A/N: And it's Friday again! Thanks for your comments - at this point, Mary is taking her leave from proceedings, but I will say that - a few unfortunate incidents aside - she will find a way to be happy. Whether that will last, however, is a matter for future chapters that haven't been written yet. I'm well ahead - but not that well ahead!

Having been found a husband, it's time for Mary to leave; but not before she has one more meeting with her stepmother - and lessons are imparted on both sides. Plus, a couple of fugitives turn up, and the plotting begins anew...

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Convoy to Tilbury

Life at Hunsdon seems to be as it has always been; waking, praying, eating, studying, walking Pax in the garden…day in, day out.

To the one who lives that life, however, it could not be more different. Her ladies are dismissed and in the Tower, her Lords have taken flight, while two have been captured and even now face trial for their lives. Her Chaplain - despite his pretence at compliance with the vile reforms inflicted upon England - has been dismissed, and the man who has replaced him is a true heretic in thought, word and deed. Were it not for her need for succour from God's Holy Word, she would have nothing to do with him; so she endures his sermonising, and then spends the next hour upon her knees before the Sacrament, pleading with God for His forgiveness for her sin.

Mary has not heard the words 'Your Majesty' for nearly three weeks; none of her servants are anything less than courteous and attentive - but also no more. There is not one single soul to whom she can turn to confide her pain, disappointment and anger at the failure of her claim for the Crown: the speed with which all that she thought that she had built collapsed around her to nothingness, the discovery that the people had not risen as one at her call. Worst of all, the knowledge that the Concubine - that vile, wanton whore - has beaten her and stolen her realm. Her realm!

The glass in her hand trembles, and she fights with herself not to fling it across the chamber in a sudden fit of rage. So many hopes and dreams had been tangled up in that fierce determination to claim that which was - is - rightfully hers. The belief that she was right - is right.

"I am the true Queen of England." She hisses to herself, furiously, "I have been robbed of that which is mine by right of blood. I shall claim my crown - if I cannot do it now, then I shall try again. I shall!"

Setting the glass down, for fear that she might indeed destroy it, Mary fishes out the rosary that was once her mother's, and methodically works her way along the beads, "Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem, Creatorem caeli et terrae. Et in Iesum Christum, Filium eius unicum, Dominum nostrum, qui conceptus est de Spiritu Sancto, natus ex Maria Virgine, passus sub Pontio Pilato, crucifixus, mortuus, et sepultus, descendit ad infernos, tertia die resurrexit a mortuis, ascendit ad caelos, sedet ad dexteram Dei Patris omnipotentis, inde venturus est iudicare vivos et mortuos. Credo in Spiritum Sanctum, sanctam Ecclesiam catholicam, sanctorum communionem, remissionem peccatorum, carnis resurrectionem, vitam aeternam. Amen."

Then to the next, "Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Amen."

And on, "Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."

Such is her mood that she meditates upon the sorrowful mysteries, reflecting upon the forbearance of pain and the pardoning of injuries - though the pardoning seems to be confined mostly to her parents for dying and leaving her in this hopeless situation. They are not to blame - it was their time and God called them home - but it is hard…so very, very hard…

Her meditation complete, she crosses herself, kisses the crucifix upon the rosary, and returns to a chair beside the fire. Not a moment too soon, it seems, as the women assigned to see to her personal needs are without and seeking to come in.

"My Lady," the elder woman, whose name she has not bothered to learn, curtseys, "We have received word that her Majesty the Queen Regent is to visit upon the morrow with the Lord Chancellor, Lord Treasurer and Lord Privy Seal. If it please you, we shall prepare a bath for you, and set out some new gowns for your consideration."

Mary looks up at them, "Thank you. I think, however, that I shall remain in my mourning garments out of respect for my late parents."

The two women share an exasperated glance, but they cannot object, for she is a woman of noble blood, and they are not, "As you wish, my Lady." The woman sighs, "We shall, however, provide the gowns."

Of course they shall - it is likely that they shall be punished if they do not.

Mary ignores them, her attitude a clear suggestion of dismissal. They are inoffensive, and she has no argument with them upon any personal level - but nonetheless, they are from the household of That Woman, and she has no doubt that they report all that she says and does. Well - let them report that.

