A/N: Thank you again for your comments! Yes indeed, Henry is dead - but the news is yet to fully break. In this situation, knowledge is most definitely power, but only if the news can stay quiet...
CHAPTER SIX
A Dance of Factions
None of the beaters want to handle the body, and Suffolk is not sure whether it is because of the horrible damage to the skull, or because it is the body of the King. Someone is dragging across a large wattle sheep hurdle, but it requires a great deal of angry shouting on the part of the younger Seymour, and not a few blows, to get them to lift the corpse and bundle it onto the hurdle. Additional shouting persuades them to lift it, one at each corner, and follow the horses as the party makes its slow, shattered progress back to the house.
The journey takes nearly an hour, allowing for changes of bearers of the improvised bier, and those who did not attend the hunt stare in shock as the body of their King is carried into the hall, and set upon the long trestle that stands in the middle of the space.
"Get the women upstairs." Edward orders, firmly, as he can see that his sister is distraught, "Steep some calming herbs in some wine and get it to them." He stares at the frozen servants, "At once!"
Suffolk stands alongside the table, and the cloak-covered corpse atop it. God have mercy - how could this have happened? This morning, all had seemed so peaceful - that wretched woman was facing the consequences of her harlotry, and the King was in the company of a far better marital prospect. Now, however, the King is dead, and the hated Anne remains alive. Worse - they have not had the opportunity to overturn the bastardy of the true Queen's daughter - and instead her half-sister is granted the throne.
A child that is barely three years old.
His mind is racing: Elizabeth is far, far too young to rule - and no Kingdom has ever prospered when ruled by a child. No - he must be at the centre. It must be for him to break the news - for him to step forth as Lord Protector, and ensure that those damned Boleyns do no more damage to England, her throne, or her Church.
"I swear to you, Majesty." He says, softly, "I shall protect your legacy. They shall not take it from you. There is one who is fit to rule - far more fit than a mere toddling babe. Forgive me - but the succession must be placed in her hands if England is to survive."
Bowing his head, he prays awhile, and then genuflects. Enough of sworn oaths. There is one heir who is old enough to rule in her own right - and it is not Elizabeth.
He knows that he is breaking faith with his King, and his friend; but what other choice is there? As long as the death remains unknown, he has control. He cannot afford to lose that control.
Turning, he can see the Seymour men standing at the end of the hall, alongside the screens that conceal the entrance from the kitchens. They are muttering between themselves, and he knows that they are equally keen upon grasping what they can from this calamity. Being as low-ranked as they are, they need someone of more consequence to ally with them if they are to succeed in such an aim. Necessity makes for strange bedfellows, it seems.
He has a choice, of course. He can abandon them to ignominy and proclaim them to be at fault for what has happened. From the look upon the elder's face, that is his greatest fear: the King has been killed while a guest of their house, and lesser accidents have led to executions at the behest of injured princes. The threat of that end shall serve him well in securing their allegiance as he positions himself to seize the protectorship. There is no choice: the alternative would be rule in the hands of Norfolk and his Boleyn relatives - and that is a far worse prospect in his eyes.
"We must find a physician," he says, "one who shall declare a cause of death. There must be no suggestion of foul play."
"I shall see to it." Edward calls across a steward, and mutters orders to him.
That is at least in hand. If they can have just a few days' grace, they should be safe: his Majesty had planned to stay for at least a week. Now he must plan how he shall carry the news back to London, "Sir John, fetch in the Captain of the King's guard."
Seymour nods, and turns to a steward to pass on the command. Suffolk is not surprised to find that the man is nearby. So much for a day of rest.
"Are your men gathered?" he asks, as the Captain enters.
"I have called them together, your Grace, but…" he looks uncomfortable.
"But what?" Already, Suffolk's stomach is chilling inside.
"Guardsman Swete is missing, your Grace. He has not been seen since you returned to the house and all saw and heard what had occurred."
Oh, dear God…someone has been travelling with the party - someone who answers to another man but the King. There was a spy in their ranks - but whose? If this soldier has fled with the news, to whom has he gone?
Who shall be at the head of the council table before he can get back to the Palace - and who shall have control of the new Queen Elizabeth?
Wiltshire gulps at his wine fretfully, and stares out of the window at the blossoming cherry trees. He sees nothing of the pink flowers that adorn the branches, but instead thinks over and over and over again of what he can do now that the King has fled back west. What has Cromwell been tasked with investigating? When the King first talked of a breach of trust, he had smiled complacently, secure in the knowledge that he had overcome the threat of those damned Seymour upstarts - but now he is not so sure.
