A/N: Thank you for your comments and reviews. Yes, Anne has certainly pulled the rug out from under her Uncle - and he's definitely now on the back foot. I must admit that Mary is something of a blind spot for Anne - as the two have certainly been at odds for sufficient time to render bridge-building pretty much out of the question.
That said, they've won over Parliament, and the Council - so they can start work on persuading people to accept Anne as a regent for a toddler Queen. But first, they have a King to bury - and that takes quite a bit of planning...
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ten Thousand Yards of Black
Cranmer is holding a kerchief doused in scent over his nose, and a pomander is in his free hand. Anything to keep that vile stench at bay. Royal Henry might have been, but the reek of corruption that exudes from his decaying corpse is so revolting that even to stand in the corridor outside the cold cellar in which he lies is utterly nauseating. He cannot bear to imagine the foul humours that might well lie beyond. Clearly the embalming has done little to stem the tide of decay - but that is perhaps not surprising; in all the hubbub of squabbling over who would lead the Kingdom, no one thought to organise Mr Alsop to secure the appropriate unguents and spices until a scant two days ago.
He has lain within that bow-basket now for just over a week: hardly a long time, admittedly, but without an adequate coffin to contain the remains, there has been no way to prevent the pervasive stink that now fills the room in spite of efforts to mitigate it. Certainly, the men who have come to oversee the appropriate coffining are struggling to contain their nausea - or indeed the contents of their stomachs. The sooner the horrible carcass within is shut behind thick oak and lead, the better.
Beside him, Cromwell is stoic, but equally holds scented fabric to his nose to avoid the odour. No other member of the Council is present, apparently unavoidably detained elsewhere. Given what lies in that cellar, Cranmer can't blame them.
Behind him, the six men who have delivered the coffin are donning leather sleeves and thick gauntlets, leather aprons are already being worn, and they have masked themselves with thick wads of felt that are stuffed with cloves, cinnamon and fennel seeds, and liberally doused with lavender oil in hopes of keeping those ghastly humours at bay.
"I think we are ready." He says, his voice muffled behind his kerchief, "If we could begin?"
All of the gathered men are highly reluctant to open that door - but they have little choice. If the reek had been bad outside, within the cellar it is insupportable, and Cranmer groans as his stomach lurches. Worse, there is fluid leaking from that arrow-basket…
Forcing himself to swallow, hard, the Archbishop begins to speak, "At this time of sorrow, the Lord is in our midst and consoles us with his word: Blessed are the sorrowful; they shall be comforted. Blessed be God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and the God of all consolation. He comforts us in all our afflictions and thus enables us to comfort those who grieve with the same consolation we have received from him."
He averts his eyes as the six attendants lift the bow-case, drips of vile, bloody matter falling from the base as it rises from the table. None of them wish to open it - not now.
"I lift up my eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth. He sill not suffer thy foot to stumble, he who watches over thee will not sleep. Behold, he who keepeth watch o'er Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord himself watches over thee, the Lord is thy shade at thy right hand so that the sun shall not strike thee by day, neither the moon by night. The Lord shall keep thee from all evil; it is he who shall keep thy soul. The Lord shall keep watch over thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth for ever more."
The hideous wicker basket is now in the coffin, followed by handfuls of fragrant herbs, and the lid is being placed, "Martha said unto Jesus, 'Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give thee whatever thou asketh of him.' Jesus said unto her, 'Your brother will rise again.' Martha said unto him, 'I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.' "
And the clasps are locked, shutting in that foul miasma. Relieved, he bows before it, "Now that his Majesty is appropriately coffined, we shall repair to the Queen's apartments to discuss the plans for his funeral." Cromwell knows this, of course, but it seems appropriate to announce it both to the attendants, and to the corpse now safely encased in lead.
Cromwell turns to the attendants, "Once the joints have been soldered, please arrange for the remains to be moved to the Chapel Royal to lie in state. I shall arrange for an appropriate guard of honour. Then see to it that the cellar is thoroughly washed down and burned out to eradicate any lasting humours that might infect game stored here."