Her act of defiance is small, yes; but it is satisfying to remind them that she is the Lady, and they are the servants, "I shall sup in an hour." She finishes.

"Yes, my Lady." The pair curtsey, and withdraw.

In spite of herself, Mary smiles at the thought of new gowns. While she has no intention of wearing them, she can still enjoy examining them, after all. With so few pleasures in her life now, she shall grasp all that she can.

Seated in a well appointed parlour, Anne waits for Mary to show herself. She is seated in a finely upholstered chair, her feet resting upon a matching footstool, while her Canopy of Estate is set above her, just to remind Mary that it is another head that wears the crown. Behind her stand Sussex, Mr Cromwell and Mr Rich, all of whom are shuffling somewhat, as the lady has not yet deigned to appear, and they have been standing in the parlour for nearly a half hour.

"Where is the girl?" Sussex asks, mostly rhetorically, "Does she not appreciate that she is keeping the Queen's Representative waiting?"

"As she considers herself to be Queen, my Lord of Sussex," Anne reminds him, dryly, "It is of no surprise to me that she has taken it upon herself to show such poor manners."

"Her retinue shall also be most discomfited." Cromwell adds, blandly, "It is a four hour journey at least to Tilbury, and they hope to depart upon the evening tide."

Anne turns slightly, "Do you think it inappropriate that the Lady depart to meet her husband this very day? It is not appropriate for a wedded woman to remain in a realm other than that of the man to whom she is married."

He does not answer, but she can sense the disapproval, and sighs inwardly. Perhaps it does seem cruel to do such a thing as this - but the sooner the girl is abroad, and within a far-off Court, the safer England shall be from the disorder that she might inspire should she attempt to steal Elizabeth's crown again, "You think me spiteful, Mr Cromwell - and perhaps you are right to think so; but it is the duty of a high-born woman to marry, and she has been kept from that joyous state for far too long. She has desired a husband for as long as she has been of marriageable age - and it is appropriate that a woman of her standing should marry a King."

Not to mention the fact that, should the news be announced with too much time to spare before her departure, what is to stop Suffolk or Wiltshire attempting to wrest her from her retinue and steal her away?

The current Comptroller of the Household, an inoffensive man by the name of William Seton, appears in the open doorway, "Majesty, the Lady Mary."

He bows and steps aside, and Mary takes his place. True to her word, she is dressed in mourning, and her rosary is very much in evidence at her side. The hostility in her stance is vivid, marked by two splashes of red in her cheeks as she takes in the sight of her hated stepmother seated beneath a Canopy of Estate - a privilege that is reserved only for those who are Royal.

Her curtsey is perfunctory, and borders upon insolence, while she refuses - again - to address Anne with appropriate courtesy, "Madame."

Rather than rise to the provocation, Anne smiles with a warmth that she most certainly does not feel, "Lady Mary, I am come with the best of news. I am aware that you have, on many occasions, been promised to foreign courts as a bride in exchange for alliances that were subsequently abrogated, and the engagements denied. That is no longer the case."

Mary's expression changes, "You intend to wed me?"

Anne shakes her head, "It is no intention, Madame; it is fact. You have been married, by proxy, to a Prince of Europe - and thus you shall gain the crown that you so desire."

"My Crown is the Crown of England." Mary is growing tense as her suspicions are aroused, "You intend to cast me out of my Realm and bind me to some compliant lesser Prince?"

"I would not consider his Majesty King Gustav of Sweden to be a lesser prince, Madame. He has accepted you, and wedded you by proxy - no small feat for the illegitimate child of an invalid marriage, I assure you."

"Sweden…" Mary's voice is a whisper, though the tone of her voice suggests not so much Sweden as Hades.

"You shall sail to Gothenburg, whereupon you shall be escorted to Stockholm by a retinue of high-born women and a suitably armed guard to match your new estate as Sweden's new Queen. A trousseau has been assembled, and your escort is without. You shall depart in an hour to take ship from Tilbury."

Mary's eyes are widening in horror, "Now? I am to be dispatched into exile today?"

