A/N: Welcome to another Friday! Thank you again for your comments - which are greatly appreciated. Brandon and Boleyn are indeed wondering what the hell they've got themselves into - but it's far too late to back out now.

Mary also continues her quest to re-take England for God and the Church - while Anne and her team get to work on making sure she doesn't...

And, in my ongoing determination to call places as they would've been called by the people who refer to them, I promise I haven't spelled 'Vienna' wrong!

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Preparations to Sail

The council chamber is airy and bright with an early autumn sun, though the dry heat of summer has barely departed, and all present are relieved to enjoy the open arches of the colonnade that looks out to a small court where a fountain plays charmingly.

The human atmosphere, is far less benign.

None of the men at the table are pleased with the document that was received from Rome this morning; delivered by fast horse from Alméria by two Swiss mercenaries employed in Rome. It seems that not only Archbishop Logroño has been active upon the part of a woman whose presence is both unwelcome and something of an embarrassment.

"We have no choice." The man at the head of the table is dressed with a magnificence that defies the warmth of the air: velvets and furs with a cascade of jewels over which his regally prominent chin - well, regal in his opinion - points distinctively, "We shall have to furnish the wretched woman with a fleet. All of Christendom expects it of us; secure in the knowledge that it shall cost them nothing in either gold or diplomatic relations. I have neither the men nor the gold to fund such an enterprise."

"An 'Enterprise of England'." one of his councillors agrees, his tone mocking, "For all her heresy, the girl upon the throne makes no wars and seeks only to secure the safety of her own realm. There is no aid from England against the Turk - but there is equally no aid from England to the French who would seek to wrest Milan from your possession, Majesty."

Charles, fifth of that name, scowls, "God knows that, were I sufficiently stocked with ships and gold, I would willingly take that recalcitrant island back for the Pope; but I am not. The Turk is a far greater threat to us than a rabble of heretics that is closer to Francis than to me. Is it not of greater concern that Suleiman's forces could reach Viena in but a day's ride? For all their heresy, the English at least are Christians of a sort. The heathens to the east must be repelled - and thus I do not have the time or the funds to intervene in a squabble between two ridiculous women over which of them wears a crown."

Another of his councillors nods, "She is keen to depart as soon as ships are in port and stocked."

"Then let her." Charles snaps, "If God is as with her as she claims, then He shall tell the sea to be quiet, and the storms not to come. She shall have to make do with whatever hulks can be mustered, and whatever captains are ashore."

"We shall not be obliged to field too many men at arms." Someone else adds, "She is convinced that England's catholics shall welcome her, and thus rise to fight at her side."

"As they did the first time she tried? The weather has dried: my sources say that the late August period was sufficiently dry to save the harvest, thus the people shall not face famine this year. With food in their bellies, they do not care who rules them. She is unlikely to even make landfall."

Charles shrugs, "Give her what she asks for - but spend as little as can be spent: I have obligations elsewhere. If she succeeds, then we shall claim the credit. If she fails, we shall disown her as a deluded fool. Either way, I shall not have my diplomatic exertions shattered by my cousin. Dispatch her to Cadiz with all haste - she and her sycophants can play with their ships, while I am free to continue with more pressing obligations." He looks across at one of his older councillors, "Mendoza, see to it."

"Yes, Majesty."

Cromwell swallows the physic that his apothecary has mixed for him with a grimace. It is in sweetened wine, but nonetheless its bitterness is too strong to be concealed. Filling his glass with more of the rather good fortified wine recently imported from Portugal thanks to their developing trade, he attempts as best he can to obliterate the foul bitterness, before returning his attention to his work.

He has been back at his desk in Whitehall for barely a week, though he is pleased at the success of their progress to the west. The increased work and pay for the tin miners seems to have won their loyalty, and Filipe has certainly won the respect of the shipwrights of Plymouth. Even though it has not been made public that he is intended to marry Elizabeth, rumours are inevitable; and his many observers have been reporting that people are not poorly disposed to the prospect of his being her Consort.

