bryan hated waste. He hated courtiers who left half-finished glasses of wine strewn about. He hated the Church that would drape a cold statue of the Madonna in a priceless silk tunic, while beggars held their grubby palms out for alms in that same parish. And, he hated that the pinch-mouthed fox, Cromwell, married a woman like Elizabeth Seymour. Lissie was, well, she was a bit of a goer. Full, pink lips that she licked on purpose if she caught you looking at them. Giant blue eyes with heavy, seductive lashes. And, the most extraordinary color of hair he'd seen on a woman; he could not decide where the red ended and the honey color began. So, when he thought of Cromwell--always so impeccably groomed, impeccably polite—Cromwell with his hands in Lissie's blazing amber hair, Francis wanted break the Lord Privy Seal's nose. Like that scheming ferret would even know what to do with a woman like Lissie. Awful waste, Francis thought. Awful waste, those downy soft curves under the hands of a fucking clerk.

Now, as Cromwell strode towards him, freshly shaved and every button fastened, Francis concentrated on suppressing his rage. Indeed, Cromwell did not look like a man who had made merry last night, or a man that had made a woman moan under him. In fact, Cromwell appeared as he always did: fastidiously cleaned and dressed. Francis wondered if he did Cromwell too little credit; it was entirely possible that under his rich robes and tight collar, Thomas Cromwell was covered in the wounds of passion. Or, at least defensive wounds. But, Francis wagered it highly unlikely.

"Ah, Sir Francis. I have good news. The king has agreed to your appointment as a gentleman of the Privy Chamber," Cromwell smiled his sleek courtier's smile. The smile he gave everyone, whether you just got married, or he informed you that he was going to have to shut you away in the Tower for a spell.

"Well, I am sure I know who I have to thank for that," Sir Francis replied. Lately, it seemed no one got any post—scullery maid or Master of the Horse—without Cromwell's fingers in the pie somehow.

"I may have a job for you," Cromwell went on pleasantly. He put his hand on Francis's shoulder and guided him to a less crowded space in the great hall. "I need you to take this to the Lady Mary. See that she signs it." Cromwell pressed the innocuous scroll into Francis's hand. "The latest Act of Succession."

"Of course. Anything else?"

Cromwell leaned in. "Make sure that she fears me more than her God."

Francis watched his dark robes disappear into the crowd that enveloped him, everyone wanting something from him. Tucking his assignment into his doublet, Francis turned to leave. As he passed by Edward, standing in contemptuous silence with his wife, Anne Stanhope smiled seductively. Francis looked from Edward to Anne. Another fucking waste.

**

She sits with Jane Boleyn. One by one, Master Cromwell makes his way through Queen Anne's ladies. Every once in a while, a sob from inside the room punctuates the silence that Elizabeth and Jane wait in. Jane's eyes, narrow as fish gills, stare straight ahead. It's so dark; Elizabeth wonders what Jane can possibly be looking for in such thick nothingness. No servants have passed by to light the candles as they burn down. In the dwindling flickers of their flame, Elizabeth can hear a shout, a thud, and then Madge's pitiful sobbing.

"This is the queen's doing," Jane Boleyn says into the nothingness. "She has summoned a witch upon her brother, upon his majesty."

Elizabeth fidgets on the bench. She holds out her ivory brocade slipped feet in front of her. As the wick of the candle surrenders to the dark, she can just make out the pal e of her shoes against the blackness. She thinks, the dark is so heavy, so muggy, no wonder I was afraid of it as a child. The last of the candles die, and she and Jane Boleyn can do nothing except inhale the darkness. Behind the heavy oak door, Cromwell and Rich shout at Madge, and she squeals like a sow

**

Elizabeth gasped awake from her dream. All she could remember was choking on the night, thick as fog coming off the Thames. Trembling, she brought her hand to her forehead, and then to her throat. Her pulse thumped so hard and fast, she worried it might rip her neck apart, but she was still alive. In the dream, she was certain of her death. As she smoothed her hair back, damp with sweat, she held her breath in order to level it out again.