"You are now Sweden's Queen, Madame - it is essential that you are escorted there at the first opportunity in order to receive your Crown."

"No!" Mary's voice rises in anger, "I am Queen of England! You shall not remove me from my Realm - my Subjects shall never permit it!"

"Far from it." Anne reminds her, "They shall be joyful for you, for you have made a great match that shall bring a grand alliance to England, and improve the lives of all Englishmen as our prosperity increases."

"And I shall be permitted to practise my faith?"

"That shall be for your husband and master to determine." Anne advises, calmly. It is hard not to gloat - extracting such payment for the insults heaped upon her by the girl who stands before her and watches her grand fantasies crumble to dust. It seems pointless to advise her that her new husband is an ardent reformer who intends to eradicate the Popish religion from his borders - and she shall have to keep that blasted rosary very, very well hidden.

"Then I shall not go." Mary's expression is stubborn, "I shall not leave this house."

"That is not your choice, Madame," Anne's tone chills at her obstinacy, "Your husband is expecting you - thus you are obliged to depart to his Court. If I must have your ladies carry you to the litter, then I shall do so."

"A litter? I am not to ride?"

"It would not do for you to fall and injure yourself, Madame. You shall travel in an enclosed litter, and you shall leave within the hour. Each minute that you spend standing here being obstinate is a minute less for you to gather those possessions that you wish to take with you. Any items that are left behind shall not be packed up and sent after you, so I suggest that you make haste."

Mary's eyes are brimming, as she begins to appreciate that there is no means of escape from the fate that has been set out for her. No - no pity. Remember that pert insult…that insolence…

She is twenty years old. She has endured the loss of a mother while still a child - and now, despite her womanhood, she is orphaned…who am I to treat her so?

There is little point in offering kind words - she knows that they would flung back in her face, so instead she maintains that cold, stony façade and watches as Mary retreats.

"Say not a word, Mr Cromwell." Anne says, her voice very brittle, "Your comments shall do naught but reflect my own thoughts."

The garden reflects Anne's mood; dull, fading and lacking in the life that seemed so vibrant in the midst of summer. Her decision - her very actions - seemed so right in the planning. To bring that arrogant child back down from the heights of her presumption and show her the truth of her situation - she had dreamed of this…anticipated it.

So why does she now feel so appalled at herself?

There is nowhere to sit that shall not ruin her beautiful gown: all of the benches are damp and beaded with rainwater. So instead she paces along the gravel paths between the parterre beds, reliving the exchange with her stepdaughter, and wishing that she could go back and do it more gently.

"The entourage is prepared, Majesty."

She turns to see Cromwell is behind her, "Thank you."

He regards her, "It is a hard thing to be Royal, is it not?"

"Indeed so, Mr Cromwell." Anne sighs, turning to continue her pacing, "Walk with me."

He follows, but says nothing.

"I have been too hard on her." She says, eventually, "I acted out of spite, and shattered a young woman's dream for her future. That it was a future to which she is not entitled is meaningless - she is young, and impulsive; and she was guided by poor counsel. To speak to her in such fashion seemed so satisfying when I anticipated it - but now…"

"Now you feel that it was unbecoming for one such as your Majesty." Cromwell finishes.

"More than merely unbecoming." Anne shakes her head, "It was unChristian; spiteful and cruel - I am a woman grown, she is barely more than a girl. Her rejection of my presence was only to be expected in the face of the circumstances that ended her mother's invalid marriage to my Lord - and I allowed it to dictate my actions towards her. The more I think upon it, the more I wonder if I have stored up trouble for myself in future years - for I know that my behaviour has not quelled her desire to claim the throne; but instead almost certainly inflamed it. Worse: if Mary can drive me to act so, then how shall I be when I must face an enemy of greater standing? There was a time when I thought myself the Queen of the World, and I became most disgracefully high-handed to all around me; but all I gained from my behaviour was enmity, and even as I stand here, I know that it still hovers about me like a dark, cold fog. I cannot continue to be so - for if I am, then my child shall be the one from whom the payment is demanded."

"Forgive me for speaking frankly, Majesty," Cromwell's expression is rather tentative, "I think that you are correct in your belief that Mary shall not depart from here without a determination to return; but I wonder if your words were born from an equal determination to protect her Majesty the Queen?"

