A/N: And it's Friday again! Thank you, as always, for your comments; Appirinia - your weekly wait is at an end...

Being safely behind walls, and with a clean water source, Anne and her party are not at risk of contracting the sickness as it's a water-borne disease - so there's no danger of anyone falling ill at Canterbury; I promise! Now that the sickness is on the wane, however, it's time to decide what to do from this point on; and Anne has another lesson to learn about ruling a kingdom.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The Bones of Becket

Looking out from his window, high up on the second floor, Cromwell can see that the number of people camping within the boundaries of the precincts has reduced considerably, thanks to the Queen's request that the unaffected be removed to the care of the Greyfriars. Why did he not think of it? The Franciscans have been greeting and caring for arriving pilgrims for as long as pilgrims have attended the city - and it did not occur to him to seek out their aid. Damnation - his zeal for reform has blinded him to the need for practicality - how could he have become so utterly blinkered?

Annoyed with himself, he reaches for his simarre and shrugs into it, in preparation to traverse that dreadful ground again, in search of those who can be called the leaders of the gathering that dissolved so horribly into calamity, so that the Regent can meet with them, and hopefully aim to find some common ground. For his own preference, he would have the shrine closed, and the bones removed - but to do that would utterly overturn all their work to present England's present ruler in a maternal light. Thus he must bite his tongue and stand to one side as Queen Anne takes the time to ascertain what compromises can be made - for they must compromise, whether he likes it or not.

Rich is downstairs in one of the smaller chambers, sipping at a glass of sack and working his way through some papers, "There have been no new people struck down, Mr Cromwell." He reports, looking up as his colleague enters, "Though I am told that another twelve have died overnight. While the sickness is abating, it remains virulent amongst those that it has struck."

Cromwell sits opposite him, "What of those at Greyfriars?"

"There are some fifty people - but the brothers have set them well apart from one another, and are taking great care to ensure that they are fed clean victuals, and that the ale is untainted."

"Do we expect to see any more?"

"Not at this time." Rich reaches across for another paper, "I have made some calculations as to the total monies we shall need to cover the stipends."

Cromwell smiles, knowing that he has done so out of a sense of mild guilt at his unwillingness to walk amongst the afflicted as the Regent did. Rochford has been just the same, organising the guards, the horses and the storage of the litter while they are resident at the Palace, as well as ensuring that messengers are available to communicate with the rest of the Council.

"Thank you. I shall make a start upon accumulating the required funds - though I shall require your assistance to apportion it accordingly."

The door opens to reveal Anne, causing the two men to rise immediately to their feet and bow, "I am told that matters are improving without?"

"Yes, Majesty." Rich reports, "While those who are sick remain poorly affected, there have been no new victims this day."

She sighs with relief, "God be thanked. Are you ready to seek out those with whom we shall negotiate, Mr Cromwell?"

Cromwell nods, "I am. I believe his Grace shall also be with us. Brother Luke has spent sufficient time among those who came here to aid us in identifying those who are likely to have acted as leaders."

"Good. It is clear that we must consider our approach to this matter with great care. It would seem most wrong of me to claim that I listen to our subjects, only to ignore their concerns when they are raised."

"Yes, Majesty."

"But?" she asks. Only a fool would have missed the presence of a 'but' in that simple acquiescence.

He looks embarrassed, "Forgive me, Majesty - but if we are to compromise upon this matter, then what shall follow for the reformation as a whole? Should it become known that decisions to close the Houses, or to undertake any other reforms, can be halted by the mere movement of people, then what is to stop those who oppose you from doing precisely that in order to overturn your will?"

She shakes her head, smiling at him, "Mr Cromwell, I said that I would not ignore their concerns - not that I would bow to them. I have no intention of permitting these moribund institutions to continue to operate as they are; but if we cannot close them entirely, then they must be obliged to amend their purpose. They shall become schools, their infirmaries shall be opened to more than only the cloistered occupants. The relics that they contain shall be removed, yes - but we shall take care to ensure that they are treated with respect. Compromise must be reached by both sides, not merely by one."

