A/N: Thank you everyone for your comments, they're always very much appreciated, and I'm really pleased (again!) that people are enjoying this.

At the moment, only a few people know what's happened - but now the news is set to break, and a whole new game is about to begin...

CHAPTER SEVEN

A Court in Mourning

Suffolk is pacing back and forth, glancing occasionally back to the trestle, where a pale, fearful physician stands over the horribly damaged corpse and attempts not to vomit. Whether it is out of revulsion at what he sees, or the knowledge that he is being asked to verify the death of the King of England, however, it is not possible to tell.

He should be thinking; he should be planning what he shall do now. If the fled man has reported to Norfolk, then he might as well never return to Court, as the Norfolk faction has no place for him. Besides, he would not wish to be at a Court ruled by the Boleyns - not by that woman…

No. Not that woman - Norfolk would never share power. At best, Wiltshire might be thrown some few crumbs to placate him and keep him loyal - but she shall be set aside: a mere ornament to decorate the Court and aid the pretence that all shall be well in the years to come.

The thought wisps away again as he turns back to the trestle. His King…his friend - snatched away from this world in the merest instant. While all who breathe are aware of the fragility of life, and the speed at which death can strike, he is still fighting with himself to accept the evidence of his eyes. He had pretended to himself that Henry would live forever…is that not what Kings are meant to do?

Seymour is standing in the corner, watching with dread-filled eyes - still struck with terror that he shall be blamed for this calamity, for the King has died while a guest under his roof. The girl is still upstairs, but the occasional sound of running feet ascending and descending the stairs suggests that all fear for her wellbeing. Perhaps she grieves for the King - or perhaps for the loss of the glittering future he might have granted her. Who knows?

He is likely doing the girl a disservice, thinking as he does - but he can also see the elder son standing at the hall door, his eyes narrowed and his thoughts quick. There is one who neither fears nor grieves - but instead calculates what hope there might be for the grand career as a Courtier that all but vanished away in the instant that the King fell from his horse. The Seymours have no connections at the Palace - even he is only at Wulfhall because he accompanied his friend - and thus no means to come back there again. Even the Master Secretary would have associated with them only because they had secured the favour of the King - that is a man who does all that is required of him. Much as he dislikes the base-born commoner, Suffolk recognises the man's talent: whoever eventually stands as Lord Protector would be a fool to disregard him.

His eyes stray back to the body, and his thoughts scatter once more. The Physician has retreated; and, seeing that Suffolk is glancing at him, comes across, "I am not sure what you require of me, your Grace." He admits, his voice a soft burr of the local accent tinged with the more refined tones of one of the University towns, "From what I have seen, it is clear to me that all occurred as was described. His Majesty appears to have sustained a large number of broken bones - but the destruction of his skull is decisive. There is no sign of a weapon used - merely injuries that are consistent with a fall."

Suffolk nods, tiredly. An examination of the horse has equally shown that the only use of a weapon was the gunshot that ended its agonised thrashings. There is no means by which any could hope to claim that the King's death was anything other than an accident, "Thank you, doctor."

"I shall make a written statement for you if you require it." Despite his offer, Suffolk can see that the man would very much rather not have to do so - but asks for form's sake.

"Forgive me - but I think it wise for all of us if you do." He says, "I shall ensure that the King's own physicians are given sight of the remains to verify your report."

With at least that minor assurance, the physician nods, and retreats in search of paper and ink.

"What is the doctor's assessment?" Seymour asks, fretfully.

"That all of the injuries upon the remains are consistent with our explanation of what occurred, Sir John." Suffolk answers, "There shall be no disputing the fact that it was mischance. I can vouch for the fact that you warned his Majesty not to ride his horse directly down the slope - but that he dismissed the warning to remain upon the path."

"Thank you, your Grace." He seems to almost visibly exude a sigh of relief.

"I shall make arrangements for the remains to be conveyed back to London." Suffolk advises quietly, "I think it wise at present that you and your family remain away from Court." There is little point in sugaring that poison; the death of the King has taken away their surest means of gaining ascendancy - the elder son had not had any opportunity to prove himself of use, and there shall be no honours tied to the skirts of their daughter now that the one who would have granted them is gone. If Edward Seymour still remains ambitious to seek his fortune at Court, then he shall have to do so on his own merits - but without a means of gaining entry at the outset, that is all but impossible. Who would have any interest in sponsoring the career of one whose presence was largely thanks to his sister's prospects of becoming a royal mistress? No, he shall have to enter Parliament now, and hope that he can forge friendships from there.

