A/N: Thank you again for your comments - and to everyone who's reading along. I'm glad you're enjoying the story. In the spirit of Dickens, I seem to be publishing on a weekly basis now, so here's your Friday instalment!
For those who are hoping to see how Mary's getting on, your wait is over (thank you for your forbearance!) - and it's time to say goodbye to Henry VIII...
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Requiem Aeternam
Mary Tudor, daughter of the King, sits at a small writing desk in her poorly appointed quarters and plucks nervously at the black-embroidered cuff of her mourning gown. While the news in Suffolk's letter had not come as a surprise; it did, nonetheless, inspire a grief within her that the fumbling, cold words of Thomas Wriothesley had dulled. All of her hopes and dreams that her father might see through that thrice-damned whore and welcome his true daughter back to Court as a Princess squashed to nothing by a stone-hard statement issued by an underling, doubtless sent in haste to avoid provoking the anger of those who still regard her as the true heir of England by failing to advise her that both of her parents are dead. Whether or not it was intended as an insult, she has certainly interpreted it as one. Her one consolation is that stammering Wriothesley was not present to witness her tears - for she has wept, and prayed, and wept again since that kind letter was delivered into her hands.
She is not remotely surprised that they have not permitted her to attend her late father as a mourner; but no matter. When the time comes, she shall have her parents reunited in a joint grave, and institute a chapel to pray perpetually for the repose of their souls. Those who have insulted her, and ignored her grief, shall come to regret their actions. First, however, she must attempt to cease fretting over what she has done.
She has made four attempts to dispatch a letter to Suffolk in response to his missive informing her of events in Wiltshire, and in London, but each came dangerously close to being discovered - and thus ended their existence upon the fire. The fifth was handed to one of the few remaining staff who are truly loyal to her only two days ago, and the moment it left her hand - and her opportunities to control those who see it - she cursed herself for her mistake.
My Gentle Lord Suffolk,
It grieves me to learn of my late Lord and father's tragic passing, and the heinous rise of the Concubine and her bastard progeny - though she did offer the concession of deigning to advise me of my loss, perhaps as an afterthought, for it was delivered by a mere Courtier. As the only true child of his Majesty my father, and her Majesty my mother - both of loving and lamented memory - I recognise that it falls now to me to rule England under the natural laws of succession as willed by God, and I accept this burden with both grief for my bereavement, and willingness to serve my Subjects as their true, and lawful Queen.
I am enraged at the presumption of the Concubine in her unlawful decision to install her illegitimate babe upon the throne of England, and to snatch the Crown from my head to place it upon her own! For England to suffer so cruel a fate as this cannot be God's will, and thus I look to you as the first, and foremost, member of my Queen's Council to advance my interests, as I have no doubt that her first act shall be to remove me from the sight of the people - and I prepare myself for the time of trial to come. I shall not be the first right and true heir to be so removed, but unlike that poor child before me, I shall not vanish away and never be seen again.
It is my intention, upon the day that my poor Lord and father is consigned to the ground - and thence to Almighty God, to proclaim myself Queen as is my lawful right as his only child of the Blood. With your assistance and advice, I shall then remove all those who opposed me to the Tower, and thence to the lawful punishment for traitors, and establish a new, loyal council to restore England to our Holy Church and to the proper rule of a true and lawful Prince.
Written on this, the first day of our reign.
Mary the Queen.
Her trembling hand reaches for her rosary, and she beings to work her way along the beads, though her prayers are automatic and perfunctory as her mind races. God in Heaven, what on earth was she thinking? She must be more cautious than that if she is to survive and regain her rightful throne. Should her words fall into the hands of that vile paike, then she knows full well that her next home shall be the Tower - and probably for only a scant few weeks before she must mount a scaffold and speak her last words to England alongside the block. Until two days back, she had devoted her time to prayer for the repose of her father's soul - convinced that the Concubine has not arranged for such a courtesy - and grieving for a reconciliation that shall now not come until they are united in God once more. Now, however, it is hard to concentrate on anything other than wishing she had been more circumspect.
She fumbles the beads, and the rosary drops to the table with a sharp clatter, wrenching her out of her nervous reverie and causing her eyes to fill with yet more tears. Her mis-step haunts her, the stress of knowing that her impulsive act might well have led to her own doom refusing to leave her in peace. Perhaps she should have attempted to make overtures to that viper Cromwell? From what she has learned through rumours, he abandoned That Woman some months ago - perhaps he might be willing to look to the true daughter of his King in order to bring England safely through the storms.
