A/N: Another week passes - and another chapter is posted! Thank you again for your comments - it was something of a cliffhanger, was it not?

I have indeed purloined the Essex Rebellion for this incident - though the lack of Shakespeare at this time meant I couldn't use Richard II as my dramatic primer. With Cumberland on the move, has Anne and her Council done enough to keep a lid on things? Read on to find out...

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Joy

Anne is seated; but although her feet are still, her mind most assuredly is not, "Is there news from Cumberland house? Surely my Lords of Richmond, Lincoln and Hackney have emerged?"

Also seated, Cromwell shakes his head, "If there be news, Majesty; it shall come to us first."

He watches solemnly as she wrings her hands. Does she know that she is doing it? Probably not; but it could not be clearer that her concern for the delegation is strong - but particularly strong over Lord Lincoln. While she trusts both Richmond and Sadleir implicitly, that trust is not tempered by a greater regard. She has not granted her heart to them, after all.

Philip rises from his chair and crosses to join her, "I am sure that they are safe, Madame; for as long as I have known them, they have demonstrated temperance and good sense. Even if Cumberland and his son intend to resist, they shall prevail against the rebels."

His words are reassuring; but his expression as he looks across to Cromwell out of her eyeline suggests a rather more nervous expectation than he claims. Philip has always viewed the world with a sense of optimism; and perhaps that has appeared to many as naïveté. He is not, however, blind to the danger that Londoners might listen to the furious pronouncements that Catholics shall steal away the soul of the Queen and the prince that she shall shortly bear. They have all heard the lurid rumours of horrors being inflicted upon Protestants by Catholics in both France and Spain; rumours that grow all the more wild with each retelling. Some of them might even be true - but it is hard to say for certain.

"Baron Percy is not well known amongst your Majesty's subjects." Cromwell advises, "Thus he has no degree of fame upon which to rest should he attempt to raise them in rebellion. Instead he shall be obliged to rely upon religion to do so, which is an altogether firmer foundation; though that, too, is likely to be rather less stable than he might hope. After years of prosperity and peace between neighbours, most of London would not wish to see it consigned to confusion over the promptings of one discontented minor nobleman. Her Majesty is loved greatly by her Subjects, and that she is preparing to present them with her first heir is most likely to still them."

Anne nods, "I think that, had he been granted a degree of better sense, he might well have awaited the birth. Once it is known whether England has a Prince, or Princess, he shall be able to arrange his argument accordingly. But he has not waited, and instead has forced our hand - which has, in turn, forced his."

All heads turn as a guardsman is ushered into the room, "Majesties, My Lord Cromwell; I am advised to tell you that the City Aldermen have given word that all should remain within their properties this day, and not emerge at any prompting other than that given by the King and the Regent. Cumberland and his son are denounced as traitors, and that alone has damaged their cause. Already businesses are shuttering, and people have withdrawn to their homes. Should these traitorous rebels emerge, they shall find the streets empty of people to raise against her Majesty the Queen."

Philip's tension fades a little; but both he and Cromwell can see that Anne's has not, "And what of her Majesty's delegation of Lords? Have they emerged from Cumberland house with the traitors?"

"I cannot say, Majesty." The guardsman admits, "There is no news."

Immediately, her hands grasp the arms of the chair, and she rises from it, her expression furious, "Then find news! Find it or I shall have your head!"

Startled, the man bows hastily and flees.

"Majesty; that was uncalled for." Cromwell chides mildly, "He is not to blame for the lack of tidings."

Anne spins round and glares at him, "Should one of those who is unaccounted for be important to you, perhaps you might think differently!"

He does not so much as flinch, "One of them is a great friend and ally with whom we have shared many travails and triumphs. Another is a man whom I regard as a second son, and also my protégé - who I have educated to serve her Majesty when I am no longer present to serve the Queen. That the youth had no news of them is not his fault, and it was unseemly to berate him."

She opens her mouth; then shuts it again. There are too many people present who consider gossip of her regard for Lincoln to be naught but a rumour; best not to confirm to them that it is not. Regardless of the promptings of her heart, Elizabeth's reputation is paramount…

Cromwell's eyes soften in sympathy as hers dampen with tears that she cannot risk shedding. William is in the hands of rebels…what if he is harmed…what if he is dead?

Still standing behind her, Philip rests his hands upon her shoulders, "If I could be assured it would not inflame matters, I should send a troop of soldiers to Cumberland house. But I cannot be. Instead I trust to the wise sense of the three Lords who are there. They shall act prudently, I am sure of it."

"Forgive me, Majesty." She says, after a painful pause to regain her composure, "And I also ask your forgiveness, my Lord Cromwell. My words were unfair, and you are right. The messenger is not to blame. I saw my late husband once beat a messenger bloody over the tidings that he brought; and I should not wish to act in the same fashion. Might I ask that you convey my regrets to the young man? I should not wish for him to think that his head is truly endangered."