The two men both look somewhat sheepish. So used are they to a King who will not compromise for fear of looking weak, they are still utterly unprepared for a Queen who is entirely willing to do so, and appears to see it not as a weakness, but as a strength.

"Forgive me, Majesty." Cromwell sighs, "I fear that I am becoming blinded by age."

"There is nothing to forgive, Mr Cromwell." She smiles at him, sweetly, "You can hardly be blamed for being a man, can you?"

"Indeed, Majesty."

Her expression becomes more serious, "Forgive me, Gentlemen, I must ask you both to accompany me, as it is my intention to identify those who have been at the forefront of this pilgrimage."

Rich blanches. He has not left the protection of the Palace boundary, and has no wish to risk exposure to the humours that have made people sick beyond it, "Majesty, I…"

Anne shakes her head, "I appreciate your discomfort, Mr Rich - but I must attend with both of my most senior advisers. Much as I have jested upon it, the fact remains that I am a woman, and I suspect that I shall be more acceptable as a negotiator if I present myself with a brace of gentlemen to speak with me."

Her tone is sympathetic: they all know that he is hardly the bravest of the men at her Council table.

"Forgive my cowardice, Majesty." He says, in a low voice, clearly ashamed.

"Cowardice is a refusal to face one's fears, is it not?" She reminds him, "Thus you can demonstrate to all that you are no coward."

Still nervous, he rises to his feet, "Yes, Majesty."

She rewards him with a radiant smile, "Thank you, Mr Rich. Gentlemen, shall we?"

The Monks' refectory of St Augustine is silent but for the words of the reader in his pulpit, and the soft movement of fabric as arms are raised and lowered, conveying spoonfuls of lentil stew to the mouths of the brothers. There was a time when there would have been many more black-robed men in this grand space; but, nonetheless, there are still a goodly number of diners seated below an exquisitely vaulted ceiling, listening to a verse from the scriptures as they eat, bathed in multicoloured light from fine stained glass. To Anne's eye, it seems that only the food and clothing depict poverty; the rest is a grand exhibition of unnecessary wealth.

While it could be claimed that such magnificence is appropriate to celebrate the contemplation of the Almighty, the fact remains that a simpler building could have been erected for the brothers, while the rest of the monies could have been spent upon relieving the misery of the poor. Once, perhaps, that would have been so - but the accumulation of wealth has corrupted the Church, and the demand for reform seems far more justified when that distance from the original intention is shown to her in such detail.

They do not join the meal, instead sitting quietly in finely upholstered chairs until the brothers rise and file out, leaving but two novices to clear away the plates. The Abbot, a choleric man with an aquiline nose and unnervingly flinty eyes, approaches them, his expression one of reluctant tolerance rather than courtesy. While most that they have encountered seem to have accepted that their house's time is done, this one is not so accommodating, "Follow me, we shall meet in my Solar."

She remains seated, her eyes cold, "I shall remain where I am until I am greeted with the appropriate proprieties, your Grace."

He scowls, then rearranges his features to hide it, "If you would care to follow me, your Majesty," he grates, almost spitting out the words he has no wish to speak, "we shall meet in my Solar."

She smiles then, and rises, "Thank you. I should appreciate that."

Once, when such places still performed something akin to a religious purpose within the communities that surrounded them, Abbots would share the quarters of the Monks; but, just as Bishops opted to build themselves grand palaces to entertain those of high estate, so Abbots chose to create lavish apartments for themselves - and there are few Houses now that do not have separate lodgings for those who are at their head.

These are a fine example of the aggrandisement of those who are supposedly avowed to serve; beech wainscoting upon the walls, finely woven carpets across the wooden floors instead of rushes, even two tapestries. The fact that they show scenes from the Gospels does not detract from their obvious expense. Even the ceiling shows signs of expensive craftsmanship: a find oaken hammerbeam roof not that dissimilar to those of the Halls of Westminster, Hampton or Whitehall, with angels upon the trusses, each bearing a shield with the arms of families that have donated to the Abbey. All paid for by the desperation of rich sinners hoping to buy themselves a place in Heaven after a life of dissipation. Anne struggles with herself not to show her disgust. Not all those who are at the head of religious houses are so wedded to luxury - but those who are, seem to have embraced it wholeheartedly.