The sound of rhythmic footsteps captures her attention, and her stomach lurches. Her letter has been found - they are coming for her. Only a platoon of soldiers makes such a sound as that when it moves.
Growing pale, she rises to her feet and turns to the door. Best to make a good face of it when they come to arrest her. She hastily dashes away the barely shed tears and remonstrates with herself. It would not do to faint, or to cry: her mother would be furious at such cowardly behaviour…
The door opens, but it is not a guard who enters, but instead a well-dressed man she does not recognise. To her astonishment, he bows to her, "My Lady Mary, forgive our rude intrusion upon your devotions. I am Sir William Paulet, and I have been dispatched from Court to escort you to your new accommodation."
"So I am to leave Hatfield." She says, curtly. A strange way to describe imprisonment in the Tower.
"Yes, My Lady. Your goods and chattels shall be gathered and packed, and you are to be escorted to Hunsdon, which has been given to you by her Majesty the Queen Elizabeth as your new residence. There you shall be provided with a full staff of servants and attendants as befits your noble state, and you shall receive a pension of two hundred pounds a year for your personal living expenses. The costs of your household shall be met by the State." He bows to her, courteously.
"Two hundred pounds?" Mary stares at him, astonished - that is a truly enormous sum, and not one that would be granted to one destined for the Tower, surely? The Concubine would never have granted her such generosity; it can only be one of her councillors - and one who holds sufficient favour to have persuaded her to agree to it. Furthermore, she is not required to fund her household out of that largesse - she is free to purchase gowns, linens, lessons - whatever she wishes. All the rest of her costs shall be paid for as though she were, once again, a true Princess of the Blood.
"Yes, my Lady."
"By whose orders?" she says, a little more incisively. A babe of less than three years would not have been able to make such a grant.
"By order of her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, signed and approved by Mr Secretary Cromwell under the authority of her Majesty the Queen Regent." Paulet advises, "I have the appropriate documentation for your Comptroller."
"I do not have one, Sir." She reminds him.
"One has been appointed, Madam. He shall be awaiting you at Hunsdon." He looks around at the assembling staff, "You may appoint your preferred Gentlewomen of your Chambers as you wish. The rest of your household has been appointed by the Crown."
So it is not entirely a gift, then: she is still to be watched. At least, however, she shall be spied upon in comfort - and that shall grant her the space and time to think upon how she shall claim England back from the woman who has stolen it from her. They have not seen her letter to Lord Suffolk, and thus she shall have her advocate at Court. Yes - it seems that God is indeed smiling upon her, and He is intent upon bringing her to her Kingdom after all.
She smiles, grateful for His unexpected gift, "Thank you, Sir. I shall make my preparations to leave Hatfield at once."
The tramp of feet is muffled by a thick layer of rushes over the poorly maintained road, while the drums that beat are covered in black serge, and are equally muffled. People stand along the route, watching in silence as the grim cortège makes its slow, ponderous way from the palace of Richmond to the Castle of Windsor - near on twenty miles.
Those who are with the bier are on horseback, for none of the grand Lords are yet part of the escort. They await its arrival at Ditton Park, gifted to Anne by Henry upon their marriage, whereupon they shall fall into step before it and escort it for the last three miles of its journey. That alone shall take the best part of two hours, for none shall be permitted to ride.
"I would advise you to sit, Mr Cromwell." Rich says, looking across at the balustrade of a terrace overlooking the great park, where the Secretary is standing and keeping watch for the King's train, "You shall have ample time upon your feet once we depart."
He makes a remarkably unnerving sight, clad in long black robes and his mourning hood. From a distance, he resembles a hideous vision of a haunted ghost of a friar from some foolish French romance, for the garb has changed little in form from many years ago, when men dressed in such manner as a matter of course. To Cromwell's mind, they all look quite ridiculous - and he fancies that Henry's shade is looking down upon them, and laughing heartily at their old-fashioned manner of dress. Perhaps he should indeed join Rich upon that stone bench - for he is right. Once the cortège arrives, they shall walk to Windsor from here, whereupon they shall be obliged to stand for at least another hour upon hard tiled floors while Cranmer leads the requiem mass. Even once that is done, there is still the interment, where they shall break their staffs of office and fling them into the tomb. It shall be several hours before he can seat himself again - and everyone shall then be fighting for chairs to take their weight off their swollen, sore feet. He considers it highly likely that at least one person shall faint at some point, and he has assembled the King's doctors to tend to any who do.