Being a young man with noble heritage, but no inheritance, Filipe has been eager to seek out a purpose in life that shall be worthy of his rank and prospects. That he seems to have found it in England could not have come at a better time, for the news from Spain is less welcome.

Even without Norfolk's unwitting assistance, the publication of a bull authorising Mary to invade England, and ordering all of Christendom to give her aid and support in doing so is common knowledge. The fact that she is intending to approach them with a foreign army has certainly ensured that English catholics have no interest in welcoming her; and he, Cromwell, has taken great care to ensure that rumours have spread that she is to marry Philip, the son of the King of Spain, and give him England as a Spanish province. A simple ruse; but the word coming back to him is that it is believed, and even the most piously catholic Englishfolk are appalled at the prospect.

His manservant opens the door to admit Rich, who holds another folded paper in his hand, and Cromwell looks up at him in disbelief, "God above, can you smell wine? I pour out a finger and you are at my door."

"It is a particular talent of mine." Rich grins at him, taking a proffered seat and accepting a proffered cup of the wine, "I have news."

Cromwell waits until they are alone, "Tell on."

"Work has commenced upon gathering a fleet. It seems that no one dares to advise Mary that a naval invasion at this time of the year is utter madness. The Emperor has appointed one Nicólas Mendoza to oversee its commissioning. I know nothing of his abilities, but it seems that he has no experience at such activities, but is known to be a capable administrator. The informant seems confident that all is progressing as it should; though I suspect that it is more wishful thinking than good sense."

"As do I." Cromwell agrees, "The word from Spain is that any ship that is capable of at least floating is being sought. The great galleons of Spain are engaged in carrying gold from the new world, while those of lesser aspect are in the east of the Mediterranean, seeking to engage the Turk. They shall be lucky to secure anything greater than old cogs and carracks that are suited for cargo at best. Assuming that they can be fitted to carry guns, to do so shall take such time that the earliest they can put out shall be Autumn; or possibly as late as Christmastide, thus leaving them at the mercy of winter storms."

"Surely she is not such a fool as to think that she can put to sea in winter?"

"She might be - for she knows much of her aspirations, and nothing at all of navigation; but those who do know seem unwilling to rein her in. I fear that the issuing of a Bull has seen to that. A clause at the end intimates that those who hinder the plan shall be questioned by the inquisition over the depth of their faith."

"Hell, it is as though the Pope and the Emperor want her to fail." Rich is scandalised.

"More, I think, a desire to keep her from badgering them about it. Now that she is in Spain, her desire is in her grasp and it is no longer of interest to her to consider a more contemplative existence. It is as though she has wilfully blinded herself to the likely probability that she shall fail."

"At least they are unaware that we are prepared for them."

A knock upon the door summons the manservant again, who accepts a note from a steward, "my Lords, her Majesty has asked to see you."

"Both of us?" Rich asks, still cradling the cup of wine with a reluctance to set it down.

"Yes, my Lord. The steward was to attend your quarters next."

"Set down your wine, Mr Rich." Cromwell smiles, as he reaches for his cane to lever himself out of the chair, "I have no doubt that it shall not run away while we are engaged elsewhere."

Anne is present in Elizabeth's Privy Chamber when they are shown in, though she does not speak. It is not her place now.

"Is there news from Spain?" the Queen asks, tensely.

Of course. They have returned from the progress now, and it is inevitable that her mind shall be back upon the safety of her realm.

"Freshly arrived this morning, Majesty." Cromwell advises, smoothly. She still does not know the identity of the man with whom Norfolk is corresponding, "It was delivered to me not an hour ago."

"I know about the Bull, Mr Cromwell; but then, if I did not, that would make me the only soul in Christendom so ignorant."

"I have taken steps to ensure that your catholic subjects are not tempted to act, Majesty. I think it unlikely that they would do so, for they are free to worship and have shown no inclination to remove you from your throne. On the contrary, they are loyal to you as their Queen, and shall see any invasion as a foreign incursion that must be repulsed at all costs."

"For they are my true and loving subjects." She smiles at him, "and I love them for it."

