A/N: Welcome to the final chapter of my singularly long epic! As always, thank you for your comments and reviews. Wow - it's weird that I'm saying that for the last time in this tale, even though it became almost my stock phrase.

With all settled for the future rule of the realm, an heir in the royal nursery and England at peace, Anne's journey has come full circle. It began with a marriage, and thus it ends with one...

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

The Marriage of Her Grace of Pembroke

Wiltshire sips at a cup of warmed ale and smiles across at his wife, who is embroidering beside the fire. The item, a kerchief of the finest white cambric, has been decorated with artfully worked ox-eye daisies to represent patience, and primroses to represent eternal love. It is his wife's gift to his sister, now that she has been given the opportunity to marry the man that she loves.

The news of the impending betrothal has not yet been announced to England at large, primarily because Anne remains the Queen Dowager, and her royal state would become her husband's, so the first step must be for her to ensure that cannot happen. Elizabeth is Queen; but nonetheless, her mother is also anointed, and there remain a few subjects in England would would claim that the Dowager would overrule her daughter and claim the throne for her progeny with a new husband. Such a circumstance would be utterly impossible: not merely because Anne is past her childbearing years, but because she has no desire to. Nonetheless the legacy of the King's Great Matter has followed her throughout her life, and even now remains a stain upon her in the eyes of some.

"Perhaps we see too much opposition." Wiltshire muses, "It may be that those who despise Anne have dwindled to numbers so insignificant that we need not concern ourselves with them."

"Perhaps." Jane agrees, looking up from her hoop, "But nonetheless, we must pay them mind, for it may be that those who despised her in those early days have induced their children to think likewise. Her Majesty is accepted without question by the princes of Europe - but in some cases at least, that acceptance is upon the basis of political expediency only. Anne's first, and only, concern has always been to ensure that she does not compromise her daughter's reign; and thus we must look to settle fears even if they are slim, or do not exist at all."

"That is a cruel burden to set upon her."

"It is indeed, my husband," Jane grouses, "and one that she has borne for much of her life. Women are ever to blame for all the vagaries of life that men experience. We are the bearers of Eve's sin, after all; and it is far easier to hold us to account than to imagine that a man might have been responsible for his own fate."

Wiltshire eyes her with a sad smile, "I can only ask that you forgive me, my love." He advises, "I have learned well that you are the equal of any of the men at the Council table, as is my sister; but it is harmful to our self-regard to admit as much, and thus we demand the silence of women to save ourselves the embarrassment of being outshone by them."

Her eyes flick up, and she sees his sincerity. He is not making a jest with her, "Thank you, my Lord; do not believe that you are of lesser intellect, for you most assuredly are not. I give thanks to God each day that we discovered that common ground that has brought us joy in each other and granted us a son to continue your name. It is now my great wish that Anne share that sense of companionship."

Wiltshire smiles at her, "And thus we take steps to ensure that she does so. Come, my Jane; it is near-on time for dinner. Once we have dined, Anne shall confirm to all that the Crown is no longer hers to claim, and all shall hear it."

The conversation in the Hall is relatively quiet, as the diners winnow their way through sides of beef, haunches of venison and mountains of manchet loaves. Seated at the high table, Elizabeth takes small bites of her portion, and smiles periodically at her husband as that small green parrot that he gifted her perches upon a frame nearby and chatters excitedly in anticipation of more sweet grapes.

There is still a quiet sense that all is not as it should be, for there are two places in that hall that should have been filled by others who are no longer there; but she is gradually learning to house Lord Essex and Kat in a part of her heart where they shall remain for the rest of her days, even if they cannot be in her presence any more. Instead, her smile widens a little in anticipation of the ceremony that shall follow the meal. She knows well that her mother has set her own happiness aside to ensure her daughter's safety, but now it is time for her to put herself first, and Elizabeth is looking forward to allowing her to do so.

The need to suppress rumours remains in place, however, and Lord Lincoln is seated at the trestle reserved for the Councillors, where he is talking with Lord Richmond. Following the loss of Cromwell, he seems very much to have stepped into that sad breach, restoring the political triumvirate that has stood at Elizabeth's side almost from the beginning of her reign. Wiltshire, on the other hand, is at the high table by virtue of his blood relationship to the Queen, with his wife at his side.

With the last of the meal consumed, the diners withdraw to sample the banquet course, while the remnants are voided in preparation for music, and a masque in which many of the Queen's younger ladies shall dance. As he has always done, Richmond views the cream cheese with revulsion, and swallows it with much distaste, "God, if this were not essential for my health, I should most assuredly eschew it."

"Better to close one's stomach, my Lord Richmond." Lincoln smiles at him, "I should not wish to be alongside you were it not."

Richmond chuckles, "I should not wish to embarrass myself so; and thus I endure it."

There are none near them, and Lincoln's voice drops a little, "I hope it is not too forward of me to express my great gratitude to you, and to my late Lord of Essex, for your determination to secure the happiness of myself and her Majesty the Dowager Queen. While the law did not stand in our way, a multitude of other objections most assuredly did so, and I could not fathom how they could be overcome."

"She granted us both her trust, and raised us above other men at Court; thus, we were situated politically to grant her this gift in thanks for her goodness to us." Richmond answers, then frowns slightly, "God above, that sounds grotesquely fawning, does it not?"

