A/N: Dear History. I hope you're having a lovely time wherever you're hiding - please look away now.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Christmas Prince and the Winter Bride

In the two months that have passed since the Queen entered confinement, there has been a frenzy of wagering as to when the child shall come. All hope for a boy - as they would - though now there is less fear in wondering if the child might instead be a girl. The King, of course, has his expectations, so none speak aloud of a female child, for fear of tempting providence.

The Clerks have long since stopped avoiding me, for now that my beard is restored, I no longer scratch at it. We have all fallen back into that familiar pattern of work that maintains the Government of the Kingdom, and keeps the King from having to think too much about it.

Certainly Privy Council meetings are considerably less fraught. Gardiner's departure, coupled with Cromwell's affirmation of the King's favour, has reduced arguments based solely upon blood and birthrights to almost none. I doubt that Cromwell himself feels entirely safe - for he has experienced the terrifying fickleness of the King's favour and shall never trust it again - but those about him are quite certain that he could indeed now demand the hand of the Lady Mary from the King, and almost certainly receive it.

Relations with the Emperor have been restored, thanks to some very carefully worded diplomatic overtures that Cromwell spent a great deal of time composing. Eustace Chapuys, it seems, required some considerable persuading to return to England after the rather hasty departure he was obliged to make in the first days of autumn; but a rather desperate missive from the Lady Mary tipped the scales, and he has been back at Court now for a week or so, and the King has made much of him. So much so, it seems, that he is constantly wary, as though he expects someone to drive a blade into his back.

He has brought with him a number of proposals pertaining to the peace of our two Kingdoms in the face of the duplicity of France - including a proposal to wed the Lady Mary to His Serene Highness, the Infante Miguel da Paz of Portugal and Asturias, who stands to inherit the Crowns of Portugal, Castile, León and Aragon. There are many hopes attached to this young man, who almost died when but an infant, but who has survived to earn a whole cornucopia of compliments from all who have met him. Certainly Mary herself is most keen on the match - for all know how much she longs for a husband. Quite possibly as much as she longs to live in a completely Catholic realm, I suspect.

While no mention is made of Campofregoso, or his disappearance, there is still the issue of his deceit - for Henry despises being made to look a fool, and we are certain that he is eager to find some means of pretending that he knew of it all along. So far, however, he has not managed to find a sufficiently convincing scenario to release for the Court's consumption, and thus the matter rests. All know the story of his descent into madness - and the murder of two of his own servants before he threw himself upon his sword and ended his sorry life. None mourn him, and all about us claim that they had their suspicions from the moment he arrived. Of course they did.

Now that we have earned Hertford's trust, he is quite keen to keep us apprised of all that occurs in the Queen's apartments - for we are not able to approach her ourselves. At her insistence, I write short notes to tell her all our doings - though these are shorter than ever, for not even a ravener has entered the Court in the last three weeks or more, and our hunts seem now to be more like armed evening walks.

With Lamashtu gone, the only risk to the Queen now is from those that naturally accompany childbirth. There is no need for us to be present, which seems most strange to us after the rather desperate arrangements we were obliged to make at her last lying-in. We are surplus to requirements - and I am not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. Cromwell, on the other hand, must remain ready - for Hertford expects him to be present when he carries the news to the King.

Things being as they are, Cromwell cannot leave the Court for the festivities, though this is no difficulty for him as Gregory is now installed in apartments elsewhere in the palace, having begun work within the offices as a senior clerk. He shall, therefore, celebrate with us, along with his betrothed, for he has sought the hand of Elizabeth Seymour, the Queen's sister - and she has consented.

It is as we gather for the Midnight Mass that we discover the news, for the Queen is absent. As she would never, even if desperately ill, miss such a service, all know without needing to be told that her labour has commenced. As we celebrate the arrival of the Christ Child, the arrival of a Royal Child is under way. I doubt that many are truly able to concentrate upon the service - and the Court scatters as soon as it is over - none are likely to sleep tonight, for all wish to be amongst the first to know. It seems almost competitive.

"Come," Cromwell sighs, as he watches all about us gossiping about who is likely to find out about the birth before any other, "I doubt that we need to, but I should prefer to be ready. My apartments are closest - and even if nothing occurs, it shall be to me that a messenger shall come, so it is best that they find me quickly."

It is foolish, yes, but we have got so much into the habit of being prepared for infernal activity that it is almost impossible to set it aside. Thus we assemble, swords in hand, and settle down in Cromwell's chambers - waiting for news, taking it in turns to sleep.

