A/N: Another Friday, another chapter! Yet more thanks for your kind comments; your support is - as always - greatly appreciated.

Alas, it seems that Mary has indeed become fixated upon her goal of winning England back for the 'True Church'; and no way is she going to let anyone stand in her way.

In other news, the Court goes on holiday...

CHAPTER FIFTY

Wulfhall

"Súpplices te rogámus, omnípotens Deus: iube hæc perférri per manus sancti Angeli tui in sublíme altáre tuum, in conspéctu divínæ maiestátis tuæ; ut, quotquot ex hac altáris participatióne sacrosánctum Fílii tui Corpus et Sánguinem sumpsérimus, omni benedictióne cælesti et grátia repleámur." Tunstall's reedy tones do not echo much in the makeshift Chapel, hung as it is with tapestries that seem to swallow up the sound of his voice.

"Per Christum Dóminum nostrum. Amen." Even now, that strange coarseness in Mary's voice sounds alien to Brandon's ears as she answers, her voice just slightly ahead of the small congregation.

"Meménto étiam, Dómine, famulórum famularúmque tuárum Henricum regem Angliae, et Katerine de Anglia reginae, qui nos præcessérunt cum signo fídei, et dórmiunt in somno pacis". Regardless of the passage of years, she has always prayed for the repose of the souls of her parents, absolving her father of the cruelties that he was at least a party to in his abandonment of her. The blame lies - to her mind, at least - wholly and utterly at the feet of that thrice-damned prostitute. Once, she would have clutched all the more tightly at her rosary and sought forgiveness for such violent sentiments; but now she sees them as only right and proper in the face of the creature who stole England from the Tudor line and sent her to a world where, once again, love was dangled before her, only to be snatched away.

"Ipsis, Dómine, et ómnibus in Christo quiescéntibus, locum refrigérii, lucis et pacis, ut indúlgeas, deprecámur." Yes - let them sleep secure in the love of Christ, knowing that their child shall undo the wrong that was committed against their legacy as the true King and Queen of England.

"Per Christum Dóminum nostrum. Amen." Kneeling behind her, Brandon hears that harshness again, but also sees a rigid tension in her shoulders. She has always borne the cruelties that life heaped upon her with stoic faith and courage - but perhaps now there have been too many such cruelties. Job might have praised God for his miseries, but he was rewarded for his forbearance and raised higher than he had been before he suffered. Mary, it seems, has been tasked with claiming her rewards for herself - and all that she was is now buried under a cold determination that he never imagined she could express when he rode at her side from the Abbey of St Albans.

Dressed in richer garments than he has worn for a long time, Tunstall continues with the litany of the Eucharist, leading them in the Pater Noster and preparing their communion meal. Such is Mary's piety that he is obliged to do so twice daily, as she expects to hear Mass morning and evening. Only between those two services does she devote her attention to matters temporal - and even then she is ever working her way along the decades of her rosary. To the bishop, who has spent years in a poor parish, posing as a lowly priest, such devotion is laudable, particularly as she pays him well for the service. He was not slow in securing a suitably embroidered cope to decorate the Chaplain of the Queen of England, or to resume the Purple once she had accepted him into her household and recognised his bishopric.

Of all those who reside under her roof, only Boleyn is exempted from the requirement to attend both Masses, as he is engaged in his Ambassadorial duties, which require him to be frequently absent from the house. For all Brandon's dreams of denouncing him, they need him; and thus he contents himself with the knowledge that he shall do so once they are safely in England and Mary is crowned. Whether she shall agree to his destruction is another matter - the father of her deadly rival as proved to be a servant of such use that even a claim that he is a reformer at heart might no longer be sufficient.

Or perhaps it might. Since her return from Sweden, Mary has become almost obsessively determined to stamp out Heresy in England - and speaks of little else. It is as though her intention to rule well and govern England with love has been overwhelmed with a savage loathing of the adherents to the Lutheran heresy. He shakes his head: no - that is unfair. She has good reason to despise them, for the reformers in Sweden barred her from court for her faith, then stole her son from her and turned him against her to the point that he banished her for his Realm.

They emerge from the chapel to find Boleyn awaiting her in her small Presence Chamber, "Excellency?"

Boleyn bows, "I am returned from the Court of the Elector, Majesty. While the princes of the German states have shown little appetite to aid your claim, they have promised you safe passage through their territories, and a worthy escort to Genoa from whence we shall take ship to Spain, and the Court of your cousin."