Seymour's face falls at the tidings, but he nods in agreement and calls a steward to summon the Captain of the King's Guard back so that they can form up the royal party. The corpse shall be washed, and coffined as best they can achieve in a dusty wicker basket that once held longbows. A proper coffin would take far too long to build - they must leave as soon as they can if he is to hold any hope of retaining the initiative once the news begins to spread. Concealed in a covered cart, none shall know that their King is dead. The worst of it is that they shall have to leave on the morrow, and rest overnight on the way. He cannot get back to court for two days - and with at least one person laying the foundations for their own future, he shall be utterly helpless should matters begin to spiral out of control.

Smeaton is playing his lute again, as the ladies participate in a quiet pavane. The Queen sits nearby, watching the proceedings in the light of a multitude of candles. Should she be grieving? Perhaps she should - but somehow, she cannot. Her love for her King had always been at the centre of her royal life, and even that moment when he had all but cursed her in the light of her grievous loss of their son, it had not dimmed - she knew it, told herself of it every day. But now…why is it that she feels no anguish, but instead relief?

Oh, the tears shall come - she knows herself well enough to appreciate that; but her thoughts circle around the strange discovery that her as-yet unrevealed widowhood has lifted a great weight from her shoulders. The news that Mr Cromwell brought her of the work that her husband had laid upon him is less of a surprise than she anticipated, for she had not been blind to the implications of his withdrawal from her. She is now safe from that - but again, she is not fool enough to believe herself to be safe from all dangers.

Her eyes stray down to the nearby chessboard, the pieces set for a new game. While the games she had played with that tall, inscrutable man had not been a regular pastime, even when they had shared something akin to a friendship, they had taught her that he is both a true power-house of intellect and a masterful strategist; and any who would seek to oust her and control her daughter would be a fool to disregard him. As the foremost of those is her Uncle Thomas Howard, however, such a likelihood rises to a certainty. The Duke's deeply held snobbery would demand that he remove the base-born upstart at the first opportunity. Just as his refusal to share power with any would ensure her dispatch to obscurity. Elizabeth deserves better than that.

Elizabeth…

That poor child - so very young. Few children have gained a throne at so tender an age - only the sixth Henry was younger, crowned while still a babe in arms; while the boy Richard, second of that name, had been a mere ten years of age when the crown was set upon his head. Neither prospered as a King, for both lost their thrones and died while imprisoned, and it cannot be said with any certainty that Henry was even sane, while Richard turned upon his nobles before they deposed him, and some wonder if even his mind was whole by the end of his reign. What if that was thanks to the young ages at which crowns were set upon their heads? Worse - Elizabeth is a girl, and England has never had a Queen Regnant. The last woman who was heir to the throne by right of blood was thrust aside by a cousin who had previously sworn to support her - and her attempt to regain her stolen crown led to nothing but war.

No - that shall not happen again, for there are no men in the succession who can gainsay her daughter's claim. This time there shall be no choice. It shall be a female who wears the crown, for there is no man of sufficient blood to prevent it. Her daughter…her Elizabeth.

She looks up; none pay heed to her brooding, for she has done little else since Lady Day and they no longer consider it to be out of character. God above, why is Smeaton dressed so? Dripping with jewels, adorned with velvets and silks that are a gross defiance of the sumptuary laws, it is as though he has hurled himself into her closet, thrashed about wildly, and emerged draped in whatever garments had attached to him. Is he enamoured of someone? Attempting to gain the affection of one of her ladies? If that is so, then he is a fool - none of them would have a man so low-born. Even Cromwell - for all his ambition - does not think himself so privileged; or, if he does, he is not stupid enough to show it.

One of her ushers approaches, and sets a small letter into her hand, sealed with candlewax pressed by a thumbprint. No signet, then. Breaking it open, she recognises Cromwell's scholarly - but also mildly ungoverned - hand:

Majesty,

I have set a man to watch the London road from the west, who shall flee back to Court as soon as he sights the return of the King's remains from Wiltshire, thus we shall be prepared. I anticipate that Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth shall reach Greenwich tomorrow, post meridian, and I have secured a fair manor in the park of Eltham for her to lodge with her ladies: thus none shall know she is within reach but you.