Naturally, come the dawn, none of us have slept enough, all of us are stiff and our tempers are somewhat frayed. Dickon views us with amusement as he sets out a fine repast for us to break our fast this Christmas morn, "That shall be all, Dickon." Cromwell yawns, "Get yourself to Grant's Place, and to Molly - with our best wishes. We shall dine and sup in the Hall with the rampaging mob."

Despite the celebratory nature of the day - for it is, after all, Christmastide, the entire Court is tense with waiting for news from the Queen's apartments. We leave briefly to allow Cromwell's chambermaids to tidy and clear all, but we are not truly able to venture far, in case one of Hertford's retinue come in search of him to join the Earl in delivering the news of the birth. Lady Rochford is, very kindly, dispatching notes on an hourly basis, so we know more than most at Court do - but who knows for how long a labour might last?

Eventually, hunger drives us to the Hall, where an impressive array of victuals await all who wish to feast. The King is, naturally, not present, for he is closeted away - waiting for news of what he hopes desperately shall be a Duke of York. Thus, decorum is of less interest than might normally be the case, so we eat quickly, and depart as swiftly as we may. Even Wyatt, who has plenty of friends present, but prefers to wait it out with us. But then, we shall be amongst the first to know, and I imagine he would delight in standing at the gallery railings to shout out to all below if the child is indeed a Prince.

We return to Cromwell's apartments by the middle of the afternoon. The ribaldry in the Hall has become truly unendurable, as the noise of people all attempting to talk at once has long since drowned out the musicians, and conversation appears to consist largely of people claiming to be important enough to know before any other that the child is born. Lord above, I have never seen such ridiculous over-excitement. Even Queen Anne's first child did not excite such stupidity.

By suppertime, my lack of sleep has caught up with me, and I am rudely jolted awake from my slumbers by the sound of hammering upon Cromwell's door. I am slumped, rather awkwardly, across Cromwell's large table, having rested my head upon my arms at some point; but we are on our feet at once as Jonathan appears, his cheeks red from running, "My Lord Hertford asks you to join him in going to the King. For the Queen is safely delivered of another Son." He pants.

Being already dressed to enter the King's presence, Cromwell immediately leaves with the Page, while Wyatt turns to me, "Forgive me, Richard - but I cannot resist." And he is gone. I know full well that he intends to flee to the Hall, stand at the gallery railings and shout to all that it is a Prince. And they shall all hate him for it.

Being left to my own devices, I dawdle back to my own quarters, though I am most careful to keep my sword hidden beneath a cloak, grateful that the the weather is cold again. I do not expect to hear from anyone until the morning at the earliest, so as far as I am concerned, it is most definitely time for bed.

Three days have passed since Christmastide, and her Majesty, while still confined, shows no sign of infirmity or sickness following the birth of her second son. Lady Rochford reports to us that she is tired - obviously - but otherwise well, and the baptism shall take place as soon as Cranmer has returned from Canterbury, where he was celebrating with his congregation. Now that Gardiner has been banished from Court, there is no one to usurp the Archbishop's place - but he is diplomatic enough to ensure that the baptism shall serve the sensibilities of both Jane, who remains largely Catholic in her outlook, and Henry, who still sees himself ahead of the Pope.

His Majesty has determined that his second son shall be named after himself, so we gather in the Chapel Royal at Whitehall to welcome Henry, soon to be Duke of York, into the Church of England. Queen Jane carries her son, looking regal and far more well than she did when she accompanied Edward to his baptism, while I certainly look less of a fright, for I have not been obliged to attend this ceremony looking as though I have crashed into a wall.

The procession of Royals is augmented this year by another guest that would have been all but unthinkable even as little as a year ago, for the Lady Mary has now met her Fiancé, and that meeting could not have been more perfect if it had been scripted by Wyatt himself, for they were both enamoured almost as soon as they laid eyes upon each other, and he walks beside her as she follows her Father and Stepmother into the Chapel. Elizabeth follows behind her, while Lady Bryan assists the toddling Prince Edward. Any fears that he might grow bored have been forestalled by his Uncle, who has secured a new toy to keep him occupied.

The baptism passes without incident, which is just as well, for I note that Cromwell has not worn his doublet with the concealed pocket for a knife. Maybe I am too cautious - no, I am too cautious. The only great threat to the child in this Chapel is gone, and we are free of concerns of an infernal nature - even if only for this one day.

