A/N: Thank you for your lovely reviews - I'm so chuffed that this is going down well. Of course, it wouldn't be a true Tudor Court without all the chicanery - but here comes a whopper spanner in the works!

CHAPTER FIVE

Death in Wiltshire

Free of the constraints of her stays, enclosed in the soft linen of her nightgown, Anne sits back in her chair beside the fire, and eases out a shaky breath. In spite of all her strong words, the moment that she discovered that her father had been able to outmanoeuvre her and force her to speak out against de Castelnau had been a bitter one. Now, however, the King has outmanoeuvred them all - and publicly demanded that she be accepted as his Queen. The improvement in her mood brought her out to dance once more, secure in a sense of his insistence that they are man and wife.

Now to make hay in the midst of that unexpected ray of sunshine.

"I am told that Mr Cromwell is most put out." Jane says quietly, as she brushes Anne's hair, "All of his work to secure the treaty destroyed because of an unguarded comment by the Ambassador."

"What did he say?" Anne asks, "I knew nothing of it until his Majesty shouted."

"One of the Ushers was close enough to hear - it is sounded all about the servants' halls. Chapuys intimated that God had willed that the succession of England should be vested in the female line."

Anne's eyes widen - how could Chapuys have been such a fool? To offer even the slightest hint that her husband is unable to father a son would have been utter madness. Of all the things to say to a man as proud as Henry…to suggest that his seed is too weak to create anything other than girls…

"Why would he have have said something so stupid?" she asks, mostly to herself.

"Perhaps he thought that he was safe to do so." Jane muses, setting the brush down and drawing up a chair, "I have no doubt that whatever plans were laid would have sought to return the Lady Mary to the succession. If that condition was not refused at the first instance, then he might have thought the King would pass his crown to her."

"And, in doing so, he has intimated that his Majesty's union with me has been judged by God." Anne finishes, "After all that was done to grant me the Crown, that would have stung his self-regard like nothing else. No wonder he spoke as he did." She turns to Jane, "We must act quickly - or we shall lose the initiative. The King has demanded that I be accepted as his Queen, and I must take steps to remind him what prompted him to chase after me when first I arrived."

"Indeed so, Majesty. Once that is accomplished, then we shall be safe."

"From your husband, and my father." Anne smiles.

"I fear so, Majesty."

The atmosphere in the Privy Chamber is sombre; unnervingly so. The Privy Councillors are assembled, standing before the King's great table as he sits opposite, and regards them silently.

Cromwell, in particular, is nervous, as he has no idea why they are there. To be in such ignorance alarms him, as he cannot predict how the events before him shall unfold. With adequate data, he can see all courses that might lead from a single moment - as though a great chess game, where the pieces are people, and the outcome more than mere checkmate.

Behind him, Rich's eyes are narrowed. He is no more aware of why they are standing here than Cromwell, and it amuses him to know that Cromwell is as much in the dark as those around them. Something has happened since the King's outburst yesterday, and he wonders if the King is considering declaring war against the Emperor.

"Gentlemen." Henry begins, his voice cold, "It has come to our attention that acts of treason against ourself and our realm have been committed, alongside other injuries to our person by those whom we have loved, and favoured above all others. Acts that are a betrayal of our love, and trust - and committed by members of our own Court."

All are silent - none were expecting this. Or were they? Cromwell's eyes flit to the side, and he can see that Suffolk is the only one present who does not look nonplussed. He knows of these supposed offences - and also, presumably, who has committed them.

"Mr Rich."

Startled, Rich looks up.

"As Solicitor General, I am appointing you, and Mr Cromwell, to lead a Commission of Oyer and Terminer to investigate these acts against us. I expect you to leave no stone unturned."

Both men bow, though Rich's eyes flick up towards the man that he has been asked to stand with. Of all the men in the room, why Cromwell? Pragmatism or no, he would rather work with the devil than Cromwell.

With no further instructions, Henry rises to his feet, "Good day, Gentlemen." And leaves.

