A/N: And we're finally back online! Though I'll reserve judgement on the notifications. Friday looms again, and so we head onwards and downwards. As always, thanks for your reviews.

I shall take another wildly flying leap into the realms of dramatic license, but it's about time everyone got out of that stuffy palace and hit the road again, so - wagons roll!

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The Canterbury Trail

The canals of Brugge might well be very fetching, the fine frontages of the buildings either side reflected in the waters below; but Brandon is no architect and cares nothing for the view. So much for pamphlets - regardless of the finesse of Benedict's words, and the cost of them, no Merchantman would accept the cargo, not with the increase in inspections and customs at England's ports - none were even willing to lower a boat over the side to enter a small fishing haven. Well, none that would charge a small enough fee for him to be able to afford.

Boleyn continues to provide the funds for their meagre existence in Flanders, an enforced poverty caused by the greater need to establish sufficient means to support them as some form of Embassy for Queen Mary in her claim for the English throne. Assuming, of course, that it is possible to free her from her unwanted marriage in Sweden.

His own donations to the cause are far less extensive, for he lacks Boleyn's acumen in trade, and thus serves as little more than a secretary, taking down all that is made, and ensuring that their work is compliant with the trade laws imposed by the Flemings upon foreign traders. Not all of it, of course; there are taxes to be paid, taxes that would swallow up far more of their funds if the tax collectors knew of them. That, at least, he has learned to do with some skill - damnation, he never saw himself as a man capable of committing fraud.

He is, at least, becoming more able to understand the tongue of the Flemings, and thus is able to glean some knowledge from the general gossip around the ports and customs house at Zeebrugge. Its proximity to England makes it a true crossroads for traders aiming for Tilbury, or the eastern English ports on the south coast and thus it serves as a prime source of information about the doings of the Concubine and her sycophants. They have heard nothing from Norfolk for so long that he is convinced that the Duke has washed his hands of the entire business and instead intends to keep his wealth and status through inaction. Doubtless, should they succeed, he shall re-emerge and claim to have been at the centre of such work all along. He has always preferred to allow others to do his plotting for him.

Scowling, Brandon shifts from the railing that has been supporting his weight, and makes his way back to the Market Square in search of a pot of ale. That, at least, is one compensation for living in this benighted place - the beers are of magnificent quality, and are easily affordable.

He is halfway through a cupful when Boleyn finds him, and seats himself, "I have tidings that may interest you." He seems very pleased with himself, and Brandon sits up, at least feigning interest in news from a man whom he despises.

"It seems that the Regent is facing an insurrection at last."

That captures his interest, "From whom has this come?"

"A merchant recently departed from Tilbury. It seems that Cromwell has finally overstepped his bounds and driven the people to rise against his mistress. In spite of allowing those who follow the true faith to worship unmolested, they continue to tear down the very fabric of the Church, and the people march to prevent the destruction of the bones of Becket."

"Becket?" Brandon looks surprised, "Why Becket? There are holier shrines than his."

"Canterbury is the home of the English Church - to despoil Becket's shrine is to despoil the very seat of English Christendom. They have taken matters too far, and Englishmen shall stand for it no longer."

He sets down his cup, "And thus we do not need Benedict any longer." His tone is satisfied, "How soon can we be ready to represent the Queen Mary's interests in the courts of Europe?"

Boleyn looks at him as though he has gone insane, "You think us ready for that? Then you are as naïve a fool as ever I saw. Unless you apply more effort to earn funds for our coffers, it shall be ten years at least. Were you a diplomat, you would know in truth the sheer cost of an Embassy - you think it an easy thing to prance in silks and speak flowery words? Nay, there shall be many palms to grease before we can even gain entry beyond the gatehouse of the lowest palace in Europe." He smiles, nastily, "If you cannot trade, then perhaps it may be time to get your hands rather dirtier than you have done thus far. There is always a market for labourers."

Smirking unpleasantly, he raises his cup, "Here's to a future in the English Court after all."

Sadleir reads carefully thought the report from one of Cromwell's better observers, "It seems that the claim of pilgrimage is a strong one, Mr Cromwell. The streams of faithful now include people of remarkably high estate - great ladies are travelling in litters dressed with flowers and ribbons as though they are Maying, while women and children, along with the sick and decrepit, trail along behind."

