A/N: Just a quick break into the story to offer thanks to you lovely people who are reading my scribblings. I really appreciate it.

CHAPTER SIX

Autumn Pilgrims

The ranks of paper upon the walls of the chamber that has been set aside for the investigation look rather impressive - but, as Cromwell gazes at them, sourly, they promise much, but grant little. So many of the statements that have been provided to them are of no value at all, that he has had to set them aside in a small bundle, which he has marked 'Malice', for they are clearly intended for the sole purpose of settling old scores, and he has neither the time, nor the interest, to involve himself with such petty stupidity.

Rich is sitting at the table, working his way through another trough of papers that have come in, separating out those which are clearly malicious, and those which may be of use. Largely, everything so far is in the 'malicious' category, and he, too, is looking most sour. And tired.

"There is nothing here, Thomas." He says, eventually, "Everyone is naming those for whom they wish to cause trouble, and nothing else. Not one of these tales shows any link to the events of which we are aware, and even those which do give no hint of a motive, or even a reason why they think the individual concerned is to blame. I cannot find any correlation between that which we know, and the nonsense being spouted in these missives." He sighs, and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Given the length of time he has spent examining each and every one, as Cromwell has, and having come to the same conclusion, they both know that there is nothing of use to them in any of the pages. In some ways, the King has immense power to command; in others, however, he has none at all. The Court may obey his demand, but they do not take it seriously.

"Get you gone, Richard." Cromwell advises, "Tiredness is never an aid to good work. It is late, and you have neither dined nor supped today."

"Neither have you." Rich reminds him. They are both dreadfully busy now, with the Commissioners sending in reports that arrive almost hourly. Neither has had time to eat since they broke their separate fasts this morning, and they are obliged not only to do their own work, but find - or make - the time to review their investigation into Anne Hamme's murder. Not the most suitable of tasks to place in harness together.

Kat is waiting for him in his quarters when Rich returns, and her presence brightens his mood at once, as it always does. The hour might be late, but she is always there when he needs her to be, and there is even a baked ham with spiced apples, and bread, on the table. Despite his tiredness, and the lateness of the hour, his hunger overrules his wish to sit down with the woman that he loves, and instead she joins him at the table while he carves at the ham.

"Have you made any progress, Richie?" she asks, as he stuffs a chunk of bread into his mouth and chews almost beatifically.

He shakes his head, and waits to speak until he has swallowed, "No, Kat. None. We know who died, and how - but not who committed the deed. Our suspect is under consideration on only the lightest of grounds - for he is known to be violent, but not with blades." He yawns.

"You are working too hard." Kat admonishes him.

"If I am working too hard, then God help Thomas."

"Thomas?" Kat asks, an eyebrow sardonically raised.

"I am taking your advice, Kat." Rich advises her, "It seems that I am being too proud. He is a better man than I give him credit for."

She smiles, "Is that because he is a better man, or because he was kind to me?"

"Both. I think." He admits, smiling at her, "He is a better man - because he was kind to you."

She tears a small piece of ham from one of his slices, "Gentlemen are made, not born. I have found that out from personal experience."

Rich eyes her fondly: he has long since ceased to notice that which is the first thing others see. But for the legal work that the Countess had sought from him, he might never even have met her. Being so bright, she was the one that the Countess had deputed to clerk for him, and her wit, and manner, had attracted him long before she had permitted him to see beneath her veil. By the time she did, he would not have cared if she had been one of the Graeae, and did not flinch from the ghastly ruin of her once fine face.

"I do not think that we shall find this miscreant." He admits, with a sad sigh, "There is nothing upon which we can even begin to form a theory as to who perpetrated the crime."

"Poor Anne." Kat murmurs, softly, "She had not an evil bone in her body. But for her foolishness in embarking upon a liaison with Sir Simon Paxton, she did nothing wrong. She was ill-served in her childhood. All that can be said is that she is no longer in pain, and her dreams are no longer unfulfilled. She is with God, now - and He shall comfort her soul." She looks at him again, her eyes darkening with luscious promise, "allow me, my Lord, to comfort yours."