"Perhaps so," Lincoln laughs, "But nonetheless I am grateful for it."

The Court returns to the hall, where the trestles have been removed, and a range of benches are set against the walls. Elizabeth's canopy of estate has been brought to rest over the dais, and she takes her seat with great formality, Philip at her side, "My Lords, I thank you for your company this day. A member of my Court has made a request to me that I am minded to grant. Perhaps to many, it might seem to be an act of ingratitude, but I assure all that it is not." She turns to her Chaplain, a newly appointed Cambridge man of good reputation, who approaches with the scripture as one of the steward sets a low stool upon the floor in front of the dais.

In spite of the rumours that have been circulating about the court, few have speculated at the likelihood of marriage, or even betrothal: the barriers to such a thing have always been at the forefront of any speculation. Consequently, the gathering is utterly silenced as Elizabeth turns to look at her mother, who rises, steps down and kneels upon the cushioned stool.

Setting her right hand upon the scripture, Anne looks up at her daughter and smiles. Perhaps, when she was that young woman who first captured the infatuation of a King, she would have fought with all she had to keep a crown; but now that crown is impeding her future joy, and she could not be happier to be free of it. An usher stands beside her with the words of the Oath she shall swear, and she reads the words clearly so that all shall hear them.

"I, Queen Anne of the house Tudor, hereby relinquish and renounce all claim to the throne of England. Henceforth, I shall be a Subject in all manner and right; and any progeny that I might bear in future years shall be Subjects also, with no claim, or right to claim, the crown of St Edward, or any rights and privileges pertaining thereto. From this day, I shall be known as the Lady Anne, and shall never again seek to assert any right to England's rule. So help me God."

Lifting her hand from the Scripture, she takes the quill from the usher, and sets her name down upon the document. For the first time in years, it is just her name: Anne. Equally, the seal that shall be set upon it is one that has been commissioned for her from the Garter King of Arms, consisting of an escutcheon upon which is set a falcon overt. Having renounced her royal state, she is no longer entitled to use her royal arms, after all.

Her vow made, Elizabeth steps forth and takes both of her hands, "Let it be known to all that the former Dowager Queen of England is my beloved Subject, and thus I grant upon her the property of Leeds Castle to which she shall henceforth retire to live privately."

Rising from the stool, Anne steps back, and curtseys with the depth required of an ordinary subject to her Queen. It is done - she is free of the burden of royalty, and she could not be happier for it.

The dancers have been rehearsing for a considerable time, and their performance is excellent. They dance to represent Elizabeth as a fairy queen presiding over a Kingdom of magical beasts, enabling the children of some of the Courtiers to appear as woodland creatures, a great excitement for them all as they make something of a debut at Court.

Wiltshire is seated alongside Richmond, both of them in comfortable chairs rather than the benches, "And so it is done."

"In a manner of speaking." Richmond agrees, "I suspect that, were any to challenge that oath, it might not stand, for she was anointed with holy oil, and what can overturn God's appointment to rule? But it shall assuredly serve as a determined statement of intent - and I think that shall be sufficient to quell the complaints of any who are convinced that she might seek to seize a crown for the children she might have with a future husband."

"At her age?" Wiltshire scoffs, "Even she claims that no such thing could be possible."

"Indeed - but it is better said than left in abeyance. There are some who might pretend that unnatural means be employed to steal the crown back. There is no accounting for the foolishness of those who have not forgiven her for the end of the king's first marriage - even after all these years."

"That is so. Better to counter them before they are granted leave to speak." He smiles again, "And who shall be fooled that the forthcoming elevation of Lincoln is naught but a reward for his acts during the insurrection?"

Richmond laughs softly, "Not a single soul; but he is well liked, so they shall not mind it." He looks up to see Sadleir nearby, and catches the Baron's eye to common him over, "What is the mood of the populace, Ralph?"

"Delighted, my Lord." Sadleir answers, quietly, grasping a chair to sit beside the Chancellor, "To their minds, Her Majesty has quelled an insurrection against her, and borne England a son. The men of Parliament report that the folk of the shires are equally content; and, in granting her Realm a male heir, it seems that she can do no wrong."

"Then it is unlikely that any shall object to her mother marrying Lord Lincoln."

"Indeed. It is also unlikely that any shall notice. The days when she was talked of are done; for all eyes are upon Elizabeth now."

Richmond sits back in his chair with a sigh of relief, "That is good to know. The Lady Anne has taken much care to fade from the minds of Englishmen; she shall be as pleased as we to hear that she has succeeded in that aim." It sounds most strange to refer to the former Queen in such terms, and both men notice his slight pause before he speaks her name. She has not been called so for more than twenty years, and it is hard to break a habit so old.

"The letters patent are prepared, so all that is required is for her Majesty to name Lincoln as Earl of Kent, and then restore Pembroke as an equal Earldom to the former Dowager." Sadler observes. While there is no real requirement to do so, for Anne shall become Countess of Kent upon her marriage as a matter of course and high-born men have married low-born women for as long as men have married women, it seems wrong for her to have no title at all; but equally it would be madness to elevate her to a higher rank than that of her husband to be.