He smiles at her, "I shall see to it."

And then they fall silent again. The matter is in the hands of others; there is nothing that they can do now but wait.

The interior of the wine cellar is rather chill and damp; but none of the men are dressed lightly and there is no danger of anyone shivering with cold - and being accused of cowardice as a consequence. The small cadre of guards are at the far end of the chamber, and remain where they are on pain of seeing at least one the men in their charge shot in the head.

Richmond is still scowling. He is a considerably braver man than once he was; and neither of the men beside him are prone to yielding to their fears. Above their heads, the thump of boots on floorboards has receded, and he turns to Lincoln, "I can only assume that they have departed to the streets."

"Then it is in the hands of God now." Lincoln sighs.

"And the City fathers, my Lords." Sadleir reminds them, "They have been informed of the danger, and that those who rise are naught but traitors. I have no doubt that orders have been given to clear the streets. His Grace of Essex is most thorough in his actions, regardless of his infirmities. We have laid the ground for this insurrection to fail utterly - and, God willing, they shall call upon the people to stand with them; but the people shall not hear them."

Of the group who escorted them into the cellar, only two remain now; armed with pistols but nervous that they are holding three senior lords of the Court hostage, particularly in terms of the fate that shall await them should the insurrection fail. They are both young - and their expressions have faltered from smug to uncomfortable. They are committed to their course now; and the price of failure shall assuredly be their heads.

His expression cold, Richmond turns back to the two men who guard them, "In the name of Her Majesty the Queen, I order you to put up your weapons. Surrender now, and you might yet keep your heads. Cumberland and Alnwick are already decried as traitors to the Realm, and none shall hear them when they call upon London to rise against her lawful Prince. If you do so, I shall personally recommend to their Majesties that you receive no more than a fine for your behaviour." Once, that would have been a lie; told to win their trust and lure them into a false sense of safety. No longer: a world where honour is rewarded more richly than perfidy has made an honourable man even of Richard Rich.

For a moment, the two youths pause; weighing up the consequences of their answer to his offer. In spite of their loaded weapons, he does not flinch. After an almost interminable wait, one of them speaks, "Is that your promise? You shall speak for us?"

"It is. I give you my word." A word that is worth far more now than once it was, "Put up your weapons and surrender them to my Lord of Lincoln. We shall escort you to Baynard's Castle where you shall be kept comfortably. Those who have departed this day might have also gone there - but their choice shall send them instead to the Tower."

And that clinches it. Both shudder at the mention of a Palace upon which has been cast a veil of dread by a long dead King. Without another word, the two lower their weapons, and hand them to Lincoln.

"Captain!" Sadleir calls back to the guards, "Arrest these men - but do not bind them. We shall quit this place from the water gate and escort them by river to Baynard's Castle. See to it that they are secure - but well housed. As my Lord of Richmond has promised."

There are none to impede their way as they make their way to the water gate, and it is an easy matter to commandeer two passing longboats to row them downstream past the Bridewell and Blackfriars. The air of relief of the two youths as they pull in to the privy stair of Baynard's Castle is almost palpable; perhaps they believed that the boats would continue on past London Bridge after all.

"My Lords," Lincoln turns to his colleagues as the young men are escorted to quarters in the palace, "If it please you, I shall repair to Whitehall to report this matter to their Majesties. I am certain that the City militia is prepared for deployment, but without knowing that they are needed, they cannot march."

Richmond nods, "Go, William. We shall remain here to await their Majesties' command."

They watch as Lincoln departs, "That, I think, shall bring great relief to her Majesty the Regent." Sadleir murmurs to Richmond, "I shall dispatch a few men onto the streets to see how things lie. Should we need to act, there are men here, I think; so I shall ensure that they are prepared should they be needed."

"Very well. I shall set out a report of all that occurred. I have a promise to keep, after all."

Sadleir grins at him as he departs.

Retreating to a small, sunlit chamber, Richmond seats himself at a desk and gathers paper, quill and ink. As he pauses to dip the nib, he stares at his suddenly shaking hand. Not a half hour ago, a pistol was pointed at his head…what if it had been fired…

Trembling all over, he sets the quill down, and stares sightlessly out of the window.

The column of young men is quite impressive. Riding at its head, Cumberland smiles proudly as his son encourages them with strident orders that they are saving England from the evils of popery. Perhaps some of those who hear the words believe them.

It is not about religion - it never has been. Religion is the convenient touch-paper that shall ignite a powder keg to blast all of the slattern's 'new men' to hell, and set things right again. Once the work has been done, the way shall be clear for the old nobility to resume their place at the head of the Realm, and the Queen shall listen to them instead.