Queen Anne, of course, shall not be required to stand - she shall be seated upon the finely upholstered chair that was intended for Queen Katherine's use in order to watch the proceedings from that small watching chamber they call a closet. Elizabeth shall also be at Windsor, for Anne refuses to be parted from her, but shall remain in the King's apartments with Lady Bryan rather than be required to sit still and quiet for so long. Intelligent she may be, but she is still little more than a babe, and it is a great deal to ask of her.
"It seems strange, does it not?" Rich says, reflectively, "We thought Henry would live forever - after all, even when he was felled at the joust, still God required him to remain and continue to rule. Somehow, I cannot find it in me to believe that he is dead - even though the evidence is before my eyes."
Cromwell nods, "Do we not all think that of our Kings? And yet they are as we are - mere clay that falters and crumbles when God calls us home. Vivat Rex."
Rich falls silent, and Cromwell can see he is fidgeting again - always a sign of nerves in his colleague, "If it is any consolation, Mr Rich: I, too, dread what shall come upon the morrow. There is much to be done - and no certainty that we shall prevail against those who would seek to overturn the King's will for the succession."
Rich does not bother to contradict Cromwell - for the Secretary is right.
"As I said when first you came to me," Cromwell continues, "we must stand together - for if we do not, we shall most assuredly fall. I think, however, that I should prefer it if we stood together as friends."
Rich looks up at him, surprised. Cromwell grants friendship to few - but to those who have it, he is a staunch and loyal companion, "You would risk trusting me?" He asks, sardonically, "I think you are mad to offer such a gift. I am not unaware of my reputation."
"As I am not." Cromwell agrees, "But nonetheless, if we are to serve England, and her Queens, with diligence and to the best of our ability, it shall serve us equally well if we set aside any differences and learn to trust one another fully. We shall be beset by enemies - thus we must trust one another absolutely if we are to survive."
He knows that he is taking a risk: Rich has little in the way of true bravery, and his loyalty to any who do not wear the Crown is dubious at best; but that small glitter of absolute loyalty in the midst of the dross of his faults is diamond hard, and if it can be harnessed, then they shall be a far stronger foundation upon which Queen Anne can build her new government. The forces of nobility ranged against them is powerful - but as the old ways continue to falter in the face of new ideas, the time of rule only by noble families is coming to an end. Is he himself not proof of that?
"I shall think upon it." Rich says, quietly, "But it shall have to wait - for the cortège approaches."
They rise from the bench, "I shall rouse our fellow councillors from their slumbers within." Cromwell says, a little derisively, "For doubtless they are unprepared."
Rich nods, then fumbles with his hood to don it, takes up his white staff of office and makes his way down to the forecourt to greet the bier.
Inside the manor house, Cromwell is not surprised to see that the assembled lords and gentlemen are indeed otherwise interested, and he crosses to the Garter King of Arms, who shall - once the funeral is done - announce the accession of Queen Elizabeth. His staff is heavy, and his voice loud. Besides, they shall pay him more respect than the loathed Mr Secretary.
"My Lords!" the burly man bawls, startling everyone in the chamber, "His Majesty the King is without!"
There is no need to tell them what to do, thank God. Still talking amongst themselves, the gathered men also don their hoods, and start to file out.
Seated in the small chamber that grants her full view of the chapel below, while none can see her, Anne watches as the heavy coffin is brought in upon the shoulders of ten of the strongest men of the King's Guard. God above - what must that weigh if so many are needed to bear it?
Cranmer leads the slow procession through the nave, while the black-clad hordes behind file in, and then separate into two ranks under the guidance of the stewards and heralds, also dressed in black; but decorated with bright tabards upon which are emblazoned the Arms of England. As they stream in, they resemble a flock of rooks, driven from their rookery but now coming home to nestle upon the branches. The bleakness of that vision serves to be most appropriate to her forlorn mood.
She listens to the ancient words of the latin mass that she would rather not have permitted. Henry had been so keen upon reform in those early days - but now that she thinks upon it, how much of that fervour was built upon the statement that the Church had no authority over Princes? He was never one who could bear the knowledge that another man had the power to command him. No - his will for reform stretched as far as removing the requirement to bow before the Pope - and no further. Thus he receives his consignment to God via the Roman Rite.