The King's mood at the council meeting is grim, for his beloved 'Prince' has departed for Lincolnshire, to his estate near Stamford. Like all of the King's children, the youth spends a deal of his time away from Court; though in Fitzroy's case, he is missed. Mary and Elizabeth, on the other hand, seem to be all but forgotten. The faces present in the Court are generally young, to compensate for the King's ageing and his desire to be forever young, but the lack of Royal children in the Palaces does not go unnoticed or unremarked by the Princes overseas. All know that Henry's claim to his throne is based upon his father's taking it in war rather than right of blood. It is sounded in the foreign Courts that this is God's sign of disapproval not only of a bastard line stealing the Crown from the ruling dynasty, but also of his refusal to submit to the authority of God's chosen Prince of the Church. He knows this - naturally - and chafes against it; but he cannot deny the lack of a true-born son to carry on his name.

Cromwell rises to his feet to make his report of ongoing affairs, "Your Majesty should note that, owing to last year's poor harvest, food prices are rising in the shires, and I have received reports from the Commissioners that they are seeing cases of severe hunger in some areas. I have set aside funds for the relief of those in need of sustenance - and, with your consent, shall begin the release of said funds as soon as possible."

The King nods, "It is well. Let it be done."

"The stipulations for the Statue of Uses are now in full operation, Majesty." He adds, drawing an approving nod from the King, who has been demanding reform of property law for some time - though this is, naturally, largely to ensure that the taxes that are due to his exchequer are collected rather than evaded by landowners through fraudulent transfers of land. Being very much a personal project on Henry's part, his expression is pleased, for he has been rather more personally involved in the drafting of the clauses than would normally be the case. As he takes his seat again, Cromwell hides his feeling of doubt. The intent of the Statute is laudable, in that it aims to clamp down on fraud - but in some respects, to his tutored eye, it seems more to encourage it than stamp it out. He makes a mental note to sit down with Rich and look at the clauses again as soon as they have some spare time. His own knowledge of the law is solid, but Rich has been immersed in statutes for years, and he would prefer to have a second pair of expert eyes to hand.

Matters progress slowly, and Henry's impatience is starting to show. His leg is stinking again, and the word has gone round that the Queen has failed to conceive again this month, making his temper dangerously short. With the departure of the King's only welcome child as well, Cromwell recognises the signs of an impending explosion, and he is not disappointed.

"God's wounds!" Henry shouts, suddenly, as Suffolk reports on yet another letter from Rome demanding the reinstatement of the Lady Mary to the succession, "When will that damned Vicar rest? Has he not sufficient other matters into which he can intrude?"

"The Lady Mary is your daughter, Majesty." Suffolk reminds him, benignly. Brandon knows he is on treacherous ground, but he has never truly been comfortable with the King's break with Rome - though he is not fool enough to show it - nor the removal of Queen Katherine to make way for Queen Anne.

"Of no true marriage, Charles!" Henry snaps back, "I was married to my brother's widow, an abomination in God's sight! Thus, she was not permitted to give me a son, and my marriage was invalid. The girl is a bastard and has no place in the succession!"

Cromwell blinks - is this the same King who asked him to arrange a private meeting between himself, Queen Jane and the Lady Mary? Has he forgotten the impending rapprochement? He does not raise the matter - it is to be kept private, after all.

Brandon nods, quietly, and retakes his seat as Henry glowers dangerously.

"And what of the death?" he asks, suddenly; unexpectedly. The Councillors exchange bemused glances: what death?

Again, Cromwell rises to his feet, "Unfortunately, it has not been possible at this point to identify a perpetrator." He admits, quietly, "The victim was one of the retinue of the Countess of Derby - a Miss Anne Hamme - but there appears to be no motive for the crime, and the evidence we have, while extensive in amount, has done little to throw light upon the act. We continue to investigate as best…"

He gets no further. Henry has been looking for something to lose his temper at, and he has found it, "I do not tolerate excuses!" He snaps, rising to his feet, "Are you truly so appallingly incompetent that you cannot even uncover a criminal in the midst of the Court?"