He almost feels sorry for old Cromwell; that walking corpse shall not see out his final hours in a warm bed, but instead upon a scaffold - so close to the end of his days, helped to eternal rest not with prayer but instead an axe. And all the others who rose with him shall watch before they, too, take their turn at the block. As the one who won back their ascendancy, the cowardly inheritors of the old noble houses shall be obliged to look to him to lead them, of course. His fool brother sulked over the requirements of duty, marrying that dull Mary Talbot in spite of his loathing to do so - and hers - then denying the title to his relatives after he failed to father a son. His intransigence did naught but halt their line; and the name Northumberland was given to another. Never mind. Once the Dudley thief is dead, he shall claim it back - but keeping it as a Duchy, of course.

Alongside him, Percy is in his element, exhorting the youths of the Inner Temple who were all too willing to follow him. Bored with squabbles and minor fisticuffs with the popish fools of the Middle Temple, they are keen to take their fight to the streets - and the prospect of actually expelling Catholics from London has lit a fire in their bellies that seems unlikely to be easily quelled.

The most convenient milling point for those who shall doubtless join them is the great precinct around the Cathedral Church of St Paul's. While there shall be far fewer celebrants at today's Mass than there would be on a Sunday, that shall at least prove to be a good start, and then they shall turn west again to confront the Pope's Puppet King and demand that Elizabeth be released into their custody for her spiritual safety. That she shall be well protected is not in doubt; she has remained at Placentia while the Portuguese Rooster has come to Whitehall - and it is a simple matter to claim that he has done so with the intention of seizing England for himself while his queen is in confinement.

The noisy column makes its way up Ludgate Hill, shouting out their intentions, For the Queen! Save England from craven politicians! No popery! And myriad other variations on the same theme. As they do so, however, Cumberland's smile is slipping. They departed Cumberland House and gathered youths from the Temple without difficulty; but their journey along Fetter Lane and Fleet Street has not increased their number to any appreciable degree. Indeed, the streets are far quieter than they should be…

Still shouting excitedly, Percy shows no indication that he has noticed the lack of people to join them as they pass. Instead, he seems almost in the grip of a mania, fed and nurtured by the roar of the group to their rear. Other than the men who left with them, and the various minor noblemen who provided them, all they have managed to recruit is a bundle of disaffected apprentice lawyers. And he does not even notice it.

His eyes sharpened by his nervous tension, Cumberland takes more notice of their surroundings, and realises that not only are people not out on the streets, but their windows are firmly shut, and even - in some cases - shuttered. God have mercy - they have been warned…told not to emerge…

If that were not warning enough, the truth of their danger finally strikes him as they approach the great edifice of Ludgate, to find both door passages bolted shut, and the main gates locked. Their way is barred, and he has no doubt that the portcullis would have been lowered had it been possible. So many years have passed since it was needed, it is likely that the windlass has rusted shut.

Why is he thinking such trivialities? It could not be clearer that the politicians he despised have outwitted him, and he has placed himself in their grasp. Horrified, he looks around and sees again that all of the windows of the houses nearby are firmly shut. They would be anyway, of course; the heat of summer serves only to make the reek of the streets insupportable. But no one is calling to them. Instead, people remain behind the glass - where it can be afforded - or the shutters if it cannot, and watch through cracks to see what shall happen next.

"Ho there!" Percy seems even now to believe that his cause is not in ruins, "Gatekeeper! Open the gates and permit us passage in the name of the Queen!"

A head finally emerges from an upper window, "In the name of the Queen, I am ordered not to permit you to pass! You shall not sully the precincts of God's house with your unlawful insurrection!"

Enraged, Percy snatches at a pistol, which serves only to prompt the speaker to hastily withdraw inside again. Fortunately, the boy does not fire the weapon, but instead shouts again, "Open the gate, you foul servant of the devil! England is in peril and you do naught but serve the interests of those who would lead her to ruin!"

"I do not answer to traitors!" the voice is muffled now, but the import of the words is clear. He would not call them so if they had not been declared as such. Now Cumberland is truly afraid; while there are many crimes a nobleman can commit, there is only one that might see them die.

Percy is about to speak again, but his father grasps at his wrist, "Speak not one word more! They have declared us traitors - we must depart, and look to defend ourselves if we are to survive." He turns to look back at the column, "To Cumberland House! There we have hostages and can negotiate for their lives. Retreat!"

He is not surprise to see that the number of men behind them is considerably smaller already.

By the time they have reached the Strand again, he can count the numbers at his back probably in terms of tens rather than hundreds. They are melting away as they pass any side street or alley. Most are anonymous, and perhaps shall survive thanks to that anonymity; but at least he has the Lord Treasurer as a hostage. He is friends with that old man Cromwell, and the Queen has valued him for years. They shall bargain for his life - and for those of Lincoln and Hackney, for each shall likely succeed to high office when those who hold them are gone.