The Abbot leads them through to a smaller chamber, whose wide east window still brings in a degree of illumination from the sun, "Please remain here, your Majesty." It seems no easier to speak those words now than it was the first time, "Brother Luke shall bring through those to whom you wish to speak."

His bow is as shallow as he can make it without appearing unforgivably ill mannered, and he withdraws.

"Thanks be to God that he shall not be negotiating with us." Anne mutters, crossly, "Were he to do so, I fear that this institution would be the property of the Crown before the day was out."

"As I understand it," Rich's voice is low, "He was very strongly for Mary's claim, and was known to have preached extensively to any who would listen that only she could rule the Realm, for she was not a Godless harlot with an equally sin-stained bastard."

"And I thought that I was an unforgivable eavesdropper." Cromwell adds, with that studied blandness that always accompanies a deadpan remark.

Fortunately, he does not return alongside Brother Luke, who looks considerably less grey and tired now, thanks to a night of sleep without interruption. He escorts a small group of men, some of whom have clearly emerged from the sickness, though a few seem to have escaped it.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." Anne's voice is the soul of gentility, "Please, let us be seated at this table. Brother Luke, could I trouble you for some claret?"

"I shall see to it, Majesty." Unlike the Abbot, Luke has seen her behaviour amongst the sick, and does not regard her with the same degree of loathing.

As they seat themselves, Cromwell regards the five men, and his eyebrows shoot up, "Sir Adrian?"

The man he is addressing could not look less of a knight - he is thin and grey-faced, his garments of remarkably poor aspect, utterly unlike those that he once wore in Henry's Court.

"Mr Cromwell." The man responds, quietly, his voice as pale and drained as his complexion. He has clearly not been up from his sickbed for more than a day, if that, "How strange that we should meet in such circumstances."

"Most strange indeed." Cromwell turns to Anne, "Allow me to introduce Sir Adrian Fortescue, a knight of St. John of Jerusalem…"

"I know him, Mr Treasurer," Anne smiles at him, "He is my father's cousin. Are you recovering apace, Sir Adrian?"

His breathing is slow, and a little heavy, as though enduring mild nausea, "I am rather better than I look, Majesty. I remain slightly discomfited in my stomach, but the pains and other mortifications have subsided."

The other men at the table are unknown to her, being priests and monks, and Cromwell turns to enquire as to their identities.

"I am Richard Whiting, Abbot of the Abbey at Glastonbury." The man is tall, and wears the black habit of a benedictine, "This is John Thorne, one of my Brothers in Christ."

She nods, politely.

"John Eynon." A third offers, tersely, "Priest of St Giles in the town of Reading. I came in place of Abbot Faringdon."

Then she turns to the last, who looks as ghostly as Fortescue, "John Beche, Abbot of Colchester Abbey."

Anne regards each of them in turn, her face now sympathetic, "Gentlemen, I am most grieved that so noble a purpose brought about such suffering to so many. I regard all of her Majesty's subjects as equal in my heart as my own child; and I hope greatly that we have - between us - ensured that no more shall be so cruelly afflicted."

"What shall happen to those who are at the Greyfriars?" Whiting asks, clearly expecting them to have been arrested.

"They have remained for two days to ensure that none fall sick. When it can be assured that they have not, they shall be free to return to their homes, with a small purse of monies to aid their travels." Cromwell advises, calmly, "They have committed no crime."

"And what of those who remain?" Brother Luke asks, "What little succour we can supply is growing short - for the townsfolk seem to have hardened their hearts against those who suffer amongst them."

"Purchase all physics, cordials and victuals that you can find, Brother Luke. I shall bear the cost of it from my own pocket."