Mary scowls slightly, "They are cowards, then. But I shall accept their offer if that is all that they are willing to grant me. Thank you, Excellency. Send word to Charles of my approach. He is of my blood, and thus shall accept me and aid me even if these craven lordlings do not. The apostasy of England must be curbed, and the heretic women who have led her astray sent to the stake for their sin. I would once have defended the child Elizabeth, for she was under the rule of her mother. But now that she wears her illegitimate crown, she has not returned her Realm to God, and thus is as culpable as the whore that gave her birth."

Behind her, Brandon shudders. She is speaking of her own sister - and to that sister's Grandfather. Still bowing, Boleyn stiffens slightly, and the former Duke's expression becomes quizzical. Does he care for the daughter of his child after all? No - surely not. He abandoned them to seek to regain the honours that Anne took from him - and now, at last, those rewards are within his grasp. Perhaps he is now seeing the cost of those rewards, and how that shall look when he is called to account by the Almighty.

Her expression shockingly cold, Mary turns and seats herself upon the chair that, but for the lack of an appropriate canopy of estate, would be her throne, "Make no mistake, my Lords." She advises, "I have allowed myself to be used and cast aside for much of my life. No longer. England is mine; I was a fool to think that I could claim it through my name and blood alone, for my subjects were bought with promises and bribes to keep them contented with a heretic upon their throne. Heretics have brought me to this state, and thus they shall pay for it. England has been led astray for long enough - and we must act now if we are to bring her back to her proper place. My subjects shall not be bought with empty bribes of largesse; they shall be granted appropriate succour by the monasteries, which shall be restored to resume their perpetual prayers for the souls of men as they languish in Purgatory, and those who object shall be subject to the Inquisition, for I shall establish it in England to root out apostates. Yes, there shall be fire - but England shall emerge from it the stronger, as a sword emerges from the furnace and is sharpened for battle."

Now Brandon sweats a little; dear God, what is happening to her? Once she sought to win the love of her subjects, but now she seems bent upon naught but vengeance. Deeply uncomfortable, he starts to fidget with the rather small - but elegant - chain of office that she granted him upon making him her Chamberlain, which bears the crudely arms of England on a small enamelled escutcheon surrounded by slightly poorly-set red zircons to symbolise prosperity, honour and wisdom. Ah; wisdom...that appears to be a commodity in the shortest of supply. If he cannot turn her from her course, then she shall not bring England to a new Jerusalem, but shall instead bring it to ruin.

As he looks down at Boleyn, he sees it there, too. Boleyn is as perturbed as he. In the winning of their cause, perhaps they might find that it would have been better had they lost.

Baker is busy with a set of compasses, "There, that should suffice. I do not wish to lengthen the draught any further, or the gains that we make in stability shall be lost."

At his side, the newly created Duke of Wessex is nodding, "That is wise. Shipwrights in Lisbon attempted to do so, and we lost three ships in quick succession thanks to their miscalculation."

Standing nearby, Russell smiles with satisfaction. For all his sheltered existence inside Palace walls, the youth has not lacked for a practical education, and his understanding of mathematics is on a par with that of the remarkably talented young man with whom he is talking. It is, perforce, a short visit to Wapping, as the Court is shortly to depart upon a summer progress to the West country; ostensibly to visit the nobility of the west, but primarily to show Filipe the extent of the tin mining industry of the region, as that is their reciprocal means of trading with his father's realm.

The first of the newly designed carracks departed for Tilbury yesterday for sea trials, though it shall be berthed at King's Lynn, where the presence of one ship amongst many in one of England's lesser ports shall go unremarked. He is aware that one of the Council has entered into a pretence of conspiracy with a traitor in England, though the identity of the councillor is not known to him. He does not need to make too much effort to guess that the traitor is Norfolk. The need for secrecy is essential to ensure that they do not lose that source of knowledge of Mary's activities upon the continent.

"I shall dispatch the latest plans to the Master shipwright at Plymouth, Mr Baker." He advises, approaching the two young men still poring over the documents. "He is most keen to see your innovations, and to begin work laying down vessels that shall serve England in trade and - God forbid - in war." Filipe does not yet know of the danger Mary poses to her sister's realm; best to keep it that way given that he shall be departing for a time once the progress is done.

"Thank you Sir." Baker bows to the Lord High Admiral, then to Filipe, who grins cheerfully at him, "I think you shall be more famed than I when this is done, Mr Baker."

"I hope not, Highness." He grins back, "Fame means I must strive to be ever greater, and even my abilities have limits."

