A/N: Thank you again for the reviews. One thing I forgot last week when discussing research was to thank Starfire201 and AllegoriesInMediasRes for helping me out with a couple of historical boo-boos, which are now corrected - one of the benefits of the whopper hive-mind of this fandom for which I'm very grateful!

So, with Elizabeth riding high, and all looking very promising for the success of her progress, what about Mary?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A Foolish Letter

Mary stares rather helplessly at Suffolk's letter. What can she do? She is trapped in the confines of Hunsdon, for she is not permitted to emerge from the park without what is infuriatingly described as 'an honour guard', and thus cannot escape from what looks to most to be a fine home, but to her is little better than a gaol.

So far, the Concubine has secured the Council and bribed Parliament with a promise of more influence - now she displays her daughter to the people of England in the hope that they shall accept a mere babe in the place of a woman almost grown.

The news that her cousin shall look favourably upon her should she stake her claim was initially most welcome - but it has not been supplemented by any actual commitment to aid her. Shall he send money, or perhaps men-at-arms? He has said nothing of that, and no further letters have been smuggled to her from Chapuys, leaving her absolutely without the knowledge that she requires in order to decide whether or not it is safe to demand her Crown.

Jane sits beside her, for they are - unusually - alone in the garden, "What does my Lord of Suffolk suggest, Majesty?"

"Nothing." Mary sighs, "He speaks of my sister's progress, but gives no observations as to the reception she has received from my Subjects - nor does he counsel any move upon our part."

"Shall you ask him for more overt advice?"

"I think I shall have to. Our means of passing letters is secure, and thus none shall know of it. I have heard nothing from Excellency Chapuys, so I am helpless to know whether or not the Emperor intends to send me aid in claiming my throne. Furthermore, I am not yet sure whether the Holy Father shall look upon my claim with favour - for there is no news from Rome, either. If I do not have his endorsement, how can I know that to act is God's will?"

"How can it not be?" Jane asks, "You are the child of the true Queen of England, and no decrees, Acts or persuasions to the contrary can gainsay that. It is your birthright."

Mary smiles at her, "If only it could be that easy, Jane. Birthright or no, I must stand against my late father's will, and the laws that he made to prop up the Concubine's dubious claims for her progeny. She has the council on her side - only one man would speak for me - and thus can demand that the peers of the Realm supply her with men-at-arms should I attempt to call men to my banner. Those who were brave enough to hear me would face death, and I could not ask that of the good men of England, not if I cannot be assured of success. The miseries that would be visited upon them should we falter in our cause would be a burden that I cannot set upon those who love me. No - I must have pledges of men and ordnance from the Emperor, for then who shall stand against me?"

Jane nods. She has no political abilities at all, and her naïveté is, at times, quite charming. To her, the very reality of birthright is sufficient to ensure that the Crown shall pass to the one destined to wear it - but there is more to be overcome than false blood. Far more.

"I shall write to his Excellency again, and set out my terms more clearly, I think." Mary says, "The letters are secure, and I am quite certain that, once he is aware of our needs, he shall offer the aid that I need to claim my throne."

Jane nods, and smiles.

Susan, on the other hand, is far more concerned, "Majesty, is this wise?"

Mary looks up from the paper, her face shadowed in the candlelight, "I have no alternative, Susan - oblique suggestions are achieving nothing but bland assurances of favour. But what is favour if there is no aid at its back? Our lines of communication are safe - none of those set to spy upon me are aware of those who help me. I have not received any news that the Holy Father has spoken in my favour, and thus I intend to ask his Imperial Majesty to petition upon my behalf. Both the Concubine and my half sister might find themselves lacking the love of the people once they have been excommunicated."

"Nonetheless, Majesty," Susan's voice is a whisper, as the maids are nearby, "I would counsel caution - we do not know enough of what is happening at Court. If she has made overtures to his Imperial Majesty, and offered incentives to ally with her, then our cause might be lost."

"I will not accept that." Mary's voice is low, and vehement, "My people, my Mother's loving subjects, shall not have forgotten me - and would welcome the aid of Princes who would aid me in reclaiming my throne."

Her tone brooks no argument, and Susan falls silent, instead busying herself with setting out her Lady's night-linens. Time is running out - that is certain; but if there is no offer of real, tangible support, they are no better off than they were when the King was alive.