Most of those at the table are - surreptitiously, at least - enjoying the Lord Privy Seal's discomfiture. Henry's tantrums are always amusing if they are directed at the hated Cromwell. Rich is looking away, not wishing to catch the King's eye - for he, too, is attempting to investigate the 'crime' and has no desire to be included in the outburst of bad temper. Thus he hears, rather than sees, the thud as Henry lashes out and strikes Cromwell across the side of the head, "I expect you to capture this miscreant, Cromwell! Do you hear me? I will not have such acts of brutality in my Court!" With that, he turns and limps from the room as quickly as his rotting leg will permit. So hasty is his departure, that the Councillors scramble to their feet to bow as he goes.

Rich, again, cannot hide his shocked expression. Even though he is well aware that the King is inclined to strike Cromwell from time to time, he has never seen it actually happen - not that he has truly seen it this time, admittedly. He joins Cromwell as he gathers his papers together, and is equally surprised to find that Cromwell seems not at all concerned at the incident.

"Does it not discomfit you, Thomas?" he asks, as they return to the offices.

"What - that?" Cromwell replies, "Not remotely. I was struck with worse violence by my father - and with far greater frequency. The King's tempers are soon over. He is in pain, and hard pressed."

Rich stares at him. The worst he was required to endure in his childhood was strictness and a vague sense of disappointment at his failure to be more martially inclined. His own father had wanted his second boy to be a commander of soldiers, and achieve military glory - but instead received an academically minded youth more suited to the legal profession. Perhaps that is why he is so desperate to advance his career at Court.

Not that he has ever considered his motives in such depth before - not being inclined to introspection for fear of what he might find if he did explore his conscience to such a degree. Shrugging the thought off, he changes the subject, and they talk of other matters as they return to their desks.

Cromwell sighs as he reads another report from Richard Layton, one the chiefs of his Commissioners. Unlike his colleague Thomas Legh, Layton tends to be more moderate, and has not yet required censure for his behaviour; additionally, he acts as a pair of eyes in those areas to which Cromwell has no access. Most importantly of all, he notices more than merely the riches of the Houses that they are investigating.

Rich is nearby, working his way through a book of statutes, when he hears Cromwell sigh and turns, "What is it, my Lord?" They are, after all, not in private.

"Matters are worsening in the shires, Mr Rich." Cromwell advises, "Doctor Layton reports more cases of severe hunger - the prices of basic foodstuffs have risen beyond the means of some of our poorest citizens, it appears. Worse, he reports that the monies that we are releasing are not being spent appropriately. The local commissioners are merely using the funds to support their own tables." He scowls, "I shall have to find some time to write more letters of censure, it appears."

Rich offers a sympathetic look, and returns to his own work, accompanied by the battering of yet another autumn squall upon the mullions above his bent head. The harvest this year has been better, admittedly, but the autumn that has followed it has been wet, squally and unpleasant.

A Steward is standing at Cromwell's desk, with yet another sealed paper in his hand, "This has just come in by fast horse, my Lord."

Frowning, Cromwell takes it and carefully breaks the seal. After several minutes of absolute silence, Rich turns again, and realises that his colleague has gone quite visibly pale, "What is it?"

Without a word, Cromwell holds out the letter for Rich to take. Bemused, he reaches for it.

My Lord,

Word has come from Lincolnshire of a great uprising of the commons. It is thought that those involved numbers in the thousands, and that they have earned the support of the nobility - though it is not known whether they have joined willingly or on pain of death. Without the loyalty of the Nobles to suppress the rabble, it is feared that the militia might also join with those who have risen, and they believe themselves to be beyond the censure of the Law, I fear.

For God's sake, send aid - for already one commissioner has been murdered, and if there is the stink of blood in their nostrils, there is no telling what might follow.

T Legh

"Jesu…" Rich breathes, handing the short missive back, "What is to be done?"

"That which Legh asks, Mr Rich." Cromwell says, quietly, "I must speak to the King."

