A/N: Another week, another Friday. Another chapter! With dysentery winnowing its way through the gathering, and superstition thoroughly alive and well, Anne's intentions come up against a slight hitch; and some rather creative thinking will be required to overcome it...

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

A Sea of Anguished Faces

Ridley looks very worried, "The contagion is spreading, your Majesty. Another sixty have taken sick in the last day."

"How?" Rochford looks bemused, "How can this be so? Surely God is not angered at the dedication of pilgrims - even if it be misguided?"

Anne ignores him, there are far more important concerns, "And what of the infirmary - are the brothers able to accommodate so many?"

Ridley shakes his head, "More have presented themselves at the gatehouse of the Abbey than can be admitted, Majesty. The Brothers have emptied out a nearby barn and laid out pallets with straw, but even that is becoming overwhelmed, both by the sick, and by their loved ones."

Cromwell sighs; so many have come with their families in their determination to protect the shrine - and now they are paying for it with sickness. How it has happened, he cannot begin to guess; but that does not alter the fact that it has happened, and they must do what they can for the afflicted. He has already long learned that his Queen shall absolutely refuse to leave them without aid, and thus he must do what he can to assist her.

"If there is nothing else that can be done of a practical nature, then I shall withdraw to a quiet chamber to pray for those that are suffering. As soon as it is possible to do so, I wish to visit those who are afflicted, and offer what little comfort I can."

Her suggestion is met with a bank of horrified stares.

"Majesty - I cannot permit you do such a thing!" Cranmer is appalled, "What if you take sick?"

"Do you think I have not looked into the eyes of the almighty and thought myself soon to die from sickness, your Grace?" she counters, "Do not forget that I have endured the Sweat - and lived. If God is with me, and with us in our endeavours to reform His Church, then He shall protect me from this sickness."

"But what of foul humours in the air?"

"As I said, He shall protect me. I cannot sit here and hide from the suffering of my daughter's subjects. Am I not their mother? Have I not spent two years and more showing them that I look upon them with maternal love? For I do - they are dear to me as my own child, and I would give my own life for their protection! What example would I set to her Majesty my daughter if I hid myself away while her subjects suffered?

In spite of his worries at her foolishness, Cromwell cannot stop himself from feeling another surge of that now-familiar paternal pride. This is not his doing, of course: this tenacity is a part of Queen Anne, and has always been; but her determination to be the Queen that her own father claimed that she could not be governs her actions even now, and England is the better for it.

Except for one thing. One thing that no one present has considered.

"Majesty…"

"No, my Lord Treasurer, do not attempt to dissuade me. I must do this - for the sake of my daughter's subjects."

"I would not wish to do such a thing." He advises, gravely, "Instead I suggest that we take care. My concern is that this outbreak of sickness has coincided almost to the day with your arrival, and it would serve us most ill if it became known that this had occurred; for fear that those who have been afflicted claim that you are to blame for it. I think it best that we remove you from the Palace this night, and effect a more ostentatious arrival upon the morrow, so that your plans to aid your subjects are not damaged by claims that you are the cause of their sufferings. We are most fortunate in that our secrecy has served to enable our departure unseen."

"They would blame me for it." She sighs. It is not a question. She knows that her reputation is still stained in some quarters.

"Or perhaps claim that it is an affliction that has been set upon them by the saint for their failure to obey the Pope's Bull?" Rich adds, nervously, "If that is so, then we must indeed remove your Majesty from this place."

"And then return with much pomp to give the impression that you were not here at the time the sickness broke out. I suspect that many who have not been afflicted at this time shall flee overnight - though my fear is that they shall take the contagion with them in some manner - as has been seen before, so I would strongly advise that they not be permitted to do so until this has abated."

"And what then?" Anne asks, "Even were I to arrive aboard a golden chariot hauled by winged unicorns, I could not abate this sickness by my presence alone. No, if I am to do so, then there is no alternative. I must walk amongst the gathered pilgrims."

"Absolutely not, Majesty!" Cranmer's voice goes up in horror, "We know not how this sickness has arisen - what humours are amongst them; if you were to grow sick as they have done - what then for her Majesty the Queen?"

"She shall reign with her Council to advise her." Anne snaps back, angered at his fussing, "All of you within the walls of this chamber are my most trusted companions and advisers." Her eyes take them in, one by one, pausing for a considerable time upon Jane and Margery to include them in that august band, "Were I to falter, then I know that you shall endeavour to the ends of your lives to protect and prepare Elizabeth to rule. But I shall not falter - I place my trust in God, and so should you."