"I wonder if the Earl of Wiltshire has thought to write again." Mary muses, as she scatters pounce over her letter. She pauses to blow the powder away, "I am so keen to know if his desperation for power and ascendancy has overpowered his sense of self-preservation."

"That, I cannot answer, Majesty." Susan smiles. The letter from the Earl has become something of a joke between them - the desperate outpourings of a man who has lost his relevance and will do anything to regain it, "He is, after all, most busily engaged in counting ships."

Shaking her head in mild amusement, Mary drips candlewax on the letter, and seals it with a small ring that bears her sainted Mother's device: the pomegranate. Perhaps it should be a simple thumbprint - but she cannot bring herself to do so. She is the Queen, and it does not become a queen to seal letters in such a mean fashion. She cannot send it to her Cousin directly, so she shall arrange for it to be passed to Excellency Chapuys, instead.

"Pass this to Miss Seymour." Mary hands the letter to Susan, who quickly conceals it under an armful of worn linens as the maids prepare to turn down the bed.

It is a risk - yes - but one that she must take. If she cannot rely upon the support of the Emperor, then she shall be forced to act alone; but if she delays for much longer, who shall hear her call?

"I shall do it." She mutters to herself as she takes up her rosary and crosses to her prie-dieu, "With God's help, I shall take back what is mine."

Secure in her determination, she kneels before the Sacrament, and commences her prayers.

"Ay, beshrew you! By my fay,

These wanton clerks be nice alway!

Avaunt, avaunt, my popinjay!

What, will ye do nothing but play?

Tilly, vally, straw, let be I say!

Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!

With Mannerly Margery Milk and ale."

The voice of the young singer is sweet and clear, rising above the gentle sound of a consort of viols that accompanies him. The words are a poem by John Skelton, but set to music by the eldest son of William Capell, a minor Baron of excellent means with a large estate on the outskirts of Aylesbury. The man himself, a rotund man of middle years with a bright smile and kindly manner, sits alongside Anne, who has taken an immediate liking to him, thanks to his warm welcome to Elizabeth, and the provision of a large number of different games and toys for the child to enjoy in the extensive gardens, or the long gallery if the weather is poor. The fact that he has a daughter of a similar age to the Queen was the primary reason for seeking accommodation with him - but his own reputation is equally good, and he is more than happy to host the entire court for three weeks.

Elizabeth has retired, and now the court is being entertained after an excellent supper. Seated comfortably, Anne is relieved that her daughter and little Jane Radcliffe have already formed a friendship with the Baron's daughter, Ruth, and the three girls have spent the morning at lessons, and the afternoon at play. Their journey to this house has been taken along tracks that have drawn people from all across the countryside to see their new Queen, and the cheers have been most heartening.

Her greatest fear has been that the peasantry might ignore Elizabeth, or - worse - insult or fail to accept her; but their procession has drawn nothing but cheers and blessings. Clearly the preaching upon the second chapter of the second book of Kings has borne fruit; though there is also perhaps a sense of novelty: England being ruled by a King's daughter, and not a son. No one has mentioned the dread name 'Mary', and Anne is beginning to hope that her unwanted stepdaughter is fading from the public consciousness.

"Walk forth your way, ye cost me nought;

Now have I found that I have sought:

The best cheap flesh that I ever bought.

Yet, for his love that all hath wrought,

Wed me, or else I die for thought.

Gup, Christian Clout, your breath is stale!

Go, Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale!

Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!

With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale."

The youth finishes the song, drawing enthusiastic applause from all present. Anne's pleasure is twofold, for the music has been excellent; but there is also no Mark Smeaton, gazing at her with unfulfilled hopes while he drips with jewels and silks.

Across the hall, Rich is sulking rather, as he was given the unpalatable task of discharging the musicians. While there had never been any suggestion that they would be travelling further than Hatfield, the revelation that their services are no longer required was a cause for great complaint and discontent; all of it directed at him. His expression equally discontented, he gulps at his cup of claret, and struggles to find any merit in the song that has just been performed.

"My goodness, there is a thundercloud in the firmament." Cromwell sits beside him, his expression a study in blandness.

