A/N: Apologies, for the late upload – as I did with chapter forty six, I've delayed uploading to commemorate the anniversary of the death of one of my protagonists.

As always, I'm really grateful for your reviews and comments; and it's been a while since I've thanked everyone who's recently followed and favourited this story. For everyone who is reading along – thank you as well! Your support and continued reads are fantastic, and I appreciate it very much.

I'm relieved that the battle scene played out well, Robin4 – I forgot to mention last week when I had to retype all of my Author's Notes that I'd based it on what I recalled of a specific history lesson I had in School which covered the Spanish Armada. Howard of Effingham's primary tactic against the Galleons of Spain was to take advantage of his fleet's swiftness in the water. While they couldn't exactly 'turn on a sixpence', they could fire, then come about relatively quickly to bring their opposite guns to bear. I can even (vaguely) recall the pictures I drew to illustrate it – highly amateurish, as I was probably around 14 at the most when I drew them, but memorable, at least! One Armada thing I didn't use was the difference in shot size between the two fleets. The Spanish used smaller shot than the English did, so the English could fire the smaller shot back at the Armada, but the Spanish couldn't retaliate in kind, as the shot wouldn't fit their cannons. Given that most of the ships in Mary's fleet had their powder fouled by seawater, however, it became something of a moot point!

Mary remains entirely mired in her delusion/fantasy/mania that God is still on her side – largely because it's easier to do that than accept that she's completely failed in her objectives on almost every front. The real Mary wasn't even half as delusional as this one – and I offer my apologies to her shade for that.

The mini-Armada has failed in its intention and now the dust must settle. Thus I present the next chapter on the 478th anniversary of the execution of Thomas Cromwell. Like Anne, I hope that he rests in peace.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

For I, Too, am an Englishman

Sir William Stamford looks out across the great harbour and dockyards of Portsmouth with a sigh. The weather that struck them has delayed his journey with the Prince to such an extent that, by the time they reached the large house that has been set aside for his Highness, not only was the battle ended, but Queen Elizabeth's Pride had been spotted making her way into the Solent.

While he is pleased that the approaching fleet has been repelled - even though it seemed more than likely that such a thing would happen given its size - the ease of the victory is less exciting. Englishmen are always proud of grand victories; but a victory gained so easily? They shall have to be very careful over how they present it to avoid a sense of disappointment at the lack of military glory.

That said - he is pleased, for Elizabeth has won the love of her people thanks to her speech to the men of Parliament, swearing that she would take up arms and die at their side should the need arise. The news of her commitment spread throughout England by the men of the Commons returning to their shires. Equally, Bedford has more than earned his peerage through leading a victory at sea. Being so new to the Council, Stamford is not afflicted by such petty foolishness as envy. The news that Mary has fled aboard her ramshackle flagship is both an equal disappointment and a relief. If she flees, she shall be someone else's problem, and Elizabeth shall not be obliged to try her own sister for treason. That, in itself, would be a dilemma that England cannot easily afford.

He turns as a steward enters the room, "My Lord, a messenger has arrived from the docks; her Majesty's Flagship is being warped in. The grooms have been advised and are preparing your horses."

"Thank you; please advise his Highness."

"Yes, my Lord."

Hastening to his chamber, Stamford retrieves a cloak, bonnet and gloves. Filipe is awaiting him in the entrance hall, and the pair emerge to take their horses, and make the short ride down to the quayside, "I am pleased that all is done, Sir William." He says as they trot the horses along a muddy street, "God has been good to us in granting us such an easy victory."

"Indeed so, my Lord; though I am sure that my Lord Bedford and Admiral Challacombe were most engaged against the invasion force."

They arrive at the dockside to see that Queen Elizabeth's Pride has been moored, and a number of the soldiers aboard have already disembarked to form an honour guard as the two Admirals follow. His expression pleased, Bedford stops in front of Filipe, and bows, "Your Highness, welcome to Portsmouth. I am pleased to advise that the invasion force from Spain has been repelled, by God's grace and the bravery of her Majesty's navy."

"I am told that the flagship has escaped with the other ships of her fleet, my Lord; but such is our victory that those aboard shall not come again."

"What of the sailors aboard the captured ship?"

"They are being conveyed to the fortress at Portchester, where they shall be held for questioning. I suspect they know nothing of worth, so we shall hold them there until winter is past, at which point they shall be permitted to seek passage back to Spain – unless the Emperor is prepared to admit an English vessel to a Spanish port to return them."

