A/N: And Friday is back again! Sorry for the late upload, I was working late, and I've only just got to this chapter to prep it and do the final proofread.
Thank you all for your lovely comments over the last chapter - I'm so pleased that everyone is delighted for Elizabeth; given her fame for her childless state, it's one heck of a diversion from 'real' history. Mind you, having seen the remains of her funeral effigy at Westminster Abbey on Monday (in the Diamond Jubilee Galleries - if you go to the Abbey at any time, do not miss them!), I can understand why people wondered if she could have borne children; it had a corset on it that wouldn't have fitted around my upper leg!
To answer the question about Lord Lincoln - he's an OC. Originally he was just invented as a name to put to the Ambassador to Sweden, but then I decided to give him more of a role in the story and fleshed him out. Anne's spent so long determined to ensure that her actions don't impinge upon Elizabeth's safety that it's become a habit that she just can't get out of. Thus, even now, the possibility of her former 'reputation' being pulled to the surface again is enough to convince her that it's best to keep herself out of circulation in the romance stakes. Whether that will continue remains to be seen.
But first, something of an interlude as everyone takes in the news that their Queen has a bun in the oven...
PS - thanks to a sharp-eyed reader, I've amended the last paragraph since originally posting this - on the very sensible grounds that it didn't make sense!
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Bells across England
Lady Wiltshire is smiling as she arranges Anne's hair, "I am so happy for you, Majesty."
"Enough of 'your Majesty', Jane." Anne answers, "I am no longer Queen - allow me to be your sister in law again, in private at least."
Elizabeth's decision to eschew the confines of a hood over her hair has sparked a new fashion across the court, with womens' tresses elaborately arranged and netted with sparkling arrangements of jewels and gold wire. Pretty, to be sure; but for those of the court who have been allowed to hide one of the telling marks of age it is less welcome, and Anne is no longer able to conceal the growing encroachment of grey into her flowing, dark locks. Moreover, the discovery that her beloved baby girl is now with child is a singular blow to that quiet pretence that she is still young, still vital…
"Anne?" Jane interrupts her reverie, "Are you well?"
She smiles, and reaches up to take her Lady's hand, "I am, dear Jane - my happiness for my beloved daughter is boundless. It is just…I have discovered that I am growing old, and it is a truly sobering discovery."
"We are none of us immune from age." Jane turns and leans against the enormous dressing table, her fingertips brushing at her cheek, "I, too, look at myself and wonder where my youth has gone."
"Look at us - wallowing in shallow self-pity when our Queen is fulfilling her first duty to her realm, and shall know the joy of holding a babe in her arms as we did." Anne does not speak of those who were less fortunate in the dangerous lottery that is child-bearing, "Come, we must be ready to share the joy of the Court as they are told the news."
They walk to the Hall arm in arm, while the rest of Anne's ladies follow behind. The days of her being obliged to show decorum becoming to a queen are past; that is her daughter's responsibility now. Deference is still shown to her of course, for she is the Queen's mother, and she is still announced to the Court as she has been from the first day that Henry granted her prominence; but there is another woman now that has prominence over her, and she would not have it any differently.
The Hall is, not surprisingly, filled with people. Even if the news has not been formally announced, the Court is hardly devoid of rumour, and thus the announcement shall not be a surprise, but instead shall merely confirm that which is already known - or guessed at. Her councillors are to the fore, of course, and she sighs inwardly at the sight of her Lord Chancellor, who is seated where all others stand. George stands beside him to the left, while Lord Richmond stands to his right - that remarkable political triumvirate still present, albeit arthritic, watery eyed and grey.
"My Lords!" a loud voice brings the quiet conversations to a sudden halt, "Her Majesty the Queen and his Majesty the King Consort!"
All bow as the doors from the great watching chamber behind the hall open to admit Elizabeth and Philip, walking with the formality that their status demands - but just that little bit closer together than they need. From her vantage point, Anne recalls the last time she made such an entrance at the side of her King. Henry had held her hand, just as Philip holds Elizabeth's - but the distance between them was sufficiently wide as to be an impassable gulf. God, he had not so much been angry with her as hated her…
Furious with herself for allowing a rogue recollection to intrude upon her thoughts, she shuts out the fleeting memory and instead smiles at her daughter - the sight of her happy progeny sufficient to restore her pleasure. Her hand still tightly clasping her husband's, she steps forth, "My Lords! I am right glad to see so many present to share our joy. As God joined us in marriage, so he has blessed us - and all of England. My physicians have confirmed my state, and I am delighted to share with you that I am with child. Before the year is out, England shall have her first heir."