Anne is silent; but she nods.

"There is little that we can do to retrieve this outcome, Majesty." He sighs, as their stroll takes them from the walled garden out into the wider park, "I think, alas, that there would have been no solution that would end well for all parties - for the foundations were laid long ago, and in another time. All that we can do is look to the future, and be ready."

"And Elizabeth shall bear the burden of it." she repeats, tiredly.

"We are all her protectors, Majesty," He reminds her, "I swore to you, and to her, that I would serve with absolute loyalty - as I served your late liege Lord. Should Mary find some means to act against us, then we shall meet it as one - Queen, Regent and Council."

"Is that a promise?" she turns, a ghost of a smile twitching at her lips.

"Another one?" he looks at her, returning that smile, "If you wish me to set my hand upon the scripture and swear, then I shall do so."

For a moment, she is tempted to link arms with him, as she once did with her father - but then remembers that she cannot. No matter how their former friendship has recovered and rekindled, he is not her father, and she is under no illusions as to how such a move shall be viewed by others. Can they not see that he is of no interest to her as anything other than a friend and councillor?

Then she remembers Mary's attitude to her - that of a common whore. No. They could not.

"I have been a fool." She says, quietly, "I thought it to be an easy thing - consider evidence, consider advice, and make a decision. But that is not enough - I must also live with the outcome of that decision; and the realisation that the decision might have turned out to be wrong."

Cromwell nods, "And to appreciate that others may not respond to your decision as you expect."

"In which case, I think we should pay more chess, Mr Cromwell." She says, smiling at him again, "For it seems that I still have much to learn."

"That you recognise the need to do so proves to me that you can do so." He replies, "Much as I dislike to speak ill of those who are passed - it was a lesson that your late husband proved unable to appreciate, much less learn. He could not accept that people would not always respond to his actions as he expected - and reacted with temper and violence."

"I shall endeavour to do otherwise." Anne advises him, "Though I am not blind to my own temper, I assure you." She pauses, and looks at his mildly sceptical expression, "Are you keen to test it?" she chuckles.

"I think not, Majesty."

Again, she wishes she could link arms with him, "Come. I fear that my bridges are burned with the lady Mary, but nonetheless, I shall do what I can to mitigate the spite that I showed in the house. Let us see her off."

He nods, "Yes, Majesty."

Rich is shuffling and fidgeting again, wringing his hands nervously as he waits alongside the travelling litter. Despite their determination to ensure that none would intervene in what is to come, the knowledge that Suffolk and Wiltshire are still at large, and likely planning to effect some sort of misguided rescue, lurks in his uneasy mind, and even now he looks back and forth, expecting a horde of mercenaries to thunder across the park towards their column. That he is to be at its head with Sussex does nothing to ease his nerves.

You are a pathetic, cowardly weasel, he admonishes himself, crossly. He knows that others consider him so - despite it being the strategy that has kept his head upon his shoulders when others of higher principles have been sent to their deaths - but it is unpleasant to recognise it for himself. Even as he stands and frets, he knows that Sussex is looking at him with mild distaste. Once, it would have mattered to him not a jot - but now; now that he has earned the trust of others to a degree formerly unknown to him, that dislike makes him uncomfortable. Perhaps it is jealousy - for he moves in the Regent's own inner circle while Sussex does not - but that seems unlikely; for Sussex shares the Regent's trust. No - it is dislike, and he has earned it.

A movement at the front of the house catches his attention, "My lord - she is coming."

Sussex turns, and nods, "Remain here. I shall escort her."

He moves to approach, but then stops as he sees the Regent and the Lord Treasurer approaching, clearly intending to do so themselves.

Standing in the autumn sunlight, dressed in black, in defiance of her circumstances, Mary watches as the Concubine and her chief adviser approach.

"Have you come to ensure that I do not flee, Madame?" she asks, her tone brittle. There are still unshed tears inside her that she refuses to allow to escape.