While he is gone, another letter arrives, this one from Layton, it appears. Unlike Legh, his words are more considered, and more observant - and, equally importantly, he has provided details not only of the composition of the rising, but also what they want. It's clear that the King needs to see this, too. Reluctantly, Rich leaves the offices in Cromwell's wake.

"And what do these ingrates want?" Henry's voice is strident as Rich approaches the Privy Chamber, making him most keen to turn tail and leave again.

"Dr Legh has not spoken of the motives of those involved, your Majesty." Cromwell's voice is remarkably calm in the face of the onslaught, and Rich finds himself flinching slightly at the sound of a slap being delivered.

"Then find out, you idiot! Do I have to do everything myself? Find out!"

A trembling usher shows Rich in, and he finds the King's anger suddenly directed at him, "What do you want, Rich?"

"Forgive me your Majesty," He stammers, "The information you require was delivered a few minutes ago. Dr Layton has also sent a report."

"What do the rabble want, then?" Henry snaps, glowering.

"I…er…" he stops, swallows, and tries again, "It appears that the rising was sparked following evensong at the Church of St James in Louth - after the nearby Abbey was recently closed. Dr Layton's informant has stated that they have a number of demands - primarily the ending of the closure of the religious houses, the repeal of the ten articles, the purging of heretics from the Government, an end to taxes in peacetime and…" he pauses, nervously, for he knows that Henry will not like the final demand "…and the repeal of the Statute of Uses."

"And the nobility have not suppressed them?" the King hisses, apparently ignoring the dislike of his pet project.

"The nobility have joined with them." Cromwell admits, rather hesitantly, "Though it is likely that many have done so in fear of their lives."

"The nobility have joined them?" Henry's expression is apoplectic, "Damn them! Damn them for the snivelling ingrates that they are! They should have dispatched their militia! Blast them all to Hell! Why did they not?"

"Dr Legh fears that the militiamen might also join the rising." Cromwell admits, only to receive another stinging slap across the face.

"Get Brandon in here!" Henry shouts, raging, "Get him in here now!" He turns back to the two men in the room, "Get out. The pair of you - get out!"

"God help us," Rich babbles, nervously, as they return to the office, "what are we to do? Does the King blame us for this?"

"Calm yourself, Richard." Cromwell advises, rather more benignly, "If we are to respond to this, it must be with care and consideration. The King is likely to wish to divest himself of all blame, and thus we are the ones upon whom all censure shall rest…"

"What?" Rich interrupts, visibly pale; Cromwell can see the rising fear of incarceration in the tower, or worse, in his colleague's frightened expression. The King is angry enough at their failure to apprehend the murderer of Anne Hamme, and now this? "But our actions are to deliver his demands and policies!"

"His Majesty does not like to believe that the people would rise against him - he has seen rebellions before, when he was a child, if you recall. That they do so now is likely to be a shocking outcome to his actions for what he considers to be the overall good of the State, and he would not wish to be seen as the reason - so he shall blame those who carry out his demands, on the grounds that they advised him in the first place."

"Oh God…"

Cromwell suddenly grabs Rich's shoulder, and pushes him against the wall, "Do not lose your grip upon yourself, Mr Rich." He says, rather menacingly, "If we are to survive this, then we must do so united. Our primary goal is to secure the King's authority, not our own heads - for the latter relies entirely upon the former. Now is not the time for nerves, or fear; we must be ruthless, and determined, or we shall both pay for this with our lives. Do not doubt that for a moment."

He can see it: Rich is terrified. Not so much of the looming shadow of the scaffold, but the cold bloodymindedness in his own expression, and the deadly tone of his voice. His reputation for cold-blooded ruthlessness is not fantastic in origin. He has been, and shall be, absolute in his manoeuvrings to survive in this game, but if he must carry Rich in the process, the pair of them shall fall.

"I did not see this…" Rich admits, faintly, "I never saw this…"

"If you wish to play politics at its highest, and you did not anticipate the risk to your neck, Richard, then you have been as naïve a fool as I have ever seen. Did the deaths of Fisher and More not teach you the danger of this game?"

