A/N: Thank you again for the reviews. I think I'm possibly being a tad mean to Mary in making her as fixated as she is - though she's had none of the formative experiences that followed 1536 in the 'real' universe, so she's very heavily governed by her anger against Anne, and her devotion to her late parents. Suffolk certainly isn't helping, though a great deal of his motivation comes from his promise to Henry's remains while at Wulfhall. He promised he'd set Mary on the throne rather than have Anne as Regent - and that's really popped some major blinkers on; but, given that Elizabeth has no heir, and life was hardly a bed of roses in the health department in those days, it's still not entirely unrealistic to hope that Mary's time might yet come. Should the worst happen, then Suffolk will be in a prime position to lead Mary's Council, thereby keeping his promise. Sometimes wishful thinking can be a right old pain.

Still - with things as they are, he's kind of stuck. Meanwhile, other people are making moves one way or another...

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A Commitment to Convert

The great harbour at Plymouth is a place of bustle and endless movement, as ships are loaded, arrive, unload, depart and remain at anchor out in the Sound. A large, natural harbour, it is an excellent site to house naval vessels, though most of the ships he can see are carracks and cogs: excellent for the work that they do, but hardly helpful in times of war.

Tired of his task, Wiltshire reads over the survey reports of another man that he has engaged to do the work for him, a young man of considerable intelligence by the name of Stephen Monks. Enthusiastic, pleased to be working for the Queen, he has eagerly taken upon himself the work that the Earl should be doing, and his reports are far better and more considered - and, equally importantly, more accurate - than those his employer had bothered to put together.

Monks's report is comprehensive, and makes a number of recommendations for the creation of a suitable haven for naval vessels. As England is hardly under threat at this time, Wiltshire disregards the document, setting it aside to be handed back to him for dispatch to Whitehall, and instead ponders an altogether more pressing matter of concern.

While he is not surprised to have received no answer from the Lady Mary - though he now makes himself refer to her as Queen as it is best to get used to it if he is to serve her - he is irked and disappointed. Damned, contrary woman - does she not realise that she has nothing if she has no nobles upon her side? Suffolk's primary talent was having the King's friendship - a man who seems to do naught but accumulate wives, and their portions of course - and now he sits upon the Council and attempts as best he can to pretend that he is relevant to the new government, and a useful spy for the woman they have set aside.

It cannot have gone astray - had it done so, then he would most certainly not be seated in this stifling garret while a hired man compiles reports that he himself was tasked to prepare. His knowledge of the Court ensured that he could find those few servants still loyal to the brat who would be willing to dispatch it in exchange for the retention of their heads. Even now, he has their agreement to pass such missives back and forth, for they believe, in their ill-educated, dim minds, that England shall welcome the unwanted bastard back onto the throne again. That she can only do so with the support of Englands Nobility seems not to have occurred to them - but at least they know that it cannot be a hindrance.

Much as he is loath to do it; much as he despises being obliged to grovel, he knows that he shall have to write again. Regardless of his opinion of himself, he is well aware of her spite for him, and thus is of the view that her entire behaviour is indeed coloured by that spite. Such is the way of women, of course. He has seen that in his ungrateful daughter.

Rising from his chair, he moves across to the window and looks out of the diamond-leaded panes towards the open expanse of the Sound. There is another letter to his feckless son upon his desk, which he shall give to Monks to include in his dispatch, demanding to know why there has been no answer to his previous letter, and requiring him to advise upon all that has been happening. As far as he knows, Anne's child has been carried across England in a litter, but he is keen to know how she has been received. It can only serve Mary's interests if there has been indifference at the very least - and all he has is insubstantial rumours of 'Harry's Bairn' and 'Hal's little Queen Bess'. Surely people are not that shallow? And what has George done to undermine that? Has he done anything at all? Damn him?

Turning back from the window, Wiltshire grabs at another sheet of rough paper, and sets to work on another grovelling missive to the woman that he would rather crawl over glass to avoid. There is little choice. If he does not do so, then he shall never regain all that was taken from him in so humiliating a fashion. If nothing else, he wishes to remedy that injury - and if he can do so tenfold, then so much the better.

At length, he is done, though his temper is hideous by the end of it. Drying the ink with pounce, he blows away the excess powder, then folds and seals the dangerous missive with great care. He has taken careful precautions in employing Monks - a man of equally slavish loyalty as intelligence - and thus can entrust him to ensure that the deadly words shall be set into the correct pair of hands.

