A/N: Another week at an end - where do the days go? Sounding like the proverbial stuck record yet again, thank you all for your comments. I'm pleased that I'm hitting the mark in terms of accuracy - though I fear that my research is probably a great deal more patchy than it appears as I tend to look things up as I go on a 'will that work for my plot?' basis. There's also a lot of general accumulation of knowledge from a lot of reading over a considerable number of years, refreshed courtesy of the interwebs.

Thanks to last chapter's work and organisation, they're ready to go; but someone in the party is nursing an unrequited love that could have some singularly embarrassing ramifications if it's not nipped in the bud...

CHAPTER TWENTY

On the Road

Elizabeth is very excited, "When can we go, Mama?" she is almost dancing around the room in anticipation of a journey out of the Palace, "Can we go today?"

Anne smiles at her as the girl whirls about, Lady Mille-Fleurs in her arms, "Alas, no, my darling - we cannot go today. Your Council still have much to organise."

The girl pouts, but does not object, instead withdrawing to a seat to talk to her doll about what she might see, and what she might do, while on progress. To her, of course, it is a grand adventure, an exciting journey to new places.

"Mama - can Mary come, too?"

Anne freezes inside at the child's request. She should've anticipated it - of course Elizabeth would want Mary with her to share her joy. They have, after all, shared almost everything else in her short life. She is blissfully unaware of all that is hanging upon this progress: to her, Mary is a beloved sister and trusted confidante; not a dangerous rival for her crown.

It proves to be something of a struggle not to turn and issue a flat 'no'. Mary has, of course, always been a thorn in Anne's side in a way that Elizabeth could not hope to understand at such a young age. The daughter of the woman she displaced, loved as she is not. To bring Mary would destroy the entire purpose of Elizabeth's progress, as it would restore the wretched girl to the consciousness of her own daughter's subjects; but what does a small child know of such things? "I am sorry, sweetheart - Mary is not able to join us; she has other work on hand." She forces herself to speak of the little bitch in kinder terms, "She does, however send you her deepest love, and hopes that you shall enjoy yourself." It is a lie, of course - Mary has not even been consulted about the progress, and will know of it only through her supposedly 'secret' channels of communication. She has no hope of countering it - for she cannot go on progress herself. She cannot leave Hunsdon without the Queen's permission - and by extension, that of the Regent.

Anne sighs inwardly as Elizabeth's face falls, disappointed that her beloved sister will not travel with her. She knows that Mr Cromwell disapproves of her rabid hatred of the girl - but he can no more understand the deep loathing of a mother for a rival to her own child's rights than Elizabeth can. He is a man - and what can men know about how deeply and implacably a woman can hate? Besides, she is not at all unaware that Mary - given the opportunity - would have her burned as a traitor, and would undoubtedly watch, claret in hand and sweetmeats at her side, enjoying her own twisted revenge…

"Your Majesty." Mistress Champernowne's voice intrudes upon her vicious reverie, and she looks up, startled, as Elizabeth's companion approaches her daughter, "I have a new volume of latin texts just arrived from Mr Grindal, would you like to see them? I shall read them to you and we shall translate them together."

To most children, such an offer would be met with disinterest or even outright disdain; but Elizabeth is not most children. Immediately, she is interested, "May I, Mama?"

How strange that a child so young should regard Latin translation as a form of play. Forcing herself to smile, Anne agrees, "Of course you may, my Elizabeth. Go to - and do not let Miss Champernowne think she is cleverer than you!"

Elizabeth laughs, delightedly, and trots across to join her companion, who smiles and curtseys to Anne, before departing with the Queen.

Alone, Anne shudders inside at the vicious bile within her for Mary. Again, she recalls the time that she seriously considered ordering both Arthur's widow and her illegitimate creature to the block in order to be rid of them; had she truly been so blind as to think that Henry, and her daughter's Subjects, would have forgiven such an act? No - the time for such wilful blindness is long past, and she must see things as they truly are. She does not have the love of the people of England, and any act against Mary would - even now - leave her even more adrift. All that she can do is hide the wretched child away from the public view, and hope that they forget her.

Another knock upon the door captures her attention, and she looks up as one of her junior pages enters, "Majesty, Mr Cromwell is without, and seeks an audience."

"Thank you, James. Show him in."