"We are given to understand by our Ambassador to Spain that Mary has been granted the services of one of the Emperor's councillors, a man by the name of Nicólas Mendoza." Cromwell continues "The gossip from his excellency's sources in the port of Alméria is that he is a capable administrator, but has no understanding of the requirements of an invasion fleet. Furthermore, the only admiral he has been able to employ to lead the expedition is elderly, and has not sailed for nearly twelve years. Equally, the expertise of this man is solely upon oceanic voyaging, for he was known in his time as a leader of treasure fleets. I am advised that Mendoza has not yet summoned the courage to advise her of his find." He has not needed Norfolk to retrieve that morsel of information; the rumours are freshly arrived from Spain aboard a merchantman from one of their Ambassador's spies, supplemented by additional news gleaned by the Captain, who could understand the talk in the Taverns of Cadiz.

"And her advisers do not stop her from being so foolish as to trust this man?" Anne asks, bemused.

"They have no expertise to counter it." Rich reminds them, "The former Lord Brandon was a soldier, yes - but not a sailor. Equally the former Lord Wiltshire is an expert in diplomacy, not navigation. Even should they feel that matters are progressing inappropriately, they have not the knowledge to argue against it."

Elizabeth looks dismayed, "It is, therefore, reasonable to assume that this enterprise is doomed from the start. God have mercy - there shall be many men who shall lose their lives who did not need to. It is a price that I would wish not to have to pay for our safety."

"It may be that sense shall prevail." Cromwell adds, rather doubtfully. He is not surprised to see that no one else looks particularly hopeful either.

Mathew Baker is busy with dividers again, "I think that we shall not be safe to raise more than four sails upon the main mast, Highness."

"Nor I." Filipe agrees, "Too much sail is more dangerous than not enough. Better that the ship be slow than toppled by a rogue gust of wind. They shall be nimble in the ocean, however - almost as nimble as a caravel. We shall have to devise new means for them to fire their guns, for they shall turn quickly in the water."

Neither man is aware that the requirement for such vessels is more pressing than it had been when Filipe first arrived and started work upon improving the English fleet; and their discussions are thus theoretical.

The news from Kings Lynn has been most positive; the first ship to depart there from Wapping has performed admirably at sea, and thus two new vessels have already been laid down. The number of ships already afloat at Plymouth have been remodelled to the new design wherever possible, and the two have - between them - precipitated the creation of a naval fleet that is ready to protect England from any who might approach. The new ships, along with at least sixteen more being laid down at Deptford and Plymouth, shall not be ready until next year; but they are being built, and thus England shall share Portuguese trading routes, securing the wealth of both nations through the spice trade.

Their discussions are hasty, for Filipe shall be departing to return to Portugal in less than two weeks. Their friendship is firm, however, and they intend to continue their correspondence once he is back in Lisbon, though only Filipe is aware that he shall be away for a year at the most, before returning to marry the Queen.

Bedford is waiting to collect him as he emerges from the sheds, a barge bobbing gently at the nearby quay to ferry them back to Whitehall, "I shall miss him, I think, my Lord."

"God willing, Highness, you shall return and he shall have much to discuss with you."

"I shall also miss England." He adds, a little wistfully, though Bedford's smile suggests that he thinks it likely that it is Elizabeth he shall miss rather than her Realm. Only a fool could fail to see that their friendship has emerged from their correspondence and into their time together. For a betrothed couple to find such companionship together is the best that can be hoped for; so many lack that good fortune. Like all of her Council, Bedford is deeply fond of his young Queen, and shares that almost paternal wish for her to marry well, but also to find happiness in the transaction. His own marital fortunes have been favourable, but he has seen too many other unions faltering under the weight of resentment and misery thanks to the failure of the partners to find common ground in their marriage.

"I fear we must depart, Highness, if we are to pass London Bridge in safety." He says, eventually, as the sound of church bells striking the hour filters across the noise of the shipyard. Beside him, Filipe nods and follows him to the barge.