If Anne is to be recognised as Queen by all, then why the hell has the King gone back to bloody Wulfhall? Damn those Seymours - damn them all to hell and back.
He takes another gulp at the wine, but tips the cup too quickly and spills a portion of it over his pale ivory doublet. Cursing sulphurously, he shouts for his manservant, "Stewart! Get in here, now!" Bloody Seymours…it seems that even this accident is their fault.
The inoffensive young man hastily assists his master in removing the ruined garment, and then hurries into the bedchamber to fetch an alternative from the closet, narrowly avoiding a cuff across the back of the head as he does so. Glowering at the brightly beflowered cherries, Wiltshire snatches the new doublet from his servant's hands, and shrugs into it, before slapping the youth away and fastening the buttons himself. That he has managed to fasten them incorrectly is of no interest to him, nor the fact that his insertion of buttons into the wrong buttonholes looks ridiculously obvious. Instead, he turns on his heel and marches out of his apartments.
There is music playing as he approaches his daughter's presence chamber, a gentle lilting melody that trickles softly from a lute. Smeaton, presumably.
One of the Queen's guards steps forward to stop him, only to be roughly shouldered aside, "Out of my way, damn you!"
The sound of the scuffle shocks everyone into silence, and he finds himself facing a gaggle of women staring at him, while a consort of red-clad court musicians are sitting with their instruments at half-mast. He appears to have walked into a dancing lesson.
"Majesty - a word?" the words are spoken through gritted teeth.
"I am otherwise engaged, your Grace." She answers, calmly, "Perhaps later. Speak to my Stewa…"
"Now!" He interrupts, furiously, then remembers the requirements of protocol, "Majesty."
Anne's expression grows cold, "You have walked into my presence without consent, your Grace; and you have no right to demand my time. You are welcome to return when your temper has settled, and I shall send for you."
His face has turned a fearsome red, and his hands bunch into fists, as though he is sorely tempted to strike her. But not in front of servants…
All remains horribly silent for a moment, as Wiltshire weighs up his options. His authority over her is growing weaker by the day - he can see it - but what of her position as Queen? If his hold over her is weakening, then hers over the King is weaker still. Does she not know that the King has quit the Palace?
Before he can speak, one of the Stewards enters, "Majesty, your chaplain is without."
Anne turns back to her father, "If you could excuse me, your Grace, it is time for our studies of the scriptures. Perhaps in two hours?"
The look he throws at her chills her to the bone. She has seen anger, and blame, before now - but never before has she seen hate. As he has lost her love; in the winning of so petty a battle, so she has now lost his. Should the King turn against her, Thomas Boleyn shall not stand beside her - but instead fling her to the lions to save his own skin. He would have done so anyway - but now he shall do so without so much as a pinch of his conscience.
As he turns and stalks out, Anne sways slightly, and feels as though she might faint. With so many bridges burned behind her - whether by herself, or by others - she has almost no friends left to aid her; there must be someone to whom she can turn, for how can she survive if she must fight alone?
Rich turns slowly on the spot, taking in the chamber that Cromwell has set aside for their interrogation of the Queen's ladies. It is in a lesser traversed part of the palace, far from the possibility of any witnesses who might report their activities to her Majesty. The room is windowless and unfurnished but for a single table and chair at which the women shall sit, each in their turn, and a small writing desk for a clerk to record what they say. He makes a mental note to secure a chair for himself.
Guilt or innocence means nothing to him - the King has his own verdict in mind, and it is their task to secure it for him. An annulment would be utterly humiliating after all that they went through to secure the marriage - but that would be the only solution in the event of her adultery. Assuming, of course, that they can evidence such an act. No - even if they could find evidence, that is not sufficient. They need to uncover a far graver crime.
"It shall have to be treason, Mr Cromwell." He says, his tone remarkably businesslike, "Nothing less shall do. Annulment shall serve only to humiliate the King, shall it not?"
Cromwell turns to him, "I fear, Mr Rich, that no matter what we do, that shall be an unavoidable consequence."
"Then I assume that he shall demand vengeance for such an injury." It is not a question.
