A/N: And another Friday is upon us...thank you again for your comments. I must admit that it has been an interesting dilemma, trying to find a suitor for Elizabeth that won't get England up in arms like Philip of Spain did when Mary insisted on marrying him. Existing good relations with Portugal, coupled with the ahistorical survival of King John's first three sons has gone some way to finding a path through those thickets - though it's still difficult to say for sure whether the notoriously insular English will accept a foreigner as a King. After all, a Queen isn't such an issue as she is subject to her husband. Trying to get it right this way round is going to be something of a challenge!

Just a quick warning that this will be the last chapter to go up for a couple of weeks as I will be away. I shall endeavour to post a new chapter on 15 June when I return, and get things back on track again.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The Lesser Prince

The silence at the supper table is almost palpable as two men who loathe one another force themselves to sup in one another's company. That they have remained in close proximity for so long is a testament more to their commitment to a shared purpose than any particular patience or tolerance upon their part; but now that matters are apparently progressing in some quarters, it is just as well that they have done so.

"Does Norfolk confirm the rumours?" Brandon mutters, eventually, as Boleyn has been hogging the letter since its arrival this morning, and he has not yet seen it.

"According to that miscreant Rich, the Swedish nobility that surround and protect Erik have been obliged to admit to the scandal." Boleyn finally volunteers, "He has - it seems - emerged from his bout of insanity, and has resumed control of his nobles, but it can only be a matter of time before he is removed. Should he relapse, then that shall be inevitable. At present, he is holding on to power though ruthlessness and determination. Without that, he is lost."

"At which point, John shall be called forth to rule."

"That helps us but little. He is still relatively young, and thus his mother can step forth and claim a regency. If that is so, then she is lost to us, for why would she consider claiming the realm from which she was exiled, when she is required to continue to rule the one to which she was sent?"

"Perhaps, then, we should make overtures to him." Brandon muses, "He is, after all, the true grandson of the King of England, and thus has the right to the English Crown. It may be that we can persuade her Majesty that her son can reclaim that which she was denied."

Boleyn shakes his head, "That would require the abrogation of a carefully formulated treaty. Cromwell has ever been most capable of creating documents whose clauses are tighter than a frog's fundament. Regardless of his uncertain state of sanity, Erik has abided wholly and utterly by the treaty, and the nobility have benefited from the trading opportunities that it brought them. None of them would abide the abrogation of a treaty, even if it were at the behest of a youth with Kingly, English blood. Rich has reported that her Majesty has emerged from her period of pretended adherence to Sweden's heretical church, and now celebrates the Mass as she has always done. Consequently, her subjects regard her less favourably than once they did, and she no longer commands their love, as they are convinced that she shall take steps to destroy their beloved reformation."

"I presume, then, that the nobility are taking equal steps to ensure that her son does not emulate such pious aspirations?" Brandon asks, concerned that his Queen might have lost access to her child.

"That, Norfolk's letter does not report. For all his dubious usefulness, Rich can only provide information that he has acquired second-hand from the English embassy in Stockholm."

"And that is all?" Brandon's temper is rising slightly, as he would much prefer to read Norfolk's letter himself; but Boleyn is too spiteful to relinquish it.

"Not entirely. We may also be helped by the betrothal of the usurper to a minor Prince of Portugal. For all their loyalty to her, Englishmen are notoriously unwelcoming to foreigners, and thus her Council are hard-put to persuade them to accept him. Their only argument is that he is a third son, and thus has no kingdom to inherit."

"They accepted a whore as their regent. I have no doubt that they shall be bribed in some way to accept a foreign prince as their King."

Boleyn shrugs, as though the matters of little interest to him, "Norfolk advises us to find some means of making approaches to her Majesty, to ascertain her intentions. I suspect that such approaches shall require discussions with merchants with whom I am acquainted, so I am sure you can find something…useful…to do while I am so engaged."

