A/N: Welcome back to another Friday! As always, huge thanks to everyone for comments, favourites, follows and reads. Your support is hugely appreciated, as are your comments.

A quick word of warning - I'm off to London next weekend, so there won't be an update on Friday. I'll do what I can to get something online on Saturday morning like the last time I was there.

We move on from December to early March, as Lady Day approaches and the year comes to its end. Having had sufficient time to call the Banns to make absolutely sure there are no problems of a legal nature with the marriage, it's time for Elizabeth and Filipe (know known as Philip, Duke of Wessex) to wed.

In other news, I imagine everyone is wondering what's happened to Mary and Brandon. Read on to find out...

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

A Band of Welsh Gold

The great harbour walls of Cadiz lie ahead; walls he thought he would never see again. Even now, Brandon has no idea how it is that they have managed to get here without the ship foundering, or their being taken captive on the brief occasions they were forced ashore to water.

True to her word, Mary has said not one word to him since their argument - it must be near-on four months ago, so long have they been at sea. She has not demanded that he return that chain of office - perhaps she has forgotten that he has it - and still he fidgets with it from time to time; as though it was a gift from his long-dead King, rather than his long-deluded daughter. Captain Parramon has marked off each day in a ledger, as he used to do when he travelled the open seas, but other than that, the men aboard have been sullen, doing only the minimum that is required of them before slinking off to their hammocks, or finding some other place to grouch and complain amongst themselves. They know, as he does, that they shall not receive so much as a groat for the work that they have done. Indeed, they have not eaten for the last three days, having been obliged to make do with whatever fish they could catch upon long lines dangled from the rails since the beans ran out. Fish that have not been biting.

Two of Mary's women are dead; one washed overboard in a particularly brutal storm somewhere out in the ocean, while the other went mad and threw herself off the ship in hopes of swimming to shore, despite there being no shore visible in any direction. She herself has been closeted in her cabin, engaged in obsessive devotions to the degree that those of her women who still survive have long since abandoned her to it; seeking instead to blot out their misery with drink; or, when that ran out, through liaisons with the sailors.

A movement catches his eye and he turns to see that Mary has come up on deck, looking about as though she expects to see something. Dear Christ, does she assume that she shall be welcomed by a flotilla of nobility to escort her to the quay? Her ship is a ruined tub! The sails are tattered and poorly mended, while what paint was on the keel flakes away to expose the sodden wood beneath. That they are afloat at all is a miracle; why on earth would anyone wish to escort such a hulk to the dockside?

Helena is with her; the one member of her Swedish retinue still alive since Nils died of some ghastly fever or other while they were rounding the north of Scotland. Thin, haggard and dressed in shabby garments that have not been brushed for months, she seems bemused by her mistress's behaviour, "Majesty?"

"Where are they?" she asks, "Why has my cousin not sent out ships to escort me to his side?"

Brandon blinks. She does. She really does believe that the Emperor shall welcome her home. Has she truly clung so devotedly to that belief that it has taken this moment to dispel her delusions?

"I do not know, Majesty." Helena sighs, tiredly. She must have realised long ago that such a thing was less than likely, but has been unable to admit as much to Mary.

Then, bizarrely, inconceivably, she is angry; furious, even, "How dare he! How dare he! I am the Queen of England, and he leaves me to make my own way to shore! Once I have recovered my realm, I swear that I shall raise all of Christendom against him for his behaviour towards me!"

Everyone is staring at her, though only a few people understand her words, for she speaks in English, as she has done consistently from the moment she decided that she would be England's Queen again. Infuriated, Brandon moves from his position at the main mast and calls across to her, "He has not come because you are Queen of no one, and nowhere! He has no wish to be seen to aid you, not now, not ever again! If we are even permitted to land it shall be a miracle, for he must grovel and apologise to England for sponsoring an invasion fleet even while he spoke to them of peace! God's blood, woman! Cease this madness and accept that you have lost!"

The two women turn. Helena looks at him almost with relief, for he has said that which she does not dare to say. Mary, however, glares at him, "I did not give you leave to speak to me."

"I no longer care what you do, or do not, give me leave to do. I was a fool; I made a promise to a good friend that I swore that I would keep; but I did not appreciate its end, and now it is plain before me that I should have been wiser never to have made it. Set down this obsession, my Lady. You threw your dice in this great game of royalty, and you lost. In spite of all that we have done, you have not regained England's crown, nor have you won the love of Englishmen, for they sailed out in their ships not to join you, but to repel you. There is naught left for you to do now but fling yourself upon the mercy of your cousin, and hope to God that he shall permit you to return to your grandmother's palace in Zaragoza, there to abide in obscurity for the rest of your days."