Cranmer rises and bows, "Forgive me, Majesty. My concerns for your welfare have overcome me somewhat. I shall advise that your entourage has departed in fear of the sickness, and thus recall the household servants as soon as you are gone."

"I thank you for those concerns, Mr Cranmer. I assure you that I do not enter into such a plan lightly. I can only offer my apologies that your staff shall be obliged to return to the palace rather sooner than they had expected." She turns to Cromwell, "Thus we must plan our next move. Set in motion the arrangements to remove the litter and horses this day after the midday meal, as though the lady is fleeing in fear. Ensure that the honour guard also follow in their drab garments. We shall follow after dark, as quietly as is possible. Mr Ridley, arrange with the grooms to muffle the hoofs of the horses."

"Yes Mr Treasurer."

"We shall assemble a mile east of Faversham, where the guards shall exchange their drab for their royal regalia, and we shall unfurl the royal standard. Then we shall arrive in Faversham as though we were travelling to Canterbury. Wait there for dawn, and continue on as though attending the site to address the Pilgrims - only to find them struck down with sickness."

He looks around the table at the approving nods, "That seems a goodly plan, Mr Cromwell." Rochford agrees, "I shall assist Mr Ridley in arranging for the departure of the litter and the soldiers - if you are in agreement, Majesty?"

Anne nods, "If we must engage in deception to prevent this matter from worsening, then so we shall. Do not think that I shall be willing to return to London if that is your intention."

Cromwell shakes his head, "No, Majesty. You are right to fear the dangers that shall befall your reign if you are seen either to have been here when the sickness struck, or are known to have fled from it. We shall regroup at Faversham and thus return here as a Royal party - and then, God willing, we shall be able to mitigate these dreadful circumstances."

She smiles at him, "Excellent."

Jane enters the Queen's chamber to see that Anne is upon her knees before the Sacrament, her lips moving silently as she prays for the welfare of the sick pilgrims beyond the Palace wall. A light meal lies nearby, untouched and cold, having presumably been set there while she was still at prayer - and she has not moved in all that time.

"Forgive me, Majesty. Mr Ridley asked me to advise you that the sickness has spread further. There are now nearly a hundred souls in the infirmary, and the barn. The brothers are looking for other places to settle the new arrivals at their gates."

Anne stares at her, helplessly; so many? Surely God cannot be angry with them for following their hearts - it cannot be a judgement. No - it is just an outbreak of sickness, something that seems to happen with dreadful regularity amongst those who are gathered close together. That is why the wealthy flee London in the summer, after all. Somehow the heat and proximity of a multitude always seem to lead to sickness eventually; though how that should happen, she cannot fathom. Presumably some exudation of a foul humour arising from the numbers of people present.

"I cannot remain here." She says, turning back to the cross and pair of candles before her to cross herself, before rising and stepping away from her prie dieu, "There must be something that we can do - perhaps if we were to enter the Church and approach the High Altar?"

"The crowds would see you, Majesty, surely? And the Brothers of the Cathedral would refuse to permit a woman to enter the presbytery." Jane looks worried at such an invasion.

"Mary was able to do so in St Albans. If I have the Archbishop with me, then they can hardly stand in my way. Fetch my Councillors. They shall accompany us."

"Yes, Majesty." She does not object, but bobs a curtsey, and flees.

"Madge." Anne calls through to Margery, who immediately comes through to her chamber, "Assist me. If I am to prostrate myself before the Almighty, I would wish to do so as a penitent, not as a Queen."

"Majesty?"

"Assist me, please." Anne is already attempting to remove her hood.

By the time the few members of her Council arrive, she is already outside her room, and they stare at her in shock. Her fine gown has been replaced by a simple, elegant dress of grey serge, while her hair is enclosed in the simple linen coif that had been beneath her ornate hood. Her only adornment now is a simple cross of silver that rests about her neck upon a silver chain.

"Gentlemen, I intend to prostrate myself before God's mercy at the seat of His English Church, in hopes that he shall aid the pilgrims that are suffering without. I should appreciate it if we made this journey as one united group."

"Do you require us to change?" Rochford asks, looking at her simple garb rather nervously.