"I trust that they shall be decently housed during that time?" Filipe asks, "It would not do for us to complain at what has been done to us, only to do worse to those whom we have captured; particularly if they are of so little consequence to the enterprise."

"I have received orders to that effect from her Majesty, Highness; but two of the conspirators were also captured aboard that ship, and shall be transported to London to face trial."

Behind the prince, Stamford frowns, intrigued: who have they captured?

Bowing again, Bedford turns and nods to one of the officers still aboard the ship. Standing aside, the man nods, and two rather bedraggled men appear at the gangplank. Having been abroad for a number of years, Stamford has no idea who they have brought to shore; though one seems to be so relieved to be off a ship that he almost sinks to his knees to kiss the ground.

"Allow me to introduce Cuthbert Tunstall, former Bishop of Durham and disgraced traitor to her Majesty the Queen." Bedford announces, indicating the trembling priest, "Also Mr Thomas Boleyn, former Earl of Wiltshire and equally disgraced traitor to her Majesty the Queen."

Filipe's eyes widen at the name, for he knows that Elizabeth's mother answers to the name 'Boleyn'. Fortunately, however, he says nothing - it seems wise not to speak; as it is clear that all around them are staring in astonishment. He might not know who this man is; but everyone around him obviously does.

The mention of the dread word 'traitor' is a clear indication of the eventual fate of the two men who have just been brought ashore, and the quailing priest blanches at it, though the former Lord looks calmly resigned to his fate and seems pleased to be home, even though it means his death.

Stamford bows, though only slightly, "Gentlemen, it is my duty to convey you to the Tower, there to await her Majesty's pleasure."

If Tunstall had not quite reached his knees when he came ashore, the news of his destination is sufficient to prompt him to go the rest of the way, but he manages not to blubber. Instead, Boleyn turns to him, "Get to your feet, man. If we are to face God, then we do so as men, not gibbering cowards."

It takes a while to secure the procession; horses must be found to carry the two prisoners, while their escort must also be mounted up and armed. Most shall not know who the captives might be - but it is always better to be prepared. Such is the power of rumour, however, that - before long - everyone in Portsmouth seems to know what is going on, and a great crowd has gathered. One that is not at all friendly towards the two men who have led a foreign invasion against them.

Looking around, Bedford curses, "Form up more men around the prisoners. I do not want them being pulled from their horses. They must be tried before a court of peers, not torn to shreds where they stand!"

Seated alongside Stamford, Filipe looks concerned, "Would they do so, Sir William?"

"Such is their mood, it is impossible to know, Highness."

Rather than watch mutely, Filipe urges his horse forward, "Good English people! I am come amongst you as a friend, welcomed to these shores by her Majesty the Queen as her guest. It has been my greatest joy to do so, for I have found you to be strong, brave and fine - and proud of your land as good men should be! It is a strange thing when a man from foreign shores stands alongside Englishmen against a threat lead by other Englishmen, but Portugal has been England's friend for many generations. Thus I have done so, and am joyful to have done so. Her Majesty the Queen shall visit justice upon these traitors, and shall do so in God's name; for he blew with his winds, and they were scattered.

"I am not English born, but today I stand amongst you as one of your brethren, for I, too, am an Englishman! As her Majesty promised to take up arms and fight alongside you, God has granted his blessings upon this realm, and defended her against invaders who would have brought misery upon her. Thus, justice shall be done in His name. God save the Queen!"

Bedford and Stamford stare in near-horror; regardless of his fluency, Filipe's accent is still strong and proclaims his foreign blood above all else. But his words seem to transcend that foreign timbre, the insistence that he is now an Englishman, the claim of God's blessing and the exhortation for Elizabeth have won the day; and instead of anger, now there is a mumbling that resolves into an answer of 'God save the Queen' from a multitude of voices. Pulling back, the crowd finally permits them to depart.

Surprised, Stamford turns back to Bedford, "Perhaps they shall accept a foreign prince for our Queen after all."

Bedford sighs, "I shall believe it when I see it. But we can, at least, hope."

The violence of the waves is a nightmare that seems never to end, tossing Madre de Dios like a small cork in a barrel that does not merely rock, but tumbles down a hill. God alone knows where they are now; all Brandon can say with certainty is that England is to their west, and they are moving northwards. Such is the brutality of the winds that they cannot hope to make a return journey the way that they came.

