I watched the entire season 3 of the Tudors yesterday (online of course, as it's not being shown in the UK till later in the year! Grrr!) and I was absolutely sobbing my heart out at that last episode. I loved the kind, compassionate side of Cromwell that we got to see at the end, and James Frain's outstanding performance inspired me to write this. I think there was another side to Cromwell that too few people got to see and, as everyone else has a mistress or a lover, why shouldn't he get one too? Also, apologies to Brandon fans, but I used to love him too - then I really went off him in that last ep!

The speech about talking to God was largely taken from episode seven . I'm not a very religious person, but it was too profound a speech to be left out!

Reviews are always greatly appreciated! ;)

THE VERY BEST OF MEN

I couldn't bear to go to the Tower on the day my dear Lord Cromwell died. Much as I wanted to be with him in his last hours, to meet his eyes and let him know that there was a friendly face in the crowd, I found that I could not bear to see the man I loved killed in such a fashion. And I would never be able to contain my hate for the men who had brought him to his death, and would have invariably made a scene.

Many of my fellow servants would laugh at me if I told them I had been the mistress of Thomas Cromwell. Why, they would ask, was I sleeping with such a solemn and serious man when there were the likes of Charles Brandon, the Seymour brothers, Sir Richard of Lincoln, Etienne Daubereill (a French exile) and Sir Francis Bryan constantly on the lookout for a quick fumble here and there? Brandon especially has half the serving girls in the court swooning over him, and is considered to be the one of the best catches in England; second only to being bedded by the King himself.

I, however, have had Charles Brandon – a short while before he married his Duchess, back when I was a naive girl too stupid to realise that he had been with half the maids in the palace. It wasn't that he saw anything special in me, and he certainly didn't care about me; I just caught his eye when leaving my lady Theresa's chamber one night, after finishing my duties. I have no family, no title and no connections, but I've got a small waist and an ample bust. That was enough for him.

After catching me by the waist and whispering a few flattering phrases into my ear, he took me to his bed and had me every way that he desired. He is certainly supremely skilled in the arts of love, but I do not look back on the occasion with any particular fondness. He took his pleasure, left me breathless and exhausted, but then he just left me to put my clothes back on and moved on to the next gullible maid.

With my lord Cromwell, it was different...

After Anne Boleyn was killed and the court re-organised under good Queen Jane, God rest her soul, I found that instead of working as chamber maid to one of the Queen's ladies, I was designated to attend to the court chambers of Lord Cromwell.

I did not see much of him at first. He worked hard; rising early and retiring late, and more often than not his rooms were empty when I tended to them. When he was there, I just dropped a curtsey and lowered my eyes, getting on with my work as quickly as I could. He never took too much notice of me, nor I of him.

Everything changed when my friend Elizabeth fell ill with a fever. It was a severe one, and the apothecary said that she was likely going to die. I was distraught – when a girl has no family, she learns to appreciate her friends, and Elizabeth was like a sister to me. I desperately wanted to go to church to pray and light a candle for her, but I had my duties to attend to in my Lord Cromwell's chambers, and then cover Elizabeth's chores in Lady Rochford's, neither could possibly be avoided. It was more than my life was worth not to turn up!

I was useless that morning in Lord Cromwell's rooms. Every time I thought of Elizabeth's illness, my eyes filled with tears and sobs rose in my throat. My hands shook as I cleaned out the fireplace and collected the linen that needed to be washed. By the time I was making his bed, I was crying with abandon; my vision blurred and the chamber full of the sounds of my weeping.

In fact, I was so caught up in my distress over my friend's illness that I did not even hear the door open and close. I did not hear the dignified footsteps behind me and I did not realise that I was not alone until I felt a hand on my shoulder. I almost jumped out of my skin, and when I turned around, my heart practically stopped when I realised that Lord Cormwell was behind me.

"I...I beg your pardon, my lord," I'd choked, trying to smear away my tears and making a mess of my face as I did so. I tried to speak, but I was such a mess of weeping and nerves that all I could do was blurt out disjointed words in no order at all.

He held up both his hands as though to show that he was not about to take me to task about the impropriety of me bawling my eyes out in his chambers. Indeed, instead of scowling at me, or scolding me, he looked almost...concerned?

"What troubles you?" he enquired of me, gesturing for me to sit down on the trunk at the foot of his bed.