She does not answer, instead turning her back upon him; and he sighs in resignation. She does not accept his words - for she cannot bring herself to do it. All about her crumbles to dust - but her sanity hinges upon that faltering edifice, and props it up with imaginings that the catholic princes of Europe are keen to enforce counter-reformation in England. They are; but it is, however, not politically expedient to do so at this time, so they hold back. Nonetheless, she remains determined that they shall welcome her, and give her more men and ships to seize England back for God.

Brandon is relieved, though amazed, that the Harbourmaster gives them leave to dock. No sooner has the gangplank been lowered, than Mary looks at him briefly, "I have no place in my retinue for disloyalty. You are no longer permitted in my presence. Fare you well." Turning away, she looks around, apparently still expecting some sort of escort. Shrugging his shoulders, Brandon hefts the small pack that contains all his remaining worldly belongings, and trudges away.

Drawing herself up as best she can, given her poor state of dress and diminutive stature, Mary turns to Helena, "Where are Alice and Charlotte? I require their services."

"They have not disembarked, Majesty." Helena admits, "I think they have decided to seek passage back to England; and shall do what they must to earn the monies required to pay for their passage."

"Then they are godless whores." Mary snaps, revolted, "As I have no man to do it, I must ask you to hire horses for our journey back to Granada."

Helena shuffles slightly, embarrassed, "I shall require coin to do so, Majesty. I have none."

For the first time since she dismissed Brandon from her service while they were at sea, Mary seems to begin to appreciate that matters are not as she sees them, "Then - we have no money?"

"None, Majesty. All that we can do is sell our jewels."

"Then do so."

"I have none. They were stolen by the sailors while we were at sea. I know not who has them now." She indicates the bag that she carries, "All that lie within are those that you brought with us."

Mary stares at her, appalled, "I cannot - those are gifts from my late Lord, and my parents. I cannot sell them…"

Helena's deference begins to slip under the weight of her rising temper, "If you do not, then we shall have no horses, no roof over our heads and no victuals."

"I shall approach the City fathers. They shall aid us upon the promise of reward from my Cousin."

"They shall laugh at you and shut the doors of the Town Hall in your face." Helena retorts, "Do you not see what you look like? You look little better than a fishwife! Your garments are shabby and threadbare, your hood askew! You wear no jewels and look not one inch a Queen! If you are to even pretend to be what you once were, you must throw yourself upon the mercy of the Emperor and hope that he shall not claim that he does not know you!"

For a moment, Mary is tempted to shriek back at Helena, but her pride stops her; to start screeching at one another like a pair of those fishwives that Helena spoke of is too humiliating to countenance. Instead, she scowls, "Then sell my inheritance if you must. I care not. Once I have spoken to my Cousin, I shall be granted all that is rightfully mine, and I shall return to England, with loyal servants."

Helena cannot miss that loaded comment, "Am I not loyal?" she demands, enraged, "I abandoned my home to follow you! My life in Sweden! I have stood by your side when others would not - and now you question my loyalty? If you are not willing to accept that this is madness, then that is your right as a madwoman! There is a Swedish factor here, I have no doubt of it. Thus I shall go to him and seek his aid to secure passage to my homeland, for I know that I shall be welcome there, if I am not welcome here!" Tears streaming down her face, she drops the bag to the floor, turns upon her heel and stalks off.

"Helena! Come back at once! Come back now! I am the Queen! You do not walk away from me! You do not!" It is only as her distraught Gentlewoman disappears from view that she finally notices the passers by looking at her and staring in amusement at her angry tirade, and stops. The only consolation is that they are Spanish, and thus do not understand her furious demands in English.

Reddening in humiliation, she retrieves the dropped bag, and looks around. The last time she was here, she was guided by guards and a helpful Councillor, and she paid no attention to her surroundings. She has not the first idea where she is, or where that town-house was. It has been a long, long time since she was last without servants at her beck and call; but if she must accept that state, she shall. It did not last then, and it shall not last now. Lifting the bag as best she can, she turns and heads away from the Quay.

The newly ennobled Viscount Stamford of Lincoln looks at the sheafs of paper with satisfaction, "It is excellently organised, Sir Ralph, you have done most well."

Sadleir grins at him, "It has been a long, long time since a Queen was wedded so publicly, my Lord. Neither the first of Henry's Queens nor her Majesty the Regent were married in the Abbey at Westminster as she shall be. I think it was her Grandmother who was wedded there last."

In deference to the faiths of the celebrants, Cranmer has agreed - albeit rather grudgingly - to conduct the wedding mass in Latin as well as English. Much as he would be keen to remove all Popery from England, he is well aware that neither the Queen, nor her mother, are so entrenched in the view that all should believe as he does, and thus he compromises, as they do.

By anglicising his name, taking an English peerage and proclaiming himself an Englishman, Philip has succeeded remarkably well in winning over the people. For Anne, who even now has never entirely overcome the stain of being 'the King's whore', his success is a great relief. Perhaps the men of the realm believe that he shall step forth and look after the ruling of England while Elizabeth steps back and concentrates solely upon the bearing of children, and thus they overlook his foreign origin. He, however, looks to the example of Ferdinand and Isabella, who ruled equally, and has sworn upon oath that he shall do nothing without looking to his wife.

