A/N: Woah - three weeks into 2018 already! Thank you again for your comments. Appirinia, you are absolutely right about the latin - a very sloppy oversight on my part (shocking!), which I have now corrected. Audriel, thank you too for noticing the Sussex/Suffolk SNAFU. Again, that has been corrected.
We are now going to jump forward in time a couple of years (otherwise this is going to end up longer than the Encyclopaedia Britannica). A lot of work has been going on to win over England for Elizabeth and Anne, and the matter of religious settlement has been rather in abeyance as a consequence - but not for much longer. Also, as evidence that life can sometimes just be the ultimate damp squib, it's time to deal with the Smeaton problem...
PART FOUR
Diplomat
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Unwanted Rumours
18 April, 1538
Archbishop Cranmer stands at the gates of the Chapel Royal, "Good people! Welcome, and thank you for your patience. Her Majesty the Queen Regent shall be here shortly, on behalf of Her Majesty the Queen Elizabeth."
Beyond the gates, a small crowd of people are standing, their garments ragged, and their faces eager - though their whisperings suggest to the Archbishop that their keenness is almost as much to meet the woman who shall shortly emerge, as to receive the coins that she and her ladies shall provide. The long work to create that aura of the 'Mother of the Realm' has truly borne fruit.
It has taken two years, admittedly; two years of progresses, Acts of Parliament for the relief of the poor, the establishment of petty schools and grammar schools for young boys, and, to his dismay, the relaxation of his favoured project - the continued eradication of popish superstition from the English Church. At least they have succeeded in repealing the Heresy Laws, and thus no one shall be bound to a stake for being a reformer any longer.
Mr Cromwell is not overly pleased either - but he keeps his counsel, so Cranmer does likewise, and smiles at the gathered paupers, before standing aside to allow the Regent to pass.
As always upon Maundy Thursday, she is dressed soberly, but well, in black and gold. Her expression is kindly, for she has met many paupers during the last two years of progresses and visits to infirmaries as she has worked to rehabilitate her damaged reputation amongst the people of England. At first, it was an uncomfortable experience, for she has lived a sheltered existence for much of her life; but gradually, her discomfort began to change to anger at her complacency. The faces of the paupers were once hostile, but now they are keen to see her, and to see what largesse she shall dispense.
This morning, she smiles warmly, and dispenses the Maundy coins to those who have come. Behind her, twelve of her ladies also dispense coins, while Mr Cranmer, Mr Cromwell and Sussex stand within the porch and watch benignly. As she did that first time, when Elizabeth was still in her womb, she kneels before an elderly man who is seated upon a stool, and proceeds to wash his gnarled, calloused feet.
"Thank you, your Majesty." His voice is also gnarled and calloused.
"It is my honour, sir." She advises him, looking up from the basin, "For all my grand estate, I am but a servant to my Subjects."
She recalls saying that to an old woman two years back, only to receive a snort of scorn; but that was before she followed the advice of her closest councillors and worked to become that strangely maternal creature that has won a change of heart.
"God bless you, Ma'am."
"Thank you." She smiles, carefully wiping a cloth over his instep, "If it please you, I shall ask a physician to look at this wound upon your foot." She turns to Cranmer, "Your Grace - might I trouble you for some wine or spirits, please?"
Cranmer looks most bemused, but turns and disappears back into the chapel, before returning with a small flask of communion wine that has not yet been blessed for use, and handing it to Jane Rochford, who passes it to Anne.
It is an angry looking, swollen lesion that can only have come from an infected cut; and it must cause the man some pain - though he has made no mention of it, and seems unwilling to complain of it. Nor does he flinch as she carefully rinses it with the wine, and dabs it dry with a clean cloth.
Cromwell steps out to join her, "Majesty, I shall send for Doctor Wendy if you require it - perhaps this gentleman might wish to be treated at an infirmary? I can arrange for him to be taken there in comfort, rather than oblige him to walk there himself."
