A/N: Another Friday, another chapter. Thank you as always for your comments - always much appreciated! Now that the incident at Canterbury is resolved, it's back to the daily routine of ruling...

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

A Dark Hound

Boleyn reads the letter and scowls, "God above, she has sold her soul to be still so preserved."

Looking up from the bread upon his plate, Brandon looks bemused, "What have you heard?"

"Just when it seemed likely that she had overstepped herself, my former daughter has still gained her own way." Boleyn tosses the letter across the table. To Brandon's surprise, the paper bears the seal of Norfolk. They have not heard from him in so long that he had assumed that the Duke had abandoned them. Perhaps not, after all.

It has come to my ears that the Usurper of England has resumed her determination to overthrow the Church in England, and thus the closure of Religious houses continues apace. But, it seems that the people would not permit the removal of Canterbury's saint, and thus a gaggle of priests and abbots roused people to descend upon the seat of England's Church to protect him. They gathered within the precincts of the Cathedral church, where the brothers welcomed them as pilgrims.

Then sickness rose amongst them, and it is noised about that God was not pleased with their actions against their Queen - even for the bones of a great saint. Many died in great distress - until the Usurper arrived with that vile heretic Cromwell, the turncoat Rich and that fool boy Boleyn, who now holds the title of Rochford in his own right.

As her arrival came at the same time that the sickness began to abate, it is claimed that she was the remedy for it, and the living pilgrims were sent to the Greyfriars, before being dispatched home with bribes to purchase their silence and loyalty. Consequently, even the protest of the people has not ended the reforms in England - though heretics are no longer prevented from practising, and those who follow the true faith see their numbers begin to dwindle.

It seems that the Bull has not achieved that which the Holy Father intended, and thus I must act. If you are able to secure a means of receiving it, I shall send funds to you so that you may establish an Embassy to speak for the claim of the true Queen of England, even though she is now chained to a heretic in Sweden. She must be championed, and I charge you with seeking a means to encourage her that she is not forgotten. Advise me of your requirements, and I shall provide the means.

Brandon's eyebrows rise, startled at such an offer. He has no idea how things stand in Sweden now - and again is obliged to rely upon Boleyn for such information, as he has the ear of the merchants. Setting the paper down, he examines his calloused hands, an undeniable symbol of his relative uselessness. Boleyn earns well, trading with the cloth merchants, but he lacks that expertise, and thus has been forced to expand their coffers as best he can through manual labour at the dockside. God above, he had never appreciated the reality of blood-burst blisters upon his hands until that day. Even when upon horseback, his noble flesh had been protected by gauntlets…

Scowling with resentment at the loss of his privileges, he turns back to the equally scowling Boleyn. God, if they were not bound together by their purpose, he would probably have knifed the duplicitous bastard by now; but instead he must endure the insufferable superiority, the sneering jibes at his enforced labour, and wonder whether he shall be permitted to resume something akin to his former noble state once they have sufficient funds to support the embassy that remains such a distant aspiration.

Boleyn is working his way through a small, black-bound ledger, noting down his earnings from the marketplace, which deepens Brandon's scowl all the more, for it is but a matter of time before his own pitiful contribution shall be demanded, and remarked upon. The only good thing that seems to have come of this day is the fact that Norfolk has decided to re-emerge from whatever pit of self-interest he conceals himself within, and provide them with the funds they need to actually appear capable of representing Queen Mary's interests. If God shall not remove the Usurper Anne, then it seems that He demands they act as His instrument. Thus they shall do so.

He looks out of the tiny garret window to the street below, where ordinary folk go about their business, and wonders how things are in England. It seems that the Holy Father's call to England's catholics has gone unheard, their silence purchased through this supposed act of settlement that permits them to worship unmolested. He is not blind - it is clear that the intention is to undertake a slow, quiet war of attrition - offering an education to the poor that shall tempt them away from the teachings of the true faith, and instead inculcate them into heresy. She, and that treacherous heretic Cranmer, are intending to instil his new version of religion by stealth - how can his Holiness not see that? Surely he is not unaware that the people of England are as suspicious of foreigners as they are faithful to God? A paradox, yes, but one that the Pope seems not to have appreciated.

