A/N: With apologies for the late posting - welcome to the next chapter! It would've been sooner this morning, but my computer power cable has failed, so I'm relieved to have an iPad to turn to in order to get this posted.

The journey north continues, and reunions are in order...

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The Heart of York

The twin towers of the minster at Ripon are a welcome sight to Anne, but not even halfway as welcome as the sight of her brother and an honour guard awaiting her small column before the great west front.

She is tired, and dusty from a long day in the saddle, while the men who have escorted her for so long are all in rather desperate need of new boots thanks to the miles that they have marched. That shall have to be attended to, as well as one of the pack horses, who threw a shoe a few miles back and now requires the attention of a farrier.

Rochford's expression changes from pleasure to concern at the sight of them, "God have mercy - so few?"

The guards might well have not been affected by the sickness, but they are alone in having no losses. Of the councillors that remained at Fenton's manor house, only Lord Sandys, Mr Cromwell and Mr Rich remain to serve their Queen, and they all look somewhat bedraggled thanks to the loss of their servants. Hastily, he dismounts and crosses to aid his sister as she does likewise, and embraces her, "Thanks be to God that you are well, Majesty. It would have been a harsh loss to England had you been taken."

"I think it only a loss to my child, George," she smiles at him, sadly, "Even now, I am sure there are folk in England who would rejoice in my death; but tell me, is she well?"

"Most well, sister. She demanded that I take pains to assure you that she was so, and also to advise you that she is eager to see you, and that she has missed you most keenly. Amidst a thousand or more other messages that are beyond my ability to recall."

"Then let us continue." She turns back to the Captain of the guard, "Captain Palmer, we shall continue with Lord Rochford and his honour guard. Please see to it that your men are rested and fed before they continue the journey to Middleham. I shall leave monies for you to procure new boots for them, and to see that the packhorse is re-shod."

"Yes Majesty." He nods, and bows. Even as he does so, Cromwell is dismounting to fetch out sufficient funds to give him, and Anne smiles to herself. Always ready to serve.

Evening is drawing in as the column winds its way alongside the river Ure towards the bulking keep of Middleham's great royal castle. From a distance, the dusk conceals the poor state of repair of much of the structure, but the works that were undertaken to ensure Elizabeth's comfort are at lower levels, hidden within the inner ward by the great curtain walls that once protected two Richards: the Kingmaker and the Crookback.

Rochford has been largely silent upon Elizabeth's doings while on progress, partly owing to the letters he has already sent, but primarily to allow the young Queen to tell her mother personally. She has been apart from Anne for several weeks now, and, even though they have endured separation on numerous occasions since her reign began, none of them have been under such circumstances as this. He does not feel the need to speak of Elizabeth's furious tantrums, outbreaks of anger and tears that are driven entirely by worry over the health of her mother. If she wishes to confess to them, then that is her prerogative. She has inherited the fierce tempers of both of her parents, and thus he is not surprised at the occasional tempests that have broken over the heads of the ladies of her train. Madame Astley has proved to be a tower of support during those times, and he is most relieved that she has been present to calm her Royal charge.

"And how is Jane?" Anne is particularly keen to know how her sister in law is faring.

"Her sickness has abated, thanks be to God, and now, instead, she craves partridge." He smiles, "I am most grateful to be where we are, for here they are plentiful."

The great halls and accommodation blocks that were created by the Nevilles have been rather patched up with new roofing in many places, but look perfectly sound from without. Dismounting, Anne is relieved to see Caroline, the youngest of her women, emerging from the chambers set aside for her, and turns to Cromwell as he steps down from his own horse, "Thank you for your assistance in Ripon, Mr Cromwell. I shall retire awhile to spend time with her Majesty; we shall sup as soon as is convenient, and tomorrow, we shall recall the council with the Councillors who are present."

He bows, "Yes Majesty."

It is not until she has departed that he stretches, wincing slightly at the godawful cracking sounds from his stiffened joints. Jesu, he is getting too old for this.

"That sounded most uncomfortable, Mr Cromwell." Rochford grins at him.

