A/N: Aaannd...it's Saturday! Sorry about last night - I was in the Galleries in London again, which were, as always, fabulous. Today, however, I'm back at the Tower and - as it's not raining - sitting on a bench alongside that most famously tragic of spots - the Scaffold memorial - in tribute to both Anne and Thomas as I put up this next chapter.

I fear that there may be a touch of disappointment in that I have - again - time jumped. That said, there are references to the journey Elizabeth and Philip have taken to get to where they are. Certainly there were a lot of sparky rows along the way which all of the most senior councillors are well aware of, having done a spot of marriage guidance during that period.

The threat that the team face in this chapter is home-grown, as I've raided another historic incident to fuel the plot. There will be a few new faces, and some have gone. There will be some promotions in this chapter - and I have taken to referring to anyone of the rank of Earl upwards by their Earldom, not their surname - with the exception of Cromwell. Don't know why, really - it just happened that way!

So - on we go. Elizabeth and Philip have been married for five years now, but there isn't yet a bun in the oven...

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Warden of the North

Early March, 1555

The sunlight that comes in through the leaded window is rather warmer than it should be, after the brutal winter that has just passed. The snows, however, have thawed, and spring seems quite determined that it should arrive as early as is possible, as though in apology for the icy cruelties with which the year began.

Those generous beams of warmth settle over a pair of wrinkled, mottled hands, whose knuckles are painfully arthritic these days. For all his infirmities, his rheumy, bespectacled eyes and a white beard that looks most strange upon a man who never wore one in his earlier years, Lord Cromwell's mind is as sharp as it has ever been, and the young clerk that is now obliged to act as his amanuensis frequently struggles to keep up with his dictations when his thoughts are in full flow.

Now, however, he is resting, his eyes closed and his breathing deep. His dreams are of days long gone, when he served an equally long-gone King, secure only in the knowledge that - sooner or later - he would probably end his life upon a scaffold, or banished to an obscure corner of England. All whom Henry trusted seemed to meet that fate in the end.

A hand rests gently upon his velvet-clad forearm, and he wakes with a slight grunt to see that his Steward is standing over him, "My lord, pardon my intrusion - his Grace of Northumberland is without and desires an audience."

For a moment, Cromwell must think carefully as to who is meant by the title; for, while Sir Thomas Percy has received the newly created Earldom of Cumberland - for there is a Duke of Northumberland now - Warwick having been granted it when he was confirmed as the Chancellor of the Council of the North. He is rarely at Court these days, instead managing the Queen's affairs from a great House granted to him just outside York. His family seat at Dudley being far too far south to manage in a day's ride, no matter how well maintained the road.

Shifting in his seat, he nods, "Call him in, John. I shall receive him here. Bring us some sack when he is seated."

"Yes, my Lord." The young man bows and turns to usher in the Duke, and Cromwell's smile is one of genuine pleasure, for they have not seen one another for some months.

"Forgive me if I do not bow, your Grace." He sighs, as his tall colleague approaches, "I should be obliged to rise from this damned chair, and that shall take ten minutes at the quickest."

"Nay, my Lord, it is I who should bow to you." Northumberland laughs, "It was your recommendation that brought me to my current noble state, and for that I am right grateful." He seats himself in the chair that John has fetched, and accepts a cup of sack with a cheery smile of thanks, "Our young King has made many friends in the North, and I bring excellent tidings of the doings of his Council."

Cromwell nods, pleased. Elizabeth's gamble of appointing her young husband Warden of the North, thereby giving him at least part of a Kingdom to rule, has smoothed over a fair number of feathers that might otherwise have become considerably ruffled. For all his love of her - which is beyond doubt - he remains a man, and thus is hard put to accept that he cannot command his wife. Add the volatility of her temper to that mixture, and he is surprised that the number of explosive detonations have been so few in the five years since they were wed.