The men bow, and stand back to allow the Archbishop and the Secretary to depart.
Cromwell does not glare at Rich as he returns to the offices; he knows well that his colleague is hardly the bravest man in the palace, and thus is unlikely to be blessed with a strong stomach. Instead, he has spent the otherwise gruesome morning poring over lists of names, working out how much fabric each shall need for their mourning robes and hoods, what types of fabrics are permitted, and what it shall cost. Hardly an easy task. He has already provided a set of costs for the effigy, and supervised its commissioning, while he has asked Sir Anthony Browne to secure sufficient black horses to draw the bier, and organised the collection of the pall from the embroiderers.
"And you have done that just this morning?" Cromwell asks, impressed. He knows that Rich is highly organised, and capable - but it only now that he can see how much.
Rich nods, but does not comment, busily adding up a column of figures. Once done, he sits up, "God above, do we really need so many mourners? It shall cost a small fortune to costume them all. The only saving we are likely to make is upon the horses and the canopy, for we shall not have to buy them."
Cromwell sighs. As though they are not in debt enough. Even in death, Henry seems to demand so much from them.
"I am due to meet with her Majesty the Regent in an hour, Mr Secretary." Rich advises, flexing his cramped fingers, "Can I advise her that she shall be able to view his Majesty's coffin?"
"I suggest that she wait until after the midday meal, Mr Rich." Cromwell answers, "The remains are in a very poor state, and thus the time required to ensure that the coffin is entirely sealed shall be longer than expected. I intend to advise her Majesty to arrange for it to be transferred to a location closer to Windsor, as the distance from Placentia is such that it would be impossible to line the route with black, even though the entire route would be south of the river."
"I was thinking perhaps we should use Richmond?" Rich asks, "Hampton Court is closer to Windsor, but I think for the sake of appearances that we should use the longer route."
Cromwell muses the idea, then nods, "I think that is wise. It would be utterly impractical to process from here - and Richmond would be a worthy place to use as our starting point. Add that to the outline plan, and we can present that to the Queen and Council this afternoon for their vote."
Rich adds the idea to his other notes, "I shall speak to her Majesty now, and provide her with these notes in preparation."
"Good." Cromwell approves, as he turns back to his own desk.
It feels strange to be so busy, when all seems to be in such a state of flux. Hurrying through the corridors, Rich turns the figures over in his head, remembering them, analysing them, thinking them over…
A hand roughly grasps his sleeve, and he is rudely yanked into a small chamber.
"I have been waiting Mr Rich." Wiltshire is standing near the small window, looking out through the leaded diamonds, "Where is the proclamation of the Queen Elizabeth, and Norfolk's protectorship? I believe we requested that you draft those documents some days ago. I did not anticipate that you would be so slow."
Rochford releases Rich's sleeve, and he shrugs his simarre back into place, knowing that he is almost certainly going very pale, as his hands start to chill, and his mouth dries in fear.
"I expect you to work with us - as you chose to do."
He wants to tell them that their casual dismissal of his worth, and of his life, drove him to change his allegiance - but he cannot bring himself to speak. If he does, his voice shall shake, and he has no wish to compound his fear with an additional layer of humiliation.
"Where is the proclamation, Mr Rich?" Wiltshire asks again.
"You have heard it." He stammers, nervously, "It was spoken by her Majesty the Queen Regent but two days ago."
The Earl surges forward, marching across the room to grab Rich by his collar and slam him into the wainscoting, "Are you making fun of me, you vile rodent?"
Shocked at the assault, Rich stares at Wiltshire's raging face, "I assure that I am not, your Grace." His tone is placating, and he curses himself inwardly at his cowardice.
"Then what, in God's name, possessed you to betray us? Do you think that we would let such an insult by? Christ's wounds, I know you to be a filthy perjurer, but this? Treachery against England's rightful Protector? What did Cromwell promise you? Money? Advancement? The satisfaction of some vice or other - women, or perhaps boys or men?"