Cromwell frowns; hardly the deadly insurrection that he was envisaging, "Then it seems that the people do not wish to shed blood."

"Other than their own, perhaps." Sadleir sighs, "It appears that they intend to set up an encampment around the perimeter of the great Church, and allow entry only to those who can demonstrate that they follow the Roman faith."

So much for a settlement, then. No - that is unfair; they are but peasants, and know nothing of the corruption of the church that they call their own. To eradicate them would serve no one - perhaps reason shall prevail, if it can be presented in a fashion that they shall accept.

At least the report has granted him an opportunity to smuggle the Regent to Canterbury unseen, and to reduce the danger of too many men with weapons accompanying her. She has not been seen in public for some months, and if she is willing to dress like a woman of noble, rather than royal, state, then who would know that their Regent travelled amongst them?

Rising from his desk, he makes his way to the Privy Chamber. Much of the discussion in Council this morning centred around the problem of the growing pilgrimage, and little progress could be made thanks to the lack of suitable information upon which to base their plans. At least now they can travel in something approximating safety; the problems shall only truly arise once they get there.

Anne is supervising another double translation session when he arrives, sitting alongside Elizabeth and working with her upon a short passage of text that has been translated out of Greek into French, and must now be translated into Latin. Again, for a child so small, Elizabeth seems to adore such work, unlike most children who dread it; and she is concentrating most carefully. Utterly oblivious to the danger that her rule now faces, she is delighted as her mother nods in approval at each word that she sets down correctly, and is eager to earn more smiling nods of the head.

"Forgive my intrusion, Majesty." Cromwell bows, "I must speak with your royal Mother."

"Of course, Mr Cromwell." Elizabeth's voice is still that of a child, though the tone of her words seems far more adult, "I shall continue with the aid of Mr Grindal."

He bows politely, and cannot conceal a smile as she hastily prevails upon Mistress Champernowne to fetch her tutor so that she can continue with work that so delights her.

"Come through, Mr Cromwell." Anne's tone gives away nothing of the concerns between them, and they remove to a quiet chamber nearby, accompanied only by Lady Rochford - the inevitable chaperone.

"It seems to be taking on the air of a festival, Majesty." He explains, "Thus we have found a means to transport you to Canterbury in safety and in secrecy. It shall, however, oblige you to dress in the manner of a Baroness, or possibly a Countess at most."

"I shall dress as a pauper if it shall get me to Canterbury in safety, Mr Cromwell. When are we to depart?"

"I think it best that we do so in the next day or so, Majesty - in order to be concealed amongst the travellers. It may also be possible to glean from those we encounter what their plans might be once they have reached the city. It shall be given out that you have removed to Windsor for a time - and perhaps we shall season it with a light rumour that you do so in the superstitious hope that you might find succour from attending the grave of his Late Majesty. Thus none shall remark upon your absence from Court."

"Such subterfuge, Mr Cromwell." she smiles, "But the cause demands it. I do not wish to remain hidden away any longer, not when I can take steps to bring this matter to an end with as little bloodshed as possible. How I shall do it, I still cannot say with certainty - but it is imperative that I try. If I must travel in so foolish a fashion, then I shall do so."

He nods. Henry would not have done such a thing as this - he is quite sure of it. An army would have been assembled and marched south with a view to dispersing the people on the road in a brutal show of strength that might - or might not - serve to prove Henry's authority. How many would die under the swords of such a force? Even at his most revolted at the Church of Rome, he would not wish to respond with the edge of a sword - not against uneducated people who have only the faith that has been taught to them to guide their actions. To hate them would make him as bad as those he claims to be hateful, and even at his most venal, he cannot bring himself to be a hypocrite in such a matter.

It seems that, if they are to bring this business to a close, they cannot do so with force of arms. Instead, they must look to secrecy, and then rely upon that foolish construct 'Mother of the Realm' and prat fervently that Queen Anne can persuade her wayward brood to return to their homes.

He is not at all hopeful.

"Out of the way, there! Watch yourselves!" The Captain's voice is strident, but not overly aggressive - they are, after all, supposedly travelling incognito. In answer to his call, the stream of people drifts apart, allowing the party of riders escorting an enclosed litter to pass.