"Have there been any new arguments, old friend?" Northumberland asks, only half seriously. All at Court have witnessed at least one of those occasions when Elizabeth and her husband have argued, but neither can be angry with the other for long, and such contretemps are soon set aside again. For all their imperious natures, the years of friendship they shared prior to their marriage have formed the bedrock upon which their vows were built, and no storms have yet been able to disturb those deep foundations.

"Not recently, John." Cromwell smiles back, "And we are right glad of it, for all of us, at one time or another, seem to have found ourselves attempting to counsel one or other of the pair. That said, even when they are truly angry at one another, it does not occur to them that they could be anything other than what they are - man and wife - and all is soon mended. I think that, in their love for one another, they possess the power to wound one another most deeply, but equally to mend those wounds, for that bond between them is the salve that heals them."

And then Northumberland asks 'the' question, "Is there any sign of a child yet?"

Cromwell's smile slips, "At this time, no." He admits, "Her Majesty's ladies have sought the advice of the midwives, who assure them that her Majesty is more than capable of bearing a child, while his Majesty visits her frequently; but still we wait."

"That must be hard for her. Nature can be a cruel mistress when all desire an heir to a throne, and She does not wish to provide one."

"Her Majesty the Queen Dowager has decreed - discreetly - that none shall query the matter in her Majesty's hearing. She has stated - and I agree with her most wholeheartedly - that expectations do not aid a woman in such matters. God willing, she shall conceive in her own time."

"And what of you, Thomas?"

"I do not see myself bearing a child at any point, John."

"Always one to jest." Northumberland smiles at him, "I am not blind - there are some at Court who would wish to see you gone. My eldest boy Warwick has overheard at least one group of courtiers speculating that it is time you were dispatched back to your estates and left the rule of England to those young enough to do it."

Cromwell does not look surprised at the news, "I am also aware of that, John. Well aware of it. Her Majesty, however, has shown great distress at any time that I have suggested that I might retire. I have no wish to - I think the lack of work would kill me more than any other cause - and she has no wish for me to go. Until she dismisses me, I shall remain at her side." His expression darkens then, "We must do so: I must, my Lord Rich must, my Lord Wiltshire must - for we are all that are left of her Majesty's first Council, and those who sit at the Council table now are younger, and more bellicose than we could ever have been. They have not seen war, and are keen to test their martial strength. It is hard to rein them in at times."

"Her Majesty's father would have appreciated such men. He was ever keen to go to war from all accounts."

"Indeed he was - and we were as hard put to stop him then as we are to stop the Council now. In the face of the lack of a casus belli, they seek instead to create one or see one where there is none, and wage glorious war to earn honours for themselves."

"Then we are fortunate that the Council of the North is well stocked with wise heads who think as you do. England has prospered from a long time of peace, and we should be mad to throw away that prosperity to allow a few young men the foolish belief that war is a grand enterprise."

"I have fought in wars. They are most certainly nothing of the kind. They have read too many chivalric romances."

"In which case, I blame their mothers." Northumberland smiles, and Cromwell chuckles, softly.

"Forgive me, John; I fear it is my age."

"Nay. I fear it is your wisdom." Northumberland grins back at him, "Come - the council meeting is near upon us. If it shall take you as long to rise from that chair as you claim, perhaps we should begin the procedure now."

Anna Conti carefully eases the last of the rings onto her Queen's fingers, "There Majesty. All that remains is your scent."

Elizabeth stands still as Jane Radcliffe carefully dabs a newly mixed perfume (Eight grains of musk in eight spoonfuls of rosewater, three spoonfuls of damask water and a quarter ounce of sugar) upon her wrists, while her beloved Kat watches from a comfortable chair, ready to give her approval to the work of the Queen's ladies.

Her days of wearing the confining French hood are at an end, and her hair is now elaborately styled beneath a bejewelled hair-net while a diamond encrusted diadem crests her forehead. It is the most marked symbol of her lineage, and she is as keen to show it to the world as she is to decorate her long, shapely fingers with only the simplest of jewels, so as not to disrupt the shape of her hands.

