CHAPTER EIGHT

A Twitchy Summer

Now that Red Fire has finally been found - with absolutely no assistance from me - my dreadful tension is gone, despite the presence of Lamashtu at the court. She rarely shows herself in the presence of the King, for reasons we cannot fathom - and even Wyatt cannot determine where she hides during her periods of absence. All of his usual sources speculate endlessly, their ideas becoming wilder and more foolish with each passing day, but none can say for certain. Perhaps I should now be experiencing the same nerve-shredding worry about this - but the discovery of the second jewel, and my understanding of that which drove me to near-despair, seems to have quelled it.

Instead, I consult with Wolsey - who has confirmed that the blessing he bestowed upon the Queen remains intact; but we agree, once he has roundly insulted me for my foolish over-worry about the jewel, that he shall remain prepared to speak it again should the need arise. If nothing else, the child is protected for the moment. Our primary concern now is to ensure that Lamashtu does nothing precipitate in person.

To that end, Cromwell is spending as much time as he can in the King's presence. He is careful to ensure that he is no more obviously present than usual - as Wyatt has mentioned to him that his meeting with Chapuys was not as discreet as he had assumed, and he has no wish to give the impression that he is keeping watch upon the King for reasons of a treacherous nature.

"That concerns me greatly," Cromwell admits to me, as we depart from the offices to another meeting of the Privy Council, "I appear to have become complacent - and that, I cannot afford to be."

"But you know of it now, Thomas." I remind him, "And thus you can be more careful."

He shakes his head, "I think there is too much risk to meet Chapuys again. He knows the same, and I suspect that he has already begun to settle his affairs in England. In all honesty, I cannot see his Majesty relenting while Campofregoso remains at court. Nothing that he does seems to do anything other than make the king more pleased - though I am wondering if his presence at Council meetings has palled, for he has not attended the last two."

"Given how little we seem to be achieving at present, Thomas," I admit, "I could not blame him - for I should be happy to miss them too."

As expected, Campofregoso is indeed no longer present, but the King's mood seems very strange. He eyes us all with a most unsettling gaze, though Cromwell in particular. Discussions are, for once, sensible, and we make some progress with the bills that Cromwell intends to introduce in Parliament shortly. They are largely inoffensive, and are aimed very much at bettering the lot of the ordinary people, as there are reforms to the system of taxation that places more strength upon ensuring that none pay more than they can afford. Had he been able to, he would almost certainly have included Peers - but he cannot afford to increase their enmity even further, and so he explains that the tax burden upon them remains the same as the requirements of old: to furnish the King with an army in times of War.

"And how shall this affect my exchequer?" the King asks, in almost hostile tones.

"I anticipate that the gains to the exchequer in terms of more efficient collection of taxes should be significant, Majesty." Cromwell says, at once, "I have some initial projected calculations, if you wish to see them." If he is unnerved by the King's mood, he does not show it; an inscrutable façade concealing any emotion that might display weakness to the predatory Lords around him.

The King snorts, derisively, and waves his hand dismissively. I exchange a confused glance with Wyatt, who sits opposite me, does the King not believe Cromwell? I have never seen such a thing before, and neither has he.

By the end of the meeting, the King's behaviour has not changed, and as we rise, dismissed, Cromwell stays at the table when all others have departed. His carefully constructed veneer has dropped away: he is pale, and his expression is worried, "I am losing his patience, Richie," He says, tensely, "He has refused to see me twice, now - and gives no reason for his refusals."

Wyatt and I exchange another nervous glance; without the King's favour, Cromwell is largely helpless against the enmity of the great Lords - who would destroy him without hesitation. Of all the times for such a thing to happen…

"Could this be the work of Lamashtu?" Wyatt asks, as I open my mouth to ask exactly the same.

"I cannot see how," Cromwell shakes his head, "If she were in sufficient favour, then we should know it - for the Queen's ladies would see and comment - and so Lady Rochford would have told us."

Strangely, that afternoon, the King demands Cromwell's presence - and their meeting is as cordial as ever, which confuses him all the more when he returns to the offices. Despite his remarkable ability to read people, he cannot understand why the King is dismissive of him at some times, but not others. We all know that the King's moods have been unpredictable and volatile ever since his jousting accident two years ago, so reading them has always been highly challenging; but he seems far harder to understand now than he has ever been, and none of us can fathom the reason why.