The journey back to Hampton Court shall be undertaken by one of the smaller barges, as the reduced weight of the vessel enables the oarsmen to row for longer, and more quickly. The tide is low, but not yet flooding, thus making their passage beneath the great starlings of London Bridge relatively safe. It shall, nonetheless, be late this evening before they reach the palace that was once the Jewel of Wolsey's properties. Fortunately, Filipe and Russell are both deeply interested in shipbuilding and navigation, and their conversation does not flag; pausing only for the consumption of a light supper as the banks of the river slip by.

At the palace, on the other hand, all is busy as the Court prepares to depart. The first wagons shall leave in the earliest light of morning, carrying Elizabeth's great tester bed, plate and linens, while she and her immediate entourage shall wait a day before they follow. The stewards overseeing the movements of those participating shall depart after the midday dinner, as it shall take them far less time to traverse the roads than the slow plodding oxen that are transporting the baggage.

The relative size of the houses they shall be visiting is small, and thus Elizabeth has decreed a reduced number of Courtiers shall travel with her. Consequently, those who shall not accompany her are either departing for their estates for the summer, or preparing to do so.

Warwick has been appointed to remain in London to oversee the operations of government in the Queen's absence, though the rest of the Council are to travel with her. Percy attempted to have his son included in the retinue, a request that was gently declined by the Queen, on the grounds that there is not sufficient room for another gentleman unless one of her established Gentlemen of the Privy chamber were to step down. While he is careful not to show it too overtly, only a fool cannot miss his sulky scowlings over the boy's omission. It seems that, even now, he is still hopeful to shove the youth under his Queen's nose in hopes that she shall marry him.

Cromwell sighs as he looks over the last remaining items that he shall take with him. Perhaps there was a time when he relished travel, but now he considers it a monumental inconvenience. As Lord Chancellor, it is incumbent upon him to follow his Queen as she travels upon progress; but nonetheless he wishes that he could instead retire to his great house at Austin Friars for the season, half to oversee the actions of Parliament, half to see to all manner of items that require his attention at home. The prospect of spending that time in relaxation and leisure does not even enter his head. There shall be plenty of opportunity to rest once God has called him home, after all.

Wincing as he rises from his chair, he limps awkwardly across to the small coffer that contains a few of his most precious possessions. Nothing of his late wife, alas, as all of her belongings were consigned to a fire after she died of the sweat; but a few letters from his lost daughters, the first letter that Gregory wrote to him in latin, even a small cross upon a chain that once graced the neck of his mother. God, he is feeling his age today; perhaps it shall not be too much longer before he is reunited with those he has lost…

No. Not at this time - he cannot afford to depart this life while his Queen needs his counsel - and she has never needed it more than now. While Mary's plans cannot progress far unless she can find a realm that shall house her for longer than a short stay as she passes through to another destination; until that happens, they are safe from her. But happen it shall - eventually; so that safety is at risk, and thus he intends to face the danger of a rival Queen alongside the one he has sworn to serve.

"Jesu, you are a maudlin old man this day." He mutters to himself as he sets the coffer down and limps back to his chair. Next time, he shall use that damned cane. No matter how much he wishes it, he cannot continue to abandon it, not even for journeys of a few steps, alas.

One of his new ushers is at his side, "My Lord, his Grace of Wiltshire is without."

Cromwell nods, "Thank you, Daniel - show him in."

Wiltshire looks around the room, "Goodness, are you still so unprepared? The last baggage carts are becoming full - you shall have to pay for one of your own if you do not act quickly."

Cromwell smiles, "An uncharitable observer might suggest that I have done so deliberately to avoid participating."

"It is a great upheaval, is it not?" Wiltshire grins, taking a seat as the usher pours them some sweet wine, "Though I am still bemused at the decision to stop at the house of Seymour."

"Why not? He is a nobleman, he has proved to be no trouble to her Majesty and he may have some talent that her Majesty can employ in her Government. If there is talent in a man, it should not be ignored; moreover, to consign an entire family to opprobrium for the action of one of its own seems quite a waste. Had his late Majesty done so, then Warwick would not be serving his daughter now."

"Even though it is where her Majesty's father died?"

"Even though." Cromwell sighs, "It would do her no harm to know that her father was a guest of the family, and to know that they did their utmost for his mortal remains. The fact that he was there to court a rival to her mother need not be mentioned; let that be set aside, for they did what they could for him, and that in itself is a service to her. The elder brother paid his dues for his treachery; but his brother did not participate in that insurrection, and thus should not also be required to bear the burden of it."

"Most forgiving." Wiltshire smiles, "But then, it is that same forgiveness that won me the authority to handle her Majesty's privy seal, so who am I to judge?"

"We are all judged in the end, George." Cromwell adds, "I think I should wish to be judged as I have judged others. The days when I conspired for my own benefit are done, and I hope that God shall look upon my latter service in place of my former. He knows that I am no saint - even now I am not, for I still deceive as I must, and plot to protect the Queen. At least she has granted me a salary, so I am no longer obliged to embezzle my wages."