Two more ships foundered as they rounded the coast of Kent, one driven aground upon sandbanks that were not expected by men used to sailing open waters, the other pounded apart by brutal swells that seemed to come from all directions at once.

Clinging to the main mast as another cascade of water hammers across the deck, Brandon shakes hair out of his eyes and stares helplessly skywards. Below, he knows that Mary is praying, clutching her rosary so tightly between her fingers that the beads leave little dents that seem not to diminish on the rare occasions that she sets it down. Her ladies cling to one another and scream, or vomit, as none can rest in the bunks - they keep being flung from them onto the floor.

The inability of anyone to stomach victuals is perhaps a blessing, for their supplies are so ruined by seawater that they have nothing left but a few small sacks of beans and their stocks of hard-tack. Only their water kegs seem to have escaped the incursion of salt. He has been obliged to subsist on a foul-tasting gruel of mashed beans and soaked tack for days now, and he is no longer sure whether he wants them to be wrecked or not. Supper at the Lord's table shall be infinitely preferable to the grey mush that he must endure at easy meal. God have mercy; what the hell were they thinking to leave Spain in such a season?

A movement catches his eye, and he turns to see Mary staggering along the deck. Her hood is gone, and the wind snatches her coif in its grip, tearing it away and sending her long hair flapping around her face in lank rat-tails that quickly become sodden in the ghastly spray. There was a time when it was a fair red-gold, but no longer - the hardships of her life are draining that colour away, leaving her tresses streaked with grey that betrays her age in a way that no cosmetic can conceal.

"Get below, Majesty!" he bawls at her, the wind snatching his words to such a degree that he must shout, or she shall not hear him, "It is not safe to be on deck!"

"I am not afraid, my Lord!" she shouts back, clutching at ropes to aid her advance to his side, "We live, and thus God is with us!"

Hell - does she still truly believe that God shall give her England? Bemused, Brandon stares at her, now a wild figure of flying hair and snapping hems that looks almost witch-like in the violence of the wind. None of the ships that were with them are now visible, the storms having separated them to the point that each captain must now serve only the interests of himself. If she hopes to come ashore somewhere else in England and somehow raise an army, then she is truly labouring in a dream.

"God shall deliver us, and we shall return to Spain. That He has done so is proof that He demands that we save England from the curse of Heresy - that they fight us is no surprise. My error was to be too hasty, and I have sought His forgiveness for my impatience to carry forth His will. We shall raise a new fleet, and this time we shall bring that heretic queen to her knees before the true Church."

Brandon sighs inwardly; how to tell her that, no matter what she believes God wants, no prince in Christendom shall ever permit her to depart from any port in Spain ever again? She tried, and she failed. At best, the Emperor shall permit her to retire to her grandmother's kingdom. At worst, he shall forbid her to land, and then she shall have nowhere to go; for who would accept one rejected by her own blood? Perhaps she already knows it - and prefers to believe otherwise in order to comfort herself in the midst of her abject failure. He has no way to know.

"You think I shall not?" she is beside him now, and has seen his expression, which spikes her temper, "I am the true firstborn of my father's House! I am the one true Tudor! I shall take England back, marry a truly Christian prince and bear a multitude of sons to repair the ruin of my realm! My cousin shall not refuse, for he is a good Catholic, and shall agree to perform God's will! Do not dare to think otherwise!"

"I dare to think otherwise!" he turns back, furious at her unwarranted anger and seemingly wilful blindness, "If we are fortunate to survive this journey and return to Spain, then we shall be blessed if the Emperor even permits us to tie up at the dock! We have embarrassed him! He claims to be at peace with England, but has sponsored an attempted invasion - thus he now appears to be a deceiver and a breacher of treaties! That we live means nothing! Our invasion failed, Elizabeth's reign is not disturbed, but is likely to be strengthened all the more by the defeat of her enemies - and it shall be declared by all that God was not upon your side, but instead upon hers!"

He had not meant to speak so violently, but the depth of her apparent delusion is such that he can take no more of it, promise or no promise. She tenses, as though about to strike him, but he will not stand back. The time for standing aside was more than ten years ago - he chose not to, and must now bear the price of it.

Rather than lash out, however, Mary sags, "If that is so, then you are no longer with me. I shall return below, and we shall exchange no further words. You are not a member of my retinue and you shall be permitted to depart as you will upon our return to Spain. When I gather my new fleet, I shall be accompanied by loyal men who shall stand with me as I take back my realm, and send the heretics to the fire. It is my mission - it must be done."