Matters continue in this vein as June passes - and brings with it a dreadful heat almost akin to that which drove us all to near-madness the previous summer. Once more, the King's temper becomes dangerous, and all speak with great care in his presence, for fear of provoking it. His leg also begins to flame, and the reek of his ulcer - always unpleasant these days - becomes utterly horrible in the confined space of the Council chamber. All at the table know that an explosion is imminent, and all equally hope that, when it comes, it shall not be directed at them. I think we already know, however, who shall be its target; and we are correct.

The heat is dreadfully oppressive as we gather for yet another meeting at which none wish to be present. We are all mopping at our faces with kerchiefs, for we are obliged to dress formally, and I know that I am most uncomfortable in my padded doublet, encased in a simarre that would otherwise be draped over the back of my chair in the offices. Indeed, such is my discomfort that I feel rather unwell.

As the King enters, he is limping visibly; always a worrisome sign, and the stench of his leg is almost palpable. He has an expression like thunder, and slaps his groom away as the youth inoffensively does nothing more than set a silver flagon and goblet down on the table beside him.

It is impossible to avoid speaking nervously - and our discussions are remarkably free of dissension, as the King's expression continues to darken like a thundercloud. The matter of funding for roads rises again - but this time might even be resolved, so fearful is everyone of arguing in the presence of such a furious monarch. It is, however, the mere mention of the topic that finally ignites the thunderbolt.

"God above, Charles!" he shouts, suddenly, glaring angrily at Suffolk, who has committed no crime other than to raise the subject, which was planned to be discussed anyway, "Are you truly so useless that you cannot even agree something as simple as this? How many months has this dragged on?" Rather than give Suffolk the opportunity to reply, his comments degenerate into a string of invective that is quite shocking, particularly against the man who is one of his closest friends. He attempts to rise as he speaks, and loses his balance - falling against the nearest man at the table: Cromwell.

And thus his temper fails utterly - for to show such infirmity is more than a man of his pride can bear. Snatching at Cromwell's simarre, he pulls his Lord Chancellor out of his seat and deals him such a blow that he staggers back against the panelling of the wall. From that moment, the King loses all restraint, and begins to throw more and more punches at Cromwell, who can do nothing but attempt to protect himself with his arms - he does not dare to attempt to restrain his attacker.

"Majesty!" Suffolk shouts, frantically - God above, is he trying to kill the Lord Chancellor? "Majesty - in God's name!" No one else dares to speak - though I have no doubt that those who despise Cromwell are hoping that the King will not stop, or that, if he does, he shall demand that his Chancellor be taken forthwith to the Tower.

The King is shouting as he continues to batter away at the man that is now at his feet - though his words are jumbled and make no sense, such is his rage - except for the word 'Traitor', that seems to feature with fearsome regularity. He shows no sign of stopping, until he reaches round for his stick - God have mercy, is he going to use that?

Suffolk takes the moment to rush forth and grasp the King's arm, "For the love of God, Majesty! Not your stick!"

For the briefest of moments, we are all frozen in horror - will his Majesty now strike Suffolk? But instead, he seems to come to his senses, and begins to almost visibly calm himself; though his expression is not contrite - not, at least, for Cromwell, who is still on the ground. Without another word, he takes the stick, grips Suffolk's arm tightly for a moment - as though in apology for his rudeness - and limps out, his groom hurrying behind him, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.

I know that, despite their enmity for Cromwell, all the Councillors are shocked at such a display of violence, and none speak as they depart from the room. Only Suffolk and - oddly - Hertford remain, and they assist us as we help Cromwell back to his feet and seat him in a chair. I have never seen him so battered, not even after a fight with a ravener. He is dishevelled, his simarre torn. His lip has burst again, and his left eye is bloodshot, the skin about the eye starting to swell, while one of the King's rings has left a deep gouge in his left cheek. I can only imagine the bruising that shall start to grow upon the rest of his body, for that we cannot see. If we are shocked, this is nothing compared to the look of utter disbelief upon Cromwell's face - for, no matter how many times the King has struck him, he has never before assaulted him with such violence.

"Return him to his quarters." Suffolk suggests, "His injuries require attention, I think."

"I shall, your Grace." I agree, "God, let this heat disperse soon - for what else could have caused the King to behave so?"

"Yes indeed." Hertford murmurs with an unnervingly loaded tone, "What else?"