Percy is out of his saddle almost before the horse has stopped, "Fetch out the hostages!" He shouts, furiously, "I shall shoot one of them now - then they shall know that I am not to be tried!"

"Cease your madness, boy!" Cumberland bellows at him, "Harm so much as a hair of any of their heads, and we shall be assuredly for the block! The threat shall be enough - the best that we can hope for is exile, do not presume that we can still succeed!"

The youth glares mutinously at his father, but then relents, "Forgive me, father. My blood is too heated; I shall abide by your choice."

"That is better." Dismounting, Cumberland looks around, "Well? Where are they? Bring them out!"

The sight of the terrified steward at the top of the stairs into the main house tells him all he needs to know.

The hostages are gone; taking with them any hope of negotiating an escape.

Sighing, Cumberland crosses to a mounting block and sits down heavily. He had hoped to retrieve the Northumberland name; but instead he has lost it for good.

"Point." He murmurs to himself. "Point, and game."

Philip reads Richmond's report, penned once his trembling at Baynard's Castle had subsided, "The two young men are still housed at Baynard's Castle?"

"Yes, Majesty. They have given no trouble."

"Then, in accordance with your promise to them, I agree that they shall receive a nominal fine, and then released without further censure. I have no doubt her Majesty shall agree."

"Thank you, Majesty."

Anne smiles at him, "I am most grateful that you were unharmed, my Lord; as were my Lords of Lincoln and Hackney. Once his grace of Northumberland has returned from Cumberland House, we shall determine the fate of the Percys." Her smile slips slightly, "I am saddened that it has come to this; the Percys were once a most honourable family, loyal to the Crown in all things."

Until their Henry fell in love with me. And I with him…

She shudders at the thought; how much of all that has happened is thanks to her? The King broke with Rome to have her; Wolsey and the Northumberland family forced their heir to repudiate her when they had given their hearts to one another, causing him to despise them to the point that he granted his inheritance to the Crown instead of his brother upon his death without an heir…she bore the King a daughter instead of a son…

"Majesty?" Cromwell's voice interrupts her thoughts, "Are you unwell?"

"Nay my Lord," She smiles at him, "Forgive me. I was thinking of times past."

He inclines his head, politely, "I find that I am prompted to do much the same these days."

Jane pours her a glass of chilled mead, and she smiles at her sister in law, "Have you heard from George?"

"Not as yet, Majesty." Jane has reverted to using Anne's title while she has resumed a Regency, "All remain upon tenterhooks awaiting the moment that her Majesty's pains begin."

The two women look across to Philip, who is now free from worry over the possibility of rebellion - enabling him to resume worrying about the safety and welfare of his wife. Sadleir is talking to him of various trivialities, though it is clear that he is listening with only half an ear. He might have helped to save the Realm, but should it be necessary to save his Queen, there is nothing he can do. Nothing but pray.

All eyes are upon him as Northumberland is ushered in, "It is done, Majesty. They forted up for a siege; but quickly surrendered once we deployed a cannon and trained its muzzle upon their gate. Without their hostages, they had no means to negotiate; while the presence of a troop of armed men aboard barges ensured they could not flee by water."

"Cumberland and his son?" Philip asks.

"Being conveyed to the Tower. The others with them were being marched to the Bridewell to await her Majesty's pleasure."

"That is well. I should not wish to see their fates decided by any but her Majesty. That, above all, shall give the lie to their claims that I have stolen her Crown."

Anne smiles at Northumberland, "I am grateful, my Lord. If it please you, I shall ask her Majesty to confer a peerage upon your son in his own right. He deserves more than a mere courtesy title, think you not?"

Her smile widens at the flash of pleasure upon his features at the suggestion, "I am most grateful for your kind consideration, Majesty. He has serve well, and I am right pleased with him for his loyalty to his Queen."

"As are we, I assure you. Perhaps, in the light of his excellent service, you might see fit to introduce his brothers to the Court in due time? If they are as well governed as he, then England shall be greatly served."

"I shall think on it, Majesty." He agrees, with a slight twinkle in his eye, "I feel it wise to remind your Majesty that there are rather a lot of them."

She laughs, but her reply is stalled by the sound of a sharp knock upon the door, and all eyes turn to see a flushed youth clutching a single piece of rough paper. Wordless, still out of breath, the boy enters upon invitation, and holds out the paper.

Taking it, Anne's eyes widen and she is immediately upon her feet, "Come, Ladies - we must away at once! My Lord Hackney - please secure a barge immediately - and I pray God that the river is not racing. Hurry!"

Immediately all is in uproar, and the room is cleared in minutes; the small piece of paper dropped and forgotten upon the floor.

