A/N: Another Friday is upon us; and a subdued one in the light of Anne and Elizabeth's loss - in spite of the joy that she brought to her Kingdom. Thank you for your comments - and the nice words about Cromwell. He might have been a tad anachronistic in outlook, and probably rather unlike the man he really was; but in an AU, you can always find a way to change someone's fate.

While a new part is beginning; it will be a short one, as much of the tale is now told; but there are still some strands to finish weaving into the cloth, and one can't leave England with an heir, but without its great elder statesman, and keep the Dowager Queen without a resolution, can one?

First, of course, England has to say goodbye to Cromwell; and - in true AU style - he's getting a massive, completely and utterly anachronistic sendoff in the vein of Winston Churchill. If it was good enough for Winnie, then it's good enough for him!

PART EIGHT

QUEEN

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

Muffled Drums

Late September 1555

Black does not suit Elizabeth: it makes her pale complexion fade almost to the whiteness of a ghost; but she would not think to wear any other hue under the circumstances. All who see her as she enters the Presence Chamber are saddened by the bereft expression upon her face, for she valued the late Lord of Essex as greatly as her mother had before her. To her, Lord Cromwell was as though a favoured uncle throughout her childhood, and had become the most highly regarded of her advisers. No wonder she is so distressed.

Philip holds her hand tightly, and his expression is also sad; partly owing to his wife's anguish, but also to his own dismay, for he had respected Lord Essex deeply, and had come to regard him as a friend.

All in the Chamber are equally clad in black; even those who had no liking or respect for a man who came from such low-born origins. Most would have done so without hesitation; the others have done so to escape the unspoken censure of those around them.

"My Lords," even her voice is subdued, "I thank you for your consideration in the face of our most grievous loss. While our late Lord of Essex has made arrangements for the consignment of his mortal remains, it is our wish that his long, and greatly valued, service to the Crown be marked prior to the removal of those remains to the tomb that has been prepared for them. My Lords of Richmond and Wiltshire have overseen the arrangements for said ceremonial, which shall commence upon the morrow."

All bow as she turns to depart again. It is clear to all that her mood is not suited to being in public at this time, and the collective mood of the Court rather matches hers. It has not gone unnoticed that the Dowager is not present, and the rumours of the depths of her grief have fled around the Court with the habitual speed of a network that has little else to keep it occupied.

The chamber gradually empties, until only three men remain. Once that trio would have been the Lords Essex, Richmond and Wiltshire, but in the absence of Essex, the kindly Lord Lincoln has stepped into the breach.

"He shall be much missed, I think." He murmurs. While he does not share that depth of friendship, he respected Cromwell greatly, and is well aware of the void that his passing has created.

Wiltshire nods, glumly, "I when first I was upon the Council, I resented him for his low birth - but whatever skill that was not mine already, I learned from him. He became a true friend to me when I had few after my father declared for Mary. I think, perhaps, his lowly origins were his greatest gift to the government of England, for he saw injustices that the nobles did not, and acted to address them."

"I think we all of us resented him." Richmond adds, his voice very subdued, "We were fortunate, in that we learned that we were in error, and thus gained a friendship that we might otherwise have lost. It is not only England who shall miss him greatly. We were, nonetheless, fortunate in that he looked beyond the end of his own service, and trained my Lord of Hackney to follow him. He shall prove to be an excellent Councillor; and, in time, I have no doubt that he shall also be Lord Chancellor. England shall be grateful for it."

Wiltshire reaches out and rests a hand upon his shoulder, "I think you are the most bereft of all, are you not, Richard?"

Richmond smiles, sadly, "He granted me his trust sooner than most, George. I had found myself adrift, knowing that I was of only limited use to the faction to which I had allied myself, and that my life would be forfeit once I had outlived my usefulness to them. They did not trust me - with good reason - so I turned to Thomas to keep my head upon my neck in the hopes that, as he was in much the same situation, he might accept me. He did - though, as I suspected, he did so as grudgingly as I had offered my services to him. The trust came later."

