A/N: And another Friday dawns (or, in my case, heads into the evening)! The Court carries on its Progress, while Mary continues her journey to Spain.
Safe to say that one party is going to be a lot less welcome than the other...
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Enterprise
The wind is brisk, whipping the tops of the choppy waves into caps of foam while gulls swoop and glide with a casual expertise. Above Boleyn's head, the sails are billowing, and the carrack is making good progress.
Leaning on the rail, he eyes the distant shore of France with a mildly bitter expression. Now that they are travelling towards Spain, and doing so with relative ease, he almost wishes that they were ashore, surreptitious and hugger-mugger. It would be a far slower means of travel; but at least he would be less in dread of the end of it.
It is not his desire to win back his honours that his fears are quelling; no, he would walk to the ends of the earth to regain them. Instead, he is bemused at the shocking change in Queen Mary's demeanour. Where is that political acumen that a life at a court would have instilled in her? It is as though she has abandoned it and set her entire focus upon matters of a religious bent. How could someone so intelligent be such a fool?
He has always known that his daughter was a firm pragmatist - she was never taught to act without considering the consequences of doing so, even though her life's course was utterly changed by one who seemed utterly lacking in such considerations. Rather than drive her subjects to unseat her daughter through repressive tactics, she instead accommodated the religious sensibilities of all of them, and thus held the kingdom together when others might have driven it to ruin. For all his anger at her, he cannot avoid a grudging admiration for her tenacity and success; and, now that he is forced to think upon it, a dismay that his impatience and anger drove him to lose a share of that good fortune.
Thomas Boleyn has never been a man to wilfully fool himself; all that he has done in his life has been carefully thought through and carried out with precision and care. The only obstacle to that progress was one of his own progeny - there's the irony - and now he is wondering what the hell he has done.
The sound of footsteps approaching gives him cause to turn his head. For the first time in all their years of enforced companionship, he does not scowl at the sight of Brandon.
"She is with her rosary again." He sighs, tiredly.
"Surely even Tunstall is getting tired of the confessions and masses she demands." Boleyn grunts, "Does she expect the entire English court to do likewise should she rule it?"
"I do not understand it. She was not so bent upon matters religious when she departed; faithful, yes - but not like this."
"She is a woman. Who knows how her mind works."
Brandon shakes his head, "In all of her trials, her faith has been that secure haven in which she has been able to find refuge. In all that she has lost, she still has that."
"To this degree? It is as though she has abandoned all but religion. Even good sense!"
His expression falls a little, and Brandon steps forth to lean upon the rail alongside Boleyn, "I think I am not alone in wondering what the hell we have done. I promised her father that I would set things right for England by setting his true daughter upon the throne - but now I fear to do so. Her only thought is to stamp out heresy, restore England to Rome, re-establish the monasteries and thrust her subjects back into the old ways both spiritual and temporal."
"England is no longer like that." Boleyn reminds him, "Even in Henry's day, men were finding new ways to achieve and improve themselves; talent was becoming an asset as much as nobility. Cromwell and my daughter have, between them, worked to extend that. While there are still nobles upon the Council, how many of them are men of common blood who have been elevated to a peerage? If Queen Mary seeks to overturn that, she shall lose England at a stroke - and she has stated clearly to all who shall listen that she shall do so."
"I wonder if she thinks that she has failed God." Brandon muses, "She attempted to claim England, and win her subjects back for Rome - and failed. She could not counter the reformation in Sweden, and instead was driven out of her home by the order of her own son. Her greatest aspiration had been to restore her mother's faith in England, for she had never learned the political skills that one must master if one is to rule well."
"She learned them in Sweden." Boleyn reminds him, "From what I have heard, she understood most well how to rule a kingdom, and Gustav's subjects were more than willing to turn a blind eye to her retention of her faith."
They lapse into silence. This is what they wanted - what they have worked for from the moment they set sail from Hastings. Now that they have it, however, they are both wishing that they had not.