The suggestion that he has exchanged his loyalties upon such a promise spikes Rich's temper, and he finds it in himself to answer, "If you must know, your Grace, it was your betrayal of me that inspired my act - dispatched to Tyburn in exchange for my loyalty once it had run the course of its usefulness? Do you think that I would be such a fool as to give you my service knowing that my reward would be to dance the Tyburn jig? God knows that I am hardly lacking in faults, and the sins upon my conscience are legion - but I value my neck, and thus I have thrown in my lot with those who would do likewise! God be thanked that I left a document behind that day, and came back to overhear your unguarded conversation - for without it, I suspect that I would already be viewing the inside walls of a chamber in the Tower, would I not?"
"Do not presume that you are safe from such a fate, Rich." Rochford snaps, viciously, "If you believe that Anne shall value your counsel, then you are the very fool you claim yourself not to be. She is naught but a woman, and thus cannot rule. When she falters, and comes crawling to us for aid, you shall find yourself friendless and alone - and the death that you fear shall be most certainly yours."
"And what shall you do when she proves you wrong?" Rich demands, emboldened by his sudden anger.
In response, Rochford backs away a pace or two, and then lashes out, catching Rich across the side of the face and sending him tumbling to the floor.
Wiltshire stops beside him as he gingerly touches at the growing swelling around his left eye, "I do not forget betrayals, Richard Rich. I most certainly shall not forget yours. When your supposed Queen Regent throws all of England into chaos with her womanish misrule, you shall have but two choices - flee, or die."
Rich watches them depart, shaken - but angry. If they hope to cow him into abandoning the Queen, then he shall prove them wrong. Damn them. Cromwell has already sworn himself to her service - his own commitment being far less strong. Not any more - if betrayal of his Queen is what they want from him, then they shall not have it.
Gathering up his fallen wallet, Rich straightens his dishevelled collar, squares his shoulders and leaves the chamber with a far more determined air. The Queen intends to rule with wise heads and good advice. If that is so, then he is determined to provide it.
Elizabeth is frowning with concentration, "Je suis, tu es, il est, elle est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils sent, elles sent." It is not that she cannot remember the conjugation - more that she wishes to pronounce the verbs as well as her mother does.
Anne claps her hands, delightedly, "Excellent, ma cherie! Now, 'to have'."
"J'ai, tu as, il a, elle a, nous avons, vous avez, ils ont, elles ont."
She is perhaps a little young to be repeating conjugations, but with verbs so irregular, there is no alternative but to know them by heart. Needless to say, Elizabeth delights in the challenge. Her conversational French is improving daily, as they converse in that tongue for at least two hours every day, but the need to be able to write the language with appropriate grammatical correctness can never be prepared for too soon.
"Thank you, Lady Bryan, she is progressing very well."
"Indeed she is, your Majesty." The older woman laughs, "I think that she shall soon leave me behind! Perhaps it is not too early to consider a tutor?"
Anne nods, "Please present me with some recommendations. Be sure that they are both learned, and able to inspire joy in learning. I could not bear it if she lost that love of knowledge."
"Of course, Majesty." She curtseys, "Come your Majesty, it is time to depart. I believe your royal mother must meet with one of your ministers."
"Yes, Lady Bryan." Elizabeth says, a little resignedly, before leaning up to kiss her seated mother on the cheek.
"I shall see you later, my precious." Anne smiles, "We shall dine together and perhaps you would like to go to the mews after the noon to see the horses? I cannot come, alas, for I must meet with your Council - but you can tell me about it before bed."
"Yes Mama."
She watches her daughter depart as Matthew announces Rich's arrival, and she turns to see that his left eye is looking remarkably swollen, "My goodness, Sir - what happened to you?"