Elizabeth sat up in the big bed, and reoriented herself. Cromwell was long gone, his clean soap smell the only evidence he'd been with her at all. A bloodied pillow lay carelessly next to the bed. Oh, that, Elizabeth thought. She ached deep inside, while at the same time, her delicate inner thighs smarted. She pulled the sheets up and peered between her legs cautiously. Mortified, she saw a small pool of bright fresh blood pooled between her legs and seeping through her linen shift. Elizabeth almost choked on her own disgust with herself. Why was she still bleeding? Was that normal? Was a bloodstained nightgown and pillow the last thing Cromwell saw before taking his leave of her this morning? Elizabeth wondered if it was possible to die of shame and embarrassment. Blindly, she fumbled around for something to wrap around her shoulders, so she could exit the bed with a last shred of dignity. She yanked a fur pelt around her torso.

Everything hurt. Was this normal? She wondered again. Deep within her abdomen, a dull pain like that of a bruise persisted. Her innermost, tender flesh stung like one rug burn on top of another. Clutching the fur around her, Elizabeth limped to the large embrasure. Curling around herself, her memory of the night before came to her in reluctant bits and pieces: the slap of his thighs against hers, the drip-drop of his sweat on to her body, and worst of all, his moist breath in her ear as he claimed he did this to her because he loved her.

Cromwell had her three times last night. The third time, right before the dawn overtook the dark, she was almost asleep. For half the night, Cromwell had slept soundly on top of her long hair, so that any movement he made sent a sharp shock to her scalp. Just as exhaustion was about to win over the discomfort and allow her to sleep, he turned her flat on her back. His hands parted her knees. "Lissie, I know you're awake," he told her. "Open those pretty eyes and be sweet to your husband."

Afterwards, she did not bother to wash again. She simply tucked her shift between her legs and hugged a pillow to her. Her muscles did not relax until she heard him get up from the bed and wash himself. When she heard him shut the door behind him, her body gave out, and she slept like a newborn.

Now, as she wrapped herself into the furs, she rested her forehead against the cool pane of glass. She pushed the window open and inhaled deeply the notes of honeysuckle already in the cool morning air. Elizabeth scrunched her eyes shut, so that she would not have to see the maids as they came in to strip the soiled bed sheets. Without opening her eyes, she said, "I need my bath. Someone fetch the tub. I don't care if the water is cold, I just need my bath."

**

Robert Aske burrowed his chin into his furs. He shivered like a wet dog. Perhaps because June had been unseasonably cool in the North. Perhaps because the world had proved to be a colder place than he would have thought. Shivering again, he watched the smoke rise high above Sawley Abbey. The beautiful building, exalting learning and God's love, was being sacked by Cromwell's greed. A lump rose in Aske's throat as he heard the wild cries of young men running through the sacred house, stripping everything beautiful they could find.

He turned to find John Constable clambering towards him, making his way over the boulders to where he and Aske often met. "Mr. Aske," John said quietly. In silence, the two men watched the smoke billow higher over the rolling green hills.

"Look. Look what they've done John. Just look." Aske could not tear his eyes away from the defilement unfolding before them.

"It's all Cromwell's doing!" John spat: he lacked Aske's education and worldliness. "Cromwell and that sect of heretics in London. The bastards!" His voice began quaver. Eyes bright with tears, John turned to Aske, saying angrily: "I tell you this, Mr. Aske: the people. They're no longer willing to stand by and watch their faith and everything that they care for being stripped away. I heard just yesterday that two of Cromwell's commissioners were attacked. In Lincolnshire. And in Yorkshire. One of the commons stood up in his own church and said go away and follow the crosses, for when they are taken from us, we can follow them no more."

Aske, overwhelmed, said, "What am I supposed to do, John?"