He sighs again. She shall find no Englishman who shall agree to do such a thing. There are exiles, yes, but without a fleet, then there is no one to form her Council. The alternative is Spaniards, and then England shall assuredly fight tooth and nail to repel her.

"As you wish, Majesty." He says quietly, and resumes his stance alongside the mast, looking ahead at the mountainous seas. Without another word, Mary turns away and makes her way back below.

The barge is slowly guided just short of the wharf below the stone edifice of the Tower, the oarsman holding their oars upwards and attempting to avoid the dripping filth of the river water as the vessel glides beneath the great water gate and is pulled to the steps. Rising from her seat in the Cabin, Anne turns to Cromwell, who has accompanied her on this rather dreaded journey.

She must speak to him - she cannot leave things as they were when he turned upon her in hatred and looked to ally with a rival; but nonetheless, she has not laid eyes upon her father for more than ten years, and to do so now is an uncomfortable meeting to face.

He has been kept in comfortable quarters - in spite of his now-common state - and she shall not be obliged to make her way through grim corridors to some dungeon or other; but nonetheless, she remains uncertain of how he shall receive her.

"I am told that he has been entirely resigned to his fate, Majesty." Cromwell advises, in response to her unspoken appeal, "I do not believe that he shall speak violently. It may be that he has opted to reconcile with you instead."

"In hopes that he shall be spared?" She asks, as they mount the steps, "He is many things, but he is not a coward, Mr Cromwell."

"Nay, that was not my implication, Majesty." Cromwell shakes his head, "It is never a good thing to go to God with matters unresolved. It may be that he shall seek to repair your familial bond before he mounts the scaffold. That, at least, is my hope."

"He has not yet been tried." She adds.

"The outcome is all-but a forgone conclusion, Majesty. You know as well as I. He has led a foreign invasion of the realm with a view to removing the Queen, and there is no mitigation for it - furthermore, there is only one answer to such an act."

"Thanks be to God that I retain the prerogative to sign a death warrant. I could not bear to ask my daughter to do such a thing - not to her own grandfather."

"We shall see to the interrogation, Majesty. It shall be carried out with respect and courtesy."

She glares at him, "If there is any mention of instruments, then the first to be put to them shall be you."

"I doubt that such measures shall be necessary. The former Earl has shown neither defiance nor cowardice. I think it likely that he shall tell all that he knows, though there shall be little need for it now. There is no news of the location of the traitor Mary's ship, and it is possible that it has foundered. Even if it has not, and she returns to Spain, none shall grant her a new fleet after such a calamity."

They are conveyed through into the inner ward, and up to one of the great towers that gird the curtain wall. Tunstall is also here in the upper of the two rooms, but Boleyn is in the lower. Knowing it is best not to be present, Cromwell remains at the tower door, leaving Anne to make her own way up the stairs to her father's accommodation.

He is seated at a small writing table alongside the glazed windows, a cheerful fire crackling in the nearby grate as the door is opened, and she is shown in, but abandons his book and rises to bow with an elegant formality that he never showed her when she was Henry's wife, "Your Majesty."

"Father." She says, quietly; and falls silent, suddenly lost for words. What on earth can she say to him that shall not sound petty or accusatory?

Rather than prompt her to speak, Boleyn lifts his chair and carries it across to the fireplace, where another, more comfortable seat is already set, "Perhaps we should be seated."

Accepting his invitation, she settles in the upholstered chair, and waits for him to seat himself as well. He eyes her a little sadly, "You have done most well, my daughter."

"I think I have. Better than you imagined that I could."

He nods, "Much better."

"Why, Father?" She asks, suddenly, "Why did you turn upon us? Your daughters, your son - even your granddaughter? You could have stood at her side as one of her great Lords, but you turned upon us. Why?"

"You are a woman." He says, simply, "No woman has ever ruled England - thus it was for men to do so until her Majesty came of age and bore a son. Until that son was grown, it was essential that men govern the Realm. I thought that there was no other way."

"And you did not see increased power for yourself?"

Finally, he smiles, "I most assuredly saw it, Majesty."

"Please - I am your daughter. I should prefer it if you addressed me by my name."

He nods."Norfolk would have ruled as Lord Protector, and I have no doubt that I would have retained the Privy Seal, if not a greater appointment than that. I saw a Dukedom in my future, Anne. It did not occur to me that, instead, it would be the block."