Whether it is conventional for a Queen to give out the news of her pregnancy in person, no one is sure, for when has there been a Queen regnant before? It matters not one whit, however, for there are exclamations of delight here and there in the gathered throng, before the entire all pleasant break into delighted applause.
Moving slightly awkwardly, for he, too, is now becoming somewhat arthritic, Cranmer steps forth and bows deeply, "Your Majesties, allow me - on behalf of your Council - to offer our heartiest congratulations upon you for this great blessing from God. This magnificent news shall be imparted to your realm forthwith."
She smiles, delightedly, "Thank you, your Grace. I also decree that my subjects be granted two days of celebration in thanksgiving for God's blessing upon me, and that gifts of monies be granted to the poor parishes to pay for celebratory victuals to be given to those who are sick, aged or destitute."
Cranmer bows again, "It shall be done, Majesties."
As he withdraws, Elizabeth retires to her throne, still tightly clasping Philip's hand as he smiles upon her, and the gathering breaks up into small groups. There is no need for Anne to congratulate her daughter - she has done so fulsomely and in private, with many tears of joy. Instead, she crosses to where Lord Cromwell sits in his chair, and smiles at him as he attempts to rise, "Nay, my Lord. There is no need to pain yourself so upon my account - remain seated, I beg you."
He grunts slightly in pain, then looks up at her with a reciprocal smile, "I am grateful, Majesty; I fear that emerging from a chair is becoming ever more difficult for me. My Lords Wiltshire and Richmond are not so much political allies as stewards who lift me from chairs whenever I am obliged to depart from one."
She laughs as Richmond rests his hand upon Cromwell's shoulder and chuckles, "And our growing age makes such activity quite the spectacle." Still smiling, he fetches over a chair for her, before retreating, Wiltshire in tow, and leaving her to talk to her Chancellor.
"And so it is done, Mr Cromwell." She says, as she seats herself beside him, "We have held England, and Elizabeth rules as Queen."
"Indeed so, Majesty." He agrees, "Though I think there is still a need for us. Her Majesty is now with child, and that serves to grant hope to the realm of heirs to continue her line - but also risks."
"Speak not so, my Lord." Anne frets, "It is a danger that all women face, and I prefer not to think of it."
"Nay, Majesty, that is not my fear - though I pray upon it each morn in hopes that God shall grant us a healthy heir from a living Queen. Instead my concern is the young bloods of the Court, who shall expect her Majesty to be distracted by her condition, and thus form factions that shall oust older, wiser heads."
She sighs, "They seek war."
Cromwell nods, "It is ever thus with young hot-heads. They look upon war as an art - a noble pursuit of chivalry and military glory. It is not a requirement upon them to pay for such enterprises, nor is it a requirement for them to appreciate the harm that is done upon those who are not blessed with wealth and titles."
"Men such as you once were." She finishes.
"I think we are more than a match for them, Majesty." He smiles, "Though it does not do to become complacent. I consider Elizabeth to be far wiser than most would think. Her distraction in her pregnancy shall be less profound than anticipated, and thus she shall remain in control of her Court until her confinement is upon her."
"Assuming that she shall reach that point." Anne sighs, "I did so but the once - and two other babes fled from my womb in a river of blood and disappointment."
"Whatever God determines, we shall accept. But I pray for a fair outcome."
"As do we all." Anne turns back to the dais, where Elizabeth continues to hold her husband's hand tightly, and share loving glances with him as the musicians begin to play, and the courtiers divide in order to dance a galliard. Enough dread - today her daughter carries the heir to her Crown in her womb, and all of England shall celebrate.
The carriage rattles its way along the Strand, four horses required to combat its weight. The box is suspended, rather than fixed to the axles: a new innovation, only recently introduced from France. It has replaced the simple pleasure of riding a horse for a man who is no longer fit to ride one. But for the chains that carry the box, the occupant within would be equally rattled to hell - but the lack of connection to wheel axles, and the relative smoothness of the paved road, ensure an altogether more comfortable ride.