"Do not get old, my Lord." Cromwell advises him, "It is a singularly annoying experience and I do not recommend it."

The smile falters somewhat, "We are poorer for the loss of Sussex, are we not?"

Cromwell sighs and nods as Rich joins them, "I fear so. While he did not enjoy the immediate trust of her Majesty as we do, he was of great importance to her and she valued his advice. He shall be sorely missed. I was fortunate - my sickness was not the plague - but instead some form of ague or other that felled me but briefly and was soon gone."

"Were you not affected, Mr Rich?" Rochford looks rather surprised.

Rich shakes his head, "Not at all, my Lord. Even though I was in close proximity to all who fell sick, I did not. God - for reasons I cannot fathom - chose to protect me."

"He proved a most capable nurse, my Lord." Cromwell adds, rather more cheerfully, "Even to the point of refusing to allow her Majesty the Regent entry to the wing of the house we had shut up for her protection. I am given to understand her temper was most hot at the time."

"Ah, that is a temper whose burn I, too, have felt. I am surprised she did not threaten to shorten you by a head, Mr Rich."

"As am I, my Lord." Rich admits, "Though she did threaten to banish me from Court."

"What drove her to do be so foolish?" Rochford asks, intrigued, then pauses as the two men exchange a slightly awkward glance, "Ah. I think I see. She thought you to have the plague, Mr Cromwell?"

Cromwell reddens, "It was most foolish of her."

"Perhaps - but I am not surprised at her behaviour. She has valued your counsel throughout her Regency, and to lose it would be a great loss to the realm as much as to her. The loss of Sussex is a sad one - but your loss would verge upon catastrophic, I think."

"God have mercy, you make me sound like a new messiah. I am not that important."

"I suspect that my sister thinks otherwise. Without her father at her side, she is grateful to have you in place of him."

"Thank the Lord. I was afeared that you might think her to have softer feelings for me than that." Cromwell admits, "We have done all that we can to avoid suspicion of such nonsense. She was branded a whore, and I was thought to be willing to take all and any steps possible to advance myself ahead of all others. There is no accounting for the small-mindedness of others."

"Then we shall speak of it no more, Mr Cromwell." Rochford laughs, "I fear my mind is quite sufficiently small. Come, your apartments are prepared. Take time to refresh yourselves, or you shall still be in your travel-stained garments when we sup."

"Quickly, Madge. I must get out of this dreadful gown - it is utterly filthy and I cannot greet my daughter so attired." Anne is fidgeting with her lacings, which are rather well knotted.

"Of course, Majesty. I shall ensure that it is thoroughly brushed down before you are required to wear it again. I have your bronze taffeta or your crimson damask ready for you, and an ivory kirtle that shall serve with either." Margery hastily begins to help her unfasten her garments as Alice sets out her hair brushes and cosmetics.

"The bronze, I think. It is rather warm for damask."

Between them, Margery and Caroline make reasonably quick work of removing sleeves, opening bodices and removing voluminous amounts of fabric until Anne is down to her shift and padding, before helping her into the ivory kirtle, and securing the great overgown atop it. Once dressed again, she can take a seat while her hair is removed from its coif, brushed out and re-dressed in a fresh hood. In spite of their haste, her impatience is growing ever greater, and she fights with herself not to snap at her women for taking so long. Elizabeth might well not care in the slightest that her mother is dust-coated and besmirched with mud from a long ride in the open air - but the Court will not be at all impressed if she is not presented in a state of near-perfection.

Margery is just dabbing her favourite scent upon her neck when a knock at the door of Anne's chamber reveals Anna Conti outside, sent in search of her by the Queen.

"Forgive me, Anna; I shall be with you anon." She extends her arms so that Margery can dab scent upon her wrists, then examines her reflection, "Yes, that shall do very well. Thank you all."

The walk to her daughter's privy chamber is taken with a decorum and patience that Anne does not feel. She has been separated from Elizabeth for nearly a month in the midst of a dreadful horror that has claimed half of England in its grip, and has lost members of her Council in the conflagration. The greatest of fears was the thought of losing her child, but equally she has wanted nothing more than to be close by.

