Title: Truth At All Costs (or, Too Many Thomases)

Author: Dork of York

Rating: PG-13/T (at least for now; it may change)

Summary: Lady Clara Tyrell was an intrinsically honest person, which is no easy thing to be at the court of Henry VIII, let alone as a spy in the employ of Thomas Cromwell. With a front-row seat to the English Reformation and a stake of her own in the changes, Clara finds herself in a balancing act between her family, her secret husband, her monarch, her faith... and her own integrity.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except Clara. The characters belong both to history, and to the creators of the show The Tudors, but not to me.

Author's Note: Well, I'm back!

(Hmm, it's funny to begin something with that line instead of ending it.)

Anyway, I'm back with my promised Tudor fic. But first, a few things you should know.

Now, I studied a lot (and I mean a lot) of English history and Reformation history when I was in college; I even took an English Reformation class in Oxford. I tell you this to establish my bona fides in regards to the history of the period. One of the things I enjoy most about watching the show The Tudors is screaming at the television whenever I see an historical inaccuracy (and I see lots and lots of them). However, this fic is set in the show's 'verse, and will therefore contain a lot of those inaccuracies since I'm basing it on show canon and not actual history. Therefore, for example, Henry VIII is going to be Jonathan Rhys-Meyers (even though I know and you know that Henry VIII looked nothing like JRM) and he'll have had one sister who was Margaret who had been Queen of Portugal and thereafter married the Duke of Suffolk (even though it was Mary who did that, and she was Queen of France and not Portugal). You get the picture. Show canon. The inclusion of these inaccuracies doesn't mean I don't know what really happened; it just means I'm going with what the show said and not what's historically accurate. Of course, I don't claim to know everything (I know next to nothing about legal process of the time, nor anything about Tudor-era London) and if you do spot something I got wrong that wasn't wrong on purpose, I beseech you to let me know so I can correct it.

Also, Thomas Cromwell is going to be playing a pretty big part in this fic. One of my new favourite books is Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel, in which Cromwell is the protagonist. The Cromwell in this fic will be a lot like Mantel's Cromwell, whom I don't own and, alas, don't get credit for creating. If you haven't read Wolf Hall, I totally recommend it. It's a great book, and there's some fantastic funny bits. But I don't own that either, and am acknowledging my debt to Ms. Mantel for her influence.

I think that's about it. Sorry for rambling too much, and onto the story! It picks up around the end of episode 7 or the start of episode 8 in season 1.

Prologue:

September 1528

A Welshman he had known long ago once remarked, After the first death, there is no other. And while the man had been fairly deep in his cups at the time, his words had merit.

Thomas Cromwell remembered those words now, repeating them silently to himself as he moved through London, coming home to Shoreditch from Whitehall. It was a changed city from the he was used to inhabiting; instead of a bustling, colourful mass of humanity, it was now a sombre, grieving, black-clad town, shrouded with smoke and bereft of the usual commotion. And no wonder; the city had been hard hit by the most recent, virulent outbreak of the sweating sickness this past summer. No one had been spared, high or low—even Cardinal Wolsey, his patron, had fallen sick. Wolsey had survived; unfortunately, Cromwell's daughters did not.

That was why he remembered so clearly that Welshman's words about there being no deaths after the first. It rather felt like that, truly; there had been one death after another after another. The past year seemed as though it had been one long march of death, and whatever organ did his grieving (his heart, perhaps?) was utterly exhausted.

The Cromwell family, like London, had been laid low by the sickness. Last summer, in the plague, he'd lost his wife Elizabeth, his sister Kat, and her husband Morgan. And now, with the latest, most virulent outbreak of the sweat, he'd lost his sister Bet, Bet's son John, Liz's sister Joan, and his own daughters Anne and Grace. The losses, coming swiftly one after the other, left Thomas feeling empty. Elizabeth's death, more than a year ago now, had gutted him at the time, leaving an empty ache in his chest which only time was beginning to dull. But he didn't seem to be able to summon the same kind of fierce, gut-rending anguish for the following deaths; perhaps because he was worn out from grieving, or perhaps because he got used to the loss. Perhaps both. After the first death, there had been no other, and now he was left feeling as though he was hollow from the neck down.

He entered the house and let a servant relieve him of his coat and his chain of office, though he held onto the thick folio of papers. Thomas still half-expected to see Liz coming down the stairs to chide him for the lateness of the hour, or hear the galumphing steps of Anne and Grace as they rushed to greet him. The echoing silence of the house made that empty place in his heart ache, especially since his son Gregory (and the last child he had living) was away at Cambridge. But he shoved it away, and focussed on the present. Grieving over the past would serve no purpose.