Now that they are amongst the travelling throng, it seems to Cromwell that there are fewer than expected, though still enough to be of concern. The air seems quite festive, as people chatter to one another, and now and again someone breaks into song. The number of sharpened farm implements is also smaller than he was led to believe, though he has no doubt that even a defence without them shall still be violent if the throng are suitably provoked.

He rides dressed as a highly ranked steward, while Rich and Sadleir do likewise. The hand-picked royal guards escorting the Regent are dressed in dark grey, and bear the arms of the Earl of Ormond, a suitably obscure title given its Irish origin, but relevant in that it belongs to the Regent's father; or, at least, it would if it had not been confiscated by the Crown.

None of the fellow pilgrims know it, of course, and are pleased that another of the nobility travels with them on their quest. God above, all this for a set of bones - if passion such as this could be harnessed for the good of England, then who could stop them from ruling all of Christendom? Seated above them on a chestnut palfrey, Cromwell wonders how it could be possible to redirect it. Misplaced it may be - but that his fellow Englishmen are capable of such loyalty and pride fills him with equal pride, for he is as English as they.

Except that he does not feel the need to stand guard upon a skeleton.

Seated within the enclosed litter, Anne clutches at a rosary and attempts to remember the prayers that she has not spoken since she first chose to address God in English. It is cosmetic, in case any see her and need to be shown immediately that she is as for popery as they - but equally she finds it pleasant to hold, almost comforting; a reminder of a time when her nurse sat with her and showed her how to pray.

Given the speed of their train, and the slowness of the crowds about them, they shall not reach Canterbury in a day, and thus shall seek shelter in an inn suitable for a woman of noble rank. Her hood is decorated with pearls, but not gold, while her garments are fine, but not royal. All have been instructed to refer to her as 'your Grace', and she is quite content to pretend, for a while at least, that she is the aristocrat that she was before that extraordinary elevation to a throne began.

Jane is without, riding a bay jennet, and responds quickly to Anne's call, "Yes, your Grace?"

"Might I trouble you for a cup of wine? I am becoming thirsty."

"I shall see to it, your Grace." Such aplomb. Most of the people who have answered her requests have been obliged to hastily correct themselves in their responses.

The curtains may be closed, but they do not block out sound, and she can hear as someone calls up to the escort, "And who travels with us, my Lord?"

"Her Grace the Lady Margaret, Countess of Ormond." Cromwell's voice answers, easily, "Eager to seek succour from the shrine of Saint Thomas."

"And to protect it from those blackguards that advise the Queen and her mother, no doubt!"

"Blackguards, sir?"

"Indeed so! That black monster Cromwell - whispering in her ear, I'll warrant. She has been good to English folk, but what of him, and his crew of reformers? Pshaw! Once she sees miracles that shall protect us from his plotting, she shall be free to return to the true faith - for she protects us with her proclamation, and thus it is a mere matter of time before she turns back to the right religion. We shall show her that she is in error!"

He sounds very determined, but at least he is not blaming either Elizabeth or her for this. Perhaps then she shall have some purchase in her climb up this mountain of fervour. She listens, wondering who the man might be.

"And to whom do I have the honour of speaking, sir?" Cromwell is very good at being deferential when the circumstances demand, it seems.

"Robert Hobbes, good Sir - I was, until recently, the Abbot of Woburn, until it was taken by the commissioners and closed. Our very faith is under threat from heretics, and if I can do what I can to save it, then I shall do so willingly, and give my life if the Heavenly Father asks it of me."

"I do not think that the Queen shall demand it, Sir." Cromwell's voice remains polite and meek, "She seems unwilling to make martyrs."

"Perhaps not - but if she is in thrall to men who do, then we shall fight for her deliverance. Once we thought her mother to be naught but a wanton, but her kindness and godly works of charity speak of a gentler countenance and a motherly teacher. Nay, it is the collection of sinners that surround her that keep her from her true path as God's Queen, and thus we shall demonstrate to them all that it is His will that she restore England to the true religion, and expunge this realm of heresy. It is our hope that the Regent shall also see the error of her ways, for she is not the woman she was when she first wore the crown. It may yet be that we can bring her back to the true Faith."

