Robert Aske thought about what a difference a day could make. Reconvened with Lord Darcy and John Constable in Pontefract Castle, he rested his forehead against the fireplace mantel. The sun had set on one day, the day Lord Suffolk had him convinced of the futility of his pilgrimage. Now, the same sun rose on a new day, and a new world. At last the full depth of Cromwell's heresy and depravity was laid bare for all of England to see. But a day too late. Aske had already negotiated in good faith with the Duke of Suffolk that the pilgrims would disperse. Aske lived his life by the word of God and by the trust that people put in his own words. Too late to wheel around, trot after Charles Brandon, tell him: "Why your Grace, on second thought, we reconsider the strength of our position. God has spoken, Lord Cromwell has polluted the throne, and our crusade shall continue southward."

Only a day after Aske shook hands with the Duke of Suffolk himself, a rider came tearing up the road from London with epic news: the queen's sister had miscarried Cromwell's child in spectacular fashion. During pious Bishop Gardiner's mass, a holy celebration of the old ways, good trumped evil; Cromwell's unholy union with the Seymours ended in a bloody mess on a chapel floor. The messenger offered up his own explanations, gleaned from tavern maids and farmers he met along the road from London: the Lord Privy Seal's sweet, virtuous, golden wife must have been forced to commit unnatural acts with her heretical husband. Or, Elizabeth Seymour's body, recognizing the sin dwelling within, forced out Cromwell's low-born seed with the force of Mary, Our Blessed Mother. But then, the queen's sister could not be wholly blameless, could she? A woman lies down with dogs, she should not complain of the fleas—or, so the messenger whispered to Aske.

John slammed his pewter goblet onto the great oak table. "That bastard. That devil. The serpent and his whore. Robert, how could you have doubted the perversity that goes on in London for a moment?" he yelled at Aske. Heretofore, John had been on non-speaking terms with Aske for the ride back to Pontefract. John vigorously argued that Aske sold them all short, even before the news of Elizabeth Seymour's happy accident crossed the River Don.

"Ah, Johnny, you are speaking to me again," Aske managed pleasantly enough. John drained his wine and gestured wildly with the empty goblet.

"Damn it, Robert! Is it not plain enough to you? We have no obligation to keep our pledge, keep our fidelity to Suffolk. Not after the righteousness of our cause--and the wickedness of the mission of that sect of heretics--has been written in blood!" John raged. Wielding the goblet in one hand, and pointing at Aske with the other, he shouted: " And don't you start with me, don't start with me about Elizabeth Seymour. You think she is the same, cute little kitten that asked you to look over her Latin. She is no child anymore! She is a grown woman and apparently a trained whore at that! The queen's sister has spread herself wide open, taking in Cromwell's heresy and his prick!"

"Stop it Johnny!" Aske said forcefully, but quietly. "Stop your foul lies! Makes you no better than Cromwell or Cranmer. You rage against the injustice done to religious houses all you want, but you leave Lissie Seymour out of this. She is one of the queen's body. You impugn her, you may as well impeach the queen." Aske rubbed at the emblem of their uprising—the five wounds of Christ—sewn over his heart.

"I tell you all in open day: fuck Cromwell's harlot and fuck the queen!" John shouted loud enough for the South to hear. All of the men gasped at such blatant sedition—all except Lord Darcy who had seen too much to by shocked by anything less than the Second Coming . "Those bloody Seymours have done nothing except twiddle their thumbs while we fight for our lives. Just one whore of a queen replacing another!"

Aske crossed the room in a single stride, despite his short stature. He grabbed John by the neck. "We are loyal subjects! We do not slander! We do not abuse the king's consort with foul language. We preserve their Majesties—and their kinswomen."

John shook himself loose of Aske's grasp. Not very difficult considering Robert Aske was a man of logic and words, not fists and blood. John stood up, almost brushing noses with Aske as he did so. He flung the stool that he'd been sitting on out of the way. Stomping out of Darcy's main hall, John called over his shoulder: "They are serpents, one and all, that sect in London. And by God will they offer you the fruit of all of our undoing!"

Darcy sighed, and reached over to pull the stool right side up. He gestured that Aske should sit there. The lord poured Aske a mug of ale, which the tired lawyer accepted gratefully. Darcy sank into his large chair and nestled his beard against the fur trimmings of his robes.

"Don't listen to that kind of piss and vinegar," he told Aske. "You have made a promise with our Lord Suffolk. By keeping that promise, you strengthen our cause, not weaken it. After all, what is a man, but his promise?"

**

Thomas Cromwell never made a promise he did not intend to keep. Even when he went back on his word, flip-flopped like an acrobat, or did the very opposite of what he'd solemnly swore he would not do, he still thought of himself as an honest man. For he only reneged on agreements, on oaths, that he had no intention of ever really maintaining. Borrow money from him, and Cromwell would never try to manipulate the interest, no matter what the exchange rates did. But solicit a political favor from him, some sort of assurance from the omniscient Cromwell that all would go according to plan? Well then, one had best be a gambling man in that circumstance.

Safely nested in their marriage bed of cotton sheets and goose down pillows, Elizabeth held him tight. "Promise me, promise me you will be back," she whispered against his chest.