Has Elizabeth been dreaming of this moment as much as she? Dreading the thought that the plague might strike her? Her thoughts turn over and over as they have since yesterday when they were within striking distance of their destination and robbed her of a decent night's sleep. Almost unconsciously, her steps quicken, obliging Anna to trot to keep up with her, and the guards hastily step aside to admit her.

She has grown - even in that short time that she has been away. No more than a few inches, but nonetheless there is some additional height that the long skirts of her gown are failing to conceal. God above, she shall be as tall as her father at this rate…

"Mama!" Immediately, Elizabeth races towards her, heedless of decorum. After all that England has endured, what do such trifles matter?

"My dearest Elizabeth, God be thanked that you are well." Anne clasps her into an embrace, "I have missed you so."

They remain so for some time, until Elizabeth straightens and steps back, as though remembering who she is and how she must now behave, "I give thanks to the Holy Father that you have returned, Mama - though I am most grieved to know that his Grace of Sussex was claimed by the sickness, as was Sir John. Is Sir William safely returned to his home?"

"Yes, your Majesty - I have arranged for him to receive a pension for life in gratitude for his loyal service to you."

"Thank you, Mama."

"Tell me all - I wish to know all that you saw, and all whom you met, upon your travels north."

She knows at least a little, thanks to George's letters; but Elizabeth has her own mind, and her own perspective. She is, despite her age, a perceptive girl who sees all, and misses little. If nothing else, this shall serve as a lesson to her that to reign as Queen is more than to be dressed in fine jewels and crowns - but also a dark, harsh drudgery of endurance as her realm suffers, and needs her to lead it. They have been fortunate this time; but there is no certainty that the plague might not stir again in years to come, and do so more brutally. As it is, there is still much to be done to ensure that the losses of working men shall not leave them with hungry mouths to feed for want of hands to bring the harvest home.

"People were most afraid, Mama." Elizabeth begins, "We did what we could to assure them, and left monies with the infirmaries and poor houses to aid those who might need them. Uncle Rochford paid much to the physicians to ensure that they would not run away, for we found some Houses where those who should offer succour had deserted their charges."

Anne sighs, "Do not be too aggrieved with them, Majesty; it is hard to face a deadly sickness with stoicism. I was fortunate in that I had a refuge and was obliged to flee there. To have means of escape, but not take it, requires great bravery that not all possess."

"Do not be angry with me Mama - but I did not eschew the poorest of places. Kat was sure that you would be most dismayed that I did not avoid the meanest of hovels, for I thought it best that I show myself not to be afraid of the sickness - but instead continuing with my progress and meeting my subjects as I had intended."

But of course she would; it is expected of a Queen to be a maternal figure, after all. Another lesson that she is taking the time to learn well. She must lead England, but must also nurture it. "I am not angry, dearest. I have walked amongst the sick when my advisers were most keen that I should not, and earned the love of many in doing so. If we do not speak to our subjects, how can we know that which they need?"

"I have thus asked the Archbishop of York to lead us in a ceremony of thanksgiving at the great cathedral in York a week hence."

"You have? That is most wise, Majesty. It equally frees me of the requirement to do so. I am very pleased to hear it."

"I have done right, Mama?"

"Most assuredly. God has delivered us from a dreadful ordeal, and it would be wrong of us not to offer our thanks to Him for it."

She watches her daughter awhile, as she continues to speak of the houses they visited, the entertainments and the great feasts that were prepared for her. That stiff decorum remains, but it is clearly wavering, and eventually cannot stand, "I was fearful for you, Mama." Elizabeth's voice equally wavers, "I thought that you might die…"

And then there are tears.

Holding her child close, Anne soothes her gently, "Forgive me, my darling girl - I did not wish to leave you so afraid, but I knew that, if one of us was to be taken by this sickness, then it was best for England that it be me, not you. It is a mother's natural instinct to protect her child even to the expense of her own life. You are England's queen; I am not. But I am your mother, and it grieved me greatly to know that I might lose you, just as you were afraid that you might lose me."