Looking out through the viewing port, however, Cromwell is most discontented. Trapped within this damned box, he cannot hear the conversations of the people that he passes, nor can he see how many beggars are upon the streets. For all the claims that he cares nothing for the poor, he has ever done so - his observance of the streets of London being something of a barometer for the conditions in the shires.
The holiday that has been granted to celebrate the Queen's pregnancy has caused the Dowager Queen to insist that he depart from Court awhile, to return to his beloved house at Austin Friars, and the family that resides therein. In answer to that order, he dispatched a letter to Gregory, inviting him to visit with his wife and children, and that alone is his delight in departing from Court. He has never felt comfortable to be away from the operations of government.
While he cannot see as well as he once did, even without the restriction of the small viewpoint, he is not blind to the mood of those upon the streets. The expressions he sees upon the faces of those beyond are cheerful - delighted, even - as Londoners take in the news that their Queen shall present them with a prince. For it must be a prince. After Henry's failure to secure a male heir, the wish for his daughter to perform that duty is enlarged tenfold at least; and he is well aware that she knows it. For all her success as England's Queen, Elizabeth is still a woman - an aberration upon the throne. They are content to accept her, for she is the daughter of a King; but the Crown should be worn by a man, and the sooner she provides one to do so, the better. He is even - on occasion - obliged to admit to himself that he feels the same. It is far easier to look overseas for a spouse if they are hunting a hind, and not a stag. They were fortunate to find Philip - there is no certainty that they might find such fortune again.
His thoughts drift back to his son. He had planned upon a grand political career for Gregory - and he certainly did not lack the intelligence to embark upon one - but instead his son has become a wealthy landowner and merchant, with an abundance of tenants to manage, and a wide array of trade contacts to maintain. Happily married to the daughter of an equally wealthy Baron, the son has provided the children that his father lacked, and a gathering of the Cromwells nowadays is always quite the swarm of youngsters, some of them now nearly old enough to be considering marriages of their own.
In spite of himself, he cannot repress a smile of pleasure at the sight of the familiar gatehouse frontage. Awkwardly, painfully, he emerges from the carriage into the base court, aided by two of his stewards who ensure that his sticks are ready for him, before making his way into the part of the house that has always been his apartment. Once he has changed his clothes and refreshed himself, he shall make his way through to the long gallery, to sit in the sunlight and await his son's attendance.
Hah! I have won again, Mr Cromwell. You seem so content to donate your wealth to me that I would be most remiss to deny you the opportunity!
Come now, Mr Rich. I shall win it back, of that I am certain. Here, pass the cards, I shall mix them and deal again. Then we shall see who the winner shall be.
His eyes drift away from that card table - where he regularly lost quite ludicrous sums of money. For all his skill at cards, others seemed often to have more; but it was of little consequence to a man of his wealth…
Your falcons are looking most fine today, Mr Cromwell. You must be proud of them.
For what they cost me, Excellency? I should think so! But I am indeed delighted in their fitness. How do you like your quarters?
They are excellent - I am very comfortable. Thank you for your kindness in hosting me.
How hard it is that wily old Eustace Chapuys is now dead. For all their diplomatic and political combat, he had always rather liked the man.
Setting down his sticks, he sinks into a chair and sighs, almost tearfully. So much in the past. So much gone. So much lost to him. He is resigned to the limitations of his mortality, and is not afraid to pass through that veil from life into death - for he trusts in God that he shall be welcomed to eternal rest and joy. It is grief for those long-lost days that wring drops from his eyes, days that flew by in a flurry of politicking, trading and hard work - and shall never come again. Not one of those hours was wasted; not a single one of them - even those times that he made for his children when he could, he never begrudged a moment of it. And yet, now…
Was there more I could have done? Could I have saved the marriage had Henry not died? Would I have had to find the means to end it?
He shakes his head. Of course he would. The marriage was beyond saving - the King's passionate adoration of his wife had soured into virulent hatred by then. He had demanded much from her, but her inability to grant his wishes - like the fairies of old might have done - turned him against her, and he blamed her for it all. Even that which was not her fault and could never be.
Not that it matters now, of course. Henry has been dead near-on twenty years, while he himself has reached his three-score years and ten - as best as he can reckon it. He has survived when others have not, seen a young girl grow to womanhood and claim her royal inheritance. Now - at last - there is a babe growing beneath her heart, and all of England celebrates.