Anne looks up at him, and smiles, then turns back to the man, "If that is your wish?"
"You would do that for me, Ma'am?" he seems astounded that someone would care even remotely about his pain. How long has it been since anyone has? Now that he has spoken more than a few words, she realises that he sounds educated; a man who has clearly fallen upon the hardest of hard times. Did not Mr Cromwell once tell her that the illness of the breadwinner can cast an entire family into starvation? So much to learn about the realities of the lives of her subjects. Even now.
"What is your name, Sir?" Anne has not noticed that the ceremony is over, and the other supplicants have departed.
"Matthew Marshall, Majesty." He says, "I was, long ago, a scholar who tutored young men in their letters; but my sight failed - and, with it, my income. My only relief is that I did not take a family into penury with me."
She looks at him again, and sees that his eyes have a milky opaqueness that has closed in his world almost to nothing. God have mercy - how can life be so precarious?
Her eyes are brimming with tears as Cromwell crouches alongside her, "Allow me to arrange everything, Majesty. I shall ensure Mr Marshall is cared for - as per your instructions."
Dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve, she nods, "Thank you, Mr Cromwell. Ensure that he is well taken care of."
"I shall do so." He says, quietly, "I shall also see if there is a bed for him in an almshouse."
Jane and Madge step forth to help Anne back to her feet, and she smiles at the man before her, "Thank you, sir. Whatever service that I can do for you shall be nothing in comparison to the lesson that you have taught me this day."
"God's blessings be upon you, Majesty." His expression is one of near wonder - he had come here in hopes of alms, but has received far, far more.
Watching her depart, Cromwell smiles to himself. She might not know it; but, in her sincere act of charity and kindness, she has created a story that shall be told beyond these walls, and that shall further cement the idea that she is not the King's Whore, but instead that ephemeral 'Mother of the Realm'.
And again, as he has been almost every day these two years past, he is proud of her as though she were his own daughter.
Anne is resting in a chair in her Privy Chamber when Cromwell arrives from his offices, papers in hand. Today has been a pleasure, riding in the great park of St James with her daughter, as Elizabeth has become remarkably skilled in the saddle - though it is still far too soon for the child to be with her at the hunt.
Jane is seated at the muselar again, and her favourite courant is trickling from her skilled fingers, while Margery, Nan and one of her newer ladies, a young woman from Hertfordshire called Caroline, sit together and carefully work at a large frame that shall contain an elaborate tapestry once they are done. Elizabeth is also resting in her chambers, and shall join them later on to watch as they play card games, to learn how they are played.
"What have you brought me?" she asks, intrigued. There has been no meeting of the Council today, so she has not seen any papers.
"It is a letter from the King of France, Majesty." Cromwell advises, "He expresses his pleasure at our continued peaceful relations, and proposes that her Majesty the Queen might consider the Dauphin as a husband to cement a continued alliance."
"Does he, indeed?" Anne smiles, a little sardonically, "So he finds her acceptable now that she is a Queen; when, before, he rejected her and claimed her to be a bastard."
"Indeed, Majesty." Cromwell replies, with that blandness that suggests he views the situation in much the same fashion. He remembers that moment when Henry discovered that Elizabeth was considered to be an inappropriate match for a royal heir, given the dissenting views over her birth: in his anger, he seemed absolutely heedless of pain, and had snatched at the top of a candle to extinguish the flame with his bare hand. Then, of course, Elizabeth was a poor prize for a Dauphin; but now she is Queen, and her value has risen to far greater heights.
"I shall bear his proposal in mind - though her age precludes any marriage contract. I shall not bind her to a foreign child at so young an age. My Lord did that with his first child - dangled her before the princes of Europe as a bauble to be plucked in return for treaties; only to abrogate such treaties if another, more preferable offer was made by another party. I will have none of that for my Elizabeth. She is Queen - such behaviour is beneath her dignity."
"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell bows again, and then pauses, looking slightly awkward.
