A/N: And it's Friday again! Where does the week go? Thank you again for your kind comments - as always, I really do appreciate your support.

It's time to catch up with Mary again - how has she fared in the midst of so many misfortunes?

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

An English Court in Exile

The chapel is silent but for a single figure, kneeling before the altar and working her way along the decades of her rosary with an almost obsessive determination.

Gustav would never have allowed this…never. But Gustav is dead - and, again, death has robbed her of the one who would speak for her against those who would take that which is rightfully hers. What has she done to warrant this? Why is it determined by God that she be required to suffer so?

No. Job's suffering was by far the greater, and still he praised his maker. It is not right to blame the Father for the actions of men.

Which one was it? That vile traitor Tryggve Bååt, no doubt, returned to scheme at her son's court with all the laurels and plaudits of that family from the tower of their castle of Vyborg. Bastion against the forces of Novgorod, those laurels are hardly unearned - but that politically rapacious Margrave is not the one who earned them, and thus looks to claim power and fame by other means.

Mary's fingers pass over the beads again, and again. She should be meditating on one of the mysteries but instead she seems only to move from bead to bead without even a thought of the prayers that should be said as she does so. Instead her meditation is upon all that she has lost, and the bitterness is deeper than wormwood in her throat.

Even now, the torn fragments of that letter sit upon her writing desk in her private chamber, as they fell when she clutched the paper in her hands and wrenched it apart in her rage. John is her son! Her child! And yet now he writes to her as though she is an incidental nothing; something that exists, but is no longer required.

The beads travel faster now, rather more faster than they should; and, at last, the chain can stand no more, breaking and causing her to drop the rosary upon the floor. Distraught, she lifts it: grateful that the beads are fixed to it, and thus only one has separated. Her mother would be so dismayed - it is the one bequest that she was permitted to keep, when her realm and crown were snatched from her.

"Forgive me, mother. I have failed you - for I have not ruled well, nor have I ruled the kingdom that is truly mine. They remain heretics, and equal heretics in this realm now demand that I be dismissed from their godless presence. I swore once - swore - that I would reclaim the crown of England for my family and my Church. If I cannot be with my husband and at his side, be it here or in heaven - for my prayers shall continue to cleanse his soul until he can depart purgatory and take his place at the Father's table - then I shall reclaim my own Kingdom. Speak for me, intercede for me, mother - through the saints that you revere and with whom you now sit. Send a sign to me that my cause is not in vain. Should I retire to contemplate God, or should I return to my realm to claim it for my Father's house?"

There is nothing. Not a sound, not even a flicker of the candles upon the altar. Refusing to be dismayed - for, after all, God provides in his own time, not hers - Mary rises, curtseys towards the Host, and departs.

Helena is in her chambers, carefully arranging one of her gowns. Once, she could trust Susan, and Jane; now, she can trust Helena, who has been at her side from the day she first boarded ship at Tilbury. All of the ladies around her were those that she met upon that day, and their loyalty has been proven over and over again.

"I have selected the Tawny and bronze tinsel, Majesty."

"Thank you. That is one of my favourites. Have any more messages come?"

"No, Majesty."

She sighs, "Thank you, Helena." She stands still to allow her Gentlewomen to unfasten lacings and remove the large, bulky gown. Her days of wearing black out of grief for her late husband are over; forcibly ended by the brutality of her son's dismissal. He has - of course - not gone as far as to suggest that their marriage was invalid, but he has claimed that it was forced upon the realm, and thus is valid only in that it produced an heir. Thus he has forbidden her to continue to wear mourning. No - not John: for all his childish manners when he was small, he was never a petty creature. It is those vile, misbegotten men of the Council who want rid of her so that they can settle down to the altogether more entertaining activity of vying with one another to be Protector of the Kingdom.