"I have been remonstrated with by an overdressed popinjay over a matter that was not my decision." Rich complains, sourly, "In front of servants and people of lesser station. I think I have an excellent reason to be discomfited."

Cromwell smiles, "We are, however, spared a young man's longing glances at a woman that is unattainable - and attendant gossip upon the matter. Think of it as a service to the Kingdom."

Rich is about to retort, but then snorts with amusement, "It is a remarkably foolish service; but if it shall keep my head upon my neck, then perhaps it is worth the embarrassment. My only concern is that Mr Smeaton might fail to keep his tongue stilled upon the matter, and say more than is true."

"I have prevailed upon the bass violist to watch him and advise me should he do so." Cromwell adds, "Any comment of an inappropriate nature shall be met swiftly and decisively. Her Majesty's reputation must be protected from unwarranted gossip, including that surrounding the propriety of her mother's behaviour."

"You appear to think of all eventualities."

"I endeavour to do so." Cromwell looks smug, though it is clear that he is not being serious, "It does not do to be hamstrung by a discontented lutenist, after all. I have my own reputation to consider."

Rich shakes his head, smiling more broadly now, "Where once we feared we might lose our heads, now we fear we might lose our dignity. It is, I think, a fair exchange."

Cromwell is about to answer him, but instead looks across at the screens that conceal the exit to the servery and buttery, "Come, Mr Rich. It would appear that there is a message for us."

"Us?" Rich looks confused, but follows his colleague's gaze to see a man taking care to conceal himself - while still remaining visible to the man he wishes to speak to. He is surprised: it appears that Cromwell is offering him a degree of trust that has, hitherto, not been forthcoming.

"I shall meet you outside." Cromwell instructs, rising to his feet, "I suspect that this shall be a missive concerning a certain Lady of our non-acquaintance."

Leaving him to quietly approach the waiting spy, Rich waits a moment, before setting down his cup and rising from his own seat to depart. To most, he is merely visiting the jakes; but instead, he conceals himself in a quiet corner, and waits. To his relief, Cromwell is not long in seeking him out, a piece of paper in his hand.

"It seems that the Lady Mary has written again to the Emperor." He says, quietly, "And she has played a dangerous hand." He holds out the letter.

Taking it, Rich scans it briefly, his eyes widening, "Jesu - what is the girl thinking? If she wishes to face the Tower, then she has most certainly opened the way."

Reading it more closely, he takes in the contents. Where the girl has previously been carefully oblique, now she is more direct, and seeks to know whether the Emperor shall provide aid to her in her endeavour to claim the throne of England. She is looking for financial aid, and for men-at-arms. God have mercy - she is all but inviting the Emperor to invade England and set her upon its throne.

"Do we inform the Regent of this?" he asks, a little nervously, "If she knows that Mary has approached the Emperor to ask for more than mere favour, what is to stop her from demanding that the girl be sent to the Tower forthwith? We are not that secure with the people of England."

Cromwell sighs, "I fear that I must, Mr Rich. I promised the Regent that I would treat her with honesty and frankness. We must alert her to this, and then counsel her to exercise caution."

Rich shakes his head, "That is madness - she is a tigress in defence of her daughter. You know as well as I that she will not be turned from her course if she fears for the Queen's safety and birthright."

"That is a risk that we must take. If we remain silent upon the matter, and she discovers that we have done so, then we shall lose her trust. If we are all to survive, then we must not, under any circumstances, lose trust in one another. Mary is a threat to Elizabeth - that much we can all agree upon; but at present, she has naught but a vague promise of favour should she attempt to raise the people against the Queen. At this time, the united front of Crown, Council and Parliament is giving our neighbours cause to wait and consider how matters shall fall. As long as that front remains united, no foreign Prince shall see worth in promoting the cause of a largely forgotten, friendless girl. Even the Vicar of Rome shall think twice before interfering - for there would be little political value in doing so. Why issue bulls that no-one shall find it politically expedient to heed?"

Rich turns the thought over in his head, "Perhaps so; but Mary has all but given the Queen Regent a reason to act against her, and we must persuade her Majesty to refrain from doing so. I think you shall have more success persuading the tide not to flood."

"Perhaps. Nonetheless, we must do it. Are you with me?"

A pause. A sigh.