He is well aware of the rumours that had began to spring up, as toadstools do after the first rains of autumn. A slender girl from birth, the doubts that she could bear children at all have tinged all discussions pertaining to the succession. Perhaps she was judged too young, and God has waited until now to secure her health and that of the babe she carries - for the Midwives had always been adamant that there would be children from her womb. It must, of course, be a prince. There is no other help for it - should she bear a daughter, then the rumours shall begin all over again - her mother's curse…her mother's sin - manifest in the failure to give England a son as the usurper had also failed. Does she know?
Of course she does. She must do - Elizabeth has one of the sharpest intellects he has ever seen, and she is hardly blind to the risks she faces if her child is a girl. Her youth is on her side, of course, for there shall be ample opportunity to bear another babe in time - but the need for a son is so great in the hearts of her subjects that the failure to bear one shall stand against her as it did her mother.
No. Enough of this. Cromwell shakes his head, grasps his sticks and forces himself out his chair with a cacophony of cracks and grunts of pain. As long as he is alive, he shall protect his Queen with all at his command - and that includes fervent prayers for a boy.
Turning, he calls for his manservant - it is nearly time for supper, and he has much to discuss with his son.
"My Lord of Lincoln." Anne smiles, "It is far too fine a day to remain within these walls, shall we discuss business in the privy garden?"
Smiling, Lincoln bows, and escorts her outside. Lady Wiltshire - as always - behind them. Determinedly on show for all to see, but carefully, wilfully deaf to the words of the Dowager and the Lord.
"How is her Majesty?" he asks, as they make their slow way along a path between beds surrounded by well tended box.
"Well, my Lord." She answers, "Though her sickness is tiresome - and she is hopeful that it shall pass as it does for most women when their babe reaches the third month, though I am told that she is beginning to crave liver paste most heartily, and the kitchens are hard put to secure sufficient stocks for her. I suspect I was more fortunate in that aspect, for I craved apples."
He smiles, "With my late wife, it was cherries. We were most fortunate that her craving came at a time when cherries were in season."
She knows of his previous marriage, and its tragic end when his wife died in childbed, swiftly followed by the babe. No wonder he was so keen to accept the appointment to lead England's Swedish embassy - with nothing but anguished memories to keep him in England. Both of them left behind by spouses that went ahead of them into death. He knows, as does she from her own lost babes, the dangerous path that Elizabeth must now tread.
"Has she appointed her midwives?" he continues.
"Madame Astley has assumed that task." Anne answers, smiling fondly, "As I am her mother, Madame Astley has transformed from a valued elder sister into a loved aunt. Even now, she questions women most closely, determined to ensure that they have the knowledge and skill to bring a babe safely into the world."
"And the physicians that shall attend?" he sounds more doubtful now, for some reason. Bemused, she turns to him, "Do you not trust physicians?"
His expression saddens, "After the birth of my son, the midwives were most concerned for her - but the physicians banished them from the room. Their distress was great, for they claimed to know what ailed my wife, but the physicians refused to hear them. I wonder, sometimes, if - had they been granted entry to her chamber - they might have saved her when the physicians could not."
"But they are physicians, William." They are far enough away from hedges and concealed corners for her to drop his title now, "What can a midwife know in comparison?"
"All women are tended by midwives in childbirth, Anne." He says, quietly, "Few are tended by physicians. I have learned from the experiences of my fellow husbands that a midwife has saved a woman before now that a physician could not. Thus I do not trust physicians with a woman in childbirth."
She discreetly rests her hand upon his, "You seem to have given much thought to this."
"In my grief, I looked for someone to hold to account, and the midwives were most determined to claim that they could have saved my wife had they not been dismissed. From what they told me - and others - I think it possible that they could have been right."
"Then we shall secure the most experienced midwives, and ensure that the physicians are kept at bay." She assures him, "I have lost babes, and I could not bear for my daughter to endure that pain." She pauses, then continues, "I have never forgotten them, William: never. My first babe was too young, and thus I knew not whether that child was boy or girl - but the second…he had the appearance of a male child, and thus I know that he was my son. Even now I think of him, and wonder what he might have become. Had I borne him at term, then I should never have feared for myself again - no matter now much Henry had learned to despise me, for he could not dismiss me without casting his son into bastardy."