If black is now forbidden to her, then she shall instead wear the dullest, most drab garments she possesses. Do they not understand what Gustav meant to her? Or she to him? He did not berate her when her first two pregnancies failed, nor did he wish to set her aside in favour of some other woman. He loved her, and trusted her to give him a son - and cherished both mother and child when she did…

Her eyes fill with tears at the thought.

"Majesty?" Helena looks worried, and Mary hastily dashes the tears away.

"Forgive me; I was captured by the thought of my late Lord. I shall sup in an hour."

"Yes Majesty." Curtseying, Helena ushers the women away, and leaves her mistress in peace.

Retrieving her mother's now-broken rosary, Mary seats herself at her desk and looks out across the parkland of the home that she must abandon. Her tears are no longer of grief, but bitterness. Everything that she has ever been given has been cruelly snatched away from her - and still her martyrdom goes on.

"Your Majesty?"

Shocked, she turns sharply to see Nils, one of her Stewards.

"What do you want?" she snaps, furious, "How dare you enter my presence uninvited!"

He shuffles, nervously, "Forgive me, Majesty. I would not have done so - but, I have a letter for you. One that your ladies should not see."

Frowning, she holds out her hand to take it, and her eyes widen at the script upon the folded document.

Her Majesty Mary of England. First Queen of the House of Tudor

Setting the rosary aside, she breaks the seal - an anonymous thumbprint - and fumbles with the paper to open it. For a moment, she has to concentrate upon the text. She has neither spoken, nor read, in English for a considerable time.

Your gracious Majesty,

I ask you to accept our deepest condolences upon the loss of your late husband, and also in the face of the cruel betrayal that has been visited upon you.

In the years since your exile from your rightful Realm, I have endeavoured to establish a suitable embassy to represent your interests against that of the usurper Elizabeth and her godless mother, who continue to rule in your stead in defiance of God's will and all that is right. Though I, and his Grace the former Duke of Suffolk, have been stripped of our titles through Acts of Attainder, we humbly offer our services to you as your Ambassador and Chamberlain respectively. His grace the former Bishop of Durham has recently reached us, and has offered to be your chaplain, so he shall be here to see to your spiritual needs.

I have secured accommodation worthy of your noble state in the Town of Rostock, which lies in Western Pomerania. It is a port, and thus we shall send a ship for your disposal to depart Sweden and return to lands under the jurisdiction of his Imperial Majesty. Ladies shall be sent to see to your comfort in place of those who must remain - they have come from England and are of good families.

While we shall be an Embassy in Exile, we are not alone in our aspirations. His Grace of Norfolk has declared for you, and shall provide monies for your use to maintain your household. We are also aided by a member of the Usurper's council, who shall apprise us of all the doings of that strumpet and her offspring. Thus we shall be prepared to win your crown as we were not when first we marched to claim it.

As a token of our esteem, and our faith, his Grace, formerly of Suffolk, has sent a rosary of particular value to him. It is marked with his arms, and shall - we hope - serve as a comfort to you in your time of trial. Your Steward shall aid you in your preparations for departure. Your ship is named England's Pride, and shall bring you to your rightful inheritance.

In hopes of your return to us.

Thos. Boleyn.

Her hands begin to shake. It is the sign - she asked for a sign, and it has come. Solemnly, Nils steps forth and hands her a velvet pouch, from which she retrieves the promised rosary - yes, there is Suffolk's crest upon it. His nobility may have been taken from him, but she shall assuredly grant it back.

"I am for you also, Majesty. Wherever you shall go, if it please you, I shall follow."

Her expression intent, Mary looks up at him, "Thank you, Nils. Keep watch upon the port. As soon as the promised ship has docked, we shall flee this place and never return. If my son demands that I must begone, then I shall depart - and claim that which is, and has always been, rightfully mine."

Nils goes down on one knee, "Yes, your Majesty."