She sighs to herself. There is no fire of extremism in him, just a determination to do what he thinks to be right. How can men be so driven to think only one way to be the true way? Did Christ demand such a thing from His Church when he rose again and left his last instructions to his apostles? Believe in only one, specific, way - or die a hideous death. No - where is that requirement to love one's neighbour in the flames of a pyre? For all her relief that their efforts to create the 'mother of the realm' seem to have borne fruit, she is dismayed that they still have a considerable distance to travel before they can truly claim to have established a religious settlement in England.

The man does not remain with them for long, instead moving off and leaving them to continue on their own. She is drowsing by the evening, when they stop at a fine inn within the boundaries of Maidenhead, and she is finally able to settle down in a comfortable chair beside a fire in a warm chamber.

In deference to their disguises, her advisers are now Mr Wyckes, Mr Jenks and Mr Parker - each of them having taken the maiden names of their wives - while Mr Sadleir pretends to be a lowlier servant than they, and is content to be addressed as Ralph. It is as well that they have done so, as there are other pilgrims of means staying at the inn, and not all of them are as accommodating of the Regent's involvement as Abbot Hobbes was.

It feels most strange to sup in a room where she is served not by her usual stewards, but by her Lord Privy Seal. Rich is hardly the most competent server, but he does his best, and manages not to spill too much wine as Lady Rochford sits with her as a travelling companion of equal rank, while Cromwell works his way through some papers, and Rochford tries not to make too much noise clearing away the pewter plates. God, were they not surrounded by enemies, she would laugh at their incompetence.

"Are we likely to reach Canterbury upon the morrow, Mr Wyckes?" She asks, sipping at wine that has been mulled with rather too much sugar thanks to its being prepared by a man who has never done such a thing before, and has not the first idea how much sugar costs.

"Yes, my Lady." Cromwell peruses a crudely drawn map, "I would advise that we depart at first light, however, as the road may become rather more crowded as we approach. The roads to Canterbury would not usually accommodate such numbers as appear to be travelling with us."

"And has our accommodation been prepared?"

He nods, "Your host is aware of your attendance, and advises that rooms are prepared. He also asks you to note that the numbers of arrivals increases daily, and it may be rather difficult to approach the house." He is careful not to say Palace.

"Then we shall approach slowly and with care, Mr Wyckes." She hastily sets her hand over the mouth of her cup as Rich offers her more of his rather badly mulled wine, "Thank you Mr Jenks, I think I should not sleep well were I to imbibe more wine at this hour." Better that than to admit that he has taken a fine claret and ruined it, "Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I think I shall retire."

The three men rise, bow and depart, leaving Anne with Jane and Margery, who is posing as her chief gentlewoman. While she is certainly alive with a sense of adventure; from tomorrow, she shall be in Canterbury, and facing an intractable problem that she has not the first idea how to solve. Thank God she is riding in a litter - the chances of being able to sleep tonight are slim at best. At least she shall not be in danger of falling from a horse when that lack of sleep catches up with her on the morrow.

Cranmer was right to warn them, it seems; for the throngs crowding around the great Christchurch gate that opens into the Abbey precincts are extensive, though peaceful, and the few remaining lay brothers of the Abbey of St Augustine nearby are quite keen to usher them inside, and thus keep the streets clear in order to avoid stirring the wrath of the townsfolk. Were it not for the visible wealth of her noble train, they would be helpless - but the sight of a wealthy patron spurs the black-clad brothers to urge the burghers aside and make room for them, and they are able to pass by largely without issue. They shall be welcomed into the Archbishop's Palace through a side gate, but Cromwell is keen to see how many have come, and thus rides through the great gate that stands ahead.

Beyond, he is appalled at the sight before him. The throngs must number into the thousands - all of them grabbing what little space is available. They are - unsurprisingly - not permitted inside the great Church, which remains reserved for a community of religious brothers, but instead make what shelter they can across the lawns, herb gardens and even within barns where they are fortunate to have sufficient coin to hire a space. There is no sign of the wealthier travellers who have, doubtless, paid for chambers in the guesthouse of the Abbey, but they would hardly have added a great deal to the numbers had they not. Already the reek of effluent is permeating the air, for there is but one culvert that can be used to wash away nightsoil and urine. That alone shall drive people away if they are not sufficiently fired up for Becket. Perhaps it shall - he can hope.