"Yes. I am with you."

Your Imperial Majesty

I write to you in most grievous times, for my throne remains in the hands of a harlot and her bastard progeny. I profess that I am truly grateful for your expression of favour upon my claim to may late Liege Lord's crown - which is a truer claim, sanctioned by God's blessing over his Majesty's first, true marriage to my mother, whom He adjoined, and thus no man can put asunder.

Thus I appeal to you, in the name of our joint blood, the truth of God's will and my commitment to bring England home to the Holy Father, to grant me aid to restore rightful rule, and the True Faith, to my Kingdom. I have no monies to pay for men-at-arms, and I look to you in hopes that you might raise an army to fight for me as I call all true Englishmen to my royal banner.

Forgive my forwardness. I would not write in such terms were I not certain of the security of my communications. I plead with you to send your answer to me through the hands of your ambassador, whose advice and counsel I trust above all others.

Yours in hope,

Mary the Queen.

The letter quivers in Anne's hand as her rage rises, though she has - so far - said nothing. Sitting around the table are the rest of her personal inner circle, and - not having yet seen the missive - the Rochfords are both looking nervous. Rich is also a little grey, though Cromwell remains utterly impassive.

"And you intend to permit the Ambassador to send…this?" Anne says eventually.

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell says, very calmly.

"What of the girl? This is open treason - and you expect me to let it pass?" her tone is dangerous.

"At the moment? Yes."

"I will not stand for this, Mr Cromwell!" finally her temper explodes, "This is an overt demand that the Emperor invade us and overturn all that my late Lord has done!"

"It is indeed, Majesty - but, in itself, it is of little value until we know how the Emperor shall respond to it. She does not know that her routes of communication are compromised, and thus we can be sure that - even obliquely - his Imperial Majesty shall give her an answer that shall be either positive, or negative. If it is positive, then we shall negotiate treaties with France to form an alliance he shall not challenge. If it is negative, then we shall continue to treat with both France and the Empire as though nothing has happened."

Anne is glaring at him, her desire to dispatch Mary to the Tower all but written upon her face, "I will not countenance acts of treachery, Mr Cromwell - to support that bastard pretender, even surreptitiously, does not sit well with me."

Rich's eyes widen slightly, and his expression grows even paler. Surely she does not think that they are acting for Mary?

"Place the girl in the Tower, Majesty, and all you have fought for shall crumble before your eyes. All still remember the fates of the sons of the fourth Edward - they were all but made martyrs, and your dynasty built itself upon the foundations of that perceived martyrdom. To make Mary an equal martyr shall undermine all that we have collectively created - and certainly it shall persuade the Vicar of Rome to speak out. At present, it is not expedient to do so - and we must not make it so. Not until her Majesty's rule is truly secure."

Even now, Cromwell does not raise his voice; but Anne's temper is dangerous, and she is eager to strike out - despite having no target.

"If you are of no help to me, sir, then I have no further use for you." She snaps, "Mary's behaviour must be curtailed, and you offer me nothing but speculation."

"Anne." Rochford looks at her, his expression worried, "This is neither the time nor the place. You have placed your trust in us as your closest advisers - but if you demand that the only advice you are granted is that which you want to hear, then all that we are shall crumble to nothing, and Elizabeth shall be Queen of nothing, and no one."

"And you counsel me after all that you have done to undermine me, George?" Her eyes are now upon her brother, "Or perhaps you have not offered me your faith after all! I will not have my child threatened - I will not!"

Now Rich looks as though he might faint. The confrontation is beginning to look very much as though dispatches to the Tower shall be forthcoming.

"Majesty." Cromwell's tone is dignified, and still remarkably calm, "I promised you honesty and frankness, and thus I keep my promise. Do not forget that you also promised me equal courtesy - and that you would not look upon my advice as founded upon any ulterior motive. I give you my counsel based upon the evidence I have before me, and that which I have learned from my sources both within the Kingdom, and without. Until Elizabeth's reign is truly established, and we can be secure that she is safe, we must treat Mary with caution, and the courtesy due her as a daughter of a King. Regardless of the validity of her claim, it is still a claim that the princes of Europe might support if it is politically expedient to do so. Our challenge is to ensure that it is not."