Her Majesty's pains have begun.

W.

The great oriel window of Cromwell's apartments at Placentia offers no light in the midst of a warm summer night; and the need for candles is unwelcome; but with all in the Palace awaiting that final act of the drama that is a Queen's pregnancy, only a few are able to sleep.

"A few more hours, and it shall be done." Richmond muses, rolling a fine brandewine around a thick glass and pausing every now and then to inhale the fragrance before sipping at it, "I think our work shall then truly be complete, do you not?"

"Yes - and no." Cromwell smiles back at him, "England shall have an heir - but I have one task that I have set myself that I do not wish to set aside, or to leave unfinished should God call me home."

"Her Majesty and Lord Lincoln." It is not a question.

Nodding, Cromwell fumbles behind him for a folio of papers, "I have made further amendments to our draft, Richard; but I think that, should I make more, I shall do more harm than good to the clauses we have made."

Setting down the glass, Richmond takes the folio and works his way through the papers therein, squinting somewhat thanks to a combination of poor light, and poor eyesight. Every so often he nods, occasionally he offers a small grunt of agreement, or frowns a moment, then reads again before nodding. At length he looks up, "I think that I, too, could offer nothing more to this. Her Majesty has been widowed for twenty years; she has no requirement to lead England any longer, and thus could retire to a quiet life of contentment with a husband away from Court."

"Should she wish it." Cromwell adds, quietly.

"You think she would not?"

"Nay - I think she would be delighted to retire so; but she remains a mother; and the welfare of her child is ever at the forefront of her mind. As it has always been."

Richmond nods in a agreement; "That is true, Thomas. Do you think this should be laid before Parliament? It is of a rather personal bent, is it not?"

"I think not. I have seen to it that all laws are debated by men from the Shires; but I think this shall be the last law that shall pass only through the hands of a Prince. It shall have no consequence for any other than those to whom it applies - and they are but one small family." He sits back with a mildly frustrated sigh, "God above, I had forgotten how long a child can take to enter the world. How many hours is it now?"

Richmond looks back towards the mantel, where a small clock shows the hour, "I should say perhaps six; though whether we shall be obliged to wait until dawn is debatable. I have found that the time can be remarkably quick, or remarkably slow; each of the babes my wife bore me seemed to come in a time of its own choosing."

"Then I shall pour us more brandewine, and hope that we are not insensible when England's heir is born."

Elsewhere in the Palace, a nervous father - like all nervous fathers before him - paces back and forth, unable to settle upon anything. Wiltshire is nearby, equally occupied; for the labouring woman two floors up is his niece, too. All that they know is that the babe lies well in the womb, and should make its journey to the world safely. How long that shall take is one of life's eternal mysteries; and they are both chafing against their ignorance.

"Perhaps a game of cards, Majesty?" Wiltshire ventures.

Philip looks up, then shakes his head, "Forgive me, my Lord. My mind is not upon such matters."

And so they continue to sit, stand, pace, fidget and wait. Just as Wiltshire had been obliged to do when Jane bore William. Eventually, Wiltshire's age tells against him, and he dozes off in a chair, to wake with a start when a hand is set upon his arm.

Grunting he looks about and sees light entering through the windows, "Dawn." He mumbles, "When did that happen?"

"About two hours ago, my Husband." He looks up to see Jane, her eyes filled with tears, "All is done, and all is well."

Immediately he is on his feet, and sees that they are alone. Philip has clearly gone to see his wife.

"Well?"

Jane's tears fall freely, "England has a Prince, George; a Prince! The Queen has delivered a son!"

Delighted, he clasps her in his arms as she laughs through her joyful tears.

The room in which she stands is not the one in which Elizabeth entered the world; for she occupies the apartments that were created for the King. Equal in opulence, yes; but it is the symbolism of her status that places her in this bedchamber. Perhaps it is as well, for that chamber was the scene of one of her mother's most painful memories, even if it was also the scene of one of her most joyful. Had that lost babe survived, then Elizabeth would not be here now; she would probably be married to some foreign prince, and far from the mother who bore her.

Instead she rests in her great tester bed, washed and dressed richly, while her magnificent red-gold hair is brushed lustrous and long, as the child she has borne to her husband, and her Realm, nestles in her arms.

I dreamed of this…but for her there shall be no painful waking.

His expression one of wonderment, Philip seats himself upon the bed as close to her as he can, and examines his newborn son. Nearby, Anna and Jane are blotting tears of joy, while Kat sits in a comfortable chair, where she has remained throughout her Queen's labour, and unashamedly sobs into a kerchief.