Brandon's fist clenches tightly around his napkin, and he fights with himself not to scowl. To do so would give his loathed companion great satisfaction. God above, once her Majesty is Queen of England, he shall be her primary adviser, and closest minister; and so he shall relish denouncing that bastard once and for all. For all his wily political skills, Boleyn is no true nobleman, and that remains the greatest weapon when one is engaged in a political fight to the death.

A fight that he is determined to win.

Anne's eyes widen, "A walking stick, Mr Cromwell?"

Cromwell smiles a little ruefully as he leans on the finely polished beech cane that he can no longer put off carrying, "Alas, yes, Majesty. I fear that my love of fine victuals and good wines has brought about my punishment, for not only am I given to pains in my hip, I am also afflicted by gout. That I have managed to avoid the use of this tiresome stick for so long is more owing to stubbornness than continued good health."

She has grown used to his obligation to use eyeglasses to read documents, for they dangle from a chain about his neck in readiness for the occasions when he raises them to his eyes; and have done so for a few years. The cane, however, demands that she accept the encroaching grey hairs that have been peppering his head for longer than she has been prepared to countenance, and the jowls that are now present upon his chin. How old is he now? Certainly past his sixtieth year. God above - he is ageing, and she must begin to prepare herself for the day that she shall lose him.

He laughs, then, as though he has seen her fears upon her face, "I am not dead yet, Majesty. There is plenty of work still left in me, I assure you. I bring news from His Majesty of Portugal: the terms of our amended treaty, and her Majesty's nuptials are acceptable, and he is keen formalise the agreement. Regarding matters of a religious nature, he is prepared to be pragmatic, for, while he has accepted the inquisition in Portugal, he does not demand such activity from us. Nor does he require her Majesty to become Catholic. As we have adopted an equally pragmatic approach to religion in the Realm, we are not obliged to demand that Prince Felipe abandon his Catholic adherence: our religious settlement permits the presence of both the old and new faiths in the realm. While we certainly expect the old faith to wither away in time, there are still sufficient adherents to old traditions to accept a Catholic prince upon the throne, as long as he does not stand in the way of the Queen."

Anne nods, "Elizabeth has become most fond of her young betrothed, my Lord. If his Majesty of Portugal is amenable, I am hopeful that we might perhaps invite the youth to England to meet his bride, and to commence instruction in the government of the Realm, so that we might find him some useful purpose to occupy him instead of usurping his wife's privileges. It does not do for a man to be set to one side while his wife stands to the fore; it is too bruising to his self-regard to do so."

"Particularly so for a man who has been raised to be a prince." Cromwell adds, dryly.

"I think our minds are meeting, Mr Cromwell: care must be taken to ensure that such purpose is suitable for a man of his rank. I have learned that men are easily bruised if they consider the task they have been given to have no purpose other than to create the appearance of usefulness. Come, be seated. Let us enjoy a game of chess." She smiles, and indicates a small table nearby.

"Thank you. I should be most pleased, Majesty." Anne attempts to ignore the slowness with which he takes his seat, or the minor flinches of his features as the pain of doing so strikes at him; instead busying herself with fetching out the chessmen.

As always, her ladies surround her, and for a moment she remembers a time when the room was filled with people; courtiers eager to petition for her support, admiring men with whom she played the foolish game of Courtly Love. In spite of her female state, for a time she was so powerful that she could tip the balance that sent great men tumbling into exile or worse. She had revelled in that power, and it had manifested as a ghastly arrogance that her older, wiser self now thinks of with embarrassment. No wonder the council had regarded her with such loathing.

"I have been most fortunate." She says, as Cromwell reaches for the white pawn to make his first move, "I was a fool: an arrogant, spite-filled fool who believed herself to be a great power at Court who could topple highly placed men with impunity. It was all smoke and mirrors - for my power was based solely upon the King's desire to have me for his own. Without that, what was I?"