"Had you stood at my side, it might well have been. Instead, a man you despised as a commoner is now the Lord Chancellor, and the man you intended to send to the noose is the Lord Treasurer."

"My son, at least, holds the Privy Seal."

Anne looks at him, her eyes sad, "Do you know that he has a son?"

For the first time, Boleyn's eyes widen, "He married again?"

"Of course not. He reconciled with Jane - they regained their love for one another and she bore him a son to continue our family name." She pauses, "He is angry with you, Father. Angry that you turned upon him as you did, and that he was almost destroyed by your fall."

"I am glad that I failed." He says, after a while, "I do not offer excuses - I was blinded by ambition. Once it was clear that I had made a grave misstep, I clung to that which I had grasped, and attempted to regain what I had lost - for I knew I would be for the block if I had been captured at Barnet." He pauses, and snorts with mild amusement, "Instead, I am for the block for I was captured at sea."

Anne regards him, and the courage that she remembers from the years of her childhood, "I wish it could have been different."

He shakes his head, "I beg to differ. I think it was for the best. Had I remained, I think I should have caused you all manner of difficulties, for we would have been a family faction - and it should have been far harder to win England with my allegiance than my enmity."

She stares at him, startled by his assessment; and the self-awareness that has driven it, "Perhaps so, perhaps not; but nonetheless, I should have preferred it if you had stayed at my side."

Boleyn smiles at her, "I am glad of it. I have acted against you - and began to see the error of my ways some time ago. Long, however, after it was too late to make amends."

"It is never too late to make amends, Father." There is no mistaking the hope in her voice.

"Indeed so - for I am here, am I not? Speaking to you and being granted the opportunity to mend that which was broken by my arrogance."

"I cannot save you, Father. The council would not countenance it."

"I do not ask it of you." Boleyn answers, "I have committed grievous crimes against England - it is my just punishment. I shall meet my end with a light heart, for I have paid my debts to those to whom I owed them." He pauses, "I think it best to advise you, however, that we were aided by a member of your Council. I presume you already knew about Norfolk - for Mr Cromwell has ever been well capable of seeking out that which is hidden."

"As capable as a terrier in a rat-pit, father." Anne smiles, "He has served me most well. As has the man you think to be a traitor. Mr Rich has acted throughout with my knowledge and agreement."

He is startled, but only for a moment, "I thought him to be naught but a self-interested sycophant interested only in his own advancement. It seems that, in driving him to your service, we have given him a higher purpose." Then he smiles, amused at himself, "I thought the traitor was Norfolk, for he had assured us of your ignorance – only for an English fleet to appear at our backs; and I cursed him for it. It did not occur to me for a moment that Sir Richard was the weakness in our edifice."

"Elizabeth's council is formed upon a basis of cooperation and common purpose, Father. I find no benefit in setting my daughter's councillors against one another - and it is my hope that she shall learn from that example and continue to rule without the arguments and squabbling of factions. All that I have ever done has been with the sole intention of ensuring that I do not create a political disaster that my daughter shall be obliged to undo. I am not a King - I am a Queen, and thus must work differently to a man."

Boleyn nods, "That is true. I see that you have inherited the intelligence of your family most keenly - and in more than mere knowledge. I did not believe it possible that you could hold this Kingdom together, for you were a mere woman. I presumed that you would attempt to rule alone - instead you looked to those around you for aid, and worked with them to strengthen the Government of England while still ruling the realm as its Queen." He pauses again, and his smile widens, "God above, between us, Norfolk and I should have destroyed England in our determination to be the one who ruled as Lord Protector."

"And you did not see that at the time?" Anne asks, a smile creasing her features, too.

"If I had." He answers, reaching over to take her hand, "Then we would not be having this conversation, would we?"

"If it were possible for me to reprieve you: believe me, I would."

"I know. But I shall not go to the block without making my last confession, and thus I shall be able to offer my repentance before God. I have few good works to grant my entry into Heaven, but I have faith that God shall be good to me if I make amends for my sins. I have no doubt that Mr Cromwell is awaiting the opportunity to question me upon the matter of my treason and those who sinned with me; I shall willingly cooperate."

Anne's smile trembles somewhat, "I have missed you, Father. It caused me great pain to send you from my Council, and to know that I had earned your enmity."

Rising, he pulls her into a warm, paternal embrace, "No, my daughter - you did not spark enmity. My temper alone did so. I have acted cruelly, and foolishly. Know that I am most proud of you, and of your brother, for you have kept England safe for my granddaughter when others would have damaged her for their own gain."