"Lissie, I told you, I will be back to check up on you, every hour upon the hour." He gingerly removed her arms that encircled him. Only a week ago, he had fantasized that she would cleave to him with as great a force as he needed her. Cromwell had never imagined that the reality would come at so high a price. He propped another pillow behind her head.

"Thomas, please do not leave me alone. What if they come for me again?" Elizabeth begged. His heart stung at the sight of her fragility. If it came to pass that Gardiner's assault had robbed her of her spirit, then by God, Cromwell swore, he would impale the bishop on a dull shard of glass.

He leaned his forehead against hers. "You are safe here, little dove. I promise you. But, I have to go set things to right. I'll send your maids in to sit with you, so you won't be alone."

She hesitated. "Swear you will come back?"

He clasped both her hands in his. "I swear it." She wove her small hands around his thumbs and gave them one last squeeze before reluctantly letting go.

After he dressed himself and patiently sat through a proper shave from his barber, Cromwell went to rally his troops. He found Elizabeth's four maids—Alice, Joan, Cate, and Helen—waiting for him in his receiving chamber. Those four were no less his foot soldiers because they wore dresses. As the eldest one at eighteen—and full of entitlement--Alice had bossed her way into being somewhat in charge. Cromwell's attention to organization appreciated that Alice had the other three girls aligned next to her in descending order of age. And, in Alice's world, descending order of importance.

"There is to be no discussion, no questions of what happened to your lady over the past two days," he told them. They nodded sycophantically with their hands clasped demurely behind them. He wondered if their fingers were crossed. "Suffice it to say, the visual depictions contained in the pamphlets being distributed around the city are not to be believed."

In unison, the girls stared down at the hems of their gowns, blushing furiously. He knew at once they had all seen the pamphlets—and probably discussed the lewd images at length with each other, with their families, with the boatman that ferried them back and forth from the palace every day. All of London, all of the kingdom was dissecting the tragedy with dark, obsessive fascination. No doubt it was the traitors in the North, like Aske, who had to put a filthy spin on it. Cromwell would have to swallow the insult and smile. Again.

Determined to march his camp out of the bog they now found themselves in, Cromwell pressed forward. "So," he continued. "Keep it light. Play cards, talk filth about Anne Stanhope-- whatever your lady wants. Maybe show her those trinkets I told you to bring. Novelty is good. Novelty is distracting." Before the dawn had broken through night, Cromwell had sent messages to Elizabeth's maids: gather up whatever strange, fascinating articles your fathers have picked up on their travels and bring them with you. The girls patted their pockets to show him they'd remembered.

"Now, go on, all of you," he finished. "Think of this as a day of rest. You all need only sit there. And, God willing, Joan, Cate, and Helen, my wife will have finally learned your names." As they scuttled off in a flurry of silk and taffeta, he wondered which of the maids his Anne or Grace might most resemble had it pleased fate to let them live. Grace used to like to shove her younger sister, Anne, around. So, perhaps somewhere, there was a Grace who looked like a dark-haired Alice.

Once at his desk, the first thing Cromwell did was to flip over the hour glass that always sat there. The same glass that had measured the hours of Anne Boleyn's labors, and the hours in which Henry hovered between life and death after his jousting accident. He rubbed at his temples, rehearsing how to play this out for Henry. For Henry to take action, it needed to be about Henry. Otherwise, he would just rage that his low-born minister was far too high-handed with nobles like Edward Seymour, or esteemed clergymen like Bishop Gardiner. Some part of the mess needed to assault Henry's vanity. But Henry needed to blame Seymour or Gardiner—and not slap Cromwell upside the head.

Rich's heavy steps clomped to his desk. He tossed down one of the pamphlets in front of Cromwell, who did not bother to open his eyes or stop rubbing his temples.

"Rich, I have already seen them. I do not need my memory refreshed."

Rich helped himself to a chair and a cup of ale. "The Latin captions are misspelled, and the conjugations, reflexive pronouns…all to the jakes."

"Well then it must be those Northern buggers."

Rich, unsure if he was allowed to laugh or not, smiled behind his cup. Getting down to business, he asked, "Where is the king? I thought he was half a day's ride behind you."

"Making his way through Sussex. So many pretty girls there, so little time. You know how the story unfolds, Rich." Cromwell kept his eyes shut. He wondered if he could massage out of his brain the crude ink images of his wife, legs split, giving birth to a serpent. Which a priest tried to douse with Holy Water. "It's that God damn printing press."

"Yes. Double edged sword, fickle mistress," Rich agreed.

Cromwell's eyes snapped open. No blue in them today, Rich noted. So, whatever scheme that just came to his master, it was sure to be as dark as his eyes. Usually, Cromwell's black eyes just calculated and maneuvered, seeking paths of least resistance without malice or personal grudge. Sometimes people, ideas just got in the way, that was all. However, something in those eyes today unsettled Rich: a yearning for vengeance, a recklessness borne out of lust for a juicy young wife. A taste for blood.

"All the pity that the king does not give a groat about the queen's sister," Cromwell said softly. Then, barely above a whisper, he added: "But, then it's always another matter when it's your own wife."