"As powerless as I was." Cromwell admits, "I also had enemies ranged against me, and my protection was also the favour of his Majesty. Had he not laid down the law as he did, neither you nor I would be speaking to one another at this table. His Majesty's favour was fickle, however; and I was aware that - sooner or later - he would abandon me as he abandoned Wolsey and More. I convinced myself that I would find a way to circumvent that, for I had no other master but he; but, in the end, it was the death of the King that saved me."

"And me."

They play in silence awhile, each absorbed in their own thoughts, until Anne places him in check, startling him.

"You are not concentrating, my Lord." She smiles.

He looks embarrassed, "Forgive me, Majesty. I was thinking upon how fortunate we have been; how lucky. There have been so many occasions upon which we could have lost all - and yet events fell into our favour. You were upon the verge of being set aside; nay, even destroyed entirely, and then the King died leaving you crowned and anointed. People were willing to accept a child as a Queen as she was the figurehead of a new faith. We were able to use the act of Supremacy to win over the Council, while Norfolk's attempts to claim the protectorship won us the loyalty of a wily man of talent, removed your greatest enemies and brought your brother back to your side. Mary attempted to raise England against you, but the circumstances in which she moved favoured us, and thus she failed. People rose to protect the bones of Becket, but sickness moved amongst them, and we were able to attribute the passing of the sickness to your presence."

She nods, "I see your meaning. It could have all been so different, could it not? God has been good to us both - so we should thank Him for His kindness by doing the best that we can for England, and for Elizabeth. All that I do, I do in the knowledge that Elizabeth shall pay the consequences should I act wrongly, or for my own ends. But for that, I dread to imagine what I might have done, or become."

Cromwell laughs, "I think I could have become worse, Majesty. In the years that have passed, I have also become a different man. When I was your late Lord's chief minister, I saw only one objective, and steered my course towards it with a singular determination. I sought power for myself, power and wealth. I came from nothing - while the King was surrounded by men who had never known what it was to huddle under a hedge in the rain, to sit upon the steps of a church with a hand held out in hopes of alms. I was reduced to that; reduced to begging in order to survive when Frescobaldi came across me. He brought me into his house and set my feet upon a new path, and I swore; I swore, that I would never know such humiliation again. What could the great Lords of England know of such things? They lived in fine houses, dressed in velvets and silks while they ate fine victuals from silver platters. I wanted to stand above them - and I have no doubt that, in time, I would have overstepped myself and placed myself at their mercy, secure in the knowledge that they would have none for me."

"In which case, we must take care to ensure that each of us keeps the other from overstepping ourselves." Anne smiles at him, "There was a time when I would have done all in my power to remove you - but now, I pray that you shall be at my side until Elizabeth rules for herself, and we shall be rewarded with the knowledge that she shall reign well."

"I shall do my utmost, Majesty." Cromwell advises her, then looks at the chessboard, smiles rather more cheerfully and reaches for an unregarded pawn, "Checkmate."

The council have been in session now for nearly six hours, engaged in one topic of discussion: the young prince Filipe of Portugal, and how to present him to the people of England.

"He is a foreigner, Gentlemen." Cranmer sighs, "And an adherent to the old ways. Regardless of his virtues, his foreign blood remains a sticking point that shall be nigh-on impossible to overcome."

"Excellency Damião has assured us that he shall not demand that Elizabeth renounce her faith," Cromwell reminds him, "Nor has he demanded that she submit to the Pope. As we have permitted England's remaining Catholics to look to Rome only in matters of faith, so shall we ask him to do likewise. Her Majesty's Catholic subjects have responded to the settlement well, and we are less required to bring people before magistrates to answer for seditious activities than we have ever been. While it is intended that the old faith shall eventually wither away as younger English-folk enter the Church of England, at this time it remains established in various pockets across the realm, and if we are to avoid the same religious strife that has riven France and even the Empire, it is best that we show her Majesty's Catholic subjects that we are intent upon the foundations of the Settlement that permits them to retain their faith should they wish to."