Divested of his outer wrappings, Thomas ascended the stairs to his office. The night was young enough that he could still get some work done. He had plenty to see to, after all; the kingdom was still recovering from a deadly summer, during which the government had ground to a standstill. In addition, preparations were underway for the long-awaited arrival of Cardinal Campeggio and the opening of the trial regarding the King's marriage. As the King's secretary, Thomas had more than enough work to fill his barren days and his empty nights without even taking into account his own affairs: his legal practise, the clothier's trade he inherited from his late wife, the business of running the household—which, though diminished, still contained his nephew Richard Williams, his nieces Alice and Joan, and Gregory when he was home from his studies—and his more dangerous activities with and for the Reforming cause.

Yes, there was business enough to occupy his time. It would have to suffice, hereafter, since he had little else left to him. And if the loneliness of his empty, decimated house made that gnawing ache in his chest worse... well, he'd have the rest of his life to become accustomed to it, wouldn't he?

Chapter 1:

October 1528

Lady Clara Tyrell was upset.

No, she thought to herself as she flitted down the stairs, slipping out the door with nothing but the swish of her skirts to mark her passing, upset was too mild a word for the moment. She was... angry.

She wafted noiselessly through the garden, avoiding the gardeners, whom she could hear on the other side of the hedge, making a beeline for the gate which led out into the pastures as she corrected her mental phrasing again. 'Angry' was still too mild a word. Furious was better. Enraged, even. Ready to mount a horse and ride to London and tear George Spencer (whoever he was) apart with her bare hands.

And for Lady Clara Tyrell, that was saying something.

With Ardley Castle behind her and no one within earshot, Clara hiked up her skirts and started running, feeling the long grasses whip against her legs as she made for the forest and the clearing which she had claimed for her own. It was a quiet, solitary spot, surrounded by trees and brush and distant from any sources of water; thus, it was not a part of the forest frequented by hunters or animals or lovers or anyone aside from herself. It had been her secret sanctuary from the first time she'd discovered it, when first she came to Leicestershire as wife to Sir Robert Tyrell, overwhelmed by the changes in her life and unsure of the people in her new home. And now, five years later, she sorely needed its silence and its serenity again, since death had robbed her of just about every other support. Her family—said support—had been decimated.

The past year had been a bad one, with one loss after another. It began with the death of her sister Rosamond to childbed fever in the summer of 1527. This blow was followed by the loss of her mother-in-law Elizabeth Tyrell to the plague shortly thereafter. That winter, the son Rosamond bore died, following his mother to the grave, and not three months ago she had been forced to miss her mother Mary's funeral due to the fact that she'd had to bury her husband Robert and her daughter Constance. They had all of them died in the outbreak of the sweating sickness during this most recent summer, which had laid low the whole country. Clara had been sick herself—according to her sister-in-law Marion, she'd nearly died on the very eve of her twenty-fifth birthday. She didn't know if that was true, but she had been terribly weak afterwards, and it had taken her nearly a month to build back her strength... strength which she had sorely needed.

After all, upon the death of her husband, the management of the Tyrell lands—her son's inheritance—was left in her hands. It was now up to her to oversee the family's holdings—which were rather extensive, with properties in Leicestershire and Warwickshire—until her son came of age, in addition to managing the lands that made up her jointure and running the household at Ardley Castle which they were all living in. And since Arthur was now only just four, she would be doing all these things for a very long time, and would have many years to accustom herself to being, essentially, the man of the house.

At least, that's what she'd thought.

She supposed, as she reached the edge of the forest and barrelled right on in without slowing, dodging around trees and feeling her skirts catch on saplings and the twigs and fallen trees, her speed fuelled by the fire of her fury, that it was true, what they said: when you thought things couldn't get worse... they did.

Clara slowed her pace as the forest grew thicker, shoving her way through bushes and dry brush and winding around the trees until she reached the massive walnut tree on the ridge in the forest which marked the spot as hers. She leaned against the trunk of the walnut tree—her walnut tree—breathing heavily from her run and feeling the skin on her shins sting; she'd probably scratched her legs bloody when she came through the brush, and she didn't want to know what her dress looked like right now. She didn't care, though; instead, Clara stooped to pick up a walnut. She held it in the palm of her hand for a moment, rubbing her thumb along the rough green surface as she panted from exertion, before she straightened suddenly and flung the unripe nut into the forest with all the strength she could muster. This projectile was followed by another, and another, and another, until she was scrabbling in the dirt to find more walnuts, or rocks, or sticks, or clods of dirt... anything she could use to vent her anger.