"An unfortunate impact, Majesty." He answers, laconically "I inadvertently collided with Viscount Rochford's fist." Now that he has made the decision to throw in his lot with the Queen wholeheartedly, he is quite cheerful about the entire incident.
"How did that happen?" she asks, as he hands her the leather wallet, "My brother is not one to act unprovoked - even if that provocation was largely imagined, or falsely attributed."
"They are still waiting for my draft proclamation."
"That has been given."
"My other draft proclamation."
"Ah, I think I see." She smiles. When he is not being an untrustworthy scoundrel, it seems that Rich has quite the impish sense of humour.
He waits quietly and patiently as she reads through his notes and calculations, "God have mercy, so many?"
"Yes, Majesty. While those of us who carry staffs that we shall break and hurl into his tomb are few in number, those who consider themselves to be of equal importance to the Realm are many - and the list that I have prepared is likely to be the minimum that we can invite to participate without causing monumental offence. There shall be a fair outbreak of ruffled feathers as it is."
"Indeed there shall." Anne agrees, "I shall consider your papers, Mr Rich; though I suspect from what I have seen already that I shall have few questions, and shall have sufficient information to make my decision. We shall discuss it at the Council meeting after the midday meal." She looks up at him, and smiles, "I suggest you visit the kitchens and seek out a raw beefsteak for that eye."
Cromwell looks up as Rich returns, "God above, Mr Rich, what happened to you?"
"Rochford punched me."
Unlike Anne, Cromwell does not need to ask why, "I take it that they are disappointed in the slow nature of your service?"
"Mightily." Rich sniffs, boredly, "They consider themselves to be a government-in-waiting: ready to dictate terms when her Majesty finds that her natural feminine weakness renders her unable to govern the Kingdom."
"Then they should be advised not to hold their collective breaths." Cromwell snorts, derisively. Are they truly so blind to their daughter's talent? What she lacks in knowledge, she more than makes up for in a willingness to learn, and to work with those who can advise her. He has often wondered what the Kingdom could have been had he been able to deal with her as an equal to the King - and had never thought that he would have the opportunity to find out. Now that his musings have come to pass, however, he rather relishes the challenge. Anne has such a sharp intellect - though her temper can be quite ungovernable at times - and a keenness to understand the intricacies of state that is equal to, if not greater than, that of her late husband.
Oh, King Henry took command of his government in the end - but only after the fall of Wolsey; though he had mistaken capability for presumption. That was also Wolsey's fault, of course, for he had grown to love the power that he held far too much - and thus had opened himself up to the machinations and plotting of Norfolk and the Boleyns. If only he had been more careful…
I shall learn from that error. He thinks to himself as he re-reads his draft briefing note for the afternoon meeting. No, he shall stand beside the Queen, advise her as honestly as is possible, and make no move that could be viewed to be motivated solely by self-interest. It shall be hard enough for them to prevent the country spiralling into another civil war without having to fight off accusations of corruption. At least, if he is honest, his denials shall be true. The greatest benefit of telling the truth is not having to remember what one has said.
Setting the brief aside, he resumes his pondering upon how they shall win the love of the Queen's subjects. He remembers their furious arguments over the destination of the monies being brought in from the closure of the smaller religious institutions, and the reasons for it. Henry wanted that money for himself - but perhaps if they can divert what remains of it to charitable causes, that in itself might win the love of the people, as they discover that their Queen is not a remote, jewel-dripped figure in a palace decked with a hundred or more finials and pennants, but instead a maternal figure. What did Rich call her? Ah yes, Mother of the Realm.
His mind still on that matter, he burrows through his papers for another, and withdraws a sheet of scrawl that sets out how such institutions could be founded - and paid for. As long as the Queen is content to accept what she has, and not demand more, then it is possible. Fees for the courtiers who live at the palace have not been reviewed for a considerable number of years, so that would also help to support the operation of the palaces, thereby reducing the need to empty those funds into what has become, to his mind, an insatiable, gaping maw. It is too soon to raise the matter - not while they have a funeral and a coronation to organise - but if they can keep the Norfolk faction at bay, she is sure to ask for such a document. Best to have it ready.