The three are roused from their quiet conversation by the outbreak of applause, and join in as though they have been attentive throughout. The ladies curtsey, while the children do likewise charmingly, and the Queen's steward batters his staff upon the floor, "Her Majesty the Queen!"

Her expression slightly mischievous, Elizabeth rises and approaches the front of the dais, "My Lords! I thank you for your friendship and loyalty. In the light of my joy, and the safety of England in the face of insurrection, it is my wish today to bestow honours upon those who put themselves at risk for my sake. As we know, the sad loss of my Lord of Essex has created a vacancy in the Chapel of the Garter. In recognition of his bravery when confronted by traitors, it is my decree that my Lord of Richmond shall be granted that vacant seat, and take his place as a Garter Knight."

Sadleir smirks slightly at the look of shock upon Richmond's face at such a gift; he had no idea. Rising from his chair, he approaches the Queen and bows deeply, "Majesty, I am grateful beyond all measure that you have granted such an honour upon a man as unworthy as I. I promise that I shall serve you faithfully and diligently, both as your Lord Chancellor, and a knight of the Garter." Awkwardly, he kneels upon the stool, which has not been removed, as Elizabeth dubs him. The ceremony to admit him to the Order shall follow later; once he has appropriate robes to wear.

"You are an evil man." He hisses at Sadleir as he returns to his seat.

"I am indeed." Sadleir grins back.

"My Lord of Lincoln." Elizabeth calls, prompting him to rise and approach, "In recognition of your equal bravery during that same incident, it is my wish to reward you equally. Thus I name you Earl Stamford of Kent, with all rights, rents and privileges pertaining thereunto."

Even if there is a subterfuge, none mind it. Lincoln has proved to be a fine councillor and a good man; and all are pleased as he thanks the Queen, and receives his letters patent.

"My Lord of Hackney."

Now Rich smirks as Sadleir's expression changes to surprise. In his case, it is a Viscountcy, and there is not a soul present who resents his reward.

"Touché" Richmond whispers, as his friend returns to his seat.

"Lady Anne, formerly Dowager Queen of England." Elizabeth says, finally, "In recognition of your service to England, and your loving guidance as a mother, I grant you the rank of Countess of Pembroke, with all rights, rents, lands and privileges pertaining thereunto."

Most of the smiles now are a touch knowing, as there is not a soul present who has not guessed why the elevation has taken place; but Elizabeth cares not one whit. She is determined that her mother shall be rewarded for her service with a loving husband, and all that is left now is to announce that they shall wed.

Her Grace Anne, Countess of Pembroke sits in her privy chamber and considers the papers that set out the income from her properties in the shire. Even without the funds provided by the Crown, she remains a wealthy woman; and, but for her intention to be betrothed to William, she would be a most worthy prize for a newly widowed man. How strange; it has been so long since she was able to think of herself in such terms that she has almost forgotten how to.

"I feel far more comfortable to speak to you by name now, Anne." Jane advises, as she settles herself into a nearby chair, "For once you were my Queen; now you are my equal."

"I have ever been your equal, Jane." Anne smiles back at her, "It was the desire of a man that granted me a crown, and now I am free of it. It is remarkable, is it not, that I would have fought with all in me to keep it had Henry desired to take it from me; but now I have relinquished it without so much as a hint of regret?"

"Not entirely," Jane muses, "I think your first goal would have been to protect the rights of your daughter."

"Perhaps. But I am not blind to my faults. Yes, I would have fought for Elizabeth, but also I would have fought for myself. The riches and luxury of my life were a fair compensation for the precarious nature of my marriage, and I was most firmly proud of that crown that had been placed upon my head; for I was a queen, and all men were required to bow before me. We are granted no power over a man, so to have even a pretence of it was very sweet."

"You proved your worth, though. When England called upon you to rule, you did so, and proved that you could rule as well as any man." Jane pauses, "No - better; for you did not permit pride to overcome pragmatism, and looked to others to aid you. His Majesty did not; his council were there to do his bidding, not to aid and advise him. And now Elizabeth rules as you did."

"And I am free to retire from Court, and assume the life that I might otherwise have had."

It is a strange thought: to be a noblewoman living away from Court. Had Henry not desired her, then that would have been her fate. Had she been fortunate, she might have captured a Baron or even a Viscount. The Percy family had made it abundantly clear that the daughter of a mere knight was not fit to marry an Earl. Instead, she is a Countess in her own right, and shall also become Countess of Kent once a ring is upon her finger, and she is William's wife.

The first calling of the Banns was made at mass in the Chapel Royal of Hampton Court this morning, as she shall marry him in the Queen's closet. Archbishop Cranmer has kindly given a dispensation to permit them to be read on three successive Sundays, rather than spreading them over the course of three months. She has waited for long enough, it seems; though it is also likely that he is rather fearful that he shall die before the match can be made. His health has been somewhat precarious of late.

The news that the Countess of Pembroke is to marry the Earl of Kent has been accepted with little concern amongst the Courtiers, while most of England has little interest in such things. Disguising the names of the celebrants through their noble ranks has largely secured their anonymity, for few common folk are particularly interested in the doings of the nobility that have no impact upon their lives. After years of being despised, then lauded and despised, then lauded and not so despised, and finally allowed to step aside for her daughter, Anne is pleased to be able to live privately, and look to the management of an estate over the management of a Kingdom.