And the day had started out so pleasantly.

She had developed a routine after the death of her husband which had become comforting, like a soft blanket or the cover of a well-worn book. She would wake shortly after dawn, when the sun shone through the windows (like it had today). She would ring for her maid and dress before going down to breakfast (like she had today). She would eat with Marion and Arthur, spending a little bit of time with her son before she left him to his aunt's care (like she did today). Then she would go into the study and see to estate matters until late afternoon (like she did today... although, to be honest, Clara spent at least as much time learning how to manage the land as she spent actually managing it; she had been educated—more educated than most women were, truth be told, given her penchant for reading—but no one had ever taught her how to run an estate, since no one had ever expected that she'd need to), after which she would spend the rest of the day in the nursery with her son. When Arthur was younger, she would read him books and play with him; now that he was nearly four, she oversaw his first lessons, teaching him his letters and beginning Latin.

Those afternoons were the very best part of her days; when she was with Arthur and Marion in the nursery, the heavy burdens of grief and responsibility fell away, and Clara could pretend for a moment that everything was fine, that little Constance was in the nursery having a nap and Robin was out hunting and Mother Bess was upstairs sewing, pretend that she hadn't lost so much and didn't need to shoulder a responsibility that was so important to so many people (the tenants, her sister, her son, herself, the shades of her husband and his mother) and for which she felt so unprepared.

She wouldn't get that afternoon in the nursery now. Not only had she removed herself elsewhere to lose her temper—it wouldn't do for the servants or for Arthur to see Lady Tyrell having a hissy fit (especially since Arthur was of the age where he would throw such fits himself, and clever enough to reason that if his mother could have a tantrum then so could he; there'd be no living with him after that)—but she knew her enjoyment of the day was a lost cause. Besides, there would be much work to do once she returned to Ardley; she wouldn't let them do this to her without a fight, and she needed to prepare for it.

The source of all the turmoil which had so upset Clara's routine and equilibrium was lying back in the castle on Robin's desk. (Well, technically, it was now Clara's desk, but it still felt as though it belonged to her husband. After all, he'd been the one using it for years, whereas she had only taken over three months ago. It still felt as though she was intruding every time she sat down before it, and she half expected Robin to come through the door and ask her, with that bemused smile on his face, what she was doing at his desk.) It was a letter, a letter from the Inns of Court in London. It informed Lady Tyrell that Arthur Tyrell's wardship was to be bestowed on one George Spencer.

In short, she was going to lose her son.

There were of course more nuances to the situation than that, but Clara was in no frame of mind to appreciate them, nor was she positive that she'd understand them if she did. She was clever and well-read, but she wasn't a lawyer. All she understood at the moment—and she felt she needed to understand—was that they were going to take her son away from her, despite the fact that Sir Robert's will had left everything in his wife's hands. They were going to take her only child away from her, and give him to someone else to raise. Someone else would teach him Latin and sums and help him with his reading, someone else would dress him and brush his hair and tuck him into bed, someone else would play with him and tell him stories and comfort him after his nightmares. Someone else would do everything that his mother ought to do, and it wasn't fair. Who were they to take a child from his mother, especially when everyone else was dead?

Merely thinking about Arthur being taken from her was enough to reignite Clara's fury, which had begun to subside due to tiredness, and she once again stooped to grab anything she might throw. She kept throwing walnuts, rocks, sticks, and clods of dirt into the forest until her arm ached from exertion, her fingertips were raw, and there was enough dirt on her hands and under her nails to plant flowers. Finally, her strength—if not her anger—was spent, and she plopped onto the ground and settled herself against the trunk of her walnut tree. She picked up an unripe walnut, still cased in its green husk, and rolled it between her fingers. And there Clara rested as for a time, toying with the unripe walnut as her mind spun over possibilities, trying to find a way to keep her son.

The shadows were beginning to grow long in the mid-afternoon sun when Clara felt mistress enough of her feelings to return to the castle. She had also developed the beginnings of a plan to fight for her son, and she couldn't set it in motion out in the woods. It was time to go home. So she picked herself up off the ground, tossed the walnut to the ground, and made her way out of the forest.

As she drew closer to the edge of the wood, however, a voice calling for her caught her attention, ringing faintly through the trees. "Clara! Clara, are you in there?"