Sitting back again, he allows himself to wash away the distaste with the lavish application of claret. If the brat does not reply this time, then she shall have nothing, and no one, to carry her to a Crown.

Anne is more relieved than she would be willing to admit, as Margery helps her to remove her heavy overgown and dabs at her overheated face and neck with water scented with rose petals. The journey to Oxford has been slow, punctuated with several stops to visit more almshouses and institutions for the relief of the poor, but always lined with people delighted to see their new Queen. To her astonishment, there has been no need to present Elizabeth as a new Josiah, for instead she has become 'Bess', and all are delighted to see her, crowned with her father's most visible legacy, the famed red-gold Tudor hair.

To her credit, in spite of her tender years, Elizabeth has responded to the crowds with delight - and has never frowned, or pouted. There have, of course, been some truly tempestuous tantrums behind closed doors, as is to be expected; but, even now, she understands the importance of show - of being 'King Harry's Little Bess' to those who have walked as many as five miles or more just in the hopes of glimpsing her.

There shall be no entertainments this evening - instead Elizabeth and Jane shall be free to play in the gardens of the College in which they have been housed. No restrictive rules - no demands for decorum. It is her well-earned reward for a long three days in stays waving at excited burghers who seem not to remember the dread word 'Mary'.

In spite of Lady Bryan's protests, the child is dressed in an old, battered dress that would not be fit to be seen in public, and is free - under Mistress Champernowne's supervision, of course - to play as she wishes. Anne can see from her vantage point in her dressing chamber that such play currently involves burrowing in the rose-beds, and shrieking with excitement at the wriggling of worms revealed therein.

A lighter overgown now set over her kirtle, she returns to her Privy Chamber, where a chessboard has been set upon a small table with two chairs, the men ready for play. With no public appearance this evening, she has decided instead to entertain privately, and only her inner circle are invited. There is even a set of virginals against the wainscoting, and she is hopeful that she shall be able to try some new part-songs, as despite having a rather weak voice, George can mostly hold a tune.

Firstly, however, there is her daughter to see to, as her time of play has come to an end, largely because she is too tired to continue. Her protests as Mistress Champernowne is unlacing her dress are mumbled and drowsy - an insistence that she is not at all tired, and wishes to spend the rest of the evening dancing with Lady Mille-Fleurs while her mother sings.

"My goodness, Majesty," Anne is smiling at her, "What has happened, have you bathed in the earth? Never have I seen you so befouled!"

"I have seen lots of crawling things, Mama." She answers, fighting to hide a yawn, "Kat is dressing me for the evening - I shall be clean and Mr Cromwell can show me how to play chess again."

"He can, my precious." She crouches alongside her daughter, who seems hardly able to keep her eyes open, "Though not tonight, I fear. I shall find time for us to do so before we leave here."

Her attempt to protest is lost in another, cavernous yawn, and she concedes defeat, "Yes, Mama."

"Sleep well, my dearest little Elizabeth. I shall come by later - ask Mistress Champernowne to read you a story from my book of French Poesies."

"Yes Mama." Safely clad in a clean nightgown, her hands and face washed and clean, the little girl snuggles into her mother's skirts, and Anne enfolds her in her arms. To think she came so dangerously close to losing this little child…but for the death of Henry, she might have been dismissed from Court - exiled…or worse…

But that has not come to pass. No - she is alive, she is safe and she has her beloved daughter close by. Planting a soft kiss upon the top of her daughter's head, she smiles again as Mistress Champernowne lifts the girl and carries her through to put her to bed.

Lady Rochford is already present when she returns to the Privy Chamber, playing through the cascading refrain of a Coranto. George is at her side, watching carefully to turn the page, and she smiles to see him - grateful once more that she has recovered his love, and that they are united as siblings again. Rich is leafing through the sheets of notation, and it could not be more obvious that he is still highly uncomfortable to be here - welcomed, yes, but present largely through an act of frightened self-preservation, and thus still uncertain of the ground upon which he stands. Only Mr Cromwell is yet to arrive - but that is no surprise to her. Anne is well aware of his attention to detail in all matters: it is highly likely that he has been obliged to smooth over some trivial difficulty or other that seems quite insoluble to everyone and thus requires his involvement.