Her overgown today is a rich emerald green trimmed at the sleeves with genet fur, while her kirtle is a thickly embroidered ivory silk. Turning this way and that, she carefully examines herself in a long mirror of polished steel, and Kat nods, "It is well done, Ladies. Your Majesty is magnificent."

"When am I not, Kat?" She smiles at the woman who has educated her, and loved her as an elder sister for as long as she can remember, "I am the scion of the house of Tudor."

Escorted by her ladies, she removes to the grand presence chamber, redecorated recently as the palace of Placentia has begun to rather show its age, along with a worrying degree of dilapidation. There, at the announcement My Lords! Her Majesty the Queen!, her Courtiers bow deeply as she enters, and she seats herself under her canopy of estate to await the arrival of her husband.

Only one man is permitted to sit in her presence, at her personal decree, and she smiles at the tired old Baron of Oakham as he bows his head to her. God, she shall miss him when his day is done - but while he lives, he remains the most trusted of her councillors, and as long as there is service in him, she shall retain him to serve.

"Your Majesty! My Lords! His Majesty the King!"

It is, in some ways, a courtesy to refer to him as such, for he is not a King regnant, but instead a King consort; but Elizabeth's love for him has prompted her to ensure that that lesser status is not made too brutally clear, and none raise eyebrows at the reference to him in such terms. They have learned not to.

Philip, Duke of Wessex, has added a few inches to his height in the last few years, and now sports a rather smart little beard upon his chin. The gentlemen to his rear are almost exclusively Englishmen these days, but all of them are friends and appointed on the grounds that they are sensible, intelligent and - largely - well behaved. He has got into the habit of pausing to accept the bows of his wife's councillors on such occasions, but seems also to have developed an equal habit of offering a small bow back to the three most prominent of the men who advise his Queen, particularly to the elderly Baron, for whom he has a great respect.

Then he turns and bows to his wife, "Your Majesty."

There is no disguising the smile upon her face, "Your Majesty." She stretches out her hand - not for him to kiss, but instead for him to take, and rises to her feet to stand beside him, before they retreat to their chairs - his to her left, for she is the Queen.

"Your Majesties, My Lords! Her Majesty the Queen Dowager!"

It is strange to hear herself referred to in such terms, even after three years. The last time the term 'dowager' was used in royal circles, it referred to a banished woman who had once been a Queen, and she prefers not to think of such things. The distance of time has tempered her view of the unfortunate Katherine; a woman she once hated and almost feared in that long period when she thought there would be no marriage between herself and the King. Long dead, of course - and perhaps happier now that she is seated amongst the saints she once so revered.

From her vantage point at the entrance to the chamber, she can see that her daughter is still holding her husband's hand. God, she was once like that, hand in hand with her King as they sat to greet new ambassadors, or receive Courtiers, or - as today - to grant honours. With Lady Day approaching, the year is almost at an end, and Elizabeth likes to grant honours at the end of the year. Henry was less likely to do so - but then his granting of honours tended to be altogether more arbitrary.

As Philip did before her, she pauses to accept the obeisance of the Councillors, before approaching the dais and curtseying deeply to her daughter and son-in-law, "Majesties."

"Mama." Elizabeth acknowledges, happily, "Come, be seated." There is, as always, a fine chair to the right of the Canopy.

Most of the honours to be granted today are knighthoods to worthy young men; but one or two higher honours are also to be given, at least one of which is likely to annoy the younger members of the council.

Anne is not blind to that shift of sensibilities at the council table. The great men that gave her the support and advice that she needed in those early days of her regency have mostly gone - for they were of a significant age when they were at Henry's side. Those who are present now have not known a world where the King was ruinously in debt, thanks to the costs of his wars as much as his desire to look every inch a great Prince of Christendom. As he did, they consider war to be the highest pinnacle of lordly pursuits, and those who do not are slipping into the minority. It is only their superior status that enables them to hold sway in front of the Queen, for she respects their judgement from long experience.