Wiltshire snorts with amusement; the great Offices of State are great prizes, yes, but remuneration was never a part of the deal, so wages have always been obtained through the sale of access to the King, or other less-than-honest means. Cromwell has always been one of the men at Court to petition for aid - though he never used to demand payment from those who were not rich enough to do the work for themselves. For all the hatred of the nobility, he is regarded with respect and gratitude by many whom he has aided, and all know that he shall never turn away a petitioner.

"Alas, I cannot delay any longer." Cromwell sets down his glass, "Daniel, summon Nathan and commence the transfer of my coffers to the baggage train. I shall sup in the Hall, and shall not change my garments, so I shall only require clothing for tomorrow and Wednesday."

"Yes, my lord." The youth bows and hastens out in search of his colleague.

"And so to the road, your Grace." He raises his glass to Wiltshire, "May it not be too rough, or too wet."

Anne feels a sense of strange nostalgia as they pass under the gatehouse of the park at Wulfhall and wend their slow way along the track that leads to the house. The last time she was here, her son was in her womb, and she was a Queen at the side of her King; convinced that her power over the Court was restored by her pregnancy, it had mattered to her not at all that they had come here while her husband was already paying attention to the Seymour chit. Why should she fear his behaviour? She was carrying his son - his heir. No matter how they might have argued, no matter how many women he might have glanced upon, a son would have secured her crown for the rest of her days: for he would never have declared a son to be a bastard.

And then her son had died, taking all of that security with him.

Now, however, she returns with a Crown still upon her head, and the daughter of their marriage is Queen. How ironic that her return is precipitated by another visit - the one upon which her husband had died.

Her memory of the wide parklands is dulled by the years since that last progress with Henry; and there is nothing now that she recalls from that approach to the house. It is only as they crest a small rise and the manor hoves into view that she remembers.

I thought myself secure here. She thinks to herself, I had discovered my condition and thought that my son would save my marriage and restore my husband's love for me.

What would her life be had that lost son lived? Would Henry have reconciled with her and dismissed that Seymour wench? Would he have been willing to be in her presence for more than the sake of appearances? Then she pauses - it matters not, for she might have lost her son, but instead her daughter rides ahead of her, surrounded by her ladies and the gentlemen of her Privy Chamber. As for herself, she is content to ride behind, with Madge, Caroline and Jane alongside her, and the men of the Council to her rear. The chit Jane shall not be present, for Mr Cromwell advised her before their departure that the woman was taken in childbed six years ago, having borne a son who lived not three weeks. It is hard not to look upon that outcome as God's judgement.

The new master of Wulfhall, the tall, strongly built Thomas Seymour stands at the great doorway of his manor. In spite of his wealth, and maturity, he seems not to have taken a wife yet; but is flanked by his two surviving sisters, the recently widowed Elizabeth and Dorothy, who is accompanied by her husband, a man of Parliament by the name of Smith.

"Your Majesty." He bows rather floridly, but fortunately not to the point of appearing crass, "Welcome to Wulfhall. It is our honour to host you as once we hosted your royal Parents." He chooses not to mention that they were hosting her father when he fell to his death from his horse.

"My thanks to you, Mr Seymour." Elizabeth smiles at him, "It is my pleasure to be your guest as once my beloved mother and father were." She does not mention that she shall be conferring a knighthood upon him in due course; that shall be done in the Hall before her departure.

"Your bed is prepared for you in the King's chamber, Majesty." He continues, "As my late father decreed, the chamber in which your noble father rested his head is now at your disposal."

She dismounts and, with the assistance of her ladies, straightens her riding habit and bonnet before accepting the curtseys of the two sisters, who present her with pomanders enclosed in cages of gold filigree set with emeralds and pearls, while a steward provides a salver of water scented with rosewater in which to rinse her hands.

Further back in the column, Rich turns to Cromwell, "Am I alone in suspecting that someone is angling for a place upon the Privy Council?"

Cromwell looks down at his saddlebow to conceal the smirk.

Elizabeth continues with the inevitable formalities of arrival as a guest, introducing her mother - as though that were necessary - and also her betrothed, though he is not spoken of as such, not yet. England is still not truly ready for a foreign consort that is not a woman.