Boleyn makes his way through labyrinthine corridors, leading the Queen's visitors behind him and hoping to God that he is not going to get lost again. The Emperor's invitation to travel to Cadiz, where the remaining ships of his navy are berthed at present, was eagerly grasped by Mary, keen to accumulate a fleet and depart for England as soon as she may. Thus they were obliged to spend nearly a fortnight upon horseback in a dry landscape with little relief from a brutal sun. It would most assuredly have been easier to make the journey by sea; but the Sangre de la Reina had departed Alméria three days after their arrival in Granada, and such was the damage to his purse from the cost of that voyage that Boleyn lacked sufficient funds to hire another vessel in its place.

The Palacio that has been set aside for her Majesty's use is large, rambling and was once opulent. Now, however, its exterior majesty seems to be cosmetic only, for the interiors are crumbling, the plaster cracked, and the infinitesimally tiny tiles that have been used to pick out those strange designs so favoured by the heathens that once ruled this land are departing from the mortar in such numbers that it is impossible to traverse some corridors without crushing them to fragments beneath his feet.

The fountain in the courtyard plays amidst a tangle of weeds, but does at least offer a degree of comfort in the heat of the afternoon. Disguising his disgruntlement, Boleyn approaches Mary, who is absorbed in her book of hours in defiance of the determinedly moorish architecture around her, "Majesty, my apologies for interrupting your contemplations: his Grace of Alquezar is without. He has found a man to command your fleet."

Mary sets her text aside, and smiles; something that she seems to do only rarely these days, "Thank you, my Lord. Please show him in."

Nicólas Mendoza - for all the commands of his master - is an honourable man, and to deliver the grizzled old fool at his side to the Emperor's cousin, of Aragonese descent to match his own, seems a cruel deceit that he has taken more than a week of dithering to summon the nerve to face inflicting upon her. For her mission to succeed, she requires a skilled admiral to lead her invasion fleet; but they are all engaging the Turk, or traversing the great western ocean to bring back badly needed riches from the lands of the Mexica. The only man he has been able to persuade to undertake the Queen's great Enterprise of England has not sailed in nearly ten years; and, while brilliant in his day, his expertise rests more bringing treasure ships home than engaging in naval warfare.

The man that he introduces is grizzled and baked a remarkable shade of rust-brown by years of exposure to the unforgiving oceanic sun. Deferential to a fault, he bows deeply to Mary, who extends her hand for him to kiss, though his balance seems so attuned to the undulations of the waves that he wobbles, and almost falls, as he does so.

"This is Señor Narcís Parramon, your Majesty," Mendoza advises, as his companion steps back again, "a man of excellent reputation and many years of experience guiding the great treasure fleets of Spain through treacherous waters to bring them safely home."

He chooses not to notice that the Ambassador's expression is far more cynical than that of his Queen. It is, of course, understandable given the unprepossessing nature of Captain Parramon, who is shabbily dressed, unkempt and looks almost to be in his cups, so utterly attuned is he to a life upon ships - even after ten years back on shore.

To Mary, on the other hand, the man is a gift sent from God, "Captain, I am delighted to meet you. I am eager to commence my holy duty to regain my stolen Crown and bring my poor subjects back to God's Church. It is my belief that God has chosen you for this great task - for why else would you be here when all others are elsewhere?"

Standing beside her, Boleyn struggles not to roll his eyes: is she truly so fixed upon matters religious that she cannot see any incident or decision any other fashion? It seems almost a disastrous mania that has wholly consumed her heart and mind; and no amount of persuasion or reason shall convince her otherwise. The discovery of this desiccated old man when no other captain would agree to even the most princely of bribes to lead their fleet is seen not as a desperate last throw of the dice, but instead a princely gift from the Almighty. Surely there was a time when she was wiser than this?

"Thank you, your Majesty." Parramon says, his voice thin and as rusty as his complexion, "I shall take you to England and win your crown back for you."

"Your first task shall be to aid my Lord Mendoza in the securing of ships to carry my to my home, and men to aid me in ousting the usurper and her sycophants."

"I shall see to it, great Queen."

Alongside the old man, Mendoza bows, his conscience somewhat stung by his deception. The best that they shall manage is a collection of vessels that are barely seaworthy, and the men who shall crew them likely to be convicts or nearly so. As with the better captains, the better men are engaged against the Turk.