As soon as the news of the death is reported, I shall feign activity akin to that which was undertaken in January, but the matter of the Protector shall remain unspoken until you have decided who shall be granted that burden. I am already at work upon the appropriate documents to secure her Majesty's succession, and a proclamation shall be ready for your perusal upon the morrow.

I have considered the requirement for additional legal expertise upon these matters, and so I shall secure the assistance of the Solicitor General as soon as the grave tidings have been announced - though I shall not bring him into our confidence at this time - as, for all his talent, he is not a man to be trusted.

I request a private audience with you - both to present the proclamation and to discuss how the news of the King's passing shall be met. In spite of his demands, there has been no investigation into your conduct, and thus there shall be no disputing that you - as his widow - are the dowager Queen, and your daughter has acceded to the throne of England.

C

Folding the letter closed again, she sits back and continues to watch the dance. There is Norris - hand in hand with Madge, thank God, and a number of her other retainers, while Jane Rochford stands to the side and watches as keenly as her Queen. If the Secretary has no confidant, she is more fortunate - for the unloved sister-in-law has proven to be a remarkably trustworthy ally in the face of their shared troubles with the male Boleyns. He may have no friend to trust - but it seems that she has.

The pavane draws to a close, and the dancers exchange bows and curtseys. Thank God it is late - she has much to think upon, and needs to be alone, "Thank you all. Forgive me, but I am most tired and I shall retire. Good night to you all."

They all heed the dismissal, and soon only her closest ladies remain, in order to assist her out of her heavy gown. Someone has fetched a wine cordial and some wafers, while Madge Horsman sets out tooth cloths, picks and aqua vitae. It is the work of moments to drop Cromwell's letter in the fire, and none see it fall into those welcoming flames.

Safely abed, she rests amongst the pillows as her ladies withdraw to the Privy Chamber, and Lady Rochford turns down the covers on the truckle at the end of the Queen's bed.

"I have an errand for you, Lady Rochford."

"Yes Majesty?"

"Please attend the Master Secretary - it is likely that if he is not in his chambers, he shall be in the offices - and advise him that I shall grant him a private audience on the morrow at ten of the clock. I shall require your presence - but no others."

"Yes Majesty." She bobs a curtsey, and departs. On the other side of the curtain, she can hear a few words of gossip - mostly relating to speculation that Lady Rochford has gone to meet a lover - until Madge Shelton comes in to sit with her while Jane is absent.

They remain ignorant: good. Tomorrow, she shall begin her planning in earnest.

Sadleir arrives in the breaking light of dawn, making his way to Cromwell's chambers as he is in the midst of breaking his fast. God - does the man ever sleep?

"Is it done?" is his first question, the cup of small ale paused halfway to his lips.

Sadleir nods, a little breathlessly, "Our guest is lodged in the manor you secured, Mr Secretary. The staff there accepted the document without hesitation and assume it is the will of the King, though the chief of her ladies objected when first we arrived at her residence with it. Those who remain believe her to have travelled to Hampton Court, for I claimed that the Court was there."

"And the other Lady?" he does not mention Mary by name - God knows who is listening.

"Pleased to be left behind in a pretence of what she once was - though she expressed sadness that our guest was departing from her. Despite all, she has a great deal of affection for her. She has assumed that her charge is merely changing residence, and she is being left behind."

Cromwell's eyebrow raises; regardless of the indignities and humiliations heaped upon that poor young woman, she has never blamed the babe who supplanted her. A remarkable degree of kindness in the face of gross injustice.

"Good. When all is known, her thoughts may change - but at present she remains ignorant: best that it remain that way for now."

"Yes, Mr Secretary. What is left to be done?"

"I have a few additional tasks to undertake, which I shall do this morning. I suspect it shall not be much longer before the tidings break - a day at the most - so it is my intention that we are as prepared as we can be for what shall undoubtedly follow."

"If you require fair copies, I shall secure a private chamber to write them."

He smiles at his loyal secretary, a man he has always been able to trust absolutely - unlike anyone else in this damned ants' nest, "Thank you Ralph."

Returning to the slices of cold beef and bread upon his plate, Cromwell resumes his thoughts of how to proceed once new of the King's death arrives for the rest of the Court. He cannot believe that Suffolk is not returning with the King's remains by now. If they do not arrive today, then it shall certainly be tomorrow - he cannot keep the news to himself for too long, otherwise he shall have a great number of difficult questions to answer.