Her attention is captured by the sound of voices from outside. The air is frosty this morning, and Elizabeth is taking the air with her ladies, well wrapped in furs and velvets to protect her from the cold. Castor waddles alongside her, alone now after Pollux died in the summer, while another puppy gambols ahead of the gathering, snapping his little jaws at the breath that mists from his nostrils as though it were a living thing that he could capture. Yes; it is time for her to go now. Elizabeth has no need of a mother to clutter up her halls; she has her husband and her son…

"Anne, his Grace of Kent is without and desires to know if you would wish to walk with him in the park." Jane's voice interrupts her thoughts. Immediately, she smiles, and turns to greet the man whom she shall marry in a mere three weeks' time. As she does so, Jane watches her, and sees a flash of that life in her face that once captured a Court and a King. She is happy. Most happy.

In spite of all, however, she remains obliged to be chaperoned until she is wedded, so Jane busies herself gathering a cloak, hood and muff. As she has always done, she shall stand to the rear and stop up her ears - but only for a little longer. Soon they shall be husband and wife, and her duty shall be over.

She sits in a brightly lit chamber, sunlight pouring through a great window alive with colour from a multitude of panes of stained glass. All around her women are laughing, and dancing as a small consort plays a bright galliard, led by a young man dressed almost ridiculously richly for one of his station.

There are men in the chamber, too: well dressed and youthful, some of them almost certainly too low in rank to be present; but nonetheless she smiles at them, and exchanges playful words with them in the finest traditions of courtly love. It seems not at all strange to her that none of them have faces.

Rising from her seat, she takes the hand of one of the gathering, faceless as all the others, and joins the dance, turning this way and that in time to the music, which quickens in tempo as she does so, until she is dancing a Volta, lifted into the air so that her skirts fly above her ankles in a scandalous display that delights all in the room. He may have no face, but she knows him, for she loves him. Loves him above even the King. Now she is laughing, laughing with a delight she has not felt in years, not since she…not since…not…

Harlot! Whore! Who has given you leave to give yourself to another man, Madame, when you are the wife of the King?

His voice cuts across her excitement like a dash of icy water in her face, and the anonymous man releases her. God have mercy, she is in her shift…her garments abandoned as though for a lover, while all about have turned their backs as though to give them privacy in their determination upon one another.

Unlike all else in the room, the massive, glitteringly dressed man before her is all too familiar, his features twisted with rage and hate unlike the worst of his rages until this moment. Eyes blank with a dead loathing, he grasps her arm and leads her with violent wrenches through endless corridors, where all present turn their backs as others did. Not for the sake of her modesty, but to reflect her shame.

And then they are in a great hall, though it is unlike any that she remembers. Enormously wide and high, she cannot see the ends of it, lost in darkness that encroaches around a single space, where the punishment for a treacherous woman awaits.

She is not alone with him. A rank of others, clad in deep mourning, black cloaks with black hoods upon their heads stand in judgement over her - and they, too are familiar. She knows their faces as well as she knows his - and yet she cannot recall their names. Not one of them. How strange that is...before, it was faces that they lacked...

I present to you a slattern of the worst degree, a wanton slut and fornicator who looks even now to betray me with another man! There is but one punishment for such a creature as she, and I demand that you find her guilty of her vile sin!

But she is not guilty. She is not. She has never betrayed him. Never.

One by one, they speak; their faces like stone.

Guilty.

Guilty.

Guilty.

Guilty.

Guilty.

And on and on it goes, an endless litany of shame upon her, for she has turned away from her true husband, and sought the arms of another.

The last of them steps from the rank, his expression cold and cruel. She knows this man…he is her most faithful ally and friend, he shall speak for her.

Guilty.

The man who grasps her arm nods, then let it be done. Give her, and the brat of her sordid womb, to the fire and let none remember her.

Bowing, that other man takes hold her arm and leads her to the stake, where others aid him in binding her. But that is not the end…for there are now women, who carry a small crib between them. Her child therein…

She opens her mouth to scream at them, but her voice will not sound. Her eyes wild, she searches for someone - anyone - who might spare her the torment of watching her babe's death in fire. And sees instead someone she thought never to see again.

Her.

Her eyes cruel and vicious, her mortal enemy reaches into the crib and grasps the newborn babe by the ankle, rudely lifting the child from that safe swaddling, and setting it roughly down upon the faggots that have appeared around the stake. Taking a flaming brand from the empty air, that dread daughter of a discarded Queen smiles horribly and sets the flame to the wood…

"Do not take my child!"

Anne sits bolt upright, her eyes wild, perspiration dewing her brow. Looking about, she takes in her surroundings: the warm safety of her bed, enclosed by velvet curtains with which even now one of her women fumbles, "My Lady, are you well? What has happened?"

"Jane - fetch Jane." She stammers, her breathing fast, "I beg you, fetch Lady Wiltshire. I shall speak to no other. Fetch her to me!"

The maid flees at once.

By the time Jane has arrived, Anne is huddled under the coverlet, her eyes stricken and tearful. Wrenched from the horror whilst in its midst, she recalls it all, and the thought of it chills her to the core.