"He recognised talent in others, Richard." Wiltshire reminds him, "Even those of poor repute such as we; and, once his trust was granted, it was firm and true. I think we are both better men for our association with him."

"And," Lincoln adds, quietly, "He was a better man for his association with you - and with her Majesty the Queen Dowager. I suspect that the death of the late King changed countless lives - some for the better, some for the worse; but in your case, it was most assuredly for the better, and England has reaped the benefit of it."

"Ah, we are maudlin." Wiltshire smiles, "He should be laughing at us even as we speak, I think. He was greatly amused by such foolish behaviour, was he not?"

Richmond's smile widens, "God, yes. I think he looks upon us from the Lord's table and shakes his head at our foolishness. If England must mourn that he is gone, perhaps we should be glad that he lived. Come, I must ensure that the plans for the next few days are secure. Better that than to continue to wallow in such foolish self-pity. His coffin is to be carried from Austin Friars to the Hall at Westminster Palace, where those who wish to might pay their respects. I think that the people of London may well wish to do so, for they knew that he cared for them."

"Would some assistance be useful?" Lincoln asks.

"Most assuredly. Come, let's to it. Thomas shall be highly amused by our efforts to laud him, and I do not want to disappoint him."

We did not do this for Henry. Anne thinks to herself, as she enters the great expanse of the hall of Westminster Palace. He had lain in state - at least for a while - within the Chapel Royal before being transported to Richmond Palace, and there had been no opportunity for the folk of London - or anywhere else - to pay their respects. No mass had been said other than the Requiem when he was interred at Windsor, and the state of his remains had been so poor that most had been relieved when the oversized coffin had gone.

Lord Cromwell, on the other hand, lies properly embalmed within a fine, lead-lined coffin of good, solid English oak. There is only a minimal degree of decoration - simple and tasteful - which was always his preference in life. The coffin rests upon a tall catafalque guarded at each corner by four men of his retinue, dressed in black livery with his arms upon the left breast.

The Queen and King shall come here later today, after which those who wish to file in to pay their respects shall be free to do so, though they shall be kept in line by members of the Queen's guard, as a rumour has emerged that the black drapes over the catafalque shall be torn to shreds by people seeking a token to remember him.

At present, the great space holds only a few people - for Anne has asked that only those who guided her through those difficult days when she first claimed Elizabeth's rights to the throne come with her. As that would leave her with only Richmond and Jane for company, she has asked George to join her, for he was there when Mary attempted to claim England, and stood by her as she won the day at Barnet.

Arm in arm with her brother, Lady Wiltshire and Lord Richmond alongside, Anne stands at the foot of the coffin, each of them lost in their own thoughts. While her great storm of weeping has long subsided, Anne remains deeply bereft over the loss of the man who guided her through the dangerous waters of those early days after Henry died. Even though she no longer required his counsel, for she was no longer the Regent, she remained deeply fond of him, and to be without him now is almost more painful than the loss of her father.

Eventually, she turns to Richmond, "Is all prepared, my Lord?"

He nods, "Yes, Majesty. The coffin shall lie here for the next two days to enable all who wish to to pay their respects. Upon the third day, it shall be transported to the Abbey Church, where we shall celebrate his life, as much as mourn his passing; whereupon it shall depart the Abbey in procession, and travel to Oakham, where his son shall greet him, and he shall be interred privately according to his instructions."

"I wish he could lie in the Abbey; amongst Kings. For there are some who lie there who did not serve England as well as he did."

Richmond smiles at her, "If he cannot, it is no matter. We shall set a memorial stone in the Abbey to honour him. Her Majesty is to decide where it shall be set, but it shall be in a prominent position. He did not ask for such a thing, but he shall receive it nonetheless."