"Oh…Papa." She has not used that term of endearment since she was small; but the tears that rise will not permit her to be formal, "I have longed to hear that. I have never acted without the wish that it would earn your approval."

"Then know that it has done so. I beg your forgiveness for my behaviour."

"You have it."

"I am grateful." Gently, he disengages from her, "I must ask you not to return. I think to do so shall serve only to cause you pain. I have done quite enough of that."

Smiling through her tears, she takes his hand, and squeezes it, "Then I depart with the words that I love you, Papa. I always have - and I give thanks to God that we have been granted this time to make peace with one another."

"As do I. Go now, my precious Anne. Complete the task for which you were born - give England a Queen of whom she can be proud."

Her descent is a slow, painful business, stepping heavily as the echoes of that closing door follow her back downstairs. Her father has never been a coward; she is proud of his acceptance of death - and hopes that she, too, might be so accepting had she been obliged to await execution as he does. If only it could have been different…if only he could have worked with her, and not against her…

Cromwell awaits her as she emerges from the tower, his eyes sad; "He shall cooperate with you, my Lord. All that you wish to know, if he is aware of it, he shall tell you."

"He is a remarkable man."

"He is." She agrees, "He is my father. How could he be anything else?" she attempts to smile; but her distress cannot be held back any longer, and she lets out a pained, grief-ridden sob.

The time of gossip is long gone, and they are not unchaperoned. Without a word, he sets an arm about her shoulders, and allows her to weep into the fur of his simarre. If this has been hard, then the trials shall be far harder.

The worst is yet to come.

Cromwell reviews the notes he has made of his discussions with Thomas Boleyn. As he promised, he has been forthcoming, honest and has made no excuses or attempted to lay the blame at the feet of any other. There is little that they did not already know, thanks to their use of Norfolk as a source of information; but it has confirmed much that they knew, and a few things that they did not. All those who carried messages between Arundel and Norfolk's co-conspirators have been identified, and all who remain in England shall be arrested.

Additional to her orders over the fate of the Spanish sailors, the Queen has decreed that only those who conspired shall pay the final price of it, so those who were merely the messengers shall be questioned and fined. She has no wish to set a precedent of cruel punishment for those who are mere servants of conspirators, and he is relieved that she has done so. Forgiveness is not a weakness, after all.

They shall not do so until Norfolk is arrested, however. Sir William has taken a delegation of the council to see to that; though the one who most wanted to go with them sits at a desk nearby and sulks.

"It is better that you deflate his self regard when he is here, Richard." Cromwell says, without looking up from his papers, "You are the only card he has to play, and he shall be most discomfited to play it, only to find that you are instead our Triumph. That shall be the moment to savour."

"What has Tunstall offered?" Rich asks, his inevitable curiosity overcoming his ill temper.

"Very little of any worth." Cromwell admits, "Though he has tried to give us all that he can think of. Most is of no importance, for he has been in hiding for years and thus knows nothing of the great conspiracy to set Mary upon the throne. He has done nothing more than confirm that which Boleyn has already supplied, though he has been most keen to implicate any that he can think of, in hopes that doing so shall save him from the block."

"Anyone of use?"

"I think not. If he knew much of value, then he should have implicated you - but he failed to do so. It seems that both Boleyn and Brandon considered him to be of little worth to their enterprise, and it was Mary who accepted him as her Chaplain." Setting the papers aside, Cromwell sits back in his chair, and grimaces briefly at a sharp stab of pain in his hip, "At least we have one matter of celebration. While he spoke unprompted, and caused concern for Bedford when he did so, His Highness's declaration that he was also an Englishman seems to have won over all those who heard him do so, and the news is spreading that our victory was won with the aid of an ally from Portugal who has declared himself to be one of us. With the announcement of their betrothal, and a wedding three months' hence, I have every hope that such celebrations shall serve as a counterpoint to the unfortunate bloodshed that is to come."

"He is a fine young man; though it is, alas, a risk we are taking that we shall find him eager to grasp the crown regnant once they are wedded."

"We have found him a purpose, Richard; as such, I think he shall make good work upon establishing our trade and naval fleets, and ensure that our new trading opportunities in the East shall benefit all men, not merely merchants."

Rich smiles to himself. Only a man who has known what it is to be poor would think so. Even now.

The pair look up as a steward enters, "My Lords, her Majesty the Queen Regent asks to see you."