As he prepares yet another communion meal, Tunstall seems oblivious to the concerns of his colleagues up on deck. Perhaps he should be - but his relief to finally be able to wear the purple again, to be called 'your Grace' and to see to the needs of someone more appropriate to his ecclesiastical state is far stronger. Besides, it is never a hardship to celebrate communion, is it?
Kneeling at her prie dieu, Mary clasps her hands together and murmurs the pater noster again. Her celebration of communion twice each day, along with matins and compline at the start and end is an atonement for her dreadful failures to protect the subjects of two realms from the scourge of heresy. Surely it is the primary responsibility of God's anointed ruler to ensure that their realm is safely cared for and their subjects shall enter Heaven? Only then should matters of an earthly later be considered. No: as soon as England is safely restored to Rome, and heresy has been rooted out once and for all, then - and only then - she can get to work on creating an England that shall lead the way as a bastion of the Church in an expanding world that needs to be brought to Christ.
The work that her late lord had done to expand Sweden's wealth for both those of the upper classes and those of the lower are all very well - but what is that if they are denied the riches of the next life thanks to their heresy? Her brow furrows suddenly as her heart is stabbed with grief over his loss. Immediately, her thoughts of counter-reformation are swallowed up in an impassioned plea for the repose of his soul. That is the worst of it - the knowledge that his heresy shall keep him from God's holy table, and thus they shall not be reunited when He calls her home. For all the rest of her days, she shall plead for his restoration to Grace; and no one in England shall be placed in that cruel position ever again, "Requiem aeternum dona ei, Domine; et lux perpetua luceat ei. Resquiat in pace. Amen."
Behind her, Helena kneels loyally, for she has become accustomed to her Queen's devotional activities, but the remainder of her women are English, and unused to such excessive piety. The requirement to be upon their knees for such extensive portions of the day impinges upon their other duties, and is undertaken with barely concealed resentment at someone who seems so utterly mired in her faith that she has lost all sight of everything else. Mary seems not to notice - or, if she does, she ignores it - but to the men who are the first of her Council, it is a painful warning of how England shall respond should she demand the same of her subjects.
I shall win England back for Christendom, Holy Father, she promises in the depths of her heart, the harlot and all who have betrayed my realm shall pay for their sin with their lives. Their evil shall be cleansed by fire and sword; I give you my word as your humble servant and truly chosen Queen. As I pray for the soul of my beloved late lord, I pray that they shall see the error of their ways before such a cleansing must come to pass; but if they do not, I shall not shrink from implementing their just punishment.
Communion completed, she rises and crosses herself. Only then does she emerge from her cabin to make her way to the deck. So much to be done - but she has her council, she shall soon be in Spain where her cousin shall offer her aid, and God is most assuredly upon her side. Just a few more days, and she shall be ashore, ready to commence her recovery of her Realm.
For all its rattling and bumping, Cromwell has no complaints about the carriage that has been secured for his use. The rain is no longer a deluge, but is instead a tiresome thin drizzle that seems like nothing much while it hangs in the air like a mist - but contrives to leave all that it touches sodden and cold. The escape from that damp chill has spared him the worst pain in his hip, but his companions are most assuredly the dullest of company. Rich might not require ginger to settle his stomach, but he has instead dropped off to sleep, slumped against the cushioned side of the vehicle where he emits short, squeaky snores; while Wiltshire's grey complexion is more than sufficient indication that there shall be no conversation from him for the duration of the Journey.
With little else to do, he reviews his plans for their destinations once they are at Exeter. They shall continue on to Plymouth where Elizabeth shall review the fleet - such as it is - and cross the Tamar to stay at the home of Sir Richard Edgcumbe in the parish of Calstock.
The Queen shall remain at the house of Kosheyl - an odd name, taken from the language of the county - for a month, where Filipe shall meet with the commissioners who are overseeing the trading agreements with the owners of the extensive tin mines in the region.
That, however, is at least a week away, as they are yet to reach Exeter, having departed Barrington Court only a day ago.