Anne turns back to him, her expression dangerous - but he refuses to shrink from that glare, though he is not impertinent enough to meet her eyes. For a moment, all at the table are convinced that she shall call for her guards to arrest him, but instead she sighs, and her temper finally recedes.

"Forgive me." Anne says, eventually, "It is my primary concern to protect the safety of my daughter; and I fear that I have forgotten that it is also yours."

Cromwell's rigid stance also relaxes, and he nods, "Her Majesty is Queen of England by right of blood, and in terms of the law, while the Lady Mary is disbarred from the throne both on account of her bastardy, and the King's will and law. There is no one at this table who would dispute that - and we shall defend her rights against all who might claim otherwise."

"And what of Mary?" Anne asks, much more quietly now.

"She is secure at Hunsdon, and all that she plans is known by us before those to whom she communicates those plans. Furthermore, she is treated generously and her every need is met. Thus the Princes of Europe have no pressing need to speak up for her. Not, at least, while the government of England is stable and in compliance with the treaties that were set in place. Had there been a male heir - even perhaps Fitzroy despite his bastardy - matters might have been different; but there was not. Thus those who sit upon the thrones of our neighbouring realms are content to deal with the men whom they think to be the true regents of England, and have little interest in the woman who sits upon the throne. Once Elizabeth is a woman grown, of course, that shall change - for it is my intention that she shall be a true Queen Regnant, just as it is yours."

She cannot argue with that.

"Very well," She says, a little begrudgingly, "we shall leave Katherine's brat in peace for now; but I will not have her plotting against my child. If it becomes clear that she intends to do so, then I shall brook no disagreement when I have her committed to the Tower."

Rich looks nervously at Cromwell, who shows no emotion. It seems that, in spite of the clear danger of such an act, he does not intend to dispute her Majesty's words: that is a battle that shall lie for another day.

If Anne had been enraged by Mary's letter, then Chapuys is appalled. His eyes wide, he re-reads the frantic missive for the fourth time, as though doing so shall change the tenor of the appeal, and reduce the clear inducement to a foreign prince to effectively invade England. What on earth is the girl thinking?

Eventually, after several cups of wine, however, he sits back in his favourite chair and reconsiders. Mary is, understandably, losing hope that any shall support her claim to regain her stolen throne. Incarcerated at Hunsdon, she has not the first idea that the political landscape does not lie favourably for her - and assumes that her name alone shall inflame English hearts in her favour.

Having lived in this Godforsaken realm for as long as he has, however, Chapuys knows that such an outcome is unlikely while the kingdom is at peace and relatively prosperous. Equally, his master is a pragmatic man, and he has other problems to consider. The Ottomans remain a threat, while the Emperor is once again facing hostilities from France. With the associated costs of such conflicts, he has little interest in throwing monies or armaments at a small island nation so that a distant relative can claim an already occupied throne. Yes, Mary is a woman grown - but she remains a woman, and thus cannot truly be fit to rule - certainly there would be few countries in Europe that would permit it. While the young spawn of the Concubine is called a Queen, and the woman who bore her claims to be Regent, the true power lies in the hands of the Council - and it is they to whom the Emperor shall make any approaches of a diplomatic bent.

Hard though it is to accept, as the wily Savoyard cares very much for the forsaken child of a King who wanted only sons, it is the truth. Mary cannot rely upon the support of the Emperor should she attempt to raise England against her half-sister. If she is to do it, then she must do it alone. Not even his Holiness is keen to send her aid - not when there are far greater degrees of heresy closer to home. Should she succeed in claiming England, then he shall shower her with blessings - but he shall not help her try. It is not politically expedient to do so. Sadly, in her furious determination to show her piety - and God knows it is genuine - she cannot see that others do not share her fervour, or that they would fight tooth and nail to keep themselves from foreign rule. Even the most staunchly faithful seem to regard the Holy Father first and foremost as a foreigner who is to be trusted only because of his place as God's Prince upon the Earth.