Passing by the accumulation of people, and their filth, he makes his way to the gate of the Archbishop's Palace, and is grateful not to have to plead for entry, for Cranmer is within, and is relieved to see him, "They are coming in their thousands, Thomas. I cannot dissuade them, and the Brothers are hard put to aid them. None of them have brought victuals, as though they are convinced that God shall provide - but there is not sufficient space to accommodate them in the refectory, nor sufficient victuals to feed them. We are doing what we can - and the City Guilds have been pressed to aid us in doing so."

"What are their plans?" Cromwell asks, as they cross a parterre garden and enter the Palace.

"I think they have none. Merely to stay where they are, befoul the place and fight off any commissioner that dares to enter. I fear to imagine what shall occur upon the morrow - for they shall expect to be granted entry to the Church, and the Brothers within shall demand that they be kept well away from the holiest places, particularly while devotions are in progress."

"It is a Church, Mr Cranmer. Why should not worshippers be admitted?"

"We shall never get them out again." Cranmer reminds him, "Furthermore, they shall fight amongst themselves over precedence in the protection of the shrine. Such skirmishes have already broken out between those who have arrived first, and those who have come later. They are angry, and keen to fight for the bones of Becket; unfortunately, as yet they have no one to fight, so they fight each other."

"I suspect, from what I saw, that much of the combat is fuelled by an excess of alcohol, rather than an excess of zeal, Mr Cranmer." Cromwell observes, "And that is something that crosses both sides of the religious divide in England. Our primary interest is in assuring all present that the remains of Becket shall not be destroyed, but instead interred with due deference in consecrated ground. There is no need to seek intercession from a skeleton when Christ promised that he would intercede for men."

The Archbishop smiles, "You shall never eradicate the pilgrimage, Thomas. The old ways teach that the journey of the pilgrimage is an equal journey through the growth of faith - and even I have no objection to such a thing as the growth of faith. It is, however, my preference that pilgrims come here to prostrate themselves before the Almighty, rather than the remains of a long-dead murdered predecessor, and know that they shall not be robbed of every groat for the privilege of doing so." He reaches out to guide his colleague, "Come, there is scented water for washing, and chilled ale. We sup at six - I am sure you shall appreciate the opportunity to rest from a long day in the saddle."

Cromwell smiles back, "And I think her Majesty shall appreciate a cup of wine that is not sweetened by obscene amounts of sugar. I am not sure that she has forgiven the Lord Privy Seal for his hopeless inability to mull claret."

The chamber that has been set aside for him is spacious, with a large tester bed at one wall, and a long table upon which is set a pewter pitcher of citrus-scented water alongside a basin. Unlike most sources in Canterbury, the water in the Palace is drawn from a deep well that is fed by a spring that rises deep below the ground, and thus it is wonderfully cold as he discards his doublet, rolls up his sleeves, and sinks his arms into a basinful up to his elbows.

For a moment he sighs with relief, before rising from the water and looking out from the window of the chamber as he dries his forearms with a rough cloth. It is on the second floor, and thus affords an excellent view across the precincts of the Cathedral. God above, the number of people crowded into that limited space has grown greater still. Surely there are not this many people intent upon protecting Becket? What chance shall the Regent have of dissuading them if they are in such numbers as this?

For a moment, he is nervous, and beset by doubt over his decisions; he had assumed that the Roman faith was declining in England, as more and more people saw through the deceit of the Bishops and Cardinals. But the crowds below suggest otherwise. No - he is not wrong. He is not…

A knock upon the door startles him, and he turns, sharply, "Yes?"

The door creaks open, and Rochford looks in, "Supper is served, Mr Cromwell - my sister asked after you." They have agreed to conceal the Regent's identity for a little while longer, for fear of rumours escaping while some of the palace servants are still present. To all intents and purposes, Anne is a lady formerly of the Queen's household.

Hastily, he pulls his sleeves back down and retrieves his doublet, "Forgive me, I was distracted."

Supper is a simple affair, a roasted venison with fresh baked bread, served with a fine claret. Picking at her portion, Anne turns to Cranmer, "How long have the people been here, your Grace?"