And now the coffin is resting within the Quire - and she forces all distractions from her mind. For all his faults - which were legion - she loved the man who lies within that coffin. After all, is that not what love entails? Knowing that the one to whom you are bonded is flawed and imperfect - as are all men - but loving even those flaws? There were times when she hated him, but she never ceased to love him, and that was the truest source of her misery and rage when she found him in the very act of betrayal.
I shall not betray you, my Love. Nor shall I betray England. She vows silently as the Archbishop completes the Introit and they move on to the Kyrie Eleison, as God is my witness, and upon the damnation of my mortal soul, I swear to you that Elizabeth shall come into her Kingdom and rule it well. We shall uphold the Tudor Legacy that began with your father, and shall continue with your daughter.
There is no sound but for Cranmer's voice as he leads the mourners through the Creed, Offertory, Sanctus, Benedictus and Agnus Dei. His words are occasionally punctuated by shuffling, and a cough echoes now and again; but otherwise the mood is sombre, and there is no music to lessen that heaviness of the atmosphere - and even the celebration of communion is silent but for footsteps as people approach the altar rail, and depart. Her own communion is given by her chaplain, and over quickly, so she must wait for the multitude below to be fed before matters can continue.
Eventually, at long last, the mass ends as Cranmer grants God's blessings upon those present, and matters can move to interring the coffin in the vault below the Quire. Henry had probably wanted an ornate table-tomb with a marble effigy - but what use is that to any in so narrow a space as this? No - a great stone shall be set over his tomb to mark it, but first he must be set into it, and then his council must signify the end of their service to him by breaking their staffs and hurling them down in his coffin's wake.
If ten men were required to carry the King's remains into the chapel, another six are pressed into service to lower it into the grave, two men to each end of four great linen towels - and even that is a struggle, she can see the grimaces of effort upon their faces.
One by one, the men of Henry's last Council approach, followed by various of the higher ranked stewards and officials of the Court. Each takes the thin, white staff granted to him, breaks it in two, and casts it down into the vault below them, then retreats. They are not obliged to remain to watch the grave sealed - that shall take far too long and lack the dignity of all that has come prior. Instead, the Garter King of Arms stands before the high altar, "My Lords! Forasmuch as we grieve the loss of our late Liege Lord and King, Henry the Eighth of England, Ireland and France: in accordance with his royal will, and the lawful rights of succession under God, so commences the reign of his heir, Her Majesty, Elizabeth, by the grace of God Queen of England, France and Ireland, defender of the faith and in the earth supreme head of the Church of England and Ireland. God save the Queen!"
There is no answer, for that is not required. Instead, Anne watches carefully as the assembled throng collectively bow in acknowledgement of the accession. She cannot make out most of the faces under those ridiculous hoods, and thus cannot tell who is pleased, or who is not - but it no longer matters. Elizabeth's right has been proclaimed, and now all know it.
Sitting back in her chair, she smiles to herself in satisfaction.
And then crumples into miserable tears.
She has eaten little since returning to the Apartments, though her stab of anguished grief is softened a great deal by Elizabeth's presence. The child is engaged in an elaborate scene that she is staging with a richly dressed wooden doll whom she calls 'Lady Mille-Fleurs', and seems happily oblivious to the momentous events of the day.
Anne sips at a glass of warmed wine steeped with calming herbs, and ponders her next move. While Elizabeth's reign has been announced and proclaimed - not necessarily in that order - and her legal rights to rule have been formalised, there still remains the intractable problem of ensuring that her own Regency is not usurped, or that Katherine's brat shall not attempt to wrest away an inheritance from which her bastardy precludes her.
God's wounds - such spite! Should she not be magnanimous in victory? And yet she cannot be - for she has not forgotten the girl's defiance and refusal to accept the reality of her new state; nor has she forgotten the endless fears that Henry would restore her to the succession, over the head of her half-sister. Even the discovery that she is now paying so handsomely for the ghastly creature's comforts at Hunsdon fills her with resentment. The sooner the wretched girl is married off and buried in a manor far out in the countryside, the better. There is no place for her here.
Matthew enters the room, discreetly, "Majesty, Mr Cromwell is without."