"What is it?"
"Er…" he seems to be struggling to find words, "Perhaps I might speak to you confidentially, Majesty?"
She frowns. He would not do so if the matter were trivial, "Ladies, forgive me, I must ask to speak to Mr Cromwell in private." She turns and looks back at him, flicking her eyes towards Jane. Cromwell nods. They have worked together long enough now to read one another's slightest gestures as though they were spoken words.
"Lady Rochford, a moment. I should appreciate a glass of eau de vie."
"Yes, Majesty." She knows that she is being given a pretext to remain, and crosses to the cupboard where Anne's liqueurs and bitters are kept.
"So, Mr Cromwell. What is this matter that is so secret that my ladies are not permitted to hear it?" She asks, sipping at the small glass of spirits.
"It is Mr Smeaton, Majesty." Cromwell sighs, "Perhaps we should have dispensed with his services when first we noted his behaviour - but we did not. It seems that he has begun to abandon discretion; for it is spoken about the lower orders of the Court that he has prevailed upon a young Gentleman with a talent for drawing to provide him with a portrait of a woman of whom he is enamoured."
She sags in the chair slightly, "I suspect I shall not need to enquire as to the identity of this woman."
Cromwell shakes his head.
"Do people think that his feelings are reciprocated?"
"At this time, it is impossible to say." He admits, "Mr Smeaton has not been in your company with less than ten people present at any time - but he is spending beyond his means, I fear - for his jewels are richer than one would expect even for a man granted such largesse by his late Majesty; and he has been seen at least once in garments of crimson."
"He is a commoner - how is it that he thinks himself fit to dress like a Lord?" Jane asks, shocked, "Surely he has not convinced himself that he is of such high estate?"
"Again, it is impossible to say." Cromwell sighs, "Though, I fear to dispense with his services now shall fuel gossip rather than curtail it. I think it best that we allow him to be censured for his failure to comply with the demands of the Sumptuary Laws - and that he receive a fine of sufficient measure to cause him to think twice about flouting them again. Perhaps a short banishment from Court shall also concentrate his mind upon his true rank."
"I shall see to it, Majesty."
"Then go to, Mr Cromwell. The sooner Mr Smeaton is reminded that he is naught but a commoner, the better. I think a decree reminding all at Court of their obligations in terms of apparel would not go amiss. I have not seen any others who have been so remiss in such matters - but all shall know why the decree has been issued, shall they not?"
He smiles, "In this ant's nest, Majesty? It shall be known in less than an hour."
She returns his smile, "Then let it be known, Mr Cromwell."
Rich looks up from his desk, "What are we to do?"
Cromwell sits down opposite, "Use the sumptuary laws, Mr Rich. It shall serve us better than to dismiss the fool. He has been permitted to ignore those requirements for too long, and it would not do for others to follow his example, would it?"
Rich smirks, "Indeed, it would not." The fact that he is the Lord Privy Seal permits him to wear garments of a higher station than a mere Gentleman would be allowed - and he is not shy to do so. But then, neither is Cromwell. While the Lord Treasurer dresses soberly, he carries his status in the cut of the garments, and their fabrics - all of which are of a type that would be forbidden to him as a commoner of base-birth, "When the musician holds one of the Offices of State, then he can dress in that grotesquely meretricious fashion."
"Her Majesty has also decreed that he be temporarily excluded from Court for his presumptuous behaviour," Cromwell continues, reading through his notes, "I am minded to take that task upon myself, though I would not be above allowing you the pleasure of witnessing the puncturing of his self-regard."
"I should be delighted - and, I fear, a most evil man." Rich laughs, "It is most unbecoming to find amusement in the discomfiture of another - but it is truly satisfying."
"Ah yes - but this man warrants such discomfiture." Cromwell smiles back, "He has become far too impressed with his importance, and it is time to learn, I think, that the favour granted him by the King does not translate into equal regard by the Regent."