They remain together for a long time, silent and close, as Elizabeth composes herself again. As soon as she has done so, Anne turns back to her, "Come, my dearest - it is time for us to sup. God has smiled upon us and brought us back together; let us celebrate by breaking bread with those who have also lived. We can remember those who did not upon the morrow."

While it is only a short distance, the journey from the great castle of Middleham to the collegiate church of St Mary and St Alkelda is undertaken with great pomp; Elizabeth seated in her fine litter and surrounded by her ladies and honour guard. Behind her, Anne rides with her surviving Councillors, while the rest of the guards who accompanied them north have been split into two groups marching to the fore and the rear with colourful pennons snapping in a sharp breeze that heralds the approach of autumn.

The village is remarkably small for such a large castle, but the villagers are out in force to cheer their young Queen as she makes her way to worship in their parish church. The castle has a chapel, but not only is it far too small for all within, Elizabeth is adamant that she shall worship with her subjects to give thanks for the safe delivery of her mother from the sickness, and its progress no further north than Oxford. The expressions upon the faces of her ladies at such a notion was quite the picture, and Anne smiles to herself as she follows her daughter's litter. In spite of their dismay, Elizabeth has every right to attend the church, as it is under her personal jurisdiction thanks to its allegiance to the crown in defiance of the Archbishop.

George rides beside her, while Mr Cromwell and Mr Rich are immediately behind, discussing some matter or other pertaining to the restoration of stucco upon a property, and Lord Sandys listens with mild interest. Her only sadness is that Sussex, Gage and Petre are no longer present.

She has never been so far north before, and finds the countryside quite exquisite; gently rolling hills coated with sheep-nibbled grass beneath a seemingly endless sky. The people here are welcoming and friendly; despite their determined adherence to the old ways in defiance of the reformation, they have shown no resentment. That might, of course, be owing to the Act of Religious Settlement that protected their wishes; but even the closure of the nearby Jervaulx Abbey seems to have been forgiven and forgotten.

The Church is of a good size, thanks to the great families that once lived and worshipped in the village, and the lych gate is gaily decorated with wheat stalks woven into pretty spirals tied with red ribbons by the local women. There are no seats within the church, so a set of finely upholstered chairs have been delivered from the Castle for the Queen and her mother, though her councillors shall stand with the rest of the parishioners.

The Dean is a kindly man with a broad chest and wide smile. He has led prayers for the souls of those whom Elizabeth and Anne have lost, while his homily speaks of God's mercy in the face of pestilence, giving thanks for England's delivery from the plague. Behind her, Anne can almost sense the wonderment of the congregation that their Queen is worshipping amongst them, as Elizabeth has taken great care with her appearance, dressing in fine garments that are richly coloured, and accenting them with tasteful jewels that are not too ostentatious. Between them, they are two stars in a drab firmament of brown homespun, and all are delighted to bask in their reflected glory.

The completion of the service does not bring Elizabeth's duties to an end, in spite of Madame Astley's attempts to usher her back outside. Entirely unprompted, she is moving amongst the gathered congregation, speaking to people, smiling upon them and even permitting them to lay their hands upon her. She is but ten years of age, and already she presents herself to her subjects as a maternal figure upon whom they can look with love and trust.

"Even now, she knows she must play the part, Majesty." Cromwell observes quietly, as Elizabeth listens to an elderly woman who speaks to her most earnestly.

"She has the intelligence of her father and her mother, Mr Cromwell; and, consequently, an old head upon young shoulders."

"And indeed it is important that she be loved by her Subjects. Let them reserve their hatred for one such as I."

"That is a service far beyond that which we ask of you, Mr Cromwell. I ask you to be her councillor, not her scapegoat."

"Better that they despise men of my kind, Majesty. We are mere politicians - God has not chosen us."

"I would beg to differ." Anne smiles at him, "I could not have come to this point without my 'mere politicians'."