Anne smiles to herself at his words. There was a time when he would have done all that he could to stamp out the old ways - but he, too, has been obliged to amend his stance in the face of the requirement to be pragmatic.

"As long as he does not bring the inquisition with him," Warwick adds, "For that would cause much anger amongst her Majesty's subjects who follow the reformed faith."

"That is already agreed, my Lords." Elizabeth reminds them, "It is not for me to look into men's hearts and demand ownership of their souls - for they belong to God. My concern is that all men look to Him for succour of their hearts and spirits. How they choose to do so, be it through the intercession of saints and good works, or through faith alone, is not for me to demand of them. God may have chosen me to rule, and to oversee His Church in England; but He has not placed His authority upon me to act entirely in His stead."

She ignores an outbreak of raised eyebrows as her councillors take in a statement that is far wiser than they might have expected from one so young, "We have set laws in place that confirms that I am Queen of England, while my husband shall be my King Consort. It is my concern at this time that we grant him privileges and prerogatives that are fitting to his state, but that shall not stand over mine as England's anointed Prince."

And there lies the greatest dilemma. As a husband, Filipe would expect to command his wife - for all men do, as is their right. How can he be the master of his household, and yet also a subject? All of Christendom would assume that, upon his marriage, he would assume the rule of England in his wife's stead; but how to prevent that?

"It should not be forgotten that you are not equals, Majesty." Rich muses, "You are an anointed Queen, while his Highness of Portugal is a prince who is unlikely to inherit a crown. In matters pertaining to the rule of England, you shall have precedence. I suggest that we create his Highness a Royal Duke in the first instance, perhaps of the old Kingdom of Wessex? The subsidiary titles can be established alongside it in due time."

"He remains a foreigner." Percy argues, stubbornly, "Men shall not be pleased to find that they are to be ruled by a man who does not share their tongue."

"That can be remedied Sir Thomas." Anne reminds him, "There are many of us at this table who speak more than one language."

"It has already begun." Elizabeth adds, "We have been corresponding in English for some considerable time."

"Mr Percy speaks fairly, Majesty." Cromwell reminds his Queen, "For all the work we do to prepare England for his arrival, we remain unable to control the hearts of Englishmen. I am a rare man in England, for I have travelled in other lands. Most have not, and thus regard all that is not English with great suspicion. At this time, I think that his Highness's visit to England should remain so. He shall be invested with a Dukedom as Lord Rich suggests, but shall remain only for a time before departing again. In that time, he should be seen to be a worthy youth for England's Queen - participating in Court events, and perhaps a short progress at your side where he can demonstrate his interest in the welfare of your Majesty's subjects. Nuptials might be better postponed until the autumn, by which time the harvest shall be over. If it is a good harvest, then it can be presented as Divine approval for the match - but, if not, none can claim it as Divine disfavour for it, for you would not yet be married."

"Such artifice, my Lord." Elizabeth sighs, "Though I should appreciate a sign of such nature to aid me in my decision; for I have prayed much upon it. I know that I must marry for the good of the Kingdom, and not in answer to the promptings of my inconstant heart; to know that God looks upon my betrothed with favour shall be a great assurance."

"Then is that your wish, Majesty?"

"It is. See to it, my Lord Cromwell."

"Thanks be to God that the weather is warming again." Rich mutters, as he holds his hands towards the fire to warm them, "I am sick to death of bloody chilblains."

"It is your own fault for eschewing mittens." Cromwell smiles, lifting his left hand, which is enclosed in a woollen, fingerless glove, "I might well look like a bent old scribe, but my hands are something akin to warm."