Anne remains at the end of the bed, and feels almost like an intruder. Henry had not sat upon the bed beside her when she bore Elizabeth - and his disappointment in her had been all but tangible. That it had not lasted is scant comfort; for his adoration of the child had not been reflected in equal love for her. The discovery that all of Europe considered his daughter a bastard had shattered her worth to him upon the marriage market; and that was - to his mind - entirely the fault of his wife.

Elizabeth tears her eyes away from the sleeping face of her child, raising them to her husband's, "Have I done well, my beloved?"

For a moment, he cannot reply, but then he nods, "Yes, my most precious wife. You have done most well - both for me, and for your Realm."

Then she turns to look at the almost forlorn woman at the end of the bed, "Why do you not approach, Mother? I should most like to show you your grandson."

Anne smiles, a little painfully, "I did not wish to intrude upon your joy, Majesty."

"Please do not think so: for you are, and shall always be, my dearest Mama; I could not imagine this moment without you at my side. Come - greet your grandchild, Mama."

Biting her lip to hold back the tears, she crosses to sit upon the bed opposite her son in law. God have mercy, the child is beautiful; those same, striking brown eyes that have graced the face of every Boleyn for generations, but there are hints of that famous red-gold hair of the Tudor line in a light peach-fur of hair that coats his scalp.

"Oh, well done my dear children." She whispers, softly, "You have given England an heir; but it is your love for one another that has truly made this child, and shall bring him to his inheritance. I am truly proud of you both, and I am sure that your father celebrates in heaven even now, my darling daughter; for you have given England a son, and thus fulfilled his greatest hope for his Realm."

Dampness still thick upon her eyelashes, she bends to kiss the forehead of her grandson, then places another upon the forehead of her daughter, before reaching across to take the hand of her son in law. There shall be painful times ahead as those who rebelled meet justice; but first, they must celebrate, for England has her Prince.

The Hall is alive with banners, candles and joy, for the Queen has emerged from her churching and presides over her Court once again. Now that the summer is drawing to its end, all have moved to Whitehall, in order to celebrate the birth of England's prince.

Elizabeth and Philip have named him Edward Henry William George. The name Edward was chosen in hopes that the babe shall emulate the third Edward of England, in the living of a long life and the restoration of England as a great power in Europe after a time of difficulty, and it was easier to do that than to admit that none of them wanted to have another King Henry.

Edward has been baptised, having received his entry into England's Church within three days of his birth; so the service that shall take place in the Abbey upon the morrow is one of thanksgiving, to which eight hundred people of good name and repute - regardless of birth - have been invited. This afternoon, following the feast that they shall shortly be served, there shall be a grand tourney, where the armour-clad young bloods of the court shall wear ladies' favours upon their lances and joust like the knights errant of old.

The delighted applause as the royal couple take their seats echoes to the rafters. The news that Elizabeth has resumed rule of the Realm after her churching has been carefully disseminated to prove that her husband has not taken her lawful rights from her, and those who claimed otherwise were liars. Such is the joy of the Royal couple that all involved in the insurrection - except for those who fomented it - have been pardoned and permitted to return to their lives without further censure. Even the young men who held her Majesty's delegation of Lords hostage have had their fines waived.

Both men of the fledgling house of Cumberland met their end this morning, laying their heads upon the block in the presence of the younger Privy Councillors. In fairness to them, they both faced their deaths with bravery, and each offered their contrition, for the birth of a son is a clear sign to all that God is not displeased with the Tudor daughter, and thus their actions were in error.

Seated at the high table, Elizabeth smiles radiantly, and clings tightly to her husband's hand as the first remove is accompanied in with braying trumpets and thundering kettledrums. Seated to her daughter's left, Anne shares in her joy, but then her eye is caught by an anomaly. Someone is missing from the throng.

As the meal settles into a quiet burr of chatter while the Courtiers eat, she beckons over Richmond, who abandons his trencher, wiping his hands upon the large napkin that graces his shoulder, "Majesty?"

"Where is my Lord Cromwell? He is most conspicuous by his absence."

Richmond immediately reddens - always a sign that he is uncomfortable - and shuffles a little, "Forgive me, Majesty; he felt it to be unfair to advise you in your time of joy. Following the baptism of his Highness Prince Edward, he began to feel rather unwell, and decided it best to return to Austin Friars in hopes that the sickness might pass."

"He is sick?" Immediately, she is appalled; no - not now. Not in this time of celebration…she cannot be robbed of her closest ally; surely not…

"I…" Richmond's voice trails off, and he looks a little helpless. Much as he should like to pretend that it is a mere passing infirmity, he knows - as does she - that it almost certainly is not.

Immediately, her hand reaches out and grasps his arm tightly, "I must go to him."

"Majesty, he asked me not to let…"

"I care not what he asked. As soon as the feast is voided, and all repair to the tiltyard, you and an appropriate guard shall escort me to his side."

