July 1524

"Welcome to Woodstock, Papa. I am honoured to welcome you to my own home," Ten-year-old Mary curtsied to her father as he swung off his horse.

"Mary, my darling! Your French has improved!" Henry kissed her and nodded to her governess, Lady Salisbury, before falling into step beside his daughter as she led him back into the palace. Her household was ranged in the hall and Mary introduced them each in turn, determined to prove she wasn't a little girl anymore; that she knew how to act the chatelaine. Amused to see his youngest acting the woman, Henry let her, even though he knew the names of every man and woman there. He'd appointed them, after all.

"And this is Mistress Anne Boleyn, Papa," Mary gestured to the dark-haired woman who curtsied demurely, "She's been helping me with my French."

"Has she now?" Henry glanced across at the young woman, trying to muster the strength to smile at her in welcome, before turning back to his daughter, "And has it been having any effect?"

Mary's eyes widened, "Papa! Of course it has! Mistress Boleyn was raised at the French Court! Her French is as good as her English!"

"I don't think that's quite what your father meant, Your Highness," the older woman replied softly, before looking across to the King, "Her Highness is an eager and accomplished pupil, Sire. She's an absolute joy to teach and, in all honesty, speaking French again does my heart good."

"Really?" And why might that be, Mistress?" There was danger behind the distracted curiosity in Henry's voice and Anne, consummate courtier that she was, recognised it. She dropped to the floor in another, deeper curtsy.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I meant no offence. Of course I know where my loyalty lies. I am English-born and as such, loyalty to Your Majesty and the Princess runs in my very blood. But I cannot help the fact that my father took me to France as a child and left me there. I was seven, barely past the age of reason. I only came home after the Field of the Cloth of Gold two years ago. For better or for worse, France was my home for the better part of a decade. It was home and, Englishwoman though I knew myself to be, I was happy there. Speaking French with Her Highness recalls the memories of those pleasant days for me, and so I am glad to do it, and to serve her and Your Majesty while I do it."

Mollified, Henry smiled down at the dark head, "Rise, Mistress Boleyn. There is nothing to forgive. I'm pleased to see the Princess enjoying your company. I am also glad to know she someone who knows Francis's Court so well to turn to while she prepares for her role as Dauphine."

"As I say, it is my pleasure to serve Her Highness, Sire," Anne rose, a half-smile on her lips. Excusing herself, she fell back behind the Princess and her father as they mounted the steps to Mary's apartments.

She remained close to the royals throughout the rest of the day – Mary adored her and would have it no other way. In all honesty, Anne rather thought that Mary, who had lost her older sister Katherine to a Portuguese husband a couple of years earlier, had compensated for the loss by latching on to Anne, the youngest of her maids.

By the end of the day, therefore, she'd had ample chances to observe the King, as he played chess and music with his daughter and watched Her Highness dance for him. What she saw made her heart ache.

It was so obvious the King was lost without his son and heir, that he felt as though the bottom had dropped out of his world when the boy's breath had stopped. That much was clear in the shadows behind his eyes. Yet Mary, young as she was, couldn't see that. She still believed that, if she laughed and danced enough, her father would respond to her gaiety. That she would be able to make him feel better. And the King, bless him, didn't have the heart to tell the girl that it wasn't that simple. He was so determined to be a good father to his daughter that he was masking his own pain for her sake – or trying to, at least.

Anne was by no means as kind-hearted as her sister, Mary, but she would have needed a heart of stone not to be moved by the King's plight. Eventually, unable to bear it any longer, she slipped from the room. Her Boleyn mind was whirling, wondering if there was anything she could do to ease His Majesty's pain.

"But, Mistress, you can't go in there!"

"Why not? Sir, you can see for yourself I am not carrying a weapon! How on earth would I hold it, with my arms full of ale as they are? Believe me, I seek only to ease His Majesty's pain, however little I may be able to do."