"Then lead on, my Lord Treasurer, and I shall follow and look sour."
The pair have become something of a partnership over the last two years - though their friendship is still uncertain and brittle - and none remark as they walk together through the corridors in search of Smeaton. Their conversation is still confined largely to matters of their work, for their interests are not entirely the same, but they are each aware of the other's thought processes to a remarkable degree as a result of it.
Smeaton is in his quarters - a small chamber of lesser note well away from those of higher state - plucking at his lute, and scribbling notes upon a sheet of rough paper. To Cromwell, it is apparent that he is composing something, and he wonders, idly, whether it is intended to be dedicated to his unrequited amour.
The chamber itself is in some disarray, with garments, scarves, stockings and all manner of fripperies scattered hither and thither as though selected, then discarded in disgust. Clearly he is keen to ensure that whatever he wears this evening shall be at least moderately tasteful - though still far too ostentatious for a man of his rank.
He looks up, startled to see that two men have walked into his chamber unannounced. Not that he can complain given that he left the door open, "Sirs? How can I be of service?"
"A new ballad, Mr Smeaton?" Cromwell asks, feigning interest.
"Yes indeed, Mr Cromwell." He smiles, pleased, "It is a poem by Sir Thomas Wyatt - I am setting it to music."
"At his behest, I presume?"
"With his consent, I assure you." Smeaton lifts the paper and holds it out, "I do not steal the work of others."
Rich raises his eyebrows slightly. While he has no skill for instruments - only his singing voice - he can read what is scribbled upon the page, and the words set beneath the notes are unnerving, to say the least.
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay, say nay, for shame,
To save thee from the blame
Of all my grief and grame;
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay, say nay!
Surely the man cannot be such a fool as to perform this in the presence of the Regent? Is he mad? He is all but accusing her of being a feckless lover! Like Cromwell, he is aware of that undercurrent of gossip that accuses Smeaton of harbouring amorous feelings towards the Regent - though he is yet to hear of further comments that accuse her of reciprocating - but this? All would hear the words, and mark them.
Beside him, however, Cromwell remains impassive, as though he has not read the paper, "I fear, Mr Smeaton, that your ballad shall have to wait. It has come to her Majesty's attention that observance of the sumptuary laws has become somewhat lax of late, and it is her intention that this laxity must cease. Consequently, she has decreed that all at Court must remind themselves of the manner of dress that they are entitled to wear - and abide by it. Our greatest concern is that the most flagrant behaviour in contravention of those laws is committed here - and thus her Majesty is concerned that an example must be made. You shall therefore be required to set aside all garments and jewels that are not appropriate for a man of your rank, and pay a fine of ten pounds before the end of this month. Furthermore, you are required to remove yourself from Court for the period of six months, during which time you may find it worth your while to re-acquaint yourself with the mode of dress that is permitted to you."
Standing alongside his colleague, Rich is hard put not to smirk as Smeaton's expression crumples, "She wishes me gone?"
"Temporarily." Cromwell counters.
"Or is it you who wishes me gone?" the young man asks, his tone suddenly accusatory.
"I have no reason to desire you to be present, or absent." Cromwell advises, boredly, "You are a court musician - and as such you have your purpose. Whether you are here or not is of no interest to me - I am merely the instrument of her Majesty's will."
"I shall not go!" Smeaton declares, "I am a Gentleman of the Privy Chamber - it is not for you to banish me!"
"I am not banishing you. Your exclusion is temporary, and was ordered by the Queen Regent." Again, he keeps his voice absolutely neutral and disinterested, "If you decide not to leave, you shall be escorted out under guard. I advise you to take time to gather some possessions and make arrangements to find accommodation outside the Palace."
It is clear that the position is non-negotiable, and Smeaton's anger falters. To the embarrassment of both Councillors, his eyes start to fill with tears, and he begins to blubber pathetically, clutching at the paper that contains the poem.