She shakes her head, "There is no need. As the highest of us, it is incumbent upon me to approach our Father in the poorest state. Come."

Cranmer is waiting for them at the bottom of the large staircase that leads down from the upper floor to the entrance hall of the Palace, "Majesty, there is no need for you to leave the Palace. There is a way through to the Cloister from here, and I shall lead you to the high altar." He bows.

As they make their way along a corridor with a well polished wooden floor towards the door that shall lead them into the precincts of the great Church, Cromwell finds that he can hear no percussive thud of heels from the Queen's shoes, and realises that she is barefoot. Jesu - she is intent upon appearing as a penitent, in every respect.

There are a number of the brothers of the community present as Cranmer leads her down a short flight of steps and through a small doorway into the great cloister, a misty glow within thanks to the diffusion of the light coming in through the leaded windows. Walking before his Queen, he begins to speak, "I cried unto God with my voice, yea unto God cried I with my voice, and He heard me. In the time of my trouble, I sought the Lord. I held up mine hands unto Him in the night, for my soul refused all other comfort. When I was in heaviness, I thought upon God. When my heart was vexed, then did I speak. Selah. Thou heldest mine eyes waking, I was so feeble that I could not speak. Then remembered I the times of old, and the years that were past. I called to remembrance my song in the night. I communed with mine own ears and sought out my spirit. Will the Lord cast off forever? Will He be no more entreated? Is His mercy clean gone? Is His promise come utterly to an end for evermore? Hath the Lord forgotten to be gracious? Hath He shut up his loving kindness in displeasure? Selah. At the last, I came to this point, that I thought, 'oh why art thou so foolish?' The right hand of the most highest can change all. Therefore will I remember the works of the Lord and call to mind the wonders of old time. I will speak of all thy works, and my talking shall be of thy doings. Thy way o God, is holy: who is so great and mighty as God? Thou art the God that doth wonders. Thou hast declared thy power among the people. Thou with thine arm hast delivered thy people, even the sons of Jacob and Joseph. Selah. The waters saw thee, o God, the waters saw thee and were afraid. The depths were moved. The thick clouds poured out water, the clouds thundered and then arrows went abroad. Thy thunder was heard round about. The lightnings shone upon the ground. The earth was moved and shook with all. Thy way was in the sea, and thy paths in the great waters. Yet could no man know thy footsteps. Thou leadest thy people like a flock of sheep by the hand of Moses and Aaron."

She walks slowly, her head bowed, her hands clasped before her in prayer. Her ladies follow her, while Rochford walks to her left, Cromwell to her right, and Rich and Ridley bring up the rear.

None attempt to stop them; to the few brothers nearby, she is but a great lady come in penitence to offer prayers for those suffering without, and the small procession makes its way to the processional door that leads from the cloister into the north west transept. In spite of herself, Anne finds herself dwelling upon the irony - this very spot is the place where Becket was murdered by the four knights; and she is here to pray for the lives of those who aim to prevent her from having the saint's shrine dismantled.

No one attempts to stop them as they mount the steps from the transept into the nave, before turning east and making their way up more steps towards the richly carved and painted pulpitum. Such is her clothing that the Brothers within the church seem fearful to even approach her, and she passes through into the Quire without any to stand in her way.

They move between the stalls where the cloistered brothers would stand to pray, their grandly carved misericords folded up against the backs, while the grand canopies of entombed bishops lie end to end, almost forming a wall between the Quire and the side aisles, soaring up to the great clerestory windows that send brightly coloured lights to the flagstones at their feet.

Approaching the high altar, Cranmer bows deeply, and stands to one side as the small party follow. The four men stay at the foot of the sequence of six steps, while Anne and her ladies climb them, stopping before the cloth-draped table and its great crucifix.

She remembers another time when she did this, going down upon her knees, and then setting herself face down upon the floor, her arms outstretched in emulation of Christ crucified. Her prayers had been heard then - for Henry had lived; and, as she listens to the soft rustling of her women as they also prostrate themselves, she can only look to her faith that He shall listen once again, and spare those who are dying outside.

Behind them, upon his knees, Cromwell can hear a similar rustling as Ridley does the same as the Queen. He does not have to look back to know that Rich is looking at the Chaplain in mild horror, appreciating that he shall now be expected to do likewise. The Lord Privy Seal is a poor practitioner of penitence, after all - doing so only when he considers his own soul to be in peril. With no other course of action that he can think of that might work, however, Cromwell has no qualms in doing so, and before long, all four men, just like the women ahead of them, are prone upon the stone floor. Their supplications are to God - not to a pile of mouldering bones.