She sets the cup down, "Show him in, Matthew. Thank you."
He looks tired, and grateful to be permitted to sit after a long, long day upon his feet, "And so it is done." She says, calmly.
"Yes, Majesty. The King is buried, our service to him ended. Now you must appoint a council for your daughter, and begin anew."
"And fight to keep what we have gained." She adds, darkly.
"And that." Cromwell agrees, blandly. God, he can be inscrutable sometimes.
"I think it wise that we appoint my daughter's council before we commence work upon the Coronation." She says, "Though if you have already made preliminary notes, those shall serve as a foundation upon which to build our plans." If he has not done so, then she shall be obliged to revise all that she thinks she knows about him.
His expression a little sheepish, he removes several sheets of rough paper from his portfolio, "I did take the liberty of preparing a rough outline, Majesty." he admits, then breaks into a mild smile as she chuckles at him.
"I think it would be wise to retain as many of the existing councillors as possible," Anne says, still smiling, "Though I think it equally wise to reassign the Offices of State. I do not wish to have men I cannot trust holding positions of power and influence. Thus I have a list of names - what is your opinion?" she hands him a paper of her own, "I intend to grant the Chancellorship to Sussex, and Southampton shall be Lord President of the Council, but I require a man of knowledge and expertise in matters of governance to hold the position of Lord High Treasurer, and thus I wish to assign that to you."
Cromwell looks up from the paper, his expression startled at being offered such a high office of State, "Majesty - I am honoured, but is it truly wise to remove it from its current holder? He shall be hard enough to manage as it is."
"Norfolk shall have the rank of Earl Marshal of England. Something that he can bequeath to his sons."
He looks worried - and with good reason. Anne is well aware that she is taking the second highest of the great offices of State away from her uncle, and replacing it with the eighth - only the Lord High Admiral is lower in rank - but she wishes to send a strong message to Norfolk that she will brook no interference from him. Removing his high office and granting it to a commoner could not be a clearer statement of her intent - but it is also a mortal insult, and one for which he is unlikely to forgive her.
"I shall also give Mr Rich the responsibility for my personal seal." She adds, ignoring Cromwell's consternation, "While Sir John Russell shall retain his position as Lord High Admiral. Sir Anthony Browne shall also remain Master of the Horse."
"Majesty - I fear that you shall create a dangerous enmity in your uncle should you continue with this plan."
She shakes her head, "You know, as I do, that we must appoint men of merit to positions of State. You have served as Chancellor of the Exchequer, and all that is spent is known to you. This office shall grant you the opportunity to continue to reform the government as you have been attempting to do - and you shall have my absolute approval to do so."
That has tempted him. His attempts to force reform upon the antiquated systems of governance has hardly gone unnoticed to her. The need to be discreet in order to avoid causing great upsets has forced him to do so in a haphazard, disorganised fashion - but the need for reform overrides the self-regard of those who would resist. As Lord High Treasurer, he would have a far freer hand to complete those reforms - and she knows, as he does, that they are sorely needed.
"I am not blind to my situation, Mr Cromwell." She reminds him, "All expect me to stumble and fall as I rule England in Elizabeth's minority. Thus I look to you to aid me, for you shall lead my government, as I lead my Kingdom. I cannot do this alone, as Henry could not - though he pretended otherwise - for it is too great a task for one soul to accomplish in isolation. If we are to prevent England from collapsing into bloody civil war, and keep her safe for Elizabeth when she comes of age, then I must look to men such as you to stand at my side: men of talent upon whom I can truly rely."
It is not a sop to his self-regard - it is the absolute truth. Regardless of their falling out, there is no other man at Court who can hold a candle to this man in terms of ability, loyalty and sheer hard work. Henry always forbade her from involvement in governance, so now she must learn it, and learn quickly. There is no other tutor to whom she would rather turn.
"If that is so, Majesty," he says, quietly, and with sincerity, "Then, as I have done already, I shall pledge my loyalty to you absolutely and utterly - but in doing so, I also grant you all the knowledge at my command, a promise that I shall never tell you anything but the truth, and a commitment to be truly frank with my advice. I shall conceal nothing from you that pertains to the future safety of the Realm, and I shall not dismiss or belittle your opinions if they are not in accordance with mine."