Instead he allows himself to brood over their absent problem. The last missive Rich received from the unwitting Norfolk arrived just as they were departing Wulfhall, proclaiming that Mary had reached Genoa, and was residing temporarily for a peppercorn rent in a grand Palazzo while Boleyn negotiated passage on a ship. Knowing the skill of his Regent's father, Cromwell is quite certain that Mary is either aboard ship, or quite possibly even landed in Spain by now. His frustration at not knowing tempered by the equal knowledge that he has taken all the steps that he can to aid the Queen as she prepares to meet a threat that remains an ephemeral wisp of dread possibility.
The carriage lurches as a wheel falls into a rut, jerking Rich out of his doze and prompting a weak groan from Wiltshire as his stomach lurches in union with their transport.
"Out of the window if you must, my Lord." Cromwell advises, dryly.
Sitting up, Rich attempts to persuade the scrunched hair on the right side of his head to lie flat again, "Where are we?"
"God alone knows. I am relieved however that, wherever we are, we are out of the rain."
"As am I."
"I am not." Wiltshire mumbles, sickly, "God; once I am out of this damned carriage, I shall never sit in it again."
"I have more of that ginger tincture." Rich offers, helpfully.
Wiltshire groans, and leans out of the window.
"I think he does not like the ginger tincture." Cromwell observes, though not without sympathy. He rummages in a small satchel on the seat alongside, "I have some brandewine here, perhaps a finger of that might help."
The sound of hoofbeats outside the carriage captures his attention, and he looks out to see one of the senior chamberers, "My Lord, we shall shortly arrive at the Bishop's Court."
Thank God.
They shall not be there for long - just two nights before moving on to the grand Bishop's Palace at Bishopsteignton, west of the city of Exeter, though they shall stop at the City to visit the great Cathedral Church before continuing to enjoy the hospitality of Bishop Vesey. That shall be an interesting stay - for Vesey is as firmly conservative as he, Cromwell, is for reform, though they have set their greater differences aside and thus are able to enjoy friendly discourse most of the time. The religious settlement has spared him the need to resign his Bishopric, though it remains a threat that he occasionally airs if feeling particularly discontented.
The Court is a magnificent structure, once held by the bishops of Exeter amongst many luxurious properties around the Holy See, but recently purchased by Sir John Russell, who is keen to host his Queen personally as she travels to inspect the fleet whose construction he has been overseeing. Cromwell smiles to himself; Russell has no idea that her Majesty intends to reward him for his service by raising him to an Earldom while she is here.
Lady Wiltshire is already awaiting her husband as he emerges from their halted carriage with an expression that is half wretchedness, half relief to finally be still. She makes excellent work of concealing her sympathetic amusement at his discomfort, while the chamberers confer with their counterparts from the House to find out where the couple shall be resting their heads tonight.
"My Lord," One of the retinue approaches Rich, "I have received correspondence from London for your attention."
Cromwell and Rich share a bemused expression, until he turns the folded paper over to see the scarlet wax of the seal, "Ah. He is in London at the moment. I suppose his town house requires attention, seeing that he has not lived in it for near on a decade."
Rather than open it immediately, Rich conceals it in a satchel of his own, and sets to work overseeing the removal of his own baggage to the chambers that have been set aside for him. Being Officers of State, they shall be accommodated in the House - but many of the entourage shall be spending the night under canvas.
It is nearly two hours before Cromwell is free to call upon his colleague, who is seated in a rather fine oriel that grants views across a great parkland towards the City of Exeter, from which rise the twin towers of the great cathedral church amidst a sea of tiled and thatched roofs. Rich says nothing, but instead hands over the letter.
My Lord.
Her Majesty the Queen has landed at Alméria, and is currently residing just outside the city while her train is prepared to convey her to Granada. I have not yet been advised as to his Imperial Majesty's intentions, though he shall not eschew the requirements of filial courtesy. We are certain that he shall welcome her and offer the aid of the Empire in her quest to regain England. Thus I advise that there is every chance that a fleet shall depart from Spain either before the year is out, or after the winter has passed.