Under his gold chains, Rich began to sweat. His master had lost his senses. Rich drained his cup and said nothing. In the cheapest parts of his mind, he half wanted to see how this would all unfold, see if Cromwell could deliver on the political strike that would fall somewhere in between the groin and outright treason. Cromwell stood and walked out from behind his desk. Wherever he was going, Rich did not want to follow.

"Where are you going?" he asked cautiously.

Cromwell straightened the gold chain around his neck. "I'm calling in a favor, or making a threat. Could go either way."

**

Edward spread a map of England out on the table. His fingers traced the earldoms, the dukedoms—although that was getting a little ahead of himself. What about Wiltshire? The earldom had been vacant ever since Thomas Boleyn lost his titles while his children lost their heads. Edward nodded to himself. Wolf Hall was in Wiltshire. Come to think of it, why hadn't the king bestowed the title and lands on him before? He grit his teeth. Probably because of Cromwell. Probably because the blacksmith's son (Elizabeth had narrowed her husband's paternity down to either blacksmith or brewer) had greasy designs on the earldom for himself.

Behind him, checkers clicked against the board as his wife and brother played one another. Tom said something to make Anne laugh; Anne thought that a man's ability to make a woman laugh was a very great thing. So, little brother, he thought. Are you going to plow Anne after Francis Bryan is through? Careful what kind of harvest you reap from her, though. Probably has the pox after Francis has had her. Edward certainly had no desire to touch her and run that risk.

Anne's voice hummed away, sweet and toxic. "I was so sickened by all of it. Bathed twice that night. Threw up, all over me. Like an infant with a touch of colic. I tell you this, Tom: that dress is ruined. Ruined. And, I shall never see a schilling for it. Edward, perhaps you could ask Cromwell when he gets back."

No response.

Anne raised her volume. "Edward? Edward are you listening to me? See, Tom, this is the problem: he never, never listens to me."

Because you have nothing to say, Edward thought. But out loud, he repeated the last thing she'd said: "The dress? Ruined? Ask Cromwell for a schilling?"

Satisfied, Anne returned to her game. "It's only fair. I know she was your sister, but now she's his wife—and she ruined my gown."

Tom stacked a few checkers, one on top of each other. "Oh, Edward, he's back."

Edward whirled around. "Who is back?"

Tom's pert eyes glanced up. "Cromwell. Cromwell is returned from the coast."

"How, how do you know this?" Edward stammered.

Tom clinked the checkers together as though they were dice. "I saw him this morning. Not to worry. He was not angry. He was merry—as merry as he can be. Smiled and told me: 'Good morning, Master Seymour. Your sister is well.'"

Edward steadied himself against the table. "He…was merry?"

"Hmmm…more pleased than merry. You know that look he gets? Satisfied as a house cat. Like he's had just a bite too much at supper, but it was so good, that it was no matter."

"He said Lissie is well? Meaning she is in his care, not in Gardiner's custody?"

"Well," Tom considered. "If he finds her well, then I would assume she is with him. For if she were not, he would probably be writing up his own divorce."

**

Elizabeth regretted every cross word, every impatient huff she'd ever directed at her maids. The girls did not know it, but the steady hum of their chatter was the only thing keeping her sane while she tossed and turned, waiting for Cromwell's hourly visit. Three hours in a row, and thus far he'd kept his promise. But, Elizabeth reminded herself, there were many hours in a day.

She pulled back the bed curtain a bit. The girls probably thought she was still asleep because they'd kicked their heels off and draped their legs sideways over the chairs as they played at cent, but mostly gossiped. Who was getting married. Who should be getting married. Those who got married but turned fat after the fourth baby. The harmless women's talk made her less jumpy, reassuring her with the conversation's own banality. She pulled the sheet off of her and stepped out.

Alice was just pantomiming to the other girls how large one of their old friends had become after multiple babies when Joan stopped laughing long enough to notice Elizabeth standing there in her satin nightgown and bare feet. Alice gave a little gasp, and she dropped her arms to her sides.

"Begging your pardon, my lady. We didn't wake you, did we?" she asked sheepishly. The three younger girls scrambled out of their chairs and thrust their feet into their shoes with as much dignity as possible.

"I could not sleep anyhow. " Elizabeth curled her exposed toes over one another. "Could you send for my bath? I need another one. I cannot get the smell of vinegar off my hair."

Joan pulled out a chair. "You could play a hand or two with us, while we wait for them bring in the tub and warm the water." She added a curtsey at the end for good measure.

"What game are you playing?" Elizabeth asked cautiously. No sense in being coy when those girls had seen her naked as the day she was born. When they had wrapped linen between her legs like a nappy. But for that very reason, Elizabeth could barely look any of them in the eye.

Joan pulled the chair out a little farther, as if she might just bring the chair to Elizabeth and let the older woman be a spectator to the game. "We are playing cent, my lady. No money at stake. You could deal the next hand," she offered again.

"You could play with Joan and me. Cate and Helen can prepare your bath," Alice added, much to the younger girls' chagrin. Cate. Helen. Elizabeth made a mental check of their names. The smallest one stepped forward.

"What about lemon and mint? I mean to get the vinegar smell out. If that does not work, we can try rosemary with lavender. Or rosewater."