Ahead of them, Anne remains still, her thoughts upon the people outside, who have come here with such noble intentions, only to be punished with a cruel sickness. Spare them, Holy Father. Spare their lives, for they are but poor people with no means to know Your will but through the words of others. I shall walk among them as their servant, as did your Son - I swear to you upon my deepest heart that I shall do it, and I shall listen to their complaints as a kindly mother should.

She remains so for a half-hour or more, as Cranmer quietly prepares the sacramental bread and wine, for she is likely to require communion once she rises.

He is not surprised to find that he is right.

As they emerge from the great church back into the Palace, Anne turns to Cromwell, "See to it that we are ready to depart after dark. How far is it to Faversham?"

"Ten miles or so, Majesty."

She nods, "Then we shall go, and come back again - and work as God's instruments."

"Yes, Majesty."

There is not a soul in the street as the small party of riders emerges from the side gate, the clopping of the horses' hoofs muffled by straw wrapped in sacking bags upon each hoof and bound at the fetlock. While not silent, they make far less noise than they might have done, though the burghers of Canterbury keep their shutters tight, fearful of the contagion that all now know has spread amongst the visitors in the precincts of the cathedral church.

Once out of the town, however, the riders pause while a groom who has travelled with the party removes the bags and discards them. Out here, on unpaved tracks, the need for the grip of the shoes is too great to worry about the sound of the hoofbeats.

Riding to the fore, Cromwell is relieved that there is a bright moon tonight, for they have no other means of illumination, and he has no wish to risk any of the riders taking a fall upon the unmade road. Here and there, there are signs of attempts to prevent travellers carving the route into deep ruts - but in most places, people make do with oxen to drag their heavy wagons along the wide, earthen track that is optimistically called the Canterbury road.

Much as he would like to raise the pace, the risk is too great - though the distance is no hardship; they move at a gentle trot: no faster, and that should get them to the north east of Faversham in a mere brace of hours, where he has arranged to meet up with the guards and the litter alongside a farm that he noticed on the way south. Once they are reunited with the guards, he shall be much happier. While he is perfectly capable of firing the new-fangled wheel-lock pistol that hangs from his saddlebow, it has been many years since he has fired a weapon, and longer still since he has done so with the intention of taking another life. Rochford is also armed, as is Rich, though he has no idea if either man is able to shoot straight: it is his fervent hope that they shall not be obliged to find out.

Behind, dressed in drab clothing, Anne and Jane ride together, each looking ahead carefully to ensure that they do not steer their horses into a bad patch of ground. Margery travelled in the litter when it departed after their return from the Church, and waits with clothing more appropriate for a Queen to wear, but they are still travelling incognito, and thus it is essential that she remain unidentifiable.

She is aware that her tiny escort is armed, but equally hopes that the weaponry shall not be required. In spite of her more regular sorties from the palace these days, she remains ignorant of the degree of banditry upon England's roads. Fortunately, their pace is sufficient to deter any who might try, and they see no one until one of the guards of their escort emerges from a stand of trees to guide them back to the rest of the convoy.

Margery has not been idle while waiting for her Mistress to reach the small encampment, and a game pasty, with warmed cider, awaits her attention in the litter. There are equal portions for her companions, and they make a hasty meal as Anne changes into her finest clothes behind a roughly constructed fabric screen.

"There, Majesty." Jane carefully eases the hood back into place, "Now you are the very picture of Royalty."

Stifling a yawn as best she can, Anne cannot conceal her eagerness to settle down in the litter, for the journey to Faversham, while short, shall afford at least a little time to rest in comfort until they reach the inn that Mr Cromwell has doubtless already identified to house them for what remains of the night. She is grateful - it would not do for a regal woman to walk amongst anguished pilgrims to offer them succour if she is endlessly yawning.