He has no portfolio today, so there is no official business to be conducted. Instead, he seems quite pleased about something, "Majesty, forgive my intrusion. Her Majesty has been granted a gift by the Worshipful Company of Mercers, delivered under the escort of Mr John Aleyn, the Master thereof. It is in the Mews, and requires your inspection."

Anne is intrigued - the Mercers are the first in precedence of the Livery Companies of the City of London, and a gift from them to their Queen shall be very fine indeed, "What have they sent, Mr Cromwell?"

His expression becomes rather impish, "That would spoil the surprise, Majesty."

That, at least, is a relief - for it indicates that the gift is one that shall be pleasing, "Then we shall repair to the Mews, and I shall be surprised. Lead on, Mr Cromwell."

John Aleyn is a short, stocky man with a slightly pocked face and pleasant, but not fawning, manner. His clothing is of excellent cut, which suggests wealth - not surprising given his position as the Master of the Mercers - but it is not ostentatious, which equally suggests that he is modest. His bow is courteous, but not florid, and Anne smiles at him, "I believe you have delivered a gift for her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth?"

"Indeed, Majesty," He says, in an unexpectedly deep voice, "It is our great hope that she shall be pleased to receive it."

"She is otherwise engaged at present, Mr Aleyn, so I do ask your forgiveness for her absence. I should be pleased to review it upon her behalf, if that is suitable?"

"Most suitable, Majesty. Please - allow me to show you."

Anne and Cromwell follow the Master through into the main yard, and she stares in astonishment at what awaits her. A new, most finely built travelling litter for her daughter has been sent, harnessed between two thickly maned white rounceys, each bearing harness of rich red leather tooled and trimmed with gold embellishments. The frame is solid, English oak, carved with oak leaves, roses and crowns, roofed with thick, black hide to repel rain. The curtains are of red velvet, and can be swept back to show off the occupant within. While Elizabeth's usual litter is very fine, this is magnificent - an ideal vehicle to carry her in comfort from house to house.

"Mr Aleyn," her pleasure is entirely genuine, "I cannot find sufficient words to express my gratitude for such a magnificent gift for her Majesty. I can, however, assure you that she shall be delighted to receive it."

He bows, "Thank you, your Majesty - we have also provided a fine Jennet for your use." He looks across to one of the grooms, who leads forth an equally well harnessed chestnut horse with a thick white stripe down the front of its face. As she intends to present herself as the very model of chastity - the saddle is a side-saddle, carefully upholstered in padded crimson velvet. When she hunts, she always rides astride; but she has learned well that the people of England regard her as something of a strumpet, and thus to do so in public might serve to spark comments speculating upon other stallions that she has ridden.

"I am truly grateful, Mr Aleyn; please do convey our deepest gratitude to your Liverymen for our gifts - they shall be put to good use upon her Majesty's process - that, I can assure you."

He bows, deeply, "I shall do so, Majesty. God save the Queen."

"Thank you." She watches as he rises, backs away as required, then turns and departs.

"You were right, Mr Cromwell." She says, as he steps forth to stand alongside her, "It would have spoiled the surprise."

He smiles, "I thought you would like it - and it seemed appropriate to allow you to see it for yourself unprompted."

"Elizabeth shall be presented most richly - now, of course, we must be ready to do so. How soon can we depart?"

"I should have received the last confirmations of the supplies for the baggage train by the end of this week. If that is done, then we can depart upon Monday next."

Anne nods. From next week, Elizabeth shall be the Queen of the People's hearts, and Mary shall be naught but a distant memory.

And that, at this moment, is all that matters.

The column is not as enormous as the one that followed King Henry when he and the Queen Regent went on progress last year; but it is, nonetheless, impressive in both size and colour. They shall not go far today, travelling only to Hatfield, so that the young Queen can spend her first night on progress in a familiar former home. As expected, Elizabeth is delighted with her new travelling litter. With the roads as bad as they are, there is no other way to convey her from place to place until she is able to ride well; so she is settled on the cushions, the curtains drawn back so that she can both see, and be seen.

There are drummers at the front of the procession to announce her passage leading a forward contingent of guards. Then comes the Queen, red-clad warders marching either side of the Litter, while Anne follows behind with her brother at her side. Then come the higher ranked councillors, Sussex at their head, followed by lesser Courtiers and the immediate Gentlewomen of the Privy Chamber.