Several stewards are busy setting out a light meal when he finally arrives, looking tired and not a little flustered, "My apologies, Majesty, one of the pack horses has been taken with a colic, and there was a dispute between the Master of the Horse and the Master of the College over who should pay for a groom to walk the animal and provide a tonic of mint and burdock. It seems that the Master wished to gift the treatment to her Majesty, but the Master of the Horse was most unwilling to leave the care of the animal in other hands."

Anne's eyebrow inches up, "A dispute over something so small?"

He nods, "It appears that the people of England are willing to give all manner of gifts to their 'Queen Bess', Majesty. Thus I was obliged to negotiate between the two, and then remain present while the horse was walked - and could only depart once it had lifted its tail and deposited manure upon the cobbles."

She snorts with laughter, "Such is the life of a grand Court Official."

"Indeed Majesty."

The victuals are easily consumed while occupied with other things, and thus Anne and her Lord Treasurer are soon engrossed in a game of chess while Jane Rochford continues to play the virginals, punctuated with laughter as her husband attempts to sight-sing the words, with wayward results. She is used to such behaviour - he has always been so - and she smiles as she moves her bishop to threaten one of Cromwell's knights.

She watches as he looks over the board, frowning as he concentrates - calculating each move and its consequence. While she is a capable strategist, she cannot look as far ahead as he seems to, and when he makes his move, she is intrigued at its apparent pointlessness - for a pawn has come forth but one square. Then, within three moves, he has achieved checkmate, and she is quite fascinated at how he has done so. It is, of course, a primary factor in his survival as a base-born courtier in a world of nobility - for he plays the game of politics as he plays the game of chess: always aware of the moves he must make, and where they are likely to lead. God, she is fortunate to have him.

The song has changed, and Jane's voice soars gently over the trickling notes of the virginals. It is a familiar song to Anne, and she rises from the chair to stand behind her sister-in-law to provide the counterpoint. Behind her, Cromwell watches and feels again that strong sense of almost paternal pride. In the face of all, she remains strong, and firm. There is, of course, that rather awkward blind spot in the form of Mary, but at least he has persuaded her that she cannot act punitively against her stepdaughter.

Rochford sits down beside him, "Do you think it safe to say that we have won England's heart?"

"At this time? I say nothing." He admits, "The rise of 'Queen Bess' is fortuitous, for it has emerged spontaneously amongst those who see her - and I think it wise to encourage it. It is my wish that we prepare her Majesty to be a true Queen regnant - for I know that her mother would not forgive me if I did otherwise. Besides, she is intelligent, personable and looks to be a great beauty in time. It is our duty at this time to ensure that she is also wise, well governed and well advised; that she can distinguish between flattery and good counsel, and that she understands that it is as important for a Queen to serve her country as for her country to serve a Queen. Had her late father not become so contrary in his latter years, he might well have continued to do so - but he seemed to lose sight of the requirement to serve, and thus saw only his glory and might as King."

"Is that not his right - as God's anointed?" Rochford asks, quietly.

"Yes - that is so; but it serves better for Princes to rule with good governance and government - and to limit the foolishness of factions. I am quite convinced that we spent more time plotting against one another than we ever did ensuring the best government of the Realm."

Rochford grins more widely, "But we are noblemen, Mr Cromwell. It is our role in life to ensure our own wealth and comfort in the face of all adversity."

Cromwell smiles in return, "Indeed, I fear that to be true - but what of me? I am a man of poor stock who rose to become a great Courtier. There is a new class of men emerging, my Lord - men who have earned wealth through hard work and trade, and have equally become more educated, as I have. Even now, they wish to receive a share of the power held by the nobles - gains that are, as yet, denied them - and thus the agreement that we have made with Parliament offers them that which they seek, and so we have won their friendship and loyalty. Our task now is to keep our promises to them, and thus retain that loyalty."

"Or Mary shall take it?" Rochford asks, in a much softer voice. He is well aware that such words shall spark his sister's temper.

Cromwell's eyes become distant, "I intend to ensure that, should she step forth to attempt to wrest Elizabeth's crown from her, she shall find that the landscape in which she moves has changed so utterly that she shall have no footing upon it. There are many now who would refuse to submit to Rome again, and I do not think it likely that she shall agree to allow Parliament the degree of power that it now has. She is, after all, descended from absolute monarchs who ruled by their will alone." He pauses, "In some ways, I fear, I am hopeful that she shall try - and fail. Thus we shall be free of threat from her once and for all."