John became stoic with purpose. "The Commons, here. In Lincolnshire. They are prepared to fight, to save what they love. But, they need captains. They need learned men. Clever, educated men to lead them."

"John, I'm no leader," Aske said shaking his head. John pounded his fist into his palm.

"Damn it, Aske! What are you waiting for? Haven't you heard the latest foul gossip from London? That Lutheran devil, Cromwell, has taken the queen's sister as his bride! How much time do you think we can afford to waste when Cromwell takes a royal bride to wed and to bed? You honestly think the Seymours will stand our friends if they sold that sweet girl to a messenger of Satan. They will do whatever they have to save their own skins. We true Catholics are on our own."

Aske tore his eyes from destruction of Sawley Abbey. He met John's panic stricken gaze. "The queen's sister? Lissie Seymour?" Aske demanded. He remembered little Lissie when she was just the child-bride of an ancient Northern earl. Bored out of her wits in cold, primitive Yorkshire, she would race down to greet him when he came to help her husband transact legal business. Have you brought me any more books, Mr. Aske? Will you look over my Latin and French translations? She would trot after him like an eager puppy. As a teenager, Lissie was pretty as a doll. As a mature woman, he could only imagine the beauty she'd grown into.

"It's not enough that Cromwell has to rape the Madonna, must he also defile good English girls, like her?" Aske said after a while. "But, John, this is just wild speculation. His Majesty, God save the king, would never allow that heretic to marry so close to the throne that he could take it." Aske tried to reassure himself. John shook his head, as if to say, You honestly think that a king, who drove two wives to an early grave, is capable of such rational calculation?

"Like I said," John reiterated, "they need good men to lead them. You don't have to decide now. We'll call a meeting. Then decide."

Both men fell silent, watching helplessly as one of the jewels of Northern England was pillaged for Cromwell's greed. As John looked on at the destruction, quietly, to himself, he whispered, "For the love of God."

**

After Elizabeth took a cold bath, she pulled on a clean muslin shift and returned to her perch on the window embrasure. Alice had tried to help her dress, but Elizabeth only slapped her hands away. "If you want to make yourself useful, then go find my brothers. Tell them I am unwell and will speak with them tomorrow. I don't want to see anyone today. Anyone. Understand?" she growled at Alice.

"At least eat a little something," Alice tried to soothe her mistress, although in truth she had no idea why her lady should be so cross. "Some mulled wine?" Alice offered eagerly.

"Just some mulled wine and some bread. My guts can't handle much else beyond that." She stared out the window pane. Through the mottled glass, she could just make out Cromwell's dark hair and dark robes as he walked next to broader figure of the king. She pushed the window open a little further, and could hear Henry's laughter. She would know it anywhere: the way he chuckled deeply at first, but became more nasally as his amusement continued. Every courtier worth their salt could pick the king's laughter out from the whole of London. She'd never heard Cromwell laugh, though.

Once the bed had been stripped and remade with clean sheets and furs, Elizabeth left the window and pulled the sheets tight around her, as she brought her knees up to her chin. She wiped away a few errant tears with the sleeve of her shift. Like a child, she longed for the comfort of her older sister, or at least a trusted friend like Ursula. After all, Elizabeth had sat up with Jane after the queen's wedding night. She brushed her sister's hair and fed her honey cakes: the comfort of women to one another. Not that Jane had a bad go of it the first time Henry had her. It was just that Jane was so painfully modest and devout, that the conjugal rights had left her bewildered. Lucky for Jane, after the last queen, Henry loved a shy, unsure wife.

Elizabeth pulled the sheets over her head and breathed in deeply the smell of lavender and sage. More than anything, she wanted to rest her head in Ursula's lap and tell her everything. Especially all the awful, dirty, embarrassing things Cromwell would whisper in her ear as he neared climax. Did all men say those sorts of things? Did all men try to kiss the tuft of fur between a woman's legs? Mostly, she wanted to ask Ursula how in the world she was supposed to learn to enjoy Cromwell sweating on top of her, pounding into her.