Amongst his fellow Councillors, Suffolk rides in silence. The Lord Treasurer and Lord Privy Seal are riding side by side, discussing - of all things - falconry birds that Cromwell keeps at his home, while Sussex listens, and contributes from time to time. The Regent and her turncoat brother seem at ease, too - though their travels have not yet drawn great crowds, which pleases him to some degree. If the true Queen is to emerge and claim her country from these interlopers, then she cannot afford to be forgotten by her subjects. Shut away at Hunsdon, that is a constant risk - and if the child in the litter overcomes the stain of being the child of the King's whore, then asserting her claim shall be harder still. What little news he has received from Europe is only vaguely optimistic - the Emperor has stated that he would look upon Queen Mary with favour, but that is all. He would be pleased at her success, but seems unlikely to offer any means to aid that objective, as it is politically expedient at this time to avoid being seen to interfere in the rule of the young usurper that has been set upon the throne by those who wish to use her for their own gain.

He has no ill will towards the child - after all, children are hardly to blame for their parentage; but nonetheless, she is not a legitimate child, for her mother's marriage was invalid - and thus she should not wear the crown. Once matters are set right, he has no doubt that Queen Mary shall view the child with kindness, and grant her a comfortable home in which to live - even though such magnanimity cannot be granted to those who have put the crown upon her head.

He has written to her to advise her that the Emperor views her with favour - if only that - and also of the progress, of course: she needs to be aware of it, even if there is nothing that she can do to circumvent it. He has also counselled her to exercise caution for the time being, as there is every hope that the people of England shall show no interest in the babe that rules them. Her coronation was a success, certainly, but it was planned to be - and entertainments, accompanied by free victuals and wine, brought people out in their thousands to celebrate. Now, however, there is no spectacle beyond that of the procession alone, and thus crowds can only occur spontaneously. So far, it seems that they have not.

Gradually, however, people who are out in the fields are drawn to the sound of the drums as the procession wends its way out into the countryside, and the word that the Queen is near begins to spread. To Suffolk's growing dismay, the colourful procession attracts more and more peasants, who set down their hoes and mattocks, and emerge from the fields to see who is passing by.

"God bless you, little Majesty!"

Hell, now someone has revealed the identity of the child in the litter. In spite of himself, Suffolk cannot stop himself looking up and down the column, wondering who amongst the throng threw out the hint - but it seems that there are some amongst those who have gathered who recognise the arms of Royalty, and so the news is out.

"Saint's blessings on great Harry's babe!" someone else calls, and then more voices raise in excitement. He cannot see into the litter, as the back of it is a solid wall of oak, but he can tell from the enraptured expressions, and the raised hands, that Elizabeth has recognised that the calls are for her - and that they are benign in intent - and thus must be waving to them.

Ahead of her simmering Councillor, Anne makes no attempt to draw attention to herself. Her clothing is magnificent; a russet-red habit of heavy, brocaded silk that drapes demurely over the side of the horse's flanks as she rides side-saddle. It is not her preference to do so, as she has always found greater control of the animal through riding astride, but she has no wish to hurt her daughter by prompting cruel comments. To the people at the side of the track, she is their precious baby Queen, and her ladies and Council ride behind. Few know what she looks like, after all. There might be cat-calls sooner or later - but for now the mood is celebratory, particularly as she has granted the rearguard purses of fine gold sovereigns to distribute to any children who watch them pass.

At least no one has mentioned that dread creature still buried at Hunsdon. Perhaps they think her dead like her misbegotten mother. That would be most suitable - though unlikely. Capable though she can be at fooling herself when she wishes to, Anne knows better than to blind herself to that danger - it is not merely she who shall pay the price if she does so, but also her child.

The approach to Hatfield is well lined with well-wishers, as Elizabeth is known in these parts, and the calls to her are delighted, for their little Princess is now their Queen. In some ways, that love has helped to blot out some of the stain of her mother's reputation - and thus even Anne is recognised and recognised, for one of the older men of the Estate calls out to her, "God bless her Majesty the Regent, mother of our Queen!"

She would puff up with pride - but for the knowledge that it is likely to be the last time she hears that on this journey. If they can keep the worst of any opprobrium from Elizabeth's ears, then that alone shall be a great achievement - as it is, not all of the people around the man cheer in response to his call - though enough do to conceal the number that do not.