Clara recognised Marion's voice, and stifled a sigh. She glanced up at the sky—she hadn't been gone for more than a couple of hours, had she?—before changing her course towards where she could hear her sister-in-law shouting into the forest. After a short walk, Clara discovered Marion and one of the manservants tromping along one of the well-worn hunting paths. She leaped lightly over a fallen tree and hurried to join them, catching up to Marion in time to hear her mutter darkly, "When I find you, Clara, I'm going to tie a bell around your neck."

"I wish you wouldn't," Clara replied mildly, having long been used to this particular threat from not only Marion, but also from her brother, various friends, and her late husband as well.

Marion screamed at the top of her lungs, leaping nearly a foot into the air, and Clara winced as the shrill sound of her sister-in-law's screech grated on her sensitive ears. "Mother Mary, Clara, don't do that!" Marion cried, spinning around and placing her hand to her heart. "Where on earth have you been? And what have you been doing? You're absolutely covered in dirt! And alone, too! Really, Clara, I've been beside myself trying to find out where on earth you disappeared to!"

Clara looked down at her dress, registering for the first time the dirt and bracken staining the black cloth. "I suppose I am a bit messy," she agreed, brushing at her skirts before giving it up as a bad job.

Taking a handkerchief from her sleeve while huffing in exasperation, Marion grabbed Clara's hand and tried to clean the dirt away while turning them around and dragging her along the path out of the woods. "You're absolutely filthy, Clara. What were you thinking? I've been looking for you for nearly three hours! No one knew where you were, no one had seen you leave, you just vanished, and I wish you wouldn't do that. Please, for our peace of mind, make some noise when you move," she grumbled fiercely.

Clara let Marion's complaints wash over her and allowed the taller woman to drag her out of the forest without a word. Robert Tyrell, like his sister, had repeatedly entreated Clara to make more noise, as had the mistress of the maids in the Duchess of Norfolk's household and the Duchess herself. However, it had been Clara's parents who had demanded quiet in their house and from their children. The Gage children—Benedict, Clara, and Rosamond—had learned early on to be very, very quiet, lest they draw the attention of their father, John Gage (from whom Clara had inherited her acute hearing), and receive a whipping that would leave them sore for days. It had even become a game for them: walk along the gallery or across the chapel or through the garden without making any noise. If the others could hear your passage, you'd lost. And of the three children, it was Clara who had most often been the victor. She'd taken the lessons learned in that game so much to heart that even in households where such silence was not required she couldn't quite break the habit of stepping lightly and speaking softly, no matter how often she was entreated otherwise.

Besides, a small, mischievous part of her enjoyed startling her family and friends.

Marion was still rambling on, chiding Clara for her behaviour and continuing to ask questions about where she had been and what she'd been doing and why she'd been wallowing in the dirt but not pausing to hear any answers; she hadn't let go of Clara's hand, either, and was practically dragging her through the pasture towards the castle as the servant she'd brought trotted discreetly along behind them. Clara was annoyed, but didn't raise a fuss; she never did, no matter how often she wished Marion might talk less, listen more, and perhaps not cling so tightly. Marion was, after all, her sister—the only sister she had left now—and they had to live together. No point in destroying the peace over little vexations which were easily enough ignored.

"...and Arthur was very upset; I could barely get him down for his nap," Marion went on. "He kept crying for his mother."

That did sting a little, and Clara felt a bit guilty. But the guilt was quickly subsumed by the knowledge that if she didn't act quickly her son would be taken away, and thereafter cry for his mother with no hope of relief. The thought only fuelled her determination to fight the court's decision. "I'll apologise later," Clara said firmly, as she and Marion passed through the garden gate. "Please bring him to me when he wakes."

Marion's lovely face crinkled in confusion, and she slowed to a halt near the hedge. "Bring him to you?" she repeated. "Will you not be in the nursery with us?"

Clara slipped her hand free from Marion's grasp and turned to face her sister, struck by her beauty as she did so. The sun, which was now beginning to set in earnest, gilded Marion's golden hair and made her pale skin glow as though it had been brushed with pearl. She was a beautiful woman, was Marion, and Clara felt for a moment the sting of her own plainness, aware of her skinny frame and her mousey brown hair. But she shrugged it off with the ease of long practise and focussed on the more important matters. "I have letters to write," she replied. "I'll see you at dinner."

"Are these letters more important than your son?" Marion challenged, reaching out to grab Clara's arm and hold her in place. "This is so unlike you, Clara—what is going on?" she demanded, her periwinkle-blue eyes worried.

"I received a letter today from London," Clara replied, after a pause to make sure Marion actually wanted to hear the answer. "They're going to take Arthur away from me."