"Anne, what has happened? Are you unwell? Should I not call Mary to you?"

Her hand reaches out to snatch at Jane's hand, "No, Jane. Send them out. All of them, I shall speak to none but you."

True to her word, she remains silent until all have left.

"Tell me, Anne. What is it?"

"Naught but a dream, Jane; but a fearful one." Anne admits, softly, "I dreamed that Henry came across me with William, and put me to the fire - along with Elizabeth though she was but a babe in arms. In a single moment, I was immodestly dressed, surrounded by men and women who had no faces; but Henry did - and yet I could not recall his name. He called me dreadful things: slattern, whore, slut; and all who saw me turned their backs in disgust. Then he led me into a hall that was greater in size than any on Earth, where the Council awaited us - they were all there, Suffolk and Norfolk, my father and brother, Audley, and my Lord Richmond. Each of them looked upon me with faces of stone and pronounced me guilty with neither defence nor trial; until, at the end of that grim cavalcade I was set before my good Thomas Cromwell, who looked upon me with equal disdain, called me guilty - then bowed to Henry and led me to the stake." She pauses, trembling, "But that is not the worst, for then women brought in a crib which contained my Elizabeth - newly born and defenceless. Whereupon Mary stepped from the shadows, grasped her own sister by the ankle and dropped her upon the faggots, before setting a flaming brand to the wood. Then I awoke." She groans, softly, and presses her face into the pillows.

"It was but a dream, Anne; you know it to be so. All who stood against you are gone. Henry is dead, Norfolk too; you reconciled with your father and with George, while Mr Rich and Mr Cromwell stood at your side against all. None know what became of Suffolk, while Mary was last heard to be in a convent, and who can say now whether she lives or no? Nay, my sister; it is naught but your own doubts and fears that haunt you, not the shades of those who are gone."

"Is it a betrayal of my husband to marry again?" Anne asks, painfully, "Would it be wrong of me to look to another man now that Henry is dead?"

"As you say; he is dead. What power does he have over you now? It is not thought wrong for a man to marry again, so why should a woman not receive equal consideration? You swore to be his wife until death parted you - and it has done so. There is no impediment to your marrying Lord Kent - not one. You gave England a fine Queen who shall rule England well, you oversaw the implementation of good governance of the Realm. Now it is time to look to yourself without fear or shame. Do not allow the shades of those long-gone years to dictate your happiness now. William is a good man who truly loves you for the woman that you are, not the child that he thinks you could give him. As we are in our twilight years, is it not a kindness from God that we are granted the joy of spending them with loving husbands? Mary chose to seek a happy match, even in the face of banishment, and was not disappointed; is it not right that you should be equally blessed?"

Slowly, Anne shifts in the bed, and sits up again. Still pale, her breathing has calmed now, and she sighs, "I find myself wondering if Henry looks upon us from the next life and is angry that I have turned from him, for he was most jealous when first he chased me; but you are right. I made my vows unto death - and his death released me from them. It is convention that requires me to spend the rest of my days in widows weeds and look never again upon another man. Other women have ignored convention, and thus so shall I."

Jane looks at her a little more closely, "Or do you fear that he shall change his mind?"

Anne does not lift her head, but her eyes flick up, and Jane catches a look of fear: she does. She is fearful that William shall lead her to the altar, only to refuse her before all present. In all the years where joy has come to her with misery upon its very heels, she cannot accept that the same thing shall not happen again.

"He loves you, Anne. You have captured his heart utterly, and he has granted you his. Few of us are given such a gift in this life, and perhaps that is why you are so hard-put to accept it. He should rather lay his head upon the block than hurt you so. And tomorrow you shall wed him."

"Forgive me, Jane. It has been a hard three weeks awaiting the reading of the banns when I have been obliged to believe that such a match would never take place. Even now I am fearful that the fates shall snatch my joy from me."

"If they try, Anne, then they shall have me to deal with." Jane promises, "I and I shall fight them tooth and nail to keep them from you. Now, get yourself back to sleep, my Lady. It would not do for you to yawn endlessly while making your vows."

"Thank you."

"It is my honour."

To most in the Palace, work continues as it has always done; chamber pots to be emptied, chambers to be swept and aired, garments to be laundered and meals to be cooked. While there is certainly no overt secrecy over the ceremony that is to take place upstairs, and all know of it; equally there has been no effort to set it upon open display.

Now that she is considered a commoner again, the Lady Anne of Pembroke has rather dwindled in the consciousness of the servants, other than those who tend to her, of course. That she is to marry Lord William of Kent this afternoon in the Queen's closet excites little comment, as it shall bring no real change to the work of those who serve. Beyond the palace walls, none know of the nuptials at all, for it has not been formally announced to the Realm. Who, after all, would care? It is not as though there shall be a prince of that union.

In spite of her joy, Anne remains a little despondent as she is laced into the gown that Jane has spent so long preparing for her. She re-read that last letter from Cromwell this morning, taking in his words and attempting to remember the sound of his voice as though he himself were speaking them; but she could not. The only voice that she could hear was her own, internally reciting the words. She had wept a little, demanding of his departed soul why he could not have stayed just that little longer; but then she had taken his advice to heart, returned the letter to that coffer, and put herself to work on preparing to marry William as he intended she should.