"Thank you, Majesty."

She smiles at him. It is hardly a cost that shall bankrupt her, after all - the sick need the monies more than she.

"I am glad that you have seen fit to offer such charity, your Majesty." Whiting seems to have decided that he shall be the foremost voice amongst them all - perhaps because he is the most prominent of them that is not recovering from sickness, "But nonetheless, we shall remain to protect the shrine of St Thomas."

"Even though those who followed your call - it was your call, I take it?" Cromwell interjects, "Even though they followed you, they became sick, and so many died? I understand that those who passed were - perforce - granted only the meanest of funeral rites, and hastily interred with lime in deep pits. Surely it would have been better to address your concerns to her Majesty directly?"

"And you would have allowed her to hear us?" Whiting counters.

"He would, sir." Anne answers, frostily, "The men of her Majesty's council guide me - they do not command me."

The five men shift uncomfortably in their chairs - it could not be clearer that they had emerged from their Houses and roused the people in the false belief that it was the only fashion in which their voices would be heard. It seems that, in spite of all, she is still regarded as a pretty face with an empty head that wears sparkling jewels while the men rule England in her stead. Perhaps there was a time when Mr Cromwell might have attempted to prevent ill news reaching her ears; but that would have been a time before he made his promises to her to be an honest, frank adviser who would never keep things from her.

Her expression warms again, "But let us not dwell upon what is past. This matter is of concern to you, and thus it is also of concern to me. Let us consider the problem together - and, with God's help - reach a solution that shall serve for the good of England and her Church."

Diplomatic words - carefully put. Seated beside his Queen, Cromwell remains impassive, but he is pleased. At least they have made the first steps; though it shall, nonetheless, be a hard thing to overturn their objections. A challenge indeed.

He loves challenges.

The walk back to the Palace is an uncomfortable one for Rich, as the presence of people who are either sick, or recovering, is altogether closer than he would like. How it is that the Queen, and the Treasurer, seem so unaffected by the presence of contagion, he cannot imagine, but he hopes fervently that they do not notice how carefully he attempts to avoid stepping too close to anyone.

Anne, however, is pleased to see the vastly reduced numbers of people present - as the larger number are now transferred safely to the Greyfriars where they are encamped in a great field alongside the Stour. As soon as the stipends are ready, they shall be free to depart. Only those who cannot be moved remain, and thus the ghastly conditions that so shocked her when she first stepped amongst the crowds of pilgrims are becoming better as the Brothers set to work upon removing abandoned canvas, clothing and other items left by those who have either fled, or died. They wear thick gauntlets, kerchiefs at their faces that enclose pouches of herbs and spices to purify the air that they breathe, and carry handfuls of detritus to a bonfire, consigning the fragments of shattered lives to the embrace of the flames.

Her happiness fades as she watches that sad, pitiful procedure. They had all come here with such simple intentions - to protect a pile of dust-thick bones in the belief that a skeleton could protect them from the brutalities of life. She had believed that, once. Her nurse had taught her of the power of relics just as they had prayed the Rosary together. Child that she was, she believed it all, willingly, openly. Only later, once she began to question the very ethos of a Church that had become bloated with wealth and a sense of its own power, did she come to realise that true Heavenly power comes only from God, not from the mouldering remains of people who believed in Him even unto death.

How can she expect the poor peasantry of England to equally question the power of the Church if they have never been taught that they need to? They cannot read the words of Luther, or of English writers who have followed his lead; or even God's Holy Word - the only means they have of studying the scriptures is to be taught by priests. Doubtless, they expected Becket to protect them in their venture; only to find that he did not.

"Are you alright, Majesty?" Cromwell turns to her, seeing the paleness of her face, "If it is too much, please say so - we can return to the Archbishop's Palace until you are recovered."

She shakes her head, "No, Mr Cromwell; I am quite well - just saddened. Why did this happen? The people who came here did so with such faith - only for it to be shattered."