Jane Wiltshire is seated at the muselar for the first time in some months, though her expression is sad, for her return to court has been precipitated by the requirements of custom. William is now residing in the household of the de Vere family, taking his first steps into an education that shall form him into a nobleman of suitable state to marry well and serve his Queen when he comes of age. A little early, perhaps; but his precocious intelligence - perhaps an inevitable gift thanks to the brilliance of his family line - has made itself known in his younger years, and a mother may only oversee the education of daughters.

Grateful for the soothing music, Anne sits and reads the latest missive that Rich has received from Norfolk, "So, they intend to meet with her."

He nods, "He is providing all of the funds required to keep her in a noble state, Majesty. Previously, his support has been intermittent at best - but now that it is clear that she is to depart Sweden, he has opted to declare for her rather more overtly; presumably upon the assumption that she shall accept him as a highly placed nobleman without knowing that his support has only come to the fore now that he is likely to be rewarded for it."

"In addition to his inadvertent support for England's poor?" Wiltshire asks, smiling cheerfully; they all know that Rich's donation of Norfolk's bribes to charitable causes is somewhat reluctant.

"He is more likely to be rewarded for that than anything else," Cromwell snorts, "given his determination to retain his popish beliefs."

"And do we think she shall make another attempt to steal her Majesty's crown?" Mary asks, a little nervously. Having not been present at Court when her sister set out for Barnet, she is less aware of the political considerations that tend to colour such momentous acts.

"At this time, her primary concern shall be finding a roof over her head where those who rule shall accept her presence." Cromwell answers, "While Pomerania lies within the Emperor's lands, it is ruled - as are most states beyond Spain - by princes who answer to him, and they may not wish to accommodate an exiled Queen whose presence threatens their diplomatic relations with England. We are not the small backwater that once we were. Now that we have our alliance with Portugal, access to the spice ports of the east shall increase our wealth considerably - and thus we shall be less tempting a prospect for invasion as we shall have the means to pay for our defence."

"I should think that the only Prince who shall truly accept her shall be the Emperor himself," Rich muses, "for he shall have no choice. She is his cousin, and thus to spurn her from his borders shall reflect poorly upon him - it does not do to turn away a blood relative looking for sanctuary."

Jane comes to the end of another coranto, "Perhaps not, my Lord; but he shall not wish for it. She has now been exiled from two realms, even if the second expulsion was not of her doing. To house her shall not tie well with his aspirations, shall it?"

Anne nods, "Indeed so, Jane. Our alliance with Portugal, and the betrothal to a prince of John's House has stayed his hand in attempting to force us to return to the authority of the Vicar of Rome. We have no need to ally with him in hopes of securing access to his acquisitions in the New World, as the riches of the spice Kingdoms are within our grasp - and he is still troubled by the Turk, so he is more concerned with leaving us unprovoked."

"Particularly as the cost of his wars with the Turk have emptied his treasury." Cromwell adds, "I understand that the Spanish real must be debased again in order to avert bankruptcy, despite the great wealth that is being brought into Spain from his possessions abroad. Our determined avoidance of war, on the other hand, has ensured that we have been able to revalue the currency for the first time since his late Majesty's death."

"Not to mention his ongoing squabble with King Francis over the possession of the Duchy of Milan." Wiltshire smirks, "For all its supposedly noble aspirations, war is hardly helpful for one's coffers."

"She must go somewhere, Gentlemen." Anne sighs, "And, once she does, her advisers are hardly likely to counsel that she retire into wealthy obscurity given their avowed intent in this letter. She is, after all my late husband's daughter, and I have no doubt that the loss of her Swedish crown has sharpened her intent to demand the English one."

Rich nods, "All that truly stands in their way is the lack of a permanent residence from which to petition for aid."

"Assuming any is granted." Mary adds.

"We shall discuss this with her Majesty in the morning, I think." Anne muses, "It would not do for this to be kept from her, or to decide upon a course of action without her consideration. She has maintained good relations with her half-sister for some years; so to find that those years of amity may now be overturned over the ownership of her crown shall be hard to bear."