"Well?" Boleyn's voice interrupts his contemplations, and he stiffens with impotent rage, "How much can you add to our coffers today?"

Stuffing his hand into the scrip at his belt, Brandon wrenches out the handful of gulden that are all that he can earn thanks to his lack of skill. He cannot mend, nor can he repair. Instead he is obliged to pull hand-carts, lift bales of goods and stack kegs - none of which earn much. God, he was once rich enough to buy whatever he desired. Now look at him…

He is roused again by the thudding of a fingertip upon the tabletop as Boleyn taps it, impatiently, "I take it you shall be handing it over in the next hour?"

Grimacing to himself, Brandon hands over the small heap of coins. The sooner he can resume his appropriate state under the patronage of Norfolk, the better.

Anne is watching the chess pieces upon the board as though she expects them to come to life and do battle before her eyes. She has not reached for any of her men for nearly five minutes, and Cromwell watches her, concerned at her mood.

Elizabeth was delighted to greet her, of course, and was full of excited chatter about her lessons, the games she has played with Jane Radcliffe, and the naughty behaviour of Castor and Pollux. Indeed, she gave no sign of her sense of burden while she spoke to her daughter, instead laughing delightedly as Elizabeth told her of her little dogs' relentless teasing of a new garden-boy, and speaking to her in French, then in Latin, then in French again. To her daughter, Queen Anne seems absolutely at ease. Cromwell, however, can see that she is not.

Work is done for the day, and she has gathered her closest confidants about her as she has done from the first days of her Regency. Jane is at the muselar again, a delicate new coranto trickling from the keys under her dextrous fingertips, while her husband watches over her music and turns the pages for her. She has already sung some new ballads, and accompanied Rich as he did likewise, apparently recovered from his discomfort over the matter of Becket's bones. Anne, however, seems unable to so easily set it aside.

The last thing she did before departing Canterbury was to insist that she stand alongside Cranmer as he spoke benedictions for the souls of those who had been consigned to the ignominy of a mass grave in the haste to dispose of the sickness that resided within them. With no idea how it had begun, or how it winnowed its way through the gathered throng as it had, urgency had inevitably overcome dignity. In spite of the equal culpability of those who had stirred the people to come to the city, it could not be more clear to Cromwell that his Queen feels a great burden of responsibility for the deaths.

That is no surprise - she is a woman, and he recalls how his late, dear wife would feel misfortunes far more deeply than he. Perhaps it is the nature of women to dwell upon such things - though his own refusal to do so may equally be thanks to the sheer degree of unpleasantness that would break over him should he allow that barrier to drop.

He sits back in his chair, waiting for her to emerge from her reverie, giving the impression to all that he considers her silence to be deep thought over her next move. It does not last - instead she looks up at him, "Am I to blame?"

Her words silence Jane, who turns in surprise, while Rochford, Rich and Margery look equally startled at her question.

"Majesty?" Cromwell looks bemused.

"No matter how I turn it about," she continues, "I see only the faces of the dead - all there thanks to our determination to reform the church. They wanted only to protect their Saint, even though we did not mean him harm. Now they are forever in a pit, their names already forgotten."

Ah. That again - the fear of unintended consequences.

"I think not, Majesty." He says, picking his words with care, "We know that the Church has become a burden upon people, rather than a help; and that it has fostered and permitted unwarranted superstition. Nothing of value is ever gained easily, or without pain. Even now, it is claimed that the pilgrims had stirred God's wrath for standing against the will of their lawful Queen - though I do not think that to be so. Have we not before seen the emergence of the bloody flux in the midst of great gatherings of people? How it does so, I cannot claim to know - but it comes, as does the plague or the sweat. Perhaps it is the coming together of so many - the conflicting combinations of their humours breeds foulness, and thus gives rise to sickness. It was a sad incident, yes; but I cannot find any way to apportion blame to any single individual. No one emerged from their homes with the intention of dying - and those who left did so with their lives, knowing that they would not face punishment for their act."