It takes all I have in me not to turn and stare at him; it is nothing short of a blatant suggestion that the King has turned upon his Lord Chancellor. God help us - that must not happen, or all are lost…

Cromwell has said not a word as I have escorted him back to his chambers, and William has tended to his injuries. Even over a restorative cup of wine, he seems too shocked to speak, and I wonder what on earth I can say to him that might be of use. While the weather, and the ghastly reek from the King's suppurating ulcer explains his temper, it does not offer any reason for the degree of violence he used in his attack. Doubtless the entire incident is all over the Court by now - and probably with additional embellishments, too. For the first time, however, Cromwell cannot seem to let it pass, and instead stares morbidly at the fireplace, lost in thought.

Wyatt has spent much of the rest of the day circulating to assess the rumours, and joins us as the light of the day begins to fade. In all that time, we have not spoken to one another, and Cromwell has not lifted his gaze from the empty fireplace.

"The Court is all a-buzzing like a kicked hive with this." He admits, quietly, "For the King to have behaved so is unprecedented. He has beaten servants to this degree before - but never anyone higher in importance. His leg, however, has become congested again, and the doctors are with him now; so most are attributing his behaviour to that."

"He called me a traitor." Cromwell says, suddenly; his voice very low - the first words he has spoken since the King struck him. Of all the insults that the King could throw at him, that is - in his mind - the cruellest, and I can see that the word has pained him. Despite his faults, despite the enmity of the grand Lords about him for his base birth, the one thing that has always been unimpeachable is Cromwell's absolute loyalty to the King. Even Gardiner cannot deny it - though he is certain to claim otherwise.

"When his temper has calmed, Thomas," Wyatt says, "He shall see otherwise - even if he cannot admit to it, and will not seek your forgiveness, he shall still see it."

I am not surprised when, the following morning, Cromwell does not appear in the offices. Given that his bruising must be far worse by now, he has no wish to set the clerks to staring at him, so instead he remains in his apartments, and sends a steward to the offices to ask Wriothesley to dispatch some papers to him. Thus it is the Secretary and I who receive the news that we were expecting, but is always still a surprise: the King is to remove to Hampton Court. It is - officially - summer.

The hot weather continues without respite as the court removes to Hampton - so much so that the King and his family intend to undertake the transfer by water in hopes that the river might offer some coolness in comparison to those of us who must travel on appallingly dusty tracks that have seen no rain for at least a month. We of the offices are, as always, amongst the first to make the move, with the clerks travelling in a covered wagon that must be dreadful, as it bounces horribly over hardened ruts that crumble into drops, while they swelter and grow covered in dust.

It is not much better for those of us who ride. Freed from the requirement for formality, Cromwell and I have abandoned even our doublets, and ride in our shirtsleeves like a pair of peasants, grateful for the shade of the trees that line the track. The flies are horrible, however, and I am heartily sick of waving them away from my face as we reach the inn that we plan to stop at to dine. The wagon is already there, though most of the youths within are too sickened by the bumping ride they have endured to consider eating. That said, the heat has killed my appetite as well, and not even a mug of ale chilled in a cold cellar seems to inspire it.

The inn is set close to the river, however, so those who are not sitting in the shade groaning from their nausea are seated at the banks, or even wading up to their knees in the cool water - free here from the foul effluvium of endless London drains and cesspools. I envy them, though Cromwell merely fetches out a kerchief, soaks it in the water and drapes it over the back of his neck. His look of relief is such that I copy him, and we must make quite a sight, improperly dressed as we are, the backs of our necks drenched in water and slumped in the shade of a nearby tree.

I am not sure whether to be relieved or dismayed as the skies darken during the afternoon, as we are still an hour's ride from Hampton Court. Despite the clouds being before us, the wind comes at us from behind, and Cromwell is looking concerned, "I suspect that it is a large thunderstorm, Richie," he advises, "the wind is blowing towards it, which is never a good sign." We immediately urge our horses to a trot, as unlike the clerks, we have no shelter at all: they can roll down the sides of the wagon.

By the time the roofs of the palace are visible, we are riding the horses at a brisk canter; for we dare not risk a gallop for fear of exhausting Clement and Adrian. Thunder is now rumbling with worrying regularity, and I have seen fingers of lightning now and again - though fortunately far away from us. Then Cromwell curses, and turns to me, "We must be quick if we are to avoid a soaking." He points ahead, and I can see that there is a curtain of rain that conceals all behind it: it is now a race.