Most of them are young men who shall not serve as Councillors, but shall nonetheless take it upon themselves to attend Court as often as they may in hopes of being of use, but they are grateful for the recognition, and accept their knighthoods with courtesy and fulsome promises that they shall give their all in service to their Queen. Chief amongst the youths, however, is the son of the Earl of Northumberland, recently returned from his studies in the great university cities. Given the promise he showed before his departure, Elizabeth is pleased to welcome him back to the Court, particularly now that her marriage has ended his father's rather embarrassing hopes that she would wed the younger Percy. Today he shall receive a knighthood - but also a Barony, the first Baron Percy of Alnwick, after his Family's seat.

As she watches, Anne smiles to herself at the sight of her daughter resting that ceremonial sword either side of the boy's head. Then she sees his face, and the smile freezes somewhat; this is not the well governed, courteous young man who had been so embarrassed by his father's forward behaviour. At some point in his time away, he seems almost to have grasped that same character, and his expression is now one of a man who considers himself to have received no less than his due. As the pride has seeped out of the father, it has seeped into his son.

If Elizabeth has noticed it, she gives no sign, but instead steps back and permits the newly ennobled Thomas Percy to rise and bow to her. There are two more honours to grant yet, and Anne finds her eyes still upon the boy as the Lord Rich is called forth to be granted the Earldom of Richmond. Yes - there it is: a small curl of the lip. Scorn for the older man who has served diligently for so many years, and should perhaps now step back to make way for younger blood. That shall bear watching.

While he is now stepping towards the threshold of his three score years though not the additional ten, Rich remains rather more able to move than his elder colleague. His bow is smooth and courteous, and he promises to dedicate his remaining years to the Queen's service as her Lord High Treasurer, a comment that draws more mildly scornful glares from those who have yet to offer any service of note. Anne dreads to imagine how they shall react when the final honour is granted.

Elizabeth smiles as he steps back and rejoins his fellow Councillors, only to find himself pressed into service again as Cromwell is called, as he is still seated, and rising remains something of an awkward business with two sticks required to assist the process.

Between them, Wiltshire and the new Earl of Richmond carefully assist the Lord Chancellor to his feet, and walk either side of him as he makes his slow, painful way to stand before his Queen. From her chair, Anne's eyes begin to dampen at the sight of him - so old now. So tired and doddering, and yet as acute and intelligent as he has always been. He should depart from the court to see out the last of his days in comfort and leisure; but she knows full well that to do so would surely be the death of him, for he has never been content to be idle.

"Our dear Baron Cromwell," Elizabeth smiles as he stands before her, as he cannot kneel any longer, "in all of our days as Queen, you have served us well, with diligence, honesty and frankness. As you promised our noble mother in her Regency, so you promised us, and you have kept that promise. In gratitude for your years of service, we hereby grant you the Earldom of Essex, with all privileges and rights pertaining to that rank. If we are grateful for your presence in our Court, then that is as nothing compared to the gratitude of England, who has - as we have - benefited from your counsel and guidance in times of peace and war. Thus I give you this," She carefully removes a large ring from her finger, which is obviously too large for her, "as a sign of our gratitude to you, and our hopes that you shall be at our side for as long as God grants."

Anne's eye is caught by the younger Courtiers again, who are muttering between themselves. Once, it amused her to see such things, for their ire was solely inspired by envy; but now there is scorn again, for they see only the infirmities of the body, and not the intelligence of the mind. Even obliged to stand half-bent, supported by two sticks and aided by Wiltshire and Richmond, he could out-think them without difficulty. For a moment, she is angry, and almost tempted to stand and demand that they make account for it; but she cannot. She is no longer the Regent; that moment ended when the Imperial crown was placed upon Elizabeth's head a second time to seal the commencement of her true reign. It is for Elizabeth to speak out now - and she knows better than to spoil the Lord Chancellor's reward in such fashion. He has dealt with the scorn of others for the entirety of his life at Court - why should now be any different?