Now she is dressed in an overgrown of forest green resting upon a kirtle of russet red that has been embroidered with golden sycamore leaves and lovers' knots. Her sleeves and collar are trimmed with genet fur, and her jewels are garnets and topazes to reflect the hues of the falling leaves outside. Her hair is carefully styled and decorated with equally jewelled combs of polished tortoiseshell and lightly concealed beneath a sheer net veil that recalls the colour that has long since fled away. Her sister in law stands behind her, checking every last fastening and hem, while her sister examines her cosmetics to ensure that her countenance is as flawless as can be.

Most of her belongings have been packed into great chests that are already being transported to her new home, where chamberers await them. Only a few items remain, including her treasured coffer of precious possessions, as she would never permit anyone other than herself to keep them secure upon a journey.

Anne's steward answers a knock upon the door to reveal Cranmer, who smiles and bows to her, "My Lady, you are most magnificent. It is my greatest honour to escort you to your wedding."

"Thank you, your Grace; the honour is mine. I had hoped for another to grant me this honour - but after his loss, there is no other I should wish to do it but you."

The old man smiles, "Alas, my Lady, I am but a poor substitute. I equally miss his presence. I hope that I can perform this task with the aplomb that I have no doubt he would have shown."

The curtseys she receives as she makes her way through the corridors are not as deep as once they were, for she is not entitled to them as a Countess; but it matters to her not one whit. She is free of the burden of rule, and shall shortly enter into matrimony. Hopefully with more success than the first time.

No - that is unfair upon Henry. He had loved her, had he not? Even if it had been naught but infatuation; and it was his seed that gave her Elizabeth. If that does not count as a success, then what would?

Forgive me, my Lord and King. I have looked upon you unkindly as the years have separated us. As you are now in the warmth of Heaven, where all is mended and there are no tears, I hope that you smile upon me as the mother of your Queenly daughter, and that I enter into marriage with your blessing. Where I have hurt you, I seek your forgiveness. Where you have hurt me, I forgive you equally. We are in God's care: you in Heaven, and I upon the Earth; and perhaps, when we are together again in Christ, we shall be friends.

There are few in the Closet when Cranmer escorts her in; just Elizabeth's Chaplain, Elizabeth and Philip while Wiltshire and Richmond stand alongside William. Jane is to her rear, and shall join her husband once the door is closed, while Mary shall remain with her. They shall be her witnesses, and she would not have it any other way.

"Dearly beloved friends, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of his congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honourable estate, instituted of god in Paradise, in the time of man's innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church: which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence, and first miracle that he wrought, in Cana of Galilee, and is commended of Saint Paul to be honourable among all men; and therefore is not to be enterprised, nor taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy man's carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding: but reverently, discretely, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God: Duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained. One was the procreation of children, to be brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord, and praise of God. Secondly it was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication, that such persons as have not the gift of continency might marry, and keep themselves undefiled members of Christ's body. Thirdly, for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity; into the which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together: let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace."

In spite of herself, Anne tenses slightly, as though the shade of Henry, or any of her enemies, might rise up amidst them and demand that the ceremony cease; but there is silence. Instead, she makes her vows willingly and joyfully, and listens as her betrothed does the same. There is none of that sense of haste, no requirement to ensure that a child in her womb shall not be tainted by bastardy - as though that had worked - and no sense that her vows are clandestine. There shall also be no need for her to go through all of this again after the fact to silence the gossips.

With this ring I thee wed: with my body I thee worship: and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Her eyes are lost in his, and his in hers. Somewhere to her side she hears the words that shall ensure none can steal their happiness.

Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.

With so few present, there is no requirement for a sermon, and instead the Chaplain stands aside, to allow Cranmer to limp into his place, "God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost bless, preserve and keep you: the Lord mercifully with his favour look upon you, and so fill you with all spiritual benediction and grace, that you may so live together in this life, that in the world to come you may have life everlasting. Amen."

Kneeling alongside her husband, Anne lifts her head to take the communion bread, and then sips at the wine.

"Thank you," she says suddenly, impulsively, as she rises from her knees, "All of you for all that you have done for England, for my daughter and for me. My joy today is greater than merely to be granted my husband, but also to know that I celebrate in the company of those who were with me at the beginning. Together, we have carried England through the greatest of dangers into clear waters, and the name 'Tudor' shall continue on through the bloodline of my late Lord and his Queen."

She turns to her daughter, "I am also grateful to you, my darling daughter, and most proud of your achievements. While I am to leave Court, I expect you to visit me - if your next progress is not to Kent, then I shall be most displeased!"

Laughing through her tears, Elizabeth grasps her hands, "Thank you, Mama. To see your joy is more than I could ever have hoped for. As you thank me, I thank you, for keeping all together for my hands to grasp when they were strong enough to do so. And I promise you that I shall journey to Kent in the spring, and you shall be heartily sick of the sight of me before all is done."

Curtseying deeply to her daughter, Anne steps back and rejoins her new husband, "Are you ready to depart, beloved wife?" he asks her, smiling at the novelty.