He knows when he is on the losing side, "Yes Majesty."

A barge is ready for her when she emerges at the Queen's privy steps. As promised, Richmond is present with a cadre of guards to form her escort, while she has taken care to change out of her more ostentatious Court garments, and is dressed more as a well-born aristocrat. She shall masquerade as Richmond's wife for this journey to avoid attention - and rumours.

"I know not how he fares, Majesty." Richmond admits quietly, as the barge is rowed away from the palace, "The last I heard he had taken to his bed with a fever; but nothing more. I am not of the family, and thus I cannot demand that they tell me of his welfare."

"If he is to depart this earth, then he shall not go before I have seen him." Anne says, firmly - as though daring God to defy her, "I have much to say to him before he leaves, and I cannot allow him to go until I have spoken."

A messenger has been sent ahead to prepare horses for them, and they alight at Queen's Hythe rather than risk London Bridge. None pay them any mind as they clatter through the reeking streets to the altogether more pleasant surroundings of Cromwell's great house of Austin Friars, which retains a great deal of park around it thanks to his ownership of the land.

Most of the old man's extended family is now in residence, for all know that the grand patriarch is entering his twilight days, and they wish to be with him at the end. Some might descend like vultures; but not this family - for they are close, and he has already made his final wishes abundantly clear.

There is no disguising who she is, and she has no wish to. Enough hugger-mugger; there was more than sufficient of that when first their partnership began. Acknowledging bows and curtseys as she goes, she follows Richmond as he makes his way upstairs to a room that he has clearly already visited, for he knows the way without hesitation.

"Ah. Richard." The voice is weak, dreadfully so, and Anne's stomach lurches in dread. Thank God for her stays, "I am right glad you are here…ah."

He has noticed her, then. Forcing herself to assume a bright smile, she surges into the room as though nothing at all is amiss, and her dying Chancellor, lying abed and propped up by a heap of pillows, is merely resting, "Mr Cromwell, I am most discomfited with you; we celebrate England's joy, and you have taken to your bed!"

He smiles at her, and the mask of jollity she has put upon her face crumbles immediately.

"Nay, Majesty; there is no need to fear. As I prayed He would do, God preserved me upon this Earth to see a son born to England. Now England has her son, and I am free to depart in peace, according to his word."

"Do not quote the Nunc Dimittis at me, my Lord." Her voice wavers, "I am not yet ready to be without your counsel. Do not think to go!"

"It is not my choice, Majesty." He reminds her softly.

Wordlessly, Richmond draws up a chair for her, and she sits at the head of the bed, holding her Chancellor's hand tightly as the Treasurer quietly withdraws to give them some privacy, "If it were my choice, Mr Cromwell, I should order you to stay. Our enmity is so long buried that I can no longer recall it; and I am glad of that, for I learned that you were England's best servant, and I could not have won all that I have without you at my side to guide my steps."

He smiles at her, "I, too, am grateful that we set our enmity aside. You were a formidable woman in those days, and England needed a formidable woman, for the men who would have stood ahead of her would have brought the Realm to ruin as they squabbled over the right to protect it."

"And thus we bested them all."

"Indeed we did."

"Is there anything that I can do?" she asks quietly, "I have no doubt that you have set all in place for your final journey; but I think it would be most remiss of England to fail to salute you as you go."

"That is most kind of you." He answers, "I am but a mere man, Majesty. I do not require processions, or sackcloth and ashes. I shall lie in the Chapel at Oakham, for I have ever lived in the grime of London, and I think I should like to rest in the bright countryside, close to my Son and his family; for he shall have the manor for his own. I did not have the means to procure such fine resting places for my wife and girls; but shall that matter when our souls are together in God's house?"

In spite of all, his eyes twinkle at her, and she laughs; until the sight of his reciprocal smile wrings tears from her eyes, and she weeps, softly.

"Tears, Majesty? Nay - shed none for me; I have done my duty to England, and to my Queens. As I did to my King. My life has been full, and I think that I have done many good things. Soon I shall sup at the Lord's table with my beloved wife and daughters. For all the joys of life upon this earth shall be as nothing when we are united again in His care."

"I shed tears for you for I love you; my dearest, most trusted friend." She whispers, "My joy that you shall return to your wife's side is tempered by my dismay that you shall no longer be at mine. My heart may belong to William, but you have also resided within its halls. It was to you that I turned when I struggled. To you that I looked when my heart quailed with fear or dread. You were a father to me as my own was not - and I looked only to win your pride in me; and rejoiced when I did so."

He regards her, "As once, I told you, Majesty; I, too, regard you warmly - though I think my love to be paternal, not carnal. I looked to you in order to save my own neck, but between us, we found a higher purpose, did we not? And now England has a Prince to continue the line of Tudor, and thus I am content." He pauses, then frowns, "That is; content, but for one thing. Could you call Richard back in, please? There is something we must both discuss with you."