"Can you be certain that she shall fail?"

"She has no support, my Lord. At the very most, she can rely only upon Suffolk and what retinue he can raise. Many noblemen and gentry-folk are now beholden to Elizabeth thanks to the granges they have purchased, and see their future tied to the prosperity of peace and good government. Peasants are being given succour through her largesse rather than through religious institutions, and they are being offered the opportunity to learn. Thus they shall be able to read the law, to understand the purpose of taxation, and - should they wish to - to read God's word without being obliged to hear it only from the words of a priest." He pauses, then continues, "It has always been considered the natural order that if you are born a peasant, you must remain one. If you are born into bonded labour, you must remain so. If you are born into privilege, then you are free to live easily upon the labour of those beneath you. It is God's will. But what if it is not? If it was God's will that I remain a brewer and blacksmith, as my father was, then how is it that I am talking to you now?"

"And you think that Mary shall re-impose that rigid structure." Rochford says.

"I think she shall - for she has, in isolation, embraced the faith of her Mother with a fervid intensity that has coloured her judgement. Were she to win the Crown, we would be under the heel of Rome again before the first month was out - and all that would follow would be dictated by the Pope and whatever Cardinals he saw fit to impose upon us."

"And your judgement is not coloured in the opposite direction?" Rochford's smile is a little skewed.

For a moment, it looks as though Cromwell will object, but he pauses, and sighs, "Perhaps I am, my Lord. I am - after all - a mere man. Moreover, I am a mere man who seeks to keep his head upon his neck. Should we lose, then we all lose our heads - though Elizabeth might be spared out of deference to her youth - and that in itself is a great incentive to succeed."

In spite of himself, Rochford shudders.

They have spent a week being entertained, visiting, being cheered by crowds, hunting, dancing and dining. The weather has been rather warmer than most would like, and those who have been able to escape into the great parklands around Oxford have done so with great pleasure.

Elizabeth and Jane are spending the day at the house of a minor nobleman blessed with two daughters of an equally young age, and thus Anne is engaged upon yet more visits to almshouses, and a recently opened infirmary - housed in what was once a closed order of Carmelites in the midst of the town. All have been paid for with endowments from the Crown, and through further pledges of aid from wealthy townsfolk in exchange for their names being displayed upon a great scroll of honour so all can see and marvel at their acts of charity.

All is, of course, in Elizabeth's name, and Anne would have it no other way. Even now she is not blind to the presence of a quiet voice inside her that delights in being Queen and wishes to remain so. Elizabeth shall, after all, not be old enough to rule for ten years or more…

Furious with herself, Anne shuts the thought away. To pretend that she is not tempted would be to be a hypocrite - after all, how many princes have been deprived of their thrones by those who heeded that vile little voice? She is aware enough of her own character to know that she is not a truly selfless being; and thus has combated her own temptation with the law. Mr Cromwell and Mr Rich have, between them, established a solid legal edifice against which her own wishes cannot stand.

Margery is at her side today, while a small group of her ladies follow, and her solidly dependable Lord Treasurer is a few paces behind them, accompanied by Sussex, Sir John Russell and Mr Rich. The commissioner in charge of the Almshouses, a kind-faced man by the name of William Peate, is eager to answer all manner of questions over the operation of the charitable works, while those who reside there are equally pleased to meet the benefactor who has housed them.

Except for one.

There are a number of women housed in a wing separate from that which houses the men, and all are seated in a large common chamber. Some are embroidering, while other sit and gossip in the sunlight that comes in through a large window. Peate approaches a younger woman in simple grey homespun, who looks startled, then bobs a very deep curtsey at the arrivals, while the women look up to see that they have a party of visitors.

It is no surprise to Anne that the men remain in a small huddle close to the door, and talk amongst themselves while she and her ladies move amongst the women in the chamber, looking at embroideries, talking to them, and giving out little posies that Jane and Elizabeth have spent their evenings making for just this purpose.

While they are not as artful as they might be had they been made by older hands, the women are delighted to receive them, as they are gifts from a Queen and made with her own hands, and the conversation is friendly and convivial as one of the ladies tells them of her own youth, when she made posies for her sweetheart - a man whom she married.