"Good. I am pleased to ignore his requirements upon this occasion. It is a deserved reward for all that he has done for England." She pauses, "Forgive me, Gentlemen; but I should appreciate a time alone with him."

Jane curtsies and withdraws, while Richmond and Wiltshire step aside, bow, and usher out the guards.

For a time, she cannot speak, but instead lifts her head and takes in the glorious surrounds of the hall built by the second Richard. The roof soars above her head, supported by magnificent wooden hammer beams that stretch both ahead and behind, lit by long rows of windows along the walls, ten each side, and two great tracery windows at either end through which come bright rays of an early autumn sun. Later it shall be filled with people who enter to see the last remains of a man who sought to aid those of lesser state than himself. But at this moment, it is just her. And him.

"Forgive us our foolishness, my old friend." She says, eventually, making her way along the catafalque until she is at the coffin's head, "Though I think that, had you felt it would not be vulgar to ask it, you would hardly have declined such a display, would you?"

She smiles at the oaken casket; for all his wish to remain in her shadow as a servant to the Crown, he was not immune to the sin of Pride after all. He knew it, and so did she.

"Once our childish displays are done, we shall bow to your instructions and allow you to rest within the bounds of your family's love; though I assure you that you shall take the love of England with you."

She would rest her hand upon the wood of that coffin; but to do so would oblige her to clamber up the catafalque to reach it, so she remains where she is, "I have every hope that you are now at God's side, Thomas. He shall reward you in eternity for your service to England; and, I equally hope and pray, forgive you for that which you were obliged to do in order to secure England's safety - as I hope He shall forgive me when I am also at His side. And thus I offer you my last goodbye upon this Earth, in hopes that we shall meet again when I, too, enter God's Kingdom."

There is little left to say that she has not already said; but still she will not leave. It is as though to do so is to abandon him, and she has never done so; not at any time since they first agreed to work together to save their own lives. They succeeded, and England has gained much from their victory; but nonetheless, she cannot leave him here without the proximity of a friend. Those who shall enter later today do not know him as she does, or as the Queen does. They saw the politician; she saw the man. Do they know that he was as kind as he was cruel? As giving as he was ruthless? All he did, he did for England and her Queens, to protect them and lay the foundations for future prosperity. And now, as England reaps the benefits, he is gone.

Again, her eyes are brimming with tears. Angry with herself, she dashes them away - this is not what he would require of her; no, he would expect her to be strong…

Another sob escapes her. How can she not stand here and mourn when the man who helped her to survive is no more?

An arm is suddenly about her shoulders, and for a foolish, ridiculous moment, she thinks that he has come back to comfort her tears; but it is Jane, who has returned to find her, and recalls as she does those desperate days when she was also at their side while they worked, and conspired - if she is truly honest with herself - to wrest England from the hands of the Lords who wanted to use Elizabeth to rule for themselves.

"Is it wrong to grieve so for a man to whom I was not bonded in blood or wedlock, Jane?" she asks, eventually, once the tears have dried.

"Nay, I think not, Anne." Jane says, quietly, "Lord Cromwell served England wisely and well, and I think we should have been helpless but for his aid." She pauses, and smiles a little, "I think he loved you, you know."

"He did." Anne confirms, softly, "Though not as a lover - instead as a parent. He saw me as another daughter in place of his two lost girls. Do you know that, when he confessed it to me, he offered to resign and leave Court?"

"Truly?"

She nods, "As you can imagine, I refused immediately. England needed him too much for me to permit him to do something so ridiculous. Though I wish sometimes that I could have persuaded him to retire; he deserved a time of rest."

"He would never have accepted it, Anne." Jane reminds her, "It was his greatest wish to serve her Majesty, and to continue to do so for as long as was possible. George says that he was determined that he should do so until his dying day - for then he would have all of eternity to rest."

"Have I been here too long?" Anne turns to Jane; she can only have come in here to fetch her mistress out.