"What?" Marion gasped. "How? Why?"

"His wardship is being given elsewhere, apparently. I don't know why, but I don't mean to lie back and let it happen," Clara vowed ferociously.

Marion allowed Clara to re-enter the castle unimpeded thereafter. However, she refused to allow Clara out of her sight as Clara changed her dress, washed her hands, and slathered a salve on the multitude of scratches she'd collected on her legs. She also followed Clara into the study, and while Clara settled down with quill and parchment Marion took up a position behind the chair her sister was sitting in, practically looming over the shorter woman.

"To whom will you write?" Marion asked as Clara sharpened her quill.

Clara paused, wishing she could tell Marion to stop hovering; though she knew who was behind her and that Marion meant her no harm, she couldn't stop the creeping, crawling feeling up her spine. "To my brother Benedict—he's still in Cardinal Wolsey's household. And to my friend Agnes—Lady Agnes, rather. I think her husband is an officer in the king's household, and I know the family keeps a London house. I'll also write to Meg—that is, Margaret Roper, Thomas More's daughter—and see if she'll speak to her father on my behalf. Actually, I should write to Sir Thomas as well," she mused, flipping open the top of her inkwell. "He's a lawyer; he might have some good advice."

"Calling in all favours?" Marion inquired, a smile apparent in her voice.

"Yes," Clara agreed, putting Marion's presence out of her mind and bending her attention to the letters she needed to write. She was pretty much calling upon anyone and everyone she knew who had any influence in London. Thankfully, she had spent nearly ten years in the city, and knew at least a few people.

Benedict was her older brother, and her only sibling left after Rosamond's death. He had been in Wolsey's household for years; Ben would surely help her, and after so long with the Cardinal he would surely be able to speak to Wolsey on her behalf, or perhaps even convince his Eminence to see her. Lady Agnes Sedley, née Heywood, had been one of her best friends in the Duchess of Norfolk's household, and if her husband Lord Sedley had influence perhaps Agnes could convince him to promote Clara's cause to the king. At the very least, Agnes could provide housing for the Clara and her son while they were in London. And then the Mores—Meg Roper, and her father Sir Thomas. Clara felt they were some of the better weapons in her arsenal... if they'd help her. She wasn't close to them like she was to Ben and Agnes—she was far too afraid of Thomas More to desire any true closeness even with Meg, who could've otherwise been the best of friends—but she was known to the family. She'd dined at the Chelsea house once or twice before her marriage, and she wrote regularly to Margaret Roper (they talked mostly of books and languages), and though she was wary of him she reckoned Sir Thomas was fond enough of her—he'd certainly seemed amused by her when she was still Mistress Mouse (which was what the other ladies of the Duchess' household had called her).

Normally, she wouldn't dream of putting herself forward in this way—especially not with the Mores. In fact, the thought of demanding things of these people made her cringe inwardly. But what choice did she have? If she didn't use every resource, every friend at her disposal, she could lose her son. That was something far worse than any momentary embarrassment about asking for favours.

Don't ask, don't get, Clara reminded herself as she wrote. And she was willing to do anything and everything to ensure that her son remained where he belonged: with her.

That night, after putting Arthur to bed, Clara excused herself to her bedchamber, rather than sitting up with Marion. After she brushed her hair and donned her nightgown, she dismissed the maid, wanting to be totally alone. Once the chamber was empty and she couldn't hear anyone else in the adjoining room or in the hallway, she went to the side of the bed and knelt on the floor, reaching for the walnut chest she stashed under the bed. She dragged it out, and then went to her jewel case for the key, which was hidden under a string of pearls Robin gave her after Arthur was born. She then went back to the walnut chest, unlocked it, and lifted the lid, allowing the candlelight to dance across the creamy parchment of years and years worth of letters.

But then Clara removed the false top, setting it—and all the letters—to the side, thus revealing the true contents of the coffer: books. She started taking the books out and setting them on the bed, seeking a specific volume. Had there been another person in the room to see the titles of those books, it would've been immediately apparent as to why Lady Tyrell went to such pains to hide them. It would also explain why she feared Sir Thomas More, and avoided intimacy with the family. Every single one of the books in the walnut chest was banned in England, and would brand her as a heretic and see her sent to the stake to burn. Most of them had been penned by Martin Luther, but there was also Tyndale's English Bible, which was what Clara sought. Once she found it, she carefully placed all the books back into the chest and replaced the false top. She didn't lock the chest, nor shove it back under the bed. Instead, she climbed into bed with her English Bible and opened it to the book of Matthew, poring over the pages in the flickering candlelight.