"That's as may be, but His Majesty has asked not to be disturbed!"

"Really? Have either of you actually asked him?!"

Anne tossed her head, noticing how her audacity flummoxed the guards. Taking advantage of their surprise, she ducked past them and pushed open the door of the King's bedchamber before either could protest. They spluttered and made a grab for her skirts, but she was already in the room.

The King looked round, startled. He froze for a moment – they both did. But when Anne made no move to do anything other than look at him, he held up a hand to forestall the guards.

"It's all right, Piers."

Piers didn't look so convinced, but he bowed to his sovereign's wishes, "Sire."

The door swung shut and Henry turned his attention to the dark-haired girl who was standing, bold as brass, in his bedchamber. A moment or two passed before he could regain control of himself. Eventually, he decided to take refuge in courtesy.

Crossing the room to her, he kissed her hand, "What can I do for you, Mistress Boleyn? What brings you here at this hour?"

She didn't answer for a moment and puzzlement began to cloud Henry's mind. Had he got her name wrong? He prided himself on his memory, but even so, he never could quite put faces to the names of all of Mary's maids. There were so many of them.

"I'm not wrong, am I? It is Mistress Boleyn, isn't it?"

The young woman seemed to shake herself. She curtsied in acknowledgement, then carried her jug towards the fire and began to pour a cup of ale.

"Forgive me, I was lost in thought for a moment. I am Mistress Boleyn, yes. But the question is not what Your Grace can do for me, but rather, what I can do for you."

So saying, she held the cup out to him, "I cannot say that I know what it is to lose a child, but I have lost a brother. Two, in fact."

Her manner was so calm, so matter-of-fact, that Henry started. Whatever had possessed the girl to enter his bedchamber, he hadn't been expecting this. He took the goblet almost automatically as Anne went on, "I don't remember my brother Thomas. I was just a baby when he died. But I do remember my brother Henry. He was four years older than me, just fifteen months older than George."

"Mistress," Henry began, but, greatly daring, Anne held up her hand, "Let me finish, Your Majesty, I beg you. Let me say my piece and then Your Majesty can do with me as you wish."

Henry hesitated, but despite himself, he was curious to see where this was going. After a moment, he nodded, "Very well."

Anne flashed him a blinding smile, "My earliest memories involve George and Henry. The three of us were inseparable as children. When I sailed for the Netherlands and then for France, my only thought was to learn to write, and in cipher, no less, so that I could exchange private letters with both my brothers. And so it went for several years, until one day, Henry no longer wrote."

She paused, and gripped the back of a nearby chair, as if to steady herself, "I didn't understand why. It wasn't until my father came to France a few months later that I found out. My brother had died of a summer ague."

"Mistress…" Henry moved towards her, but she shook her head, "No. I have to finish, Sire, or else you'll never understand. I buried the pain, then. I didn't tell anyone. Only my sister Mary would have understood, and even she had never been as close to Henry as I had. I didn't want to talk to her. So, I buried the pain. I never spoke Henry's name again, not until I saw my brother George at the Field of the Cloth of Gold two years ago."

Her eyes were absent, but then they suddenly focused, locking into Henry's with a burning that he found it impossible to look away from, "George brought him up, you see. I wouldn't have done. But George forced me to sit and talk of him. To bring up the memories I'd suppressed for so long. It was only when we'd finished that I realised it had helped. That talking of Henry had eased the pain I'd kept locked within my heart for so long."

Anne's final words dropped like stones into the silence. She hesitated, then screwed up her courage. She put her hand over the King's and tipped the goblet to his lips. "I can't force you to talk of the Prince, Sire. But, if Your Grace wishes to do so, I will listen."

It was a simple offer. So simple, in fact, that, in that instant, Henry wondered why none of his own attendants had made it. But the fact remained that they hadn't.

He sank heavily on to the bed. Sank on to the bed and began to speak.