They stop, as one of the gloved brothers lifts a roughly made wooden horse; presumably a precious toy belonging to a child who travelled with their family. In an instant, her heart cries out, as though that lost child was the one that was once in her womb, and she steps forth, reaching for it, "No…not that."

The brothers, stare at her, shocked, and one of them backs away, "Majesty, I cannot - it has been amongst the sick - and we cannot know what humours have tainted it."

"I…" she stares at it, her eyes now glassy with tears, "Why did this have to happen? Why did little ones have to die like this? How could the Father let them fall sick as they did?"

For a moment the men around her stare in shock as she weeps in grief, horrified at her sudden loss of composure, as none of them dare to reach out to her, for she is a Queen. She stands alone, wracked with painful sobs, until someone gently slips an arm about her shoulders, "I have lost children, as have you, Majesty. Come, let your tears fall upon my shoulder."

Cromwell does not fear to comfort her, for who would think anything of it other than paternal kindness - particularly as they can hardly be considered to be alone. To his relief, Rich comes to stand alongside, his own expression saddened - a countenance that he has never before seen upon his colleague's face, "As have I, Majesty." He says, after a moment, his voice equally choked.

Her tears do not last long - for no one can cry forever. Slowly, she lifts her head from her Lord Treasurer's shoulder, "Forgive me. Please - I know what must be done, continue your work, Brothers."

Even so, as the monk carries that small wooden horse to the bonfire, she watches him with chilled, anguished eyes - and turns away as he makes to cast it into the flames.

They resume their slow walk back to the Palace, stepping carefully amongst the abandoned remains of people's possessions. Her eyes are narrowed now; angry, "If any can claim that the contents of a grave can protect them, then surely this must show them otherwise."

"We cannot be sure of that, Majesty." Cromwell advises her, quietly, "Until we have spoken to the men who served as figureheads for this gathering, and learned the thoughts of those who are now at the Greyfriars, it is impossible to know."

"You think that they might believe they have been punished for some failure or other?"

"It is impossible to know." He says again, "There is no accounting for superstition."

"As I have found for myself," She agrees, "thanks to the astrologers who assured me that Elizabeth was a boy. I am no longer so convinced of the efficacy of predictions courtesy of the night sky."

"Then we shall meet again with the delegation, and determine Becket's future upon the morrow."

Cromwell nods, and bows without even breaking step, and the Queen and her advisers make their way back to their lodgings for the night.

Whiting is standing beside the window of the Abbot's solar, his eyes distant, "And the last have now departed?"

Anne nods, "They have, your Grace. All have received a purse each, containing five shillings in order to pay for food and lodgings as they return to their homes. The Greyfriars have ensured that they are all provisioned for the first days of their journeys."

"Thank you, your Majesty." Whiting's voice is conflicted, as though he wishes to believe the worst about her, but is being obliged to amend his view, "Has this come from the Treasury?"

"No, your Grace." Cromwell advises, "It has come solely from her Majesty's own pocket." He has been most careful to ensure that her wishes upon that point have been respected. With the departure and attainder upon her father, much of his wealth is now in her hands, and thus she puts it to good use.

Even the more hostile of the five men are looking uncomfortable, as their assumptions are challenged further still. They have all - to a man - taken it upon themselves to view her as a foul, unchaste harlot; but such a creature does not sit before them now. She is regal, solemn - her jewels restrained, her garments fine but not ostentatious, and even a black mourning ring worn not just for her late husband, but for those who died in the very precincts of the great Cathedral Church. Flanked by four of her most trusted councillors, she watches them calmly, and continues, "Thanks be to God that the sickness is dispersing; soon all those who came here shall be returned to their homes, or consigned to His divine mercy. I am well aware that it was not possible to grant a grave to each who died, and thus they have been interred together. His Grace the Archbishop shall ensure that appropriate rites for the consignment of their souls to God's care are performed as soon as is possible."

The Priest, Eynon, glares at her, "They would not have come here had they not felt that the saint was under threat."