"Thank you, Mr Cromwell," She says, relieved to have at least his loyalty if no one else's, "I am grateful that we are no longer opposed to one another - and I hope that, if not at this moment in time, we shall be able to be friends?"
"I should be delighted, Majesty."
"Damn that daughter of yours, Wiltshire!" Norfolk growls, furiously, "God's curses on her! How dare she take my office from me! Worse! She gives it to that upstart nobody Cromwell! Earl Marshal? I am to be Earl bloody Marshal? Christ's wounds! She shall pay for this insult!"
"If you try to extract payment by ruining Elizabeth's coronation, then she shall surely have Cromwell find a means to remove you for treason." Wiltshire retorts, rather less loudly, "You at least still have an office. That squirming rodent Rich has taken mine - and I have been granted nothing in return."
There is no disguising his disgust, even if he is not shouting it. Their ascendancy is, it seems, at an end; and it has been brought about by the very woman who benefited from it.
"How the hell is it that Cromwell has such power over her?" Rochford demands, "I cannot believe that this is her doing - she lacks the wit."
"But not the spite." Wiltshire snaps back, "God knows she has turned to him like a dog returns to its vomit - but she is a weak and foolish woman, she has neither the wit nor the sense to think beyond the donning of her next gown."
Norfolk ignores his brother-in-law's griping, which is as equal in bile as that he attributes to his daughter. If he truly believes that Anne is as unintelligent as he claims, then he is the real fool. No - he is spitting insults out of jealous spite of his own. He has lost access to the Queen's Privy Seal, and thus cannot use it for his own ends. That privilege now falls to the former Solicitor General.
Unless, of course, they can find some means of controlling him.
"Rich is the weak link." He says, after a while, "He holds the Queen's personal seal - and we can use that to our advantage if we can exploit it. A man of his duplicity shall be easily bought; it is merely a matter of discovering his price. Thus we can disrupt the course of government, and should we miscarry, he shall bear the blame, and the consequences."
"You shall never find a price that he shall accept." Wiltshire grumbles, "Not now that he has so high an office. He shall be no easier to subvert than Cromwell."
"I suspect, however, that he shall be more amenable to threats. He is, after all, a notorious coward."
Tunstall, who has remained silent so far, shakes his head, "It is a waste of resources - let us bide our time and allow them to fail at their endeavours. Once it becomes clear to the council that they cannot succeed, it shall be a simple matter to oust them. Whether or not you wish to send them to the Tower at that time is a matter that you can consider at your leisure. The less that you do now, the less likely you are to find yourself attempting to answer a charge of treason. It is my considered opinion that they are keen for us to do exactly that. We are all that remains of our late King's truly loyal Council - and thus it is for us. There is, after all, the daughter of our late Queen Katherine, is there not?"
Everyone stares at him, particularly the two Boleyns. To speak so is outright treason in and of itself - but for Wiltshire and Rochford, the suggestion that they oust their own blood would be anathema. Or, at least, in other circumstances perhaps.
"Once it has become clear that a babe cannot rule," Tunstall continues, "And her mother cannot prevail as regent, it shall be a simple matter to remove them to a quiet manor far from London, where she shall give out that she has decided to retire from public life to raise her daughter in peace. Thus England shall be safe in the hands of a Lord Protector until such time as a male Tudor is of age to rule as King."
Suddenly everyone is more interested. Mary might be of age, but she is a mere woman, and thus shall be easily prevailed upon to permit the presence of a Lord Protector - if she does not, then they shall revive the defunct rank of Lord High Steward, thereby creating the same position, but one that gives the illusion of control to the Queen.
"All depends upon the failure of the current reign." Norfolk muses, "And we are not best placed to effect such an outcome. Those who hold the true power upon the Council are for the Regent. Thus we must seek out an opportunity as and when it arises."
It is not the best solution - but with things as they are, they have no choice.
The King is dead. Long live the Queen.
Short Historical Note: Ditton Park is a stately home in Buckinghamshire. Today, it's alongside the M4 motorway, two junctions west of Heathrow Airport - and you'd never know it was there. I picked it because of its proximity to Windsor, as I wasn't sure how willing Henry's Courtiers might be to follow him on foot for twenty miles from Richmond - but, and I love it when reality plays into my hands like this, the original house at Ditton Park was a royal property; and it was gifted to Anne by Henry as part of her wedding endowment. While she's not thought to have ever lived there, she's known to have owned it: that's a nice little coincidence!