"Indeed he shall." In spite of himself, Cromwell does not sound happy at the prospect. Rich turns, surprised. Surely the Secretary does not have soft feelings for the woman? To his mind, all that is of consequence is the King's will: the tottering foundations beneath Queen Anne must be further undermined, so he shall do as the King demands.
There is no further comment, so he shrugs and turns for the door. They shall seek out the first of the Queen's ladies on the morrow, "If you no longer require my presence, I have work to be done."
Cromwell nods, and grunts a response, still lost in thought. Of all the things that he has been asked to do by his King, this is the first that he has viewed with true unwillingness to comply. Distaste is a regular companion to his business - but to snuff out a remarkably capable woman in so brutal a fashion? No - if he could escape it, he would do so; but, like Christ in Gethsemane, he shall do what he must. Not what I want, but what you want.
He is not sure how long he stands in the shadows as the candles burn down, lost in thought; until his attention is captured by the sound of heavy footsteps: feet clad in solid riding boots. Looking up, he stares in surprise as the door flies open, admitting a man clad in the livery of the King's guard, "Mr Secretary," he pants, "I bring grave tidings!"
The man is breathing hard, and looks both sweat-slathered and mud spattered - unmistakeable evidence of a long, hard ride. His expression, however, is shocking. Whatever news he brings, he has all but ridden a horse to death to deliver it - thus the tidings must be as grave as he claims - possibly more so.
"Tell me." Cromwell says, almost tentatively, wondering whether it might be wiser to sit down.
Pale, still shaking, Swete begins, "His Majesty went out hunting with the Seymours and his Grace the Duke of Suffolk as was his pleasure yesterday morning. We were granted the day at leisure, for the King had no wish to be accompanied by guards. But as the middle of the morning approached, they returned. His Majesty had taken a fall while riding down a bank, for his horse set its hoof into a rabbit hole and was thrown."
Now Cromwell sits down. He knows what is coming next.
"He was not thrown clear of the falling horse, Mr Secretary, but instead was flung beneath it, and stove in his skull upon a rock set into the hillside. When they found him beneath the animal at the bottom of the hill, he was dead - for his head was smashed and much grey matter and blood had leaked from the hole. We saw the corpse when it was returned to the house - and indeed the side of the head was bashed in. It was the King - and he was most assuredly dead."
Cromwell can feel the colour draining from his face, "Who else knows of this?"
"None but Suffolk and the Seymours - who remained at Wulfhall. I slipped away and took horse as soon as I knew all. I was able to change horses at Newbury, and at Windsor - and rode through the night to reach you. The Duke shall be unlikely to return from Wiltshire until the morrow at the earliest. They were thinking to keep the tidings to themselves - though I fear that they shall know that the secret is out when I am missed."
"Was there anyone in the corridor when you came in?"
"None, Sir. There was one man who exited the corridor before I entered it, and did not see me; but there are none within hearing but you and I."
That would've been Rich - returning to the office chambers. Thank God he was not present to overhear this - for God alone knows what he would do with such valuable tidings.
"Thank you, Swete. I suggest that you retire from the Palace. I shall provide you with a letter of introduction to take with you to Stepney. I shall see to it that you cannot be found, and thus shall not be rewarded for your mighty gallop with a journey to the hangman."
"Thank you, Mr Secretary." Accepting that it is a dismissal, Swete bows and hastily departs.
Cromwell sits alone at the table that had been set for the Queen's ladies, and chews at his thumbnail, thinking quickly. Suffolk shall not rest once he knows that one of his retinue has flown - but he cannot act with the degree of swiftness required to halt the spread of the news. Even were he to flee back to London, it is too late - for while Swete risked his life riding through the night to reach Placentia, would Suffolk be so fearless? Possibly, if he were alone, then yes he would - but would he come alone?
Not if he wishes to raise the alarm in any official capacity - no, he would not. Thus there is time. Time to ensure that the vultures that shall encircle the Princess Elizabeth are not given the chance to taste flesh. Besides - what of his own future? Suffolk might be willing to accept his presence, but Norfolk most certainly would not. Regardless of his abilities, he is base-born - and the proud Thomas Howard has always viewed him as an aberration, almost a dread disease that should be eradicated at the first opportunity. If he is to survive - prosperity can be considered later - he must find an ally with whom he can stand. One who has the strength of royal might, the intelligence to use it, and who is free of the taint of factions.