"She may decide against it, Majesty." Cromwell adds, "We know of that which is offered, but not yet whether she has accepted it. Perhaps she may arrive at Rostock, thank her supporters for their constancy, but advise that she has chosen instead to look to a contemplative life, and intends to enter a convent, or retire quietly to an estate in Spain."

"You think she shall do that?" Rich asks, his expression slightly askance.

"No. But I can hope."

It is strange to see her daughter perusing Court papers rather than one of her beloved translations; but Anne recognises that her daughter is growing up apace, and her head has always been ahead of her flesh in terms of maturity. The time when she shall relinquish every remaining aspect of rule to the girl seated at her desk in her Privy chamber seems to be approaching at a greater speed than she would wish.

"Majesty." She smiles, and curtseys.

"Mama?" Elizabeth looks up, as do Anna and Jane, who rise to curtsey to the Queen Regent, "Is there a matter of concern?"

"I fear so, Elizabeth." She turns as one of Elizabeth's ushers brings a chair across, and accepts the seat, "It concerns your Sister."

Once, Elizabeth might have been bemused, but instead, she sags slightly, closes her eyes and sighs, "She has departed Sweden, has she not?"

Anne nods, "The former Earl of Wiltshire and Duke of Suffolk have travelled from Brugge to Rostock, where they intend to meet her and establish an English Court in exile that shall seek out the aid of foreign princes in order to return."

"I have often wondered whether she would do so." Elizabeth admits, "While our relations have been cordial for many years, and the gift she sent at Christmastide was most handsome, I have not forgotten that she attempted to raise an army against me, even though she failed. While she was occupied with a husband and son, my Crown was far from her mind - but the passing of King Gustav, and the departure of her son to his own household, the thought that she might seek mine again rose once more."

"I am sorry, my dear one. Had matters transpired differently, then we would not be facing this dilemma. We do not know at this time whether she intends to claim your Crown, or retire to live quietly in her Cousin's realm."

"She shall not retire, Mama." Elizabeth says, "We are both daughters of a King who brooked no argument from any man. We are alike in that aspect; I would not, and neither shall she. If she intends to fight to claim my throne, then I shall fight to keep it."

Anne smiles at her, a little sadly. War is such a wasteful enterprise; but, if it cannot be avoided…

"May I speak to you in private, Elizabeth?" she asks.

"Of course. Kat, would you?" She turns to Madame Astley, who nods and sets about clearing the chamber. Once they are alone, she turns back to her mother, "What secret do you wish to impart?"

"His Grace of Norfolk has also declared for Mary, and is providing the funds to support her in exile, my precious. That, while it is treasonous, must continue, for his activities are being watched - and one of his conspirators is upon the Council. As long as this remains the case, we shall know all that Mary does."

Elizabeth's eyes widen, "There is a traitor upon the Council?"

"No my darling. His involvement with Norfolk is solely to know all that is done. It is known to me, and continues at my behest, for it is helpful to us; besides, Norfolk is also paying to bribe him, so we have the services of a spy without being obliged to pay for it."

"This Councillor remains loyal to me?" Elizabeth's eyes are narrowing, and Anne finds herself feeling nervous for the first time. Henry had demanded loyalty in all things, and reacted with dangerous temper to even a false perception that such loyalty was lacking - surely her daughter has not inherited that flaw?

"He does, Elizabeth. All of your Councillors have served you with absolute loyalty - in some cases from the day that you were crowned. That service to you oftentimes requires those who do so to act in a fashion that seems treacherous in order to serve the good of the Realm, and your Majesty. They act to protect your crown, and England."

There is a steely undercurrent in her tone that capture's Elizabeth's attention at once, "Forgive me, Mama; I still have much to learn. My words were those of a tyrant, were they not? I must beware of that."