In spite of the shortness of the journey, Elizabeth is clearly very tired, and does not object to Mistress Champernowne's promptings that it is time for bed. The evening is drawing in, and thus the Queen shall be served a light meal in her chambers, before retiring. For the rest of the court, however, there is supper, and dancing.

The kitchens at Hatfield have not been obliged to produce a meal of royal proportions for many years, and thus the servers who enter with the first remove have no idea whether they have insulted their guests with a poor display, or have embarrassed them with far more than is appropriate. Thus they enter, accompanied by trumpets and kettledrums, bearing sides of beef, haunches of venison, great steaming loaves of bread and stews of mutton swimming in rich, sweet sauces thick with spices and dried fruits.

Seated at the high table, George to her right, and the senior men of her Council either side, Anne looks at the parade of victuals with mildly hungry interest, though her appetite has never been voracious. The dish set before her is a well roasted fowl - as per her own request - with crisp skin and resting upon a garnish of roasted onions, thyme sprigs and late summer marigolds. Most would look upon a fowl as food fit only for those of lesser means, but she finds it more digestible after a long day in the saddle - and certainly the men who are falling upon the beef and venison with great relish cannot hope to appreciate the difficulty of enjoying supper when one is encased in tight lacing.

The musicians in the gallery have travelled with the entourage, as Hatfield does not maintain a consort. Thus that young peacock Smeaton is at the forefront, playing his lute with that remarkable delicacy that brought him such favour from the King. His instrument is not particularly loud, so it is hard to hear the tune he is playing above the burr of conversation, but there is something about him that concerns Anne - for even though he seems to look about the hall regularly, his eyes seem to be upon her more often than they are not.

"George." She turns to her brother, "Is it my imagination, or is Mr Smeaton looking at me rather more than he should?"

Rochford might once have sniggered rudely at the suggestion, but now he turns to Anne, and his expression is altogether more concerned, "I have heard it mentioned that he has developed a most powerful calf-love for you, Majesty." His voice is low, "While he has spoken of it not at all, his clothing when he knows that he is to be in your presence is far more ostentatious than when he does not expect to see you. Thus rumours have taken flight - though they have lessened of late, for you have not required him to perform in your presence as frequently as once you did."

She is careful not to show any emotion, "We must take steps to curtail such rumours, George." She murmurs, "They are false, and reflect poorly upon both my reputation and that of the Queen. I do not think it wise to dismiss him - for that shall cause equal discussion - but he must not enter my presence without a chaperone of unimpeachable trustworthiness at any time. I will not have my daughter's reputation impugned under any circumstances."

Rochford nods, and sits back, giving no sign that he is watching the lutenist. He had once suggested to his father that they use that foolish behaviour against his sister - but now he is as keen as she to ensure that such rumours are quashed.

Sitting nearby, Cromwell has noticed the quiet conversation, though he has heard nothing. From the surreptitious glances up to the gallery, he can guess with reasonable certainty that they have noticed Mark Smeaton's apparent inability to stop himself from watching the Regent's every move. It has been a long time since he was a young man - and sometimes he is quite convinced that he has lived a thousand lifetimes in a mere half-century - but he is not blind to the possibility that the youth is nursing an unrequited love for the woman sitting two seats to his right.

As long as that is all that it is, of course, though even that in itself would be quite the scandal were it to be discovered. Regardless of whether or not she has invited the attention - and he does not believe for a moment that she has - tongues shall wag, rumours shall form, and her reputation shall falter again.

A part of him, that rather unnervingly paternal figure that has begun to emerge, wishes to approach Smeaton and warn him off, or - better still - dismiss him. Another, however: the stern politician, counsels a wiser course. If he is to act without the Regent's knowledge or consent in so small a matter as this, then he shall squander the trust that has been growing between them since they turned to one another in order to survive. No. That shall most certainly not do - he shall have to be more transparent than that - at least to the Regent. She knows of it - so perhaps she might speak of it to him. He is not sure that he is brave enough to speak of it to her.

He is roused from his thoughts by the trumpets as they accompany in the second remove - though this selection is, thank Christ, a lesser quantity of victuals; though now they are confronted with broiled game birds in calf's-foot jelly, delicate sallets of flowers that serve rather more for decoration than ingestion, and more of that excellent bread. The claret is replenished, and supping resumes, along with the conversation.