Little Prince Henry is the soul of quiet and peace as Cranmer baptises him, the order of service he uses being in both Latin and English - but then, the water is warmed, so the babe does not have to endure the shock of chill water upon his head. Two boys - two Princes to secure our Kingdom and a Princess set to seal a grand alliance between England and a great union of Spanish Kingdoms that shall create a balance of power, and hopefully maintain a long needed peace. Elizabeth is not yet betrothed to any - but with all set as it is, she is almost free to choose whom she will. In the meantime, however, her sister's wedding is set for early spring.

The celebrations in the Hall are, not surprisingly, lavish to the extreme. If he waited a long time for a Prince of Wales - though he is not yet invested as such - to have a Duke of York is almost more than the King could have hoped for, and he seems almost to have shed the infirmities that have made him so difficult for so long. We are not fool enough to think the effect permanent, but it is a relief to see him almost as lively as he was when he was younger - for has he not proved himself a true king, and a fertile man? He has done his duty to his Kingdom and secured the succession.

The dining and drinking continues for nearly two hours, before space in the centre of the Hall is cleared for dancing - and there shall be plenty of that, I am sure. But, before the musicians strike up, the King rises from his seat and calls for quiet.

"My Lords!" He calls, loudly, "Ladies of the Court! I thank you all for your celebrations and your joy at our Kingdom's great fortune. For as all know, it came close to being lost not half a year ago. The duplicity of France, and one renegade, would have pulled us all into the horror and chaos of a war that would have ruined this realm. I knew of it, as did some few of my Lords, and thus we sought to pull the teeth of this horrible conspiracy that was ranged against us."

I stare at him, bemused - what does he mean? He knew of it? None of us did…

And then I realise, this is his ruse to conceal his ignorance of the plot against him and pretend that instead he was fully aware of it. He must claim to know that Campofregoso meant the realm harm, but how can he explain Cromwell's arrest?

"To do so required the stealth of a Duke, and an Earl - and the bravery of three of my Privy Councillors, who allowed themselves to face ignominy, suspicion and false accusations for the sake of their Kingdom, and their King. Between us, we destroyed the danger, and thus I wish to bestow honours today, to recognise their courage."

God above - he means us, he must mean us. What is he going to do? I look across at Wyatt, who is staring back at me in confusion.

Rising from his chair behind the high table, the King limps around to the front of the dais and seats himself in another chair, brought for him by two of his stewards, "Thomas Wyatt." He looks about, and beckons Wyatt as he stands and, rather nervously, bows. I stare, my eyes widening, as the King bids Wyatt to kneel before him, then rises from the chair and takes a proffered sword from one of his ushers.

"For your bravery in deceiving all that you had abandoned those you loved, for the sake of saving my Kingdom." He says, "I dub thee Sir Thomas Wyatt. Arise, Sir Thomas."

There is a moment of silence, as Wyatt stands, but then applause breaks out all about the hall, for Wyatt is a popular courtier, and none would object to his elevation to a Knighthood. My own is just as sincere, for his friendship and aid has been invaluable to our fight.

"Sir Richard Rich."

This time it is my turn to feel the thrill of shock as I hear my name. Swallowing rather nervously, I rise as Wyatt did, and approach the King, who also bids me to kneel.

"For your determination and courage to bring down the vile conspiracy against me, to the point of posing as a wanted traitor, and for the loss of your beard," I hear a ripple of amusement at that quip, "I create you first Baron Rich of Leighs, and I award you the post of Lord Privy Seal."

That startles me - the third highest position in the Realm? God above, I am now a Peer, too…rather shocked, I stand again, bow, and withdraw. I can hear applause, though my own popularity is so pitiful, I think it is considerably more forced than it might otherwise have been - though I can see it certainly is where Wriothesley is concerned. I suppose he was hoping for a post so high himself.

"Thomas Cromwell."

This time, Cromwell stands, with a degree of dignity that I only wish I could emulate. As he approaches the King, who bids him kneel, I wonder what he shall receive, for none of us endured what he did.

"For your courage and endurance of the privations of the Tower, where all thought you to be a traitor when you were not, you shall be invested into the Order of the Garter. Arise, Sir Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex."

God above - dear God above, he has raised Cromwell to an Earldom. A mere commoner, to have risen so high? It is all but unheard of. Sitting beside me, Wyatt is grinning almost idiotically, and I think I am, too. And I am damp about the eyes. God, how embarrassing. Again, the King invites applause, which, while almost certainly grudging in some quarters, is most certainly not from me, or Wyatt.