She sighs to herself. How easy it is to say such a thing; whether he shall be able to keep to that promise is another matter entirely. All know that the man is the head of the household, and the wife is just another piece of his property. She must be obedient to him in all things, always; and work only to secure his happiness, and provide him with children. Henry expected that of her - and learned to despise her when she could not comply. It is only once they are married, that all shall discover whether the young man from Portugal is truly able to accept such an aberration in his marriage.

Mr Cromwell has done what he can to ensure that Philip shall have worthwhile activities to occupy him as the King Consort of England; the Council has agreed to appoint him Warden of the North, to oversee the government of the northern counties that even now remain deeply wedded to the old ways. As he is of their faith, they are more likely to accept him than some protestant Lord; while the work involved in both keeping the peace north of Pomfret, and watching the border with the Scots, shall be a worthwhile challenge for him in terms of both politics and diplomacy.

"Majesty?" Cromwell asks, surprised at the small sound that she has uttered.

"Forgive me." She smiles back at her Council, "It is perhaps the sadness of a mother who knows that her child is shortly to spread her wings and depart the nest. Forgive me, Sir Ralph; I am most grateful for your hard work in making the arrangements for her Majesty's nuptials. It shall be a day of great celebration and spectacle."

"It shall be but the first, Majesty." Wiltshire reminds her, "Upon the occasion of her marriage, while she is not entirely of age, it seems appropriate that she should assume her full rights as Queen, and thus we should organise some ceremony to mark it, should we not? We must grant his Grace of Wessex the Crown of a Prince Consort, and thus it seems appropriate to undertake a celebration akin to a second coronation - albeit less costly, I think."

There is a ripple of amusement around the table.

"That seems wise, my Lord. Sir Ralph, might I prevail upon you to investigate preparations for such an event?"

Trying not too look too smug, he burrows into his wallet, and fetches out some rough papers, "I have begun to make notes to commence such an undertaking, Majesty."

Bedford snorts with laughter, "I see his Grace of Oakham has taught you well, Sir Ralph."

The collective mood of the Court has lightened considerably since that chill day in December that saw the end of the conspiracy to bring Mary back to England's shores. Christmastide was celebrated with much merriment, and the prospect of a grand royal wedding as the year draws to its close has ensured that the Realm's happiness has remained high.

There is, alas, one amongst the throng who seems not to share the general sense of merriment; his expression rather grim, Sir Thomas Percy has said not one word since the discussions of the Council turned to the wedding. From his seat alongside the Regent, Cromwell looks across at him, but says nothing. All know that he had schemed to wed his son to the Queen, in hopes of glory for himself. That such a thing was never possible is meaningless; and now he sits and sulks while the young man who she was always intended to marry shall wed her in a week's time. Such a fool. Better to swallow his pride and enjoy the Queen's happiness, while seeking a more appropriate match for his son - but the pride of the Earls of Northumberland is hardly unknown; they had shattered the happiness of two people, as they had no wish for the scion of their house to marry the low-born daughter of a knight. Thus that daughter married a King instead, and now her daughter rules England. Had they accepted her, then God alone knows where he would be now.

The council move on to other business, "I have heard from Sir Anthony Greene that his Majesty, King John of Sweden, has dismissed a substantial portion of his council, proclaiming them to be traitors and providers of evil counsel." Cromwell reports, "It seems that he has learned that they told him lies about his mother, and turned him against her when, in fact, she was a good and loving mother to him, and a loving wife to his father. Furthermore, he has issued a proclamation that, should she wish to return to Sweden, she shall be welcomed and her lands and titles restored in full. Equally, he has begun to make overtures to the remaining outposts of the Catholic faith in his realm, looking to reach a religious settlement in honour of his mother."

"Do you think she shall accept such an offer, assuming that she is even still alive?" Warwick asks.

"I am given to understand, from rumours overheard by a number of merchants in the port at the time, that she has returned to Cadiz; though I know little more than that. If she has departed Cadiz for Granada, it is unlikely that the Emperor shall welcome her to his Palace. Assuming that she shall learn of her son's change of heart, it shall be for his Imperial Majesty to aid her in returning to Sweden. She may choose not to."

It is strange to be so blind to Mary's circumstances after years of being well informed. With no one left to report to him, Rich shrugs, "I have nothing, Majesty."

There is another ripple of amusement amongst the councillors.

"I think it is safe to say that we need not fear another fleet under Mary's command, gentlemen." Anne smiles, "I had hoped that would be the case when she first departed the realm; but now I am entirely assured of it. If God had wanted her to rule England, then she would have ruled England. She did not. Therefore it was not God's will, and I am grateful to Him for choosing Elizabeth to do so."

"As are we all, Majesty." Cromwell concurs.