We are in luck - the first drops are falling just as we enter the stable block, and we are able to retrieve our rolled cloaks and doublets, along with the saddlebags containing our weapons, before the drops become the torrent we saw in the distance. I do not yet know where I am to rest my head, so I do not wish to be drenched without any means of changing my clothes.

Most of the court is either still at Placentia, or travelling. I suspect that those who can do so shall already be seeking shelter at the places they had chosen to stop for the night - as there are plenty of inns. Most do not make the journey in a single day, as we have.

Despite the dreadful roar of falling water, punctuated with vivid lightning and violent claps of thunder, it is impossible to not feel relief, for the air is already cooling, and we make our way to the one office that is open; that of the Household department. Mr Cheeseman is not surprised that we are the first to arrive, and advises us of the apartments we have been assigned. As I dispatched John yesterday to make arrangements for my arrival, as Cromwell did with William - most have sent their servants in advance - all we are required to do is make our way to our new accommodation.

With so few present, other than servants, William has already made arrangements for us to sup, and I am deeply grateful that he has - for having eaten nothing earlier in the day, I am - naturally - ravenous. Wyatt has not yet made the journey, so Cromwell and I sup alone. As it has been nearly two weeks since the King beat him, his bruises are fading now - though some are still quite livid - and he has recovered his equilibrium, as there have been no further incidents to give him cause for concern. Henry seems to have forgotten his accusations of treachery, and demands his Chancellor's counsel as regularly as always - though he effects to not notice the obvious injuries upon Cromwell's face.

It is still raining, though the storm seems to have abated, and Cromwell is looking out of his window as I arrive. He is more fortunate than I, for, once again, my window looks out upon the bricks of an opposite wall. His, however, looks out across to the river, and he has an excellent view of the rain, "I am glad to see this rain, Richie. I was becoming concerned that the harvest would be parched in the fields." As always, when he is not thinking of demons, he is thinking about keeping the Kingdom safe from chaos. All I have to concern myself with is the need to find out how to use a pair of jewels, and I find myself feeling deeply embarrassed at my ridiculous behaviour in the period before Easter.

The rain continues into the evening, and is still falling when I wake the next day. And the next. Those who have been obliged to travel on horseback are arriving hideously wet, and there is much envy for those who have travelled in carriages or - as the King and Queen have, on a covered barge. By the time all have made the journey to Hampton Court, we are heartily sick of the rain - but still it falls, utterly unconcerned at our annoyance. It is as though that storm had heralded God's wrath, and a new flood is upon us. Forty days and forty nights of rain? Lord, that would not be welcome. Now Cromwell is worrying that the harvest shall fail for excess of water, not lack of it, and he sits down with Wriothesley to discuss measures for the relief of the poor should there indeed be a failure.

"One of the Cardinal's most worthwhile measures was to purchase large stocks of grain," he explains to me later at supper, "He would then store them and release them at prices that the poor could afford - the first to suffer when a harvest fails are those who cannot meet the prices that are levied by those who wish to gouge the market. I have not been obliged to institute this measure before - but I think we may need to if this rain does not let up."

"Do you think the Council might block it?" I ask, "It seems mad to think that they would - but they seem to oppose any measure you introduce almost upon principle these days."

"Most would not, I think." He admits, "Certainly Suffolk would agree to it, and I do not doubt that he would donate from his own income to support it, as would several of the others - even though they despise me, they would not wish to appear so utterly cruel. There is one, however, who I am sure would speak against my measures."

"Gardiner." I say - it is not a question.

"We may not need to do anything, Richie," He sighs, "If the rain stops soon, then all might still be well."

It might be well within the court, too - for the King is becoming ever more bad tempered. He can no longer sport in the tennis court, and with hunting and riding out of the question in such endless wet, he has no outlet for his energies. Even Campofregoso's endless gift-giving is beginning to pall with him - an astonishing thing - though the Ambassador himself seems as much in favour as ever. Perhaps it is Cromwell's presence with the King, and the Rosary he wears, but Lamashtu does not seem to have made the journey to Hampton Court. Given that she is only on the other side of the river, however, it is no difficulty for her to reach us at speed should she so wish it. Her absence is both a relief and a worry. While I do not want her here, at least I can see what she is doing if she is.