"For God's sake, man," Rich tries - and largely fails - to keep the scorn from his voice, "are you a child? Gather your possessions and make haste! You have been given the Regent's decree - act upon it!"
Cromwell remains silent. It is easier for the Lord Privy Seal to show temper, for he spends far less time with the Regent, and thus cannot be accused of untoward behaviour with her. He, on the other hand, is in her company every day; and, while no rumours are circulating at this time, he knows well that a single unguarded comment can set all manner of false hares running across the parkland.
"You have two hours to quit the palace." Cromwell advises, coldly, "You shall not be admitted back into the palace - wherever the Court may be - until the first day of Advent. Any possessions that you leave behind shall be placed in storage in anticipation of your return." Anything to get him out of here as quickly as possible. He shall even pay for that storage himself if he must; this is becoming deeply embarrassing.
With nothing more to add, the pair hastily retreat, entrusting a nearby Steward to persuade the weeping lutenist to comply with the Regent's instruction.
As they return to their desks, Rich turns to Cromwell, who is still rather shocked at Smeaton's behaviour, "Well." He muses, mostly to himself, "That was awkward."
Anne looks up from the chessboard, "He shed tears?"
"Blubbered like a babe robbed of his sweetmeats, Majesty." Cromwell admits, "I have rarely felt so embarrassed to share a chamber with another soul as I did today."
She returns her gaze to the chessmen, "That is remarkably strange. It seems that he was indeed most enamoured, was he not?"
"He was setting a work by Sir Thomas Wyatt to music when we came upon him." Cromwell continues, as she reaches for a pawn, "The poem was 'And Wilt thou Leave me thus?'"
Her face reddens, "Most enamoured."
"I think we did not act a moment too soon. I have advised him that he must not show his face in any of your palaces again until the first day of Advent - though that banishment was framed as retribution for his blatant disregard of the sumptuary laws. I do not think that he has appreciated that his childish behaviour has been noted."
She watches as he takes his turn to peruse the board, "In that case, we shall allow the Court to let him slip from their minds, and quietly find some other family that shall take him. For all his foolish behaviour, he is a most talented musician, and I have no doubt that a noble house should delight to have his services."
"I have heard news from Sweden." He continues, as the game progresses, "Her Majesty, Queen Mary was delivered of a daughter some weeks ago; but, alas, the babe did not live more than a few days."
His tone of voice is sad, and Anne sighs, sharing that sadness. Now that the girl is gone from England, and no longer a danger to Elizabeth's rule, her antipathy has softened to regretful sympathy, "I am sorry to hear it. Have you sent condolences on behalf of her Majesty the Queen?"
"Mr Sadleir is drafting such a message as I speak, Majesty. While her Majesty's writing is still somewhat ungoverned, I think it appropriate that she sign it - for Queen Mary shall be more likely to accept condolences from her sister."
Anne nods, "I shall speak to her Majesty this evening to advise her of the news. She has always loved her elder sister, and shall be most sad for her."
"Mr Sadleir has already suggested that he leave some space at the foot of the statement for her to add words of her own."
"Good." She pauses, then moves her bishop, "Check."
Startled, Cromwell looks down at the board, "Most clever, Majesty."
They play on in companionable silence awhile, as her ladies continue that long tapestry, or read from the small stock of reformist tracts that now grace a shelf in the Privy Chamber. It is rare to enjoy such times as these - in the midst of the burden of ruling a Kingdom. Henry had never permitted her to involve herself in his work: her role was twofold - to bear sons and shine like a small sun to reflect light upon him. But mostly to bear sons.
"When shall we think to consider prospective husbands for Elizabeth?" She asks, "Much as it is good to know that she holds worth again upon the marriage market, she is still barely more than a babe."
Cromwell sighs, "Alas, Majesty, it is not too soon to think of it - even now. Mary was offered as a bride while still in her cradle, after all; though in those days it was upon the assumption that she would have brothers who would rule England while she travelled to the Court of her husband and master. Elizabeth is a Queen; and thus any marriage shall be difficult to arrange if we are to keep England from being swallowed up by another Realm."