His Imperial Majesty, Charles V, is in the midst of his dinner, and is not pleased to be disturbed, "What is it?"

"Forgive me, Majesty." The steward is embarrassed, "I have another missive from the Dowager Queen of Sweden."

Scowling, the Emperor takes the letter and breaks the seal, before giving it a cursory glance. Again, she demands that he accept her return to the Palace, and that he grants her deference due to her state as Queen of England. Dropping the letter to the tiled floor, he turns back to his dinner, "I shall send no more replies. Any further letters that are sent should be burned unopened."

"Yes, Majesty." The steward departs.

Charles returns to his plate of mussels, and resumes picking out the meats using one of the emptied shells as pincers. He has been obliged to grovel to that heretic child-queen enough as it is. His cousin is queen of no one, and nowhere - but she demands to be treated as though she is the Queen of Heaven herself. Countless replies refusing aid have already been sent to her; but she equally refuses to accept them. Thus he shall not bother any more. If she has no wish to listen to him, then she shall find that he has tired of speaking, and thus there shall be no more words for her to not listen to.

Perhaps he should give her sufficient funds to travel safely to Zaragoza, and live out the rest of her days there; but he knows that she shall not do it. If he were to offer even the smallest degree of aid, she would assume that more would follow, and that a new armada would set sail before the year was out. Better to abandon her in Cadiz, and let her work it out for herself.

The cell is small, furnished only with a wooden cot, upon which is set a mattress stuffed with straw, a table and chair and a single crucifix upon the wall, while a small window lets in a degree of light. Upon her knees, Mary works her way along her rosary again, while, beyond the door of her accommodation, the community of Carmelite sisters go about their daily devotions and work.

With no-one else willing to offer her a place to rest her head, she has come here, and looked to the hospitality of the Sisters to aid her in her quest to reclaim her just rights and inheritances. Her letters to her cousin have been dispatched daily, but he no longer replies. Thus she prays for God to soften his hardened heart, and send the response that she wishes for: the one that shall welcome her back to his Court, grant her all that she needs to pay for the fleet that shall win England for her, and send her there with his blessing. She has burned the refusals, offended by the rudeness that they expressed.

With no news from any source, she has no idea how things stand in Europe. She has dispatched letters to Rome, entreaties that his Holiness prevail upon the Emperor to aid her in her holy quest; but they, too, remain unanswered. Perhaps, however, they have not reached him. She shall compose another once her devotions are complete.

After another two hours, she sets the rosary aside and rises to her feet, forcing herself to ignore the painful stiffness of her knees. Just in time, too; for the door opens and a shy Sister enters with a tray upon which is set the simple meal that all share within these walls: a small portion of a thin stew of onions and beans, with bread and a cup of water drawn from the clear well at the centre of the tiny convent. They exchange no words, for the Sister is bound by silence as required by the Rule of the house. Speech is not for any purpose other than to glorify God, and must be used only when absolutely necessary at all other times.

There is something else upon that tray, and she snatches it up with almost greedy excitement, for it bears a papal seal. It shall not be from his Holiness - she has no doubt of it - but at least one of his Cardinals shall bring her the news that she seeks.

Lady, I am asked to advise you that it is the will of his Holiness that you do not return to the palace of his Imperial Majesty, but instead retire to a life of service to God as his true Daughter in Christ; there to earn God's blessing through good works in His name.

There is naught but an unintelligible signature at the bottom - not even a name that she can read. For all she knows, it could have come from a mere scribe in the lowest house of the Vatican. It could not be more of a dismissal if it had contained the words 'Go away' and nothing else.

In which case, all men have truly abandoned her. All. There is not a single soul that shall lift so much as a finger to bring her to her rightful inheritance. She has failed. Failed her father; failed her mother. Her sainted mother…

In a single instant, her fury is impossible to contain. Her shriek is wild, her hands grasp at that tray, and the victuals upon it, hurling it in its entirety at the wall.

By the time the Sisters come running, the tray is upon the floor, the dish in two pieces, while the stew drips down the wall. Mary has fallen silent, and sits upon her bed straight and calm, "I wish to speak to the reverend Mother." For the first time since her arrival, she has abandoned the English tongue, and makes her request in Spanish.

Exchanging glances, they stare at her, and one turns to fetch the head of their House.

Upon her arrival, Mary looks at her, then goes down upon her knees, "Reverend Mother, it seems that there is no place for me in the World, and thus I wish to leave it. I ask that you admit me to this community as a serving Sister in Christ."

Enough is enough. If men have tired of her, she knows that God shall not. It is time to turn away from a world in which she seems no longer to belong, and spend her remaining days in contemplation and atonement for her abject failure to save her realm.

The court has removed back to Whitehall over the last two weeks, and a grand blue carpet has been laid from the Hall at Westminster Palace to the great west door of the Abbey Church. The last Queen to marry within those walls was Elizabeth of York, and now another Elizabeth, her granddaughter, shall follow in her footsteps. Thank God it isn't raining.