"Their Majesties shall be here within the hour." Jane admits.

"Then let us depart. He shall be honoured with his escort and a royal guard - there is no need for a foolish old widow staring gloomily at his coffin as they do so. He arranged for me to live life anew with a good man for a husband, so I must not disappoint him."

"Then that is as well, Anne. My Lord of Lincoln has arranged for you to spend some quiet time in the Privy Garden with a light repast and some restful music." Jane adds, her voice low; conspiratorial.

"I shall accept it - but only if he joins me."

"I think that was the intention."

Arm in arm, the two women offer a curtsey each to the coffin, then turn and make their way back out into the sunshine.

Baron Sadleir of Hackney sits quietly in a small chamber of the great house of Austin Friars and sighs to himself. He has always been highly valued by the late Lord Chancellor, and the proof of it is set out before him, for he is to carry out the final requests set out in Earl Cromwell's will.

Much of it shall be settled after the funeral is completed, though other elements are pertinent to those ceremonies, so he is in the process of ensuring that they are in hand: mourning jewellery and black cloth for the mourners who shall attend the funeral at Oakham, payment of the doctors who have seen to the late Earl in his final hours, and of those who shall no longer be required to run this great house. Such is the size of the bequests to the various members of his family, that the late Cromwell has decreed that Austin Friars shall granted to a charitable institution, and shall become a hospital for the poor. All the precious items within have been left to various members of the family, except for the sum of two thousand pounds, to establish the charity. There is also a sum of some five hundred pounds left to Sadleir, which is payment for his work as executor, and also to fund the initial employment of trustees to run the work of the hospital. He is not surprised that the Dowager Queen has already agreed to be a patron.

God, he shall miss that remarkable man. Though he has learned all that Earl Cromwell could possibly teach him - and more; he nonetheless feels as though he is a child who has lost a parent. In their final conversation, his mentor expressed his pride at his protégé's success; but still it is hard to know that he shall never hear that encouraging voice again.

There is little left for him to do now; the House still needs to be emptied of bequests, so he shall come back here after the funeral. Returning to the coffer in which the papers are stored, his eye is caught by another paper that he had previously missed.

For her Majesty Anne, Queen Dowager of England.

Bemused he retrieves the document. Folded and sealed, he could not open it even if he were inclined to - which he is not. Instead, he sets it in a portfolio and prepares to return to the palace.

Anne sits at her dressing table and looks at herself in the mirror. Her once lustrous brown locks are grey now, and artfully styled around a bejewelled hairnet formed of gold thread, while her cosmetics cannot conceal the grooves and lines that age has carved into her face and neck. Only those depthless brown eyes that once captured a King still look out at her unchanged.

God above…I have become old…

Her ladies have done what they can, and she looks at least a little more presentable than she did when she rose this morning. Jane is behind her, carefully knotting the last of the lacings of her black bodice, "Is there anything else that you need, Anne?"

"No, Jane. Thank you. Once I have donned my sleeves and overgown, I think I shall be ready. I can pretend that I am still the young woman that I was - but that should probably require a layer of plaster upon my face."

Jane laughs, "It is the fate of us all, I fear."

Once she emerges into her Privy Chamber, a steward awaits her, "Majesty, his Grace of Hackney is without and seeks an audience."

"Thank you Daniel; please show him in."

He enters, and bows, "Majesty."

"Ralph," she smiles at him, "Please, do take a seat. May I offer you some sack?"

"Thank you Majesty," he answers, "I am but a messenger, however. I was completing some work at the Late Lord Essex's house pertinent to the establishment of his charitable bequest, and I came across a sealed letter that is addressed to you."

The smile falters somewhat, "He left me a letter?" God; she has been stating the painfully obvious far too frequently of late.

"Yes, Majesty." His eyes sympathetic, he hands her the folded document, "If it please you, I can ask your Secretary to attend you?"