She sighs, "I do not think my late Lord would have been so magnanimous."

"He would not have been." Cromwell agrees, "Magnanimity came to him but rarely, and mercy was a rarer gift still. To forgive his subjects for their defiance would have appeared to him to be an act of weakness, and thus he would have withheld such a kindness."

"I, however, have invested much time in presenting myself as a mother to my subjects, and thus I can do so without fear of being thought so, for is it not in the nature of a mother to forgive her wayward children?" Even now, Anne does not smile; for while it is in the nature of a mother to forgive her children, is it not equally in her nature to feel responsibility for their pain - even pain they have acquired themselves?

"It is hard to be a Prince." Rochford adds, quietly.

"It is, indeed." She sighs, "Forgive me; I was once a trivial creature who revelled in dresses, jewels and dances - and saw myself as entitled to be equal to my husband. It is only now - now that I have truly ruled - that I know that I was not ready for the burden, and learning to carry it is a hard thing. I may share my husband's fire and temper, but I lack his ruthlessness - and perhaps I should acquire at least a measure of it, for England might have need of it before my daughter's time to rule has come."

Cromwell smiles at her, a paternal expression that she has come to welcome, and even to seek to earn. In spite of all - even the betrayal of her father - she has begun to trust the man seated opposite in a manner that she never could with the one who had brought her up at Hever. Even now, it pains her to remember those early days - days when she was a beloved child, not a pawn in a power-play. Somehow, in earning the approval of a man far beneath her, she feels something of that happiness again. Roused from her sad lethargy, she resumes her perusal of the chessboard, and finally reaches for a piece.

"And people truly believe it to be God's wrath?" Chapuys asks, as Rich pours him some malmsey. It has been a simple matter to pretend that it is naught but a social call.

"Indeed so - and it is not something that the Treasurer wishes to discourage. The signs are that this year's harvest shall not be as bountiful as we have enjoyed over the last two years, and thus we must redirect discontent elsewhere." He pours himself a glass and sits opposite the Ambassador, "Otherwise, I fear that matters are quiet, and I have little to report."

"It may be that his Holiness shall be able to use this in some measure to aid those who still follow the true religion." Chapuys muses, "It is sounded upon the Continent that catholics in this realm hunger for one who shall aid them as their numbers fall, and their sense of safety dwindles in equal measure. Even as she remains within the walls of Gustav's new palace, the Queen Mary is still the hope of her true subjects."

Like a dog returns to its vomit. Rich thinks to himself, but smiles, keenly, "If that is so, then it would offer much succour to those who see their very way of life under threat." To his knowledge, the suspicion of foreigners and an almost instinctive loyalty to the realm of England holds far greater sway than any dreams of a counter-reformation, particularly now that those who wish to continue to hear mass are free to do so without fear of prevention. Does Chapuys not see it? Followers of the old faith - himself included if he is truly honest - are not even obliged to make some form of payment for the privilege of clinging to it. Who on earth would be fool enough to throw that peaceful state into confusion?

Quite a few, it seems.

"I am told that she is with child again." Chapuys adds, though this is not news to Rich, and he shows no surprise.

"I pray God that the babe shall live, and be healthy." He says, instead, "Tell me, what news of those upon the continent who look to restore the late King's first child? If she is now residing in Sweden, and thus is subject to Sweden's king, how can any speak for her independently?"