She nods, "It is not Elizabeth that they want - it is England." She looks up again, "Perhaps from a noble house of England? Do any young men remain from house Plantagenet?"
Cromwell looks startled, "They are few in number, your Majesty. I fear that your late Lord saw to it that they were removed from the line of succession - in most cases, permanently. The only youth that I can think of is the son of the Marquess of Exeter."
"Courtenay's boy?" Anne looks intrigued, "What do you know of him?"
"Little, your Majesty - other than that he has sufficient royal ancestry to be acceptable. Nonetheless, the matter remains of who would be considered the true ruler of England: Elizabeth, or her eventual husband."
"We shall look to Parliament to settle that."
"Perhaps - but Parliament cannot legislate for a man's self-regard." Cromwell smiles at her, "I have no doubt that Courtenay would accept marriage without hesitation - but would not accept the rank of King Consort."
"Then I thank God that Elizabeth is still so young." Anne smiles, "There is time to prepare a suitable youth to wed her."
Cromwell chuckles, and reaches for one of the few pieces he has left on the board, only to be stopped by the sound of a knock upon the door.
Matthew goes to open it, and looks back, "Majesty, The Lord Privy Seal is without."
"Thank you - show him in, Matthew."
The speed of Rich's step as he comes in screams urgency, and his expression is most worried, "Forgive me - but I did not think this could wait until the morrow." He holds out a crumpled piece of paper, "I was seeing to some matters of business at my house in Smithfield - and the stable boy had this."
Bemused, Anne reaches for it, and smooths it out over the arm of her chair, "A pamphlet, Mr Rich?"
He nods, and waits for her to read it.
A Call To England To Abjure The Monstrous Concubine And The Little Whore sprung from her Godless Loins...
Her eyes widen in horror, and all can see the paper beginning to shake as she reads.
The text is quite rambling, but its intent is absolutely clear: demanding that the people of England rise up and depose their lawful Queen - casting the Regent as the Whore of Babylon of whom John spoke in his Revelation, and even Elizabeth as a harlot, despite her tender age. Shaking with suppressed fury, she turns the page:
Sound the horn and sound the trumpet!
God save us from the monstrous strumpet!
England's people all must wake
To cast out Henry's wanton paike!
Good King Hal and Saint Queen Kate
God's great rulers most divine
Cast by witchcraft to evil fate
Jesu and his angels do opine
England's glory cast to spite
Stolen e'en as Tom More died
And Fisher's soul taken to flight
While evil tongues to King Hal lied
Sound the horn and sound the trumpet!
God save us from the monstrous strumpet!
England's people all must wake
To cast out Henry's wanton paike!
Did you speak the oath of sin?
Did you say not 'Pope' but 'King'?
We were fools to let her in:
The devil's whore with satan's sting!
Father Paul shall loose the bull
To call all men who still have breath;
Nan Boleyn shall pay in full
And all shall dance at her just death!
Sound the horn and sound the trumpet!
God save us from the monstrous strumpet!
England's people all must wake
To cast out Henry's wanton paike!
"Who produced this?" she asks, eventually.
"It is anonymous, Majesty." Rich admits, then turns to Cromwell, "I do not have the means to investigate it."
"I shall set men upon it, Majesty." Cromwell advises, taking the pamphlet and reading it slowly, "Rest assured, we shall take steps to identify the person, or persons, who have produced this defamatory screed, and they shall experience the full force of the law."
He re-reads the verses, and then looks at the title, The Ballad of Wicked Nan Bullen, whore of France and latterly Usurper of King Henry's Crown, stolen through an accident brought about by witchcraft and sorcery.
And things were going so well.