With Chapuys still persona non grata at Court, news of the doings of the Holy Roman Emperor is patchy at best. Reports are received from spies - some reporting to Cromwell, others apparently reporting to Campofregoso - but they contradict one another, for those who report to Cromwell advise that Charles is holding back, while those beholden to Campofregoso insist that he is increasing in aggression. Without Chapuys there to offer a direct conduit to the Emperor, it is impossible to say whose reports are correct. As Henry is, as always, bellicose in outlook, he prefers to hear stories of aggression, and is always keen to hear more suggestions that Charles is pressing for war. Those reports that are received suggesting otherwise are largely ignored - including, Cromwell reveals to me, those which are coming from spies engaged by the House. Their reports are absolutely unimpeachable, for they are loyal entirely to the High and the Silver Swords over whom he watches: not to any Princes or Lordlings with agendas of their own.

As July drags on, there are few days where rain does not fall, and the risk to the harvest is now so great that decisions must be made for the safety of the kingdom. Having already made plans, worked out costs and projected how beneficial those plans shall be, Cromwell is easily able to set out his intended protocols for the relief of the poor should the harvest fail. As he has Wolsey's example to build upon, the idea is not new - though when Gardiner makes his expected objection, he behaves as though it has never been done before.

"So you suggest that the power of prayer is not sufficient?" He asks, obtusely, "Truly this is now a matter of faith - for it is trust in God that shall bring the harvest home, not such measures as this!"

It seems ridiculous that he should object to such a plan, and on such grounds; but Gardiner seems fiercely determined to portray Cromwell as a faithless heretic and, from there on, a traitor - almost to the exclusion of all else, including sensible pragmatism. To object to something so worthwhile draws raised eyebrows even from Cromwell's worst enemies, for even they can see the merits in the plan.

"Should we not use the gifts that God gave us, your Grace?" Cromwell asks, completely calmly, "For has He not blessed us with the wealth, and the wisdom, to seek to ensure succour for those who might be harmed by the failure of the harvest - should it happen? Is it not better to prepare for the worst, only to find that we have not needed to, than to presume the best, and find ourselves helpless in the face of calamity? Would God not expect that of us as true Christian men?"

It is such a ridiculous argument - for even the most devout layman at the table: Suffolk himself, considers Cromwell's plan to be wise. All know that the Bishop is merely being contrary, and seems to have set aside his perspective in his determination to paint the Lord Chancellor as a treacherous heretic. My only disappointment is that the King is not present to witness this idiocy on Gardiner's part.

The Council, it appears, agree with my assessment, and approve the plan. As there is no need to enact it at once, there is still time for the weather to improve - but why should the poorest of the nation suffer over a Bishop's desire to appear more pious than a Chancellor? Gardiner, however, merely wears a vicious scowl upon his pinched face, and leaves the meeting as soon as it is over. Suffolk looks across at us, sighs visibly and shakes his head as he gathers his papers to depart.

Before the end of the afternoon, Cromwell and Wriothesley have, between them, prepared the necessary papers and warrants for the purchase of grain should the harvest be likely to fail. They shall not need to be dispatched yet - but if the weather does not improve, and very soon, we shall have to act. Starvation brings discontent, and discontent brings rebellion. Rebellion, it need not be said, brings chaos; and that, above all, must be averted.

"What do we do now, Sir?" Daniel asks, as he gathers the papers into a coffer in preparation for their dispatch.

Cromwell sighs, "Pray for the sun."

The weather is still poor, and every Mass that we attend includes a prayer that the rain might stop. Even though continued wet would prove that Cromwell's plans were wise, none of us wish to see that happen - for it would be better to have a good harvest, or at least a reasonable harvest, than to enact measures to save us from a bad one.

Still trapped indoors, the King's temper is volatile again, and we all bear the brunt of it, though none more so than Cromwell, who endures dreadful insults without so much as a flicker of a response. How he can stand such rudeness, I cannot imagine - for he does nothing to earn it; Henry requires a whipping boy, and his common-born Chancellor is that unfortunate individual.

As I am almost never with him when he meets with the King privately, I rarely see how his Majesty behaves - and certainly not when he has been so ill-tempered for so long. Today, however, Cromwell has decided that, regardless of whether or not the rain ends, he shall enact the procedures that he has laid down in the event of the harvest failing, and, as I shall draft the final warrant to enact the plan, I have come with him to seek the King's consent.

"Gardiner claims you have no faith." Henry says, as Cromwell finishes his opening preamble.