"You shall be most surprised, I think!" the Ambassador smiles, widely, "For it is remarkable how adversity has brought together two once implacable enemies and united them into a common purpose. The Concubine's own father, and the former Lord Suffolk now share a garret in Brugge; and, I am told, squabble like fishwives when they think none see them." He laughs at the thought, and Rich cannot hide his own smirk. While he is aware that the two are in Flanders, the thought of them being obliged to live in close proximity, and in such penury, is amusing. It seems that they have abandoned attempts to smuggle in pamphlets - but if they are still in such poor circumstances, there is little hope of their ever forming that longed-for embassy to speak for Mary.

"All is not lost, however," Chapuys continues, cheerfully, "I have received approaches from his Grace of Norfolk, seeking diplomatic channels through which he can supply them with funds to achieve their aim."

"Truly?" Rich leans closer, his expression intrigued, though his thoughts more inclined towards consternation. So much for Thomas Howard retiring into obscurity, "Do you require any assistance from me to aid you? I should warn you that his Grace does not trust me in the slightest - though that would largely be thanks to his intention of having me executed as soon as I had ceased to be of use to him. I think it might be worthwhile to consider a rapprochement."

"I shall talk him round, Mr Rich, I can assure you."

"I which case, I shall remain ready to offer what aid I can." He raises his glass, "Perhaps we may yet see the matter of England's true queen resolved."

Chapuys clinks his glass against Rich's, "Indeed so."

"So, Norfolk has emerged from his rat-hole again." Cromwell muses, as they share some more of Rich's Malmsey over a supper of venison and bread, "I assume you have taken steps to ingratiate yourself with the plot."

"Naturally."

"What of Chapuys's assertion that the Pope and his Cardinals believe that England's Catholics shall rise in rebellion against a Queen that does not prevent them from celebrating their popish superstitions?"

"I am not entirely convinced that he believes it - for he has lived too long in England to fail to see the insularity of Englishmen - but it is apparent that people upon the continent think it so. I have not yet heard whether the Pope intends to send priests to infiltrate English communities and attempt to overturn the reformation from within - but it would not surprise me if he did, as he is as convinced as any other that Englishmen would welcome it."

"For he knows not the minds of Englishmen." Cromwell sighs, "Do you think the Emperor shall become involved?"

"Not at this juncture." Rich shakes his head, "Not when matters are at such a state of infancy. If all were to collapse like the proverbial house of cards, then it would serve him ill to be clearly associated with it. I suspect that he shall leave Chapuys to do the work for him, and see how matters progress. At this time, Chapuys is only being asked to provide a concealed means of sending funds to Brandon and Boleyn to furnish an embassy for Mary." He pauses, "I think it unlikely that Mary knows of this."

"As do I." Cromwell muses, a chunk of venison poised upon the tip of his knife, "While I have no doubt that she would - if the opportunity presented itself - seek to grasp the Crown of England without hesitation, she is unlikely to have any nearby who could warn her of this. Only once an embassy has been established shall it be possible to even begin to insert an agent into her immediate retinue. Thus, should we wish to act, we shall have time."

"Do we allow this to happen?" Rich asks.

"At this point: yes." Cromwell says, "It is too soon to risk Chapuys becoming suspicious - if all were to falter within a day of his advising you, then he would know that you were the blab. No - it is best to allow matters to develop, and take steps as we need to." He pops the venison into his mouth, and sits back, chewing the mouthful speculatively.

"Perhaps we should send a message to our embassy in Sweden. If it turns out that Mary has accepted her new life there, and would not demand to claim England again, then no amount of plotting shall win the crown for her head."

Cromwell nods, "Indeed - though she has the pride ad stubbornness of both of her parents - and I do not believe for a moment that she has truly relinquished all hope of gaining the crown of England. Regardless of the invalidity of her parents' marriage, she remains our late King's firstborn, and has ever entertained the wish to rob her sister of her just inheritance, for she is convinced that that inheritance is her own. No - dangle this prize before her, and she shall snatch at it."

"Then let us hope that the new child in her womb shall survive."