Then, suddenly, Rich is angry - furious, in fact, "They taught me how an act can haunt you for the rest of your days!" he hisses, "God help me, I put my mortal soul at risk! I broke the ninth commandment: I bore false witness, and at your behest! And you think I have forgotten that? More haunts me in my sleep, damn you! He chases after me and demands to know why I betrayed him, and I cannot answer him as he pushes me into the devil's fire!"

Cromwell stares at him, surprised. The one thing that had bemused him about Rich was his apparent lack of remorse for his perjury at both Fisher's and More's trials: for once, he has managed to keep his true feelings from others.

"I can only ask that you forgive me." He says, eventually, "I would not have wished to place you in such a position had there been any other way. The King wills, the King must have. The price must therefore be borne by others - and as much by me as by you, for I did much the same against the late Queen Anne."

"Do you think More and Fisher have forgiven me?" Rich asks, quietly.

"Yes." Cromwell says, equally quietly. From what he knows of the two men who died for their principles, he knows that they would not have gone to their deaths without clearing their consciences - and that would include forgiving those who wronged them. At least - he hopes that to be so, for he is just as much in need of such forgiveness.

Rich straightens up, "Then what shall we do?" his voice firmer now. Cromwell decides to ignore his colleague's failure to offer the forgiveness that he sought.

"Be as useful as we can be, and otherwise keep out of the King's way." Cromwell admits as they continue on their journey, "We are not military commanders, and it is now for them to take steps to quell this rising. I shall have to reprimand Legh again, I think - for he does not carry out his actions with the degree of courtesy and fairness that I demanded. The King's demand to end the abuses of the great monastic houses was always going to cause animosity to some degree or other - for how are the uneducated to know of the manifest sin that occurs within those walls?"

Within two days, a letter has dispatched north to the commanders of the rising - for commanders there are, even if they be nothing but a Monk and a Shoemaker. Layton continues to send reports south: The rising is not, as the King claims, an ungoverned rabble - they are instead surprisingly disciplined - and are now in Lincoln, where they have been welcomed. Layton observes, however, that the nobles who did support the rising are now realising just what they have to lose if they continue to be associated with the commons, particularly as the Duke of Suffolk is mobilising troops to move against them. He has, as is expected, granted them time to withdraw from the rising, with the promise that the King shall consider their grievances. The offer has also, to some degree, worked, for most have melted away back to their shires, significantly reducing the number of rebels still in the City.

"His Majesty has made it clear," Cromwell says to the King's Secretary, reading a copy of a letter already dispatched, "that those who remain in Lincoln shall have no mercy granted to them. The entire number of them shall die if they remain."

"So you think they shall disperse now, then?" Wriothesley asks, from his own desk.

Cromwell sighs with relief, and nods, "I think so. They would be mad to stay - for Suffolk is already on the move, and shall wreak havoc on any who are still present when he reaches Lincoln. I think all is now done, and we are safe."

He looks up as a Steward enters the offices with another letter, which he takes. Breaking the seal, he opens the paper, and Wriothesley stares at him, startled, as his face falls.

"What is it, my Lord?"

"It is not done." Cromwell says, suddenly sounding very, very tired, "It seems then, that we are also not safe."

My Lord Cromwell,

Forgive my poor writing, for I am in great haste to impart this news to you. In the ending of the rising in Lincolnshire, I fear that another rebellion has begun to form - but this time in Yorkshire.

I have it on good authority that the rising there is to be led by a well-born Lawyer, Mr Robert Aske, who already calls their rebellion a Pilgrimage, in order perhaps to disguise its intent. He is, I fear, a far more capable leader than those who were at the head of the rebels in Lincolnshire, and demands the highest standards of behaviour from those who have answered the call to his banner - which I am told bears the five wounds of Christ upon it.

They are keen to distance themselves from any suggestion that His Majesty is the focus of their discontent - instead placing all blame upon those who advise him, though the principal of these claimed malefactors would be you, my Lord, and Mr Rich, for your actions against the Religious Houses, and the practise of their Popish faith.