"His Grace is entitled to his view of me, Majesty," Cromwell says, gravely, "we both desire the same end - the safety of the harvest. I must, however, view practical measures should the harvest fail. I should much rather the weather turned for the better."

Henry glares at him, as though he views Cromwell's carefully diplomatic answer as something entirely different. I feel a ghastly chill in the pit of my stomach - for it is clear that the King is keen eyed with spite. His leg is reeking again, and I suspect that this is the other reason for his temper.

"So Gardiner is a liar?"

Now, I shudder inside, for how can Cromwell answer this without suggesting that Gardiner is lying - or, worse, that the King is wrong to think so? It is a cruel trap to set; and, either way, it shall end in punishment - regardless of my presence.

"I…" Cromwell begins to speak, but is not permitted to. Instead, the King lashes out and slaps him violently across the face.

"Do not speak, you knave! Get you gone from my sight!" the King turns to me, and I instinctively flinch, "And you, Rich! Get to it and draft that bloody warrant!" then he turns on his heel and limps away as fast as his stinking leg will permit.

Our return to the offices is much slower than usual. I think perhaps that Cromwell is not happy that I have witnessed how the King can treat him when the Council is not present. I had no idea that there were times when Henry would trap him into an impossible position - and strike him for whatever answer he gave.

"He does not behave in such fashion often, Richie." Cromwell says, quietly, "His leg is bothering him again - and his temper is short."

"But even so, Thomas…"

"It is the way that it is, Richie." He sighs, "I am used to it - I grew up with it. My father was a brutal man who drank heavily and often - and was free both with his fists and his belt. We were all fearful of him when in drink, or in a temper, and it was to be endured - for to whom could I complain? None would have taken my part against my own father. The Pater Familias is master of all in the household, and his word is law. For my part, when I became a husband and father, I swore to myself that my children should not know such fear - and even though only one child remains, he knows the security of a father's love - of which I only became aware as I grew to trust Cardinal Wolsey, who viewed me as the true-born son he never had."

And now he must endure it from his King. Another Pater Familias who takes pleasure in his pain. Yet still, he is loyal unto death. He smiles, bleakly, as though he has heard my thoughts, "I begrudge the King nothing, Richie; his safety, and that of his family, is all that concerns me: for the welfare of the Kingdom depends upon it. The Mission is All - and shall remain so until Lamashtu is destroyed, or I am dead." Then he stops.

"What?"

He points at the floor, "Look."

For the first time in weeks, a shaft of sunlight is being cast across the wooden floor of the corridor through one of the lancet windows. Almost like a child eager for the first glimpse of winter snows, I am at the glass, peering out in the hopes that this is not some fleeting sunbeam - and I am filled with a sense of relief, for the sky is clearing, and perhaps today might be dry. The first fully dry day since that storm that almost washed us into Hampton Court.

The day continues fair, and the air begins to grow a little warmer as the sun continues to shine. The sunset that evening is a rich red and gold - a sign of hope that perhaps our prayers are being answered after all - though with a mere few weeks before the first signs of autumn appear, there is still no certainty that the sun has returned in time to save the harvest. I have, therefore, drafted the warrant to implement Cromwell's plans to avoid the grain prices being gouged.

The week ends with no sign of rain, though the ground remains saturated, and the King returns from his rides and hunts spattered with mud. Gardiner shoots smug glances at Cromwell, who ignores them. Then, as the month ends, he stops dead as we are returning to his apartments for supper.

"What?" Wyatt asks.

"Ichor." Cromwell sighs, "We must recommence our hunts."

Queen Jane is disappointed that our grace period has ended, though she does enjoy hearing of our exploits when demons are being fought. We have met only rarely during the summer - partly because there have been no demons present, even Lamashtu herself making only occasional visits, and partly because the opportunities to meet with the Queen have been limited. Being with child again, she finds it much harder to dismiss her ladies, for people tend to notice such things in her current state, and comment upon it.

Tonight, however, she has dismissed all but Jonathan and Lady Rochford, but as Mary has insisted on being present, this has helped her to do so. Mary knows our deeds as much as her Stepmother, and the ending of her hostility towards us has made her keen to keep our secret as much as any.

"Signor Campofregoso has presented his Majesty with another fine new charger." Jane reports, a little tiredly, "It has, I must admit, pleased his grooms very much, for none of them have come through the summer without at least one beating. Some as bad as that which you received, my Lord Chancellor." She was as shocked as everyone else by the news of that incident.