Anne takes her hand, "We must ever guard against tyranny - but equally we must not act with weakness. It is a difficult balance to strike, and one that I am not assured that I have always maintained. The need to always retain your father's favour in order to survive at the Council table led to the most dreadful accumulation of factions - and to the deaths of good men who might well have been well able to serve you themselves had they not been destroyed by that malign power-play. The reason that there are no factions upon your council is not because such behaviour is ended - but because all upon the Council are within the same one: the Elizabeth faction."

"I shall mark it well, Mama."

Anne leans forward and kisses her daughter upon the forehead, "Know that I am proud of you, my beloved daughter."

"Thank you, Mama."

The dockside of Rostock is a rough, noisy place, where cargoes are unloaded, but not passengers. Thus the small carrack England's Pride has made its way up the Warnow to an altogether more suitable landing stage close to the streets of the town proper.

The welcoming party that stands at the Quay is hardly princely in its size, or its presentation; but it is, nonetheless, marked by its constancy and loyalty, and the banner at its head is that of England. Only two of the men are on horseback, while the third horse in the group waits for its rider, and is set with a velvet-covered side-saddle that is entirely fit for a queen. Behind them, a long rank of townhouses rise several storeys high, enclosing the paved dockside in shade and leaving limited space for those who disembark from the ships, and those who follow burdened with their belongings. Most of that seeming multitude who mill around the group ignore them: for they have other matters of concern, the strangers are foreign, and they are such a small gathering that it is considered to be of little note.

Being the only member of the English party to speak the tongue of the Pomeranian citizenry, it is Boleyn that has secured the agreement of the authorities to accept both England's Pride and its illustrious occupant. He has used her status as Queen of Sweden to ensure that she shall not be turned away; the princes of this realm are subject to the Emperor and, given his current diplomatic relations with England, they might not permit her to land should they use her proper title.

Seated beside his loathed colleague, Brandon forces himself to admit to a grudging admiration at Boleyn's abilities to secure a fine town house of suitable grandeur for a Queen, staff it and persuade the city fathers to accept their somewhat dubious diplomatic credentials given that they have not been sent from England. Much as he despises Thomas Boleyn, Brandon is well aware that they could not have come this far without him, no matter how much money Norfolk might have thrown at their enterprise.

They all stand, or sit, a little straighter as the carrack is warped to the quay alongside the other vessels already docked; and there she is - Queen Mary of England, first of that name. Standing upon the deck dressed in black and tawny out of deference for her late husband, but equally crowned with fine jewels in recognition of her royal state. From a distance, she is a forlorn figure, accompanied only by one woman and a tall, thin man with a hangdog expression; presumably servants from Stockholm who have consented to accompany her. She seems almost shrunken, though she was never a tall woman, but then she has endured twelve years of exile, endured widowhood, lost two babes and had her only living son taken from her and taught to hate her.

Her walk down the gangplank is measured and slow; the very tempo of royalty. Immediately, both men dismount and step forth, each going down on one knee.

As Mary approaches him, Brandon is secretly pleased that she has chosen to come to him first. She extends her hand and he takes it to kiss it; and then he looks up.

Her expression is not one of joy, nor of pleasure to be free from an unjust exile; instead there is something else: a bitterness in her countenance that he could never have imagined. No - she is a goodly, Christian woman; even in all of her trials, she looked to God as her lord and guide - to the point that no amount of cruel experiences dulled that faith. It is because she is tired - she has travelled from her home to a strange place to be greeted by men as punished as she…

"My Lord." Her voice is hoarse, rather deeper than he recalls from the last time he saw her, "I am right glad to see you. You have been loyal to me from the first moment that my reign began - even if my crown was taken from me."

"It is my honour, and the fulfilment of my promise to your late father, Majesty."

"We shall honour his name, and pray for the repose of the souls of my parents this evening."

"Yes, Majesty. His Grace Bishop Tunstall is preparing to say Mass for that very purpose." He does not add that the wretched man turned up in Brugge barely three weeks prior to their departure, all-but prostrate with grovelling apologies, and promising loyalty despite his flight from her side at Barnet. Christ alone knows where he had been prior to that.