It is best, I think, to advise the Harlot that the true Queen of England has remained helpless at Genoa for the time being; thus she and her brat shall be caught unawares when God's fleet sails along the Channel to claim England for the rightful daughter of the late King.
Thos.
"He seems less keen to apply his name to his correspondence, now that it is becoming singularly dangerous." Cromwell comments, "Though if he truly thinks that Charles shall be pleased to find his evicted cousin knocking upon his door in search of accommodation, he is a fool. There are too many treaties and agreements that he has no wish to abrogate for him to be as delighted as Norfolk believes."
"I suspect he does not truly believe that to be so, Thomas." Rich shakes his head, "Even he is not so wilfully blind to the political realities of England and her relations with her neighbours. His words are deliberately optimistic, rather than foolishly so. Should Mary fail, then she shall never come again - and he shall never reclaim the prestige that he lost when his faction was toppled. It may also be that he shall be aware of the risk to his head should that occur."
"He is also fooling himself if he thinks it possible to assemble and provision an invasion fleet in mere weeks," Cromwell adds, "but then, he is a soldier, not an admiral. I think it unlikely that a fleet shall depart before the end of the year, once winter is past."
"Assuming that they can find enough ships to carry an army of sufficient size to take England."
"They shall almost certainly assume that England's catholic subjects shall rally to their cause, Richard. For all their wisdom, the Princes of Europe seem unable to appreciate that England's catholics are Englishmen first, and catholics second. For all their faith, they shall not appreciate the arrival of a foreign army intent upon invasion of their land, or the likelihood that England shall become an outpost of Spain."
"For myself, I should prefer it if we were not obliged to evidence that theory." Rich smiles, then looks out of the window, "Of course, if Charles does not support her, then we shall most certainly not have to."
Cromwell nods, "Thus we continue as though nothing were happening. We shall inform their Majesties, and proceed to Plymouth."
"And I shall - if her Majesty is in agreement - advise Norfolk that the English court is entirely unaware that Mary is on the move."
They collectively turn at the sound of a knock upon the door, "My Lords, supper shall be served shortly."
Cromwell rises, "In which case, I shall change. Until later, Richard."
Brandon attempts as best he can to conceal his embarrassment at his hopeless inability to understand a word being spoken by the City officials of Alméria. Boleyn, of course, seems to have no difficulty, and the Queen is equally capable of understanding them. It is only a minor relief to know that neither Helena, Nils nor her Majesty's English ladies can understand the conversation either.
The tone of voice, however, is worrying. They are polite, deferential - but also vaguely uncomfortable at her presence. The overall impression he gains from them is that the Emperor is not at all pleased that they are there, and they have no idea how to communicate that to his cousin. He shall grant her shelter, that is assured; but he shall not be as welcoming as they have been assuming.
Eventually, the conversation ends, and they are permitted to proceed. Boleyn's face is reddened with anger, though Mary seems surprisingly unconcerned. Frustrated at his ignorance, Brandon has no option but to follow as they make their way through the narrow, cobbled streets to a shockingly dilapidated Palacio which serves to darken Boleyn's temper all the more.
He still says nothing as Mary dismounts from her horse, enters the building and again drops to her knees to thank God for her arrival in her mother's lands. Prayers complete, she rises again and turns to the rather battered looking steward that has come to greet them, talks to him awhile. This done, she turns back to her Councillors, "Thank you for your care and attention, my Lords. I shall retire and refresh myself before we sup." Beckoning her ladies, she sweeps away with a regal air that seems most out of place in such inauspicious surroundings.
"What was said at the Quayside?" Brandon immediately draws Boleyn aside.
"The Emperor has agreed only to house her. Nothing more. We are to present ourselves at his palace in Granada, but whether he shall permit her to stay there, or grant her an estate elsewhere was not advised. Indeed, they seem almost entirely unprepared for her arrival."
Brandon frowns, surely not all of their messages went astray? Then he sighs; no: of course they did not. They arrived, and the Emperor was not pleased, but was instead appalled.