As the councillors disperse, Rich can see that Cromwell is still unsure of what on earth he is being asked to investigate. That the King has claimed acts of treason against him is one thing, but who does he think is responsible? As he turns to speak to Rich, an usher emerges from the King's private apartment, "Mr Cromwell, Mr Rich - the King asks you to attend him."

Ah. Now he shall have it. Leaving Rich in his wake, Cromwell follows the usher into the King's presence.

Seated at his desk, Cromwell sighs. Now he knows what it is that he has been set to uncover, he feels rather sick.

"How shall we proceed?" Rich asks, entirely unconcerned, it seems.

"We shall speak to her closest women, Mr Rich. The ones who attend her most frequently. If there is anything to be discovered, we shall gain it from them."

"Do we interview them here, or at the Tower?"

Cromwell looks up at him, "The Tower? Dear God, Mr Rich; why would we do such a thing as that?"

"I…" Rich cannot think of a reason that shall not make him appear an unchivalrous brute. Instead he turns hastily and returns to his desk to continue with his own work.

Left alone, Cromwell looks at the blank sheet of paper, and ponders what to do. Of all the acts of treachery that he could have imagined, the infidelity of the Queen is the last of them. Whether he likes her or not, he is well aware that she has never - at any time - abandoned the vows that she made to the King when she married him. In an ants' nest such as this, nothing remains a secret - nothing. All knew about the King's dalliances with her ladies - and even the attempts to remain discreet with the Seymour girl were abject failures, in spite of his own efforts to help to conceal them. No - Queen Anne has never dallied with another man. Flirted, perhaps, even entertained men in her apartments - but never alone, and never concealed.

It is done, then. Regardless of his shouted statement that the Emperor must accept the legitimacy of his Queen, Henry wants rid of Anne Boleyn. With no means of annulling the marriage that shall not lead to humiliation for him, he expects her to be removed by some other means. And now he has burdened his most trusted Minister with the task of making it happen.

There can be only one way, of course. An annulment is certainly possible on the grounds of consanguinity, as the King has had carnal knowledge of the Queen's sister; but that shall make his Majesty a laughing stock amongst the Courts of Europe, so it must also be a matter of fault upon the part of the Queen in order to sweeten that bitter mouthful - an act of treason. Nothing less shall do.

But what act of treason should it be? To his mind, she has committed none.

He looks up, startled, as Sadleir approaches, "Mr Cromwell, I have just heard. The King has appointed Sir Nicholas Carew to the Order of the Garter - in spite of his relationship to my Lord Rochford. I am given to understand that Rochford is most put out, and is even now stamping back and forth in his chambers calling curses down from upon high for the loss of the honour."

In spite of himself, Cromwell is surprised at such a turn of events. While both Carew and Rochford were the most likely candidates to be granted that one lone place in the King's august brotherhood, it was considered a certainty that Rochford, as the King's brother-in-law, would receive it. A familial relationship would inevitably set its owner ahead of any competitor in the granting an honour such as this.

But what the hell is he doing, throwing a tantrum in his quarters? Has he truly become so self-assured that he is above royal censure that he would do such a thing as that? That he is passionate in his emotions is hardly unknown - but he is a fool if he thinks that such a display shall go unmarked, or be seen as anything else but unworthy ingratitude for all that he has already received.

Shaking his head, Cromwell returns to his work. He would like nothing more than to see the Boleyns brought down, for their ascendancy - even if he has tied himself to it - was built upon the ruins of Wolsey's demise. He has never forgotten that. It was Wolsey who gave him his entry to the Court; Wolsey whose patronage enabled him to overcome his base-born origins - and then Norfolk and his Boleyn relatives banded together to rob him of his power and take it for themselves. Even now, he feels guilt for stepping into the Boleyn party - though he did not do so until after Wolsey had fallen beyond redemption, and he had been obliged to do so, or fall too. But at last he has the opportunity to strike back at those who destroyed the man who made him. Unfortunately, he cannot destroy the men without destroying the woman.