Sitting down, I sobbed out my sorry tale: of how my friend was ill with a deadly fever, of how I had no family left alive and that she was as a sister to me and how I wished to be able to pray for her but I had no time available between my various duties in which to go to church, and of how I was certain that she was going to die. Had I had more of a grip on myself, I would have conducted myself with a little more dignity, but I had had little sleep the night before and the gates to my tears were well and truly open now so, when I finished my story, I burst into another gale of sobs anew.

"Isabel," he began, patting me somewhat awkwardly on the shoulder, as though he was unsure of what to do. I looked up in surprise. How did he know my name? "You do not need to be in church to talk to God. He is omniscient, and He is omnipresent."

I didn't have the faintest idea of what either of the words meant, and I fear my facial expression said as much.

"God is everywhere," Cromwell explained kindly, with the hint of a smile. "You do not need to be inside a church for him to listen, just as you do not need a priest or a saint to intercede for you. Each one of us can talk to God, just as we are; without ceremony and without help, simply by prayer."

I looked at him in shock – I'm not an educated girl but even I knew that what he was telling me was Lutheranism...and the king burned Lutherans. He was risking his own life with his comforting words.

"This is what we are trying to make people understand," he told me, and his voice was so gentle that I was mesmerised. "God will listen, no matter where you are. Come, we will pray for your friend."

He took my hand and helped me to my feet, leading me to a small alcove in his office where we both knelt to pray, side by side. I was shocked that he was going to so much trouble for me, when he really had no cause to. A small part of my brain irritatingly nagged me that this was surely blasphemy and heresy, but I pointedly ignored it. I cared not which branch of religion I was conforming to, as long as it could help my friend.

"Our Father, who art in heaven..." I struggled through my prayer, tears threatening to overwhelm me once again as I put my heart and soul into the words. My lord Cromwell came to my rescue when speech failed me as he pleaded that, in His mercy, the Almighty might see fit to spare Elizabeth and continue to grant her life.

When the prayer concluded, he told me that I was excused the rest of my duties that day, and that, if anyone queried it, I was to tell them that I had his own permission. He told me to sit with Elizabeth and watch over her, and continue praying to God.

"He will listen, Isabel," he told me, as I dropped a grateful curtsey and thanked him for his kindness. "He will listen."

God did listen. In His infinite mercy, He refrained from taking Elizabeth, and her fever broke three days later. The apothecary said that she was the luckiest girl alive and that she was now on the way to making a full recovery. Myself and the rest of the serving girls cried tears of joy and went to our chores that day with smiles on our faces.

I practically ran to Lord Cromwell's rooms. I wanted to see him before he went to the council meeting; to tell him of this development and thank him for his help. Alas however, when I reached his chambers, he had already departed and I knew from past experience that it would be several hours before he returned to his office.

I cleaned his room that morning as though I was cleaning the room of the King himself, wanting to spare no effort for the man who had listened to a lowly servant, and had showed me a new way to talk to God. When I was done, I was pleased to note that the room was spotless and pristine; just credit to the man who occupied it.

I continued to wait in his rooms, finding myself endless unnecessary little tasks to do until he returned from the meeting of the council. He cut an impressive figure as he came through the door, his black robes of state billowing around him as he walked, while his chain of office shone proudly from his chest and his hands clutched that ever-present leather dispatch case, filled with important documents for his majesty and the other lords.

"Isabel," he looked surprised to see me here in the afternoon. Again wondering how it was that he knew my name, I hurried forward, dropped to me knees and kissed his hand.

"He did listen to me, my lord. You were right!" I cried eagerly, my words once again tumbling out in a rush. Eloquence, I fear, was never my strong point. "God did listen to our prayer! Elizabeth is recovering! The apothecary says that she will make a full recovery! Thank you, sir! Thank you for helping me talk to Him." He laughed – I had never heard him laugh before – and raised me back to my feet again.

"I am glad to hear it," Lord Cromwell said, with a smile which graced his face too rarely. "That is what the reformation is all about – telling people that God does not discriminate in who He listens to. In His love, and His wisdom, He listens to all. It is He you should thank."

At that point, I looked into his eyes for the first time – not at his eyes, but really and truly into his eyes. I was astounded at what I saw there. Behind the cold determination of the statesman and the sternness of the King's most faithful servant, there was such gentleness and compassion in his eyes – kindness that so few people ever troubled to look for – that I fell for him there and then.