Elizabeth merely nodded. She took a seat and shuffled the cards, slapping them against one another, while the smell of lemon ground with mint filled the room. She dealt the cards to Alice and Joan. They played hands, lost and won, all in complete silence. Apart from the sweep of cards across the table, the only sound was the huffing and puffing of Cate and Helen as they moved furniture to make room for the tub in front of the fireplace.

Elizabeth broke the silence first. "Is it true pamphlets are going around the city?"

Alice and Joan buried their faces into their cards, making a study of concentrating very hard on the hand they'd been dealt. Cate picked up the mortar and pestle again, grinding lemon peel and mint leaves together. Only little Helen braved an answer.

"It's true," she said meekly. Then she smiled. "But we will have you on your feet tomorrow, looking as pretty as your wedding day. And everyone will forget the slander. Instead they sigh about how your hair is copper and gold at the same time. How blue your eyes are."

Elizabeth shook her head. She put down her cards. Resting her elbows on the table, she covered her face with her hands. "Oh, God. How can I face them all again? How can I face Bishop Gardiner? My brothers? The king? I cannot. Not when I am the most polluted woman in Christendom."

Alice patted her forearm. Awkwardly, but sincerely. "You are still beautiful, my lady. In spite of everything. You are still beautiful."

Elizabeth rested her hands under her chin. "I know it. I just don't believe it."

Alice's kept her hand on her lady's forearm. "Perhaps we will make a believer out of you by tomorrow. Bathe you. Wash your hair so it sparkles again." Alice thought for a moment. " You do not see your husband running the opposite direction. And my lady, your husband's opinion is no small thing in London." Alice removed her hand and fished around in her pocket. She produced a small medallion, unadorned, uncolored. Just two equal halves of black and white that twisted and folded, on top of one another. Alice handed it to Elizabeth for closer inspection.

"I have never seen anything like this. Is it a pagan symbol of some sort?" Elizabeth held it up close, as if she could unravel the seeming simplicity.

"Before my father married my mother, he traveled east on the silk routes. Far past Constantinople. Past India. All the way to the mountains that are so high they jut into Heaven, and you cannot see their peeks—"

"Alice, I highly doubt a mountain could—" Joan interrupted.

"Joan, is this your story or mine? Exactly as I thought. So, my father brought back all sorts of fantastical objects, but sometimes in the evening, I find him turning this little thing over and over in his hand. He says it is to remind us nothing is black and white. See," Alice pointed out something Elizabeth had missed: at opposite ends of the white and black halves, a small dot of the opposite color looked perfectly at home. Perfectly balanced. "See?" Alice continued. "My father says that there is a little bit of the opposite in each."

"Not so simple, then," Elizabeth concluded. She thought about Cromwell wrapping her up in his robes, holding her close to him, while she tried to slap him for leaving her. For better or worse, the man running to her bedside every hour on the hour--bringing her flowers and sugared plums—was the same man that only months earlier had ruled over her with terror and threats. In a dark room, a dark man had slammed her face down on a desk. Now, his blue eyes sparkled when he kissed her awake and pressed a rosebud into her palm. Elizabeth supposed that she would have to accept both men as one in the same. The thought still troubled her, though.

Alice watched Elizabeth go from contemplative to melancholy. "Your bath is almost ready," she told Elizabeth, hoping to break the slide into sadness, or wherever her lady's thoughts took her. "We can help you out of your….well out of your things."

Elizabeth stood and outstretched her arms, so Joan could pull the nightgown over her head while Alice delicately unwrapped the linen between her legs. Elizabeth scrunched her eyes shut so she would not have to look at the bloodied strips.

"How bad is it?" she asked.

"Not bad. Less and less blood every time we change the linen," Alice reassured her.

"You see my lady," Joan added, determinedly bright. "You are on the mend."

Elizabeth let them help her into the tub. The younger girls added the lemon and mint that had been steeping in a bucket of hot water. Joan ladled the water, sharp with citrus, over Elizabeth's head. She sat in the tepid water and winced where her skin bore the welts of the scalding bath that Gardiner's nurses had plunged her into. As she sank up to her chin in the sweet, crisp smelling water, Elizabeth pulled apart the dark and the light that made up her husband. His fearsome intellect that marched bravely onward, daring to foment a new order of things, daring to believe in a better future for England. The ruthlessness of that same intellect left in its wake dead queens and fallen friends. Even at Thomas Cromwell's best, and at his most frightening, Elizabeth only now realized that in either event, he remained stubbornly human. She just hoped that Alice's talisman was right, and maybe Cromwell's own blackness was tempered by equal parts of goodness.

**

"My Lord Beauchamp, the king will see you now." The page, still in his own riding garb, handed Edward the king's seal. Just in case the authority of Edward's summons was in dispute. He swatted the page away, grasping for a few moments to compose himself. His head swum with ideas, theories of how to state his case—none of them good. He'd underestimated Cromwell's conviction as both a politician and a husband. Time to pay the piper. Edward started to leave, throwing his doublet over his shoulder, but stopped.

The necklace.