If only they had not turned against one another. To this day he regrets that. Her magnificent intelligence, and remarkable understanding of politics, are far greater than one would expect to see in a mere woman. But then, she is no 'mere' woman - God, they could have been at the forefront of a grand English renaissance to match that of the Courts on the continent - if only the King could have seen that the character that had so attracted him to her when he wanted her as a mistress, could have been a boon to him once he had her as a wife.

What they might have achieved…

Someone laughs loudly, a few feet away, startling him out of his reverie, and he shakes himself. It is pointless to think on what might have been. Not when one must act to overturn all possibility of it.

After three hours of writing, Cromwell sits back, tiredly. It is done: his plans to question the Queen's ladies as a starting point - what he shall ask, how they can be threatened if they refuse to aid him. Rochford's tantrums are a last flicker of lightning as the storm blows itself out. The star of the Boleyns is seeing its final fits and starts before it gutters and burns to nothing.

And he must be the one who seeks out the means to drive it into darkness.

The party of men is small, and lightly guarded; but nonetheless they are bent upon a mission, and one of them has no intention at all of being present during the events to come.

Looking out of the leaded windows over the grounds of Windsor Castle, Suffolk adjusts his sleeves and ignores the degrees of hypocrisy in what he is doing - for the King is abandoning his wife to court another woman, while that wife is being investigated for adultery: an accusation for which there is little, if no, evidence at all other than the light gossip that he himself has brought to the King's attention.

He is no stranger to the pleasures of a tumble out of wedlock; chasing skirts was a favourite pastime throughout his youth and early years at Court. Even now, he pays little attention to the promises he has made before God to be faithful only to one woman - but he does so on the assumption that she shall not do likewise. If the Queen has done so, then she must know that it is treasonous to do it.

Wretched woman, he thinks to himself, reaching for his riding gauntlets, why the hell could she not accept that her purpose was to be a pretty ornament to enhance the King's glory, and to push out a multitude of sons? That she has caused the upheaval of the Church, and the destruction of a far better Queen than she could ever have been is crime great enough - but to entertain men in her apartments? To dance, and flirt and argue and be defiant to her lord and husband? No matter what else, that in itself is treachery. It is the prerogative of a man to seek pleasure from other women outside of their marriage vows - but not for a woman to look to other men. She should have known and accepted it as her predecessor did.

He thinks back to their conversation two nights ago, before they departed from Placentia. The Queen's behaviour had apparently gone unnoticed until he had pointed it out - and now the King is becoming ever more suspicious that her flirtations have been more than mere verbal dalliances and dances, but that she has gone further still, and welcomed men into her bed.

Being unwilling to be present in case he is accosted by a woman devious and clever enough to entrap him into making a public promise to her, he has suggested that they follow upon the heels of the departing Seymours, and particularly the Seymour daughter, so that he can soothe his sore temper with the soft ointments of her gentle manner.

It shall be a long day in the saddle, but there shall be a goodly feast upon which they can sup tonight, and hunting on the morrow. Swallowing the last of his small ale, he gathers his cloak and bonnet, and heads down to the mews to find his horse.

Henry is in good spirits again - but then he was also in good spirits the last time he rode west. Suffolk was not with him then; but his mood upon his return suggested at the time that he had left his heart there, and longed to go back. Now - with one of his closest friends in tow - he is getting his wish, while his wife knows nothing of the net being woven to cast about her and fish her out of the waters of the Court. He, for certainty, shall not miss her when she is gone.

Spring is flourishing in earnest now, and they ride through verdant woodlands alive with bluebells and birdsong, while rabbits and deer flee before them. Fortunate creatures indeed, for the hunt shall be taking place tomorrow, and far away from here.