As they withdraw, Mary turns to Boleyn, "Thank you, your Excellency. I am most pleased."

Dismissed, he bows and withdraws, leaving her to go back to her book.

Making his way through the corridors, Boleyn curses under his breath. Emerging into a small, unkempt garden, he finds Brandon sitting upon a bench and fidgeting with that ridiculous chain of office. Being unable to communicate in anything other than the simplest Spanish sentences, he has not been present at the meeting, but he looks up, and his expression says more than words could.

"Mendoza has found a captain?"

Boleyn nods, "A grizzled old fool who has not sailed in ten years. No other Master would countenance the idea - not in this season."

"Then why do we not wait?"

"She will not. You know she will not. That we should wait until the year's turn and sail in the spring is anathema to her. Such is her determination to regain England that she believes that God shall carry her there upon waves of gold and pearls, that Englishmen shall drive their own brethren into the sea, and that England shall go back to the way it was when her mother was Queen. It is as though it has consumed her to the extent that she is blind to all other things."

"It must be done. I promised her father that I would see her claim her rightful inheritance - it is a promise I shall not break."

"Christ's blood - are you as great a fool as she? Promises or no, we aim to impose her upon a realm that has not seen her in ten years or more. Do you think they shall welcome her with open arms? How can we be sure that we shall not spark an anarchy akin to that which followed the death of the first Henry?"

Brandon frowns at him, "What's done is done, Boleyn. If we are to act, then we must do so in unity; and hold faith with our Queen. I have entertained fears; but we have come to this point, and we have found friends to aid us…"

"Friends? Charles looks upon us as a stain, while Mendoza helps a child of the house of Trastámara out of childish sentiment. We have been abjured by any captain of skill or ability - and thus our proposed admiral has not sailed for as long as the Queen has been absent from her realm. In what way has God blessed this enterprise?"

Shaking his head, Boleyn departs, only to almost collide with one of the Spanish servants approaching with a folded paper in his hand. Accepting the document, he examines the seal: Norfolk. With an offer of more money, hopefully. His coffers are all but empty.

"What is it?" Brandon asks, immediately.

"I shall advise you when I have opened the blasted thing." He snaps back, crossly, breaking the seal. Reading it, he feels a sense of relief; more money. A lot more money. Now that Norfolk is aware that they have begun assembling an invasion fleet, he is prepared to assist in the payment for it.

"We can increase the bribes to persuade men of at least minimal skill to sail her Majesty's ships. Norfolk has dispatched funds to cover the cost." He reports, though - as he always does - he fails to hand the document over, "Our treacherous Councillor advises that a number of the newer Councillors would be willing to serve Queen Mary of England, though he states that he shall name them once she is ashore, for fear that his tidings might go astray. They shall be of little use to her without their heads."

"I presume that Rich desires to keep high office as much as his head in the new reign?" Brandon asks, cynically.

"I intend to ensure that he keeps neither." Boleyn shrugs, "He cannot be trusted - his behaviour proves it to be so. Norfolk would expect nothing less."

"Her Majesty might think otherwise; she shall see him as a man who has served her at great risk to himself."

"Not when she finds out how much it has cost to buy him."

Brandon shudders; it seems to him that Boleyn's interest in the success of the affair survives now only in terms of the prospect of avenging himself upon those who have crossed him. How Mary shall view such motives, he has no idea - but he shall find out when he draws her attention to them. Her reign shall be a new start for England: better to accomplish it without men of such base aspirations, and remove them as soon as she may.

Anne surveys the appalling disorder of her chambers: a mass of coffers, caskets, chamberers and stewards all busy around them as they gather together those items that she shall carry with her from Whitehall to Placentia. Advent is still more than a month away, but moving the Court from one palace to another takes a considerable time, as well as settling once there, so time is of the essence. She has spent the holiday of Christmastide under the roofs of Greenwich on so many occasions that it seems almost wrong to celebrate anywhere else; and thus the barges are being prepared to carry possessions, tapestries, gowns, papers and all manner of items that cannot be left behind when the Court moves from one Palace to another.