That stupid, gaudy thing--worth a prince's ransom—that started the whole bloody business with Cromwell. At the time, Edward did not see much choice: Cromwell wanted Elizabeth. Cromwell always came away with what he wanted. Better to give it to him so he would not have to take it from you. And, Edward had genuinely believed that Elizabeth was the only plausible anti-reformist agent in Cromwell's little fiefdom. All she needed to do sew a little sedition during the day, and lay flat on her back at night. Edward knew she would cry, complain, maybe hate her brother. But, he just assumed her dislike of Cromwell would prompt Elizabeth to feed Edward a wealth of information to spite her husband. Instead, she clamped shut like an oyster, withdrawing from even Tom and Jane. In her fear of Cromwell, nothing and no one could pry Elizabeth open. This all assumed Cromwell ever told her anything worth repeating. A schemer like that would never reveal his card trick, not even to his wife. Especially not his wife. In these beginning days of autumn, Edward could not imagine what he had been thinking on those heady spring nights of plotting and maneuvering.

Before facing the stink and rage of the king, Edward rifled through Anne's jewelry chest. He pulled out magnificent choker. He could not resist holding the gems up to the dying sunlight. The pendant was the size of a robin's egg and glowed soft yellow fire from within. What in God's name did Anne think she was doing, tangling a treasure like this, amidst her baubles? Before this pendant ever rested between his sister's tits, he did not doubt that it probably graced the turban of an Indian maharajah. He folded the priceless, sparkling necklace into a silk kerchief and placed it in his jacket. No doubt that spindly toad, Cromwell, would be at the king's right hand for Edward Seymour's royal rebuke. Best that it was Edward who returned the necklace, rather than wait for Cromwell to kick in Anne's door.

A groom of the privy chamber announced Edward. Henry sat at the far end of the long table, sweating anger. Edward realized how serious things were if the king came straight from his horse to sit in his privy chamber; the vain king, always wanting to appear ready for a Holbein portrait, still wore his riding leathers. Of course, the king's right hand man sat literally at the right hand of the king. A study in contrasts: Cromwell was flawlessly shaved without a hint of a cut, and his dark curls tamed against his skull. He scribbled away, the scratch of his quill grating against Edward's ears as the point rode across the paper. Apparently Cromwell felt it necessary to take minutes of Edward's humilitation. As Edward approached, he could smell horses and rainwater attached to Henry. Edward swept his king a bow worthy of Arthur and the Knights of the Roundtable. When he was bent at the waist, Henry cracked his riding crop at his face, hitting Edward's ear.

"You fool!" roared Henry. He heaved himself up and circled Edward. "I leave my kingdom in your hands. And this is the service I get from my queen's brother? You think yourself worthy to be called uncle to my son? Well? Answer me!"

"Your majesty, I—" Edward fought against the urge to rub his throbbing ear. Cromwell never reached up with his own hands where Henry had just struck him. Edward would follow suit.

"You are a knave, a fool, incompetent—Master Cromwell, are you getting this all down?"

Cromwell merely nodded, his faced screwed up in clerical determination to get the insults on record as fast as they came out of the king's mouth.

"God help us all," Henry continued. "God help us if one day I die, and you are left as my son's Lord Protector. Just look at the mess you have allowed." Henry held up a pamphlet, clenched so tightly in his fist that his fingers went white. "What did you think you were doing? Hiding in your ivory tower while your sister is slandered so viciously."

"God knows those traitorous villains have dragged Elizabeth's name and virtue through the mud. And I expect to punish them accordingly when I have the chance," Edward assured Henry.

"Elizabeth? Elizabeth is not the bloody point! Look what has been done to the queen." Henry shoved the pamphlet into Edward's chest. The king's face reddened, moistening with sweat. "This is what greeted me upon my return to London. These things are crawling all over this city like ants."

Edward unfolded the crushed paper. Smoothing it out, his mouth fell wide open. Expecting to see Elizabeth birthing a two headed serpent, instead he saw the image had been altered to depict the queen in the foreground, enveloped in the arms of Cromwell and Cranmer, while a snake slithered up the queen's skirt. Meanwhile in the background, Elizabeth continued to expel a serpent infant as priests threw holy water on her.

"I, I, I had no idea that—" Edward stammered. He dared to look at Cromwell, who met his gaze with supreme confidence and a smile itching to come out.

"My Lord Beauchamp, you had no idea? I cannot decide if that makes you blind or incompetent. You should be on your knees, thanking your brother-in-law here-"

Both Edward and Cromwell winced at the characterization of any sort of familiarity.

"Yes, thanking Lord Cromwell," Henry continued. "For attacking these vicious rumors and destroying these foul images. Viscount Beauchamp, I am banishing you from court!"

A protest began and died on Edward's lips. Again he stole a glance at Cromwell. The dark head simply nodded along as he scribbled furiously.

"Master Cromwell will draw up the edict right here. You are to be gone from court within the hour. You will return at my pleasure," Henry said calmly, having satiated himself with his own anger.

"Your majesty, if I may?" Cromwell interjected sweetly. Henry nodded his assent. "Perhaps, in a time of unholy rebellion, it would be best if the royal family—including the queen's members—maintained a front of unity. We could of course suspend Lord Beauchamp from the privy council for a period of time…" Cromwell took on a quizzical front, as if he had only just now considered this.