"I should be grateful, Ralph. Please ask him to present himself in an hour."

Bowing again, he withdraws. Without being asked, Jane ushers out the rest of Anne's ladies, and leaves her in peace with the last message she shall ever have from Thomas Cromwell.

My Gracious Queen,

I must ask that you forgive the poor state of my writing; but my fingers are no longer capable of producing a neat script. When you receive this letter, then I know that I shall be with God, and no longer able to tell you that which I have wished to tell you, but have ever dared not.

As you shall know, I was born of poor stock, and came into Royal service by less conventional means. In my youth I had endured hardship and poverty; but also received many lessons that served me well as I entered the service of the late Archbishop of York.

I must admit that I cannot remember when first I noticed you at Court, for I cared only for politicking, and my greatest concern was to serve both the Archbishop and the King to the best of my ability. I think it can only be when his Majesty set his sights upon you; and demanded of Wolsey that his first marriage be dissolved that I discovered the woman who had captured his heart.

I must also confess that she captured mine.

I was not fool enough to believe that one of aristocratic birth would accept the suit of a low born widower such as I, especially a man of my age; and thus I looked instead for friendship as a substitute. As the King devoted himself to you, your association with him was of use to men such as I; but I beg you not to think that I wished to use you, for I did not.

Wolsey's failure to end the King's marriage to the Dowager Princess of Wales was inevitable - for she had the ear of both the Pope and her nephew. I knew that his fall was not merely owing to that failure, but also the actions of your family, and also you. In spite of my loyalty to him, and my anger at your family's plots, I could not hate you for it, for I loved you, and could ascribe no wrong to your heart.

As it became clear that the only means to bring about the King's desire was for him to abjure the authority of Rome, I looked to you to aid me, and between us we turned his course towards reform. Our alliance created something of a friendship, and for that I was grateful. I could not have your love, but those times when you were in my company as we played chess, or I granted you works from the presses of reformists were treasured, and I thanked God for them.

I must confess that the moment that I witnessed the finality of your marriage to the King was one that burned deeply in my heart. Even though I knew you could not be mine, nonetheless it caused me great pain to know that you were forever beyond my reach. It grieved me all the greater as we grew apart once the crown was set upon your head.

But gradually, my heart hardened; for we were no longer travelling upon the same path, and my plans to create laws to bring succour to the poor as the religious houses were closed and their riches granted to the King were frustrated by your intentions to do the same - albeit by different means. Thus I discovered how easily love can turn to loathing; and it was of little concern to me other than mild pity for a helpless creature when the King decided to end his marriage to you. He wished it, and it was my task to bring it about.

And then the King died. In that moment, I knew that my survival was dependent upon yours - and that yours was equally dependent upon mine. I was willing to set my loathing aside, and thus we became allies once more. As I did so, I found that my anger subsided, and that warmth returned - but I beg you not to think that it was carnal. I was older, and wiser; and the love that lived in my heart now was that of a parent for a beloved child. We fought together for the rights of the Queen Elizabeth, and even conspired to do so; and I consider our success to be far more your achievement than mine. You trusted me absolutely - and that paternal love that I held in my heart prompted me to endeavour to warrant that trust. I think now that, had the King lived, neither of us would have survived.

As I enter the last hours of my life, I beg you not to weep for me - though I suspect that it is a vain hope, for if our positions were reversed, I should assuredly weep for you. Her Majesty now rules as Queen, is married to a fine man and has borne England a male heir. Thus the task that I set myself in the first moments of knowing that the King had been taken from us is completed.

I hope that I shall have the opportunity to give you the papers that shall ensure all political obstacles to your marriage to my Lord of Lincoln; but, if I do not, I have asked my Lord of Richmond to grant them to you with all haste, for it shall be the greatest gift that I can give to you, and I wish to do so in thanks for the times that we shared, the joy that you brought me, and the love that you inspired in my heart.