"They first began to arrive six days ago, Ma'am - though in small numbers." Cranmer advises, "The greater numbers first appeared two days afterward, and have continued to grow ever since. We do what we can - but…" he sighs.

"But?"

"The culvert is utterly befouled by filth, and the stench of effluent is becoming utterly insupportable - even worse than the drains of the streets. The poor brothers attempt as best they can to keep the water flowing, but it was never intended for numbers as great as this."

"Then perhaps it would be better to offer accommodation in other parts of the City?"

"We have tried that; but none will accept it - they argue that, were they to do so, we would despoil the shrine in their absence."

She sits in silence awhile, "Maybe we should take account of their concerns. For the time being, at least. Perhaps it is too soon to remove this shrine - a younger generation might be more accepting of it."

Cranmer stares at her, shocked, "You would yield to the demands of the masses?"

"If they are truly passionate, then yes. Is it not better to listen to her Majesty's subjects?"

"Even if they are misguided?"

"Even then. Those who are misguided can be helped to see the error of their ways - and then they shall be more willing to accommodate our reforms."

"Thus speaks the mother of a young child, Ma'am." He smiles at her.

"And are her Majesty's subjects not as a young child in these matters?" she smiles back at him, "We shall discuss this matter more thoroughly in the morning, I think. Today has a been a long day, and I am very tired."

"Of course, Ma'am. We shall reconsider this problem in the morning. How is her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth?"

Their conversation moves on to other matters, and she finds herself more able to enjoy her meal.

"I did not see the hordes, Mr Cromwell." Rich mutters to his colleague as they share out the last of a flagon of wine between themselves, "How many are there in the precincts?"

"Too many to counter should they choose to fight us." Cromwell answers, dolefully, "I can see them from my quarters - all that I could hear from them was voices raised in song. They are eager pilgrims, not vicious extremists - and they think that God is with them."

"Are we certain that He is not?"

"I think that is something that we shall discover on the morrow." He rises from table, "I think I shall take a walk in the gardens while there is still some light."

"Would you object to company? I am still stiff from the ride and would appreciate the opportunity to loosen my joints a little."

There would once have been a time when he would have looked for an excuse to decline - but not these days. In putting aside their enmity, a friendship has taken the place of it, and he is pleased to spend some time with a man who is possessed of an incisive wit and impish humour.

"I think I have erred, Mr Rich." Cromwell sighs as they emerge into the parterre garden that fronts the palace, "I thought that England was more prepared to abandon idolatry than she seems to be - and thus I have placed her Majesty in a most difficult position."

"Perhaps." Rich agrees, "But a difficulty such as this would have arisen sooner or later, and thus her Majesty would face a stern test of her rule. Better now, I think - for we have time to rebuild should errors be made. From what I have been told by Chapuys, neither the Emperor nor the King of France are in any position to turn upon us. They are too preoccupied with their own squabbles."

Cromwell frowns, "Nonetheless, I am fearful that I have wrought damage upon our careful work to present her Majesty as Mother of the Realm."

Rather than open the gate that leads out onto the precinct of the cathedral, he opens a small viewing port and looks out at the throng beyond. Again, he is struck by the sheer numbers that have arrived; men have come, of course, but so have their wives, and their children. Here and there, a priest who has also made the journey is leading small groups in prayers, while a larger gathering sits around a fire and makes its mumbling, inaccurate way through a Te Deum Iaudamus. No - these are not enemies; far from it. How on earth shall they disperse such earnest people as this?

He sighs - not everyone seems intent upon worship; a man is huddled in the corner of a barn's buttress, where he clutches his arms about himself and crouches with such obvious intent that Cromwell hastily looks away.

"Her Majesty shall find it hard to convince such numbers that it is best to abandon the shrine." Rich observes, as his colleague shuts the viewing port again, "And the lack of a sense of violence would leave us utterly unable to deploy soldiers to disperse them - not without causing that damage that you fear so greatly."

He does not sound accusatory, or smug - something that is still rather unusual for a man of his reputation - but instead sympathetic. It is a singular dilemma - how to persuade the multitude beyond the gate that they are in error, and what to do if they refuse to comply?