She has barely finished her story when another voice cuts across her, coldly, "Speak not of such sweetness to a whore, Margaret! That woman stole away a Kingdom from our true Queen - and is naught but a Godless strumpet!"

Everyone turns, shocked, to look at an equally elderly woman dressed in black, who is glaring at Anne with undisguised loathing, "Get you gone from us and take your unfaith with you! There is but one true Queen in England and it is not the putrid abortion that fell from your womb!"

The young woman in grey utters a frightened little squeak, and the other women stare at her in horror, for fear that her words shall result in punishment for all of them.

Anne draws herself up, "If I am to be insulted, then the least I require in return is the name of the one who insults me."

Rather than answer, the woman turns her back; a singular insult. With little to offer in response, Anne turns to the assembled women and smiles warmly, "I thank you all for your kindness, and your welcome. It is an honour for me to spend time with women who have lived long and fruitful lives, and I hope with all of my heart that I, too, shall honour God with a life of service and duty."

They all look most relieved, and bow their heads, as most are infirm and cannot rise from their chairs. Ignoring the one dark cloud in the chamber, Anne steps back a pace, then curtseys to them all. While there is one who has despised her, the rest have not, and she knows how to win hearts from those who are not of her station. As she leaves, her retinue in tow, she is sure she can hear voices remonstrating with the one who dissented.

"Forgive her, Majesty," Peate looks fearful, "Mistress Browne is recently widowed, and had looked to enter a convent - but there are none hereabouts, for they have been closed."

"And her family have not provided a dower house for her use?"

Peate struggles to find a polite answer, "Her son refused to house her - for he is as for the new faith as she is for the old. There was a…dispute…between them."

"Thus she resides here."

"She does, Majesty." Peate pauses, "I do not think she acts so because she is of the old faith - but instead because she is filled with much anger, and it emerges as spite and overt piety. She took the loss of her late husband very poorly, and struck out at all about her in her rage."

Anne stops, and looks at him in sadness, "If that is so, then know that I do not harbour any ill will against her. I am not unaware that I am regarded in such terms - and it is my intention to demonstrate to my daughter's Subjects that they are safe and shall be governed well both by myself as Regent, and, when the time comes, by her Majesty."

He bows deeply, "Thank you, your Majesty."

As she departs, however, Anne feels sick inside. Grieving or not, the vicious rage of the Widow Browne has shaken her to the core. None have expressed such vile sentiments to her - but is that because she has won their hearts, or because they do not feel safe to express them? It is impossible to know - and, while she does not know, she cannot feel secure that Elizabeth's rule is safe should Katherine's bastard attempt to claim the throne for herself.

Cromwell is already by her side, "No haste, Majesty." He knows what she is thinking. He is thinking it himself.

"And if others think as that widow does?" Anne hisses back to him, sotto voce, "And they listen should Mary raise her voice?"

"It is impossible to know how many might answer her call to arms." Cromwell admits, quietly, "As long as the forces we can raise are larger, she shall not prevail. She is disbarred from the succession by law, so she can only now claim by right of conquest - which she cannot do without an army at her back."

Her eyes narrow, "Install more guards around Hunsdon. She must remain within the grounds at all times, and can only enter the parkland escorted by ten or more men. None must be permitted to approach her - but ensure that it is given out that she has asked that people be kept at bay."

Cromwell sighs, "I do not think it wise, Majesty. She is carefully and discreetly watched - but should that scrutiny become more overt, we might lose what we have - and her actions shall go unseen. It is essential that we know what she is planning, and we cannot do that if she discovers that her communications are compromised."

He is grateful that they are in public, as she cannot snap at him. Her eyes, however, are vicious with anger as all of her protective instincts surge to the fore once again.

"I shall keep watch upon her." Cromwell continues, quietly, "As I have done since all of this began. Should there be any suggestion that she intends to conspire against you, then we shall have the evidence to challenge her, and thus any action you take shall be justified and - more importantly - be seen to be justified."

She relents, but it is clear that he is upon rather thin ice, "Very well, Mr Cromwell. We shall depart for Donnington on the morrow. If there is any hint that Mary intends to steal my daughter's rightful inheritance, then I shall expect you to know it, and to be prepared to counter it. If you do not, then she shall not be alone in the Tower."