He sighs as he empties his cup again: at least none have seen this deadly missive. Had that happened, he has no doubt that the Concubine would have immediately had Mary escorted to the Tower, and placed under threat of death. Moreover, she would have had all the justification she could ever have wanted - for all would see that Mary has directly appealed to a foreign prince to send an invasion force to overthrow the government of England. A man of Chapuys's experience and skill would not even consider forwarding it on. Were it to fall into unfriendly hands, then the diplomatic rumpus it would cause could be intensely damaging - particularly as the Emperor has no wish to be drawn into squabbles over the ownership the English Crown. No. The only destination for this explosive letter is the fire. He shall wait a few weeks, then write a bland response offering the Emperor's favour once again - but nothing more. To be caught with this would mean only death, and he has no wish to die anywhere but in his own bed surrounded by a brood of grandchildren.

Much as he hates to admit it to himself, he knows that Mary's dreams are empty - and her wish to claim her throne shall never be fulfilled. While England prospers - and certainly the coming harvest looks set fair - there shall be no reason to fly to the banner of a mere girl who has no friends of any consequence in the nobility. Most are far too busy ingratiating themselves with the Concubine to show any interest in the King's first daughter - and without the support of England's nobles, she shall be helpless. No amount of peasants armed with billhooks or scythes shall stand against a phalanx of armoured cavalry and ranks of artillery.

His greatest fear now is that, once aware of the Emperor's abandonment of her, she shall try it anyway. If she does, her cause shall be lost; and, with it, her life.

The procession has moved on, with the Court travelling now to a very fine manor just outside the town of Oxford. Again, thanks to careful preparation, and appropriate sermons in the churches, the people have cheered and welcomed Elizabeth, who has responded to that adulation with delighted waves and a happy smile. Tiny, pretty and crowned with her father's famed red-gold hair, she has charmed all who see her, and they care nothing for the fact that she is a mere babe.

Riding a few stages back in the column, Suffolk struggles to contain his sour expression. He has heard nothing from the Lady Mary for some weeks, and is becoming concerned at her silence. She would not have given up her determination to claim her inheritance - so she must have acted upon her own initiative. Without his counsel, she cannot hope to know what is truly happening in her kingdom, and it is knowledge now that is the true power if she is to fight for her future.

He looks about, surreptitiously. Rochford is riding alongside Cromwell, and the two are engaged in amiable conversation. While he is not surprised that the other Boleyn child would rally to his sister when his previous faction collapsed, it remains annoying, as his nobility is a useful counterpoint to Cromwell's base-born shrewdness. Add to that the sharp, devious mind of Richard Rich, and it is an edifice that seems to have no flaws or faults. In spite of himself, he finds he cannot help but admire the Regent for her choice of advisers. He wonders who Mary shall choose when the crown is finally upon her head.

He cannot believe that shall not happen. Mary is the true-born daughter of the late King, and thus the crown is hers by right. She shall have to fight for it - and he shall fight as her champion to bring it about - but if she does not act soon, then she shall lose what little momentum still remains, and she shall win nothing but exile, or worse. With little else to do, he composes a new letter to her in his head. Encouragement, a renewed pledge of loyalty - and all the men that he can command. Without an army, she shall be Queen of no-one, and nowhere. Only with men-at-arms will she have any hope of gaining that which is rightfully hers.

The procession pauses to dine at another great house upon the route, where an elderly Baronet welcomes them with a repast of such gargantuan proportions that Anne is concerned they shall not be able to ride on for the rest of the day. The man is wizened, and rather bent-backed, but his welcome is sincere, and he presents Elizabeth with two spaniel pups, which immediately quells her rather nervous fear of his deeply lined and gaunt face.

As their host's hall is insufficiently large to accommodate the horde, the meal is served upon a large expanse of lawns, under great awnings of scarlet cloth embroidered with fantastical beasts and heraldic symbols. People are free to take what they wish, and remove themselves to other parts of the garden; and Rich is rather startled to find that Cromwell has indicated that they should carry their plates and knives to a more distant patch of lawn, well away from the other diners.

"You have news?" he asks, at once.

Cromwell nods, setting his plate down upon a low table between the two chairs they have taken, "I did not expect it, but it seems that Chapuys is no fool. He did not send the letter on to the Emperor, so we do not need to concern ourselves with his Imperial Majesty's answer."

"What shall he do, if he has none to send back?" Rich asks, "Send a false expression of renewed favour?"