They turn as Mary approaches them, "I hope I am not being forward, Sister; but Lady Rochford and I have, as asked by her Majesty, arranged for a large array of victuals to be made available to the people of the congregation in a nearby byre. It is nearly the Harvest Moon, so it seems appropriate that they should celebrate a good harvest in spite of all that has been laid upon England."

Anne's eyebrows rise; she was not aware of her daughter's decree, "She has arranged for the parishioners to feast? That is most generous of her. Does she intend to join them?"

"I think not, Majesty." Jane advises, "It is her parting gift to them, as we are to adjourn to York in due time. They were most industrious in the works to prepare the apartments for our arrival."

"Then let them feast, Jane. We shall return to the castle, and make our preparations to depart."

The news from the Continent is not assuring. While England has been spared, other nations of Europe remain in the grip of the plague in the midst of unseasonable warmth for late September.

"I am told that much of the harvest has failed in northern France, Majesty," Cromwell reports gravely, "Matters are somewhat better further south, but the Emperor looks to take advantage of Francis's comparative weakness, and already troops are massing upon the French border. Matters are improving in Flanders, though Antwerpen is still in a grave state of misery, and the cloth hall has been closed for nearly two months."

They are residing south of the City in the Palace of Bishopthorpe, hosted by Edward Lee, who has welcomed them warmly, being a friend of Cromwell's. Tomorrow, they shall ride north again to enter the great city of York through the Micklegate, the traditional gate used by Kings.

The council, such as it is, is meeting for the first time in weeks, now that none are sick, in preparation for the works that must be undertaken to recover from the plague. Rochford's work to send men south to aid with the harvest has ensured the safety of the crop, and thus they have emerged from the horror in far better condition than might have been supposed when the sickness first emerged.

"We have been most fortunate, Gentlemen." Anne sighs, "It is thanks to God that we are in this state - for it is naught that I did, or any other did, that saved us from the worst of the plague. How it is that it came no further north than Oxford, I cannot say; but it stayed its hand - and for that I am grateful."

"My Lord of Southampton has re-engaged militias to keep the peace in London." Rich adds, "while the worst of the sickness had passed, and he felt able to discharge the men, it seems that some looked to gain advantage from others through underhand dealings and false rumours; and disorder broke out as a consequence. The Aldermen of other towns and cities have been granted monies to do likewise should similar disorder occur within their purview."

"As soon as we have returned to London, it is essential that we establish how much of the harvest has been saved, and also the numbers of dead if that can be counted. Do the existing poor laws give us the scope to aid those families that have lost their breadwinner?"

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell is reading through his papers, "The taxation upon imports has granted your exchequer sufficient funds to bear such a burden. I suspect that the harvest shall be sufficient only for England's needs in the coming year, so it shall be difficult to justify selling grain to our neighbours if our own people do not have enough to eat."

"We may be able to sell wool." Rich muses, "The if the conditions in Flanders and France are as bad as reported, then who shall have taken the time to shear their flocks, or to card and spin the fleeces? With winter coming, people shall require warm garments. We may no longer be at the forefront of the trade, but it is worth considering."

Anne nods, "Then we shall discuss the matter with the Mercers upon our return to London. I should also be pleased to consider names of men who can serve upon the Council in place of those whom we have lost."

She rises, bringing the men to their feet to bow, and returns to her privy chamber, where Jane Rochford is embroidering alongside Mary, "Where is Madge?"

"She is supervising the packing of your linens prior to our departure to York tomorrow, Majesty. Is there something you require?" Jane asks.

"No, thank you. I shall visit with the Queen awhile. It is my wish to sup in private with her this evening - please could you advise his Grace the Archbishop, Mary?"

Mary rises, curtseys and withdraws.

"Are you well, Majesty?" Jane sets aside her needle and rises from the embroidery frame, "It must have been hard for you to be so far from your daughter."

"I am grateful to be reunited with her, Jane." Anne agrees, tiredly, "But I have lost three good men, while two others deserted us in our time of need. I shall have to find new Councillors - and I know not where to begin in such an enterprise."

"Mr Cromwell shall find good men to serve you, Majesty."