She thought about what Ursula told her: the best a woman can hope for is man who does not want it to hurt. She clutched her rosary so hard that it cut in the thin skin of her palm. Cromwell tried to be gentle. But he waxed and waned like the moon. When it suited him to be tender, then he was mild as a lamb. With a shudder, she remembered that terrifying night, as he hurled vile accusations about Queen Anne and threw Elizabeth around like a rag-doll. Those bruises took weeks to heal fully. Her face was still a little yellowed and tender even when at Jane's wedding. She feared for the night when it no longer suited him to be tender. At the small crack of thunder, Elizabeth peered out from the sheets. Edward had been right; the storm would break over their heads today.

**

Cromwell sat at his desk, pushing around papers, but accomplishing nothing. He had just been walking with the king in the gardens before the rain drove them back to the palace, cutting short their walk. He desperately needed to find out how much Henry really knew about what was going on up North. Henry, being Henry, said nothing about politics. Instead, he wanted to walk with his minister and laugh at his own bawdy jokes: Oh, Thomas—look at you! Nary a hair out of place—wager we cannot say the same for little Lissie, eh? In fairness to the king, just when Cromwell was about to fully write him off as a lusty, witless prince, Henry would make a quick, brilliant decision—and then go about flirting with the ladies and playing at bowls. The trouble with Henry was that he could be angry with you for half a year, and you would not know until he sent the Tower Guard to arrest you. Henry could parcel out his rage over time, saving it for when he needed to make an example of someone, anyone.

Did the king know how quickly things had fallen apart (literally overnight) in the North? Judging from the way Edward and Tom Seymour smirked at the Privy Council, both of those tow-headed schemers knew. But, they just smiled between themselves, saying nothing. Cromwell suspected their discretion had nothing to do with protecting their new brother-in-law, and more to do with the fact that they just wanted to hear the news--hear Cromwell have to tell the king publicly-- that his first minister, his favorite minister, had made a mistake of massive proportions. His quill hovered over the parchment as tried to put words the dawning disaster, such that Henry would act swiftly, but not in such a way that would send Cromwell to the block.

He'd only made one stroke of a letter when he was interrupted by the clatter of two men running full-speed into his offices. Such was the urgency, they ran straight to him, rather than request permission to speak with him from one of his secretaries.

"My lord! My lord! We have come here in great haste to tell you that a great part of the North, as well as parts of Lincolnshire, have risen in sudden rebellion against His Majesty!" the bearded man exclaimed, out of breath. Cromwell breathed deeply: small chance now of keeping things quiet when the man had just shouted the news so that all of Whitehall could hear. He closed his eyes, parsing through the information. He turned and gestured that the commissioners should follow him to a place where they could speak in more privacy.

"There are musters of the commons everywhere, and beacons of rebellion everywhere burning across the hills. Just weeks ago, when we were collecting taxes in Hexham, we were set upon by an angry mob. Pulled the man, Nicholas Bellow down from his horse and beat him to death," the older man reported.

"Among the mob, my lord, we saw armed priests, urging on these rebellious knaves with cries of 'Kill them! 'Kill them!'" the other man chimed in.

Cromwell stood, perfectly composed without even blinking. "And what do these rebels say that they want?" He already knew.

"So far as I can tell, they want to keep their holidays," the older man answered. Oh, right, the damn holidays. Cromwell ground his teeth: the feast days, yet again. "They want the monasteries restored, their churches unmolested, no more taxes," his commissioner continued. As he caught his breath, the other commissioner went on.

"I have heard it said that if they prospered with their journey, they intended to kill you, Lord Cromwell, 4 or 5 bishops, and Chancellor Rich…"--at that Rich blanched—"… as devisers of taking down churches and church goods."