Elizabeth is more fortunate, in that she is walking in the gardens with her ladies, Castor and Pollux in tow, while Madame Astley oversees the packing of her accoutrements in her apartments. She could do likewise, of course; but Anne is well aware that her daughter is beginning to prefer the company of her own ladies when she is at leisure, and having her mother present is far less attractive a prospect than it was when she was a child.

"Majesty," A Steward is at her door, "My Lady Astley is without and asks to see you."

Anne smiles, "Of course, Michael; show her in."

The expression upon the face of Elizabeth's Chief Gentlewoman is benign, if a little despondent, and Anne smiles as she indicates a nearby chair, "Kat, please; do take a seat. Shall I call for some wine?"

"Thank you, no, Majesty. I think her Majesty would not thank me for approaching you, but now that his Highness of Portugal has departed for Portsmouth in order to return home, she is rather bereft, I fear."

Anne sighs, "That is not unexpected, alas. They delighted in one another's company; but as we have not revealed to England that he is to marry her, despite inevitable rumours, the need for her subjects to accept him demands that we introduce him to them with care. A foreign princess would be received without fear - but a foreign prince is another matter entirely. He has, however, left one gift for her that she shall be pleased to receive. A merlin falcon awaits her in the mews at Placentia. She shall enjoy hunting quail and snipe with it while she awaits his return in the spring."

"She shall appreciate the gift, I think, Majesty." Mistress Astley smiles, reassured, "I shall ask Mr Ascham and Mr Grindal to work together to challenge her so that the time passes quickly." Rising, she curtseys, "Thank you, Majesty. I shall return to packing, for there is still much to be done."

"As is the case here, Kat." Anne admits, eyeing the clutter with mild dismay.

Jane Wiltshire is busy in the great wardrobe, examining linens and setting aside any that require mending as Anne looks in, "Still busy, Jane?"

"I fear so, Majesty." She smiles back, "It is remarkable, is it not, the number of shifts one accumulates?"

"Particularly if one is royal." Anne laughs, "Forgive me, Jane; I am greatly afeared to be abroad unless secure in the knowledge that there are shifts aplenty in my wardrobe. Come, leave that work to one of the chamberers. Let us walk awhile; I have not had the opportunity to ask you how William is doing."

Jane's smile broadens at once at the offer of the chance to talk of her son, "He is most well, Majesty; his writing is becoming very pleasant to read, and his latin is improving apace. Mr Cheke is very pleased with his progress."

The two women emerge from the bedchamber arm in arm, talking of the happiness of being a mother, before seating themselves alongside the fireplace, where Jane pours out two small glasses of pear eau de vie for them to sip at as their conversation continues.

"Majesty, his Grace the Lord Chancellor is without, accompanied by the Lord Treasurer; they seek an audience upon a matter of state."

Anne straightens at once. The term 'matter of state' has become their code for 'a matter of Mary'. Presumably Lord Rich has news from Arundel Castle, though it seems that the Duke has emerged to see to his other residences in the last few years, so his letters have come from a wider range of addresses than previously.

"I shall see how your chamberers are doing, Majesty." Jane smiles, rising to curtsey, "I suspect that there are matters of confidence of which I should remain ignorant."

"Forgive me, Jane. It is not that I do not trust you."

"I know, Majesty." She knows that well; she is one of that small group who are blessed with the absolute trust of both the Queen and the Regent. Sometimes, however, it is better to know nothing. Taking the glasses with her to be handed over for washing, she departs as Cromwell limps into the room, Rich in tow.

"Come, my Lord; seat yourself. I do not require you to stand in my presence." She bustles about, gathering chairs as Rich hastens to assist, startled at her sudden burst of unqueenly activity.

"Thank you, Majesty." He is used to her behaviour now, and does not object. It would make little difference if he did.

Once all are seated, she leans forward a little, "Tell me."

Rich shifts slightly in his seat, "Our source states that he has provided a great deal of additional monies, thanks to the exorbitant cost of transporting the lady from Genoa to Spain. She is now at Cadiz, awaiting the gathering of captains and ships to commence her enterprise, which she intends to undertake with all haste."