"Most assuredly, beloved husband." She answers, lifting her lips to claim his kiss. Behind them, Jane grasps Wiltshire's hand with tearful joy, while Richmond quite unashamedly allows tears to soak into his white beard and Mary sobs into a kerchief.

It is done - all that she could possibly have hoped for. Henry might not have lived, but his daughter did - and has lifted England to the dawn of a golden age. Now her own work is finished, and God has seen fit to offer her the earthly reward of a good and kindly man for a husband. In her mind's eye, she can see them, the men who supported her in those early days, the women who cared for her, and for her daughter, all smiling and sharing her joy; but at the head of them, one man whose infirmities are forever erased, watching her with that warm paternal love and pride that she had valued so highly.

And thank you. All of you: Madge, Kat, all of my Sir Johns, my Lord of Southampton, my Lord of Sussex, Sir Anthony and Lord Sandys. But for you, I should have floundered in a sea of troubles. And you - my dearest, most valued friend, Thomas. I can see that you smile for me, and I return that smile in love and friendship. Until we are united in heaven, I take my leave of you with warmth and hope of resurrection in Christ.

Pausing only to kiss Cranmer on the forehead, and Richmond on the cheek, she gives her arm to her new husband, and together they depart from the Closet.

EPILOGUE

September 2014

Roderick Harper is a tall man with a cheerful expression who has spent much of his life towering over everyone. Imposing though his presence is, it is when he is in his cassock that he is most striking; and, in the midst of a crowd he is rather difficult to miss.

After fifteen years as a Verger at Westminster Abbey, he knows the place inside out; he learned from the best, and has retained their knowledge to the point that his fellow Vergers are rather nervous to take tour parties given that they can't match him when it comes to obscure facts and information. Most of them claim that one can always tell when he's done a Verger tour, because the Tripadvisor reviews on those days are almost unfeasibly glowing - though the 'he was incredibly tall and we could hear everything' tends to be something of a giveaway.

Today he is leading the 11.30, and a small group of visitors is gathered alongside the desks where the audioguides are handed out. Having paid handsomely for the privilege of coming into the Abbey, many aren't that keen on paying another fiver to follow someone in a cassock who will talk at them, so they've sweetened the deal by allowing the tours into the Confessor's sanctuary. That said, it's always two other specific locations that the visitors are most keen to see.

Eight today. Ah well: at least they won't have trouble hearing him; but then the summer is over now and those who are most likely to pay the extra have finished their holidays and gone home. He enjoys those tours; the overseas visitors are always the most enthusiastic to hear what he has to say - largely because it touches upon famous events that are not a part of their national story.

He always follows the standard tour route through the church: westward to the end of the nave, up the central aisle (but not the tomb of the unknown warrior - that will be waiting when they come back) to the pulpitum, where he will stop and tell them about the history of the Abbey as a monastic institution, then through to the Quire and the crossing to show them the Cosmati pavement before taking them to the part that they really want to visit.

This group are very interested, and the questions are plentiful as he spends time in the crossing, talking of the marriages, funerals and - most importantly - coronations that have taken place in this grand space. He always presses them to spend a few minutes examining the pavement, as it's one of a kind; but before long they're fidgeting, and he decides to unlock the small door that leads up to the shrine.

Everyone used to be able to come up here, of course, and there was a time when the Coronation Chair stood here, too; but that was moved when they closed off the shrine to protect it from the sheer volume of passing visitors, and he'll show them that at the end.

Descending again, he moves on. Fortunately it's not too busy where they're going, and he gathers the throng together.

Behind him is a great table tomb upon which two effigies have been set, carved in marble and each resting upon a platform supported at each corner on the back of a resting lion. Above them is a great canopy of gilded marble, decorated with heraldic beasts and the arms of numerous families around the edge - supported on ten black marble columns for each effigy.

"We're now in the north ambulatory." He says, in hushed tones, "the final resting place of their Majesties Queen Elizabeth and King Philip. This tomb was completed in 1605, three years after the Queen's death, by Edward VI to honour his late parents. Edward, of course, was born in 1555, and was followed by Prince Henry the following year, and then Princess Anne seven years later in 1563. King Philip was interred temporarily here after his death in 1590 which, by all accounts, was devastating for the Queen, who withdrew into mourning for six months before resuming her rule at the start of 1591. Her house, the house of Tudor, remained extant for another century until the death of Queen Charlotte in childbirth, after which the crown passed to the Elector George of Hanover, who was a descendant of Princess Anne, when she married into the Principality of Calenberg in 1581.

"The effigies are carved of carrara marble from Tuscany, while the columns are nero marquina from the Basque country. The reverence for their Majesties, even after their deaths, is manifest in the lack of graffiti scratched on the tombs. The shields around the top canopy are those of the nobility who allied with her in her minority. You can find a list of the families in the guidebook." He always drops that in; sometimes it even prompts them to buy one.

He leads them out of the ambulatory, and around the magnificent Lady Chapel, built by the first Tudor for himself and his beloved Queen Elizabeth of York. They pause here and there as he shows them misericords, or points out a particularly famous member of the order of the Bath, then dutifully crane their necks upwards to view the intricate fan vaulting above their heads, before laughing good naturedly as he advises them that it might be easier for them to use one of the mirror trolleys instead.