Fortunately, Seymour is sensible in his gift-giving, confining the largesse to tasteful objects and useful items; a bolt of fine woollen cloth for a cloak, a sable fur that shall serve well as a trim, a gold-thread hairnet studded with small flowerbuds carved from quartz and a remarkably tiny clock upon a chain that can be worn at Elizabeth's waist. The chamber set aside for her has already been hung with tapestries brought from Hampton Court, though the wainscoting has been freshly scrubbed and oiled, and the plasterwork upon the ceiling seems to have damp patches from the newly applied render, "Thank you, Mr Seymour - this is most satisfactory."

"There is hot water prepared should you wish to bathe, Majesty." Anna advises, standing alongside a steward who has brought the news.

"I think I should like to; I have been upon a horse for such a time that I fear that I am beginning to smell like one." Pleased, Elizabeth turns back to her host, "I am most grateful for your consideration. If it please you, I should appreciate the time to prepare myself to sup."

"Of course, Majesty." Seymour bows, "Supper shall be served at five of the clock. Should you require refreshments, my steward is at your disposal." Again, he shows a degree of good sense as well as good manners, as he backs to the door, and departs.

The chambers assigned to the Regent are no less grand, and show equal signs of careful preparation. Anne recalls them, for she slept here during that last progress, all unaware of the ground that was starting to shift beneath her feet - stayed only by the child in her belly.

"I had forgotten how spacious these rooms were." She comments, quietly, as Jane Rochford pours out hot water for her to wash her hands and face, "Though not as spacious as those assigned to my late Lord. For all their treachery in those times, they were good hosts."

"And shall be again, I think, Sister." Mary smiles as she sorts through a selection of kid-leather riding gloves, "I should not be surprised at all if Mr Seymour has hopes of returning to Court."

"It is the place to be, after all." Jane smirks, "There Majesty. The water is not too hot. I can add more rosewater if you wish."

"Thank you, Jane. Could you fetch out my lute, please? I should like to listen to some ballades while I wash if you could be so kind as to play them for me."

"Of course, Majesty."

Higher up in the house, in chambers that are of lesser aspect, but still suitable for the status of the guests, Cromwell sips at a glass of chilled ale and works his way through the inevitable papers that seem never to end. From his window, he can see that Seymour is already befriending Prince Filipe, as the pair watch two fine hawks being flown. His own eyes follow the first bird as it rises up higher and higher, until one of the gamekeepers breaks into a run, dragging a stuffed rabbit-skin behind him on a long line, while another lets out a sharp whistle, and the bird plunges to earth to capture the lure. To his credit, the young Prince has maintained the fiction that he is here solely as a guest in response to the renewed treaty with Portugal, and the conversation that is filtering up to his window, slightly ajar, is neutral and confined mostly to life in Lisbon.

A knock upon the door captures his attention and he looks up to see Rich peeking in, "I have more ale if you are interested."

"Ale, yes. Cards, however, no. I have lost quite enough money to your superior skill."

The pair sit and share the flagon that Rich has brought, talking of matters of little note. The years have developed their friendship to a deep trust in one another, and sometimes it is almost as each knows what the other is thinking, so long have they worked together.

"I have no news from Arundel." Rich says, swirling the ale in his cup and breathing in its hoppy aroma.

"That, I know: for you would have presented it had it come. I can only assume that she is en route to whatever port she has chosen to sail from. There is no other way to travel to Spain without crossing France, or travelling too close to our shores by traversing the Channel."

"From what he has said," Rich muses, "the Dowager's temperament is not the same as it was when she departed. Her losses have embittered her, and England is to pay the price of it through inquisitions and suppression of the reformed faith. It is as though she can no longer see the political landscape in terms that are not religious."

"She blames reformers for all her troubles." Cromwell says. It is not a question, "Because that is the easy thing to do. Her father's life was a complex set of contradictions, and his determination to gain a son led him to turn his back upon his once-beloved daughter. Had he set her Majesty the Regent aside, then Elizabeth would have suffered the same fate, and Mary would not have been restored, either. To have no son to succeed him was, in his mind, the ultimate failure of a King, and one that would overshadow all else that he did. Many have paid for that obsession with their lives."

"And so shall more, if Mary is not quelled by the Emperor."

"That is our one hope, I think. It is not politically expedient to turn upon us - for he is still quarrelling with France over the ownership of the Duchy of Milan, and his easternmost territories are still under threat from the Turk. Furthermore, he has not the funds to support an invasion. His treasury is all but empty, and not even the fabled gold of the new world can replenish it, so costly are his wars. If Mary hopes that he shall furnish her with men and ships, then she shall be disappointed."

"And we shall have a fine new trading fleet." Rich smiles.

"Better that than warships, Richard."

"Amen to that."