"At this time of the year?" Anne asks, astonished, "Is she mad? While His Highness's ship shall sail, it is but one vessel and can seek shelter far more easily than a fleet."

"Since it has become clear that she is keen to accomplish a task that she is convinced that God has set upon her, and she lacks understanding of the logistical requirements to put a fleet to sea, I suspect that she is also convinced that she must act immediately. She has, after all, been obliged to wait for this opportunity for more than ten years. Our source has been advised by one of those travelling with the Lady that she has become singularly overtly religious since her departure from her land; and much of her determination to act precipitously is inspired by this." He pauses, and sighs, "I cannot presume to understand her thinking, Majesty; but it appears that she has been almost consumed by a mania of some kind. Even my source sees that, but has decided to indulge it, for he thinks that it shall make it easier for him to regain that which he has lost, and even to gain from it."

"He thinks to govern her?" Anne asks.

"He is who, and what, he is." Cromwell adds, "That which was taken from him was of great importance - were I in his position, I should be fooling myself to claim that I would not have thought the same, and acted in similar manner."

"And what of the Emperor?"

"My sources at the Court are unequivocal, Majesty." He answers, "The Emperor is most displeased, for he is committed elsewhere to other causes, and has neither the funds nor the interest to support any activity upon the lady's behalf. He has provided the services of a Councillor, but little else. Rumours at his Court claim that he expects nothing to happen - but that he is keeping the lady occupied until she comes to the same conclusion, and retires to some quiet house where she shall live out her days in obscurity."

"These funds shall almost certainly ensure that such an outcome does not occur." Rich adds, quietly, "the coffer that was dispatched to the lady's house contained a shockingly enormous sum; though great care was taken to ensure that it did not look that way, so that brigands would not be tempted by it. If the Emperor shall not pay for the enterprise, then our Source intends to make up the shortfall."

They lapse into silence, as Anne takes in the news: Norfolk is so determined to regain his ascendancy that he is willing to indulge a woman who appears to have lost her reason in order to bring her back to England and become a power behind her throne. If he can do so, then it shall most assuredly be worth the expenditure.

But to come now? In this season? She is well aware of the dangers of doing so; how many times have ambassadors or visitors to England been unable to cross the channel thanks to violent storms keeping them in Calais? Only a madman would permit an invasion fleet to put to sea as September draws to a close, and October approaches.

"All Saints." She says, suddenly.

"Majesty?" Cromwell asks, bemused.

"She means to claim her objective upon the feast of All Saints; it is a celebration of the lives of all saints, is it not? What better day to land and reclaim that which she wishes to grasp for God?"

"We cannot be certain of that." Rich looks unsure, "She has made no statement in relation to such an objective, and to do so would be entirely impractical, for she has not the time to assemble a fleet of suitable size if she wishes to reach her chosen shore in time."

"If she has not, I think it likely that she shall do so in time - and expect God to provide. Did she not stake her first claim upon the feast of the Archangels? If she is as convinced of God's blessing as your source claims, then that is by far the most prominent festival other than Christmastide - and, I think, the most likely to fit with her aims."

"In which case," Cromwell shifts in his chair, and grunts at a twinge of pain in his hip, "I shall alert the Lord High Admiral upon his return from Portsmouth and advise him to make preparations to assemble the English fleet. It is better to be prepared for that which does not occur, than to be complacent and be unready if it does."

A knock upon the door pauses their discussion, as a steward delivers another folded paper, "From Portsmouth, Majesty."

Frowning, Anne takes the document, then sighs, "It is from Bedford. The weather has proved to be most uncooperative, and his Highness of Portugal has not yet been able to depart. It seems likely that his departure shall be delayed for at least another week."