"Under threat from what, sir?" she counters, "How is it that so many thought such a thing? They would have done so only after being told of it, I think; for only relics that our commissioners have been able to verify absolutely to be false have been destroyed. I am dismayed to find that such a large proportion have been found to be so." She adds, coldly.

He has no answer to that.

"Relics bring pilgrims." Cranmer advises, grimly, "Pilgrims bring wealth - additional to the tithes that are already demanded. But then, the religious houses are expected to send similar taxes to Rome, are they not? It does not surprise me that all houses seek to have some item or other that shall attract the desperate to part with what little they have. How else are they to meet their obligations to the Bishop of Rome?"

Had anyone else spoken so, then perhaps one of the group would have argued; but how can they gainsay the primate of the Church in England? Regardless of his stance upon matters of doctrine, his appointment was ratified by the Pope. Nonetheless, they regard him with sullen eyes, for his words go against all that they have ever believed. That they are, essentially, true means little. Not a few houses have been found to be on the verge of fiscal bankruptcy in spite of their extensive lands, rental income and the finery with which they decorate their churches and buildings.

"It matters not to me why this happened, or whether any blame should be apportioned." Anne resumes, "I have long learned, owing to my feminine state, that compromise has been a requirement placed upon me from the moment that I emerged from the womb. Thus I consider it my duty, as my daughter's Regent, to continue to do so - but no longer solely upon my account. Always, I have been obliged to set aside my dreams, hopes and wishes to satisfy the whims of ambitious men - but no longer. I expect others to compromise as I do - to give ground for a greater good. Only a blind fool could fail to see the the Church has become bloated with wealth and corruption; where the rich can purchase forgiveness for the most egregious of sins, while the poor must labour from birth to death in misery, what little they earn taken from them in rents, tithes and taxes. They are told that it is God's will, and that their privations shall be rewarded in the next world. Thus our Parliament explores the reform of taxation to lessen the burden upon those who are least able to carry it, while we consider the reformation of England's church to permit those of lesser state to reap rewards in this life, instead of hoping for it only in eternity. Compromise has always been an obligation upon those who have nothing, or those who are female, while the wealthy and powerful are free to pursue their lives as they wish without consequences, for they can easily purchase absolution should they feel the need to."

Standing alongside, Cromwell can see that her words are making only a minimal impact. The men to whom she speaks have lived their entire lives steeped in the enclosed monastic world, and see the changes without as a disastrous threat to all that they have ever known. Worse, the changes are being implemented, it seems, by a mere woman; a lesser being in the eyes of God - formed from the rib of a man. The best that they can hope for is grudging acceptance, if that.

Ah well - if that is all that they can achieve, then so be it. The returning pilgrims shall have their own tales of the care and generosity of the Regent, coming to their aid in their times of distress, aiding them in their return to their homes with neither censure nor punishment; her words spoken to them by the Friar, offering them her warmest wishes and hopes for their safe journeys, and assuring them that their pilgrimage has earned her love and respect. Cromwell has long learned that Henry could never have been so accommodating to such a defiant act against him. No: all of the men would have been hanged by now, the widows and children turned out of the Greyfriars to make what way they could back to their homes. Of all the crimes one could commit against him, one of the greatest was defiance - in any form. Once again, Queen Anne can win the hearts of the people by the simple act of not being her husband. Were he not observed, he would be smiling to himself.

The five men know it, too. He can see it in their faces as they know that, by organising a safe haven from the sickness, and providing for the displaced with such generosity, Anne has won them over in a way that they could not hope to. A priest is many things, but no priest can be that most central figure of any man's world: a priest cannot be a mother.

"Her Majesty's subjects shall no longer labour in darkness and superstition, Gentlemen." She tells them, firmly, "They shall receive education, access to the scriptures and the opportunity to better themselves. It has long been my hope that ordinary Englishmen be free to determine their destinies - for I will not accept that God would refuse them such a kindness. If He shall not, then the Church most assuredly must not, for how can that be in accordance with His will?"

"That is also my hope, Majesty." Cranmer adds.