"But, but why do the local gentry not intervene and suppress these traitorous assemblies?" Rich asked. Inwardly, Crowell rolled his eyes. Why do you think, blockhead? Because there are tens of thousands of rebels and just a few dozen lords.

"Surely they want to protect their lands and their holdings?" Rich continued on being stupidly obvious, much to Cromwell's irritation. A man with less self-control would shout at Rich like he was an inept schoolboy: because the gentry either tacitly support the uprising, or are openly encouraging the revolt.

"They try, but the rebels come back in greater numbers." The commissioners turned desperately to Cromwell. "Some say not hundreds, but thousands have risen in rebellion."

Cromwell stood with glacial like stillness. The three men all stared at him as if he could just snap his fingers and set everything to rights. He turned around and left all three of them, still waiting for Thomas Cromwell to come up with a brilliant plan off the top of his head. Out of habit, he grabbed his leather dossier and clutched it to him. As if that would shield him from the king's rage. Long ago, Wolsey once told him that if he hoped to rise in the king's service, then he had better get used to being a sop for Henry's anger. "You're going to have to steel yourself, my dear Cromwell," Wolsey had told him. "Fix your feet and your courage to the sticking place. Because, when the king's rage breaks over your head, there's nothing quite like it."

"Where are you going?" Rich called after him.

**

Henry's bright blue-green eyes flashed with anger. "Why didn't you know?" he demanded. Henry stalked towards Cromwell menacingly, Cromwell furrowed his dark brows and stared blankly ahead. He did not budge an inch. Henry threw up his hands. "You're supposed to know everything that goes on here!" Frustrated at Cromwell's lack of responsiveness, Henry paced around him like a lion about to go in for the kill. "You told me there was little opposition. Quite the contrary. You told me that most people were glad to see such places dissolved." Henry leaned in close to his impassive minister and hissed: "You were wrong." He started to walk away, but turned around. "You didn't know anything!" Henry yelled and slapped Cromwell so hard across the back of the head that the crack reverberated through the chamber. "Knave!" he spat. "Sit down, write this."

Cromwell sat down while Henry paced, smoothing back his hair to collect himself. The actual substance of what the king was saying passed in one ear and out the other. Cromwell went into dictation mode, thinking only about getting the words onto the vellum, and not the meaning of them. He bit hard into his cheeks to keep his teeth from chattering with shock. A lesser man would have cried out at the force of Henry's blow. But, between his violent father, and the Italian wars, Cromwell had already served a brutal apprenticeship in how to take a blow. As he wrote, he prayed too. Prayed that Henry would not turn against him. Prayed that he would survive this day long enough to crawl between the sheets of his bed and hold Elizabeth in his arms.

After what seemed an eternity, Henry dismissed him. Back in his own offices, Cromwell drained a glass of unwatered wine to settle his nerves. He could not let his clerks, his commissioners see his fear. Fear was so contagious that even a whiff of Cromwell's uncertainty in Cromwell could drive his men to abandon ship. Drive his men to seek the shelter of that pig, Charles Brandon. As his hands steadied from the wine, Cromwell dipped his quill and began to write. He heard Rich's clumsy feet stomp in, but he did not bother to look up.

"I am writing to the gentry of Yorkshire, reminding them of their duty to suppress these traitors," he explained in order to forestall Rich's questions. "and the penalties of not doing so." Cromwell glanced up, a bit of a gleam in his eye at the thought of kicking his responsibility in the whole mess down the line.

Rich cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Is there any case for…for suspending the work of the Church Commissioners?" At that Cromwell stared at Rich, wide-eyed and stunned that Rich would question him, question the Reformation.

Cromwell's face blackened. "Until the rebels have the kings authority beaten into their heads…" his voice trembled with indignation at Rich questioning his superior's judgment. "This is the only way to show them that the king intends to continue with the reformation of the corruption of religion—whatever they say, whatever they do," Cromwell snarled. An uncomfortable silence settled between them, only to be interrupted by another commissioner running for Cromwell. Sensing the tension in the room, the man was not sure if he ought to speak, so he loudly cleared his throat.