His nibbling of his thumbnail goes down to the quick, and he curses at the pain, withdrawing the digit and seeing a bead of blood. The thought in his head is most unwelcome - but what choice does he have? If he is to navigate safely through the battles to come as the great Lords of the Court fight to control the succession, then there is only one to whom he can turn.
He must turn to the King's widow. He must turn to Queen Anne.
Thinking it over, he hastens back to his offices. He must act quickly to gather his hand of cards in the game to come. Snatching at a quill, he charges it with ink and sets down a sequence of orders. Boleyn might be the Lord Keeper of the King's Privy Seal, but he has always been more intent upon the rank than the office. Thus the office chamber he should use is frequently empty, while the seal is locked in a well-secured coffer within. Cromwell has long since obtained a key thanks to his need to use it in a secretarial capacity, and is no longer expected to ask before he takes it. Fortunately, he does not need the Great Seal for a matter so small is this - Audley is not even a quarter so accommodating, or absent.
"Ralph." He calls across to Sadleir, "A word. Walk with me."
Gathering the paper, and the seal affixed to it, he guides his secretary out of the offices to an unoccupied chamber, "Listen to me carefully. Take this, and a detachment of guards, to Hatfield, and secure the Lady Elizabeth - with sundry of her Ladies, but not the Lady Mary. Return them to the vicinity of Placentia as soon as you can."
Sadleir's eyes widen, "What has happened Mr Cromwell?"
"The King is dead. I shall say no more: the less that you know, the less can be demanded of you, Ralph. None know of this but for you and I, and it must remain that way, so speak of this to no other soul. This letter advises that the King has summoned the Princess back to Court. Brook no disagreements and do not delay. Our very lives may well rest upon the success of your mission."
He is briefly silenced by the catastrophic tidings; but recovers himself remarkably quickly under his employer's steely gaze, "I shall aim to return her to Court as soon as is possible." He promises, and hastens out.
Trembling slightly, Cromwell lets out a long, slow breath. He is playing a dangerous game - but if he is to prevail, he must be the first to bring the news to the Queen - and he must deliver the Princess Elizabeth.
The Princess is being fetched. Now he must speak to the Queen.
The musicians have gone, and Anne sits beside the fire, attempting to embroider, but also attempting to forget last night. Her father might have departed, and in a fearsome temper, but her thoughts are largely focused now upon an act of foolishness upon her part that is largely owing to the quantity of wine she consumed in the course of the evening.
It was all so utterly stupid…and the poor man had done nothing to warrant it - naught but playing the ridiculous game of Courtly Love. He was guilty merely of taking too long - in her opinion - to court Madge Shelton, and in her mildly inebriated state, she had taken him to task over it.
When shall you ask Lady Shelton to marry you? Her tone had been so peevish.
I am thinking upon it, Norris had replied, brightly, I think but to tarry awhile longer. Yes - playing the game: nothing more. His voice was cheerful, for the music was joyful - and the atmosphere lively. Lively but for her, of course - drifting around the gathering like a lone thundercloud in the heights of summer sun. Did he know of her suspicions? That things are not as safe and secure as she was led to believe? A husband who has demanded that all recognise her as Queen - only to disappear off to Wiltshire, and the house of her rival?
He must know - Henry Norris is a dear friend of the King and the Groom of the Stool, so how could he not?
So much worry…so much fear…and then such a light comment. How dare he be so cheerful in the face of her fear?
Then you look for dead men's shoes - for if aught came to the King but good, then you would look to have me!
She shudders, and fumbles with the needle. He had looked appalled at her comment - and with good reason, too. Her words, spoken in heat and haste, could be construed as envisaging the death of the King. A treasonous act.
If I should have any such thought, Majesty, I would lay my head upon the block and demand it be severed!
God above - had any who had the ear of the King heard her words, then she would be facing arrest. Thank God they had not.
Or had they? She cannot tell…
One of her ushers approaches, "Majesty, the Master Secretary is without, and seeks an audience."
Her stomach lurches slightly. And so it is true - word of her indiscretion has reached unfriendly ears. Doubtless he comes to make the arrest. Rising to her feet, and squaring her shoulders, she turns to the door, "Show him in, Paul."
"Yes, Majesty."
To her surprise, when he enters, Cromwell bows deeply, "Your Majesty."
"Mr Secretary." Her tone is cold.
"Forgive my intrusion. Are any within earshot?" He looks remarkably uncomfortable. This, she was not expecting.
"Paul, please leave us. Ensure that there are none nearby."