The grandeur of the Palazzo Torchitorio vastly exceeds that of the house that she had occupied in Rostock, and Mary is most contented with the grand views from the huge windows of her apartment within it. Excellency Boleyn has arranged to rent it for a nominal sum from a Genoese nobleman sympathetic to her plan to reclaim her crown from those who have stolen it from her, and they shall remain in comfortable security while her Ambassador sets to work on arranging passage to Spain aboard a vessel of suitable state for a royal occupant.

While the journey south has been without incident, she has never enjoyed life upon the road, staying in a different chamber each night, enduring rain and insect bites aboard a horse, or being swayed to the point of sickness in a litter. The attempt to use a carriage lasted only for two days, the noise of the chains that held the box to the chassis as appalling as their failure to cushion the ride.

At least, here, she is far from the vile heresy that has robbed her of her mother, father, husband and son. As she has moved into firmly Catholic territory, her determination to save England from the sins of her subjects has sharpened all the more, for she grows ever closer to Rome, and is toying with the thought that she might attempt to seek an audience with the Holy Father. With his sanction, no one would refuse to aid her. She is sure of it.

As she does with a regularity that even her most pious maids are beginning to find tiresome, she settles before the sacrament upon a cushioned prie dieu and prays for the repose of the souls of her parents, and of her husband; for she is determined that her prayers shall overcome the burden of his heresy, thereby shortening his time in purgatory while he atones for his sin. Then she prays for success in her plans to save England, and seeks God's blessings and agreement for the requirement to send so many to their deaths when she does so. For it must be done. Even her half-sister cannot now be spared, for it is becoming clear that even she has not seen the need to end England's apostasy. Perhaps, instead, she shall show mercy and allow the girl a clean death upon the block. But not the mother. No, not her…

Perhaps there was a time when politics guided her hand - but she has been denied happiness over and over again not by politics, but by religious sensibilities that are far from the true Faith. Thus she must gird herself in the armour of Christ and fight. Not merely for England, but for all Englishmen who are now bound in purgatory for half an eternity if not more, for there are no longer cloistered brothers praying upon their behalf to shorten their time there.

Two floors down, in the large chamber that has been set aside for what is laughably termed her 'council', given that it is formed of a mere three men, Brandon is pacing back and forth, heedless of the splendour of the tapestries upon the walls, or the richly polished floor upon which he walks. His thoughts scatter hither and thither, while he toys with his chain of office yet again. What is he to do? He cannot persuade Mary that she shall win no love in England if her agenda is motivated solely by religion. Why has she become so utterly fixed upon that one purpose? Does she truly believe that restoring the old ways shall make all right in England? Even here, in the countries that have rejected the reformation, or are countering it, those old ways are dying out. There is no way that she can assume that Englishmen will willingly relinquish the privileges that are now being extended to them. For all his loathing of Thomas Cromwell and his cohort of 'new' men, even he cannot escape from the reality that Englishmen are becoming educated, and a new class is emerging that shall not be willing to revert to the servile existence from which they have escaped.

It is all religion, religion, religion; as though there is nothing else - and the imposition of an Inquisition shall somehow make England right again. From Norfolk's reports, the realm is settled, men are prospering and those of lesser means are no longer seemingly punished for the heinous sin of not being wealthy. How can she win over such men with the promise of destruction, death and the removal of property to be handed back to the Church?

Boleyn looks up at him, "If she has nothing to offer Charles but religious upheaval, then he shall have naught to do with her."

It is no surprise to Brandon that he is thinking the same. For all his lukewarm adherence to any faith but mammon, he is highly politically astute, and sees things in a light that is untinged by religious sensibilities, "From what I have been told, she believes that the loss of her husband and son, and her expulsion from her former Realm, is God's punishment for her failure to eradicate heresy from England when she had the opportunity. Thus she intends to remedy that failure."

"Then she is an idiot." Boleyn's voice is low, but there is no mistaking the venom in his statement, "Englishmen shall not welcome her if she brings the Inquisition in her wake. What has happened to her political acumen? It was slight when she departed, yes, but she had not had the time to seed it and nurture its growth. She has lived in a Court for more than ten years - surely she has not failed to absorb that education?"

Brandon shakes his head, and shrugs, "I cannot answer that question."

"Then I shall have to establish a better casus belli than this - or the Emperor shall cast us out with the laughter of his servants echoing in our ears."

"We have to get there first."

"I am awaiting word from a Captain in the port." Boleyn advises, "His vessel is of suitable size and condition for a Queen; but he is holding out over the price of our passage. I have offered him two thousand ducats and a cleaning crew to service the bilges upon the disembarkation of the horses when we reach Spain."

"Two thousand?" Brandon is shocked.