My time is nearly upon me, and I am content to go to God in the knowledge that all the plans that I made for those who shall remain behind are set and prepared. Thus I make my final confession to you, in the hopes that you shall forgive me - and thus there shall be no secrets between us when we are united again at God's holy table.

Your courage, pragmatism and intelligence were a gift to England, I think; and I am truly grateful to have served as your councillor and friend. Thus I pray that you shall know joy in the remaining years of your life, and I shall look down upon you from Heaven, reunited with my wife as you are united with a truly good man who shall be the husband that you deserve.

Farewell my dear, beloved Queen Anne, in deepest Gratitude.

Your humble servant,

Thomas Cromwell

The pain is there again; a pain deep in her chest that can only be her heart. With infinite care, she folds the letter closed and presses it to her bosom, before raising it to set a small kiss upon the upper half of the broken seal. Rising from her chair, she crosses to her writing table. Charging a quill with ink, she sets the document down and pauses only for a moment, then sets pen to paper.

His last letter

Her hand trembles as she scatters pounce over the ink - it would not do for the text to smudge, after all - then she carefully blows the powder away. Rising again, she makes her slow, sad way through to her bedchamber, where a small coffer rests beside her bed. Home to those possessions that she treasures most deeply, it now contains another treasure; one that she shall value for the rest of her days.

The streets are silent, lined with solemn faced people who have come from across the city, and even from beyond, to witness the late Lord Chancellor's journey from the Hall of Westminster Palace to the Abbey. After the mass, he shall be conveyed northwards, and they shall wait until he does so. A remarkable tribute for a mere politician.

The largest of the six Abbey bells tolls grimly, half-muffled with a leather pad upon the clapper as the cortège emerges from the Green Yard of the Palace and passes through the Abbey's east gatehouse into the precincts of the Abbey church. The coffin rests upon a heavy, black-painted hearse drawn by six jet-black rounceys, a great canopy of black velvet set atop it. The coffin is also draped with black velvet, while the Lord Chancellor's great collar of esses rests upon it, surrounding his Earl's coronet.

It is a short journey to the west door of the church, and the elderly Cranmer is waiting to escort it inside. As the coffin is lined with lead, ten strong members of the Queen's Guard shall carry it inside, where it shall rest before the high altar upon another velvet-draped bier.

At the Queen's insistence, Richmond and Wiltshire, holding their white staffs of office, are at the head of that sad procession, directly behind Cranmer. The rest of the Council follow behind: a high-ranking escort for a man who was once the son of a Putney Brewer.

The majority of people who stand in the great Nave of the church are City worthies, but there also others: residents of Almshouses, apprentices and scholars. Beyond the old stone pulpitum are those of the highest standing; ambassadors, nobles and Royals. Her Majesty sits in a great chair to the right of the bier, her husband at her side, while Anne sits to the left with Mary and her husband beside her and Jane just behind, where she shall be joined by her brother and Lord Richmond once they have escorted their late colleague into the Quire. Perhaps a rather more ostentatious display than has ever been granted to a commoner before; but what commoner has served England as this one has?

I am the resurrection and the life, sayeth the Lord, he that believeth in me, yea though he be dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever believeth in me shall not die forever.

Cranmer emerges under the arch of the pulpitum, leaning rather more than he ought upon his crozier, reciting the words that he has decreed should be spoken to escort the dead into a church prior to burial. Behind him follow Wiltshire and Richmond, then a small escort of guards, and then the coffin.

I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that I shall rise out of the earth in the last day, and shall be covered again with my skin and shall see God in my flesh; yea and I myself shall behold him, not with other but with these same eyes.

The coffin-bearers gently set their burden upon the bier, while those who escorted it make their way to their appointed places in the Quire.