The Chapel is quiet, but for the steps of the woman who enters, and the soft tones of a chaplain reciting verses from the scriptures intended to offer comfort for the souls of the dead. The chapel soars above her, the piers springing out to great ribbed vaults from which fan out designs of leaves and heraldic beasts, while elaborate bosses picked out in bright colours conceal the joints. The walls about her are dazzlingly painted with biblical scenes that are a strange conflict between her love of beautiful things, and her offence at the dreadfully overdone decoration common to all Catholic spaces. Do people think that splattering gallons of paint upon walls brings them closer to heaven? But then, looking at it, in some ways it seems to her that it does.
Her mind is wandering - refusing to settle upon the reality before her. Set upon four trestles to support the combined weight of rotting king, English oak, innumerable bags of sweet spices and very thoroughly sealed lead, the coffin has been left to lie in state. The courtiers might well file in later, and certainly there shall be guards set once she has departed; but for now the space is hers alone.
The atmosphere is a little cloying, as a censer has been hung nearby to dribble fragrant smoke over the Quire in hopes of concealing any possible escape of stench from the intricately carved and decorated coffin. From here, it seems to remind her of Henry at his worst - fabulously beautiful on the outside, but thick with corruption within. The Henry that sent friends to their deaths…that would have discarded her brutally in order to make way for another woman…
No - he was not always like that. There were wonderful times when first they were together, and when they finally were able to wed. He had pursued her as a hound chases a hind, determinedly and without pause - and she had loved it. Exchanging letters, returning gifts only to find herself presented with contrite letters and finer presents still. They had played the game of Courtly Love like virtuosos, a game she had learned in France: give nothing that shall rob you of your chastity - but otherwise, give all that you will. Mary had returned in disgrace - but she had returned in triumph; for, unlike her sister, she had guarded her cherry with fierce determination, and none had plucked it amongst the gardens of Fontainebleau.
The Henry to whom she had planned to give it was not the Henry who eventually claimed it from her. That had been painful - deeply so, for she had loved Henry Percy with all the passion of a young woman who has never loved before. She would have given all in her possession to be his, and he was equally keen for her. God, they were even at the point of betrothal, though it was between only themselves, and neither his family, nor hers, shared their hopes of a future.
And then she had caught the eye of the King; as captivated by her manners and learning as any other of the men of the Court. Being still wedded to Katherine, of course, he had not thought to have her for any purpose other than extra-marital pleasure; but Mary had followed that path, and been cast aside as an abandoned plaything. Anne could not bear to endure such a fate. Shorn of her hopes to be Anne Percy of Northumberland thanks to her lower station and the snobbery of the Percy line, she was faced instead with the bitter prospect of being a royal whore.
I shall be no man's mistress! I shall not be grasped and deflowered, then palmed off upon some compliant courtier! The man who ends my girlhood shall be my husband - no more, no less!
Such a proud defiance - and one to which she had cleaved absolutely. After all, she had learned as much from her sister's example in England as she had in France - a few brief weeks of tumbles, and then suddenly married to someone of suitable standing. Had she loved the King? Or was it a relief to find herself given away to a man who would keep her in an appropriate state for her rank?
He does not truly love you. He shall use you, and discard you, as he has all the others! You are nothing more than a mere puta to him - and I long for your downfall!
Such anger. Such spite - but it is only now, after the horrible discovery of that Seymour chit perched upon his lap that she understands the bitterness in Queen Katherine's words. How many times had Henry betrayed her with other women? Indeed, did he not flaunt in her poor Spanish face the success of Lady Tallboys in producing the son that she could not?
No more to you at this present mine own darling, for lack of time, but that I would you were in mine arms, or I in yours, for I think it long since I kissed you.