Anne shakes her head, "No, my Lady. I have instead come to apologise for my spite. That this must happen is inevitable, but to behave as I have done is unbecoming, and for that I am sorry. Equally, I do not do so in expectation of forgiveness, or as a pretence to salve my conscience. I do not regret my actions - but I do regret the manner in which I brought this news to you."

She is not surprised to be rewarded with a glare, but Mary does not answer. What, after all, is there to say? It is highly likely that the girl does not believe the comment about salving her conscience; but all she can do is offer her intention, and allow it to be interpreted as Mary wishes.

"If that is all, Madame," she says, still very stiff, "Then I shall depart. I believe that my…escort…intends to catch this evening's tide."

She might say 'escort', but her tone unmistakably says 'prison guards'.

"Mr Cromwell." Again, Anne does not rise to the implied insult, "Please escort the lady to her litter."

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell nods his head respectfully to the Regent, and then does likewise to Mary, "My Lady - if you please."

It is not a long walk, but their footsteps upon the gravel are sufficient to conceal her words, "I shall come back." She says, firmly, "Do not think that this is at an end. God shall deliver me from my trials and restore my Realm to me."

"Indeed, my Lady." Cromwell agrees, "I have no doubt that God wishes to deliver you from your trials - but do not assume that His will is your will. It may be that you shall find happiness in Sweden - though I know that a high-born woman is obliged to seek joy in circumstances that she finds most grievous."

"Like my mother."

"Perhaps, yes." He agrees, "Do not for a moment think that I hated her - for she was gracious, wise and a fine woman. Her only fault - if it be called so - was to believe that all men shared her principles and faith, and to assume that all would deal with her as she dealt with them."

"And you think me the same." Mary muses, "But then you are a reformer and heretic. Do not for a moment think that I shall abandon my faith - for I shall not. I will not. Nor shall I abandon my claim to my Realm."

"I ask nothing, Madame; but I do advise. Faith and principle are together admirable - but unbending faith and principle are equally foolish and childish. The tree that cannot bend shall eventually break, and a broken tree can do naught but decay and die."

"That is your opinion. My faith is all that has sustained me in the storms of cruelty inflicted upon me by that woman - either by her own hand, or by the hands of others. Thus it shall sustain me in a court that is - I am given to understand - a nest of heresy."

They reach the litter, and Cromwell pauses beside the step set for Mary to enter it, "Your ladies shall not be retained in the Tower any longer. Upon the solemnisation of your nuptials, they shall be released and permitted to return to their homes with their goods, chattels and lands."

"And Mr Seymour?"

"He shall be executed at the end of this week upon Tower Hill - though her Majesty the Regent has decreed that a suitable portion of his possessions, lands and holdings shall be passed to his sister, so that she can make a decent marriage outside the Court. The rest of the Seymour estate shall be inherited by the younger son."

"I shall pray for him as a martyr."

Cromwell does not answer, but instead extends his arm to aid her as she enters the litter. She is entitled to believe what she wishes. Her will has ever been absolutely unbending, and thus she sees a treacherous act against England solely in religious terms. Does she know that Seymour was no papist? He was known to have reformist tracts and an English bible in his home, and - just as Wiltshire had - turned his coat in hopes of advancement in a Marian court. Sooner or later, she would have discovered that, and sent him to the stake for a heretic. Ah well - what she does not know shall not hurt her.

As soon as she is settled within the litter, he bows his head again, and pulls back, allowing the leather flaps to be lowered. The weather is drawing in, and that is ample excuse to conceal her from those who might wonder who is travelling through their midst.

"Is all ready?" Sussex asks, brusquely.

Cromwell nods, "Be on your way, my Lord. Her Majesty shall remain here tonight with her ladies, and we shall return to London upon the morrow."

"Good. We must make haste if we are not to lose the tide to that wretched girl's fussing." Sussex turns to see that Rich is already in the saddle, "God above, why do you give that Rat even the time of day?"

"Because he is a very capable Rat, my Lord - and one should never ignore capability. Besides, he is remarkably good company if one looks beyond his previous acts."

"Speak for yourself, Mr Cromwell. I see only a treacherous rodent - but the Regent trusts him, so I shall accept his presence with good grace."

He smiles, "See the Lady into the care of my Lord of Southampton, my Lord. Then, perhaps, her Majesty shall be free to rule without the interference of traitors."