Where the Lincolnshire rebels were a gathering in haste, these are well organised and are well armed. I fear that his Grace's troops would not be even close to sufficient in numbers to meet them in the Field. For God's sake, my Lord, act quickly, for I am certain that, should this gathering move south, it shall grow only greater, and none shall stand against them.

T Legh.

Damn him. Cromwell thinks, furiously, for Legh has, once again, spouted only panic, and has said nothing of the demands of the mob. How is he to take this to the King? But then, the use of the term 'Pilgrimage' suggests an obvious religious slant, which means that their demands must reflect those of the Lincolnshire rebels.

Just when the dust was starting to settle, and he could return to that wretched investigation again…

"What is it? Another rebellion?" Rich skids to a halt at his desk. Cromwell does not answer, but the glance he gives, his eyes slowly rising to meet Rich's are answer enough, "God help us. What are we to tell the King?"

"Another rising?" Henry's voice is strident once more, as they face him with the news, "Another one? What is it with these people? Do they not see that I am acting in their interests?"

"It would appear not." Cromwell says, guardedly, "The Lawyer Aske is a capable orator, and his learned background is more than sufficient to convince the commons that he acts in their interests with the intent of convincing your Majesty that you have been ill advised and merely need to be…prompted…to remove that which they see as the impediment to your returning to previous policies and, I presume, re-submitting yourself to the authority of the Vicar of Rome."

It is a risk to make such a suggestion, but he is prepared to make it in order to keep his head on his neck. There is no possible way that Henry would accept that his actions have triggered such a response from his people - and the only person he shall blame is Cromwell. Best, then, to attempt to divert that back against Aske, and imply that the intention is to demand the one thing that the King shall not abide - submission to a higher human authority than his own. Beside him, Rich is silent, not daring to risk tangling up the careful web that Cromwell is weaving.

"And what of the rabble that follow him?" Henry snaps, still fuming.

"It…er…it appears…" Cromwell struggles to find words that will cast their actions in a bad light, and fails, "…it appears that Aske is demanding that they swear a binding oath against their eternal damnation that they shall behave properly - I understand, however, that not all are doing so…"

"He's demanding oaths from them? Damn him! Damn his soul to hell! It is my prerogative to demand oaths from my subjects, not some damned common lawyer! God help him, for I shall see him pay for his damned bloody presumption!" It seems that he has not needed to cast the taking of oaths in a bad light - for Henry has seen the act itself as a usurpation of his royal prerogative.

Obviously raging, Henry waves the two away, "Send in Norfolk! And Shrewsbury! I refuse to grant any quarter to these damned rebels, they are not pilgrims - they are rebels! Rebels, damn them!"

He is still shouting as they depart. Cromwell knows, without having to look, that Rich is trembling, still unused to being the focus of a true rage from his King. Being regularly in the King's sights, Cromwell has no such concerns - and instead is more interested in maintaining their collective safety. He knows, from seeing it happen to others, that the King's rage can, if not managed carefully, lead on to incarceration and death. He has no intention, none whatsoever, to stand upon a scaffold.

As October draws to a close, however, Cromwell feels a sense of cold nerves that his determination to keep himself from the block might not be enough. Pontefract Castle - a royal garrison - has now fallen to the rebels. That it was in no state to withstand a siege even for so much as a day is immaterial. It is a royal holding, and it is now in Aske's hands. More than anything else, it is a real coup for the so-called Pilgrims - and his only hope is that the King shall continue to view their actions as a foul rebellion. Otherwise, he might well decide that they are right in their claim that he has been ill advised, and ill led…

Irked, he snuffs out the last of the candles in the office chambers. It is late, and time he was abed.

Elsewhere in the Palace, one candle still burns, "Alack, alack!" Kat declaims grandly as she nestles beside Rich, "For the Church sake, poor commons wake, and no marvel! For clear it is, the decay of this, how the poor shall miss."

He groans, "Do you have to read that doggerel?"

"Of course I do," she smiles at him, "Is it not amusing?"