In the weeks since Christmastide, the cold has been cruel, and work to welcome the young Prince Filipe has been obliged to run in harness with efforts to bring succour to the poor and dispossessed in the face of a long, brutal period of freezing weather that has covered the Thames with a crown of ice so thick that horses can be ridden upon it. At one time, Cromwell's intentions for the most far-reaching reforms to aid the poor included aspirations to provide financial grants to the very poorest folk at times of crisis; but aspirations are not much use in the face of privileged wealthy folk who have no wish to relinquish so much as a groat from their coffers to help pay for them. The change of reign did much to alter that, and thus commissioners have been hard at work to send purses of monies to the almshouses and infirmaries to aid those who have no means to warm, clothe or feed themselves while England is held so firmly in winter's grip.

Rich returns to his desk, "I have completed the latest requisitions to transport firewood to the various royal possessions, Thomas. The foresters and carters shall finally have some work for which they can be paid; though how we are to aid the wherry-men and bargees, God knows."

"Until the ice breaks, they shall remain helpless, I fear." Cromwell agrees, "Mr Wriothesley has been overseeing the provision of victuals to keep them fed until such time as they can return to the waters. I fear they shall be heartily sick of broth, bread and gruel by the time that happens; though I think it not to be too much longer now."

"They shall be alive, Thomas - and that is something for which all can be grateful." Rich sets his quill down again and flexes his sore fingers rather miserably, "Hell, these are painful."

"I am told that a mix of wine, egg and fennel root is efficacious."

"So is the arrival of spring."

"If writing is too uncomfortable, Richard, perhaps you might wish to join me in considering the arrangements for his Highness's arrival. His Majesty King John has expressed the intention to confer a courtesy title of Duchess of Guarda upon her Majesty. While it shall not be accompanied by land, it shall instead include access to specific trade routes in both India and Cathay, which she is free to grant to merchantmen of her choice."

Rich's eyes widen, "That is most generous - I assume that such largesse is granted upon the solemnisation of their marriage?"

"The Indian route is not; that shall be granted upon the raising of his highness to the English nobility. The routes to Cathay shall follow."

"God above, we would be mad to let this marriage falter, Thomas. Access to the spice routes is more than we could have hoped for."

"That is my thought. We must therefore be careful to ensure that what the exchequer earns from such an enterprise can serve to reduce the tax burden upon those of lesser means, if such a thing can be managed. I have no doubt that her Majesty's subjects shall be more amenable to the marriage if there is visible benefit to them as a consequence of it."

"You think that could be a possibility?"

"At this time, it is impossible to say - but did my lord of Warwick not advise that a single cargo of black pepper is of such worth that a man can retire upon it? If England can pay for herself through commerce, then there is less burden upon her subjects to do so."

"It shall never be possible to eliminate all taxation." Rich scoffs.

"True." Cromwell agrees, "But if her Majesty's subjects are presented with a reduction in taxation, perhaps they shall be too pleased at that to notice that they are still, nonetheless, paying taxes."

The great clock of Whitehall palace tolls six, and Cromwell looks up from his papers, "I think I shall sup in my apartments this night; it is too late in the evening to return to my home. If you are not engaged elsewhere, perhaps you might like to join me?"

Papers locked away, candles extinguished, the two men make their way together through corridors that are populated with Courtiers making their way to the hall to sup, while servants light the lamps upon the walls, or busy themselves with any one of a hundred tasks that are required to keep all about them in a proper state. Their conversation is no longer political, instead concentrating upon the newest of Cromwell's hawks, recently acquired and settled in his mews at Austin Friars. While the popularity of the sport is declining, it remains a noble pursuit, and one that Cromwell has always enjoyed. Too stiff to hunt for long periods these days, and unable to indulge his enjoyment of bowls any longer, he is still able to watch them being flown in the evenings, and Rich has often spent time at the grand house where once there was a Friary, gambling over cards - and usually winning very handsomely as a result.

Supper is a well-turned haunch of mutton with fresh bread and artichokes, for which Cromwell has a great fondness, though Rich is less well disposed to such things, "How is your wife, Richard?"