"And what does that mean for the shrine?" Fortescue asks, quietly. His hostility is muted, but not entirely gone, Cromwell can see his eyes narrowing.

"It means that the bones shall be interred appropriately, with proper funeral rites." He answers, "Just as shall be the case with all human remains that have been granted veneration." He manages - just - to avoid using the word 'undue'.

Beside him, Rich watches proceedings with a rather more ambivalent view. Despite his work as part of the reformation of the English Church, he finds it harder than most to set aside the religion he has been taught from childhood. He can hardly claim to be the most devout of subjects - but nonetheless, it is harder for him to appreciate the requirement to close Becket's shrine than the Regent, or the Archbishop - much less his colleagues Cromwell and Rochford, both of whom are altogether more wholehearted in their approval.

But he cannot oppose it, either. That more cynical part of his mind accepts the foolishness of placing trust in an object, rather than in God - it is blind superstition to do so. He has never forgotten the medallion bearing the image of St Juliana hanged by her hair that his nurse always wore as a protection against sickness. It had fascinated him as a child, for what child is not intrigued by the gruesome? But his unquestioning faith in its protective powers had been savagely battered to nothing when plague swept through the neighbourhood of St Lawrence Jewry, and it had failed to protect her. No - one cannot put one's trust in a tangible object; and thus he remains silent over the closure of the shrine. How many people who came here carried such amulets? How many of them are now also dead?

The two sides face one another in silence awhile, until Whiting sighs, and sits back. They have tried, but in doing so have done little but bring near-on a hundred people to their deaths. How can they claim that God, and the Saint, have blessed such a mission now? Yes - there shall be compromise; but it is theirs. Not hers.

She can see it in their faces, and she sighs. She could claim to have won; but, in such a circumstance as this, who can truly be a victor?

"So it shall be done." She says, quietly, "Thomas Becket shall be translated from the shrine into a vault, and the elaborate shrine shall be dismantled. The cult that has arisen about him shall no longer be encouraged; instead, the expression of faith shall be redirected back to God - to Whom it should always have been given."

They do not object.

His expression as sober as his Queen's, Cranmer rises to his feet, "Thank you, all. I shall see to the preparation of suitably reverent rites to lay my predecessor's remains formally to rest."

Anne sits as the five men who had hoped to overturn her reforms rise and bow, then depart, "How, Mr Cromwell, do you think my late husband would have dealt with this?"

He looks at her, solemnly, "Certainly not as you have done, Majesty."

"Diplomatically put, Mr Treasurer." Rochford smiles.

Jane is busy, carefully mending one of Anne's petticoats with tiny, immaculate stitching as her Queen sits beside the fire attempting to read a religious tract, but mostly looking up from it to gaze into the flames.

"It is strange, Jane." She says, quietly, "Until I was required to take up this burden, I could never have guessed that, for a Prince, a victory is a fleeting thing that seems equal almost to defeat. I have earned the concession to my will - but it does not bring me joy; not in the face of such misery."

"You were not to blame for it, Majesty." Jane observes, "You did not incite the people to come here."

"Perhaps not - but it was my actions that precipitated that incitement."

"Who could have known they would do what they did? All we can ever do is what we think to be right, and trust in God that all shall turn out in the end."

She is not surprised to see small rivulets of tears upon her Queen's cheeks. Only those who are not princes could ever imagine that to be set so high is easy.

"Come, Majesty. We must prepare you for the interment service." She speaks more briskly, rising to her feet and shaking out the petticoat as Margery looks up from her embroidery, and immediately abandons it to fetch out some gowns for Anne's consideration.

When she emerges from her chambers, she is dressed with that same sober restraint that marked her appearances amongst the pilgrims and their leaders. Her kirtle is a brocaded ivory silk, embroidered with small rosemary motifs picked out with seed pearls, a mark of mourning and remembrance; while the overgown is a deep, rich blue edged with a silver-thread trim. Her jewels are equally restrained, a simple silver chain with a sapphire-studded cross about her neck, while equal sapphires dangle from her ears, not quite enclosed by the lappets of her hood, embroidered with more silver-thread over a black ground and edged with fine pearls.