"He does not want her here." Boleyn snaps, "Her presence is tolerated merely upon the grounds that to do otherwise would be a violation of filial hospitality. It is his preference that she accept accommodation at her grandmother's palace in Zaragoza, and live there in quiet obscurity."
"She seems not to share your anger at such a snub."
"She has chosen to believe that God shall urge the Emperor to change his mind. Though I suspect she shall need rather more earthly aid if she is to do that. Already she intends to petition the Archbishop of Granada as soon as she reaches the Alhambra, for she is to journey there first to pay respects to her cousin."
"And she thinks that he shall win the day for her?"
"He is newly appointed, and eager to show his religious stripes. I have no doubt that they shall make this a religious enterprise - and how can the Emperor stand against God's will? If she has half a mind, she shall accept the offer of the palace at Zaragoza and keep her counsel for a year at least. Should the winds of politics shift, then perhaps the Emperor shall be more interested in setting her upon England's throne than he is at this moment."
Brandon shakes his head, "You saw her - both in Pomerania, and aboard ship. She has set her heart upon taking England as quickly as she can do so. It is, to her at least, a task set upon her by God to overcome her failures in both England and Sweden; furthermore, she sees it as her duty to rescue Englishmen from heresy as she could not do with her Swedish subjects."
Boleyn looks likely to lose his temper, but instead sags, "And that is what shall lead her to disaster. Her bitterness at all that has struck her seems to have resolved into a religious fervour that naught can overcome. I have no doubt that, should we speak out against any plan that is truly foolish, she shall look to others who shall not. Our loyalty shall count for nothing in the face of acquiescence by flatterers."
"You underestimate her political intelligence. She shall not do so."
"You think so? She is as much her father's daughter as her mother's. He destroyed men who would not bend to his will - no matter how right they were. Thus she bears her mother's piety and her father's temper. If we cannot give her what she seeks, she shall look for others to do so instead. I can find a new career - can you?"
Brandon stares at his colleague, dismayed. No - she would not do such a thing; not to those who have served her loyally when all others turned away. Her mother appreciated loyalty - and that cannot have been set aside by her father's tendency to betray the faith of others…
"We shall do what we can to protect her from herself." Boleyn muses, "That she shall want to invade England is inevitable - but perhaps we shall be able to persuade her that tomorrow is not the best time."
"I have been a soldier. That shall be my task." Finally - something useful that he can do. Assuming, of course, that she shall listen to him. Based on his experiences since she landed in Rostock, however, he is not at all sure.
Elizabeth is seated under her canopy of estate, while a parade of men in their best garments process through the street bearing flags and banners in her honour. So far she has been welcomed with two feasts, a festival of song, six new gowns, a rope of pearls and gifts of fine victuals to serve at her table while she is in residence at Kosheyl once she crosses the river. In return, she has granted gifts of monies to three infirmaries, six poorhouses and seen to the serving of a fine dinner for the population of a small sequence of almshouses to which the residents have retired after a long period of service in the fishing fleets.
Anne has kept her distance from these festivities, allowing her daughter to emerge from the mildly tainted shade she has cast as Regent. No matter how hard she tries, she is still considered in some quarters to be a harlot who overthrew a lawful Queen. Now that Elizabeth is coming into a marriageable age, the legacy of her parentage is a particular danger; so she is always - always - accompanied by her ladies, and her time spent with Filipe is carefully watched. He is her betrothed - but nonetheless, the suggestion that they are already carnally involved is one that she is keen to avoid.
The City Fathers have been delightfully welcoming - though that is quite likely to be thanks to the extra funds coming into their coffers to pay for the work at the dockyards. The natural haven of the Sound is ideal to house the vessels that shall serve for either trade or war, and not a few of them are already complete, including those that have hitherto been concealed in the smaller havens around the coast of England. To all intents and purposes, the new ships are solely for trade in order to benefit from the agreements with Portugal; with the primary tin mines scattered across the two counties of Devonshire and Cornwall, Plymouth is by far the best port to handle the increased shipping. No one needs to know that, further upstream, a separate dockyard has been selected to assemble the artillery that the ships shall need should they be called into service for war.