When she came to the passage wherein Jesus ordered the fig tree to wither, her attention was caught by words which had acquired a new significance to her of late. "Iesus answered and sayde vnto the: Verely I saye vnto you yf ye shall have faith and shall not dout ye shall not only do that which I have done to the fygge tree: but also yf ye shall saye vnto this moutayne take thy silfe awaye and cast thy silfe into the see it shall be done. And whatsoever ye shall axe in prayer (if ye beleve) ye shall receave it."

That passage resonated with her, and Clara kept it in mind as she finished her reading, closed the Bible, and once again locked away and concealed her cache of heretical books, knowing that it was even more important now that no hint of unorthodoxy touch her, especially since she was going to beg help from Thomas More and Cardinal Wolsey. Thankfully, very few people had any idea of Clara's Lutheran sympathies. Marion knew only that Clara had read some of Luther's writings. She had been utterly horrified by the same; thus, Clara had no inclination to enlighten her sister-in-law otherwise about her beliefs. No, her faith was a private thing, and would have to remain that way.

After she shoved the chest back under the bed, Clara remained on her knees on the floor, and recalled the words of the gospel she'd read this evening. And whatsoever ye shall axe in prayer (if ye beleve) ye shall receave it. And thus, she prayed. She prayed with all the strength in her body, prostrating herself before the Almighty, begging fervently for the strength and wisdom to carry out the legal battle for her son. She prayed that her family and friends would reply swiftly to her letters and come to her aid. She prayed that the Inns of Court would be sympathetic, and prayed that God would hear her prayers and allow her son—her only living child, since He had seen fit to call Constance to his heavenly embrace—to stay with her.

Eventually, Clara felt hollowed out—but in a more pleasant way, utterly different from the grief that had gutted her after the deaths of her husband and child. This was lightening, as though she had poured out her cares to God and been relieved of them. She felt... hopeful, peaceful. She had given her problems—and her anger—to God; she had faith that He would help her. A passage from one of her Lutheran books came to mind: Faith is a living, bold trust in God's grace, so certain of God's favour that it would risk death a thousand times trusting in it.

I must have faith, Clara told herself as she got up off the floor and went to snuff the candles. I will trust in God to help me, and give me the strength I need to fight for my son.

But that night she dreamed, and in her dreams Arthur was gone from her. Arthur was gone, and she was walking a narrow path over a great chasm so deep she could not see the bottom. She knew to fall into it was a fate even worse than death, that she would fall forever away from everything she loved, and she was afraid, for the path was treacherous and her steps unsure. But there was someone beside her, though she could not see them. She felt safe with them, whoever it was; they held her hand firmly and would not let her neither stumble nor fall for they loved her—whoever it was at her side, they loved her.

When she awoke the next morning, that was what she most remembered from her dream: the feeling that she was protected and guided through danger by someone who cared for her. But the memory lasted barely ten minutes; soon enough, Clara put the entire dream—the narrow path, the chasm, the absence of her only son, even the presence of the person who guided her steps—out of her mind as she threw herself into the preparations for their departure to London and the legal battle which awaited her there. If it didn't tell her how to keep her son, she had no time for it.

Two weeks later, Clara was being jolted along the road from Leicestershire to London. Arthur was seated beside her, playing with a wooden horse, and Marion was in the seat opposite, looking pained and uncomfortable. Clara was certain her expression was a mirror of Marion's, especially since the high-pitched rattling of the carriage axels was insinuating itself into her temples and giving her a pounding headache.

And they had four or five more days of this.

Clara closed her eyes and tried to ignore the annoying noises, focusing instead on Arthur's soft murmurs as he played, listening for his breaths as she went over her preparations inwardly. She had been over the account books for the household before she left, and had done her best to economise and squeeze every spare shilling out of the Tyrell holdings. Clara had no idea how much this venture would cost or how long it would take, but she knew it might be expensive, and thus made sure to drum up as much cash as she could before her departure. Marion had seen to the packing, which Clara was thankful for; she had enough to worry about.

Benedict had replied to her letter, promising to speak to Wolsey on her behalf. Agnes had also written, vowing her support and offering lodgings for however long Clara was in London. She hadn't yet heard back from Margaret Roper or Thomas More, but she had directed the servants to send all her post to Lord Sedley's house in London; hopefully she would hear from the Mores, father and daughter, soon enough. She could also seek them out in person, but would prefer to wait for a reply before doing that.