For a brief moment, there is a smile that hints at the beauty that once graced her Majesty's face; a beauty that has been dulled by long, cold winters, brutal politics and grief.

She turns then to Boleyn, "My Lord Boleyn - I am equally pleased to see you - for you have set aside filial connections to support the claim of the true Queen of England. Furthermore, your talents have been employed to my benefit, and thus have paved the way for my return. As I promised when we were betrayed at Barnet, I shall return to England and claim that which is mine by right."

"Thank you, Majesty." Boleyn bows his head and also kisses her hand. Alongside, Brandon forces himself to suppress the shudder of hate that seems to stab through his spine every time he hears the man's voice.

"Rise, my Lords." Mary is either oblivious to their joint attainders; or, more likely, ignores them, "I am glad to be ashore, and eager to refresh myself. Let us adjourn to the house that has been secured for me."

"It is a fine house, Majesty." Boleyn advises, "It shall suffice until you have reclaimed your palaces. His Grace of Norfolk has granted suitable funds for your household, to be at your disposal while you prepare to return to England."

"Which I cannot do from here." She reminds him, "We must find support from my fellow Catholic Princes, and rescue England from the heretics that have steered her into the dangerous waters of apostasy."

"That, we shall discuss once you are rested, Majesty. Your house has a chamber suitable to house your official Council."

"Thank you, my Lord. When we are in residence, I shall confirm your appointments as Ambassador and Chamberlain. Equally, I shall appoint his Grace of Durham to be my personal Chaplain. There shall also be appointments for my own companions." She indicates the two that came ashore with her, "Helena shall by my Chief Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber, while Nils shall be a Gentleman Usher."

"Yes, Majesty."

She accepts the horse, and is helped into the saddle by the tall man that is called Nils. Mounting his own beast, Brandon tries to quell his sense of concern. For all of her promises to reclaim England, the woman that sits to his fore is not the girl who left England. While her experiences would have changed her, he cannot shake the image of that stone-faced, bitter woman that had looked down at him with an air of unnerving propriety. Her soul seems to have darkened in the face of her separation from her son, and he wonders who shall bear the brunt of it should her quest for England succeed.

The gathering is of such size that it has been transferred to the Hall, as the Presence Chamber is of insufficient capacity to accommodate it. All present are in colourful garments, while those who are of the nobility are in their robes of state. Even the colour of the grand tapestries along the walls cannot compete. There have not been so many people present since the culmination of the Eastertide feast that ended not a week ago.

In his time in England, Filipe has proved to be personable, friendly to all and fascinated by the lives of the people ruled by the woman to whom he is betrothed. That said, while he remains unmarried, it is inevitable that he shall be so; all must hope that he shall remain so once they are wed. The youths of the Court who have been assigned to his escort - all of them unmitigated gossips - have given no indication that he shall become despotic once a ring is on his finger, so hopes are high that they have chosen a consort well.

Seated upon a richly upholstered chair, a gold filigree diadem upon her head while her canopy of estate is held over her, Elizabeth smiles at the young man who kneels upon a richly embroidered cushion to await the granting of his dukedom. He has already created her Duchess of Guarda, and now it is his turn to invest him with a newly created rank: the first Duke of Wessex.

Plans for their wedding remain just that: plans. In spite of her wish to be his wife, Elizabeth is well aware that her subjects are far less keen upon the prospect of a foreigner wearing a crown in England. Thus he shall return to Portugal in the Autumn for a while, until the benefits of the treaties begin to take effect, and Englishmen are hopefully a little more amenable to his presence.

In the interim, however, the Court shall shortly remove to Hampton Court, prior to making a short progress toward the west country as the spring moves into Summer.