While Suffolk has no concerns over the influence that the Seymour girl shall have, should she be installed at court in place of Anne, his thoughts lie instead with the altogether more ambitious Edward. Sir John is a spent force - far too old to hope to make much from such an opportunity - but the elder of the two sons is young enough, and keen enough, to take all that he can grasp should his sister be granted the throne.

He pauses at the thought. The commission has not yet reported - but still he assumes that they shall succeed in their steps to remove the unwanted Anne. Can he be sure that they shall succeed? Even Cromwell? Most courtiers might be helpless against a singleminded man such as he - but she is not like most courtiers. Whether he likes her or not, he cannot pretend to himself that she lacks the strength of will, and political skill, to talk her way out of whatever accusations are set before her. Even the King must know that - so perhaps they shall not allow her to talk.

It all depends, of course, upon what evidence is found.

They dine as guests of a minor nobleman in a small Manor on the outskirts of Newbury, a place that has welcomed them before. Seated before a repast of stewed hare, broiled pheasants and butter-drenched bread still just warm from the ovens, Henry eats with a will; an almost ravenous determination to consume all set before him. That the King has always had an appetite is hardly unknown to Suffolk, but this is different - as though he is beset by an insatiable hunger that no amount of victuals shall assuage. No wonder his girth is widening. It might be mostly concealed by his height, but the King has not jousted, or played tennis, since his fall in January. He has never given a reason for such a change in habits, but Suffolk is not unaware that there is a strange smell about his King now - tinges of putrefaction that no amount of expensive scent can conceal. He has fought in wars, and he knows the reek of an infected wound. There is an injury present that the King is attempting to hide. There must be. God - what if it poisons his blood? If he were to die before the Commission has found a way to remove Anne, then what would there be to stop Norfolk and his Boleyn sycophants from taking the reins of government and seeking to rule for themselves?

Chilled by the thought, he pushes his plate aside; his appetite thoroughly lost.

The sun is setting as they enter the gates of the Seymour estate. How long since the Court was here? A scant four months, it seems - entertained by musicians and sports, and apparently happy: but now there is a shadow over the Court. No wonder the King is so keen to escape it.

Sir John is - naturally - delighted that the King has returned again, barely more than a fortnight after he departed, "Your room is prepared for you, Majesty," he burbles, as Henry smiles and is led through the corridors to the chamber that now bears his name, "And a fine haunch of beef has been turning since this morning. We have procured the finest claret for your Majesty's pleasure."

"Thank you, Sir John." To Suffolk's ear, he sounds as he did long ago, before the awfulness of the removal of his Queen to make way for the Boleyn woman, "I am glad to be back. I hope that we shall ride out tomorrow?"

"Most certainly." The elder Seymour continues, "There is a good herd of deer that we can seek out in the parkland."

"And how is Miss Seymour?" He has remained quiet about her for a surprising time.

"She is most well, Majesty. If it be your pleasure, perhaps she might join us tomorrow to ride? She is well schooled."

"That would indeed be my pleasure."

Behind him, Suffolk knows that the elder Seymour Brother, the dour Edward, is looking rather proud. The opportunities for his own advancement upon the train of his sister's skirts are immense, and the thought that he had come so close to losing those opportunities must have singularly dented that pride. Now, however, the King is here again, and clearly keen for the Seymour girl - thus restoring all his plans to gain what he can from his sister's rise.

Rather like the Boleyns, when he thinks upon it.

Supper is a merry affair, far merrier than the forced gaiety of the feast on Lady Day. Miss Seymour is pliant, quiet and - if he is truly honest - rather insipid; but the King fawns over her with a display of Courtly Love that seems quite ridiculous in their altogether more prosaic surroundings. Does she know?