So, Clara posited, she would arrive in London on a Tuesday, God willing. Wednesday she would spend some time with Agnes, and seek out Benedict to hear any advice he could give her. She had a mind to ask for a lot of it—about the law, about the costs of this enterprise, about banks from which she might be able to borrow money if it was more than she could afford. Hopefully Ben would have information for her, and could also tell her when and if she would be received by Cardinal Wolsey. Thursday, if she could slip away from Marion and Agnes (possibly by lying, and telling them she was going to see a banker), Clara was inclined to go seek out the bookseller near the Strand from whom she got her Lutheran books, and see if anything had been published recently. But that was only a theoretical scheduling, especially where the books were concerned; Clara knew how careful she had to be. Further plans would have to wait until she was in possession of more information. But the campaign was underway, at least.

"Mama, are we there yet?" Arthur asked innocently, tugging on her sleeve.

Clara opened her eyes and glanced over at her son, who was staring up at her with the brown eyes he'd inherited from her. He smiled hopefully when he saw he had her attention, and Clara felt a pang in her heart. There was no doubt that Arthur was her son; he had her eyes, her brown hair, her pale skin, her heart-shaped face, and her unfortunate nose (straight, but for a bump in the middle). His smile, though... Arthur's smile was Robin's, and a source therefore of both pleasure and pain. Pain for her loss, but a reminder that there was at least a little bit of her kind, loving husband left in the world.

"No, dear heart, we're not there yet," Clara replied, hoping fervently that Arthur would be able to be patient. If he was to spend the next four days asking if they were there yet, it would make for a very, very long trip.

"Why are we going to London?" he asked again, shifting in his seat to face her.

"You know why we're going to London," Clara said, reaching out to ruffle his dark hair.

She had explained to her son why they were going to stay in London a day before they left, and the day they left, and yesterday as well. She knew Arthur knew and understood what was going on; he just liked to hear the stories he liked over and over again. There had been a time not too long ago when he'd demanded to hear about King Arthur and the sword in the stone every night for two weeks, and now he seemed to enjoy listening to a simplified account of how his mother was going to fight a man in London.

"There is a man who wants to take you away from me," she told her son, making a very complicated issue as simple as she could. "And we must go to London to make sure he does not. There are magic words which will let me win, but I don't know what they are; for that, I have to talk to Uncle Benedict, and he will help me meet men who can tell me the right words. Then, we will fight the man who wants to take you away; at the right time, I will speak the magic words, and banish him forever. And you will stay with me and Aunt Marion, where you belong."

Clara punctuated the tale with a kiss to Arthur's forehead, and he smiled brightly—Robin's smile, and she smiled wistfully in return. "I know you'll find the words, Mama," he said cheerfully. "We have lots of books. Will you read one to me?"

"After your Latin lesson," Clara replied, reaching under the seat for the basket of books she'd brought. Arthur made a face, but submitted to his lesson; Clara was teaching him Latin out of the Old Testament, which was full of battles and heroes, and was thus far more enjoyable than how she'd learnt Latin (which was from a resentful priest and the church liturgy). After the lesson, she told him a story about Camelot and King Arthur, letting her voice sooth him until he fell asleep with his head on her lap.

"He's your son, through and through," Marion remarked amusedly. "Always wanting a book or a story."

"I hope he'll be so easily placated two days from now," Clara replied wryly.

"Why did you bring him along?" Marion wondered. "It's a long journey for such a little boy."

"I want him with me," Clara said simply, brushing her fingers gently across her son's untroubled brow. She refused to elaborate any further out loud, as though verbalising her fears would conjure them, but inwardly added, if I lose, and they take him away from me, I want to know I spent as much time with him as I could before I lost him.

Fear stung her again, coiling in her gut like a serpent, but Clara closed her eyes again and leaned back, focussing on the feeling of her son's soft skin under her hand. She silently prayed for strength, giving her fear up to God and beseeching Him to help her. Peace was harder to reclaim in the daylight, but Clara reminded herself to have faith. Benedict had promised to help her, and Agnes had promised to help her, and she had faith that God would help her. There was nothing else she could do until she got to London, at any rate.

They'd probably arrive on Tuesday, Clara posited, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, keeping her eyes closed and listening to the rattle of the coach. Wednesday she'd go to find Benedict, and spend time with Agnes, and then Thursday...

Without being aware of it, Clara slipped down into sleep.