Exchanging a glance, they rise from their desks.

Anne awaits them in her Privy Chamber, her eyes a little distant, "I have received word by fast horse; Sir William has arrested the Duke of Norfolk. He has, as I am sure you shall show no surprise to hear, refused to accept the legality of the arrest, but has consented to come to Court to petition me directly."

"When are they expected?" Cromwell asks.

"In two days."

He nods. There might have been a time when it would have taken far, far longer; but that was before the roads had been built. Rich shall be pleased - only two more days, and he can watch the look upon Norfolk's face as he discovers that he has been led by the nose.

"Let us not think of a traitor, Gentlemen." Anne advises, "Tomorrow, we shall announce the betrothal of her Majesty to his Highness, Prince Filipe of Portugal, who shall become his Royal Highness, Philip, King Consort of England. His declaration that he is an Englishman has aided us greatly, for many believe it to be so."

Cromwell smiles, "Indeed so, Majesty. I have the papers that he signed to swear that he shall not look to rule England in his wife's stead, but shall stand at her side as her Co-ruler and beloved Consort. He is aware that, but for his marriage to her Majesty, he would have few prospects as a Prince, and thus is pleased to be blessed with marriage to a woman to whom he is bonded. I have no doubt that they shall find a way to work together as husband and wife."

"That is my hope - though I suspect it shall be quite a fiery beginning to their marriage." Anne smiles.

Elizabeth eyes herself in her great looking-glass, turning this way and that, examining every inch of the magnificent auburn-red gown that she shall wear to celebrate the announcement made not three hours ago that she shall marry Prince Philip, Duke of Wessex.

She smiles to herself as she recalls Bedford's account of his impassioned speech to the men of Portsmouth that he was now an Englishman, too. Such was his insistence that they seemed to believe it, and she is grateful; for it appears that the rest of the realm has begun to believe it, too.

Even so, she knows that it shall not be an easy thing for him to accept that he cannot rule her as a husband should rule his wife. It is, after all, a woman's place to be subservient to her master - but she is no mere woman. She is God's Anointed of England, and thus is more than a mere woman. As such, she is not to be commanded by any man, though she is more than content to be persuaded, and perhaps the marriage of a Queen and a Prince shall forge a standard of co-rulership that she knows existed between the parents of the woman to whom her father had once been married.

Smiling, Anna Conti steps forth with the magnificently bejewelled diadem that shall sit atop her coif rather than the more usual curved French hood. There is a veil to wear under it, of course, for only her women are permitted to see her hair nowadays, but that veil is a heavily embroidered russet red-gold, as though replacing that most visible sign of her father's legacy. It shall not be revealed to any again, until her husband visits her upon their wedding night.

Is this how her mother had felt upon the morning she was announced as the betrothed to the King of England? She has no real knowledge of those days that predated her birth, for her mother has not spoken of them that much. There was, she recalls, a small conversation in a horse paddock when she was still very small; and, upon that childish memory, she hopes that her happiness shall be half as great as that of Mama when she was able to stand at Papa's side and all finally knew who, and what, she was.

Kat is holding the last of the jewels that are to adorn her: a heavy arrangement of garnets and rubies on many-twisted ropes of gold wire that shall encircle her delicate throat. While magnificent, it is not too ostentatious; she has learned from her travels amongst her people that they admire simplicity as much as show.

"There, Majesty," She says, as she fastens the clasp that sets the beautiful piece in place, "you are the very image of royalty, and every inch your father's daughter."

"And my mother's." Elizabeth smiles, "But for her, I think I would not have seen this day."

"All that she has done, she has done for love of you, gracious Majesty."

There is a discreet knock at the door, which Anna answers, "His Grace of Wiltshire is without, Majesty. He is to escort you to the Hall."

Elizabeth turns and examines her reflection one last time to ensure that she is satisfied with her womens' efforts, "Thank you, Anna. I shall be there anon."

Kat comes to stand beside her, "He shall not be able to resist you, Majesty."

"If we are as contented together as my mother was with my father, then I shall know happiness, Kat."

She does not see the expression upon her Gentlewoman's face as she departs; thanks to the care that they have taken, she knows nothing of the somewhat scandalous beginning, and horrible ending, of that once-great match. Sometimes, it is better to be ignorant of such things.

Wiltshire looks upon her and immediately bows rather more floridly than he needs to, "My goodness, Majesty, you are truly a picture of wondrous royalty! I am in awe of your glory!"