"You think he would have dismissed you?"
"Of course he would." She answers, smiling a little bitterly, "I was not deaf to the rumours that circulated the Court, though I forced myself to stop my ears to them. He had found another woman to court, and wished to set her in my stead. Had he not fallen from his horse while attempting to impress her, then I have no doubt that I would have been dispatched to my father's estates in disgrace - or worse. I should have refused to go, and thus he would have looked to other means to remove me."
They lapse into companionable silence, and walk for a while between the flowerbeds as birds sing all about them. God…she has not felt such happiness in the presence of a man for longer than she can remember. Not since Henry…the first Henry…
No. I can never love again. My daughter would feel the sting of it…
Or would she? She has spent the past five years withdrawing from the public eye, allowing Elizabeth to step forth and claim the love of the realm for her own. The churches offer up prayers for her Majesty the Queen and his Majesty the King, while 'Her Majesty the Queen Regent' is no longer mentioned. Oh, to find that lost companionship again: to salve that lonely ache that has followed her for nearly twenty years…
"Majesty," Lady Wiltshire's voice discreetly interrupts her train of thought, "Forgive my intrusion, but we must return to your apartments to prepare for her Majesty's thanksgiving."
God, yes. Today the formal proclamation has been made that the Queen is - at last - with child. The realm shall be alive with celebration, and there shall be the peal of bells across England.
If her happiness cannot be granted, then at least there is that.
"I am pleased to see you returned, Excellency Damião. You have been much missed." Richmond smiles, though his expression falters at the wafer with cream cheese that he is obliged to consume to end his meal.
"I am pleased to be back, my Lord; I believe you are now an Earl, are you not? My congratulations on your elevation." Damião answers, bowing politely, "And his Majesty has done his duty to his Queen and England shall - God willing - have a prince. I am delighted for her in her joy."
"I hope that you shall stay a while longer on this occasion. My Lord of Essex has greatly missed his chess games with you. He is not at court presently, but shall return within the week."
"Is he well?"
"He is indeed - though he is ageing, and has reached his three score years and ten. His mind is as sharp as it has ever been, and I think he shall delight in testing himself against your skill."
The Court has feasted extensively - a rare thing even in a realm that has prospered well for ten years or more - and the air remains fragrant with the aromas of roasted meats as people emerge from the banqueting hall to begin a long evening of dancing. Elizabeth has settled herself in a well cushioned chair beneath her canopy of estate, her stomach a little delicate, while Anna Conti sits with her and offers sniffs of a pomander studded with spices to disguise the smell of the supper that has just been consumed. Philip is nearby, dividing his time between discussions with his gentlemen and seeing to her wellbeing.
"They seem well matched." Damião observes, "I do not recall his Majesty's father being so solicitous to his wife's welfare as she carried his sons."
"We fear childbirth, Excellence." Richmond laughs, "The very suggestion of it sends us fleeing in search of refuge and ale. They seem to delight in one anothers' company, and that is a gift few couples are granted when they are bonded in marriage."
"Come now - it cannot be the ideal marriage, surely? They must have differences of opinion."
"Oh, believe me, they have. I am one of several Councillors to whom one or the other has turned when they have quarrelled in the last five years. It has been a hard won success in their marriage, but they have achieved common ground and are as happy as they were when first they met."
"I can see that pleases you."
Richmond nods, "It does. I am blessed with many children, but I have always seen her as another of my brood - as though a favoured niece, if you will. I think we all do. She has grown up amongst us, and we have taught her all that we can to bring her into her inheritance as England's queen. We could have fought amongst ourselves to control her; but my Lord of Essex considers the longer view. In supporting the Regent, we have prospered as we might never have done had we not, and England has prospered with us." He smiles, "It is greed, yes - but the right sort of greed."
"There is no such thing, my Lord." Damião laughs.