He sighs, "Better than she was, I think. The loss of Edward was hard for her; she has borne me many children, for which I am grateful; though I fear that she is sad that she has given me few boys. Thus she not only grieves for him, but also mourns the loss of another son."

"Should matters ease this year, perhaps you might spend some time with her?"

"If it can be managed, I should appreciate that. She has been a good wife to me, and I should like to see to her comfort in person rather than through correspondence."

"Life is fragile." Cromwell sympathises, "I have but the one son now. I am fortunate, in that he has lived to become a man, and has presented me with grandchildren, while my siblings have granted me a brood of nephews and nieces that are a delight to an old man such as I."

Rich's eyes widen slightly, "To speak so suggests to me that you think to retire."

"God, no. I think, if I stopped working, I should collapse from the shock of it. I am not a man of idle leisure, Richard. While there is work for me to do, I intend to do it. Besides," he adds, reaching for his wine, "I suspect her Majesty shall not permit me to leave the Court, nor shall the Regent."

"Forgive me if I sound trite, Thomas; but I think the Court itself should collapse if you retired."

"Or the world end?" Cromwell asks, smiling, "I found it necessary to make myself indispensable to King Henry, for I knew that I would be discarded if I did not. Much of my career at court seems to have been an ongoing effort to ensure that I am not executed by being an essential Minister without whom the King could not manage. In doing so, however, in the move to the new reign I seem to have truly become so; but it was equally necessary, for had I not worked alongside the Regent as I did, then Norfolk would have had my head removed before the King had been in his grave a month."

Rich shakes his head, "Alas, no. He had far bloodier plans for you than that. And for me. We would have travelled together upon hurdles to Tyburn would we not?"

"Ah yes, I had forgotten that."

"And now he thinks himself to be conspiring with me against the Queen. So I, too, appear to be indispensable."

"But you look forward to his expression when he discovers that you have led him by the nose?"

"Most assuredly." Rich smirks.

Their conversation moves on to other matters as they retire to the fireside with mulled ale and sweetmeats. All that remains for them to do now is wait for the spring, and thus Prince Filipe shall arrive.

Wiltshire peruses the document before him with interest, "The Turk remain bellicose, I see. At least that shall occupy the Emperor while we continue our negotiations with John of Portugal. Has he attempted to seek our aid?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "My informants upon the continent suggest not, as does our ambassador. We remain at peace with the Empire, though I suspect that his Imperial Majesty may hope that his Highness of Portugal shall encourage her Majesty to resubmit to the authority of the Pope; thereby negating the requirement upon him to force the issue. While he remains engaged with incursions into his territory by the Ottomans, he is too busy to look in our direction. In spite of my dislike of war, in this case it serves us well as it distracts the Emperor, and costs money that he thus cannot spend upon invading England."

"When is the Prince due to arrive?"

"By tomorrow, if the winds are still in his favour." Cromwell burrows through some papers, "The churches have been tasked with preaching the virtues of our visitor, though there is no talk of marriage at this time. I am, however, not fool enough to think that it is not spoken of by the populace. Rumours are likely to have been circulating for months."

"It gives them something to do." Wiltshire laughs.

They have done all that they can to smooth the way for his Highness to visit England with minimal dissent from a population that is largely born suspicious of foreigners. There had been a time when English Kings ruled lands in England and France, and foreign-born Queens have been a fact of royal life for generations. A foreign-born King, on the other hand, is a very different prospect. They might have succeeded in persuading Englishmen that a Queen can rule - but that is a simple business compared to persuading them that this marriage shall not be a sale of the realm to Portugal.

Filipe has cleared one hurdle, at least, in that he has taken the time to learn English; partly through correspondence with his wife, and partly through discourse with English merchants. Cromwell remembers the tale of the day that Katherine met Prince Arthur - the two had corresponded in Latin, their only common tongue, only to find that their pronunciation of the language had been taught so differently that they could not understand each other when they spoke it. Long before his time at court, he was not present to see it, but he is keen to ensure that such an awkward scenario is not repeated.