Sussex laughs, then turns and mounts up, "We shall return to Court anon once our delivery is done, sir." He urges his horse forward, and the column sets off behind him.

Still standing in the Porch, as a light drizzle begins to mist the air, Anne watches the convoy depart. As long as Mary is married in Sweden, she shall be no threat to England. Best, then, to pray for a long life for the Swedish King.

It is hard not to be smug. Savouring a glass of sack, Norfolk looks out of the leaded windows of his parlour, and ignores the two men seated across from him.

Suffolk and Wiltshire arrived two days ago, bedraggled and looking like vagabonds. The prices upon their heads are significant, and even in a prosperous realm, only a fool ignores the opportunity to make a fast fortune; so they have been obliged to give up their horses, fine garments and even the higher value coins in their scrips in order to escape notice. Both were, naturally, in dire need of a bath when they arrived, and are now in borrowed garments.

"So. She failed."

Neither man answers; though the Duke knows that, if he were to look behind him, he would see that Wiltshire is glowering and grasping the pommels of the chair arms so tightly that his knuckles are white. The man is tiresomely obvious in his bad temper.

"Do you know where she is now?" Finally Norfolk turns, and sees that he is right. Suffolk, on the other hand, is merely silent. He is not surprised that neither man appears to know. Not that he knows, either.

"Thus she is in the hands of the whore - and you do not know where she is kept. Perhaps she is in the Tower - even now awaiting the block?"

"Her subjects would never permit such a thing." Suffolk says, quietly, "Even she knows that."

"And you can be sure of it, given that her 'subjects' failed to rise when she called them to arms? Why would they wish to throw all into chaos when their bellies are full or their meagre wages pay for sufficient quantities of victuals upon which to live? We have emerged from years of war over who shall wear the crown, and memories of those days are long. Men do not care who sits upon a throne when their lives are comfortable and peaceable - the girl should have appreciated that her time is done and accepted a suitable husband."

Suffolk snorts, and shakes his head, "She is the daughter of the King and Queen - the crown is hers. Why would she allow a usurper to steal it from her?"

"She is a child with no political sense and an utter failure to see the benefits of pragmatism. Did the Emperor promise her an army? Money? Did the Pope issue a Bull commanding all Englishmen to follow her into London and cast the heretics in the river?"

Silence.

"She should have stayed where she was, and waited. A failed harvest or a costly war with a foreign power would have given her England upon a golden platter - but she did not wait. Now she pays for that stupidity with incarceration - whether it be in one of the Royal fortresses, or the Tower - and who shall rise to rescue her from that? Furthermore, what use are either of you to her after this? Both of you are fugitives with prices upon your heads! The only safety for you now is to flee England - both of you."

"And see my lands taken by that whore?" Suffolk looks enraged, "What of my children?"

"Now you think of your progeny?" Norfolk growls, "It matters not whether you are here in England, or languishing in whatever country in Europe shall have you - the Acts of Attainder are doubtless being discussed by the burghers of Parliament even now! Seymour is certainly for the block - and Christ alone knows what shall become of his foolish sister!"

Again, there is silence, and Norfolk glares at them with scorn, "If Mary is to win back this realm, then it shall not be today, or tomorrow. I, however, am tired of this exile from the centre of power, and thus I shall throw in my lot with her as it is clear that your daughter shall not welcome me back. Therefore, the two of you shall hurl yourselves upon the mercy of whatever Court still thinks that Mary has any prospect of regaining England for the Pope, and seek to raise funds and mercenaries to support her. I shall remain in England and advise you of matters here. Go - take ship from a lesser port where spies are less likely to be concealed. Assuming that you are able to find someone who shall aid you, advise me of that when you are settled, and we shall think again."

Neither man speaks as the rise from their chairs, bow and depart. Wiltshire has said nothing throughout - but Norfolk can see that his rage is trapped within - a maelstrom that shall doubtless explode upon some unfortunate later today. Not that he cares of course; the two of them have been fools, and it is now up to a wiser head to find a way for them to regain all that they have lost.

Seating himself, he turns as his chief Steward enters the study, "My Lord, I have received word of an announcement from Court."