The weather is crisp and bright, a fine February morning that promises to remain fair throughout. Already Londoners are gathering from across the City, eager to see their Queen as she makes her way to marry a fine young man who fought to save England from foreign invasion, and declared himself as English as they.

Preparations for the ceremony that shall formally transfer all rights and privileges of a Queen from mother to daughter are well advanced, and Philip shall receive his crown matrimonial at that time. There are no objections to their union; all women must marry, of course - Royal women above all. There must be sons to continue the line of the House of Tudor. Despite more than ten years of rule by a woman, alas, it occurs to no one at all that a daughter could do equally well.

Anne is surrounded by her women, who are busily engaged in securing stays, setting her kirtle ready to place over her head, brushing the nap of her velvet overgown and gathering together the accoutrements to arrange her hair before enclosing it in a coif and setting a hood decorated with gold and pearls atop it. The overgown is a sober dark blue, set with seed pearls in intricate patterns across the bodice, while the kirtle is an ivory-gold hue. Elizabeth's gown is far grander, of course - for it would not do for a mother to outshine the bride.

In spite of all that she has faced, and overcome, to reach this point, she wishes that she could hold onto Elizabeth's childhood just that little longer. She is old enough to be a royal bride - to delay any longer would be considered strange by other Courts - but nonetheless the tender age of both bride and groom seems inappropriate to a woman who did not wed until her thirty-second year. Or is it that, from this night, she shall no longer be under the care of her mother, but instead shall be a wife?

She closes her eyes, and swallows hard. It is not as though Elizabeth shall die this night; far from it - but the risks that lie ahead for her now are fearsome. No woman, no matter how elevated, is protected from death in childbed; her own Grandmother succumbed to childbed fever, after all. There must be children, of course: heirs to continue the line. If there are not, then who shall claim England once Elizabeth is gone? But nonetheless, that fear that her daughter shall be sacrificed upon the altar of that royal obligation to procreate…

"Majesty, are you well?" Jane's voice interrupts her reverie, "Shall I fetch you a glass of eau de vie?"

"No Jane, but I thank you for your consideration. I am quite well." She lies.

Convention demands that she must await her child in the Abbey, for she shall be escorted by her Uncle, who shall stand in the stead of her father to give her to her husband. In two hours' time, she shall depart for Westminster, from whence she shall be conveyed upon a litter at the head of the Queen's Council, to take her place in the church. Only the Officers of State, and a large squadron of the Queen's guards, shall follow as George escorts Elizabeth to her wedding.

Would you have been proud of this moment, my Husband? She thinks to herself. In spite of his initial disappointment that Elizabeth had not been the son he longed for, he had doted on his second daughter. But he had once also doted upon Mary - until, suddenly, he had not. Would he have done the same to Elizabeth? That he was intent upon the Seymour girl was an indication of his intentions; he divorced Katherine to make way for his second wife - and she was not blind to the speculation that he would divorce his second wife to make way for a third.

The thought gives her cause to shudder; how would she have fared had Henry cast her aside? Then she forces herself to set it aside: what worth is there in speculating over a past that did not occur? Henry died, she lived. Elizabeth rules, and now she shall marry a young man who has shown no sign of the instability or capriciousness of her late husband. Please, God - please - do not let young Philip prove to be another Henry.

"There, Majesty; all is done." Margery dabs a little scent upon Anne's wrists, bringing her back to the present, "Her Majesty's councillors who are to accompany you to the Abbey are outside, and awaiting your presence."

She smiles, "Thank you, Madge. Shall we depart?"

Wiltshire looks upon his niece with delighted eyes as she emerges from her private apartments in the gown that she shall wear to marry the young man that has so captured her heart. Her overgown, a rich russet red brocaded with gold silk threads, sits atop a virginal white kirtle embroidered with entwined daisies for purity, honeysuckle for bonds of love and ivy for faithfulness, while her hood is formed of a magnificent filigree of gold, set with garnets and topazes to match the auburn of the overgown, and the hair that her hood conceals.

With the rest of the officers of state he bows deeply, "Your Majesty."

"Uncle." She smiles and extends her hand as he crooks his arm for her to take it, "Is all prepared?"

"Yes Majesty. Even the sun is delighted for you, for he has driven away even the vaguest hint of a cloud that might shadow your beauty."

She laughs, delightedly, "Even were you not a good councillor, Uncle, I should delight in your presence for your flattery alone."

"I live to please your Majesty." He answers, with blatantly false obsequiousness, his smile widening at her grimace.

She pauses to greet her various officials, before stopping in front of Cromwell, who has been obliged to seek out a second stick to support himself as he accompanies his Queen to the Abbey, "My Lord - would you prefer to ride, or perhaps some other means of travel that is more comfortable for you?"