"Your Majesty; I thank you with the deepest of gratitude for your reward - placed upon a man of such low birth as I." Cromwell answers, "I swear to you that I shall continue to serve for as long as God permits me - be it ten days, ten months, or ten years." He bows, awkwardly, and then - again with the assistance of Wiltshire and Richmond, steps back and returns to his seat.

As the Courtiers strike up conversations, and mingle amongst themselves, Anne turns to her daughter to mention her observations, only to find that she is not alone.

"They seemed most displeased at the honours for Lords Rich and Cromwell, my beloved." Philip has noticed it, too. Anne's grasp of Portuguese is quite fair now - but those around the couple know nothing of it, and thus they can converse privately.

"That has always been so, Filipe," Elizabeth admits, "When I was a child, they were jealous, for he was my father's most faithful servant, and my father knew it, even as they did not. Now he is ageing, and they wish for him to step aside in order to relinquish his political power. He has used it - mostly - for England's benefit; but I have no doubt that they are keen to use it for their own."

Philip smiles; no matter how discreet, the low-level embezzlement of the senior councillors is hardly a secret - it is, however, their primary source of remuneration for their work; and - as long as they are not too greedy - it is tolerated by the Crown, "I think it should bear watching; it would be most harsh for them to conspire against him so late in his career. While his favour is not at risk - for he has earned it - there is no accounting for other acts that might be taken to remove him from the Council table."

"That is why I have ensured that all of his meals are tasted first." Elizabeth admits. Anne blinks, startled; she had no idea, "Do you think me wrong to have done so, Mama?" she notices her mother's surprise.

"No, not at all, Majesty - it had, I fear, not occurred to me that he was at risk of poison."

"I think it unlikely, Mama." Elizabeth explains, "But I am not ready to lose a head as wise as his - not until God decrees that it is time."

"Amen to that."

Philip sets down the report that Northumberland has prepared for him, "It is most well, your Grace. I am greatly pleased. Are her Majesty's subjects in the North content with their new governance?"

John Dudley smiles, "I think they are, Majesty. It has always been hard to govern the North, for they are a great distance from London and thus assume that none pay their difficulties any mind. It has fostered a sense of independence, but also a sense that they are free to do as they will without censure or prevention. The wealthy oppress the poor with impunity, secure in the knowledge that the Queen shall not know of it, while banditry is rife to a degree that is not seen further south."

"It cannot be that all of the nobility are so, your Grace."

"Nay, Majesty - there are others of wealth who are keen to protect the rights of their tenants, and do so; but those who do not feel themselves to be safe from royal disapproval. Those who have not the means to bring their miseries to court thus labour under the burden and hope for better times in Eternity."

"That is unacceptable." Philip shakes his head, "Her Majesty has ever been keen upon the welfare of the poorest of her subjects. There are laws to protect them that appear toothless away from the scrutiny of her Majesty's judges. I am Warden of the North, and thus I wish to establish a proper means for grievances to be settled justly and fairly for all of England's subjects in the North, as is the case in the south thanks to the effort of the Inns of Court. I have spoken with her Majesty, and she is in agreement that I should travel North to do so."

Warwick nods, "If I might say so, Majesty, your attendance would be welcome in a fashion that would be less likely for Her Majesty. The north cleaves still to the Old ways, and your retention of your faith shall make them more willing to accept you."

"I imagine that my male state shall also be of use to me. I am well aware that my Queen is loved - for once she called them York's heart - but she remains female, and thus of lesser state in their eyes now that she is wedded."

The Duke eyes his King surreptitiously: no, there is no pride in that statement - he is saddened that his wife's status is lessened in the eyes of some subjects following her marriage. How strange that he should view what is, for him, a diminution of his status as a husband in such a fashion. It was a wise thing to grant him the responsibility that he has been given, for that has proved to be the compensation he has needed for that reduced state. Thanks be to God that he also loves her Majesty; that is likely to have been helpful, too. It is remarkable that he has been so amenable to his situation.