"And what shall I do when he is no longer here, Jane?" Anne's voice is rising with emotion, "I almost lost him - he took sick, too. I thought it to be the plague, and my fear was so great that I risked all to go to him. God be thanked that he lived - but if he had not, then I should be bereft…he has become my guide…as though a father to me…" her head drops into her hands, and she begins to weep.

"Come now, Majesty - seat yourself…" Jane guides her to a chair, fumbling for a kerchief, "God has granted you his presence a while longer, and he shall serve you all his days, I think. He has been a great friend to you, as much as a Councillor, in spite of all that passed between you in days past."

"You must think me most strange." Anne sniffs as she mops up her tears, "He is a base-born man of considerably more years than I - believe me when I tell you that it is not a carnal affection; but, I bear a love for him that is filial, for he has taken the place of my father - guiding me, caring for me and granting me good counsel that is frank and honest. My father acted only for his own gain - but Mr Cromwell does not. Perhaps once he did, but he has not since we stood together in the face of the death of the King."

"I do not think it strange, Majesty." Jane muses, "I think that, while we lost the King, we also gained - for he was known for his temper and his capriciousness. Did he not destroy men who had served him to the uttermost when he demanded more from them than they could give - only to regret their loss long after it was too late to save them? Nay, who is to say who else might have fallen beneath that fearful rage?"

"One of them would have been me, I think." Anne murmurs, "Mr Cromwell told me when this first began that the King had charged him with investigating my conduct. As he was flirting with that Seymour slut, it could not have been more clear that he was seeking a means to remove me in favour of her."

"Perhaps his death has saved all of our lives."

"That, my dear sister, is impossible to know." Anne smiles at her, "Thank you for your understanding. I shall be with Elizabeth if any have need of me."

"Yes Majesty."

The procession makes an impressive sight as it wends its way towards the great gatehouse of York upon Micklegate. In keeping with tradition, Elizabeth is entering through the gate used by Kings, passing beneath a barbican from which once gazed down the decaying heads of the famed Henry Hotspur and Richard of York.

The route to the great cathedral church of York is lined with cheering townsfolk, delighted to see their young Queen in the face of their safety from sickness, and a good harvest. Most have retained their beliefs in the old ways, but also a superstitious belief that their Queen has brought good fortune with her. For once, Anne is grateful for their stubbornness.

Elizabeth is resplendent upon a milk-white palfrey, her overgown a rich emerald green over a gold kirtle. She is escorted by an honour guard in royal red, while her Regent and Council ride behind her. She smiles and acknowledges the cheers of the crowds, while white paper rose petals are scattered from the windows above her head.

The west towers of the cathedral rise high above the rooftops, a glistening stone edifice not yet a century old. The great west window's colours cannot be seen from afar, but the intricate tracery forms a sequence of hearts, at the centre of which is a greater heart still, a vivid symbol of devotion to the Almighty by talented masters of their craft.

There were relics in there, once; relics now removed and granted a decent burial. Other treasures have been removed, but the collections of processional crosses, chalices and patens have been left untouched. The lands have been restored to the Crown, but not the devotional items that are used in the worship of God.

"My commissioners would have taken all of the treasures therein." Cromwell admits to Rich as they ride together, "His Majesty would have demanded every last groat, as would I have done. Her Majesty was willing to allow the Diocese to keep those items that they used in the mass."

"Had that not been so, I think it likely that the citizenry would have emptied the contents of their chamber pots upon us, rather than paper petals."

Lee is waiting for them at the great west door, accompanied by a canon who holds the processional cross, "Welcome, your Majesty. Come forth into God's house to give thanks for his goodness."

"Thank you, your Grace."

The high-born of the City are already within the great nave, which stretches before the Queen towards a thickly carved pulpitum. The royal party is to be accommodated in the Quire, and thus Elizabeth leads her Court in the wake of the processional Cross through the gate, where they are permitted to seat themselves in the stalls reserved for those who donated their wealth to the church in order to be granted a seat there.

The first part of the service is to pray for the souls of the dead, not merely those who were of importance to the Realm, but also for all who were claimed by the plague, no matter how low-born. Elizabeth has met many such folk while upon the road, and she has learned well from her mother's example. No one is too poor to deserve the service of a Queen. As Christ once did, so does she.