"Nevertheless, my lord," I replied, though my mouth was suddenly dry. "I thank you for the kindness that you showed to me the other morning. You are truly a great man. You gave me hope, when I had almost given up. And for that, I will always be grateful."

Though he smiled, he didn't move. Neither did I. For a long while, we just stood there, both looking at each other and not saying anything. I will never be able to describe exactly what happened at that moment without sounding like some overly-romantic minstrel, but it seemed as though we both just suddenly fit together – what his eyes told me, I knew my eyes were answering. Still we said nothing.

When I saw his head incline towards mine, I felt my heartbeat triple. I raised myself on tiptoe – Lord Cromwell was taller than I was – and met his lips shyly. It's not that I was innocent; I had been with men before – I doubt there is a maid at court who hasn't – but this was different. For the first time, it wasn't about letting someone take their pleasure from me because I was too dazzled by their title and their good looks to see the folly of it. For the first time, I truly cared about the person I was with, and I wanted him to care about me.

I kissed him with fervour, hoping I could explain with my physical actions what my inarticulate and uneducated speech had failed to. Hesitantly, I raised one hand to the side of his face, unsure of whether or not he would permit it, as I was used to following the lead, not taking it. But he did not protest. Instead, he settled his hands on my waist and pulled me closer. I just closed my eyes and gave myself to him; loving this kind and gentle man more and more by the minute.

Kisses and caresses, as they ever do, led to more and eventually we retreated to his bed. He did not grope, or pinch, or use me roughly like Brandon and the other men I'd known had once done. Instead, his touches were soft and perfect and when he took me, though he left me sated and blissful, he was slow and gentle; and he continued to kiss me, something that no other man had done. It was the most exquisite thing I had ever experienced – he made me feel like a lover, not a plaything.

As I lay next to him afterwards, I prepared myself for disappointment. This would be a one-off. I had repaid him for the kindness he had done me. He was a busy man; he had too many important things to do than to trouble himself with making love to a servant. I did not regret what I'd done – in fact, I knew I would treasure this afternoon as the best of my life – but I felt the sadness already well within me when I placed my hand atop the surprisingly strong arm around my waist. I knew that from now on, no man on God's green earth would ever compare to him in my eyes.

However, in that, as in many things, I was wrong. He did not cast me aside, nor did he tire of my company. When I tended to his chambers the next day, I felt awkward and uncomfortable, unsure of how to react after what had happened the day before. I prayed that he would not come back to his rooms until after I had gone.

Fate being fate, alas, made him return while I was laying a new fire in the fireplace; only halfway through my list of chores. I shot to my feet in alarm, curtseying deeply and pleading with my eyes for him to tell me how the situation now stood. As soon as he helped me understand, I would know how to behave.

He crossed the gap between us in several quick steps and, putting his hand around the back of my head, crushed his lips to mine. I laughed into his mouth, suddenly happier than I had ever been in my life.

From that point onwards, I was Sir Thomas Cromwell's mistress. I would come to him several nights a week and spend the night in his bed, and if he returned to his rooms at any time while I was there in the mornings, then we would snatch what little time was available. Our relationship developed very quickly. I loved him with my body and soul, and I knew he loved me. He was not in love with me – I knew very well that his heart would always belong to his late wife, and I respected that – but I knew that he cared strongly for me, and he told me as much himself.

As the months passed, I began to learn more about the man I had fallen so completely in love with. I understood why in court he presented such an iron and emotionless facade – he had to hide his true beliefs, for the sake of staying alive, and had to work amongst a nest of deceitful vipers like that arrogant bastard Edward Seymour. To survive amid their plots and plans and hidden agendas, he had to be just as cold and just as ruthless. To stay alive, he had to follow the King's every whim and desire without question and without hesitation. Sometimes, I could see it in his eyes how much he hated having to swallow his own beliefs in order to conform to his majesty's.

He told me all about the Lutheran principles and beliefs, explaining with an honest and staggering sincerity and eloquence. I suddenly began to see that Lutheranism could never be heresy when its beliefs were founded on such honest and good ideals, and I was soon a firm supporter of this new reformation.

I also found out that my lord Cromwell, or, as I began to call him, Thomas, was base-born – a man who has got to his position by his own merit; which was why he took the trouble to learn the names of his servants and appreciated the work they did for him. He knew what it was to be lowly, and he had not forgotten it.