He bows again, rather awkwardly, "I thank you for your consideration, Majesty; but I am content to walk. It would not do to draw stares from the gathered crowd by being obliged to travel in a litter."

"Then I shall have my men walk slowly." She smiles, "For my people shall want to see my gown, shall they not?"

"As much as they shall want to see you."

"I shall stand with him, Majesty." Rich advises, "Should he fall, I shall ensure that he falls behind me, and then none shall notice." He rests his hands upon his hips, the wide sleeves of his doublet and the folds of his simarre widening his frame quite considerably.

Elizabeth smiles at his joke, "Though I should rather my Lord Chancellor did not fall. Come Gentlemen, it is time for your Queen to commence her first duty to her Kingdom - which she cannot do if she has no husband. Let us correct that oversight."

To those around her, she shows no sign of nerves, and she steps forth with calm, measured steps that are more out of courtesy to her arthritic Lord Chancellor than a sign of reluctance.

All fall in behind her, and follow her to the great gateway that is reserved for those who are royal, where a grand honour guard, in scarlet, await her to lead her to her wedding behind a forest of pikes. Four young men of the household are carrying her canopy of estate, while a gaily decorated litter awaits her, borne by four strong men of the Guard, equally dressed in their ceremonial red. While she wishes to be seen, it does not do for a bride to walk to her wedding.

The procession emerges from the gates of the Palace, where yet more guards stand, ensuring that the gathered crowds do not surge forward and mob their Queen, for she is greatly loved, and known to accept approaches from her subjects. As it is, the cheers are loud and excited, "God bless your Majesty!", "Lord save King Harry's bairn!"

Walking behind, Rich leans close to his colleague, "One day, perhaps they shall cease to speak of her as Henry's child - perhaps when she is in her dotage."

Cromwell smiles, then grimaces slightly as his knees begin to join his hips in an ongoing chorus of painful disapproval. For all his discomfort, however, he would not wish to miss his Queen's marriage to a young man who seems so decent and right for her. And for England. Gritting his teeth somewhat, he limps on. There shall be a seat awaiting him in the Abbey Quire, where those of greatest importance shall be present. Those outside in the Nave, however, shall be less fortunate, as they shall be obliged to stand.

Walking alongside the litter, Wiltshire smiles at the cheers for his niece; she is radiant, the sun crowning her bejewelled hood with sparkling lights that seem almost like a saintly halo, and her face is alight with her smile as she waves to the people who shout their blessings to her. For all its weakness, the fleet that came against England was repulsed, and her people saved from the scourge of conflict - and they credit her with that victory, for she dispatched good commanders to defend her realm, while her betrothed went forth to join her commanders, and declared himself to be an Englishman. It is thanks to that declaration that he stands within the Abbey today to marry her, and no man objects.

The procession halts at the great west door of the Abbey, where Cranmer is awaiting his Queen. The Councillors who escorted her make their way into the great Church, where they shall join the rest of the celebrants. Only Wiltshire remains, to escort her to her husband-to-be, "Are you ready, Majesty?"

"I think so, Uncle. I am glad that my duty for England shall be easier than it might have been for other Queens before me. We women are fortunate when the one that we are to wed is one to whom we wish to be wedded."

"Nay, Majesty. I think he is fortunate to be wedded to you. As I am fortunate to be wedded to your aunt. She is a good woman, and I am most glad that she is my wife. I truly hope that Philip shall make you happy, as my dear Jane has made me."

"As do I." She smiles back.

Her hand resting upon Wiltshire's arm, she mounts the two, shallow steps to enter, "Welcome, your Majesty." Cranmer smiles at her, "All is prepared, and a fine young man awaits you."

Anne is seated in a magnificently upholstered chair to the north side of the gloriously decorated presbytery, with reciprocal chairs for her brother and sister, along with her sister in law. The men of her council shall be seated in the great choir stalls, her Lord Chancellor in one of the most highly decorated seats. And there he is, moving slowly and awkwardly with the two sticks to support his complaining legs. God above, he looks old these days - carrying his years upon his shoulders as gracefully as he can when his shoulders seem unwilling to bear the burden. Stiffly, he attempts to manoeuvre himself to sit, though his sticks are hampering him in the confined space of the choir stalls, so Rich steps forward again to assist him, as they shall be seated together. From her vantage point, Anne smiles to herself; such consideration from a man who would once have stood aside and done nothing. They once tolerated one another - but now they are great friends, and a formidable political bastion against whom none have been able to stand.

Her contemplations are interrupted by the brazen rasp of trumpets as her daughter enters the Abbey. All of the celebrants around her straighten up in anticipation, though she must traverse the length of the nave, and pass through the great pulpitum before they shall see her. A chorus of men and boys are atop that pulpitum, a soaring motet accompanying that unseen journey, while ahead, in front of the high altar, Philip stands with a cadre of his gentlemen, and awaits his bride.