He looks across at her, eyelids demurely lowered; yes, she knows. She is watching him carefully from beneath those lashes, gauging his every move. Suffolk finds himself wondering if the words 'well schooled' refer to her ability to ride side-saddle, or a careful education in how to charm the King. She knows little of any substance - though she is at least literate - and her voice is soft and slightly high pitched. Jane has none of the intelligence of Anne, nor of the late Queen Katherine - God rest her - though there is an edge to her, a sense of understanding of human nature. If nothing else, she has read the King with far greater skill than the books that are largely closed to her, and is making the best use of that knowledge. She is no mere plant set before the King as a sweetmeat - no, there is more to it than that. She has been one of the Queen's ladies for long enough to know what he demands from a woman - and what repels him.

Ah well - he could have chosen worse, perhaps. With the matter of removing the Queen now in Cromwell's hands, it shall be done. Cromwell has never failed to work the King's will, after all. Then this woman shall enter the Court, and become Henry's wife in the Boleyn woman's place, and all shall be right again. The smell that he detected when they dined has dissipated, and he fancies that he imagined it. No, the King shall not die before Anne is removed. He has nothing to fear upon that score.

Sitting back in his chair, Suffolk sips at the claret which is not as good as Sir John claimed it to be, and loses himself in imaginings of how the Court shall be once Queen Anne has been sent packing - and is replaced by Queen Jane.

They have been riding for nearly an hour in the bright light of early morning, and as of yet, there is no sign that the hounds shall need to be loosed. Instead, they move at an easy pace that shall not test the riders. With his experienced eye, it is clear to Suffolk that John Seymour is a weak horseman, and he is sure that, should they enter into a chase, the old man shall be left far, far behind. Edward, on the other hand, is handling his mettlesome gelding with ease and skill, while the younger son, a youth barely with whiskers upon his chin by the name of Thomas, looks keen to be off at the gallop.

A few paces behind, Jane and a brace of ladies are following, their riding habits billowing somewhat in the light breeze. She is not perhaps the most gifted of riders, but nor is she incompetent, and the King is most solicitous, riding alongside her, engaging her in conversation that seems primarily to cover how beautiful their surroundings are, and wondering what bird has just called so loudly from the nearby hedge.

To be fair - their surroundings are truly wonderful: green undulating hills that stretch for miles in all directions, with the occasional church tower rising from a valley in the distance. High above their heads, he can hear a skylark chattering away, while woodpigeons flock from field to field, driven off by boys clattering at pots with sticks, or bringing them down with stones fired from catapults. Puffs of fair-weather clouds drift lightly across a deep blue sky as they travel along a ridge crowned with rabbit-nibbled grass, and scattered here and there with clumps of bracken and gorse from which the occasional bird clatters in fear as they pass. Even if they see nothing to bring down, the ride is, in itself, a great pleasure. There are no guards present, for his Majesty insisted they remain behind, and so they rest and enjoy a day at equal leisure.

Idly, he wonders how matters are progressing in London. Cromwell shall not have had much in the way of time to begin his investigation, though Suffolk has no doubt that it shall start with the Queen's ladies. Of all the people at Court, none know as well as they do that woman's doings. No matter how loyal they might be, they shall not hide her secrets for long. Cromwell is too good at ferreting out such secrets for that. Much as he dislikes the man for his base-born origins, he cannot deny that he has talent. But for that, he would be fortunate to have become more than a simple clerk.

"Forgive me, your Majesty," Sir John's voice breaks into his thoughts, "I fear that the deer are shy today - but no matter, for another mile shall see us within the woods, and there we shall find some sport."

"There is no need to apologise, Sir John," Henry answers, brightly, "Miss Seymour is keeping me most entertained."

Somehow, Suffolk doubts that. The girl has hardly spoken above a shy whisper from the moment they left. She's a clever one - he heard her chattering with her maids this morning, and he knows full well that her shyness is but a pretence. Henry has been hooked, and now she takes great care to reel him in like a floundering carp in a pond.

They pause at the top of the ridge, and Sir John points downwards, "There, Majesty. That is the most likely place where we shall find the deer."

The King stops his horse alongside his host, "Indeed so. Loose the hounds, Sir John, let us ride down and scatter them!"

"Majesty?" Seymour stares at him, surprised, "The bank is most steep, would it not be better to take the path?"