Seated upon the dais, Anne watches her daughter's endurance of the near-inevitable nausea of early pregnancy with fond sympathy. As she endured it, so does Elizabeth. She is more fortunate, however, in that her husband is more concerned with her welfare than Henry ever was. He was certainly proud of her soon-to-be expanding belly, and boasted of his forthcoming sons with cheerful regularity; but the process of pregnancy was a province of the women, and his interest stopped at the boasting. England expects a prince, of course; and she would be a liar if she did not have hopes of the same - but she has endured the agony of losing a longed-for babe, and her greatest interest is that the child shall survive, and the mother too. Whether the child be boy or girl is of far lesser import - her disappointment in being denied a son lasted the few brief moments between that discovery, and Elizabeth being placed into her arms. Henry's had been far greater, of course, but even he had eventually fallen under the spell of his precious child.
All of London is celebrating, bells peal, firecrackers explode in the sky and wine flows from fountains. It shall be done again - and in greater quantities - once the child is born, but for now the knowledge that the Queen shall give her realm an heir is sufficient cause to celebrate.
She nods her head in acknowledgement as Northumberland approaches, "Your Grace."
"Majesty." He bows to her, "Forgive my intrusion, but I have news from Spain. It seems that the Emperor has been obliged to debase the Real again in order to stave off bankruptcy. Furthermore, his health is faltering, and it is unlikely that he shall live for much longer. Thus his son, Philip, shall inherit the Kingdom of Spain."
"It is not for me to be told such things, your Grace." She reminds him, "It is for her Majesty now."
"I am aware of that, Majesty," He admits, "but I had no wish to bring politics into her time of celebration. I thought I should raise it with you this night, and then it can be discussed by the council upon the morrow. Your views are valuable, even if you have stepped aside."
"Thank you for your kindness, your Grace," Anne smiles, "I am grateful for the consideration. If her Majesty seeks my opinion, then I shall offer it - but if she does not, then I shall keep my peace."
His expression becomes uncomfortable, "I fear that some men of the Court see this as an opportunity to declare war upon Spain. His Imperial Majesty remains committed against the Turk, while Henry of France continues his father's policy of assaulting the Empire's border in hopes of grasping more lands for himself. Even the great treasure ships from the new world are unable to sustain the immense cost of these conflicts, and thus to open a third front would be all-but impossible. The younger men of the court are convinced that they could take Cadiz without effort, and are keen to do so. That her Majesty's foremost advisers are opposed to making war upon our neighbours is an affront to them, and they are convinced that her Majesty's inexperience has blinded her to the opportunities for glory, and that England could rule all of Europe if she could be convinced to remove the fearful cowards who advise her to hide within her own borders."
"I am not blind to their aspirations, your Grace," She admits, "and neither is her Majesty; but I am grateful for your news, for it shall most certainly inspire them to agitate for war, and her Majesty has no desire to consent to such a costly enterprise."
"We shall stand with her against any advice that presses her to do so, Majesty. Of that, you can be assured. War costs much, and earns little; we have gained much from the years of peace that have blessed the realm. When his Grace of Essex returns, we shall reconvene the Council and discuss the matter more fully."
"Thank you, your Grace." She nods as he bows and steps back. God above, shall it ever end? No sooner has joyful news graced the realm, than matters abroad emerge to bring strife and dissent to her daughter's table. Sighing to herself, she sits back in her chair; it is no longer for her to speak of such matters. That is for Elizabeth, and she can only hope that her daughter has the strength to hold those young bloods back.
As it did when he departed, the carriage rattles unpleasantly, but less brutally than it might have done without the chains to hold the box from capturing every bump in the cobbled street. Cromwell has done all that he can to set his affairs in order, signing a new draft of his will to take account of new children born to his wider family, and account of new properties that he has accumulated since the last testament that bore his signature. When the time comes, Gregory shall inherit the bulk of his properties, but ample bequests for his siblings' children serve as a visible demonstration of his success in life. However much longer he shall live, he shall do so secure in the knowledge that all is prepared for the day that he dies.
The people outside the confines of the vehicle seem even more delighted than they did when he travelled in the other direction, having enjoyed two days of celebration and leisure from work to share in the joy of their Queen. They are quite convinced that all shall be well, and none of them give thought to what is to happen once her Majesty enters confinement and prepares for her lying in.
There shall have to be a regent, of course; and it shall have to be Philip. He wears the Crown matrimonial, and has proclaimed himself an Englishman - but he remains a foreign prince, and there is no telling how her Majesty's subjects shall respond to a proclamation that he shall rule during the Queen's confinement. After the Dowager Queen has taken such care to withdraw from the public eye, they cannot return her to the fore - and certainly not when there is a husband to carry that burden. Ah well, such a test of his Subjects' views of him would have come sooner or later - better that it be sooner. Not that they have proclaimed as much, of course. He is the Lord Chancellor, and thus no decisions of such import are made without his knowledge.