When had he written that letter? So long ago it seems…but there had been many, and she had treasured each and every one. Had she set out to capture him? Perhaps - for it was her father's wish that she step forth into the Court in hopes of gaining him a place amongst Henry's favourites - relatives of the King's mistresses could often prosper. Not that he had failed to do so upon his own merits - merely because he was impatient and wanted to accumulate as much as possible, as quickly as possible.
"I gave my life to you, Henry - and I believed it to be love as much as passion, for I was a silver hind the you sought with such determination to win, and I delighted in the joy of the hunt. And did you not love me? Your written words assured me of it. I would have tried again, over and over - to the draining of my own life - to give you the son you desired so much, for even were it not my duty to do so, I wished for a male child from my womb as deeply as you. Perhaps I should not have been so forward; but did it not excite you in the first days of our love? I could not be less than I am, any more than you could have been. We could have ruled together, carrying England forth into a new golden age - but instead I am widowed, our heir still a child, and I am standing alone in a chapel speaking to a coffin."
She sinks to her knees, "I swear, my husband, that I shall hold this Kingdom for our daughter. For your Elizabeth. Once you are at rest in the ground, we shall grant her a coronation that shall ensure none shall dispute her right to rule, and it shall be she who presides over that golden age that was denied us."
Has he heard her? Has God heard her? She cannot say for certain; and yet, somehow she feels her conviction that she is doing the right thing almost infinitely strengthened. Yes - Elizabeth is of Henry's blood, and she is his true, legitimate daughter, for she was not born to the widow of her father's brother - a defiance of the laws of Leviticus. It is written than no man may marry his brother's widow…and she does not care whether Katherine spoke truthfully or not when she claimed herself intact at the time that Arthur died. She was a widow who married her late husband's brother - and that is forbidden. Thus Elizabeth is the true child. Not that catechising, self-righteous brat Mary. There is no place for the wretched girl in Elizabeth's court - and, other than the basic courtesy of advising her privately of her father's death through the auspices of Mr Wriothesley, who delivered the news five days ago, there shall be no part for her to play in the ceremonies to come.
Angry with herself for allowing her bitter dislike of that benighted child to intrude upon her time of Prayer, Anne rises again and departs. She has a council meeting to attend.
Cromwell sits again, having presented Sadleir's carefully noted order of events for the funeral procession of the late King. As always, Sadleir has produced a well considered, and thoroughly researched document, so there should be no objections.
Except for Norfolk, of course - who seems content to do so upon principle alone, "Why was this done by a common Secretary? What does he understand of the precedence of nobility in the Realm?"
Anne knows better than roll her eyes at such a pointless question, "Unless there is a specific point of order, your Grace, I think we can proceed. Merely disagreeing with the rank of the man who wrote it is of little purpose."
Norfolk scowls, but does not try again - even he recognises that he has served only to make himself look petty and childish.
"So it is agreed, then." Cromwell says, "The King's mortal remains shall depart for Richmond Palace tonight, where they shall rest in state within the Palace Chapel there under the care of Reverend Rawson, who shall travel with the escort. Those who are to participate in the procession shall assemble there in readiness to escort the bier two days from now, where they shall be granted their mourning robes. On the third day, the bier shall depart Richmond to process to Windsor, where it shall be interred."
He looks up, and sees nodding heads, though his particular enemies show little enthusiasm. He has not referred to the form of service - but even Cranmer is not fool enough to attempt to deviate from the requiem mass. Henry's flirtation with reform was solely to gain what he wanted when the Pope would not grant it. He has cut ties with Rome, but not with the Roman rite. Now that he is gone, they can progress with their reforms, yes - but it seems a reasonable gesture to hark back to the old ways just one more time. Besides, it shall serve no one if there is a violent reaction to holding the service in English: the old ways are certainly retreating, but they are by no means dead. That shall come - but not yet.
"It is my intention to travel to Windsor ahead of the procession." Anne says, firmly, "I shall view the ceremony from the Queen's Closet."