"As shall she. I have no doubt that her lost babes have caused her great sadness. My greater hope is that the child shall be a boy, for then she shall be obliged to remain in Sweden - no matter what happens to her husband." Cromwell shifts in his chair, "I think it unlikely to succeed, but I may consider attempting to approach a member of Norfolk's household in hopes of gleaning more direct information about his activities."

Rich shakes his head, "It is a waste of time - his retinue have been with him for years, and their loyalty is well known. Not only would you fail to turn any of his servants, you would also alert him to your intended scrutiny. I suspect it would be better for me to further ingratiate myself with Chapuys and offer aid in establishing a means of communication between Norfolk and our exiles. We cannot intercept missives at the source, so it seems worthwhile to do so while they are in transit."

He is right - they both know it. Norfolk would easily discover any attempt to insert a spy in his household - but with Chapuys convinced that Rich has turned his coat once more, extracting letters while they are being passed between Arundel and Brugge shall be a far simpler prospect.

Setting down his cup of wine, Cromwell rises, "I shall advise her Majesty of your plan, Mr Rich - I have no doubt that she shall be pleased to agree to it. Even if Mary has no wish to associate herself with a plot such as this, it remains an inconvenience that we can well do without. I suspect that the need for secrecy shall keep matters slow - it may be some years before there is a fully formed conspiracy. Better, however, to know now and be prepared for it."

Rich nods, "I could not agree more."

The sun is setting, casting long shadows and a gentle light across the large Privy Garden. The air is warm, and the roses fragrant, while a few remaining birds sing to one another from the laurel hedges between the decorative beds. Most have sought their roosts for the night, but there is a little music to accompany the two people who walk slowly along the gravel paths.

"Does Mr Rich think it likely that Mary shall accept the creation of an embassy upon her behalf?" Anne asks. While they walk side by side, she does not link arms with her Lord Treasurer - even now she is not safe from malicious comments.

Cromwell shakes his head, "It is impossible to know, Majesty. I wish that I could answer such a question - but much shall depend upon whether or not her new pregnancy results in a birth. That, more than anything else, shall keep her in Sweden; even if her husband should - heaven forbid - pass away."

"God send him a long, long life." Anne sighs. Even now, the mention of Mary inspires a sense of bitter spite that she cannot easily quell. How foolish - the wretched girl attempted to snatch Elizabeth's crown, and failed. But even so, much of that failure rested upon the belief that God had smiled upon England's new queen - giving a bountiful harvest and protecting people from an outbreak of sickness during the summer. A poor harvest, or many dead from plague, could have ended matters very differently. In spite of her own poor experiences with it, there are times when Anne feels most grateful for the power of superstition.

They continue on in companionable silence, as though father and daughter. For a man who was robbed of his girls, and a woman whose father turned upon her, it is as though they have found a means to replace those taken loved ones, and rebuild a familial haven that they have each lost.

"I think I shall invite Mary and my mother to Court." She says, suddenly, "I was foolish to banish my sister from my presence - and over something so trivial as a marriage I considered to be inappropriate."

Cromwell nods, solemnly. It is no surprise to him that Anne looks now to family - following Wiltshire's abandonment of her for Mary, even her mother had withdrawn in response to the shame of it. With the news that her father still conspires against her, she is keen to bring her remaining family back to her, and rebuild those damaged bridges. If he could do the same, then he would - but one cannot bring a wife and daughters back from death.

Their conversation touches on matters of little note, reflecting that growth of trust between them as they make their way back to the Palace buildings in the last light of the day, until Anne turns to him, "Thank you, Mr Cromwell."

"For what, Majesty?"

"For walking with me in the darkest of places as we traversed the horrors at Canterbury. Throughout that dreadful time, I knew that I could trust you absolutely - and you proved me to be right."