His face remains absolutely impassive, but his eyes narrow as she moves off. If he does not turn her away from her determined vendetta against Mary, then she is in danger of casting away all that she has gained - and all of them shall pay the price of it.

The worst thing about being on progress, Rich muses to himself as he sits at a makeshift desk and looks out of the window that he has just opened in hopes of capturing a breeze, is the lack of news from London. Much as he enjoys being privileged enough to travel in a royal party on such journeys, the distance from the centre of government is such that he does not know from one day to the next what is happening.

Once, of course, he would have used it to his advantage against anyone who might stand in his way - but now he is finding that being trusted is quite refreshing, and he would like to keep it that way. Following the unpleasant moment when he overheard a conversation that showed just how easily others were prepared to use him and cast him aside - all thanks to his well earned reputation for untrustworthiness - the discovery that loyalty pays dividends is a novelty that has not yet worn off.

Cromwell is sitting nearby, working his way through a packet of papers that were delivered by one of his many factors - men who give the appearance of working for others, but who are in fact working for him - and he is most intrigued by a paper in his hand.

"Something interesting?" Rich has always been too inquisitive for his own good.

"Very interesting." Cromwell hands over the missive - the first time that he has done so in such circumstances. Their working relations have improved considerably over the last few months.

Gracious Majesty,

Forgive the poor nature of this missive, for I am hard put to secure more suitable writing materials in my current abode.

I fear that my previous letter to you must have gone astray, for I have not received any answer. Therefore I most humbly seek once more your Majesty's forgiveness for my acts against you. In my vainglorious quest for riches and advancement, I sought to overturn the natural order of things, and the rightful laws of inheritance. In so doing, I thus ensured that you were deprived of all that was rightfully yours to claim, and now I seek with all my poor soul to make right that which was done against you.

Again, I swear to you that I shall be your most loyal and obedient servant and Subject, and that I shall serve you with honesty, truth and good counsel as England's true Queen, as determined by God, in defiance of all the will of men, who are equal before Him at the time of Judgement and have no right to gainsay that which is His will.

Equally, I accept that I have, through my vanity and desire for gain, stepped far away from the true Religion, and thus I am most determined to set aside all heresy, and return to the fold of the true Church. I thus eagerly await your answer - and express my hopes that I shall stand alongside you, and those whom you shall appoint to restore England to our Holy Father in Rome, for I am truly a lost sheep and look to the Holy Shepherd to recall me to his fold.

I look once more to you, as England's true Queen, to restore that which is right in this Realm, for I have placed an unfit woman above you, and regret my actions most deeply. All that I am, and all that I have, is yours to use as you see fit, and I am ready to ride to your side at your first command.

Thomas Boleyn, Kt & E of Wiltshire.

"He is most keen, is he not?" Cromwell comments, as Rich's eyebrows rise, "For a man so determined upon reform of the Church, it seems that now he wishes to un-reform it in exchange for a seat on the Council."

"If she did not take his first letter seriously," Rich muses, "Then his willingness to abase himself before a Papal Legate most certainly shall. From what I recall, she would accept a man of the meanest talent if he kissed a rosary in her presence." He opts not to mention his own still-Catholic leanings.

"Perhaps." Cromwell agrees, "Though I would imagine her to be more shrewd than that. I may, however, be wrong."

"Is this to be carried on?"

"Mr Monks awaits the return of the document prior to carrying it on. It shall be passed to a senior chambermaid who happens to be related to one of the Seymour retinue, whereupon Lady Jane shall deliver it to her Mistress."

"And this chambermaid also works for you?" Rich is sure that Cromwell has another such woman planted in Mary's retinue.

Cromwell shakes his head, "No - unlike our spy, she is wholly for Mary and is eager to aid the girl in our destruction. Her willingness to be a courier is all that keeps her head upon her neck, for Mr Monks is a comely fellow and she is somewhat enamoured of him. If there were no need for her to pass on letters, in the belief that she is secure from scrutiny, then she would certainly be in Newgate and facing the stake for her treachery, for she has been intent upon plots for some considerable time - though none have come even slightly close to fruition."

Rich shudders. He has only seen one burning - when he was a mere boy, and the sight of it horrified him to such a degree that he has never attended another, "You would do that to her?"