The savoury aromas from the pasty are sufficient to prompt her to abandon her plan to sleep immediately, and she tears away small pieces of the filling, consuming them between sips of the spiced cider. Even though she is no longer prostrated upon the floor of the church, her thoughts still linger upon the people who have been struck down by sickness. How they can combat it, she has no idea, for none know how it came amongst them, or how it is that it moves from one victim to another. Lord have mercy, she does not even know how it is affecting them - do they have pustules? Or, worse, those dreadful black lumps of the plague, or the drowsiness of the Sweat…

Holy Father - I beseech you…bring down mercy upon the heads of our poor subjects. Make me an instrument of Your Will. I do it not for my benefit, but in Your name.

She shudders a little, realising that there would once have been a time when she, as much as her late husband, would have fled from contagion and sought to avoid it at all costs. Henry certainly did so the last time the Sweat struck England a glancing blow - though she had been less fortunate, for her flight had only carried her towards the sickness, not away from it. Now, however, she must not. Even were she not bound by a determination to be a great Queen, and set an example to Elizabeth, the compassion that she has always carried in her heart refuses to permit it. A compassion that, she is now willing to admit, did not extend to Mary - for which even now she harbours regrets - but present nonetheless.

"No. I do not do it to curry favour with those who would malign me." She mutters to herself, firmly, "I do it for my daughter's subjects."

Oh, those who speak ill of her shall still claim that to be so: there is no avoiding that. But she shall remind them that Christ, despite being a greater King than any King upon the earth, had walked amongst the people as their servant, and that should be the exemplar for Princes.

It is not, of course - but it should be. Let that old buzzard Pope Paul stick that in some unmentionable place - for she does not doubt for a moment that he would never be seen to serve any other.

Sealing the flask so that the cider does not spill, she leans back amongst the pillows and drowses, accompanied by the soft clopping of hoofs, and the light burr of conversation from beyond.

"Rubbing at your knee shall not make that stain upon your hose depart, Mr Rich." Rochford jokes, "Such is the price of penitence."

"I have no doubt that to do so was good for my soul, if not for my garments." Rich mutters back, though he does not sound overly irked at the damage to his clothing, "I have not done so since I was a boy."

"Then it is most definitely good for your soul." Cromwell adds. She can hear the smile in his voice.

"You are, of course, assuming that I have one."

Her eyelids are drooping, and the last she hears before sleep claims her is the sound of their quiet laughter.

To look at him, most would have not the first idea that Cranmer has already welcomed the royal party to his Palace, for he gives the impression of being surprised at the column's approach, "Your Majesty - forgive me, I was not expecting you; but I must beseech you not to go through the gatehouse. There is a contagion beyond."

With everyone now dressed in their finest clothing, the few people who dare to approach the Christchurch Gate of the Cathedral Precinct would not even guess that one of the men who rides with the escort rode through that same gate but two days back. Cromwell was not dressed in velvet and sable then, nor was he wearing that fine collar of esses. It is always the garments that people notice first, rather than the face of the one who wears them.

Leaning through the curtains of the litter, Anne affects a shocked face, "Contagion, your Grace? May God have mercy upon them! I cannot remain without - please allow me through."

"The Brothers of the Abbey and of St Augustine's are caring for the sick, Majesty - but the sickness seems to show no sign of abating. I beg you not to proceed."

"Then at least allow me to meet with those who are not sick, or who have recovered." She insists, "Captain, please fetch the steps so that I may alight."

From his horse Cromwell can hear a ripple of excitement spreading amongst those who have gathered, for the Queen Regent intends to walk amongst them. To most, royalty is a remote institution at best, and the most they could expect is to see a distant figure upon horseback, or closed litter such as the one that stands before them, harnessed between two black rounceys. Now, however, the Queen, a Prince of England chosen and anointed by God, shall walk amongst them. He smiles to himself as people start to straighten their doublets, or fuss with their coifs in an attempt to look presentable. Given what her Majesty was wearing yesterday as she walked into the Church, he has no doubt that she cares not one fig how untidy they are.

Today, she is dressed in a heavy overgown of brocaded satin in a rich crimson hue over an ivory kirtle, while her jewels are restrained, but only to a degree that suggests a sober and chaste manner and countenance. The filthiness of the ground has obliged her to don a pair of red-painted pattens to protect her embroidered satin shoes, while her woollen cloak is also crimson, trimmed with ermine, and a pair of fine, kid-leather gloves enclose her hands, the cuffs extending past her wrists over her sleeves. She could not have created a more regal image if she had tried.