"I am not sure whether to be pleased, or nervous." Wiltshire admits, "All that I know of the youth tells me that he is a fine young man, and truly worthy of her Majesty; but it does naught to prevent the truth that he is not an Englishman."

"Perhaps we are too fearful, my Lord." Cromwell smiles, "It may be that he shall step forth onto the dockside and greet us in such fine English that the people shall be awed and delighted."

"I shall settle for his not being pelted with vegetables."

The morning dawns clear and bright, though cold. In the weeks since Christmastide, the weather has warmed somewhat, allowing the river to thaw to a degree that the wherrymen are able to put out again, though care must be taken to avoid large isles of ice that still make their way down towards the sea. To Rich's eye, they seem to have congregated en masse in the pool of London, their wherries gaily decorated with fluttering strips of colourful fabrics, as there are no flowers at this time of the year. The route from the Tower to Whitehall has been decorated with flags, while the wine fountains have been constructed again to celebrate the arrival of the young man whose ship was spotted passing Tilbury this morning, a fact proclaimed by the lighting of beacons along the length of the river that were set to warn of his approach.

Elizabeth had been most keen to be at the dockside to greet her Princely visitor, but it is not done for a Queen to wait upon a guest in such fashion, so she waits in her Presence chamber while her highest Councillors await the arrival of his ship, and escort him to her side.

In honour of the occasion, Cromwell has eschewed his habitual black and tawny garb, though his gesture towards more celebratory attire is confined to a dark blue doublet over which is set a sable trimmed simarre, while his scholar's cap has been replaced with a smart bonnet. Beside him, Wiltshire is hard put not to stare, never having seen him dressed so, while Rich does his best to conceal a smirk at his colleague's surreptitious scrutiny.

The vessel that appears around the river bend at Wapping is a large galleon reminiscent of the sketches of grand ships in Filipe's letters. Unlike English Carracks, its forecastle is reduced, and its hull lengthened somewhat, while the rigging upon its three masts is colourful with myriad small flags that flutter in the breeze that fills the few sails still set. There is no need to have her at full sail in such confined quarters, and already the harbourmaster and pilots are approaching to aid the helmsman in bringing her to the wharf that awaits.

Behind the escort, crowds of Londoners are gathering. Some make their way through the press, intent on their own business, while the rest are held by curiosity at the platoons of red-clad royal guards, headed by men in garments that speak eloquently of their high status. Word has been announced of a grand royal visit, though the ultimate outcome of it has not been released, remaining instead a topic of speculation and interest. Consequently, those who are gathering crane to see the grand vessel as it is towed in and moored, wondering who shall emerge.

The first to step down the gangplank are a small troop of guards in the livery of King John of Portugal, who stand and form up on the dockside while members of the Prince's household follow. Behind them, at last, a youth stands at the side of the ship, looking about with wonderment. He is dressed in Royal crimson, a feathered bonnet upon a head crowned with fronds of dark hair inherited from his father.

Cromwell smiles to himself: for all the splendour and magnificence of his father's overseas possessions and trade, he has never left the boundaries of Lisbon. Thus a youth who has presented England's Queen with silks and jewels of such exotic origin is excited to see, for the first time, shores that are foreign to his own.

Filipe comes down the gangplank with a sprightly step, his expression betraying his excitement. Failing utterly to conceal a smile, Cromwell steps forth and bows deeply, "Sua Alteza Real, seja bem vindo à Inglaterra. I am the Lord Chancellor of England, sent by her Majesty to greet you and conduct you to her palace at Whitehall." He hopes fervently that he has pronounced the Portuguese well - Damião worked very hard to help him perfect it.

"Ah yes, Sir Thomas Cromwell is it not?" Filipe's accent is strong, but his English firm, "I am most pleased to be here. Is her Majesty well?"