Edward tried to weigh which was the greater humiliation: banishment from court, or banishment from court only to be rescued by that oily fox, Cromwell. Who Edward would now have to show deference to for rescuing him. Brilliant, Edward thought. Bloody brilliant. Cromwell created an alibi for himself by interceding on Edward's behalf; no one would accuse the Lord Privy Seal of prospering too much from the slander of the Catholic queen. Cromwell also got the benefit of watching Edward's royal flagellation, while at the same time keeping him at court—where Cromwell's greasy spies could keep an eye on the queen's brother.

"Master Cromwell, again your wise counsel is appreciated. It shall please our majesty that Viscount Beauchamp be excluded from privy council meetings until I see otherwise. You may go." Henry gestured to the door with his riding crop. "Oh, and Edward. I do pray that when the queen is brought to childbed, that you secure better nursing for her than you did for your other sister.

Edward pulled the necklace from his jacket. Now was as good of time as any to return it to Cromwell. "My Lord Privy Seal," Edward purred. "My wife took this into her safe keeping. See that it gets back to Elizabeth. I know she must be missing it."

Cromwell said nothing, but extended a white palm, his scholarly fingers closing over the gems.

**

On his way out from the king's chambers, Cromwell sailed through the mob of petitioners waiving letters, shouting his name. Pay a gratuity and take a number, Cromwell thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Rich glowering over Bishop Gardiner. Rich left Gardiner pale as milk and trembling. He bounded over to Cromwell and fell in step with his master.

"I have good news," Rich told Cromwell as the two men walked briskly back to their offices.

"I could use some. The king will not move definitively against Gardiner. Although, he did tell Gardiner I am to be Vice Regent of Spiritual Affairs. Something of a consolation prize, I suppose." Cromwell shook his head and lengthened his stride. He'd wanted Gardiner's neck stretched out in the gallows, or that round belly sizzling as the bishop burned alive at the stake.

"I have good news and I have a present," Rich beamed. "Pick a hand."

"Oh, Richard. You know I am greedy. I choose both hands."

Rich stopped and held his palm open flat to reveal Elizabeth's magnificent emerald ring. Immediately, Cromwell snatched it into his own hands. He turned the ring over and over, holding it to the light just to be sure of its veracity.

"Your friend from your Florentine banking days? Frescobaldi's man here in London, Genovisi? Well, he came bearing gifts while you were with the king. Turns out one of those hags tried to sell your lady's ring to a jeweler. She told the jeweler she found the ring lying in the gutter. Of course, a stone this big is no secret as to who it belongs to here in London. The jeweler convinces her the gem is worth a third of its real value, buys it off the stupid crone—but not before taking down her name and place of dwelling. Anyway, the jeweler then turns it over to Genovisi. Your banker friend knew the ring on sight, reimbursed the jeweler, and brought the ring straight to me. And now," Rich concluded triumphantly, "I return it to you."

Cromwell smiled. Merchants, bankers, and traders looked after their own. Not like the damn backstabbing nobility sitting at the king's council. He would make sure that the jeweler received subsequent commissions for new gems for Elizabeth. He also made a note of sending a box of saffron, cinnamon, and other spices to Genovisi. In addition to compensating him for his expenses in rescuing Elizabeth's wedding ring. But, Cromwell returned to the most important matter at hand.

"So, we know who those villainous harpies were? We can find them and arrest them?"

Rich grinned. "Yes, when you saw me, I was just telling our dear Gardiner that his nursemaids had been arrested for theft from a noble and that we would likely add an additional charge of assault upon a noble. I told him that his midwives were in the Tower, pilloried until those bony hags were just skeletons."

"Small comfort," Cromwell sighed. "For my wife. For myself." Lissie will never be the same, he thought sadly. They nearly broke my Lissie, and no punishment can change that. "Richard, I leave it to you to draw up the charges. I need to see to my wife."

Rich caught his elbow. "Thomas," he said softly. "Elizabeth cannot hide forever. I know you want to protect her, shield her from all the questioning stares. But the longer she is out of the court's eye, the worse for her. The gossip will not die down until everyone sees her back in the queen's service. Healthy and radiant."

Cromwell's thick lashes brushed against his cheek bones. "She is back on her feet. But, Richie, I cannot bring myself to send her back out into the den of vipers that is the English court."

"Then you will end up damaging her just as much as Edward." Rich walked on, leaving Cromwell slumped against the wall.

He rubbed his hands over his face, wiping away the pain etched into his sharp features. He made an about face and decided to cut through the gardens on his way to see Elizabeth. He twisted off a white rose blossom and tossed a few schillings to the gardener—just in case Cromwell had unwittingly destroyed some sort symmetry, some sort of ridiculousness. Such as there must be equal red roses to white roses. And here he thought the War of the Roses was over.

Cromwell met little Helen as she carried a tray out of the bed chamber. He motioned for her to stop for a moment. He lifted the lid on the tray: an empty plate beneath.

Helen met his eyes. "She practically ate an entire chicken. Drank three glasses of wine. She's fast asleep now. I think my lady is on the mend. We shall put some meat back on her bones soon enough."