"Go on."

"The Queen Regent is pleased to announce that the Lady Mary has married King Gustav of Sweden, and is shortly to depart for Gothenburg by ship to join her husband and formally solemnise their marriage."

Norfolk looks up, his expression changing from one of satisfaction to consternation. Presented as a marriage it might be; but it is, in truth, exile. What use is there in gathering an army to free her and bring her to London if she is no longer in England? Damnation! God's Blood! In their short-sighted determination to grasp back whatever power they could, Suffolk and Wiltshire have not only lost her the Crown, they have given the Regent the precise excuse she needed to spirit the girl out of England once and for all.

And, with it, his last hope of regaining a place at Court for himself.

No matter how determined people are to hurry, a horse litter can only go at a plod to avoid severe discomfort for the occupant within, and thus they move at a slower pace than Sussex would like.

All of the escort are on horseback, so at least it is not as slow as it could have been had they been accompanied by infantry; nonetheless, Rich can see that his colleague is fidgeting in his frustration at the time that they are taking to make any forward progress. To his mind, they shall either meet the tide, or miss it - his greater concern is that people might attempt to wrest away their passenger, despite their anonymity. Wealthy people travel so, and they have no banners on display to identify the occupant of the litter, so why anyone would believe that the Lady Mary is within he could not say - but nonetheless, his tension is over the possibility of being waylaid, not the possibility of missing the tide.

The route to Tilbury is well travelled, and few pay them any mind - caravans of one sort or another travel this way all the time, and thus the peasants in the fields look up briefly, and then continue with their work. Despite their high positions at Court, none of the people they pass would likely know the identity of either man at the head of the column, and assumes them to be just high-ranking retainers for whoever is in the litter. Equally, the royal guards are not dressed in the scarlet doublets that they would wear while accompanying the Queen or the Regent, so they resemble just a retinue of someone wealthy. Once again embarrassed at his unwarranted nerves, he keeps his eyes to the front and tries to think of something he can say to Sussex that might fuel a conversation.

Behind them, in the litter, Mary has her rosary out again. Though she is not on her knees, she works her way along the beads, reciting each prayer as she moves between decades, and meditating upon the mysteries of light; gratitude for faith, fidelity to God, a desire for holiness and, perhaps most of all, spiritual courage. She knows little of Sweden - but its northern location suggests to her that it shall be a place that has embraced the vile Lutheran heresy, and she shall face even greater pressure to abjure her faith there than she ever did in England.

"I shall not." She mutters, as she completes O Holy Queen and sets the rosary down for the third time, "I shall not abandon my faith; the faith of my mother. The true faith. I shall withstand this test of my faith - and lead these lost sheep back to God. Then I shall claim England for God. It is not over. It is not."

Restlessly, she lifts the rosary again, crosses herself and speaks the creed. This time she shall meditate upon the Glorious mysteries: Faith, hope and perseverance.

She is halfway through the third mystery when she is startled by the sudden halt of the litter. The drowsy swaying has faded from her consciousness in her determined prayers, and it is only now that it stops that she is aware of its absence. What is happening? They cannot be at Tilbury yet…

The flap is drawn back, and she finds herself looking upon the face of one of the women assigned to her by the Concubine, "My Lady, we have reached an inn. Do you require refreshment, or other comforts?"

Were it not for a need to visit the garderobe, she would ignore the woman, but needs must, "I should appreciate privacy for matters of a personal nature, Madame." She admits.

"Of course, my Lady." The woman withdraws briefly, and she can hear the scuffling as a step is set down alongside the litter. The face that looks in is that of her Comptroller, rather than either Sussex or that commoner Rich, and she is relieved. Regardless of his loyalties, he is a familiar face, and she takes his hand and clambers awkwardly out into the open air.

There is no clue as to her whereabouts - for the inn is situated some distance from any town, and is intended to serve the needs of drovers and merchants heading to the port. All that surrounds her other than the column of guards is thick forest. No, there is no one here to aid her. Do her friends and supporters even know where she is?