Anne looks upon the simple dish of beef-bone broth that has been set before her with relief, for she has eaten her fill and cannot swallow another mouthful of fowl or bread. The cooks have not forgotten her stipulations when she last visited - so long ago - and insisted upon a simple broth rather than another great delivery of victuals that she could not hope to contemplate. Instead she sips delicate spoonfuls of the broth and tries not to think too much of the dangers that still face her. Today, they were travelling through countryside where Elizabeth is known and held in high regard despite her tender years. They shall stay a few days before moving on, for young Jane Radcliffe, accompanied by her governess, shall be arriving on the morrow to join Elizabeth as a playmate on their journeyings, as the two delighted to play together when she was present for the coronation.

She takes some time to consume her portion, partly owing to her diminished appetite, but also because some of the guests at the far end of the tables have only just been given their dishes from the second remove. If she finishes eating, so must they. It seems unfair to make them wait for so long to receive victuals, only to oblige them to watch them being taken away again unsampled. While she delays, she turns over that endless problem in her mind. Mary, Mary, Mary…

So far the wretched girl has remained silent at Hunsdon, perhaps still unaware that her sister is even now embarking upon a progress to win the hearts of her subjects. Mr Cromwell has already mentioned that one of Mary's allies has almost certainly attempted to warn her - but as yet she has not received their missive. She smiles to herself: always so diplomatic - they both know that the spy is Suffolk, but still he refers to the man as though his identity is unknown.

At length, she sets down her spoon, and thus the stewards return as everyone is invited through to another chamber to sample a banquet of comfits, sweetmeats and cottage cheese, with great pitchers of warmed hippocras to imbibe as they graze. Once they have eaten their fill - though Anne wonders how they could possibly want to eat any more than they have already done - all shall return to the Hall where the feast has been voided, and the dancing shall begin.

Two columns of dancers face one another, the men bow, and the women curtsey, before beginning the steps of a cheerful galliard. Seated upon an ornate chair, her old canopy of estate above her head, Anne watches, and sups at another glass of her favourite eau de vie. Once, she would have been amongst those dancers; but now she remains aloof; aware of the comments that her former flirting inspired, and eager to avoid such gossip again.

But it had all been the game - that foolish, childish game of Courtly Love. Not one of the men to whom she had been so coquettish had ever expected her to be attainable, and certainly she had not intended to be. It had been a part of life in a lively, vibrant Court - until, suddenly, it had not been. The innocence of play stolen and profaned by those who wanted to use it to destroy her.

She does, however, smile to see the Rochfords dancing together as they have not done for many months. His return to her side has been a great comfort in the face of her father's cynical abandonment of her cause - all because he could not have what he wanted. Now, he attempts to ingratiate himself with his granddaughter's rival - and for what? Power that he shall almost certainly not be permitted to have? He cannot be that much of a fool as to think that Mary would forgive him for her reversal of fortune.

And now she has darkened her mood. Cross with herself, Anne sips again at her glass, and looks across to where Mr Cromwell is standing, talking amiably to Sussex. At least there, she can be reasonably assured of loyalty - for, regardless of his faults, and the sins he has committed in his service to Henry, he has never, ever broken a promise that he has made. Indeed, if it were incumbent upon him to break a promise, then he would never make one at all.

Her eyes drift on, and she looks across to the gallery, where the musicians play the final cadence of the dance. Smiling broadly, Smeaton bows floridly as the dancers applaud, before turning to encourage the musicians into a short pavane while those who have stood move to the side, and others step forth to take their place. He is watching her again: though he thinks that he is being surreptitious. His overly fine clothes, the thickly dabbed scent of musk and spice…all of it intended to impress. God's blood - is he so heedless of the manner of gossip in this place that he would risk destroying the reputation of a Queen in his determination to impress her? Why on earth did she include him in the train. Did she include him? She cannot recall.

Cromwell approaches her, and bows, "Majesty."

She nods, "Mr Cromwell." She indicates the chair alongside. It could not be clearer that he wishes to talk to her in confidence.

"Forgive me if I appear forward, Majesty." He says, very quietly, "But I am becoming concerned at Mr Smeaton's behaviour. If he is attempting to hide the fact that he has developed unwarranted feelings for your Majesty, then he is failing most spectacularly."