"She is, Highness. She has asked me to advise that she is eager to meet you, and to grant you a gift upon her behalf." He turns, to where Sir Anthony Browne is standing alongside a magnificent chestnut gelding, and Filipe's smile widens all the more.

"I am very thankful for this gift." In spite of himself, he remembers his manners, "I cannot bring a horse with me. So I am glad to have one."

Ah, so his English is not entirely perfect. No matter; that shall be easily remedied. Cromwell steps back again as the Queen's Master of the Horse leads the gelding to the prince, "Thank you, Sir." Filipe says, "I am very grateful."

"He is yours for the entirety of your visit, your Highness." Browne advises, "Upon your return to Portugal, he shall follow."

The introductions continue as Filipe greets Wiltshire and Rich, before the party mount up. Behind them the two troops of royal guards form up together, and the party moves off.

"Was the voyage comfortable, Highness?" Cromwell asks, riding alongside. Behind him, Wiltshire and Rich are doing what they can to engage in conversation with the Prince's senior gentlemen, neither of whom are as capable in English as their master. As neither the Lords Treasurer or Privy Seal have any capability in Portuguese at all, there is little that they can easily discuss.

"At times, yes." Filipe answers, "I have seen many ships from the Palace. There were bad waves sometimes, and I fear I was not well."

"I understand well, Highness." Cromwell smiles at him, "I have endured seasickness."

"You have travelled, Sir?"

"I have indeed, Highness. I have lived in Florence, and travelled to Rome, as well as to towns in Flanders and France."

"I wish I could go to places. Until today, I have not left my home."

"I am not like most people, Highness. Most Englishmen never leave England. Merchants do, but most Englishmen are not merchants."

"Then I shall like them. Merchants talk only of themselves and money."

Cromwell smiles to himself. It seems that he is not the only one who thinks that way, "I was once a merchant, Highness - I fear I, too, talked only of myself and money."

The rest of the journey is uneventful, and they are soon dismounting in the Deal Yard, where the rest of the Council have assembled to conduct their visitor to his hostess. As they make their way to the Queen's apartments, Cromwell hopes fervently that the difference between the Filipe that Elizabeth has imagined, and the Filipe that she is about to meet, is not so great that their affection founders upon the rocks of dashed expectations. The youth seems to be all that his letters suggested, as did the diplomats; but he has not yet found his feet in this strange place, and there is no telling what might happen once he does.

The Presence chamber, despite its relatively small size, is crammed with those Courtiers who were able to claim that their rank permits them to be there. They are all absorbed in conversation, and it is only the clatter of the chief steward's staff upon the floor that commands their attention, "My Lords, Your Majesties, his Royal Highness, Prince Philip of Portugal!"

Seated upon a chair beside her daughter, Anne smiles as the announcement causes the assembled courtiers to part like waves of the red sea obeying the command of Moses. At the far end of the chamber, a young man of fair countenance and royal bearing stands, and she is pleased that he is a handsome young man. To her left, Elizabeth straightens, and rises from her throne as he approaches. For all their correspondence, she has never seen him. Thanks be to God that he is as fair to look upon as the words of his letters.

"Your Highness," Elizabeth's voice is firm, though her stance proclaims to her mother that she is suddenly shy of the young man before her, "Welcome to my Court. I trust your journey was comfortable?"

Filipe bows deeply, "I thank your Majesty for your kindness. I am most pleased to be here."

God, such stilted words - but what else can they say to one another in such a crowded forum? For all the affection that they have expressed in their letters to one another, there are far too many listening ears to encourage the familiarity that emerged between them on paper.

Anne catches Cromwell's eye as the two continue their rather forced talk of the weather, and they share a hopeful glance. A lesser Prince he may be, but if this visit can be successful, and Filipe proves to be as fair a youth as he has been portrayed, then perhaps there shall be a marriage at the end of it; and England shall have hopes of an heir.

A/N: Hopefully not too much of a cliffhanger there...see you all in two weeks!