The primary Privy Councillors are also seated to the rear of the Queen's rostrum, though it is more a courtesy to Cromwell, who is no longer able to stand for long periods of time. Concealing that infirmity in a show of privilege for the noblemen of the Council was Elizabeth's idea, as she is fond of her Lord Chancellor and has no wish to cause him unnecessary discomfort. The Lord High Admiral, newly ennobled as the first Earl of Bedford, sits alongside the Queen and her royal guest. This is his forte, of course - and he shall guide a reduced royal party as they make their way around the gathering of vessels in the sound aboard a gaily decorated barge rowed by 28 oarsmen, which shall eventually be conveyed to London as a gift for future royal use.
"Thanks be to God that the weather is benign," Rich comments as they rise from their seats to follow the parade of sailors down to the quay, "I am able to ride in a carriage, but the sea is not my friend."
Cromwell smiles cheerfully, "I am little better, I fear, Richard. I have sailed, but never with great pleasure."
The cabin of the barge is surprisingly spacious, sufficient to accommodate the Queen, her betrothed, Bedford, and a number of the higher placed Aldermen alongside the Mayor. Another barge, smaller but no less well appointed, shall follow with a mighty escort of skiffs draped with yet more flags and flowers. Seated in the enclosed cabin, Anne's expression is bittersweet; her daughter is taking her place as Queen, which is a good thing, but in doing so, her mother is becoming superfluous, and is no longer expected to stand at her side.
"This is what I wanted." She says, quietly, as Cromwell sits alongside her, "But still I am embittered by the relegation."
"It is good that you accept it, Majesty." He answers, sagely, "Your time as Regent is not yet done, however. There is one more great enterprise that shall require your leadership to be resolved."
There is no need to ask what he means. "Mary."
He equally does not need to nod.
She looks up and beckons to Rich, who takes another seat to her left. He also does not need to ask why he has been summoned, "She has reached Spain, Majesty - but we do not yet know whether she has arrived at the Emperor's Court. Until I have been advised of it, we are left only with speculation; which serves nothing, and no one."
"And what is your intended response?"
"To advise that you and the Court are entirely unaware, Majesty. If they are to set sail, then it would be helpful to suggest that they do so as soon as is possible. I understand that Mary is quite intent upon regaining England, so she shall push to invade as immediately as can be achieved. Thus we can have the weather upon our side, for she shall not appreciate that autumn is not the time to sail the channel in large numbers."
"Would we be prepared for such an invasion?" Anne asks him, quietly.
"I think so. If they choose to sail at a time that is not wise, then the weather shall do much of the work for us. It may be sensible to discuss the possibility with the men of this city - theoretically, of course - before I answer our traitor's letter."
It is not wise to continue their discussions in such a crowded venue, so Cromwell changes the subject, calling over one of the shipwrights to ask about the construction of the ship. Dull for the uninitiated, perhaps - but safer than talking about an invasion.
Amongst the gathering is the man that has been appointed to command a naval fleet. A tall, solidly built local man with a great bushy beard and a thick thatch of mouse-brown hair atop his head who answers to the name of Simeon Challacombe. Having served in the previous reign aboard the warships that sailed from England in Henry's service, he has been recommended as a skilled sailor who understands the waters of the Channel, and how to sail them well. While none yet know of the risk of an invasion from Spain, Challacombe has no illusions that no one shall ever come against them again. He has already discussed - theoretically - how he would employ the carracks available to him against an enemy fleet, and Bedford has been most impressed; despite being the only member of the council who understood what he was talking about.
He has been listening with half an ear to the discussions about the newer vessels, and smiles approvingly, "They're good ships, Majesty. They move like caravels, and they sit in the water well.
"How would you use them against an invading fleet, sir?" Anne asks, hoping that he shall not be too technical in his answer.