Oh - there have been arguments, of course. Tempestuous quarrels that some of the older Courtiers claim to be as startling as those that once occurred between the Dowager and her late husband; and not a few of the most trusted, senior Councillors have found themselves pressed into service to counsel one or other of the pair as they have vented their frustrations. For a woman with a temper as imperious as Elizabeth's, such arguments are inevitable - but the outcome of those arguments is always reconciliation, for they are very much in love, and it appears that each cannot be without the other.

Pleased, Northumberland gathers his papers, "I shall speak to the Lord Chancellor to discuss arrangements for your journey. It is certainly her Majesty's wish that her Subjects be granted access to fair justice regardless of their state - and, doubtless, yours too."

"It is, your Grace. Most assuredly."

"Then we shall see to it."

Anne smiles fondly as Cromwell squints over the chessboard, pausing to push his eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose. That small movement has become second nature to her Lord Chancellor: so much so that he seems not to notice when he does it anymore. For all his years, and the burdens that they have set upon him, his acute mind has been left untouched by the infirmities of age, and their games are as hard fought as they have always been. Their conversations are equally acute, and much of their discussion has centred upon the tribulations of her daughter as she has found her feet in a marriage that is quite contrary in its nature.

They are not alone - even now that she is no longer Queen, Anne is never alone - but Lady Wiltshire sits discreetly at the far end of the chamber and embroiders diligently. Even if she hears what they say, she shall speak of it to none.

"It is strange." She muses, almost to herself.

"Strange, Majesty?" Cromwell looks up at her.

"As I see Elizabeth's life with Philip, it raises memories of mine with the late King."

"In what way?"

She looks at him, smiling, "Is that not impertinent, my Lord?" she asks.

"Maybe; maybe not. I am an old man, and thus subject to occasional lapses in my behaviour." He answers, with that so-familiar blandness that always amused her.

Her smile falters somewhat, "I see Philip's love for Elizabeth; his pain and sadness when they have become estranged, and his determination to resolve the argument that has caused it - for it is equal to hers. I saw it not when Henry was angered - always he demanded that I be the one to give ground; to seek his forgiveness even when I was not in the wrong. Then he would become indulgent and adoring - as he had been from the first day that he sought to woo me."

"He loved you, Majesty."

"Did he?"

Cromwell pauses, and blinks, "I…" he cannot answer her.

"Always his letters were full of almost gratuitous sentiment: he spoke of kissing me; of kissing parts of me. His gifts were fulsome and rich. If I returned them - as I did at first - then he would answer me with ever more sentimental letters, and richer gifts. What was that to me? I was the daughter of a knight - an aristocrat. It was not for me to marry a King; that my rank was insufficient even for an Earl had been made abundantly clear to me. He wanted me as he had wanted my sister - a pretty thing to chase, to catch and to cast aside; but I would not have it. I knew the damage that had been done to my sister's reputation at Court by her liaison with the King and I wanted none of it; but he would not yield. Thus I demanded that he marry me, for I thought he could not do it, and there would be an end to it."

"But instead he moved heaven and earth to marry you." Cromwell finishes, quietly.

"I learned to love him, my Lord. Trained myself to fill my heart with him and give myself to him as a loyal wife should; but in what way was I ever taught to be a Queen? In the years that have followed his death, I am not blind to my foolishness. I thought myself to be powerful - but I see now that what power I had was vested entirely in Henry's adoration of me. In thinking myself to be powerful, I treated all about me as lesser beings, and regarded them with disdain." She pauses, seeing the slight smile twitching at Cromwell's lips, "And I made powerful enemies in the process, did I not?"

"That was then, Majesty." He answers, still smiling, "We are not those people now. We have learned much about ourselves, and each other - and thus we have prospered, for we compromised."

"And now, Elizabeth is Queen."

Cromwell nods, "And I have won." He moves his bishop, "Checkmate."

They are gathering the pieces, one of her Stewards approaches, "Majesty, my Lord of Lincoln is without, and seeks an audience."