He waved her on. "Just make sure she does not eat so much, so fast that she sickens herself."

Cromwell found the other three girls bailing water out of the tub, pouring it into buckets that other, lower servants would haul out. Alice spotted him and snapped at the other girls. They trailed after her, still lined up in order of age, and curtsied to him as they left. He waited until he heard the door latch behind him before he sat on the bed.

Elizabeth frowned a bit in her sleep. Or maybe the dream perplexed her. Selfishly, he wanted to kiss her awake and lay down with her, curling his body around hers. Instead, he kissed her lightly enough not to wake her, but she stirred slightly, registering the presence. He watched her chest rise and fall as she slept on her side, arms wrapped her pillow. Her coppery hair, still damp from her bath, was plaited neatly, and the braid fell over her shoulder. Cromwell could not resist reaching out and tracing her lashline with the pad of his finger. Her full lips pursed into a pout and she licked them. A sleeping princess out of legend, he thought. No wonder the dark knights in those stories always wanted to spirit the princess away to a distant castle. Keep her for his own and share her with no one. Carefully, he edged her fingers open enough so that he could press the emerald ring and the rose into her hand. Her small fist closed.

Sighing, Cromwell stood and took leave of his sleeping princess. Rich was right: she needed to be up and around. Back in the queen's rooms tomorrow. He could only imagine the rumor mill that Jane Boleyn was feeding to the other ladies in waiting. Still, his chest ached with the knowledge that he would have to release her to the world tomorrow. Share her. Watch her smile and dance with the very dogs that had whispered witchcraft and lechery behind her back. At least for today, though, he could still be her one and only.

Back at his desk, Cromwell flipped the hour glass over again. A ruckus brewed in one of the antechambers, but he chose to ignore it and focused on the latest bill for Parliament. The storm neared, yelling and knocking furniture over; Cromwell buried his face in a treatise he used to cross-reference the bill's terms. Finally, the chaos personified in the form of Edward Seymour stomping through his clerks' protests.

"Get out!" Edward barked. "All of you! Get out! I will speak with Lord Cromwell alone!"

His clerks and secretaries did not twitch a muscle. Edward whirled around, shocked at not being obeyed.

"All of you, did you not hear me! A lord has told you to get out!" Edward shouted.

Cromwell tapped the excess ink off his quill. Without looking up, he said: "Master Sadler, why don't you and the other gentlemen go make a nuisance of yourselves in the kitchens and get yourself some meat pies. Bring me back something as well; I have not eaten all day." Like sycophants, a sea of black coats rose at the same time and exited.

Once the last of the footsteps padded out, Edward started in: "Well, Cromwell, just what sort of game do you think you are playing?"

The only sound in the room was the scratch of Cromwell's quill and Edward's ragged breathing.

"Cromwell!"

"My lord, I am very busy. But I am not deaf. I heard you the first time." Cromwell's eyes remained stubbornly on the work before them. He finished a sentence. There. He leaned back in his chair and gave Edward the privilege of his attention.

Edward smirked. "You should be thanking me, you know."

"Thank you, my lord?" Cromwell deliberately misunderstood him. "Ah, yes. Thank you for returning a necklace to me that was already mine. Your wife is to be commended for such quick fingers."

"If it were not for my miscalculation, Lissie would still be gritting her teeth on her revulsion of you. Christ, if you could only have seen the look that used to cross her face when she knew she had to go to your bed. Convenient for you, wasn't it? I mean, everyone forsakes her. Except you. You got to ride in here like some black knight and rescue her. For which, I do not doubt, she now cleaves to you." Edward folded his arms across his jewel encrusted chest. "Face it Cromwell: Lissie dripping your dead baby all over the chapel floor was probably the best thing that has happened to you. But, how does that make you feel? She only loves you by default, now that everyone else bolted from her."

Cromwell pressed the tips of his fingers together. He cocked his head, but remained silent.

Edward stifled a laugh. "My God, man. Open your eyes. Or, do you honestly believe Lissie fell in love with you when you came back for her. Because nothing could make you loveable, Cromwell. Just wait. Give it a month. Once her friends come back around, throw the queen and Tom back into the equation, and do you really believe you will still be her savior? Throw all the jewels, all the gowns you want at her. Like I said, nothing could make you loveable. You've known Lissie since May. I have known her since birth. She's headstrong, fickle, and spoilt. Watch her every day and you will watch a little more of her love drain away."

"Edward," Cromwell breathed.

"What?"

"Are you finished? I am assuming you have been composing that for the last hour. I assume that was the best you could do, yes? So, if that is your best then run along. Because if you are going to come at me, you need more than that. Otherwise, you waste my precious time." Cromwell pulled his dagger out of his vest. He took one of the pears sitting on his desk. Expertly, he set to peeling it so that the peel came off in one single spiral.

"But, Edward," he went on. "I tell you this much. If you ever allow Lissie to come to harm again, I will kill you. I won't bother to draw up charges, waste money on an axeman. I will do it myself. One night you will turn around, and I will be there. I will slit you from your pathetic balls, all the way up to that ridiculous moustache. So that you can watch all your guts spill out in front of you." Cromwell cored the fruit and divided it into sections. He offered one to Edward.