"Good people!" She pauses upon the steps from her litter, "I thank you - I had come to meet with the pilgrims who came here, and assure them that their beloved saint is not in danger of destruction - but instead I am advised that there is now sickness amongst them, and thus I have come - no longer to meet them, but to serve them as best I can, for they are my daughter's dear subjects, and her thoughts are with them, as are mine."

She can hear whisperings, as people take in her words. Do they believe she shall do it? Slowly, her eyes take in the faces before her, and she knows that they do. It seems that her determination to be Mr Cromwell's 'Mother of the Realm' has taken root.

Now, of course, she must prove it.

Stepping down with the assistance of Rochford, she pauses to allow some of the people to approach, speaking a few words here and there, submitting to the wish of some to simply reach out and lay a hand upon her, "God's blessing be upon you all, dear people. Forgive me - but I must see to the comfort of those who have been afflicted."

None of the townsfolk are keen to follow her as she departs for the gate. Cranmer is also wringing his hands, "Majesty - I really do think it unwise to…"

"Of course it is. But was it not unwise for our Lord to make his way to Jerusalem, where those who might destroy him were quartered? Did that give him cause to stay his hand?"

"No, Majesty - of course not, but…"

"At least permit me to pass through the gate. If it is clear that I cannot continue in safety, then we shall reconsider the route I shall take." She assures him, "How many remain?"

"Most, Majesty." He admits, "The City Aldermen demanded that the gates to the precincts be locked and barred, so that none could flee into the streets. All know that many who have fled sicknesses have carried those humours with them - a humour that has enclosed them, no doubt - and thus they have prevented all within from leaving."

Even as they approach the gate, she can smell it; a vile reek of the foulest of extrusions of nightsoil. Did not someone mention the bloody flux? Perhaps it is so - though she cannot say with any certainty, for she has no understanding of sicknesses.

A tall, exhausted-looking man in a Benedictine habit, looking drawn and with a very grey complexion is awaiting them as they approach the closed rear-gates, "Forgive me, but I must ask you not to proceed further - it is a truly dreadful sight beyond."

"I have given birth to a child, Sir." Anne counters, "I have seen dreadful sights. I give you my word that, if what lies beyond is too great a risk to traverse, then I shall not do so."

There are footsteps behind her, and she turns slightly to see that Cromwell has come through to join them - though she is not at all surprised that he is the only one. "You do not have to accompany us, Mr Treasurer."

"Perhaps not. But I shall, nonetheless."

She does not answer, but a deep sense of relief courses through her; she shall not have to face this horror alone, then. No matter how well she knows the Archbishop, she does not trust him as greatly as she does the man at her back.

His expression grim, the tall man turns to unlatch the gate, "Be wary, your Majesty - there is no knowing what vile humours are in the air."

"I am ready."

And then he opens the gate, and she knows that she is not.

"Why does she intend to risk herself so?" Rich is staring at the gathering of people shadowed by the gatehouse, "Surely this is too great a concession to our intent to establish her as 'mother of the Realm'?"

"You do not know her as I do, Mr Rich." Rochford advises, "She has always been stubborn - I can offer endless testimony to that; but she has also understood the importance of duty to others. She is a woman, after all; and all women are expected to conform to the requirements of duty, are they not?"

"Even to this extent?"

"In her case? Yes, I think so." In spite of himself, Rochford is obviously proud of his sister, "She has never feared danger." He pauses, and sighs, "Unlike her brother."

"I cannot criticise, my Lord; I, too, remain here while she has stepped forth." Rich admits, embarrassed.

"Ah well." Rochford muses, "If we are to remain behind like two cowards, perhaps we can escape the worst of our deserved opprobrium by making ourselves useful. Let us see to transferring her Majesty's train to the precincts of the palace."

The sound of clopping hoofs touches only briefly upon Anne's consciousness as she takes in the ghastly scene set before her in the Cathedral precincts. The stench is abominable, utterly insupportable. People are sitting in huddled groups, well spaced apart for fear of becoming sick thanks to an outbreak amongst their near neighbours; but all are bedraggled, silent and afraid.

"God have mercy…" Even had she not engaged in a minor deception, Anne could not have been any less appalled by the sight, "What is being done to aid these poor people?"

"We have removed the obviously sick to the infirmaries of the Abbey and the Cathedral; but they have no more room, so we have secured a large barn for the newer victims." The thin man answers.

"Have there been deaths?" Of course there have - but doubtless there have been many more between her departure and return.