"Courtesy of the displaced Monks of Sawley Abbey, if Layton is to be believed."

"I like this verse," she smiles, "Crim, Cram and Rich, with three 'L' and the lich, as some men teach. God them amend! And that Aske may, without delay, here make a stay and well to end! You are famous, Richie!"

"Infamous, more like." He grumbles, "It seems there is no end to their inventiveness."

"Perhaps you should give them their skull back."

He does not laugh, and she realises then that he is afraid, "What if the King hears their pleas, Kat?" He asks, "They have Pontefract - and they are more numerous than an ants nest - we do not have the troops to meet them in open combat. They see us - Cromwell and I - as the cause of all their ills, and they demand reparations."

"His Majesty's pride would never permit him to give in to the requirements of the commons, Richie - you know that." She sets the paper aside and lies closer to him, "And if they tried, I would scare them away by removing my veil."

This time he smiles, "I believe you would, too." Reaching out from the bed, he pinches out the candle, and then reaches for her.

The canvas of the tent flaps maddeningly in the autumn wind that ushers the last of the sodden leaves to depart from the trees and carpet the equally sodden earth. Seated in a chair that must be placed upon a wooden board in order not to sink into the wet ground, Thomas Howard, third Duke of Norfolk, reads troop manifests and scowls viciously. Opposite, Shrewsbury sighs inwardly, and waits for the inevitable comment.

"We have nowhere near enough troops to meet this rabble in the field."

"I agree," he admits, "at the last count, we had eight thousand men. They are at least five times that number."

They are still just to the north east of Nottingham, but with the Pilgrimage - as Aske insists upon calling it - soon to resume its southward march, they are likely to meet in the vicinity of Doncaster, and it is there that Norfolk hopes to not only find some means of stalling the rebellion, but also - if he can - undermine that damned raven Cromwell.

He has many reasons for hating the man - but mostly his base birth. To one as high-born as a Howard, the presence of a gutter-born Putney upstart with no noble blood is an affront; that Cromwell was so entirely involved in the downfall of his relatives is merely another reason to despise him. To bring him down, and thoroughly re-establish the primacy of the nobility over the commons would be the greatest of satisfactions.

That the policies he has implemented are the King's is of no interest - for the people blame Cromwell, and his almost as low-born cohort, Rich. If he, Howard, can ensure that the blame is kept there, and personally bring about the end of this insurrection, then they would be but one step from the Tower, and probably the block. A message of the strongest form that men such as they are not suitable creatures to be present in the highest Government of England.

Shrewsbury stares at Norfolk, bemused at the sudden change of expression from annoyance to a sense of anticipation, "What is upon your thoughts, your Grace?"

"Consequences, Shrewsbury." Howard says, "Only consequences."

"How are we to meet the rebels, then?"

"I have written to the King," he advises, "My letter advises that we are vastly outnumbered, and our only option is to negotiate. I think, with care, we may be able to turn matters to our advantage - for as far as I can tell, Aske has no interest in warfare. He is, after all a lawyer, not a soldier. Thus we make pretence that we are in sympathy with their demands, and suggest that they put them directly to the King. I have no doubt that he shall see where we are taking this - and act accordingly."

Shrewsbury nods, "You believe his Majesty shall use this to play for time, then?"

"I do. And, in that time, if we be fortunate, Aske's control of his rabble shall begin to falter - and so we shall be more in a position to crush them."

The King sits silently as Cromwell reads the letter to him. He broods for a while, "What do you suggest, Mr Cromwell?"

Cromwell wants, most heartily, to find some means of casting the words in the worst possible light - for his own survival rather depends upon it, but Howard has been wily, and he has no means of doing so, "I think we should do as his Grace suggests, Majesty."

"You do? You suggest that I parlay with these bastards?" the King's tone is dangerous.

"As his Grace advises, we do not have sufficient troops to meet Aske's insurrectionists in open battle, for they outnumber ours by a considerable margin. That said, with such numbers under his command, Aske has no military experience, and thus may well not understand the necessary logistical requirements of an army of that size - or the disciplinary requirements. The longer that they are obliged to wait, the more likely he is to lose control of them."