Watching her descend the stairs, Cromwell approves of her choice of dress, recalling a time when she would walk the court in garments of such flamboyant ostentation that none could ignore her presence. Then, of course, she was attempting to demonstrate her status in a Court that had not forgiven her for supplanting Katherine; and to match her husband in his absolute determination to prove to all the courts of Christendom that he was their equal, and more. Now, however, she has largely proved her point, and the importance at this time is to appear regal, sober and well-governed. Her understanding of that requirement is deeply ingrained, and to appear a morally upstanding maternal figure seems to be all-but second nature to her.

Thank God Henry was taken first…

He is shocked at the thought; but then he remembers how his late Master would react to almost any slight, imagined or otherwise; how impulsively he would strike out - often without warning. How many men lost their lives thanks to that capricious will? Would a time have come when it might have equally snuffed him out like one of those too-brief candles? Thanks be to Christ that he shall never know. Anne's temper is hardly less savage when truly unleashed - but she has already appreciated that to do so shall serve her most ill. She knows, as most do not, Henry's silent regret for those he destroyed once it was too late to undo the consequences of his anger.

He bows to her as she approaches, "Not, I think, the victory that you sought, Majesty."

Anne shakes her head. He can see, despite the application of cosmetics, that her eyes are still slightly reddened, as she grieves over the cruel consequences of Becket's pilgrimage, "Indeed no. If nothing else, I must learn the lesson that I can govern - but I cannot govern how others shall behave when I do so. I have been aware of it, of course - but did not truly appreciate it until this moment."

The bells of the great church are tolling when she leads her contingent of ladies and advisers from the Palace, following Cranmer, who is himself preceded by the Cathedral's great Processional Cross. His vestments are equally restrained, the cope a dark green with a gold-satin cross appliquéd upon it, his mitre of the same hue. Ridley walks to his rear, dressed altogether more simply in a black cassock and a plain, white surplice in the manner of the new English Church, rather than the lace edged frippery of the Roman style.

The route to the Cathedral via the cloisters remains empty, for the Queen intends to make her visit public, and the City Aldermen are present, along with the representatives of the City's guilds. Within, the bones of Becket have already been removed from the shrine and are now set in a coffin of the finest English oak, lined with ivory silk. Equally, a vault has been opened in the Chapel of St Anselm, though its presence shall not be made public. There is little worth in removing a shrine, only for people to create a new one in its place.

The present one, of course, shall be dismantled, and the fine stone from its construction made available for sale.

There are few others within the great Church as they enter through the enormous west door. Few are permitted entry to this place - and even the pilgrims were directed through a specially constructed tunnel beneath the stairs rising to the stone pulpitum so that the brothers would not be obliged to endure any contact with them as they made their way to the martyrdom. Now, however, the royal party makes its way along the nave as Cranmer intones the words of the funeral service, I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth on me though he were dead, yet shall he live, an whosoever liveth and believeth on me, shall never die.

I am sure that neither death, neither life, neither angels, nor rule, either power, neither things present, neither things to come, neither high, neither low, neither any other creature shall be able to depart us from the love of God, showed in Christ Jesu our Lord.

The men standing alongside the coffin are not Brothers, instead being the sextons of six of the nearby parish churches: selected for their discretion and charged with ensuring that the bones are appropriately interred, but also that the vault is carefully concealed. They shall lie in consecrated ground, but they shall no longer be treated as a Godly presence upon the earth, instead allowing Becket's soul to rest unmolested by searching hands reaching in to touch his mortal remains in superstitious hopes that doing so shall somehow benefit them.

They remain in the nave, outside the Quire, where Cranmer preaches upon the requirement not to make graven images, before turning and passing through the pulpitum alone to lead the sextons to the vault. Watching him go, Anne sighs. Even she shall not know where those bones shall be from this day forth.

It is done. The battle is over - but nonetheless, she feels that there is no victor, and nothing has been won.