He bows and departs.
Her expression as cold as her voice, Anne glares at Cromwell, "Advise me of your tidings, Mr Secretary. Make haste and then depart. I have other matters to consider."
He dithers for a moment, clearly wondering what to say. So, is she not to be arrested, then? Her temper close to breaking, she speaks sharply, "Tell me what you have come to impart, and then leave!"
"I…" he stops, swallows, and starts again, "I think it might be wise to be seated, Majesty."
"I prefer to stand."
Cromwell shuffles, and looks slightly helpless, "Forgive me - but I bring grave tidings regarding his Majesty the King." He stops again, "Please, Majesty - I truly think it best that you seat yourself."
"Tell me." She insists, stiffly.
"I have just received news from Wiltshire." He says, awkwardly, "I…er…I regret to inform you that his Majesty was thrown from his horse while hunting. Both his Majesty and his horse fell down a steep bank, and…and…" he stops, growing visibly pale.
Watching him, Anne feels a coldness growing in the pit of her stomach. God - he has been gravely injured, and now he is experiencing the tender ministrations of that Seymour slut…
"Your Majesty - I fear that his Majesty was crushed beneath his horse, and was struck upon the head in the midst of the fall. His head was shattered, and when he was removed from beneath the animal, it was found that…that he had not survived. His Majesty the King is…is…dead."
Finally, he spits out the dread word.
Anne's eyes widen, "No…that cannot be. Mr Secretary, do not speak so…that cannot be!" the news seems impossible - remote. No, he is testing her. He knows of her words last night - and now he sets this trap before her, so that he can bring her down and destroy both her, and her daughter. She is too great an obstacle to his plans - he wants rid of her so that she cannot be rid of him.
But then there is a sense of equal horror at the thought of loss. Her husband. Her Henry - he is gone…dead and gone. No, it cannot be so. It cannot…
Her thoughts whirl around and around in her head, faster and faster - growing ever more wild as the words the King is dead flits through the churning maelstrom. It is not true. It is not. He cannot be dead. Not Henry - not her husband…
"Majesty!" Cromwell's voice rises in shock, though she does not understand why. She can barely hear him through the violent buzzing in her ears…
And then nothing.
"For heaven's sake, stay back, Mr Secretary." The voice is Jane Rochford's. Vaguely Anne opens her eyes to find that she is seated in a chair, her stays loosened, while her feet are raised upon a footstool. Dear God - has she fainted? Why is the Secretary present?
And then it comes back to her.
Henry is dead.
Unable to stop herself, she utters a faint moan, though she is no longer sure whether the sound that escapes her displays grief or confusion. Immediately, a cool cloth is dabbing at her forehead, "Take care, Majesty - you fainted; though the Master Secretary will not say what it was he said that caused you to do so."
Gradually, the chamber comes into focus, and she can see a crowd of people about her, their expressions worried. It appears to be true, then. Mr Cromwell has not imparted his dread news to any other.
In that case, she shall play the game as he does, "Forgive me all, I think my stays were tied too tightly. I am recovering even now, for I can breathe once more. Please return to your business - I shall continue my private discussions with Secretary Cromwell. Lady Rochford, could I trouble you for a small glass of eau de vie?"
Still worried, her attendants bow and withdraw, while Jane fetches her a pony-glass of clear spirits flavoured with pear before withdrawing too. Sipping at the liquor, Anne looks back up at the Secretary, "Are you certain of this? Do not forget that to envisage the death of the King is treasonous, Mr Cromwell."
He still looks uncomfortable, "I fear so, Majesty." He cannot blame her for her uncertainty - after all, she must know by now that her position is dangerously precarious. To be overheard speaking of the King's death would set her upon a scaffold - either to be burned or decapitated - and thus she has no wish to do so in front of him. She is not blind to the fact that he has done so to her - and she could have him arrested on the spot.
"God have mercy upon his soul." She whispers, "Who else is aware of this?"
"Naught but you and I - and Ralph Sadleir. I have dispatched the man who brought me the news to new quarters to ensure that he is not punished for his act."
"Your own secretary knows?" Anne asks, her voice low: dangerous.
"I have sent him to Hatfield, Majesty. He has a summons for the Princess Elizabeth to return to Court."
Her eyes widen - so that is his plan. To control Elizabeth, and - consequently - control her. While she knows that all of the men at Court would act with equal determination, that it is this base-born commoner who has done so galls her to the extreme.