"It would appear that Lady Sofre has not returned to Court, Majesty." I add, "Though I believe she has been seen now and again; I think perhaps she is merely observing matters, for the presence of the Royal Rosary is repellent to her - and it is also possible that her banishment from here by Cardinal Wolsey still lingers somewhat."

"Then we must act?" Jane asks.

Cromwell shakes his head, "That, alas, is not something that we can do - for we do not yet know how to use the jewels - and even if we did, securing Red Fire would be something of a challenge." Despite everything, she cannot help but chuckle - for he is right. The King is immensely enamoured of his gift from Suffolk, "He loves it greatly," she says, "for he is fond of the colour red. He has not, however, noticed its flaming heart."

"He has not?" I find this astonishing.

"It is not easy to see, Sir Richard." She explains, "The jewel must be held very carefully - at just the right angle, so that it catches the light in a certain way. The flame is hard to find: that is why it took me three days to be able to confirm to you that the ruby was, indeed, Red Fire."

Mary's concern is, perhaps, less surprising. Despite his best efforts, Cromwell has not been able to persuade the King to recall Chapuys to court. The practicalities of doing so seem lost on Henry - and the fact that Campofregoso is even able to interfere in the intelligence that is being gathered has muddied everything considerably.

"Forgive me, my Lady," he sighs, "I have tried all measures that I can think of. His Majesty will not countenance the return of the Imperial Ambassador to court, and I cannot risk asking again."

"You have done your best, my Lord." Jane agrees, for it is clear that Mary is disappointed and intends to ask him to keep trying, "We cannot risk your safety - not when there is so much at stake."

With her stepmother's veto, Mary sighs, "Thank you for trying, my Lord Chancellor. I shall dispatch a letter to him privately."

"I am sorry, my Lady - truly; for I know that it would be of benefit to us all if we could speak to one close to the Emperor. I do not think that he is as keen to go to war as we are being led to believe - but without the Ambassador to question, I cannot fight against the slew of ill reports that are being fed to his Majesty."

He does not need to name his suspected culprit.

We depart from our meeting with little progress other than to see that the Queen's pregnancy is progressing as it should. There are no raveners lurking, so we go our separate ways. As the sunset was fiery again, tomorrow should be set fair.

The letter that Cromwell has in his hands this morning is not encouraging. While the weather has improved magnificently, and the air is warm again; the ground is still rather waterlogged, so we are still at risk of a reduced harvest. Despite Gardiner's apparent smugness at the improved weather, we shall still need to take some steps, so I sign the warrant and hand it to Daniel, who prepares to dispatch the necessary orders to the Commissioners who have been tasked to undertake grain purchases.

As we reach the end of August, even Gardiner has to admit that he was only half right. The improved weather has perhaps saved around half of the available fields of wheat, so grain prices are set to soar. As we have already acted, however, the risk of merchants gouging their customers has been met, as Cromwell intends to ensure that the prices are kept as low as possible. Wolsey set the example, and he intends to follow it.

The news that disaster has been averted seems to bring a sense of relief to those of us in the Council, for the battles over it have verged upon the ridiculous, and shown only some pointless divisions that are an embarrassment to everyone when we should have been working together towards a common goal. How can they be so obsessed only with their rivalries? No wonder Cromwell is so keen to bring in Councillors who are appointed on merit alone. It is not something he discusses much - but I am aware of it, and I am beginning to think perhaps that he is right.

As we sit down to supper, however, Wyatt seems rather subdued, "There is something in the air," he admits, "I cannot pinpoint it - but something is brewing; people are wary, and that never bodes well, for there are factions forming again. I know that they are ever-present, but there are some odd alliances between them."

Cromwell and I are denied access to such circles, so if Wyatt is noticing something going on, we must trust his judgement - for he is rarely wrong. As he takes a sip of his wine, Cromwell turns to Wyatt, "Watch it carefully, Tom. If you sense trouble, then it must mean that there is indeed trouble in the air. Things are delicately balanced at the best of times - I have no wish to become embroiled in foolish infighting between the various retinues of our feuding Lords."

Wyatt nods, and our conversation turns to other matters.

The next morning, however, such thoughts are banished as we have greater priorities. A pipe has burst in the King's chambers, and he has abruptly decided to move. Thus we are to depart for Whitehall.