Elizabeth laughs at him, "Always such the fool, Uncle. I am right glad for your humour, for the rest of the day shall be far more solemn in tone than I would wish it."

"Indeed, Majesty." He smiles back, "It is a tiresome manner in which to celebrate a joyful occasion." Turning, he summons a steward, "Before we depart, her Grace asked that I give you a gift; one that she says brought her joy in her marriage, and thus she hopes shall do so for you."

Intrigued, Elizabeth reaches out for a flat package, wrapped in a fine fabric. Once revealed, she examines the small frame that holds a rather old, and somewhat yellowed, piece of fine paper upon which is some carefully scribed lettering.

"Beloved, let us love one another," She reads, "for love commeth of God, and everyone that loveth is borne of God. He that loveth not, knoweth not God: for God is love."

"It was a gift that she granted me long ago, at a time when we were not as loving as we should have been." Wiltshire admits, "I was a fool, but I set aside such foolishness; and I give thanks to God every day that she is my dear wife."

Carefully, Elizabeth sets the small frame down upon a nearby table, "Thank you, my Lord. As she granted it to you, I shall grant it to my husband when we are wed. We shall receive many gifts, I suspect - but none shall be as heartfelt as this. I shall thank Lady Wiltshire personally this evening."

The hall is a glittering array of candles and shimmering decorations, while trumpets bray to fanfare her arrival as the great doors are opened. Beyond, her Court await her, gathered at their trestles in equally glittering finery. Philip is awaiting her, his expression one of equal pleasure, and he bows as she approaches, "Majesty."

While not formally bonded, they are now betrothed, so she offers him an exquisite curtsey, "Highness."

Taking his arm, she walks with him to the high table, where they shall sit together for the first time. It seems strange to think that she shall sit at this table from now on with her mother to her right, not her left - for that is now Philip's chair. That he has accepted the 'lesser' seat without complaint is remarkable, and she is grateful for his courtesy.

They stand together before taking their seats, and she surveys the Courtiers. They are smiling, thanks be to God; but that is hardly a surprise given the failure of an attempted invasion that would have thrown their lives into utter confusion. She is given to understand that her sister has abandoned reason in favour of fervent religious piety, and that is never a good thing if one is to rule people who do not share that piety. Smiling in return, she accepts their obeisance, and seats herself to allow the stewards to bring in the first remove.

Anne turns to look at her daughter, her eyes glistening as brightly as her jewels. How long has she waited for this moment? The moment when her darling Elizabeth finally emerges into the light of her reign, and does so with the prospect of a loving husband at her side. Few women are afforded such a luxury as a marriage that begins in such circumstances.

For a moment, she is captured by memories of Henry. Not the one she married; but the one she wished to marry. Would they have known that joy? Perhaps, perhaps not: she shall never know. Thinking of that sad, lost love of her youth, she looks across to Thomas Percy, seated with the other councillors with an expression entirely at odds with those around him. Dear God, did he really think that he would ever win Elizabeth's hand for his son? It seems not - but he remains angry, and the gaps between him and the councillors who sit either side of him upon the benches are remarkably wide.

She turns back to look at Elizabeth, who is laughing delightedly at the antics of a small, bright green parrot that Philip has given her as a gift. The creature chatters and leaps up and down upon a small perch as she feeds it small grapes from a nearby dish, "She seems to be happy, Jane."

Seated alongside, Lady Wiltshire smiles, "Indeed so, Majesty. We have perhaps achieved our aim in bringing her to her inheritance to be a good and wise Queen?"

"That is my hope; though I am glad not to be obliged to place the burden upon her of what is to come. It shall be a lesson for her to observe, in the hopes that she shall not need to do the same when she rules alone."

Her eyes wander again, and she looks across to where her Chancellor and Treasurer are talking over some matter or other as they sup. As her primary councillors, they shall lead the formal enquiry into the treachery of the former Earl of Wiltshire, and the soon-to-be-former Duke of Norfolk. For a moment, she permits herself a spiteful thought as she wishes she could be present when the proud, arrogant Thomas Howard discovers that he has wasted a ridiculous sum of money upon a double agent.

No. That is a matter for tomorrow. Today, Londoners are celebrating with free victuals and wine, while church bells ring joyfully across England to celebrate her deliverance and the betrothal of her Queen. Her daughter is to wed - and happily, it seems - and her late husband's legacy shall be continued with, God willing, a son.