"We need his Grace to depart for Plymouth urgently, Majesty." Cromwell muses, "I think, then, that we shall be obliged to host the Prince for rather longer than intended. I would suggest, then, that he travel with Bedford to Plymouth. Should there be danger, and he distinguish himself well for England, then it shall solve many of our problems at a stroke, for he shall have served her Majesty's realm. Perhaps, then, he shall be welcomed by Englishmen. I would suggest that Sir William Stamford also be sent; while he is only newly appointed to the Council, his knowledge of dowager Queen of Sweden is greater than ours, and he may have suggestions upon how she shall act."

"That sounds wise." Anne agrees, "Though I would not think it wise to allow his Highness to put to sea. I also agree that it would be sensible to send a man who has dealt with her personally, albeit at arm's length." She sighs again, "I think we cannot continue to plan without the Queen present. I shall ask Lady Wiltshire to find her."

The two men exchange a glance. It seems now the the time has come: Elizabeth must rally her realm, and this time it is she who must carry the burden.

Standing at the Quayside, Brandon stares at the motley collection of vessels: mostly cogs, though there are one or two larger ships, that have been gathered in the section of the Port that Mendoza has been able to secure for them. Even to his entirely inexperienced eye, the fleet is small and not at all well prepared for a seaborne invasion. The supplies that have been gathered and delivered are adequate - barely - but even her Majesty shall be obliged to consume little more than oats and beans while at sea.

There is one carrack, a little better than the others, that he has already secured for Queen Mary's use; and she has decreed that it must be renamed Madre de Dios with immediate effect, for their invasion is intended to win England for God and for Rome, as much as to restore a true-blooded Tudor to the throne.

Beside him, Mary seems to be looking at an entirely different scene. Her eyes are wide with pleasure, while she looks upon the too few sailors with warmth and pride, and appears utterly unaware of the hardships that are likely to ensue for her once her flagship has departed Spain, "Look at them, my Lord!" she says, delightedly, "God's soldiers to bring England home to His embrace. The people of England who have been induced to heresy shall be saved, and those who reside in purgatory shall be overjoyed to hear the prayers of the monks who shall pray for them in perpetuity to bring them to Heaven's embrace. Once that is done, we shall bring my realm to a golden age of peace and safety."

And what of prosperity? Brandon thinks, but says nothing. At least she is looking at least a little further than the boundaries of religion - if only as an apparent afterthought. For all its heresy, there is no escaping the awkward fact that England has prospered through trade and wise alliances with her neighbours, while the charitable works of the religious houses have been replaced with poor laws that bring equal succour, but look to more worldly means to bring comfort to those of limited means. Only a man who has known poverty could think of some of the measures that have been introduced; for all his loathing of the base-born Thomas Cromwell, Brandon finds himself entertaining a grudging sense of admiration for his innovations.

"How long shall it take us to reach England?" she asks, suddenly.

Surprised, Brandon blinks, but then recovers, "The Captains say two weeks, Majesty - assuming fair weather and a good wind to fill the sails."

"I wish to enter London on All Saints' Day."

It is hard not to stare at her. That is nigh-on impossible; they have yet to assemble a full complement of even a basic crew for most of the vessels, three of the cogs are barely seaworthy and must be repaired before they can sail, and they must depart in a week at most if they to have any hope of landing upon English shores. If the Harlot is able to gather together sufficient ships to fight them, then that shall slow them even more.

"You shall sail with me aboard my flagship, my Lord." She adds, firmly, "My Lord Boleyn and my Chaplain shall be aboard the second of the larger ships, from where he can minister to all from the Forecastle. He is needed by all men, not merely by me. I shall appoint a lesser chaplain for the time being. Once we are in England, I shall petition for his Grace's appointment as Archbishop of Canterbury for his loyal service to my realm."

"We have little time, Majesty." Brandon reminds her, "There is still much to be done, and little time to complete the works before we can depart."

"God is with us, my Lord." Mary reminds him, calmly, "We must have faith; He shall provide - I shall restore the Tudor house to England, and you shall keep your promise to my late father. Once we are returned to England, I shall establish a chapel at Westminster, where men of God shall pray for his soul forevermore."

In spite of himself, Brandon smiles at her. Like her father, she has set her heart upon a goal, and nothing shall turn her from it. With God's aid, they shall prevail, and she shall truly be her father's daughter.