"Welcome to the south ambulatory." He continues, leading them into the opposite space to the one where the famous Queen is buried, "The tomb in here is also shared by husband and wife. This is the tomb of Her Grace, Anne of Pembroke and Kent, and her husband William, who died within a month of each other in 1569. Until his death in 1536, Anne had been the wife of Henry VIII of England and became famous for claiming the Regency of England in her daughter's minority, aided by Lord Cromwell of Essex, and ruling England until her daughter came of age.

"Anne eventually renounced all claim to the throne of England, married Lord William Stamford of Kent and retired to Leeds Castle, which became her home for twelve years. She died, probably of cancer, in September of 1569, and it's claimed - rather romantically - that he could not bear to live without her, following her into the grave a mere four weeks later. As with the tomb of their Majesties, the effigies are also carved from carrera marble, while the supporting columns for the canopy are from the same quarry, which is why they're white instead of black.

"While she retired very much from public life after her marriage, her daughter decreed that she should be buried with all honours in the Abbey amongst Kings, which has been done. Additionally, however, Queen Elizabeth decreed that this space would be saved to honour those whose service she considered to have been most valuable to England."

He gives the party a short time to read the words carved into the stone of the tomb.

Sacred to the Memory of

Anne Stamford, Countess of Pembroke and Essex

Who departed this life 16th September 1569

To the great lamentations of the Realm.

Consigned to God in hopes of resurrection.

After a reasonable pause, Harper steps back, and points towards a large stone plaque that has been set into the carved stone of the vaulting, "This commemorates Lord Cromwell of Essex, who died in 1555 shortly after the birth of Prince Edward. Popular legend declares that he believed himself to have been permitted to remain alive until the birth of England's heir, so the first line of the Nunc Dimittis has been added."

Sacred to the Memory of

Thomas, Lord Cromwell of Essex

Called to God 25th August 1555, and

Consigned to God in hopes of resurrection.

Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace

"One of her other most prominent Councillors was, of course, her brother, George Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, while his wife, Lady Jane, was perhaps her closest friend and confidante. Jane's death in 1561 is claimed to have left her husband a shadow of his old self, and he died later that same year. They aren't buried within the Abbey, but are instead interred together in Beaulieu Abbey Church." He directs their attention to a relevant plaque.

"Below that is a memorial to Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury until 1559, when he resigned and took over a small parish in Kent, withdrawing entirely from politics for the last year of his life. After his death in 1560, he was buried in the churchyard of his parish."

His arm moves back up again to another plaque, set directly alongside that of Cromwell, "While this isn't the last, it's one of the last prominent plaques. This commemorates Lord Rich, Earl of Richmond, who was Queen Elizabeth's Lord Chancellor following the death of Lord Cromwell in 1555 until his own death in 1567. He holds the distinction of being the last of the Queen's first council. Again, he isn't buried here, being interred in his local parish church in Essex; so instead he is commemorated in the ambulatory with his colleagues."

Harper is not surprised when no one moves as he gravitates back towards the exit. To be fair, while they have come to see the tomb of Elizabeth I and her beloved King Philip, most of them have come to see the tomb in here; as though upon a pilgrimage.

She might have hoped to be forgotten in favour of her daughter; but, Harper smiles to himself, her fame is now just as great thanks to her famous first marriage. She might have looked to take the name Stamford; but to History, she is, and shall always be, Anne Boleyn.

He checks his watch: time to chivvy them on if he's going to fit in Poet's corner. Gathering the group together, he ushers them into the passage back to the Lady Chapel, before turning back one last time.

"Until later, Majesty."

Smiling to himself, he nods his head respectfully, then turns and follows them out.

A/N: And so the tale is told. Huge thanks to Allegoriesinmediasres for the plot prompt - even if the intention was for me to write a one-shot! It was a real pleasure to give happier endings to three remarkable people whose lives were prematurely halted by their associations with the Tudor Court. I should add my apologies to Mary Tudor - she really had it bad in this one; and, for all her disastrous mistakes later in her reign, she started out with good intentions, so I have to admit that I was a bit of a cow to her. Sorry, Ma'am.

Equal huge thanks to all of my reviewers - regular and irregular! - for your kind words, corrections and support. Without you, there would've been a ton of annoying errors that I wouldn't ever have thought to correct (or would leap out at me like demonic bats every time I re-read this), so I'm incredibly grateful that you helped me to ensure that this tale was the best it could be.

Thanks, too, to everyone who followed and favourited - and all the random readers who came across this story and gave it a go. I enjoyed writing this story - and I'm delighted that others enjoyed it, too.

My thanks to the historical figures whose lives inspire us even today to create the stories that we write. We couldn't have done it without you - and anyone who drew the short straw in the goodie/baddie divide (particularly Thomas Boleyn - who was nowhere near as nasty in real life as he was portrayed in this story), please accept my contrition.

Finally, my thanks to the pair who, without knowing it, have stepped out of the pages of history to walk in an alternate world where death couldn't claim them with the brutality of a scaffold. Thank you both.

Anne - Queen of England: 1501-1536

Thomas Cromwell KG, Earl of Essex: 1485-1540

Requiescat in pace