"I made a promise to you, Majesty." He reminds her, "God knows that I have acted despicably in my service to the King - for he was a man who expected his will to be carried out immediately and utterly. There may be times when I shall be obliged to do so again - but I live in hope that such reprehensible behaviour shall no longer be required in the government of England."

She smiles at him, "You have such dreams, Mr Cromwell."

"Is it not the prerogative of men to dream, Majesty?"

"Of a better world." She adds, her smile widening, "For now you are no longer obliged to spend the monies that we retrieve from the unfairly wealthy upon the whims of a King."

They are still sharing mildly piqued comments upon the expense of a man who wanted to impress all of Christendom when they arrive in the Queen's Privy Chamber, to find that - far from being invited - her sister is already present, dressed in dusty garments, her eyes anguished, "Forgive me, Majesty, but I had to come to you, for I bear the saddest of tidings."

"Mary?" Anne stares at her, astonished, "No - do not ask forgiveness; I was this very evening thinking that it was wrong of me not to invite you here. What tidings do you bring?"

Mary's eyes are filling with tears, "I wish they were good, but they are not. My sister - it falls upon me to advise you that our dear mother has departed this life, and is now with God."

Anne sits in a chair, her eyes glassy with unshed tears, "When did this happen, Mary?"

"Two weeks prior, Majesty," Mary begins.

"No, I am not 'Majesty' to you, Mary. Please - in this time of sorrow, we are sisters."

She resumes, "It was quite sudden, Anne - I was visiting with William, and we had supped. She seemed well during the evening, and retired at her usual hour. But she did not wake the next morn - having passed in her sleep. The doctors could not determine how it had occurred - and thus she was embalmed and laid to rest in the tomb of her own family at Lambeth. His Grace of Norfolk permitted her to be buried there, but did not attend. There was no time to tell you."

Anne nods, "It would have mattered little - as Queen, I would not have been able to attend."

"I am so sorry, Anne…" Mary's eyes are also tearful, and the two embrace.

Cromwell shuffles slightly, but then speaks, "Shall I send for Lord Rochford, Majesty?"

Anne turns, wiping at her eyes, "Thank you, Mr Cromwell - I should appreciate that."

Lord and Lady Rochford are supping together in their apartments, a remarkable difference from those days when he was more likely to be in any woman's quarters other than those he shares with his wife. They are clearly enjoying one anothers' company, and Cromwell feels most intrusive.

"Mr Cromwell!" Rochford is cheerful, "Please - we have more than sufficient victuals should you wish to sup with us."

"Thank you, but I must decline." He bows, "Forgive my intrusion; but her Majesty requires your presence urgently upon a matter of family. If you could also attend her, my Lady?"

They both frown - concerned at his tone, for he would not speak so if the matter was not urgent, "What has happened, Mr Cromwell?" Jane asks.

"I think it best that her Majesty advises you; as I said, it is a matter of family."

He departs as they hasten from their chambers to the presence of the Queen, sighing to himself. That paternal half of his heart is demanding that he go with them, to offer comfort to Anne - but he has no familiar bond to her, and thus he cannot go. Instead, he returns to his own chambers. After all that she has done to win the day, and to learn such a harsh lesson about the absolute realities of rule, now she is truly orphaned. Thank God she has her siblings still.

But still he wishes to go to her - to offer her what comfort he can. There was a time when he delighted in the presence of his daughters, and his heart ached when they cried. That dark haired, ebony eyed woman has stolen into that emptied void where once they resided; but she knows it not, and it is better that it stay that way. He is not her father. He is her principal adviser…

Just an hour before, he had felt that there was something at last of a victory - albeit bittersweet; but now that dark hound of ill news has brought the joyous hind to bay - as though it is not permitted for those who rule to know happiness for more than the shortest of moments.

That, too, is a hard lesson to be learned. In time, of course, they must teach that to Elizabeth - but not yet. In time…in time…

Sighing to himself, he turns from the corridor that leads to the Queen's apartments, and makes his way back to his own.