"Yes!?" Cromwell said, exasperated. He took in the commissioner's wide eyes and shallow frightened breathing. Nothing else to do but ask this greasy man what more had gone wrong in the last hour.

**

As Elizabeth slept and awoke during the day, a Bible sized stack of notes had accumulated at her bedside. Sitting up, she started at the bottom of the stack and read through each of the notes chronologically. The first dozen were from Edward, demanding to know why she was not up and attending on her sister the queen. Edward did not give himself short shrift either: another ten notes demanded an answer as to why she rebuffed his requests for a visit. Why would she not let Tom see her? Didn't she have the slightest clue what was going on? Her husband had truly unmade himself today, wasn't that pleasing? Now, could she please do her duty by her family and see them.

At least Jane took a less heavy handed approach: Oh, Lissie. I am so worried, but I dare not put it to words. Oh, Lissie, I need to see you. Oh, Lissie, you are the only one I can talk to. Oh, by the way, your maids said you are sick to your guts. So, I've sent a tisane with basil, mint, and rosemary leaves. Elizabeth was about to toss all the papers into the fire without responding to them when one fell out of the middle of the stack. Immediately, Elizabeth recognized Cromwell's straight, flawless lettering. She broke the seal and read the contents.

Lissie,

The situation is precarious, and I fear no matter what I do will end in folly. Search your heart: however I have wronged you, believe me I am the sorrier for it. I need you to stand as my friend, not just my wife. Please, do not forsake me now. Speak to the queen on my behalf, for I have marred everything.

Your steadfast and loving husband,

Thomas

The desperation of the note gave Lissie pause. If Cromwell intended her--still sore and raw from his attentions last night--to run to Jane and plead leniency, then he would have to wait until the morning when Elizabeth hoped to be fully recovered. Not that it was physically impossible for her to dress and make her way to the queen's rooms. Just highly uncomfortable and embarrassing. Deep down, she could not help but resent Cromwell recruiting her to use as human shield for his miscalculation. The thought of his hiding between her Seymour name and her skirts made her taste bile. Nonetheless, she had to wonder how bad things were if Cromwell actually had to come out and ask for help.

She waited up for him, with a cup of mulled wine at the ready for when he returned to their rooms. As midnight came and went, she gave up and went to bed. The shift in the weight of mattress awoke her a few hours later. She sat up a bit.

"I take it the spice wine was left for me," Cromwell said, his naked back to her as he kicked off his boots and unlaced his breeches. "It was cold."

"Sorry. I thought you would come to bed sooner," Elizabeth said sheepishly.

"You did not wait on the queen today?" he asked, but it came out more as a statement.

"I was…," Elizabeth searched for a tactful filler. "I was unwell."

At that, Cromwell laughed bitterly. "And I in much better shape after today?" He yanked the coverlets over his naked body. "I asked you to do one thing, one thing, Lissie. And you could not even stop thinking about yourself long enough to do that. You're more useless than Lord Suffolk."

Elizabeth's ears burned with the reprimand. She said nothing.

"If I am ruined over this, I will be sure to drag you and your family down with me. So, madame, I suggest you avail yourself to the queen tomorrow," Cromwell said into the darkness. He lay on his side, with his pale shoulder blades facing her.

Elizabeth settled back against the pillows. "I meant no malice," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

He turned towards her, his pale eyes standing out in the dark of the room. "You serve me. You are my wife. You are mine. You do not answer to your brothers, or even your sister. You answer to me, only me. Understand?" She nodded minutely her acknowledgement. Satisfied that he'd upbraided her enough, he reached out to smooth her hair away from her eyes. He pulled her to him. "Now, come here and be sweet to your husband."