Henry nods, for he was almost certainly expecting Cromwell to try to shift blame, or find some criticism, "In that case, draft a letter for my signature outlining to Norfolk that he is to entreat with the rebels as he suggests, and to make their demands known to me. Once we know what they are, we shall be more able to act. He is ordered to do whatever he must in order to end this rebellion. He is, however, to make no promises upon my behalf. Is that clear?" he indicates that Cromwell leave to get on with the work.

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell nods, bows and departs.

"He has agreed to it." Norfolk advises Shrewsbury. They have now exchanged the draughty tents for a small manor that they have commandeered, "I shall ride out to meet Aske in two days, and so we shall see if we can commence his undoing."

Shrewsbury nods, and wonders if, in terms of 'undoing', Norfolk means Aske or Cromwell.

Majesty,

On 27 of the Month October, I met with the leader of the Rebels, Mr Robert Aske upon Doncaster Bridge. I dissembled and claimed to be in sympathy with said rebellion, and offered suggestions that your Majesty might also be amenable to his requirements. In return for the dispatch of the rebels back to their shires, I have offered to escort - with all due promises of safety - a deputation of those who call themselves 'Pilgrims' to London to directly petition your Majesty.

It is hoped that we shall arrive in London by the second week of November. While I have been obliged to make promises to the rebels, be assured that I do not intend to keep any of them.

Norfolk

Cromwell sets the letter down and waits for the King's response.

"So, they are coming, then." Henry glowers.

"Yes, Majesty."

"Despite my explicit orders, Norfolk made promises with them."

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell pauses; with the threat as it is, petty politics will only reflect badly upon him once the dust has settled, "You did, however, order him to do what was necessary to end this insurrection. Perhaps this was the only option he saw open to him." He sees the King tense, and fights with himself not to flinch away from the expected blow.

Instead, Henry lets out a furious breath, "In which case, I shall see these traitors, and listen to their importuning. I am not, however, pleased with Norfolk. Perhaps he is more sympathetic to these rebels than he makes himself out to be. His family is, after all, solidly Catholic in its outlook."

This time, Cromwell says nothing.

That Aske has not come south himself is no surprise, for none of the leaders of the Rebellion are fool enough to place themselves directly in the hands of a King from whom they have no true assurance of safety. Instead, lesser lieutenants stand together nervously before Henry, and his Privy Councillors in the great hall at Whitehall while the Court looks on.

"Well?" Henry demands of the nervous men, "Speak! Why have you risen against your lawful King in vile rebellion?"

Swallowing quite visibly, the unfortunate who has been deputed to be their Spokesman, Sir Ralph Ellerker, steps forward one pace, "We beg you, your Majesty - it is not against your good Grace that we have commenced our Pilgrimage - for we seek only that you be freed from the insidious influence of your Councillors…"

"Councillors whom I have personally appointed, Sir Ralph." The King reminds him, ominously, "Are you questioning my judgement?"

"No, great Majesty, not at all…I assure your Majesty…" he stammers desperately, "we are your true and loyal subjects."

Rather than show any further temper, however, Henry sits back in his seat, "Of that, Sir Ralph, I have no doubt. For what King does not listen to the needs of his loyal people?"

Ellerker stares at him, startled at the sudden change in tone. Ignoring his confusion, Henry continues, "It is not my wish that my people endure hardship or discontent. Thus I tell you that I shall hear your petition - we shall meet in my Privy Chamber this afternoon."

The men exchange hopeful glances. Standing nearby, watching them, Cromwell knows that they have been fooled.

Norfolk,

The rebels are to be escorted back to the North with best haste. I require them to clarify certain points in their petition - and thus have suggested that Aske and his leaders submit their demands clearly and in writing. In the meantime, as before, I order you to do what you must to end the rebellion by whatever means you consider to be necessary. At the first opportunity, you shall crush them.

HR

His expression wolfish, Norfolk crumples the rough paper upon which the missive has been scrawled in the King's own handwriting, and drops it in the fire.