As Cromwell rises, looking decidedly shocked at his sudden elevation, his Majesty raises his hands for quiet again, "It is thanks to such loyalty as that shown by these three men of my Court that I am so well served. To have seen the duplicitous Ambassador for what he was is truly one thing - but to have such as these men to rely upon in order to defeat him is the greatest gift an anointed King can hope for. I am truly grateful to God for sending me such true and faithful servants." And then, as though he has not embarrassed us enough, he leads another burst of applause, and waves at the two of us to stand and join Cromwell. I am not sure whether I am delighted, or wishing the ground would open and swallow me up.

As we turn and bow to the King again, I can see that the Queen is smiling at us, and - I'm sure I see it - she gives us the briefest of winks. Behind her, both Suffolk and Hertford are applauding with the sincerity that most behind us almost certainly lack. There is no doubting that they, as much as the King, were behind this extraordinary reward, though I am sure his Majesty is quite capable of inventing the ruse that inspired it. I never imagined that this could happen when first I woke in the Offices at Hampton Court and discovered a whole world of which I knew nothing.

The applause dies away, the King returns to his place at the table, and we are free to sit again as the musicians commence tuning before launching into a jaunty galliard that soon has people on their feet. Wyatt is immediately drawn into the whirl of dancers, but as I cannot dance at all well, and Cromwell never learned how, I am more than happy for him to enjoy his prowess with the ladies.

"So, Lord Rich." Cromwell says, sitting down beside me, and adding a rather humorous emphasis to my new title.

"So Lord Cromwell." I quip back at him, "When shall we receive our letters patent, do you think?"

"Tomorrow, no doubt." He answers, "That was most cleverly done. I wonder whose idea it was."

It comes as no surprise to me that neither of us consider such a scheme could have come entirely from the King - though he still retains at least a portion of the subtlety it would require. Perhaps it was also the Queen, or, possibly, Suffolk - for they have the talent for it as much as he, and would be keener to bestow such high honours upon men of our comparatively low state. Either way, his Majesty no longer looks a dupe, and he could not have made it clearer to all that our apparent treachery was false. At very little cost to himself, he has elevated his reputation, and who would disagree with his interpretation of events? None who wish to keep their heads; of that, I am absolutely certain.

The changes to our ranks do not make themselves apparent until after Twelfth Night, when we return to the offices. To my surprise, I have been evicted from my alcove to sit at the desk that Cromwell occupied, for now I am the Lord Privy Seal. With his new ennoblement that serves to emphasise his power as Lord Chancellor, Cromwell has an office entirely separate now, linked to ours by a private corridor, should he wish to use it, or simply through the main passageways of the Palace. The offices are now in my charge - and suddenly, I feel horribly nervous, for I have not the first idea how to manage the bureaucracy as he did.

Wriothesley, looking a little envious, though trying hard not to show it, advises that the Lord Chancellor wishes to see me, so I hasten from Cromwell's - no - my desk to his office, where he is already immersed in papers with the air of someone absolutely assured in their work. He looks up, and sees my slightly wide eyes, and smiles, sympathetically.

"If I seem to know what I am about," He advises, "it is merely because I hide my terror rather better than you do."

"I have to find the money to pay for a Royal Wedding - and I have no idea where to begin!" I babble, rather fearfully, "How did you manage it?"

"By not panicking, for a start." Cromwell says, sardonically. Then he smiles again, "Take a seat, Richie. We are both in unfamiliar territory now, and so we must work together to achieve our goals: as we have done against infernal creatures for the last two years, have we not?"

Slowly, carefully, Cromwell guides me through the extensive sets of accounts, and the procedures he has established for dealing with income and expenditure. I am perfectly capable of understanding them: after all, I have been Chancellor of the Court of Augmentations since it was established, and thus have overseen the redistribution of monies from the Religious houses. It is the sudden responsibility of my new role that has shaken me, as suddenly the revenues are much larger, and the overall scope so expanded. While it is merely nerves that has set me to such foolishness, I am, nonetheless, grateful to Cromwell for his careful explanations of all that he has set in place. It works, and works well - so I do not want to wreck it through ignorance.

Within two hours, our discussions have moved away from accounts, and more towards Cromwell's plans to continue to reform the operations of Government in terms of efficiency and skill. His ideas are interesting, and we are soon exchanging thoughts and plans, for his ideas spring ideas of my own. His plans for education, infrastructure and the realm's financial wellbeing are surprisingly extensive - for never before has he had the chance to even consider bringing them to fruition - there have always been too many demons to dispatch first; not to mention the inevitable opposition of the other Lords.