"And lose the element of surprise? Pshaw!" Henry scoffs, "A slope so little? I have no fear of such a thing!"

Suffolk shakes his head, smiling to himself. It could not be more blatant that Henry is demonstrating his prowess to impress the girl. Laughing loudly, the King slaps his heels to his horse's flanks, and urges the animal on, sending it scrambling downhill at a breakneck pace. The faces of their hosts are a picture - but he has seen it before. Henry is more than capable of handling a ride such as this; once he is at the bottom, he shall laugh at them for their fears.

But then the horse pecks suddenly, and the movement is followed an instant later by a sharp, horrible crack, as though someone has fired a musket. Behind him, he hears Jane utter a sharp scream, and then all seems to slow down almost to nothing at all.

Helplessly, Suffolk watches as the horse pitches forward, tumbling over its head and hurling the King downwards. Man and animal seem bound to one another as he seems unable to extricate himself from his saddle, and the pair roll violently down the remains of the steep bank, a distance of nearly ten feet, before halting violently at the bottom.

Christ have mercy…Suffolk is looking around wildly, "The King! Quickly, to his aid!" He does not dare to risk the same calamity, and instead takes his horse down the winding path that shall lead him safely to where man and horse have come to rest. Such is his wish for haste that the short ride seems to last for years; what if the King is still living - or is close to death and desires to express his final wishes?

As he approaches the scene, he all but flings himself from the saddle and scrambles across to where the horse lies, still living, but making the most horrible noises of pain. Now he can see what has occurred - for the poor beast's foreleg is snapped. He must've put his hoof down into a rabbit hole. Looking back up the bank, he can see that it's dotted with them. The whole slope must be undermined by the warren.

"Majesty?" He looks about, dear Christ, where is the King?

Then his flitting eyes stop, and he realises that he cannot see Henry because he lies beneath the fallen body of the horse. No…no, no, no, he was only lightly speculating when he thought of what might follow if the King died before Anne could be removed…

The beaters are approaching, running frantically to join him as Edward Seymour also arrives, leaping from his horse, stumbling, falling, rolling. He cannot regain his feet and instead scrambles forth upon all fours to reach them.

"Where is he? Where is the King?" He pants, frantically.

"Beneath the horse." Suffolk snaps, shortly, and looks up to the beaters, "Help me to shift the animal - quickly! One of you fetch a sheep hurdle, we shall need to carry his Majesty back to the house!"

A house that is four miles away.

Someone steps forth and quickly shoots the horse to still it. There is nothing that can be done for the beast, but there might still be hope for the man. Suffolk is cold inside - when Henry fell beneath the horse at the Joust, he was in armour. Here, he is not.

It takes four men to roll the horse's carcass to the side, but as soon as they have done so, he knows that it is too late. Beside him, Edward turns away, while one of the beaters stumbles off and vomits behind a stand of gorse. The King must have struck a stone on the way down; for his head is all bashed in, with grey matter and blood all seeped out of the gaping crater. No - there is nothing that can be done for him. Nothing.

Slowly, he makes his way up the hill, and sees that he is right. A small outcrop of stone smeared with blood and red-gold hair amidst the flattened grasses that display the path of the King's fall. Fortunately the ladies are still waiting at the top of the hill, for Sir John has kept them there. Trembling, nauseous, he turns to look down the bank again to where Edward Seymour is covering the bloody, smashed corpse with one of the beater's cloaks.

"We must not speak of this." He says, rejoining Seymour, "Not yet. None must know until I have returned to London. You must ensure that all are sworn to secrecy. If this gets out, then there is no telling what shall happen. I must return to London to ensure that all holds together."

Seymour nods, "Agreed, your Grace."

A cloud covers the sun, shadowing the ghastly ruin at their feet. No one was prepared for this eventuality - and there is nothing set down for the future of the realm. The secret is now theirs - and what follows shall be entirely in their hands.