The first indication of progress is the arrival of Cranmer, who makes his way along the Quire, steps up onto the presbytery and crosses the riotously colourful pavement, laid at the behest of the third Henry three hundred years ago, to stand before the high altar, his back to great space beyond where long-dead Kings and Queens of England are buried. His smile is joyful; and, if he would be brave enough to admit it - which he is probably not - a little proud at the thought of marrying England's first Queen Regnant.

"I would ask you all to stand." He advises. There is no need to explain why.

Elizabeth is radiant, her eyes shining with happiness as she approaches the presbytery. Mounting the steps, she approaches the Archbishop, and the young man to whom she shall shortly be married. With no members of Philip's family present, Excellency Damião represents King John, and his pleasure could not be more evident. He is proud of his young Prince, and regards the Queen with equal affection, smiling across at Anne, who smiles back. England might well be already benefiting from the trade agreements set out in the treaty with Portugal, but this is the final act of that grand event, and it shall - God willing - secure the future of the Tudor name for generations to come.

As promised, Cranmer has split the celebration of marriage into both English, and Latin. The exchanging of marriage vows, however, shall be in English - that was agreed at the outset.

From his vantage point in the Choir stalls, Cromwell watches the ceremony with a smile that is tinged with sadness. Perhaps his own daughters might have made grand marriages once his star began to rise at Henry's court. Would he have stood where Wiltshire stands now, giving Grace or Anne to their husbands? In all of his life, he has few regrets - after all, what time is there for regrets - but that painful grief has never truly left him. Both of his girls were lively, intelligent and vibrant - taking after their mother as much as he - and they always loved to tease him when the family supped of an evening.

If he cannot watch them marry, then he shall be content to watch this young woman in their stead.

Cranmer's homily is upon a passage from Paul's letter to the Ephesians: with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, eager to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace. With the treaty based solely upon trade, and the maintenance of peaceful relations between nations, an equal unity between the Queen and her husband is to be lauded. He does not refer to the requirement of a wife to obey her husband, as that is most certainly not suitable for a reigning Queen, but instead speaks of a union of equals - quite an innovation in a world where a wife belongs to her husband, and is obliged to obey him in all things. While there is certainly plenty of precedent, the examples they wish to follow have ever reigned in Catholic realms - not England. Perhaps, then, Philip shall view such a thing more easily than the men of England.

The rings that the couple exchange are bands of the finest Welsh gold retrieved from the streams of the river Cothi, encrusted with tiny diamonds and sapphires; a gift from the Company of Mercers, the richest of the City guilds. Elizabeth's voice is clear and firm as she speaks her vows to her husband, reflecting the firmness of his voice as he made his equal commitment to her.

At last, Cranmer announces that what God has joined, let no man put asunder, and all is done. From her seat, Anne struggles between joy and anguish; joy that her daughter has found a husband with whom she can be happy, but anguish that she is now a wife. Elizabeth is her own woman now, and the time is coming when she shall be required to stand aside to allow her daughter to rule England entirely in her own right.

Once, she asked Mr Cromwell to stop her from refusing to relinquish the power of rule for fear that she might become to intent upon it for herself. Now, however, she knows that she will be able to do it; she, and her council, have taught Elizabeth all that she needs to know to rule her Kingdom. With a husband at her side to share that burden, all is set fair for the realm. Once the celebrations for the marriage are done, there shall be another celebration - a celebration as England's Regent steps aside and her daughter comes into her true inheritance.

"Anne?" Wiltshire turns to her at the sound of a faint sob, then fumbles for a kerchief to give her, "There now, sister; you have done well - Elizabeth is married, and England is in safe hands."

"I am happy for her, George," Anne hiccups, slightly, "Believe me when I say so; but nonetheless it is hard to give her to her husband, for she is my child. Even now, she is my child."

"That shall not change, Sister." Mary is beside her now, "Come. It is time to depart - there is a feast to enjoy, and then dancing; we shall remain alongside her Majesty as her family and celebrate her happiness."

"Forgive me. I am being a fool." Anne smiles a rather wan smile at her sister, and rises to follow her from the Quire.

"Majesty. I have news of your cousin." Mendoza approaches the Emperor and bows.

"God have mercy, not her again. What is her desire now?" Charles is not pleased, "I thought myself free from the damned woman's importuning."

"I think, Majesty, that you are." The Councillor advises, "It appears that she has entered a convent of Carmelite sisters in Cadiz, and shall shortly commence her noviciate. All of her servants have abandoned her, I am told - her chief woman presented herself to a Swedish merchant and sought passage to Gothenburg, a request that he granted out of sympathy to a fellow Swede in need of aid, though most of the servants she took with her are either fled - or dead."

"Thanks be to God." Charles snaps, crossly, "It has taken me months to smooth over our relations with England in the midst of their growing wealth; for all the gold that my treasure ships bring me, it flows into my coffers, but stays there not a minute before it flows out again. It is clear from the failure of her ridiculous invasion that England's wealth has paid for the means to defend her shores from invasion, and thus I should prefer to regard her as an ally than a foe. I have enough fronts to fight as it is."