She sighs, but manages not to redden, "You are not forward, Mr Cromwell." She admits, "I had noticed it, as you have. Was Mr Smeaton invited to travel with the Court?"

"He was not - but it was decided that the Court musicians would travel, and thus he is here by virtue of his musical skill."

"Then I think we shall see what entertainments our hosts can provide." She says, quietly, "We shall remain here for four days, during which time they shall perform. Then we shall move on, but we shall leave the provision of musicians to the lords with whom we lodge. Our musicians can thus return to Whitehall, where they should busy themselves seeking out new music. I have lost count of the number of times I have heard that damned Galliard."

Cromwell nods, relieved that he has not had to make that suggestion himself, "Yes Majesty. I shall see to it that they are informed."

"Shall you not dance yourself, Mr Cromwell?" she asks, her expression impish. She has never seen him do such a thing.

He smiles, "Alas, Majesty, my days of dancing are over, and I fear that I could no longer recall the steps even of the simplest pavane. I leave such sport to the young."

Anne's voice drops again, "And what of Hunsdon?"

He pauses, "I have heard nothing, Majesty. It cannot be much longer before the news is broken - and I await tidings of the discovery, and the response to it."

She nods, "Very well. Thank you, Mr Cromwell."

He rises, bows, and steps back from her to rejoin his colleagues, while George approaches, "Come, Majesty - a dance with your brother."

Enough brooding. Enough worrying. Who shall gossip over a woman who dances alongside her brother? Smiling, Anne raises her hand to him, and allows him to lead her to the floor.

The stag bounds away from its cover, and the hounds are immediately loosed in its wake, while the riders of the Court rouse their beasts to action and give chase.

Away from the crowds who expect chastity in all respects, Anne is riding astride again, revelling in the freedom of the hunt. Elizabeth is too young yet to participate, but her abilities as a rider are coming on in leaps and bounds, and she is sure that her daughter shall equally delight in the joy of la chasse when she is strong enough to keep up with the pack.

Only the most senior members of the Court are present, so she is free of that unnerving scrutiny that seems even more noticeable now that she is aware of it. Mark has not approached her - even in his enamoured state, he is not so reckless as that - but still his gaze follows her whenever he is near, and she finds it most uncomfortable. In some ways, she wishes she was still ignorant of it - then it was still an innocent regard. Now, however, for the sake of her daughter, she must appear as chaste as ice, and the longing eyes of a lesser courtier do not serve to promote that appearance.

It seems ironic that, for a woman who has never forsaken her marriage vows, she is considered to be a whore, while the man who took so little notice of them that he might as well never have spoken them at all could bed other women with impunity, and fear no comment over his constancy. Even now, all assume that she shall treat her widowhood with no respect: bringing men to her chambers, and her bed - the very thought of which is anathema to her. Jesu - such hypocrisy. But that is the way of the world, and what can she do to fight that? No - the sooner Smeaton is gone from her presence, the better. Innocent his calf-love might be, but unrequited passion can lead to impetuosity, and that is a danger she cannot afford.

The group ride on, their speed sufficient to at least keep the hounds in sight as their quarry flees before them. The stag is young, and nimble - and a fortuitous bound takes it into deeper woodland, where the hunt cannot follow. For today, the animal has escaped them.

The disappointment is easily mitigated by the sheer pleasure of the ride, however, and all pull their horses to a canter, then a trot, before allowing the animals to stop and regain their breath. The morning is still young, and there are plenty more deer in the park, so it is a mere matter of time before they are successful in stocking the game cellars - though they shall have departed by the time the meat is sufficiently matured to eat.

Those of the Court who are less fearless upon horseback are catching up now, and the column moves on, riding at a slower pace across the open ground. In short order, Cromwell is beside her, his expression bland; but she knows he does not approach without good reason, and waits for his message.

"The news has broken." He says, quietly, as they move ahead from the rest of the riders.

"And?" Anne is eager to know that Mary is angry, upset or discomfited - and ashamed of herself for her spite.

"The Lady is most put out." Cromwell advises, "Though she pretends otherwise. She had anticipated the prospect of such a move - but assumed, as perhaps others did, that it would prove to be a failure on account of her Majesty's tender years and dissent with regards to her legitimacy. While we are yet to move beyond familiar territory, the word is out that the Queen is travelling in her shires, and thus her subjects clamour to know whither she is bound, in hopes that they might see her. We have asked priests in the village churches to preach again upon the scriptures that speak of Josiah, the boy king of Judah, as Cranmer did at her Majesty's coronation. Thus we hope that the people shall agree that her ascension to the throne is God's will. For that is so."