"Yes, Majesty - at least twenty in the last three days. The sick are afflicted with fever, pains and the most dreadful effusions of stools that are liquid and foul-smelling; while others also vomit - some even vomiting blood. We have tried all that we can think of - wormwood, mint, balm…but nothing does any good. Instead, the effusions continue, and most fade and die in dreadful agonies and weakness."

"But not all die?" Anne asks, hopefully.

"A few have lived - but even now they are still weak. We have removed them from the infirmaries into a small house used for visiting clergy."

"And those who are not sick?"

"They remain here, for it was our greatest fear that they might become imbued with evil humours, and carry those humours with them should they depart - we have texts in our library that tell that the black death followed those who fled from it, and afflicted communities that it had not previously touched. How that it did so, we cannot say - whether it was foul humours within those who came to the communities, or they acted to infect them through the application of some poison or other - but the townsfolk wish to confine the sick within these walls for fear of becoming equally sick."

She looks back across that sea of anguished faces looking towards her. Even if they cannot recognise her face, her garments identify her as though a great flag were atop her head. None but someone Royal would wear such garments of this.

"Come." She steps forth, to Cranmer's obvious consternation, as he attempts to stop her with a nervously flapping hand.

"Remain here, your Grace." Cromwell advises, as though making a firm request, "See to the accommodation of her Majesty's train."

"I…" Cranmer looks at Anne's retreating back helplessly, "Mr Cromwell, I do not think it wise…"

"Perhaps not - but if her Majesty can offer succour to her subjects in their time of trial, then she wishes to do so." He considers it unwise just as Cranmer does, but he knows not to stand in the Regent's way. Instead he sets off in her wake. His clothing, including his boots and gloves, can be burned before he enters the Palace if need be.

Already, she is approaching a small huddle of people, a man, his wife and his two children. God above, why did the man bring his entire family? Her eyes meet those of the mother - wide orbs filled wth anguished concern of the two babes that she has carried into a place of horror. Their only shelter is a large expanse of canvas supported with two sticks driven into the ground to provide an open front. Perhaps that has protected them - though they are all grubby and not a little dampened by the chill of dew that they cannot warm away as they have no means to build a fire.

"Where have you come from?" She asks, crouching as best she can in her fine garments so that she is at a level closer to theirs.

"Tenterden, Ma'am." The man answers, "I am a dockworker at Smallhythe."

"What stirred you to come here?"

"To protect the saint, Ma'am." He answers, as though that is the answer to all things, "It was noised about that he was to be thrown upon a fire and his shrine taken down."

Ah. The power of rumour. Yes, the shrine is to be closed, but she would never even consider the thought of burning the bones of Becket. For all her fervour for reform, and her loathing of relicry, the destruction of a human skeleton would be an insult to the Almighty, who made that once-living man. But, alas, these unfortunate people believe that such a thing is not only possible, but likely.

"Have you, or any of your family, taken sick, good sir?"

He stares at her. No one, at any time in his life, has referred to him as 'sir', "No, Ma'am. But they do not let us go."

"Mr Treasurer." She decides it would not be wise to refer to Cromwell by name - not when he is reviled as the architect of all of this, "Speak to the Abbey's Infirmarer; if the people have not taken sick, then they should be examined to be sure that they are free of contagion, and then permitted to go. Provide a sum of monies to them before they depart in order to see them safely home."

He bows, "Yes, Majesty."

She turns back to the family, who are looking at her in near wonderment. Even though her garb would have made it clear to them that she was royal, to have her identity confirmed has silenced them - the Queen has come amongst them…the Queen.

"I could not have abjured you, good people." She says, quietly, "I, too, am a mother." Rising, she pauses briefly and gently ruffles the hair of each child.

Matters grow worse the further in they progress. Some are clearly showing signs of taking sick, and both the thin man and Cromwell attempt to guide her away, and become ever more uncomfortable as she seems quite determined not to do so. She does not get too close - but equally does not give them a suitably wide berth. Instead she turns back to the thin man, "Call the brothers to come through again and seek out those in need of aid. Ensure that those who examine the people who are well are not the same as those who aid the sick, in case their garments are imbued with foul humours."