"Indeed." Cromwell sighs, "But there is nothing that can be done this night. I think it best to retire and consider the problem upon the morrow."

Rich nods, and the pair return to the palace. Tomorrow they shall consider their next move - after all, the problem is hardly likely to disperse of its own volition. Perhaps it shall be possible to find leaders, and negotiate with them - but until the morning, it is impossible to know.

It is always strange to wake in an unfamiliar bedchamber, and Anne looks about in mild confusion until her senses gather and she recalls where she is. The truckle at the foot of the bed is empty, and she knows that Margery is already awake, preparing her Queen's gown for the day. They might have made the journey pretending that she was a Countess, but now she must resume her true identity - and dress the part - if she is to have any hope of making headway against those who have collected in the grounds beyond the palace wall.

Jane presents her with a plate of fresh-baked bread with slices of firm cheese, while a small pitcher of small ale is set for her to drink. Breaking her fast as her two women spend time dressing her hair and setting out cosmetics, Anne looks across at the window, through which sunlight is slanting, "The day looks set fair."

"Yes, Majesty." Margery agrees, "Though I fear that the horde beyond the gates are less pretty to observe. I was obliged to step outside in search of the coffer containing your stockings - and the reek from them quite insupportable." She wrinkles her nose in mild disgust at the memory.

"They do not have access to the Archbishop's well, Madge." Anne reproves, "It is hard to wash when one has very little water."

Most of the Archbishop's household, who have been granted a leave of absence, are now gone; replaced by those who travelled with the convoy, and most of her usual retinue seem be about when she emerges, her hair enclosed in an elaborate hood encrusted with pearls and gold filigree, while a dark crimson overgown thickly embroidered with more pearls and intricate stitching rests atop an unadorned ivory kirtle. Her cosmetics are carefully applied, and she looks as much a Queen as she has ever done in her life. Even if she cannot convince the people outside, at least they shall look upon her in wonder - perhaps then her failure shall seem at least a little like a success.

Cranmer has set a small hall aside for her reduced council, and he awaits her with Cromwell, Rich and Rochford. The four of them look worried, and she shares their worry. Had she been facing an angry rabble, then perhaps there would be a clearer answer to this - but those who brought improvised weaponry with them seem to have set them aside, perhaps thanks to the priests who have also made the journey, and now there would be no justification upon the earth to disperse them with force of arms. Not, at least, without rousing the ire of her otherwise occupied neighbours across the sea.

She is not surprised to see that Cromwell looks most uncomfortable. In spite of her own interest in reform, he has always been the primary instigator of their works, and is quite convinced that he is about to be struck by a great wave of angry invective. Certainly Henry would have done such a thing - he despised to be made to look weak, or a fool - and a mistake such as this would certainly have resulted in an explosion of rage. But, for all her fire and temper, she is not Henry, and anger shall solve nothing. Not here, and not now.

"So, Gentlemen. What are we to do?" she asks, as they bow and wait for her to seat herself, "I think it unlikely that standing upon a cart and addressing the throng shall have the desired effect."

"I think it best to identify those who have been set in charge of said throng." Cranmer advises, "I have asked Mr Ridley to establish who these people might be, in order to invite them here to negotiate. I suspect that, were I to emerge, I might be pelted with all manner of unmentionable substances."

Anne smiles at his mild jest. He is, however, right to be concerned - for he is the foremost leader of the English Church under Elizabeth, and the people outside would expect him to defend their saint, not side with those who seem set to attack him.

"In that case, I shall remain here and await his report." She agrees, "Though I am concerned for the welfare of those who reside within the cathedral close. Ensure that those lay brothers who are engaged with offering them succour are well supplied with monies to feed them and see to their comfort - it shall be met from my personal coffers."

Cranmer beams at her, please, "My thanks, Majesty."

"Do not speak of the source of the largesse. Allow it to be disseminated without acknowledgement. I do not wish to be ostentatious in my distribution of charity. The knowledge goes no further than these walls."

"Yes, Majesty."

"Assuming that we are able to identify the leaders of this…pilgrimage, Majesty," Cromwell continues, "How are we to proceed?"