Seated in a comfortable stall, the arms of some noble family or other behind his head, Cromwell's thoughts are upon the loss of Sussex. He had been a most capable Lord Chancellor, and shall be sorely missed; having served King Henry as well as Queen Elizabeth. While he was not a member of the Regent's closest personal circle, his loyalty was unimpeachable and his advice always sound. To Cromwell's mind, there is no one who can easily replace him - so finding such a man shall be a singular challenge.

Sorrows addressed, Lee moves on to offer thanks for the delivery of those who lived, and the safety of England's harvest. How it should be that France remains trapped within a near-summer heat, while England moves on into a cool autumn, he cannot hope to know, but perhaps that is what has quelled the plague here. There has been no news from Paris for nearly three weeks, for the traders who provided him with such tidings have either fled, or died.

The blessing given, and the Grace granted, the party emerges and leads the congregation out into air freshened by a breeze that comes from the hills to dispel the entirely sourer odours of the filthy streets.

Beyond the gates of the precinct, a crowd is gathered; poor burghers who have neither the money nor the property to be considered worthy of a Queen's presence. The city aldermen are passing them without so much as a second thought; but Elizabeth does not. Her mother's service upon Maundy Thursday has taught her not to ignore those who have nothing, and instead she pauses to address them, "Good people! I thank you for coming this day - and I am most glad that you have done so. If we are the glittering jewels of York, then you are the heart; for my Realm is the greater for your presence. God's blessings be upon you all!"

The fur-rich men in gold chains of office are staring back at her in bemusement as she nods to her ladies, who advance to give out alms. To them, it seems, these are just annoying creatures who serve only to be in the way as they travel between places of importance. To Anne, however, they are subjects - and Elizabeth has been taught to see them as such.

"If there are no alms remaining for you, dear people," Elizabeth continues, "Fear not, for I have ensured that there shall be good pottage and bread for all at the hospital of St Leonard. I give thanks to God for your safety, and for the safety of all England."

The response is no surprise, "God bless your little Majesty!" a single voice from amidst the crowd, followed by another, "Blessings upon King Harry's Bairn!"

Soon it is a clamour of cheering, and not one voice rises in dissent.

"She has won them, Mr Rich." Cromwell smiles, "She has won them all upon her own account."

"You think it likely that the North shall now be safe?" Rich asks; they all remember that the great loss of the North sat upon their hands when Mary attempted to claim the crown for herself.

"I think so. The nobility have seen a young woman who commands the love of the people. While it has to be said that they were once of little account in the preservation of a reign, that is becoming less so. In such circumstances as these, it is more politically expedient to bend the knee, and thus she has won the North."

As they depart for their accommodation, he can hear it, "Did you hear it? She called us the Heart of York! God's blessings on her!"

He smiles to himself, and urges his horse to catch up with the column.

A/N: As I did last week, I used 16th Century names for places. Today, Ripon has a Cathedral while York has a Minster. Back then, it was the other way round. Equally, the Church in Middleham did indeed used to be a Royal peculiar, in that it answered directly to the Monarch, rather than its Diocese - this only changed in the 19th Century. Those who have visited York Minster might notice the sideways reference in the chapter title - there's an element of the window tracery in the great west window of the Minster that's known as the 'Heart of York'.

The continuing heat on the continent in defiance of cooler conditions in England is courtesy of an infuriating weather phenomenon that occurs in Western Europe during the summer and even into the autumn. It's known in the UK as a 'Spanish Plume' as a stream of hot weather comes up from North Africa, crosses Iberia and France into the Low Countries and the UK. It's not a long-lasting phenomenon (usually only a few days or as much as a week) but it brings our hottest temperatures, and can still happen even into September - as I found out personally two years ago while exploring Bruges in temperatures of in excess of 30 degrees despite it supposedly being early Autumn. Plumes don't always reach into the UK - it depends on the position of the jet stream - and in this case, it's dispersed, but not in Northern Europe.