With no Dukes currently at Court, the highest ranked nobleman available to carry Filipe's Coronet would have been the Earl of Southampton, but for his retirement from Court owing to ill health. Thus it is Wiltshire who performs the duty, while Cromwell, as the highest ranked Officer of the Court, holds the letters patent. He would hold the robes, but his requirement to lean upon his stick in order to walk makes such a service impossible, so Warwick has taken on the task instead. Being barons, neither he nor Rich are permitted to wear coronets, but they are permitted to wear the same red robes as other noblemen, and thus the dais seems almost to be a solid rank of red and white, as though a blood-soaked snowbank.

Rising from her seat, Elizabeth approaches her husband-to-be, while Warwick, with the assistance of Rich, encloses Filipe in his new robes.

"We, Elizabeth, by the Grace of God, Queen of England, France and Ireland, hereby invest upon our friend and prince, Philip of Portugal, the noble dukedom of Wessex, also we create him Earl of Mercia and High Sheriff of Glamorgan." Turning, she takes the ducal coronet from the cushion held by her uncle, and sets it upon her betrothed's head. In spite of the solemnity of the occasion, she cannot refrain from smiling at him, and he equally returns that smile.

Standing alongside, Cromwell notices, and is pleased; they are happy, and that bodes well for their future together. Limping rather awkwardly, as he is trying not to use his stick, he steps forth and bows as Filipe rises, holding forth the letters patent that confirm the granting of the honours, "Your Highness."

"Thank you, my Lord."

The gathered throng dissolves into chatter as the royal party withdraws briefly to allow the stewards to prepare the Hall for the midday meal. Filipe is already engaged in animated conversation with Sir John Russell, as the pair are keen upon the works at Wapping to develop the newly designed English carracks based upon Mathew Baker's carefully calculated innovations. His English is coming on well, while Elizabeth is happily perfecting her Portuguese, though she does so primarily to annoy Madame Astley, as her Chief Gentlewoman cannot monitor conversations in a tongue that is unknown to her.

"Have you notified our isolated plotter of this event, Richard?" Wiltshire asks Rich quietly as the three chief officers of Elizabeth's Council make their way through to the private areas of the palace to remove their equally ostentatious robes. There is little worth in ruining them with dropped splatters of gravy, after all.

"Most assuredly." Rich smiles, cheerfully, "He is rather discomfited at the slowness of the pace we are taking to introduce his Highness to England. I think he hopes that we shall act too quickly and thus anger Englishmen to the point that they shall look to someone more suitable to stand at their head."

"Then he is a fool." Cromwell shakes his head, "The culmination of his aspirations shall leave England in the exact same position as it is now. Even should they succeed, the issue remains the same. The only King that can be crowned is a foreign one. They shall still have to overcome the fears of Englishmen."

Once in his chambers, having set aside his hot, uncomfortable robes, Rich notices another missive upon a nearby table, left for him by his steward. It is sealed with a thumbprint, but the thick redness of the wax proclaims it to have come from Arundel. Most of the letters he receives in such manner are from his family, and the wax his wife uses is darker in colour.

Intrigued, he breaks the seal. Then sags as he reads its contents, "James, please send to my Lord Cromwell; there is a matter I must discuss with him."

They might have known that such hopes were foolish - but they had hoped nonetheless that she would seek contemplation; but it is not to be.

He looks up as Cromwell arrives, his entry proclaimed by the percussive thud of his stick upon the floorboards as he walks as quickly as he can, "It is not a convent, Thomas. She means to try again."

Cromwell nods, "That is no surprise, alas. Come. We must advise their Majesties."

Anne reads the letter, but does not ask how Rich obtained it. Elizabeth knows only that one of her Councillors is in pretended league with Norfolk, but not who he is.

"So it shall be as we feared." She says, quietly.

Cromwell nods, "It seems so. I think that, had she decided that she would retire to either an estate or a convent, those who have met her would acquiesce and permit her to do so. But it seems that she has emerged from Sweden in a bitter frame of mind, and is interested only in claiming the realm for herself, and for Rome. It seems that, since she could not overturn the reformation in Sweden, she shall do so in England instead."