Mendoza nods, sagely; he is hardly unaware of Spain's precarious financial state.

"That said, I am told that her son has changed his mind over the banishment of her from his Kingdom, and seeks to invite her back again. I have received correspondence upon the matter from one of his diplomats, though I did not wish to answer it until the matter had been discussed in Council."

"She has immured herself within a convent, Mendoza." The Emperor shrugs, indifferently, "Let her remain there. Advise the Swedes that she has withdrawn from the world and thus cannot be brought back into it. I have no intention of permitting her to cause mischief again. Even should she choose to do so from Stockholm. Thus she shall end her days amongst religious sisters, and her fantasies over England shall cease."

"Yes, Majesty." Bowing, Mendoza withdraws.

Rodrigo Estopiña is a hard working man, albeit one that is burdened with one of the less pleasant tasks set upon men by the city of Jerez de la Frontera: disposing of the filth, refuse and detritus that inevitably builds up in a city of such size. His crew are equally hard working, sweeping sewage into the drains that run along the centres of the roads, gathering all manner of abandoned possessions that have been flung from doorways to be removed by whatever means the householder assumes shall come by. Or, as today, removing the corpses of beggars who have died in the night, for the weather has been brutal this year, and the usual rains have been supplemented by a remarkable degree of snow and ice - delightful for children, perhaps, but not for those who must remove the remains of men who have frozen to death overnight.

Estopiña has worked these streets for decades, and the many beggars that rich folk pretend not to see are well known to him. Those who know the city well can find shelter easily enough, for the Brothers of the religious houses take them in; but those who do not would have no knowledge of which doors to approach, so it is always the unfamiliar faces that they find huddled in doorways, or laid out under carts.

He rounds a corner near the Cathedral of the Holy Saviour to find another one, slumped in an alcove with the thinnest of felt blankets clutched about his shoulders. Badly worn boots, scuffed and with their soles almost through, the remains of what must once have been rather fine garments, the nap grazed down to the field. Estopiña is intrigued - someone has truly fallen from grace.

Turning, he hollers to his crew, who wheel a heavy cart alongside. There are already three bodies upon it, destined for a paupers' grave in one of the lesser churchyards of the city, where they shall lie unmarked and unremembered. Not the fate that he would wish for himself, of course; but God shall know who they are, even if men do not.

In the summer months, the hottest summers in all of Spain, he does not touch corpses - not even with gauntlets - but pulls the bloated, flyblown remains upon the cart with hooks. Not so now, however, for the man is all but solid. Unlikely to have money, of course, but always worth searching: he found a diamond bracelet in a thief's pocket, once. Fumbling amidst the corpse's clothes, his gauntleted hand strikes something harder than fabric, and he carefully eases out a chain, upon which is a shield enamelled with a colourful set of complicated arms in red and blue. God above, this man was of some means, then - but clearly of little skill to find work. No wonder he has starved; if he was indeed an aristocrat, then the chances of his being able to perform an honest day's work would be minimal.

Estopiña has a very low opinion of the usefulness of aristocrats.

Shrugging to himself - the man has no need of this bauble, after all - he wrenches the chain free. Gold, by the look of it, as is the shield upon which the enamel has been baked. It shall fetch a pretty price, then; though he does not take too long to examine it - better to conceal it now before the others can see it: he has a low opinion of sharing profits, too.

"Another one." He says, rising from the silent corpse, "Send word to Father Anselmo that there shall be four today."

He shows little interest as two of his men lug the frozen body from its useless shelter, and fling it upon the cart to join the other three. By tonight, they shall be in an unmarked grave, while he shall be counting the profit from the gold chain that is now his. Pleased with his discovery, the Refuse-man leads his team off in search of the churchyard.

A/N: The tradition of having Welsh gold in Royal wedding rings isn't that old - having begun in the 1920s, but I wanted to make use of it. Welsh Gold is, owing to its rarity, the most expensive of all gold - and it's likely to get rarer still, as it's no longer financially viable to mine the ore. Consequently, very few rings these days contain only Welsh gold (there's just a smidgen mixed in with other golds - sellers of Welsh Gold are totally up-front about this) - the Duchesses of Cambridge and Sussex are currently two of the very small group who have rings made entirely of it. I decided to have it fetched out of the river as the mine at Dolaucothi wasn't worked during Tudor times - though the Romans first dug it, and it was reopened in the 19th century. The site is now in the hands of the National Trust and, yes, you can visit it!

And thus, as Part Six draws to a close, how are mighty fallen. I feel a bit of a meanie for doing that to Brandon, but sometimes you don't get a grand, meaningful demise, after all. As T.S. Eliot said in The Hollow Men: 'This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.'

Part seven will commence next week - hopefully on Saturday as I shall be in the art galleries on Friday evening.