"Between us, Richie," He says, scribbling another note to complete the long list he has made of our throwing about of ideas, "I think we shall make this nation great. Do you not agree?" He is smiling, and I know that he is speaking more in jest than seriousness. The King would never permit us a free rein to that extent, and he knows it. We have, however, set down a long list of suggestions that he might gradually feed to the King, in hopes that his Majesty might bite, and allow us to keep on pulling England out of the days of yore, when all was ruled by men with Land, while those without were obliged to live unrepresented.

That said, I think our efforts to destroy Lamashtu were easier to bring about than this shall be.

The next few weeks are a frenzy of planning, book balancing and hunting frantically for more funds to meet the King's demands for a truly extravagant celebration of Lady Mary's nuptials. My replacement as Solicitor General, a highly capable and genial man from Staffordshire by the name of William Whorwood, is proving to be equally helpful to our Government work, and between us, with the aid of Wriothesley, we have managed to meet every whim.

This marriage shall not be in the Chapel Royal - for King Henry intends all of Europe to see just how lavishly he can celebrate a Royal wedding for a Princess. Now that both their mothers are no longer alive, the issue of their legitimacy might still be awkward, but as far as the King is concerned, the Infante is going to marry a Princess, not a Lady - and Whorwood was tasked with finding a way of restoring her to the Succession without too much emphasis upon the rather mangled problem of her legitimacy. I am quite relieved that such a task is not my job anymore. But then, as there are now two sons ahead of her, there is far less likelihood that she shall assume the Crown.

Furthermore, probably thanks to the gentle persuasion of the Queen, he has even agreed that - as a special favour and courtesy to his daughter, and to his soon-to-be Son in Law - the ceremony shall be conducted with full Catholic rites by the Archbishop of Lisbon, who has travelled to London specially to conduct it. It is a singular acceptance of Mary's determination never to give up her faith, and an acknowledgement that she was forced to declare against it when first she returned to Court. While not overt, it is as close as Henry shall ever come to an apology, and we all know that she appreciates it.

To see the couple together, it is clear that they are very much in love - a true rarity in an arranged marriage. Mary has, for so long, wanted to be a wife, and in some ways it was her close relationship with Ambassador Chapuys that caused him to work so hard to bring this union about. The Holy Roman Emperor has been surprisingly accommodating of a marriage that takes a large degree of Spanish lands out of his reach; but then, if it creates a solid balance of power in Europe that stops people from going to war with each other to a degree that it seems almost to be a national sport, he should not complain too freely. After all, we know from experience that peace is a far less costly proposition.

As we are now Peers of the Realm, both Cromwell and I are privileged to sit within the Quire of the abbey with those of high rank, and witness the service. With such overt Catholic ceremonial, I could not help but wonder as I came in what he would make of it - for such ceremonies are something of an affront to his altogether simpler view of man's relationship with the Almighty.

"I make nothing of it, Richie." He said to me, at the time, "For, after all, she is taking it back to Portugal with her, is she not?"

Quite.

An hour and a half of Latin later, Mary is wife to the Infante of Portugal and Asturias - thereby cementing an alliance between England and the Iberian Union that shall come into being when His Highness inherits his Crowns. It seems almost inconceivable that such a move could truly be the best chance for peace that Europe has seen in centuries, but - if all abide by it - we might indeed embark upon a journey into such uncharted waters. They call him 'Michael of Peace'. I hope that he lives up to that name.

If the Ceremony was magnificent, the wedding breakfast that follows is spectacular. Those of us fortunate to be present feast upon capon, sides of beef, carp and hams, with almost endless baskets of bread, fruits, nuts, sweetmeats and gallons of wine and ale to wash it down. Mary, or Her Serene Highness the Infanta Maria, as she will be known when she arrives in her new home, sits with her husband at the centre of the High table, almost deliriously happy in her good fortune, for Prince Miguel has proved throughout to be everything that Chapuys reported him to be. He has taken a risk of angering his master in working to secure such a match - but he loves Mary almost as a daughter, and his desire for her to be happy is at least as great as that of her real father.

As darkness falls, I decide to take my leave, for I am tired, I have eaten too much, and I am slightly drunk; so I have no wish to make a complete idiot of myself, for I think it is quite possible that I might puke if I stay where I am. I have been sitting with Wyatt for the last hour or so, in between his getting up to dance, for Cromwell departed some time ago, pleading work that would not wait.