We brought nothing into this world, neither may we carry anything out of this world. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Even as it hath pleased the Lord, so cometh these things to pass. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

There is no ceremonial that applies to what shall come now; for it is not a burial: that shall be overseen by a kindly curate in the parish of Oakham when Cromwell is consigned to the earth. Instead, the elderly Archbishop leads the congregation in a service of thanksgiving for the life of a man who was once despised. Anthems are sung, prayers lifted up; and all of it in English out of respect for the man who was at the forefront of the English Reformation.

Listening to the high voices of the boys of the choir, Anne sighs to herself, and clenches her hands into fists, digging her fingernails into her palms and concentrating upon the pain instead of her grief. It would not be appropriate for her to shed tears now, for here she is in public; and it would serve only to inspire cruel rumours about the years when she and her late Chancellor were ever in each others' company.

To know that he loved her in those earliest days is strange; for she had not shared such feelings. Her heart had belonged to Henry Percy, and then had been given to the King, at his demand. By the time he had regained his love for her, it had changed in its focus; and she had unwittingly returned it, all unknowing until he had confessed it to her at Nottingham Castle in the aftermath of the plague.

We were a most capable pair, were we not? She thinks to herself, with my dear Jane, and Sir Richard, we bested them all and won Elizabeth's throne for her - all safe from the machinations of those who would have used her to rule England in her place.

Cranmer's voice continues, rousing her from her contemplations for a moment. Behind her, she can hear a faint sniffling as Jane attempts to conceal tears; for she, too, was central to that first, most vital battle to bring them safely through a monumental shift in the rule of the Realm. God…if only she, too, could be granted that luxury.

After an hour, the service is done, and those who escorted the coffin move from their seats to resume their places to its fore and rear. Now they shall lead it out of the Abbey to the hearse, whereupon it shall begin its journey to Rutland.

For a moment, Anne is tempted to suggest that Elizabeth decree the construction of a Cross at each of its stopping points, as the first Edward did for his beloved Eleanor; but she knows that it cannot be done, and instead stands to watch as the coffin is carried back towards the pulpitum, and disappears from her sight for the last time.

Man that is born of a woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery: he cometh up and is cut down like a flower; he flieth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life we be in death: of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord, which for our sins justly art displeased? yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death. Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts: shut not up thy merciful eyes to our prayers: But spare us, lord most holy, O god most mighty, O holy and merciful saviour, thou most worthy judge eternal, suffer us not at our last hour for any pains of death to fall from thee.

At the head of the small procession, Richmond listens to the words and swallows down a lump in his throat. Cromwell would be most amused if he were to shed tears in public, and he has no wish to embarrass himself so.

The crowds are still present as they emerge into the light of day, and he watches solemnly as the coffin is once again set upon the black hearse, and a troop of cavalry form up to follow it from the Abbey Precincts and escort it as far as Hatfield, from where it shall be transferred into the care of the Cromwell family.

God bless the late Lord of Essex!

Richmond turns, startled by the sound of a voice from the throng, and then another joins in, offering the coffined man Godspeed to Oakham, and to Heaven. Perhaps there are some present who are pleased to see that the old Chancellor is dead; but they are few and far between; and are unlikely to speak against him in the face of such vocal praise.

The great black horses that draw the hearse are stirred to life by the lead postilion, and their hooves clatter loudly above the calls of the crowd, and the rhythmic thudding of the muffled drums at the head of the column that shall proclaim the presence of the hearse and clear the way. As the great black cart draws away, Wiltshire comes to stand alongside him, and it is only he that hears as the Lord Treasurer whispers to himself.

"Goodbye my old friend and farewell. I shall always be glad that we became friends; and regret only that you are gone. I am assured that our friendship saved my soul, as did our service to the Queen. I look forward to the day when we shall meet again, and reminisce as once we did over a cup of mead in the oriel of Austin Friars."

Side by side, the two survivors of England's great political triumvirate watch as the procession makes its slow way northwards until, at last, it is lost to view.

Thomas Cromwell is gone, and shall not come again. Now England must learn to live without him.