"Majesty." Cromwell's voice becomes more earnest, "I am not bringing the Princess to Court for any purpose other than to restore her to you. She shall become the Queen - but is barely more than a babe in arms and thus cannot truly rule. It is now essential that she is governed by those who have both the interests of the Queen, and the interests of the Realm, at heart."
"Besides," Anne says, with soft spite, "Those who would wish to govern her would be those who would relieve you of your privileges - nay, even your head."
His own eyes narrow, as his temper is provoked, "Do not imagine that they shall retain you for any purpose other than appearance. There shall be a Lord Protector at the head of the council table before the King's remains are laid to rest - and whoever that Protector might be, there shall be no place for either of us. Not for me - and not for you."
"There would be no place for you, no matter whether the Protector be friend to me, or foe." She spits back, "I am the new Queen's mother - and what are you?"
Angered, Cromwell speaks with more honesty than he has since advising the woman before him of her widowhood, "Your single hope of remaining relevant to the life of your daughter."
Anne looks at him, intrigued, "Is that so?" In other circumstances, she would not take his comment seriously; but his expression is unguarded - most unusual for him - and his hands…are they trembling? God above, they are…he is afraid…
He can see her scepticism visibly receding as she begins to understand that he has approached her in all sincerity. Regaining his temper, he steps forth, "Majesty, believe me, I am well aware that our aims and intentions have long diverged - and that I have taken steps to act against you. Whether you are equally aware, I know not - but the circumstances have changed. If we are to survive in the storm that is to follow, then we must do so together. Your uncle shall not appreciate your opinions any more than your late husband did - and I know full well that he had no time for them, or interest in them." He pauses, looks nervous, and then plunges on, "Majesty - you should know. Prior to his departure to Wiltshire, his Majesty commissioned me to lead a commission of oyer and terminer with the intention of investigating acts of treason upon your part. I had just secured a chamber in which to question your women when the news of his Majesty's death was brought to me."
Now her thoughts are of more urgent matters, "Does my uncle know?"
Cromwell shakes his head, "He does not. All upon the Council are aware of our instructions, but not the matter under investigation."
Her eyes still hostile, Anne regards him awhile. It is clear that he is absolutely serious - and equally he is absolutely sincere. Woman she may be - but she is neither blind, nor a fool. Her own father has declared his hatred of her, and that he would abandon her at a stroke. It is a certainty that, were Elizabeth to fall into the hands of her male relatives, she herself would suddenly discover a great need to withdraw from the world and retire to a nunnery.
The Seymours are a spent force now, of course - their entry to the Court was being eased by the blonde charms of the daughter; but there is every chance that they might ally with a stronger force - Suffolk, perhaps? They are of very different stock, yes, but the chance to seize royal power makes strange alliances…
Alliances, it seems, such as herself and the black-clad man standing before her, shifting uncomfortably and causing the links of his chain of office to grate slightly. She cannot act alone - that is true. She must have the aid of one who truly understands the dangerous undertow of politics; but is the man before her the only choice? The son of a Putney brewer?
They were friends once - for he understood her intelligence as other men did not. He could see what they refused to acknowledge. Those shared games of chess - the movements of the pieces an allegorical demonstration of the movements of the pieces on that greater board that is the Court of England. There was no love between them - only a friendly, mutual respect for one another's intellects. Does he still hold that friendship? Perhaps he does…
There shall be factions drawing together as soon as the news breaks. She is well aware of that - and so that deadly dance shall begin, a risk-laden galliard that shall determine which faction controls her daughter.
And thus controls England.
"How long do you think, until the news is broken?"
"If my man was missed, then it cannot be long - another day at best. They do not know whose man he was - so it may be that they shall remain silent for a few days to ensure that there is no accusation of treachery on the part of the Seymours. As soon as Elizabeth is secured, all shall know that we have acted. Thus it may be wiser to keep her secreted away from the Palace; somewhere comfortable within London. The more that our enemies know, the easier it shall be for them to crush us - for of all who shall contest for the future of England over the coming days, we are by far the weakest."
"Then we must find more friends. Friends who shall stand with us."
"That shall be difficult, Majesty." Cromwell admits. After all, how many friends shall he have once Norfolk stakes his claim to be the Protector? Who would be willing to defy the highest nobleman in England?
Eyeing the Queen worriedly, Cromwell realises that he cannot think of a single soul.