"It depends on how they come against us, Ma'am." He muses, "The sets of guns we have could fire in one go from one side, then we can turn about and fire again while the used guns are reloaded. We can use the waters of the channel to our advantage - my captains know the best havens to use for shelter if they need it - all we would need is a fleet to engage; but it seems that God, and the foreign Kings, have no wish to oblige me."
Cromwell smiles, "Perhaps so - but I am glad that they do not. They cannot afford to, after all. It would be churlish to wish bankruptcy upon our neighbours, would it not?"
Challacombe laughs cheerfully, and their conversation moves on to other matters.
By the time the barges return to the shore, Cromwell is no more able to understand how the ships are better than those that came before - but he is contented that they are sufficiently numerous, well built, and commanded, to see off whatever invasion force Mary shall bring.
Perhaps the first indication that they are not entirely welcome in Granada is the lack of a large escort at the nearest gate in the city wall to approach the monumental pile of the Alhambra, where Mary's cousin Charles is in residence.
From a distance, the great palace of the Nasrids seems to glisten in the sunlight, a crowning jewel of the reconquest of Spain from the heathens that had taken it. Closer to, however, Brandon is dismayed to see the number of soldiers, both mounted and on foot, is hardly sufficient for a woman of such state as the Queen of England.
Mary, on the other hand, seems quite content to ignore the implied insult, and immediately greets the captain of the tiny honour guard in his native tongue with great courtesy and gratitude. If Charles is to be churlish, then she most certainly shall not be.
Behind, Boleyn is not so accommodating, "God help us. The Emperor does not want us here - it could not be clearer that he is doing as little as he can. He is more keen upon not irking England than welcoming his own Cousin."
"He shall think otherwise once she is upon her proper throne." Brandon hisses back, sotto voce, "Furthermore, he shall find a true Queen with whom he can truly form an alliance against France."
"And you believe that?"
Brandon finds he cannot answer.
Their arrival at the great Puerta de la Justicia is no less insulting. The gates are closed, obliging the Captain to batter the hilt of his sword upon them, and are opened only after a considerable pause. Even Mary, by now, appreciates that her arrival is not the anticipated pleasure that she had expected.
Matters do not improve as the small column makes its way towards the grand buildings that display a taste and construction utterly alien to Mary's northern European sensibilities. The Court seems not to have emerged to greet their master's cousin, and not even a chamberlain seems to be in evidence. Surely she is not expected to knock upon the door of the palace like a beggar?
It seems not. As they approach a pair of massive doors, over which is an arch decorated with pierced stone in unusual geometric patterns, they open to reveal a soberly dressed individual wearing a spectacularly bejewelled chain of office. Flanked by two guards, he bows with a minimal degree of courtesy, though his words are Spanish, and seem polite enough.
Brandon exchanges a glance with Boleyn, who quietly translates, "He has welcomed her Majesty to the Imperial Court, and shall escort us to apartments where we shall remain until summoned. It seems likely that it shall be later today."
"He called her 'Majesty', then?"
"Yes - but whether it be Majesty Queen of Sweden or Queen of England, I cannot say."
Mary's expression is no longer polite, or accommodating of the continual rudeness that has been heaped upon her. Instead, she is cold and curt as she thanks the man, and her face displays her displeasure. The weakness of her position, however, is such that the man upon whom she lays that glance seems to care not one whit.
"Deseo recibir la Santa Cena. Envía al arzobispo a mi presencia." She does not make it a request.
"What has she said?" Brandon asks.
"She demands to celebrate communion, and asks to see the Archbishop of Granada." Boleyn answers, "Though do not tell Tunstall that - he shall be most dismayed to be overlooked in such matters."
"He shall survive it. She intends to protest to him, does she not?"
"I think it likely."