"I imagine so. There is little else that he can do. I understand that the Ottomans have made new attempts to swallow up more the Emperor's eastern provinces. While that continues, there shall be no support forthcoming for the foolish dreams of a girl in a foreign land. Not if he finds that he must look to us for an alliance against France in the coming days, for I understand that there is renewed talk of war in their lands, too."

"It is at times like this that I am grateful that we are an island." Rich mumbles through a mouthful of mutton. Swallowing it, he turns to Cromwell, "Do you think that such assurances shall prompt her to try regardless?"

"Perhaps; though much depends upon how willing she might be to accept Wiltshire's offer of support. If she does, then she shall have what little monies and men he can supply her, and perhaps those of Suffolk. We, however, shall be able to call upon the aid of a far larger group of nobles - and only a fool would believe that such matters are settled by the ranks of the peasantry. They shall be called upon only to do the dying." His expression becomes rather bitter. In spite of his own rise from such common stock, he knows from personal experience the worth of a peasant in the eyes of a nobleman, "At least the charitable works we have instituted are beginning to become more visible."

Rich nods, though his expression is one of mild distaste, for they have - as the journey has progressed - visited a sequence of petty schools, grammar schools, almshouses and even an infirmary, all of which have been established through the Regent's demanded additions to the existing Poor Laws. It is her intention that they shall continue to remove the obscene excesses of wealth from the Great Religious houses, but it is most unwise to take away those services that the Abbeys granted the peasants at their gates without ensuring that they were available from another source. It is not only the Queen Elizabeth who is now receiving the cheers of those whom they pass on their way. The foolish moniker 'Mother of the Realm' that he suggested entirely in jest has begun to take root in the shires: those who have no interest in the politics of England - for they have more pressing matters of survival to deal with - see a woman who has brought them schools to which they can send their boys, houses for those who have nowhere to go. That, in itself, has won them over. It shall be different in Oxford itself, of course; but here, she has become their protector.

"Were the Lady Mary to claim the throne, I have no doubt that she would confiscate all the lands and monies we have restored to the treasury, and hand them back to the monks - including the almshouses, infirmaries and schools. She could overturn any love that we have gained at a stroke if she did so." He muses.

"Indeed she would." Cromwell agrees, "I have it on good authority that she has discussed as much already with Mistress Clarencieux. It seems that she cannot see the difference between a cloistered order and religious brothers. Most of those who reside within the great Abbeys are unlikely ever to have even seen a beggar at their gates - for they do not leave their walls. Instead they hide behind the great stone edifices of their pulpitums, and expect the lay brothers to deal with such rude creatures."

"And thus those buildings that were once upon Abbey lands shall be taken away from those who now reside within them." Rich concludes, reaching for his claret, "Even she cannot be so blind as to do such a foolish thing. She shall lose the love of the nobility and the gentry if she confiscates their new homes - and she shall lose the love of the peasantry if she has them evicted from their almshouses and their children barred from the schools. No - I do not think her eyes to be so firmly closed as all that."

"They shall not be, if she is well advised - but that is dependent upon whom she appoints to do so. Her options are limited at best, for most are looking to the Regent and her Council, and those who are not are of little account. At this moment, she has only her belief that England shall rise to her banner on the sole grounds that she is who she is. That, I fear, is not enough."

"If she does make the attempt - and fails - what then?"

"Then we shall be hard put to dissuade her Majesty from sending her to the Tower forthwith. I should rather we did not do so - though the alternative is exile, and then she is out of sight, and more able to demand the aid of foreign princes as she can do so in person - though I think they shall be no more willing to hear her than they were to read her written entreaties." He gazes off at some distant roses, "She is in a most cruel situation."

Rich nods, but does not answer. Instead he chews upon a mouthful of bread and sits back in his chair. It is too late for Mary to act with any hope of success - she has but one friend amongst the highest levels of the nobility, and only one other possible ally, who has approached her only in hopes of regaining lost personal power. The King's determination to remove her from the sight of all has, to some degree, succeeded in its intent, and certainly he has heard no mention of the girl's name - even whispered - at any time since she was sent from Court.

If she tries to raise the people against a Regent who is already teaching them to love her, then she shall fail. Hopefully, she shall not make the attempt; but Rich can see the expression upon the Lord Treasurer's face, and he suddenly convinced that she shall.