Bemused, she does not rebuke him for asking her to undertake a task for him, but instead rises and summons Richmond, who seems to know what is to be mentioned.

"As you said," Cromwell continues, his voice quavering slightly, "your heart belongs to my Lord of Lincoln, but you think that you cannot wed him. I say otherwise." He nods to Richmond, who turns to a nearby dresser and retrieves a folio of papers, "There is no lawful reason for you not to marry him - but many political reasons. Thus we have - between us - devised a means to counteract any political argument to the contrary. I am saddened that I cannot be the one to bring these clauses to fruition, but my Lord Richmond shall see to it in my name. As you have given England a great Queen, and set aside your own happiness to do it, I wish to give you the joy of lawful marriage to the man to whom you have given your heart." He coughs, painfully, but recovers, "Think of it as my gift to you."

Anne stares at him, thunderstruck. Could it be possible? Could she truly marry William without damaging her daughter's reputation? Perhaps now that she has borne England a son, yes; but so many hurdles to cross…

Cromwell seems to have dismantled them all.

"I…" she struggles to speak for a moment, then makes herself answer, "I thank you, Thomas. From the bottom of my heart. If you have prayed to see England's son born, I pray that you live to see me wedded to my William." Almost as though upon a whim, she leans forward and sets a light kiss upon his wrinkled forehead.

"I should like that." He smiles at her as he settles back amidst the pillows with a contented smile, "Now, away with you, my Queen. I am tired, and you have a wedding to plan."

Jane reads through the papers, "He seems to have thought of everything. There are letters patent for her Majesty to sign raising his Grace of Lincoln from a Viscount to an Earl, a sworn declaration that you renounce all claim to the throne should there be any children born of your marriage…"

"He truly has." Anne agrees, "And I have made him promise that he shall live until I am wedded. Then he shall escort me to my William's side, and hand me to him as a father would do."

Her eyes damp, Jane sets the papers aside, "Allow me to say that I am delighted beyond all things that you may marry him, Anne. Even if there are no children born of your union, it shall be forged in joy - and it is a rare thing to receive rewards from God before our eternal rest."

Laughing delightedly Anne clasps her sister in law and the two almost dance about the room, "I thought never to be permitted to love again, Jane." She exults, "But my dearest friend and guide has seen to it that I can - and I shall never cease to thank him for it!"

They are still laughing as the door opens to admit Lord Richmond, whose expression is stricken. At once, they stumble to a halt.

"Majesty." He says, quietly, almost in tears, "Forgive me. I wish that I did not bear such tidings; but I must, most regretfully, inform you that his Grace of Essex departed this life some three hours ago; shortly after our departure from his home. Thus, in this time of grief, I offer my deepest condolences to you as his Queen, and offer my service to you until such time as his replacement is appointed."

Anne stares at him, not taking it in, "He is dead?"

Richmond nods, and bites his lip tightly to quell its not-quite-visible quiver, "I fear so, Majesty."

Slowly, she draws herself up; decorum: always Queenly decorum - he would expect nothing less of her, "I thank you for your kindness in bringing me these cruel tidings with such care and tact, my Lord Richmond. I shall speak to her Majesty; I am sure that your assistance shall be invaluable in the days ahead. I also offer my condolences to you, for he was a good friend to you. Thus we shall grieve together."

"Thank you, Majesty." His expression miserable, Richmond bows, and withdraws.

"Anne?" Immediately Jane turns to her, "Shall I fetch you a glass of cordial? Perhaps you should like to sit down awhile?"

She says nothing. In her time of joy; once more cruel mischance has risen to snap at her and cast a shadow in the sun. Her Tom. Her faithful servant, mentor and guide. Dead. Gone.

For a moment she remains frozen, but then turns to Jane, "I…no, no; I do not require a chair. There is much to be done - he did not want processions, but how can he not have them? I must set aside the plans to wed - there is much to be done. So much to be done…"

Concerned, Jane makes to guide her to a chair anyway. She continues to ramble to herself; black cloth for the cortege, mourning garments for the great Lords who shall escort the bier. Perhaps an effigy? No - that is reserved for Kings, he would be most displeased with her to lay such laurels upon his brow…

"I should tell Elizabeth." Anne says suddenly, "She shall be greatly grieved to know that he is gone."

And there is that word again: gone. Thomas is gone - and shall never come back. Never. Her eyes fall upon the small gaming table where - even now - the chessboard is set for a game. Waiting for him to come back so they could resume their silent battles over a field of black and white…and now they never shall. Not ever again.

The pain is suddenly so great that she cannot keep it back; a dreadful wail seems to burst from her throat; and then she drops to the floor, and sobs.