I decide to walk in the gardens, which are alight with flares, as I think the air would do my ragged constitution some good, and spend a pleasant quarter hour's wandering, avoiding those who have slipped outside to relieve themselves, woo a woman they have danced with or…other things…and find myself approaching the balustrade that overlooks the river. It is then that I see him, still in black, as always, leaning on that same balustrade, watching the brightly lit barges upon which musicians play in celebration.

"I hope you do not intend to hunt tonight, Thomas." I mumble, "I am both too tired, and too bilious."

He laughs, "Indeed no, Richie. I have no wish to do so - for I think nothing would be found in all this noise and light other than a man in black, and a man in drink."

"Do you think it likely that we shall have to face any creature such as Lamashtu again?"

"Not immediately. If at all, I think." Cromwell says, "We have, at a stroke, set in place such alliances that we can be confident of peace for years to come. The promised Iberian Union shall be strong enough to counterbalance the bellicosity of the Emperor, and France shall not interfere. Even the King would not abrogate a treaty that could damage his daughter's wellbeing, for her Majesty would talk him from it, I think. Now that she has borne him two sons, her position is truly unassailable." He sighs, then, "I do not think it likely that she shall bear any more." His voice is now much lower.

"That we have a Duke of York is blessing enough, I think, Thomas." I say, "When Anne was still with us, such an outcome seemed to be more than we could have dreamed - though, had we known then of Lamashtu, and had we had the means to defeat her, who knows how things would have turned out?"

"Princess Mary would not be an Infanta of Portugal and Asturias, I think. Anne would have done all in her power to prevent it - as she would have wanted such a prize for Elizabeth."

"Then perhaps all has turned out for the best?"

Cromwell nods, "Perhaps it has. Jane might not have Anne's fire, but Anne did not have Jane's patience. I could never have received the Royal Rosary from Anne, for she would not have accepted it once she became convinced of the reformist cause. Hard though it was to endure, and to undertake, it was necessary for the Mission. I just wish…" his voice trails off.

I know, though, what he is about to say - if only it had not cost her life, or those of the innocent men who died with her.

"But have we not honoured her memory?" I ask, "For it was the malevolence of Lamashtu that brought her to ruin in the end, and we have destroyed Lamashtu. Elizabeth is now a Princess again, even though her legitimacy is still unmentioned, and she has a place in the Succession, just as her mother hoped. She shall not rule England, I think - but she shall make a fine Queen Consort, shall she not?"

Cromwell smiles again, "Yes, I think she shall. She is intelligent, beautiful and has excellent manners - though I think she has inherited both her Parents' tempers. God help her husband."

I laugh at that, and then my stomach churns, and I groan…not here, not now…

"Deep breaths, Richie," Cromwell sympathises, as I slump over the balustrade, retching, "It shall not last forever." He pats me on the back as I puke again. God, how embarrassing…at least I have the river below me, and not the path.

"Perhaps I should get you back to your chambers." He says, as I remain slumped over the stone, though the heaving has now stopped, "You should rest yourself, ready for tomorrow and the hang-over that shall surely follow your excess."

As though I need to be reminded of that.

I do, at least, have several days to recover from my stupidity - as, a week from her wedding, the Infanta Maria and her husband are to depart today for her new Kingdom. She has, naturally, said her private goodbyes, with the accompanying tears, and has travelled in a fine litter with the Infante Miguel to the Pool of London, where a gaily decorated carrack is berthed to carry the Couple to their new home. Further out, at anchor, is the famous galleon São João Baptista, the largest warship afloat, which those who sail her call Botafogo or 'Spitfire', set to accompany them as an escort, and as an indication of the power of Portugal, ally to England.

Huge crowds have turned out to bid her farewell - far too many for her to address, so instead she waves, and receives a great cheer from them - for she has never lost her popularity with the people of England. While the King and Queen are not present, the Privy Councillors and highest lords of the Land have escorted her, so Cromwell and I do at least get the opportunity to see her go. After all she has endured in her life, it is a good thing to see her happy at last.

"And that is that." Cromwell says, as the Carrack pulls away from the dock, "Perhaps now we shall see a lasting peace."

"I should welcome that." I agree with him, "If nothing else, it shall leave us more time to deal with Government."

He continues to watch as the vessel sails out on the morning tide, and I realise that he is shedding silent tears.

"What?"

"All is done." He says, "The Mission is complete."