Cromwell gives no sign of it, but he is relieved. She is disliked by her subjects, and it is not implausible to expect them to react poorly to her presence in the procession. By avoiding it, and remaining out of sight in the Closet built for her predecessor, she can mourn her husband without the risk of being viewed as a triumphant harpy, stealing England for her own. While he is intent upon overturning that perception, it shall take time - a great deal more time than they have before the funeral.
While Anne has spoken the proclamation, it is customary to announce the heir's accession at the funeral of the monarch who has just passed - and so they shall do so anyway; though the tricky subject of the regency shall remain unspoken. It is agreed, and no amount of sulking upon Norfolk's part shall change it. There is no need to re-state it.
"What of the Lady Mary?" Wiltshire asks, suddenly. Why he should raise the matter, God only knows, but Cromwell is quick to answer.
"She remains at Hatfield, but shall be moved in two days time to Enfield, which shall become her principal residence. While she has been advised of the late King's passing, she is not expected to attend the funeral mass." He is quite convinced that Wiltshire is looking to know for reasons other than mere information, so a lie seems wise. Only Anne knows that she has been given the house at Hunsdon, and that she shall instead reside there, guarded by a hand-picked retinue who shall treat her with the respect appropriate to her noble state - but who are primarily loyal to the Crown. He does not dislike the girl - in fact, he respects her - but until the risk of using her to topple Elizabeth's rule has faded away, she is a dangerous pawn in the games of the factions. Even more so given that she is a grown woman of twenty years, and quite possibly eager to claim a crown that she considers to be hers. The fewer people who know of her location, the better. Even if only for a little while.
He turns to see that Queen Anne is fighting to contain an expression of annoyance at her father for speaking of the hated daughter of her rival. For Katherine, even in death, still holds the affection of the people, a lingering spectre of love that cannot easily be banished. It is, he fears, one of Anne's greatest faults - her jealousy of the woman she supplanted, and her eager determination to conceal even the existence of that first daughter of Henry. Like all people capable of great love, she is equally capable of implacable hatred - and Mary has endured the stings and slaps of it to the point that a rapprochement between them is now largely impossible.
That is, however, a matter for another day. Today he shall dispatch Ralph to Richmond ahead of the coffin to supervise the hanging of black fabric drapes along the route that the cortège shall traverse. The small staff of retainers and drudges at the Palace shall already be scrambling to prepare the place for a temporary invasion of Courtiers, while those at Windsor shall be doing likewise. With nothing else of equal significance to discuss, he has work to do - and quite urgently, too.
Perhaps she knows it - for Anne nods, and rises, "Thank you Gentlemen, that shall be all for today. Be about your final duties for our late Liege Lord. I shall prepare to transfer to Windsor in the next two days. We shall next meet there after you have broken your staffs. I shall thus consider appointments to her Majesty's new Council, at which point we shall commence preparations for her immediate coronation."
The men at the table bow as she departs, and Cromwell watches them break up into their various factions as they depart. He has no concerns about most of them - not even Suffolk, who still seems not to have attached himself to any group - but Tunstall has approached Norfolk, and they are talking quietly together with worryingly urgent expressions that he cannot decipher. He shall send word to one of his men to watch the Bishop carefully - it is quite possible that the pair are considering contacting Mary. Or perhaps they are discussing what they shall do if the weather is foul on the day of the funeral. Only a spy can determine that for him.
He replaces his papers in a leather portfolio as Rich joins him, "Ten thousand yards of black." He says, eventually, "God's blood - clothing a cortège is a costly business."
"At least we shall not have to do so again for some considerable time, Mr Rich." Cromwell advises, sagely, "Elizabeth has many years ahead of her yet."
Though the looks upon the faces of Tunstall and Norfolk gives him nervous reason to suspect that there might be fewer of those years than he hopes.
Quick Note:Sorry about the short shrift I gave to Mary - having her informed by Wriothesley 'off camera' that she's been orphaned - I was already past the chapters it should've gone in before I realised that I'd forgotten to mention it! Bad me! :-0