"In that case, we shall endeavour to ensure the success of the progress, and permit Suffolk to send those glad tidings to the brat - she is a spent force, and shall soon be forgotten."

"Majesty." He chides, quietly, "Regardless of all, she is still the daughter of our late Majesty. It does not become you to speak of her so." He pauses, "Not, at least, where you can be overheard."

She looks at him, and smiles - embarrassed, "Forgive me. A mother is more deadly than a tiger when defending the name and safety of her child."

"So I see."

The entourage continue on their ride until they reach a sequence of awnings, where the midday meal is to be served. Mindful of the disappointment at the failure to provide a roasting haunch or two on a spit, Anne has decreed that today's repast shall be more akin to those enjoyed when Henry stopped to dine in the midst of a hunt. Several of her ladies, who are not comfortable in the saddle, are present, while Orithyia is tethered to a tree trunk by a leading rein, which gives Anne cause to smile, for she can see Elizabeth and Jane Radcliffe playing some sort of board game together on a small table nearby under the benevolent gaze of Sussex, while Rich stands nearby, an indulgent smile upon his face.

"Mama!" Elizabeth sees her, and rises from her game, her small face lighting up with pleasure, "We have been waiting for you - come and see, we are playing a game called hnefa…hnefta…" she pauses, and frowns, "I cannot remember the name, but it is most exciting!"

"It is an old game of strategy that we have played in my family for many years," Rich explains, "it was described on an old parchment that was found in a collection of papers we had. It was called Hnefatafl - and my grandfather taught it to me when I was a boy."

Anne smiles at Elizabeth's obvious enjoyment - just as she had been fascinated by chess, "Then do not let me stop you, my darling. It shall be a while before we can dine - so please continue."

"Yes, Mama." Pleased Elizabeth turns back to her game, while both Sussex and Rich occasionally make quiet suggestions on strategy and moves. Even now, while playing a game, she is learning how to think like a Queen.

Rochford comes to sit beside her as she takes a seat in the shade of a large tree away from the awnings, "What is it?"

"Mary." She says, coldly, "Even in the midst of my joy, she haunts me; her mother's shade made flesh. Powerless though she is, she remains untouchable - I cannot arrest her, for she has committed no crime. I cannot exile her, for she lingers on in the memories of our Subjects like a disease. No matter what I do, it shall bring trouble upon me, and upon my daughter. And so I do nothing."

He sits back in his chair, "It is better, I think, to do nothing. It did not serve the Crookback to conceal his nephews - even once they had disappeared from view, they were still remembered - and even now he bears the blame for their loss. It was not enough to declare them bastards - and thus he sank into ignominy for killing them."

She does not answer; but she knows that he is right. To act against Mary shall harm only Elizabeth, and thus she must swallow her bile and allow the bastard brat to pretend that she is a Queen. A constant shadow in the sun.

"I cannot do nothing forever, George." Anne says, eventually, "She shall act eventually. How she shall do it, I cannot say. But she shall act."

"And we are laying the foundations of an edifice that shall repel her, are we not?" Rochford reminds her, "As Elizabeth charms her Subjects, so Mary's place in their hearts shall wither like a rose in the frost. Who shall rise to her banner then?"

She takes his hand, "Forgive me - I am worrying unduly, I think. We shall return from this progress triumphant, and Katherine's child shall be forgotten."

He grins at her, "Amen to that."

A/N: Just a quick historical note. John Aleyn was a real person, who was the Master of the Worshipful Company of Mercers in 1536. The Mercers remains the foremost of the London Livery Companies even today, and would've been a wealthy organisation eager to be 'in' with the most powerful players in Government.

Hnefatafl is a real game, which is based on ancient germanic 'Tafl' board games. It originated in Scandinavia and came across to Britain with the Vikings. It was largely superseded by Chess as we went into the Early Modern Period, but it survived in the UK until the late sixteenth century before it was largely forgotten. Researchers have more or less worked out to some degree how it was played from medieval manuscripts and the remains of boards. It's since been revived, and can be played online. I wish I could claim to play it - but I just noticed it in a photograph I was trying to describe for a photographic library!