At least he can assure Queen Anne that her daughter is safely arrived from Hatfield, and is now appropriately ensconced at Eltham in quarters suitable for her grand estate. Mary remains ignorant that her last opportunity to grasp back her legitimacy has vanished away, and thus is safe from any who might attempt to advance her cause. He shall have to consider her future eventually, but at present the needs of the younger daughter supersede those of the elder.

The proclamation is at his elbow, hidden in a leather portfolio alongside a draft bill for Parliament to declare their loyalty to her as Queen, and also to confirm who shall be Lord Protector. Whether he is content with the idea or not, there has never been a crowned minor who has not been overseen by one of the great Lords - though, for choice, he would do without one, for there is not one man at the Council table who would permit him to remain, or who would grant the new Queen's mother her rights as Regent. After all, Matilda discovered to her cost that her right of blood as the younger sister of William Adelin was worth nothing in the face of Stephen of Blois; England lost more than an heir when the White Ship sank: she lost peace and prosperity in the carnage as the two heirs fought for supremacy and the Crown.

He has no intention of allowing such a disaster again - not after all that he has been doing to attempt to drag his country from its old ways in order to share the light of the renaissance that is blossoming like a sunrise across their neighbours over the channel. The resistance of those who stand to lose the long-held rights of possession over the land would be impossible to overcome if one of their number took charge of the council, and - consequently - the realm.

Regardless of what shall follow, he knows that he must find allies - and quickly. As the premier peer of the realm, Norfolk shall expect to be Protector - no, he shall demand it - and the laws that he must construct to protect Elizabeth's rights as Queen must be as tightly written as possible. That means he must make careful overtures to Sir Richard Rich; while he is not the finest lawyer ever to walk the corridors of the Inns of Court, he is highly organised and has a peerless knowledge of legal precedent: there are few who can interpret statutes as he can.

If only he could be trusted. For all his brilliance, Rich is hideously unscrupulous, and easily tempted with bribes. Furthermore, he has little courage, moral or physical, and would betray anyone in return for either advancement or wealth. Would he be welcoming a talented ally into their circle, or a treacherous serpent?

No - he cannot risk it. Best to wait until the news has broken and turn to him in his capacity as Solicitor General. Once all is settled, and he cannot throw all into confusion in return for a bag of gold, he can enter service to the Queen Elizabeth.

The ladies are concentrating on their embroidery again, turning out exquisite pieces of needlework illustrating all manner of subjects - allegories, myths and legends. They talk quietly amongst themselves, accompanied by the soft ticking of the clock upon the great mantel of the fireplace above their heads.

Anne shudders; today, had circumstances not changed, they would have been escorted - one by one - into a windowless chamber where the King's Secretary and Solicitor General would have questioned them in hopes of assembling gossip and hearsay that could be used against her - and all that has saved her is the death of the man who demanded that they do it.

The knowledge still remains unreal to her, and she thinks of Henry's actions with a cold detachment that belies all the love that she believes she ever held for him. Why is she still not grieving? Why does it all sound merely like words spoken to her about a mere stranger to whom she had no connection? Surely there should be tears - but still her eyes remain stubbornly dry.

She looks up as the tiny bells built into the clock strike the hour of ten. Sure enough, no sooner has that last tinkling sound died away than one of her ushers enters, "Majesty, the King's Secretary is without. He seeks a private audience."

Anne raises her head, "Thank you Michael. Show him in - Ladies, if you could excuse us, please? The weather without is most pleasant, I suggest you take the air for an hour or two. I shall call you back for the midday meal."

They exchange glances, surprised at her request - for this is becoming rather a regular occurrence. Disinterested in their curiosity, she waits for them to depart, taking her two spaniels with them, before having Cromwell shown in. Shortly afterwards, Lady Rochford returns, having dropped back from the group and made her way back to the Privy Chamber.

Cromwell does not object to her presence - instead setting out the papers that he has prepared, "This is the proclamation of the Queen Elizabeth, Majesty. As she is too young to speak for herself, it shall be for you to proclaim her Queen, as the Queen Dowager."

"Dowager…" she whispers. Jesu - how old that makes her sound…a woman of her years, wedded and widowed. How long has she been alive now? Three tens of years or more - but it seems like a hundred lifetimes. Was that not what they called Queen Katherine? Dowager? But she was Arthur's widow, no more than a princess of Wales. Rendered such by the death of her husband.

Husband.