All of this only made him appear all the greater in my eyes. I wished that others could have seen that kind and gentle, considerate and compassionate man that it was my honour and privilege to know. If only we had had a different monarch, one without the childish and constant tantrums which our present one throws every other day, then he could truly have achieved his wishes and changed the church for the better.

I am not saying that he was without fault, of course – but I will not discuss them. There are too many people all too eager to discuss his shortcomings now; relishing the morbid gossip that always follows a high profile death. It makes me sick to hear it!

I never saw any of those faults when I was in his company. All I ever saw, and all I will continue to remember, was the very best man I had ever known.

Several times, he tried to make me a gift on money, to help me improve on my situation, but my pride always made me refuse.

"I'm here for you, Thomas," I replied every time, reaching up to touch his face. "Not for your money, or for your title. I need no gift for that." He realised, after several attempts, that I would not be swayed on that one matter and so he stopped asking. The first Christmas after I became his mistress, however, he gave me a gift that I did not refuse. It was a silver locket; not showy or sparkling like the jewellery that the Queen's ladies wore, but fine and elegant; just like he himself was.

From the moment he put it around my neck, I have never taken it off.

The day before his arrest, I spent the night with him as usual and not for a moment did I suspect that anything so horrible and dreadful would happen the next day. In fact, he seemed more relaxed than he had been for several weeks; delighted with the news that Gregory's wife had had a boy. He made love to me three times, leaving us both boneless and content, and then we spoke well into the middle of the night.

The king, he had told me, while absently toying with a lock of my dark hair, had spoken with him that afternoon. His majesty had been reassuring; telling him that he was still the person he would turn to when he needed to get things done, that he was still his first minister. Thomas seemed comforted by the fact – I knew that the King's erratic and temperamental behaviour had been worrying him of late, especially after the way that his majesty had turned against poor Anne of Cleves – and so I fell asleep that night with my head against his shoulder, thinking that perhaps everything was suddenly going to set itself to rights.

He took leave of me the next morning with a kiss and departed for a meeting with the other lords. I rose, dressed, and went about my duties as normal. It was only through Elizabeth that I learned late in the evening that Thomas had been arrested for treason and locked in the Tower, and my world came crashing down around me.

In my distress, I still cannot remember how it was I got there, but I arrived at the Tower of London early the next morning almost in hysterics and begged one of the guards to let me see Thomas. He refused. No one was allowed to see the prisoner, he told me, on the orders of the Duke of Suffolk. Had Brandon been there, I believe I would have tried to kill him with my bare hands; the treacherous bastard!

However, the guard had caught my wrist as I'd gone to turn away and told me that he would reconsider it if I could make it worth his while to disobey. The only thing I had of any value was the locket around my neck, and I would rather have died than have parted with that. I told the guard that I would come back that night with a bribe and rushed back towards Whitehall palace once more. I had been given a new set of chores that day (since Lord Cromwell no longer required a chamber maid) which I had no choice but to complete, or lose my place. How I got through them, I shall never know. But eventually, the day did begin to draw to a close...

I am not proud of what I did, but when all the court was at table that evening, I crept unnoticed into Lady Theresa's room. Having waited on her when she was a lady in waiting to Anne Boleyn, I knew where she kept her valuables. I stole a handful of gold pieces, praying to God that no other servant would be blamed for it, and rushed back out into the city, running through the warm July air to get to the tower.

I found the guard more than willing to disregard his orders when he saw the gold pieces in my hand, and, after pocketing him with a hypocritical look of disdain, he led me inside up the steep stone stairs to Thomas's cell.

Thomas was kneeling at the small, barred window when the guard and I approached. At the sound of footsteps, he turned his head, and I could tell by the looked of resignation in his eyes that he had expected it to be Brandon or Seymour. His eyebrows shot up in shock when he realised it was me and he slowly crossed over to the door of the cell, his fingers linking with mine through the spaces in the grating.

I had seen him many times without his clothes on, but now suddenly seeing him stripped of his formal robes and clothed only in a dirty white shirt, with stubble showing on his usually fastidiously clean-shaven face, almost broke my heart. Sobs rose frantically in my throat, and I tried my best to choke them down, knowing that I would be of little comfort if I was a wreck.

"Let me in to see him," I begged the guard with a shaking voice, my fingers tightening their grip on Thomas's. "Please!"