"We meet with them, hear their demands, and counter with our own arguments, Mr Cromwell. Should it be thought better for all that the shrine remain where it is, then we shall accede to that demand. I do not consider it a weakness to listen to the concerns of my daughter's subjects. Did we not undertake that first progress with the intent of demonstrating to the people of England that I listen to them as does a mother?"

"Yes Majesty." He sighs. Of course - he is a man. How can he understand that to compromise is not always an act of weakness? As a woman, Anne's entire life has been a long sequence of compromises - usually of the sort that removes her happiness in favour of the convenience or ambition of a man.

"My concern is that they shall require us to reverse the closures that have already taken place." Rich adds, "If that is so, then the cost shall be incalculable. Much of the gains to her Majesty's Treasury have been set aside to meet the debts that were accrued by his late Majesty, and even now these are not entirely met. Should we be obliged to reimburse those from whom those lands are confiscated, then it shall bankrupt us. Equally, should we not reimburse, then we shall lose the love of those who have granted their loyalty to you in exchange for lands and holdings that were once beyond their reach."

"Then, should that be demanded, we shall counter that we shall suspend the closures - but those houses that are already closed shall remain so. Equally, we shall reinstate a quarter of those holy days that are no longer permitted to be observed."

Cromwell nods, approvingly. She has studied this matter well, and her suggestions are akin to those he would have made himself. Before he can speak, however, there is a hasty knocking upon the door, and a steward opens it to reveal a man in clerical garb, who looks out of breath, and very fearful.

"What is it, Mr Ridley?" Cranmer looks shocked at the man's dishevelled state.

"Forgive me, your Grace," his Chaplain is shaking with horror, "It seems that God does not approve of this great gathering - there has been an outbreak of sickness amongst the pilgrims. At least fifty have now succumbed to symptoms that suggest a bloody flux, and there have been seven deaths in the last two hours."

The table is silenced for a moment, until Anne rises, bringing everyone to their feet, "Have physicians been summoned?"

"None shall attend, Majesty - they are too afraid of the contagion."

"Then summon the brothers of St Augustine and set them to work retrieving the sick and taking them to the Abbey's infirmary. Whatever cost is incurred in combating this sickness, I shall meet it. Go to! Quickly!"

She turns, and sees that her councillors are staring at her in wide-eyed horror - their fears seem not to be for themselves, but instead for her. They have brought her into a churning pit of sickness; what if she falls ill, too?

"Stop that, Gentlemen." She chides, crossly, "Now is not the time for dreading fears that may not come to pass - this must not be carried out into the city, or beyond. I refuse to run from this - should I do so then I shall truly be naught but a self-loving wanton. My child is safe at Whitehall - should I miscarry, then Sussex and Southampton can serve as Lords Protector in my stead. God's blood! We cannot sit upon our hands and do nothing!"

Her temper is sufficient to stir them to action; Cromwell turns to one of Anne's stewards, "Fetch in Mr Sadleir. We must make an inventory of what physics are available, how much space can be spared in the Abbey infirmary - and where else we can set the sick should any more fall ill. Move!"

The Steward flees, and Rich gathers the papers he brought with him, "I shall assist Ralph." Quickly he bows to the Queen and hastens out.

"I take it his intention is to settle himself as far away from the sick as possible?" Rochford asks, with a mild smile, "Not that I blame him for doing so if that is the case. He has beaten me to the line."

"Majesty," Cromwell turns to Anne, "I must ask you to remain within the walls of the Palace. Drink only wine, eat nothing that is not roasted or baked. If you have protective tinctures, then now is the time to use them."

"I shall not hide from this, Mr Cromwell." She snaps back, "Do not even attempt to demand it. The people without are my Subjects, and I am their Queen. I shall not sit to one side and leave them to suffer if I can aid them."

"Majesty - your daughter…"

"Shall be safe." She finishes, "If this is the true test of this pilgrimage, then I intend to meet it with courage and fortitude - as God demands of all Christians. You may either aid me, or stand aside."

In spite of the danger, he finds it in himself to smile, "I could not do so, Majesty. I am your foremost Minister - where you go, I shall follow."

"Then let us go into the Valley of the Shadow of Death."

"And fear no evil." He adds.

"For thou art with me." She finishes, "Come. Let us see what can be done."

"Yes Majesty." Rising, he follows her out.