Her husband…

Henry…

In that instant, the understanding of her loss moves the short distance from her head to her heart - but her thoughts seem to leap a thousand miles into the depths. He is gone - her Henry; lost to her for the rest of her days.

Cromwell bows his head and closes her eyes as her face falls, and, at last, so do the tears. Tears that she could not shed until that moment. But there is more than mere salt water - now there are wails of anguish, cries of grief.

Her face buried in Lady Rochford's gown, Anne screams out her pain, "Oh God have mercy! My poor husband! My Henry! No, it cannot be! It cannot - I cannot bear it!"

He bites his lip to keep himself under control, for the intensity of her pain reflects back upon him, and he finds that he, too, grieves. Grieves for a man whose love could be gained and lost upon the turn of a die, driven by his whims and fancies - but always powerful in its intensity. Perhaps, had she conceived again, she might have regained it, Seymour girl or no - but that is no longer possible. There were times when he, too, hated Henry - and loved him. But now a new age is upon them, and he must steer the course of their too-small ship into that uncertain dawn.

After a time, the Queen's tears dry, and she lifts her head again, "Forgive me, Master Secretary."

"There is nothing to forgive Majesty." He bows deeply. God, yes - in spite of all, she loved him; or, if she did not, she had utterly convinced herself otherwise and, thus, the principle holds.

Her control regained, Anne's hand is steady as she lifts the paper that holds her daughter's proclamation, "We shall have to move quickly. As soon as the news is received, we must ensure that Elizabeth is proclaimed immediately - and work must commence upon confirming that there is no means to remove her legitimacy."

"A draft bill for that very purpose is also within the wallet, Majesty."

She eyes him, her puffy eyes sharpening, "Of course there is."

"There is also a report upon the requirements to prepare for her Majesty's coronation - though much is dependent upon who shall lead the regency council."

"And who shall be Lord Protector." She adds, darkly. They both know that their futures are dependent upon the identity of that august individual. Frowning slightly, she looks up at him, "And if there were none?"

He stares at her, "Majesty?"

"Why should there be a Lord Protector, when there is a Regent who can govern in the Queen's stead?"

Cromwell opens his mouth to refute her, then shuts it again, after a few more attempts to do so, she interrupts him, "Please do not do that, Mr Cromwell. You resemble a landed carp."

"If we are to do that, Majesty," He says, after a considerable pause, "the legal basis must be absolute. Even if there are rivals to claim the Protectorship, they shall unite as one to deny you such a role."

"Can they deny that the Crown of St Edward was set upon my head?" she counters, "I am a Queen - a crowned Queen - and thus they cannot gainsay me. Woman or no."

Cromwell turns the thought over in his mind. It was not an idea that had occurred to him - after all, even though there is no Salic law in England, nonetheless, no woman can rule: all know it. But now, Queen Anne is making that exact suggestion - and she has every right to do so. The King set that crown upon her head with his own hands - and she was anointed with holy oil just as he had been. In the eyes of God, she is Queen - and who would defy God to remove her?

It is as though he is seeing her in an entirely new light; her intelligence has always been obvious to him, but this? To defy all convention and claim the protectorship for herself? At first thought, it seems ludicrous - but upon second thought…

Immediately, he is burrowing through his papers in search of a fresh sheet - but must instead content himself with the back of the draft proclamation, "Lady Rochford, might I trouble you for quill and ink?"

Writing implements secured, he bends over the paper and begins to scribble, cross out and scribble again until he rises, slightly stiffly, "There is nothing in law to prevent you doing so, Majesty; and - as you have said - you are a Queen Regnant. I have drafted an additional paragraph to add to her Majesty's proclamation that shall name you as Regent and Protector of the Realm. Our primary concern thus being the man that we appoint as head of the Regency Council."

"Not you, Mr Cromwell?" Anne asks archly.

"God no, Majesty." Cromwell shakes his head, vigorously, "Much as it would - I admit - inflate my pride, it would serve us both most badly. The Regency Council must be led by one of your Lords. If there be any reward for me, it shall be in receiving a continued appointment in your service. This shall be hard enough to achieve without rumours that I have won preferment through…inappropriate means."

"Delicately put, Master Secretary." She approves, smirking a little, "Though I have no doubt that a grander appointment shall not be refused."

He reddens slightly.

"What is your recommendation upon receipt of the news from Wiltshire?" she asks, enjoying his embarrassment, but keen to move on.