"God, no. Once she discovers that, far from protecting Mary, she has instead helped to betray her, that shall be a truly fitting punishment for her crime. There is no need to pillory her, for she shall be too busy pillorying herself."

"And what shall you tell the Regent?"

"The truth." Cromwell is already carefully heating the wax seal with a hot blade to press it back down again, "I promised her nothing less."

"If this does not drive her to act against Mary, then nothing shall. Is it wise to provoke her? She seems temperate in all things but this."

"She is a mother. Elizabeth is her only child - I should be far more surprised were she not intemperate in defence of her daughter." He rises, the letter in his hand, "I think I shall take a walk around the lake, where the air is hopefully less oppressive. I should appreciate it if you would join me - there is much to discuss over our return to London when we have ended our stay at Donnington."

Rich looks relieved, "And that shall not come a moment too soon."

Pax chases a butterfly through the ornamental garden, oblivious to the mood of his mistress as she sits in the shade of a rose-thick pergola and peruses the letter that has arrived. It is rather battered, a testament to the circuitous route it has been obliged to take to be delivered to her, but the seal was unbroken when she received it, and she is certain that none have seen its contents since the wax was pressed down.

So - Wiltshire would be willing to abandon his commitment to reform - which is no surprise to her, for the reformation is out-and-out heresy. While his first letter seemed rather cynical to her, his pledge to return to the true Faith does not. It shall, of course, be a simple matter to determine whether or not his commitment is sincere once she is Queen, and she has invited higher ranked churchmen to return to England to examine the consciences of all men in her Realm.

She has been obliged to watch England pulled from the safety and sanctity of the Church, and has clung to her faith fiercely and with such determination that even her love for her late Father could not tear her from it. He was bewitched by that vile whore, his head turned with those tricks that the trulls of the brothels use to tantalise men - and thus threw away his Queen and his Princess for a filthy concubine who even now dances upon the grave of a better and more noble woman than she.

When she is Queen, of course, that shall come to an end. That paike shall be carried through the streets upon a hurdle and set upon a stake, all at once a heretic and a traitor, while those with whom she now consorts shall all be cut open at Tyburn - none of them granted the mercy of being allowed to hang until dead before their vitals are wrenched from their bellies for the baying crowds. Elizabeth, of course, shall be brought into the household as a Maid of honour, where she shall be taught the proper catechism, and then married to a suitable, Catholic nobleman. It would not be right or fair to punish her for the wrongness of her mother - though who is to say what evil has passed to her from her mother's tainted blood?

It shall be bloody, most certainly, but it must be done to remind England that those who set aside the right and proper succession are wrong, and must be punished for their sin. Afterwards, of course, she shall be free to restore the realm to the spiritual jurisdiction of the Holy Father - and the taint of heresy shall be burned out once and for all. The late, sainted Thomas More attempted to prevent England's fall into sin, and was martyred for it, but she shall succeed where he could not - and his name shall be celebrated even as she petitions for his beatification.

Carefully, she folds up the letter and secures it inside her bodice. The previous missive might have been set upon the fire, but she shall retain this as security should Boleyn prove to be insincere in his sentiments. There are too many reformers in the Government of England, and she shall remove them all - only men of the most impeccable religious credentials shall be permitted to serve her.

Assuming, of course, that there are any left.

God's blood, she is blind in this place! She has heard nothing from Suffolk since the Court went on progress, and thus she cannot be certain that her name is even remembered any longer. There are rumours of charitable works, of laws intended to offer succour to the poor - though why that is necessary when it is a religious duty for those with means to aid those without, she cannot imagine. She gives most generously, as do her ladies - and the religious houses are there for those who are truly destitute.

Pax trots across to her, his little pink tongue lolling from his widely grinning little mouth, and she smiles in return. Perhaps she is being naïve in her belief that restoring the true faith shall mend all of England's ills - but what else is there? It is her faith in God that has kept her whole in the months since she was imprisoned in this velvet gaol, and she is convinced that she shall be delivered from her trials in time.

If nothing else, Lord Wiltshire shall help her to see how things truly lie in England, and thus she shall be able to plan from a more informed position. Her realm has been oppressed for long enough, and it is time for her to act.

Her mind made up, she returns to the house, Pax at her heels, already planning the response that she shall send to her newest Councillor. As soon as she has sufficient advice on the best means to proceed, she shall do so.