Seated where he is, Cromwell's eye is caught by the expression upon Anne's face at the news. In the last three years, the two have regularly kept one anothers' company; though always upon official business. Nonetheless, there is a small frisson of pleasure that he is without; and the Chancellor smiles inwardly. She had once found love that was denied, and forced love for someone who demanded it from her. Now, however, she has found it again, and this time is free to give it - and he had never noticed. For all his acuity, he had not seen it; so long has love been absent from his life, that he can no longer see it in others. Ah well; even if his days of companionship are gone, at least it is not the same for his Queen.

The Steward remains to assist him as he rises from his seat, and he makes his slow, stick-tapping way to the door, where Lincoln is waiting. Nodding a greeting, he makes his way back to his office.

"Come, be seated, my Lord." Anne directs Lincoln to a seat beside the fire, "What news do you bring?"

"Little of immediate worth, Majesty." He admits, "Though we consider it to be worth watching."

"Oh?" Intrigued, Anne seats herself, allowing him to do the same, "Mere gossip, perchance?"

"Perhaps, or perhaps not; we are not sure." He admits, "As you know, I am one of those upon the Council who are neither new, nor old, hands. Thus I have been approached quietly by Sir Thomas Percy to seek my opinion upon the worth of our older Councillors."

She stiffens at once; stung by the suggestion that the wise men who guided her, and her daughter, to their current state might be threatened, "Percy?"

Lincoln shakes his head, "He is young, indiscreet. I think he is unaware of the loyalties of the Council; and is not accomplished at the formation of a faction. His father has accepted his place upon your Council and thus is no longer troublesome to her Majesty. The young man himself, on the other hand, is keen to ingratiate himself with other young bloods of the Court."

Anne nods, "I think I understand. They are, I believe, quite intent upon war with Spain - which would be utterly ruinous to the realm and serve no purpose other than to drench their swords with blood." She pauses, "Nay - not their swords; the swords of the men who follow them. It is ever the foot soldiers who give their lives while the grand lords watch and praise themselves for their prowess."

"Cynicism, Majesty?" Lincoln smiles. In the times that they have spoken in private, he has become used to the presence of Anne's most trusted companion, and is not concerned that the Dowager's sister in law is also in the room.

"I have learned it, I fear." Anne answers, reaching out to take his hand, "If that is all that you bring me, then perhaps there was no need to attend me."

He reddens somewhat, "An excuse, perhaps - but a valid one."

"I demand no excuses from you, William." She smiles more as he lifts her hand to his lips to kiss it, "I welcome your company."

"But my discretion is essential."

"I am sorry; you are as aware as any of the reputation that I acquired in my youth."

"Even though you are no longer that young woman?"

"Even then." She sighs, "I have given every moment of my life since the death of my husband to ensuring that my daughter is not harmed by any act of mine. I willingly blinded myself to the truth that my subjects despised me - and I was obliged to work extremely hard to overcome that loathing. Even now I think myself not entirely free of it. I wish, most heartily, that I could stand beside you and give you my heart for all to see - but if I do so, then it is my daughter that shall bear the scorn. I am still, to many, the King's whore."

His grasp upon her hand tightens, "In which case, I shall willingly accept what I am given. I have admired you for many years; and my regard has warmed to affection, I think. I shall not press you to grant me your hand, for I know that her Majesty's reputation is all, and I - as you - would give up my life before I harmed it."

Anne looks into his eyes with sad longing: Henry was not like this - he was never like this. All that mattered to him was that she be his. The wishes of the people, of his Council; Jesu: even her wishes, were immaterial. He wanted, and therefore he must have. Oh…oh to walk hand in hand with a man who looks upon her as a valued companion; not as a trophy, or a prized hind to be hunted and brought to bay, "Then I shall pray to God that he grant us the opportunity to be together in this life - for I, too, look upon you with affection. I would willingly be yours - but, if my daughter's reputation is endangered, I shall stand aside."