"That you play the part of a grieving wife, give all pretence of submission to those who bring you the news, and bide your time until the moment of proclamation." He says, "I suspect that you already intend to do so - but that is my suggestion."

She nods, approvingly. The game that they must play is a dangerous one, and it would not do for them to be approaching their strategy from different directions.

"And what shall you do?"

"I shall attempt to find allies amongst the men of the Council - though I fear that I shall have little success. The only man that I trust is Ralph Sadleir; while I appreciate the talents of my colleagues, I am not fool enough to trust them."

"Then we shall do what we can with what we have." Anne says, firmly, "I at least have my status as an anointed Queen answerable only to God, for my Husband is no longer alive. If our position is firmly entrenched, then those who see profit in doing so shall flock to us - and we shall ensure that they are sufficiently rewarded not to be tempted by those who would depose us."

Her words suggest assurance in her plan, but her expression does not. Their position is precarious to say the least - but until the news arrives, there is nothing more that they can do.

The covered wagon rattles and rumbles behind him as Suffolk crests the hill overlooking the park of Placentia, and he pauses for a moment. The men who accompanied the King to Wiltshire are formed up behind him, but there is no honour guard for their improvised hearse: he has no wish to suggest that its contents are valuable. Not when there is such a secret to be kept.

But is it still a secret? That is the real quandary that faces him. Someone in his party reported to another man than he - and he does not know who. Given the number of ambitious Lords at the council table, it could be any of them - but he would not put it past Norfolk to have been responsible. If that is the case, then he shall arrive at the Palace to be accused of leading the King to his death - and his next destination shall be a barge, and then the Tower.

Suffolk is many things - he is not blind to his faults - but he is no coward. Squaring his shoulders, he urges his horse forward with a click of his tongue and a light press of his heels to the ribs. As he approaches, he knows that it shall be clear to all that he has returned alone - though he suspects that most shall assume that the King has remained behind awhile with his new poppet prior to the entire family being granted quarters at the Palace as their chit of a daughter supplants the disgraced Boleyn paike. Insipid though she appears, they would be pleased to see the back of the woman who supplanted the true Queen of England, and Jane set in her place - upon a legitimately vacant throne. Except for that one, awkward reality in the cart behind him...

"James." He summons one of his more trusted escorts.

"Your Grace?"

"Ride ahead. Seek out Archbishop Cranmer - if he is present at Court." Of all the men to whom he must break this news, Cranmer seems most appropriate - for form's sake, at least. Ardent reformer he may be - but he is the primate of the Realm, and it seems appropriate for him to announce the grave tidings without setting too many rumours flying, "Ensure that he is awaiting us when we arrive. I shall wait here for a half-hour, and then continue on. If Cranmer is not present, send Reverend Rawson."

"Yes, your Grace." The man claps his heels to his horse's flanks, and hastens on ahead.

They are too far away to hear the palace bells, so Suffolk is obliged to guess at the length of time that he must wait. Eventually, submitting to his impatience, he commences a journey that shall change life in the Court of the King forever.

Cranmer is, fortunately, at Court - though he seems to have brought Rawson with him, too. That is helpful - the Archbishop and the King's personal Chaplain together to view the corpse of their Sovereign. Fortunately, they have been discreet - and there are no other witnesses to the gathering in the mews.

"Tell me." Is Cranmer's first statement. He is no fool - he knows he would not have been summoned without good reason.

"An accident, your Grace." Suffolk answers, quietly, "He was thrown from his horse while riding recklessly down a steep bank. The animal set its hoof in a rabbit hole and was pitched forward - he was crushed beneath it, and stove in his head upon a rock as they rolled to the foot of the hill."

"Was a physician summoned?"

"Yes - but only to report that the death was misadventure. There was nothing that could have been done."

"A priest?"

"I believe the family chaplain spoke over him - but there was no means to perform Viaticum - he was already gone."

"Arrange for the remains to be housed in one of the wine cellars - they already begin to give off bad odours - I shall attend to him once we have summoned the Council and announced the news to them. First, however, I must advise the Queen."

Suffolk stiffens, "It is important that the Council know first - for they must set plans in place for the succession." Somehow, the thought of that woman knowing before the Councillors do repulses him. She is of no importance to the dead man - why should she know that he is gone? How long before she starts to celebrate with one of her lovers?

Angry with himself for his sudden flash of spite, he softens his tone, "Is it not better that the Council advise her Majesty of her loss - and present her with the plans for the future of the Realm?"