"I shall not permit that." Elizabeth insists, her temper spiked by such a suggestion, "We have worked too hard to bring about a settlement that allows Englishmen the use of their own consciences. That she would rob them of that freedom is unconscionable - so we must take all steps that we can to prepare to repulse her should she indeed invade."

"In that, at least, we shall have time, Majesty." Wiltshire says, "She remains in Rostock, and must now seek allies if she is to secure men and ships to undertake such an invasion. The princes of Germany shall not support her, for the Schmalkaldic league are of a lutheran bent, even though they are subject to the Emperor; and his own concerns are such that he is unlikely to be interested in doing so either. It is not politically expedient to intervene in what is, essentially, a family squabble over a small island. Should she find that support, a fleet cannot be assembled in a day. Thus we can prepare England against invasion with appropriate care and thought, which shall also allow us the wherewithal to budget for it."

"See to it, my Lord." Elizabeth orders, calmly, "If my sister has not begun her overtures to those who might be persuaded to support her, then we can be ready for her before she has even assembled an army. I should prefer it if we did not have to go to war - but if we must, then we must do so wisely and carefully. The fewer men who must spill their blood over a 'mere squabble' the better."

"I would suggest that we do not act too openly in this matter, Majesty." Cromwell muses, "Should the traitor Norfolk discover that we are doing so, he suspect that his plans are known, and that only his conspirator here is the blab. We should lose our advantage."

The Queen nods, "In which case, we shall do so in the guise of developing a new trading fleet in the face of our renewed alliance with Portugal. As I understand it, Sir John, such works are already under way at Wapping. We shall, therefore, continue apace - removing each completed vessel to the coast for testing. Some shall be deemed successes, some failures, and some lost; but all shall be retained at diverse ports around the East Anglian coast. There they shall enter service as trade vessels, in preparation for a time that they might be required to be converted for war."

Everyone is staring at her. Not yet a woman grown, but already a keen strategist, it seems.

She ignores their astonishment, "My Lord Rich, can the treasury bear the cost of such activity?"

"Er…" he fumbles with his papers, then nods, "If we take care and are not profligate with our spending, then yes. Assuming that the new vessels prove their worth in sea trials, they should be put to use as soon as is possible; their service in trade shall aid in the construction of sister ships."

"She shall not have my Crown, gentlemen." Elizabeth's tone is cold, "I will not grant it to her. See to it that she cannot claim it." She rises from her seat, causing them all to bow, and sweeps from the room.

Anne turns to her most favoured advisers, "God above. I never thought to hear her speak so. She has ever spoken words that shall nourish the hearts of her people - but now she speaks of war as though it is second nature to her."

"She is a Queen, Majesty. Were she not to do so, then we have taught her nothing of worth about the burden of rule." Cromwell reminds her, "If she were to shrink from this challenge, then we have failed her."

"Perhaps." She agrees, a little doubtfully, "Though I wish we had not been obliged to do so."

They bow and withdraw, leaving her to her thoughts. That Elizabeth would eventually be required to be ruthless has always been known - but to see it writ so vividly upon her face, to hear the heartless iciness of her voice…

Sinking into a chair, Anne buries her face in her hands, and weeps.

A/N: I really should apologise to Mary; I've really put her through it in this story! Apart from the standard dramatic licence defence, I do have an alternate outcome for her in my Silver Sword stories - where she has that happy ending she never got in real life - so alas she must fall into the unfortunate bracket of 'major antagonist' on this occasion. Her primary motive is - as it was when she really lived - to save Englishmen from damnation. Unfortunately, in this universe - as we shall see - it has become an all-consuming obsession.

Having mangled Swedish history as much as I have, I've reverted to my usual habit of using an extinct family line to further proceedings. There really was a Bååt Family, who really did defend Sweden from the walls of their castle at Vyborg against armies from Novgorod. The line became extinct, however, some considerable time before this story; so I've revived the name, though the fictional descendant is nowhere near as honourable.