"Or would you prefer to remain in Genoa until Elizabeth has married and borne six princes? Should that happen, we shall never get her off the throne."

Brandon goes back to pacing again; his fingers tracing over the delicate links of the chain about his neck as he does so. It is of little use, but better than standing and doing nothing. While they are in Genoa, they are helpless - but unless they can find a better reason to persuade Charles to go to war with England, they might as well stay where they are.

The ceremonial sword that Elizabeth holds today is far less delicate than the rapier she used to knight her Lord Chancellor, but she is more accustomed to the procedure now, and her words are assured as she bids Sir Thomas Seymour to rise.

In spite of frustratingly inclement weather, the visit has been a remarkable success. No one has mentioned the unfortunate accident that made her Queen at a mere three years of age, and she has not asked to be taken to the spot. Somehow, it seems pointless to do so, and not even Cromwell has made the journey in search of it.

The rain continues to pelt down with a most infuriating determination to defy the season, and Elizabeth is obliged to travel in her litter rather than on horseback, as their journey shall take the entirety of the day, and they have no wish for their Queen to catch a chill. The other ladies, and the Regent, shall travel in covered carriages, cushioned as best as possible to mitigate the awful jolting of the ride. Everyone else, however, shall be obliged to cover their clothes in cloaks of oiled twill and make the best of it.

Their destination is Ilminster, where Henry Daubeny of Barrington Court shall host them for a week. A man of illustrious family, who has been somewhat eclipsed by the rising stars of other Courtiers, but his reputation is excellent, and his wealth sufficient to support a longer stay by the horde that shall shortly descend.

As Anne had feared, the journey in the carriage is rough and unpleasant, and several of her ladies are clutching at vials of sal ammoniac, as they groan weakly and attempt to avoid fainting. Poor Caroline has already been obliged to lean out of the carriage window, the sound of her vomiting giving cause to the others so stricken to grimace and moan all the more in their own sufferings. Jesu, they shall have to stop soon or everyone in the carriage shall have puked, and not all of the women have quick access to the windows.

The percussive sound of hooves upon the paved road for which she is only half grateful captures her attention, and she looks out to see Wiltshire riding alongside, "We shall be halting the column shortly, Majesty. There is a goodly inn a mile on from here that has been hired to see to her Majesty's needs."

"Thanks be to God, George. Is there any hope that this blasted rain shall let up? I should give my crown for the opportunity to escape this hellish carriage."

"I shall set my colleagues to praying at once, Majesty." He smiles at her, sympathetically. It seems as though this bloody rain is set for the day, and no amount of prayer shall disperse it, but a weak joke is better than nothing.

The promised inn is indeed of good aspect, and is entirely at the disposal of the royal party for the next three hours, should they wish it. With another three hours of onward travel before them, however, it is likely that they shall stay for two at the most. Assuming, of course, she can persuade her ladies to get back into the carriage again.

Elizabeth emerges from her litter and totters to the inn aboard a pair of red and gold pattens to keep her dainty shoes out of the puddles, while four ushers carry a canopy of oiled canvas over hear to keep the rain at bay. The innkeeper has dressed as best he can, despite being of a far lower class, and does his best to welcome her appropriately with many bows and continual hopes that she finds all to be to her satisfaction. Indeed, he only ceases to do so when she graces him with a radiant smile and assures him that his thoroughly scrubbed taproom is the finest she has ever seen. He does not need to know that it is the only taproom she has ever seen.

Cromwell is grimacing with each step as he leans upon his cane to assist him in his walk to the door, and Anne wonders whether she should have prevailed upon him to remain in London. With things as they are, she would prefer him to be here - but it could not be clearer that his hip is painful, and near-on four hours in a wet saddle has served only to inflame it. Then she thinks upon it again and knows that she would have failed to do so even had she tried, "Jane," she turns to her sister in law, "Ask Doctor Lamb to see to Baron Cromwell's health while we are here. It may be that he has some physic or other that shall ease his Grace's discomfort."

"Yes, Majesty." She alone seems to have emerged from the carriage with no disturbance to her equilibrium, "I shall also ask him if he might have some ginger root to hand. Perhaps that shall settle disturbed stomachs."

"Failing that, we could try mint."

"That shall just make them hungry." Jane smiles at her.

"Better that than puking."

As they enter, Filipe has insisted upon fetching a chair for Cromwell, who is rather grey-faced from the pains of his hip and leg, which are clearly worse than he is prepared to admit. Dismayed, Anne crosses to the two men, "My Lord, you did not advise me that your discomfort was as bad as this."

"Until I was drenched by rain, Majesty, it was not." He answers, through rather gritted teeth, "The weather has afflicted my joints rather more poorly than I expected."