His expression uncomfortable, Cranmer pauses for a moment, but relents, "As you wish, your Grace. I shall see to the summons of the councillors."

Leaving the Archbishop to his work, Suffolk and the Chaplain commence the unpleasant duty of transferring the remains of the King from the mews to a cellar, in at least the vaguest hope of preventing the corpse within the bow-basket from stinking even more than it already does. One fortunate soul has been dispatched to the kitchens to seek bunches of the most fragrant herbs they have, while the rest have fetched a trestle, and are even now gingerly attempting to transfer the foul remains with as little contact as possible through the open weave of the wicker work.

"I shall escort him, your Grace." Rawson advises, "You must attend the Council meeting. Even now a steward is approaching, I think."

Suffolk turns to see his escort, and sighs: now it shall begin.

The men at the Council table are tense - for a summons by the Archbishop suggests that the news they must hear is grim. From their expressions, Suffolk is sure that they have already begun to guess the reason for it. All but one; for that corvid Cromwell is as impassive as ever. God, if Norfolk is the man who knows the truth already, he is a consummate actor in his concealment of that knowledge - for his face is as bemused as everyone else's.

"Gentlemen, are all present?" Cranmer asks, solemnly.

"I believe so." Norfolk advises, curtly, "Speak."

"Then it is, I fear, my most grievous duty to inform you that, during his progress to Wiltshire, the King was thrown from his horse and crushed beneath it. His Majesty, our Liege Lord and Sovereign, King Henry the Eighth of England, France and Ireland, has been called home to God. Te, Domine, sancte Pater, omnipotens aeterne Deus, supplices deprecamur pro anima famuli tui Henrici Regis, quem de hoc sæculo ad te venire iussisti; ut ei digneris dare locum refrigerii, lucis et Liceat ei portas mortis sine offensione transire et in mansionibus sanctorum et in luce sancta permaneat, quam olim Nullam eius anima sustineat læsionem, sed, cum magnus dies ille resurrectionis et remunerationis advenerit, resuscitare eum, Domine, una cum sanctis et electis digneris; dimittas ei omnia delicta atque peccata, tecumque immortalitatis vitam et regnum consequatur æternum. Amen."

Shocked, all around him are frozen for a moment, before they collectively mumble 'Amen' and cross themselves. His expression grave, Cranmer bows to them all, "Forgive me, Gentlemen - I must see to the last sacraments for his Majesty. I look to you to consider the safe future of the Realm." There is no disguising his relief to be away from the discussions to come.

He does not ask consent - nor does he even speak of his intentions. Instead, Norfolk calmly rises and moves to the head of the table. None feel safe to challenge his presumption: he is the foremost Peer of the Realm, and thus would assume such authority as a matter of right. From his seat, Suffolk sighs inwardly: yes, it must have been Norfolk's man in the party who departed. There is no shock upon his face now - only a sense of rightness. A sense that all that shall follow is in his hands, and his alone. That expression of satisfaction seems to deepen, as he eyes the men before him narrowly, before turning to Cromwell, "Thank you, Master Secretary. With the passing of his Majesty, your service to him is at an end. Therefore you are free to depart."

In spite of their collective dislike of the commoner at their table, the various councillors exchange startled glances. Cromwell is, of course, the only man present who has no noble rank - even lowly Rich is a Knight Batchelor - and thus Norfolk can dismiss him without ruffling the feathers of any of the Councillors who might band together to challenge his claim to supremacy.

Remarkably, Cromwell shows no shock, and raises no protest at his dismissal, but instead calmly rises to his feet, bows with great dignity, "Thank you, your Grace."

Without another word, he departs.

Norfolk might look smug, but Suffolk is viewing the exchange in an entirely different light. The manner in which Cromwell so calmly accepted what should have been a humiliation, and withdrew with so little emotion, suggests that this has not come as a surprise; but then, it wouldn't have, would it? Norfolk's first act would have been to remove the hated base-born interloper, but nonetheless, there is no reddening of the humiliated Secretary's face - no sense of resentment in his movements. Suffolk chills inside - it is not Norfolk who knew of the death in advance. It is Cromwell.

The Secretary is one of the most intelligent men in the Palace - and a brilliant strategist. If he is to keep his head, he has already begun to set his plans in motion - and a man as pragmatic as he would certainly abandon past enmities.

If Cromwell knows, then so does the Queen.