She sounds so completely calm, as though this seeming calamity is little more than a minor incident that can be easily mended. Standing behind her, his nervousness increasing by the minute, Cromwell cannot help but admire her demeanour, as it is clearly affecting the people who are camped all around. Henry could never have done this; rather than approaching the pilgrims, he would probably have instead been travelling in entirely the opposite direction. In almost all situations, his courage would be unimpeachable - but sickness, particularly potentially mortal sickness, was his deepest, most primal fear, and nothing could persuade him to do what Anne is doing.

After nearly an hour, during which time she has made a near-circuit of the encamped pilgrims, one of the priests that had been a part of the crowd approaches. As they could not have fled, the others must be either tending to the sick, or are sick themselves.

"Your Majesty." His tone is frosty. She is, after all, the figurehead of reformation, and - to his mind, at least - an enemy of the True Faith.

"Father." It is hard not to respond in kind, but there are lives at stake, and it does not do to be petty. She made that mistake with Mary, and still regrets her actions, "I thank you for your attentions granted to these poor people. Are there others here?"

"Six." He admits, though his tone is less hostile now, "Three are dead, one is dying and the other two are aiding the brothers in the infirmary." No - the hostility has indeed faded. Instead, he sounds very, very tired.

"Let us not be at odds with one another, Father." She rests her hand upon his sleeve, "Not while innocents suffer. As you are a father to them, so I am a mother, and we must work together to aid them." If nothing else, this, too shall serve to show her commitment to the proclamation of religious settlement. Even if they opt to retain the shrine once this horror is ended.

"I shall retire to the Archbishop's palace to rest from my journey awhile. I ask you to work with this gentleman upon seeking out those who have not fallen sick, and removing them from this place to the care of the Greyfriars alongside the Stour. Once they are known to be safe, I shall arrange for them to receive a purse of monies each to aid them in their journeys back to their homes. Those amongst them who have led this pilgrimage - who are either not sick, or who have not died - should remain here, and I shall meet with them when this calamity has passed, to assure them that the bones of St Thomas shall not be treated with disrespect."

Behind her, Cromwell shakes his head at his woolly headedness - how is it that he did not think to transfer those who had not taken sick to the Franciscan House? It remains open at this time, and yet it did not occur to him to consider it. Surely he is not growing slow-witted in his growing age? She turns to see his expression, and smiles at him.

"Come, Mr Treasurer, let us retire to the Palace - I should appreciate it if you could begin making the arrangements to provide the purses to the departing pilgrims."

He bows, "Yes Majesty."

Cranmer looks most relieved, "Thanks be to God that you are here, Majesty - forgive my fears, but your health and welfare are of greater importance to the realm than you claim. Heaven forbid that you be lost so soon."

"I am quite well, Mr Cranmer. Have no concerns for my safety." Anne is carefully removing the cloak, and easing off the gloves, "Have these burned, in case they have absorbed any unpleasant humours."

He nods, and summons a boy from the stables, "Fetch a large sack, these garments shall be placed within it, and then set it upon a bonfire."

"Do not forget the pattens." She adds, having carefully eased them from her shoes. She turns to Cromwell, her expression pointed, and he sighs, shrugging out of his own cloak, and bending to remove his boots before equally removing his gauntlets. Such a waste…

"Better that than sickness within the Palace, Mr Cromwell." she smiles at him, as he is obliged to limp over thick gravel unshod.

Ridley returns as Anne and her Councillors seat themselves for supper, "I have set all in motion, Majesty. Brother Luke and Father Christopher are gathering those amongst the pilgrims who have not taken sick, while one of the Friars, a Brother Michael, has come to escort them to the Friary."

"Good." Cromwell looks relieved, "Forgive my slowness, Majesty - it had not occurred to me that we should evacuate those who were not sick to other quarters."

She smiles at him, then turns back to Ridley, "Ensure that they remain there for a few days, to ensure that the sickness has not travelled with them."

"That should grant me sufficient time to accumulate the required funds for the stipends, Majesty." Cromwell agrees, "If you could aid me, Mr Rich?"

Rich nods, relieved to have something useful to do that does not involve going anywhere near sick people.

"At least we can remove some people from this dire situation." Cranmer agrees, "Perhaps with fewer people present, the sickness might abate."

"Then we can identify those who inspired this gathering," Anne adds, as a steward oversees the delivery of the dishes, "And perhaps find a solution that shall be acceptable to all."

Taking a sip of wine, Cromwell sighs to himself. Given the absolute divergence of opinions that shall be at that table, a solution seems entirely unlikely.