The sour faced guard, with my stolen gold lining his pocket, rolled his eyes but he did open the door. "You've got five minutes," he told me flatly as I rushed inside. "Not a second more."

He shut the door behind me and I flew into Thomas's arms, losing my composure and sobbing with abandon. For a moment, he just held me, before I stepped back and looked into his eyes.

"You're no traitor, Thomas!" I wept. "No man is as loyal to the king as you! Who has done this to you?"

"Brandon," he was fighting to stay calm. "The Seymours and Bryan. I have them to thank."

"But why does the King listen to them?" I demanded, gulping down my sobs as I saw that my weeping was only making things worse. "Why doesn't he think for himself for once?"

"Sssh," Thomas whispered, wiping my tears away with his thumbs, his own eyes over-bright with tears yet unshed. He looked nervously to see if the guard was still hovering, but apparently he had drifted away. "You can't say things like that. If you're heard then your life will be on the line too."

"I don't care!" I declared wildly, clutching at his hands as though he was my life force. "I don't want to be alive if I can't be with you!"

"Isabel, hush!" he told me gently, placing his fingers over my lips. "There is nothing that can be done to stop this now. Trust to God and his mercy, and do not endanger yourself!"

Then he was kissing me with such urgency, that I could scarcely breathe. I clung to him as tight as I possibly could, kissing him back with equal fervour; never wanting it to end because I knew it would be the last.

I was suddenly pulled sharply away from him.

"You're time is up, miss," said the monotone voice of the guard, his hand like a vice on my wrist.

"No!" I shrieked. "You can't make me leave him!" And I pulled away to press my lips to Thomas's in one last desperate gesture, my hand clutching at his, before the guard grabbed me by both arms and dragged me away.

"I love you! I love you!" I sobbed, as I was pulled towards the stairs. I saw him run to the door once more and cast me a final, melancholic smile as I was wrenched out of sight. It was the last time I ever saw him.

On the day that he was killed, I did not leave my room. Feigning a trifling illness, I lay on my bed the whole day and sobbed, deep guttural sobs that shook my very bones, as though the world had ended. Because my world truly had ended. Without Thomas, I had nothing to live for now.

My new post involved acting as chamber maid to Lady Juliette and Lady Margaret Winchester; two young ladies newly arrived at court, and set me back amongst all the people who had conspired to kill the man I loved. I could barely look at Edward Seymour, or any of his snake-like companions, without feeling the bile of utter hatred rising in my throat. If only I could have been sure that I would succeed, I would have gladly taken a knife to any of them.

Then, one day, about a month after Thomas had been killed, Charles Brandon passed me in the corridor late at night, just as he had done several years before; after I had been tending to Lady Juliette's hair before she went to bed. I refused to look at him, because I knew that I would never be able to hide how much I despised him. I lowered my head and kept walking, refusing to curtsey or to acknowledge him.

He caught me by the upper arm and pulled me close to him, grinning down at me with smile that was far more smug and self-assured than I remembered. I had heard that he was being cold-shouldered by the Duchess, who was disgusted with his association with the Seymours and Bryan, and that he had bedded Cordelia, Lady Theresa's maid a few nights ago. The fact that he was now smirking at me, a past conquest whose name he didn't even know, confirmed it – and it made me hate him all the more.

"I have not seen you very much of late," he said to me cheerfully. "You look like you could use someone to put a smile back on your face."

"Take your hands off me, your Grace," I said coldly, between clenched teeth. He raised his eyebrows is an expression of mocking surprise, that smirk still plastered on his face, and his hands stayed where they were. How could I have ever thought this man handsome or desirable? "If you do not remove your hands, I will scream for help!"

Still looking at me mockingly, but now looking just ever so slightly confused, Charles Brandon took his hands away from me, and I knew that I would never be so stupid as to let him put them on me again.

"Do not ever touch me again, your Grace," I spat at him, holding my chin up with the kind of cold dignity I had seen in Thomas when he was around people that he was not close to. "I have been loved by a better man than you could ever be!"

And with that, knowing full well that if he chose he could have me severely punished for speaking like that, I strode away. My cheeks felt flushed with anger, and I let out a slow deep breath in an attempt to calm down. Automatically, my hand strayed up to touch the silver locket which was always around my throat, and I thought of Thomas's dear face.

My life was never again going to be as happy as it was before, but at least I had the consolation of knowing that I had been in love with the very best of men!