"Then we shall secure a carriage for you."

"That would be embarrassing, Majesty; I am strong enough to complete the ride."

"From your complexion, I suspect that you require some of my ladies' sal ammoniac to keep you from falling out of your chair." She counters, "Thus I do not wish to have to halt the column while someone picks you up after you fall from your horse."

He sags a little, "Yes Majesty."

"There." She smiles, sweetly, "It is settled. Doctor Lamb shall see to your immediate discomfort, and I shall secure wheeled transport for you to continue the journey. I am sure the Lord Privy Seal and Lord Treasurer shall not object if there is room for them to sit with you."

They look across to the large fireplace where Rich is shaking out a sodden cloak with a mildly disgusted expression, while Wiltshire tips water from the brim of his leather bonnet, and Cromwell finally smiles, "Indeed, they shall not. But only if they are not sickened by the rattling of the vehicle."

"I shall have them fed with ginger."

"Thank you, Majesty."

The largest cabin of the vessel is very fine, dressed with beautifully turned and polished wood, with lanterns hanging from hooks in the ceiling and a wide bed set into the starboard bulkhead. Being at the rear of the ship, a set of windows allow the warm mediterranean sun into the space.

"Yes, this shall most certainly do." Mary nods, "See to the unpacking of my coffers."

The voyage shall not be long - a week at most - but it shall save them the impossibility of crossing France while he is the enemy of Spain, and on good terms with England. Even Boleyn almost baulked at the final cost demanded, but the captain knew of their urgency, and that there was no other vessel that a Queen would consent to board. Thus the two thousand ducats promised has been increased three thousand, and the cleansing after the horses are unloaded shall not be merely the removal of the manure, but also a thorough scrubbing down of the entire deck where they are to be stabled. Norfolk's letter in response to such a cost was quite sulphurous in its sentiments, but even he has accepted that they are at a disadvantage in this enterprise. Once England is Mary's again, he shall be repaid in full.

Their destination is Almería, the closest port of note to the Emperor's primary residence in Spain, the great Alhambra at Granada. He has sent messengers ahead aboard several merchantmen to ensure that the authorities of the Port shall not be unprepared for the arrival of the Queen, while she herself has written to her cousin to advise him of her departure from Sweden, and to request that he shelter her, citing their blood relationship to ensure that he is obliged to do so under the arcane rules of hospitality.

"My Lord Ambassador." Mary turns to Boleyn, "I looked upon you once as an enemy - but you have served me most well. I think, but for you, I would not be standing here, and I assure you that, once I rule England, you shall receive honours commensurate with that service. You shall not be granted your former Earldom; I shall instead grant you a duchy, with all the honours such rank demands."

He bows, "Thank you, Majesty." As he departs however, he is surprised to find that he is disappointed. While the granting of a dukedom is greater an honour than he could ever have hoped to secure; it pains him to know that heads shall be struck from necks should they prevail; and, as a consequence, he shall have no son to whom he can bequeath it.

Once again, Mary is upon her knees, looking out at the sunlight. Oblivious to the rolling eyes of her ladies, who are now obliged to step around her, she gives thanks to God for sending her such capable men to aid her in going about His work. With the turn of the tide, their vessel shall depart Genoa and carry her to her cousin's Court. There she can raise an army for God, and win England for Rome.

Above, on the Deck, the helmsman obeys the shouted commands of the pilots as his ship is warped away from the quayside by rowboats. Alongside him, the Captain watches as the men clamber into the rigging to set the sails. To his mind, the money that has been paid to him is of far greater interest than the stupid dreams of the woman below decks. Whatever her aspirations, the boat that carries her, Sangre de la Reina, seems prophetic - though which queen it shall be who sheds blood he cares not at all.

A/N: And she's on her way! But where to, and what will she encounter when she gets there?

Another quick apology to an historical figure - this time to Sir Henry Seymour, whose lack of ambition meant that he was completely overshadowed by his brothers, to the point of invisibility as Edward and Thomas played for the highest stakes - and lost spectacularly in the end on both counts. Keeping out of the squabbles over the succession (unlike his brothers) served him very well; and he lived well into the reign of Elizabeth, serving as an MP and gaining no honours beyond the Knighthood he got when Edward VI was crowned - other than a year as High Sheriff of Hampshire.

I'm afraid I've left him out of this story as well. Sorry, Sir Henry!

Quick location note: Barrington Court is a real place, and Sir Henry Daubeny was a real person, who inherited the estate in 1514 for services rendered to Henry VIII. The Court is now in the care of the National Trust, and open to the public.