Leaving their horses to the care of grooms, Mary's party is guided through colonnaded halls of fabulous beauty, though the decoration is unusual in that it shows no beasts, or flora. The eventual apartments are of reasonable aspect, though clearly of lesser state than those of the royal family. Ambassadors might be housed here, but the rooms are hardly fit for a Queen. God above, Charles is truly angry that she has come here. Even as he takes in the extraordinary decoration, Brandon feels a nervous sense of discomfort in his vitals. It is a misstep; it has to be. The Emperor is already at the card table, and has dealt a hand that Mary cannot hope to match. If she demands that he help her to invade England, then he shall be free to laugh in her face without fear. Why did they not take steps to discover the Empire's current dealings with England? If he has signed a treaty and they know it not, then they shall be fortunate to even be permitted to enter Zaragoza. Mary is dangerously close to being consigned to a convent, while God alone knows what shall happen to them.
The shadows are drawing in as the awaited summons finally arrives. In the several hours that have elapsed, Brandon has bathed, changed and fretted, wondering whether he shall end the day in a dungeon. Mary, on the other hand, seems to have been remarkably busy, and is awaiting them with a tall man dressed in garb that proclaims him to be a bishop. This must be the archbishop of Granada, then.
"Gentlemen," Mary's expression is almost beatific, "I have conferred with his Grace, and he is in agreement that we have God's blessing upon our enterprise; furthermore, he shall set forth our claims to his Holiness in Rome to seek a Bull granting us his authority to reclaim our just rights and inheritances - stolen by a whore and an illegitimate child. With God's help, we shall overcome my cousin's scepticism of our aims, and thus achieve His work. This is not a matter for temporal concerns, or political cowardice. England is mine, and I shall reclaim her from those who have stolen her."
Boleyn and Brandon exchange a nervous glance, while behind them Tunstall looks rather pale. Perhaps he, too, had thought that her determination to grasp a throne forever beyond her reach would be stopped here. For all his determination to avoid political strife with England, there shall be only so much pressure that the Emperor can accept before he shall capitulate. If he does so out of resentment, than it shall be no better than if he had refused.
"If God is with us," Brandon says, firmly, as though he is attempting to convince himself as much as anyone else, "then there are none who shall be able to stand in our way."
"That is my thought." Mary agrees, "And thus I can commence my enterprise of England. The Concubine, and her child, shall falter in the face of God's will and strength, and the lost sheep of my realm can be restored to the fold."
Boleyn shudders; Charles has regularly ignored the Pope when it has suited him to do so - but in such circumstances, how can he refuse now? Should a Bull emerge from Rome, then it shall be done. They shall sail from Spain to reclaim England - and he must overthrow his own granddaughter from her throne.
For the first time, he truly wishes that he could do otherwise; but what's done is done. He shall return to England, and his daughter's line shall be snuffed out forever.
A/N: Another location note!
Kosheyl is a real place - it's the Cornish name for Cotehele House, a lovely old manor that sits on a picturesque hillside above the River Tamar on the Cornish side. It was indeed owned by Sir Richard Edgecumbe at the time this story is set, and is now in the care of the National Trust. Believe me, the visit is well worth the slightly unnerving journey along single track lanes to get to it. Plus the café does magnificent lunches.
Sir John Russell really did own Bishop's Court, which he first leased from, and then was granted by, Bishop Vesey. Prior to this it was named Bishop's Clyst. It still stands today, and is a Grade I listed building. Unfortunately, it's on a private business park, and is not open to the public. Worse, you can't even see it from the road.
The Bishop's Palace at Bishopsteignton was one of the smaller palaces available to the Bishops of Exeter (yes, I did say 'palaces', as in, plural - there was one beside the Cathedral, and another one in Chudleigh, not to mention a few smaller places like Bishop's Clyst). Like many Bishops' palaces, it didn't survive the reformation and is now a ruin. It's Grade II* listed, and can be found on Ash Hill Farm, which is on the appropriately named Old Wall Hill, which is north of the village of Bishopsteignton in Devon. Google Street View shows that there's an information plaque outside - but it's on a working farm and isn't open to the public, though one can stop the car and goggle in fascination from outside the gate as long as they don't stay for too long.
And a culinary note: Brandewine is the 16th Century name for Brandy.
Finally: apologies to any Spanish-speaking readers for the outbreak of Google Translate Spanish in the middle of this chapter! Fear not, I shall be mangling additional languages in future chapters...