Marion watched them slumber, mother and son, and smiled softly at the sight they made. Arthur took after his mother so very much. Poor Constance, Clara's late daughter, had taken after her paternal family, with Robert's fairer hair and blue eyes. But Arthur was Clara's son, through and through—even beyond their similar looks. He listened to things like his mother, and watched things like his mother, and would probably grow to be just as clever and bookish as his mother, if the boy's constant desire for stories was any indication. Marion hoped that one day Arthur would grow to be as good a man as Clara was a woman. Or would Spencer, whoever he was, mould the sweet little boy into something completely different?

She hoped Clara was right, that her sister-in-law could count on the support of such powerful men as Wolsey and More, and that their aid would deliver Arthur's care back into her hands. They had lost so much of late that Marion didn't want to think of what losing her son as well would do to Clara. And that which hurt Clara hurt Marion as well.

Marion reached out and softly touched Clara's brown hair, stroking gently, before letting her fingers ghost down her face, tracing the lines of her beloved countenance before coming to rest on her soft lips. Marion could feel the gentleness of Clara's breath against her fingertips, and fought down a surge of longing to do... she knew not what. Kiss her? Hold her? Drop to her knees on the floor of the carriage and rest her head on Clara's lap next to Arthur, basking in the presence of the two people she loved best in all the world? Or slide her hands up Clara's graceful legs, under her skirts, feeling the lithe muscles under the smooth skin of her calves before moving upwards to the tender skin behind her knees and thence up to Clara's soft, soft thighs...

She shook her golden head fiercely, as though to unseat the sinful thoughts therein. And they were sinful, Marion knew that. Such desires belonged only to the marriage bed... and only directed towards men.

Marion had known for years that there was something strange within her. She'd known it when she realised her preference was to gaze at the fall of long hair or the swell of pale breasts, rather than appreciate a strong calf or a pair of broad shoulders. But she ignored it, tamped it down, knowing it was not the way of things, too ashamed to even confess to the priest. She hoped it was something that would vanish in time—perhaps with her marriage.

And Marian Tyrell had been married once, years ago. She had been Lady Marion Aldridge for five years, and five years only before the marriage was annulled, due to its barrenness. Perhaps that had been her fault—she had never been able to muster passion or even fondness for her husband. Part of her had therefore been very relieved when the marriage was ended, though she had keenly felt the sting of shame at being sent back to her family in disgrace. Her father had been dead by that point, so she had escaped the worst of the humiliation, but Joan, her brother's wife at the time, had been cruel enough to her barren sister-in-law, now a drain on the family's finances.

She had resigned herself to living a cold, staid life off her brother's charity, making herself useful in whatever ways she could. But then Joan had died, and shortly after their son Henry also passed on. Robin needed to marry again and beget another heir, and Marion had steeled herself for another cold, indignant sister-in-law who would resent her presence in the house and do her best to marginalise her.

Instead, she got Clara.

Looking back, Marion thought it had been inevitable that she fall in love with Clara from the very the moment she saw her, wide-eyed and obviously intimidated, trying to cling without clinging to Robin. She had been everything Marion wanted in a sister—she was sweet and kind and warm and open and seemed happy to have another woman in the household. She had also been tentative and timid in a way that left Marion wanting desperately to comfort and cosset her, and beautiful in a subtle way that was easy to overlook—too easy, if Clara's insecurity about her looks was any judge. And thus Marion found herself coveting her brother's wife, found herself in love and in lust with another woman—which was a secret she would hopefully reveal only to the priest who came for her last confession.

But she did love Clara—loved her devotedly. Marion's deepest hope at the moment was that Clara would get Arthur's wardship, and that they would retire back to Ardley Castle and live out their lives like a family. Clara would not remarry, Arthur would grow up under the care of his mother and his aunt, and Marion... Marion would have Clara and Arthur and nearly everything she wanted. Everything she wanted that wouldn't damn her.

And so the Tyrell carriage rattled along the road to London...

A/N part deux: So there we have the prologue and chapter 1. Woo-hoo!

Historical notes: Technically, Cromwell was still in Wolsey's service at this point in history, and not the King's secretary. Also, Dylan Thomas hadn't yet been born, and would've never had a chance to meet Thomas Cromwell. :D (Yes, I was anachronistic, but I love Thomas' poetry and it was so very appropriate.) I think those are the only inaccuracies in this chapter.

Anyway, if you enjoyed the start of this fic, let me know! I'm rubbish at beginnings—this chapter went through three versions before I found one I liked to actually post—and I'm not sure how well it went. Was I too wordy? Was there too much information to process? Was there too much telling and not enough showing? Please, give me some feedback!