"If that is so, then I shall pray also, while I stand aside - and wait for better times."

They lapse into silence, captured by each others' eyes, while Lady Wiltshire's quiet tears drop onto her embroidery.

Elizabeth's gown tonight is a magnificent affair, that rich green overgown atop a new ivory-gold kirtle. Her jewels are gold, set with emeralds, and her hair is arranged with gold ornaments into an elaborate arrangement of waves atop her head. There is no grand Court occasion; just supper with her husband, but she has ever valued those times in his company, for convention demands that they all but live separate lives. As of yet, she has not felt confident to overturn that convention.

"That is most satisfactory, thank you Jane." She smiles at Jane Radcliffe, who has remained in her service in spite of many offers for her hand. As a wife, she could not remain in her Queen's household, and thus she has declined all who have wished to marry her. Turning, the Queen looks to Mistress Astley for her approval, and smiles at the old lady's nod, "You are, as always, the very image of Majesty."

Bending to kiss the cheek of her chief Gentlewoman, Elizabeth smiles at her, "Where would I be without you, Kat?"

"Wearing a blue gown and a red kirtle that clashed with your hair - of that I have no doubt!" she laughs. It is a jest - her Queen's tastes and style are always excellent.

The dishes that have been set out are a fraction of the grand displays of victuals that graced the private table of her father - though she never saw such feasts, of course - but nonetheless is suitable for a royal Couple: a haunch of the finest venison doused in a rich, red wine gravy, a roasted carp covered with toasted mushrooms to resemble the removed scales, small manchet loaves, butter-drenched artichokes and a herb sallet. Philip is already present, and bows floridly, "My lady."

She smiles at him, and curtseys deeply, "My lord."

"Are you well, my Queen? I apologise for my absence today, I have been in discussions with the Duke of Northumberland about how things progress in the North."

"Not at all, my beloved." She answers, accepting a kiss upon the cheek, "You are Warden of the North; I should expect it of you, for it is your responsibility as Duke of Wessex, and my King."

Their talk as they sit down to sup is of little things; small matters that are of interest only to them, and of no importance to the governance of the realm. It has been a hard task, attempting to strike a balance between them so that each is happy, but not at the expense of the other; but that equilibrium has been won, and Elizabeth is most grateful that her most trusted senior councilmen have been so patient with her in the midst of the arguments that have inevitably erupted between them in the years since their vows were made. Had they not been, then she is quite sure that she would not have the tidings that she intends to impart to her husband tonight.

"Are you quite well, Lizzie?" Philip is watching her, "You have eaten very little this evening; even for you."

"I am indeed well, Filipe - most well." She answers, "I fear my appetite is somewhat dulled, for I am rather sickened now and again during the day."

"Have you spoken to a physician? Shall I call Doctor Mays?"

"There is no need, my beloved." She reaches across to take his hand, "I am aware of the reason for my discomfort, and it is good news, most good news."

His expression changes as he begins to realise what she is about to say, "Are you…?" he leaves the question hanging.

"Yes, my dearest husband. I am. Before this year is out, our first child shall be born."

"My God…you are with child?"

"I believe that is what I said, Filipe." She laughs, " And, God willing, our first child shall be a son to inherit England's crown, while I shall serve England by ensuring that the succession is maintained."

"More importantly, my dear wife, you shall be a mother."

"And you shall be a father."

He reaches across the table to take her hand, "And we shall be a family." Leaning forward, he ignores the toppling of his goblet, and the spilling of the wine across the floorboards below, and answers her joyful smile with a kiss.

A/N: And thus there is an heir on the way. Only a quick note this time; the perfume recipe is a real one formulated for Elizabeth that was discovered in an old set of documents a few years ago. Historic Royal Palaces used the nearest suitable modern equivalents to produce a fragrance based on it - and I have it - but, alas, it seems not to have been that good a seller, so it is no longer made. It's quite a heavy, musky rose scent - sweet but not cloying. That said, it's also quite strong - so it must've been pretty powerful in its original form!