"This way Madame." The man is courteous, but it is clear that she is expected to be quick about it. As she approaches the inn with her woman at her side, several of the serving staff are emerging with pots of ale for the men who are accompanying her - but they pay her no mind. She is not familiar in these parts, and thus they do not realise that she is the daughter of the King, being removed from her Realm…

Emerging from the inn, entirely more comfortable but no happier, Mary can see that Rich has now dismounted and is awaiting her, a woman with a tray of victuals at his side, "Madame, in case you are hungry."

He at least has the grace to be courteous. Sussex is still astride his horse and looking at her as though she is a contagion in a frock.

She is tempted to refuse - but then thinks again. Perhaps, if she eats, she might delay long enough to miss the tide, and thus have more time for those who would aid her to do so…

"Yes, thank you Sir. I would be pleased to." She nods her head, and smiles politely, only for the smile to freeze upon her face as Rich directs the woman to set the tray into the litter. She is clearly intended to consume the victuals while on the move.

"We shall move at a slower pace so that nothing is spilled Madame."

It is hard not to shout at him - but his expression is still reasonable, and she is certain that an angry response shall only reflect poorly upon her. Sighing, she nods, "Thank you."

He bows, and offers his arm to hand her back into the litter. It is hard not to feel defeated, all of her pride screams at her not to accept what is happening - but Mr Cromwell's advice remains with her: be pragmatic. Bend with the storm, do not break…

She is barely seated and settled before they move off again, though their pace is indeed slightly less. In obedience to her growling stomach, Mary turns and examines the victuals upon the tray: tender slices from a leg of roasted mutton dressed in a thick, herb-rich gravy, a small loaf of fine white bread still warm from its baking, and small flask in which she finds a claret of surprising quality. Ignoring it shall likely give the men cause to think her to be sulking, so she tears away a strip of the bread to dip into the gravy.

The combination of a meal, and the gentle sway of the litter, is soporific; and, as the column draws to a halt, this time at the dockside, Mary's woman is obliged to gently wake her from sleep, "Madame, we have arrived."

Startled, Mary shifts on the cushions, and tries to take in the words, almost refusing to believe them. The flap shifts again, and she sees Southampton alongside the woman, his expression friendly, "Welcome to your vessel, your Majesty. This is the Havshäxa." She notes that he requires two attempts to pronounce the word, "She shall see you safely to Gothenburg, whereupon we shall travel overland to Stockholm. Your new ladies await you in your cabin - they have all been learning English apace on the journey here, and they are most keen to greet you."

Be pragmatic. Be pragmatic. Be pragmatic. Pale, nervous, Mary permits her woman to guide her out of the litter, clutching her rosary in her free hand. Emerging into the soft, evening light, she watches as the two small coffers that contain only her most precious possessions are carried aboard a ship from which gaily coloured pennons flutter in a stiff marine breeze that brings the tang of the sea to her nose.

"You shall accompany me, my Lord?" she asks. That same breeze is carrying the voices of the sailors, and they are not speaking English.

Southampton smiles at her again, a paternal smile, for he can hear the fearful quaver in her voice, "Yes, your Majesty."

How strange to be called so - for she is indeed now a Queen; but not the Queen of England…

"Come, Majesty. It is time to board - the Captain is a good man, but he is keen to depart, for the tide shall shortly turn."

Helplessly, Mary turns to look back at the town that she has not seen until this moment. Her last sight of England…

No. It is not. She will come back. England shall have her true Queen. She shall…

Slowly, she stands up more straight, ramrod stiff, and crosses the gangplank to board a vessel surrounded by people who cannot speak English; but she does not make her way to the cabin, instead standing at the rail to watch as the lines are cast off, and the carrack is pulled away from the dockside by two large row-boats.

Astride his horse, Rich sighs, "And so it is done."

"Indeed it is." Sussex agrees, "God-willing, the wretched girl shall never set foot upon these shores again - she shall give Sweden lots of heirs, and have the good grace to die there."

Rich shrugs, and the two men watch as the wind fills the sails of the carrack whose name neither of them remember. Slowly, the vessel moves out into the wider stretch of the estuary, sailing off into the growing darkness until it is lost to sight.

And, all the while, that lone figure remains at the rail, watching as her home slips away from her forever.