Edward numbly shook his head.

"Could you please answer, so I know that you understand me?" Cromwell asked pleasantly.

"Yes. Yes, I think I understand you perfectly well." He inclined in a slight bow and turned to leave.

"Oh, Edward. One more thing: once the queen births a son, who do you think the king will name as Lord Protector in his will—just in case the unspeakable happens? Me or you?"

**

Suffolk thought about the difference a single day could make. Another day of negotiations and the news of Elizabeth Seymour's sinful miscarriage would have hit. And the Duke of Suffolk would have been left standing with an ill equipped, inadequately numbered regimen, surrounded by thirty thousand angry rebels who had just received confirmation of the justness of their cause. Written in a woman's blood, by God Himself. Charles Brandon's horse negotiated the long, muddy road back to London. He did not mind the slow pace. The road provided a welcome limbo, in between the man he thought he was when his king sent his oldest friend at the head of a ragged army…and now the man that Charles would have to explain to his wife, Catherine. As long as his horse loped slowly on, Charles did not have to meet Catherine's open, honest face and tell her he made promises he knew he could not keep.

But, she already knew he had trouble keeping his promises.

Still, she would look in his eyes, take his face in her tiny hands, and she would know. Catherine would know Charles had seen things, done things, using the royal banner to justify their monstrosity. Charles told the rebels to send emissaries to meet with the king, and spell out their grievances personally. Secretly, Charles was relieved when he learned that Aske would not be going, and instead would send John Constable and Ralph Erlecker in his place. Charles told Aske he would be safe, but the duke did not believe what he was saying for a moment. Aske told him that he did not fear his own king, rather, Aske doubted some of the king's councilors. The councilors without noble blood. Councilors named Thomas Cromwell. Charles wanted to tell Aske that he was quite right to suspect the deviousness of the Lord Cromwell. Tell the gentle lawyer that Cromwell's promises did not amount to even the paper they were written on.

But, no doubt such an exchange would find its way into one of Cromwell's damn reports. And Charles would find himself called before the Lord Privy Seal. Cromwell and his reports.

The Earl of Shrewsberry cantered up to him, kicking up mud.

"So it is certain, Constable and Erlecker are to appear before the king?" he asked.

"I have not heard otherwise from the king." Or from Cromwell, Charles thought but did not say. He did not want to have to admit to Shrewsberry that Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, took orders from a drunk blacksmith's son.

"Wicked business brewed in London while we were away, eh?" Shrewsberry pulled one of the ubiquitous crude pamphlets from his breastplate. "God only knows what would have become of us had the rebels learned of the unfortunate accident sooner."

"Yes, God only knows." Charles just stared on ahead. In his mind, he added Lissie Seymour to his growing list of "Lives Destroyed by Thomas Cromwell."

"I mean, perversity of these rebels…"

"Yes, my lord: the drawings were illustrative."

"For decency's sake, could they not have left the queen out of it?"

Charles hesitated. "What's this?"

Shrewsberry passed over the damp paper. "You have not seen the latest? Shows the queen…embraced by Cromwell and Cranmer. Oh, and that squiggly thing is a snake sliding up the queen's skirts."

"The king has seen this?"

"I would assume so, your grace." Shrewsberry did not seem troubled. "Can only imagine what the king will have in store for these villains after what their devious propaganda has done to the queen's virtue. To say nothing of Cromwell's own wife."

Charles shifted in his saddle. It just did not add up. Why attack the queen? Her Papist sympathies were an open secret. Henry complained that Jane did not know her place, was always preaching mercy for the rebels.

"Let us hope I catch Cromwell in a favorable mood. I have half a mind to purchase the leases of some of the suppressed abbeys. Lovely buildings, good land…"

Charles looked at him, not understanding.

"The suppressed abbeys? Cromwell is selling the leases? Did you not know? Of course, you have to pay him handsomely for the privilege for his mere consideration of your name. Nobles, low men. Anyone with the ready cash is snapping up the leases."

Charles sucked in his breath. All the distress that the suppression of religious houses caused…and now Cromwell mortgaged sacred buildings as if they were farmhouses? Charles tutted to himself at his surprise. Nothing Cromwell does should surprise you, Charles chided himself. Yet, surely the king would balk at the shamelessness of Cromwell's latest scheme?

"Surely the king cannot condone the profiteering off the backs of religious houses?" Charles insisted.

"The king loves to hunt. Watch the joust. Feast and dance. He lets the other king run the kingdom. Does not ask questions. If the king does not say no, then who would deny the other king his will?"

Charles reined his horse to a halt. "Wait. What did you just say?" he demanded. "What do you mean the other king."

Nonplussed, Shrewsberry replied, "The other king? Did you not know? That is what people have taken to calling Cromwell: The Other King." Shrewsberry dropped his voice to a murmur. "Well, he somewhat is, isn't he? Wolsey never had the kind of power that Cromwell has taken into his own hands." Shrewsberry rode on, leaving Charles stunned.

The Other King?

Charles threw back his chain mail hood, sending a small river of rainwater cascading down his back. He shook violently, but not from the cold.