"Forgive me, Majesty." He rises, and bows, "I must admit that I find this document so offensive that it is my wish to commence investigations into its provenance immediately. It may be that this was produced abroad - but if not, we shall find the printer, and they shall tell us who commissioned it."
"Find him, Mr Cromwell." Anne's eyes are vicious, "I care nothing for rumours about my person - for I have endured such slander for years - but I shall not have my daughter's reputation impugned. What is the punishment for publishing such a work as this?"
"The removal of a hand, Majesty."
"When you find the one responsible, see to it that it is done - and publicly - as a warning to all that I shall not have lies told about my child. I care nothing for myself; it is her Majesty the Queen whom I shall defend in such terms."
He bows again, "Yes, Majesty."
Such is the swiftness of Cromwell's stride that Rich is obliged to trot to keep up with him, "Do you know who might be responsible for this?"
"No."
"Do you think it likely that we shall find out?"
"No."
"Surely it is possible to identify at least a guiding hand behind it!"
Cromwell stops, and Rich almost crashes into him, "I can think of many who might have commissioned this - but that is not enough. If we do not cut off the head of this snake, then it shall continue to hiss vile slanders no matter how many hands are severed. A tract such as this cannot have been printed in England - for there are few printing presses in the realm, and a mere handful of men who have the skill to use them. It would be a simple matter to visit them each in turn until the culprit was found."
"So it has been printed on the continent." Rich muses.
"Indeed so."
"Then the trail is cold."
"Not entirely," Cromwell muses, "I am well acquainted with a printer in Stepney who has worked for me on numerous occasions - he is from Flanders, and is highly skilled. It may be that there is evidence that we cannot determine upon this pamphlet - but that he can identify. Thus I propose that we pay a call upon him upon the morrow."
"We?"
"You do not wish to come?" Cromwell asks - Rich's inquisitive nature is a matter of amusement in the offices, even if he does not know it.
In spite of himself, he looks pleased, "I should be delighted, Mr Cromwell."
"What is it, Anne?" As they are in private, Rochford feels no compunction to refer to her by her title; their closeness as siblings has reasserted itself since he abandoned his plotting against her.
"Elizabeth's name is being impugned in a pamphlet that speaks ill of me." She sighs, reaching for a cup of hot, spiced posset. Her mind is busy again, so it is unlikely that the warmed milk shall help her to sleep - but still she drinks it in hopes of rest.
Rochford frowns, "Do you think it to be of sufficient import to harm your reign?"
"After all that we have done to set these vile comments behind me, I do not want some filthy screed to resurrect them again!" she snaps back, then sighs, "Forgive me, George. I am very tired."
"I am not offended, sister." He smiles, taking her hand, "It is hard to read vicious words that speak ill of those that we love."
"The writer claimed that Elizabeth was a wanton - a mere babe! Rendered so for she was born of my womb, and thus cursed as a whore by nature…as her mother was…"
"She is no whore, and neither are you, Anne. The King loved you and sought you out - did you not resist his advances? It was he who longed to chase you!"
"It matters not, brother." She reminds him, "From the cradle, both Mary and I were warned that we must behave with chaste dignity at all times; for if a man looked upon us with carnal intent, it would be we who were to blame, not he; for we had dressed salaciously, or cast temptation upon him by a single glance. Henry did indeed chase after me, sought me as his wife with all determination - for I would not be his mistress as our sister had been. How strange it is that my determination to retain my honour is the very act that has condemned me as a wanton."
She sighs again, and gazes into the fire, lost in thought.
It seems that, no matter how she works to prove to her Subjects that she has never acted in a wilfully carnal fashion, that unwarranted reputation dogs her heels like a savage, rat-hunting terrier. Even were she to publicly devote herself to the rule of St Benedict - or St Francis - and dress in sackcloth and ashes as she did so, she would still be accused of intending to seduce the priest.
Perhaps such rumours shall never be suppressed - but they make one, unbreakable demand upon her; that one requirement: Chastity.
Whether she wishes it or no - she can never, ever love again.