His stewards are awaiting him as the carriage draws up near the gatehouse closest to his apartments, and he curses his infirmities as he is assisted to alight. God, to be free of the pain of his protesting limbs - but that freedom shall be provided when he is granted his eternal rest, and thus he endures while he is still of use in the mortal world.
Lord Richmond is awaiting him at the stop of the stairs that lead up to his rooms, and he smiles, cheerfully, "Ah, Richard. I trust that is a flagon of wine in your hand?"
"Most assuredly. We have celebrated heartily, and it seems most remiss that you have not shared in this remarkably excellent riesling wine."
Limping his way up the stairs with the assistance of his sticks and stewards, he falls into step with his friend, "If you have been useful for nothing else, then I can claim when we are before God that you were my most faithful provisioner of wine."
Richmond laughs, "Then I shall be well rewarded, and most content."
Their walk to the apartment is, of necessity, slow, but their conversation is convivial, "Their Majesties are to travel out upon a barge tomorrow to review her new Flagship; Mr Baker's designs have created a magnificent vessel, and he has asked that she be named Ark Royal in her Majesty's honour. A second barge for her most prominent Officials shall follow, of course - though we are hopeful that the tides are sufficiently high to permit ease of boarding for those of us who are of lesser ability in terms of movement." Richmond cannot conceal his own awkward gait, or the need for a stick of his own, so his comment is hardly a jibe at Lord Cromwell's lack of mobility.
It is only once they are behind closed doors that the topic changes, "The atmosphere has changed at Court since her Majesty's announcement." Richmond advises, pouring out the wine, "The young men are keen upon war to a degree that has not been seen in many years - and they hope that, in her distraction, she can be prevailed upon to declare war upon Spain."
Cromwell frowns, "Upon what grounds? One cannot take up arms without a casus belli. Spain has not acted against us since the former Lady Mary attempted to invade - and even then they were not keen to support her. The Emperor was most careful to claim that she had acted upon her own volition, and to assure us that there would be no further activity to invade. That he cannot afford to is another consideration - and if we are not under threat from Spain, we have no reason to declare war."
"There is no benefit to us in doing so." Richmond agrees, "But the recent devaluation of the real has done little to avert the threat of bankruptcy in Spain - particularly as the Emperor is still obliged to fight upon two fronts. How it is that he has not ceded for peace with Henry, God alone knows. The Turk is enough of a threat without a foolish squabble with France over who rules the Duchy of Milan. Why they cannot leave it in the hands of the Duke, I cannot imagine."
"What, respect one anothers' boundaries? Whatever next!" Cromwell scoffs, but then sighs a little, "I do not think that I have the strength to dissuade these young men from their bellicose aspirations, Richard. They have no respect for me, for I am old and becoming infirm - thus they look for my removal, so that they can persuade her Majesty that England's growing wealth and prominence should serve as sufficient grounds to assault our neighbours."
"They have not fought in wars." Richmond reminds him.
"They are fools. I have fought in wars, and not as a commander. That I lived is entirely owing to fortune rather than any skill or ability upon my part. I could not abide to send the youth of England into combat without good reason, for it is they who shall do the dying."
"Well then." Richmond says, decisively, "As long as we have breath in our bodies, then we shall stand against demands to go to war, and advise their Majesties that to do so shall serve only to ruin England's prosperity and to no good purpose. Her Majesty can concentrate upon the welfare of her babe, and we shall concentrate upon the welfare of her Kingdom. Tomorrow, we shall discuss her Majesty's regency during her confinement, and we shall take care to ensure that none shall be permitted to enter into declarations of War without the agreement and consent of the full Privy Council, and her Majesty. Perhaps, then, we shall be safe from the horrors of conflict."
Cromwell nods, and sips at his wine. Only those who have actually fought in a war can possibly understand the troubles that would lie ahead for her Majesty's subjects if England were to seek combat. Better instead to concentrate upon the coming heir, and celebrate the continuation of the Tudor line. If that is the last thing that he is required to do upon this earth, then he shall do it.