The sun had barely begun to dip beneath the horizon when Anne had made her offer to hear Henry's memories of his son. It was rising on a new day before he ran out of things to say.

They looked at each other as the well ran dry. Henry inclined his head to her.

"Thank you, Mistress."

"It was my pleasure, Sire," she replied, rising, "I should leave Your Majesty to get some sleep."

Henry hardly heard her. Lost in memories of William, he nodded absently. Anne made it to the door before he called her back.

"Anne."

"My Lord?"

Surprised to hear the King, of all men, address her by her Christian name, Anne turned back into the room. She jumped as she realised the King had closed the distance between them. He bent his head, seeking her mouth with his.

Anne froze. Before her mind had had a chance to process what was going on, however, instinct took over. She opened her lips, allowing the King's probing tongue entrance.

Instinct carried her through much of the next few minutes as well. It was only when she was already half-naked in the King's bed, his legs entwined with hers, that she was required to think again, rather than feel.

"Are you sure?" The question was asked in a tentative whisper, one so soft that Anne scarcely heard it.

Time seemed to stop. Anne's heart and mind raced. She'd always sworn to her father that she wouldn't dally with any young man, that she'd make sure she went to her marriage bed a virgin. Yet, how could she deny the King something that would so clearly ease his pain?"

"If it will bring you comfort, Sire, then yes. I am sure."

Later that summer, Princess Mary's betrothal to the Dauphin fell through when, as part of his release terms, King Francis had to swear to betroth the young boy to the Emperor's niece, Princess Maria of Portugal. The King raged for a while, but soon recovered and within months had found another prospective groom for his youngest daughter – her cousin, the young King of Scots.

When he summoned the young Princess to Court for Christmas, therefore, it was with the intention of securing her a husband. He had no idea that, within the twelve days of the Christmas season, he would also find himself a wife.

"Her Highness the Princess Mary!"

Henry turned at the herald's cry and smiled down at his daughter as she curtsied to him, "Mary. How lovely you look, sweetheart."

He spoke nothing but the truth. Mary had filled out in the months since he'd last seen her and her childish height was beginning to give way to early womanly curves, which the tight-fitting gown of azure velvet she was wearing did nothing to hide.

Her manner, however, was far from the half-grown woman she always tried to be. Rather, she cocked her head to one side and snaked her arms around his neck as he raised her from her curtsy, as she had done when she was little and had known no better.

"Papa…" She trailed off and Henry arched an eyebrow.

"All right. Out with it, vixen. What do you want from me?"

Mary hesitated, then seemed to steel herself, "WillyougivemeanewmotherforChristmas?" she blurted, before she could lose her nerve.

Henry reeled back from her. Had he really understood her? Had she really asked him what he thought she had?

"What? Say that again, slowly."

Mary took a breath, "Will you give me a new mother for Christmas?"

The words didn't change for being said at half their speed. Henry blinked.

"Mary. Sweetheart. Do you know what you're asking?"

"Of course I do. I'm not asking for me, Papa! It's Mistress Anne. She's pregnant, and her father's furious! She swore on the Holy Cross the child was yours, that she'd known no other man. If you married her and made her your Queen, the baby could be born in wedlock. I could have a brother. You could have a Prince. And she would be protected, for life. Please, Papa!"

Tears gleamed in Mary's eyes, the idea of her favourite maid being dismissed in disgrace cutting her to the quick. When Henry didn't respond at once, she looked up at him, pleadingly.

"Please, Papa! I swear I'll never ask you for anything again, but please! Do this for me!"

Henry's heart clenched. He couldn't deny he'd shared the Boleyn girl's bed, however mixed up his emotions had been at the time. If she truly was pregnant from that night, then perhaps he had no choice but to do the honourable thing and marry her. But who knew if it was truly what she wanted. He only had Mary's word for it, after all, and Mary was really far too young to have been put into this position. Anger coursed through him at the thought of his precious jewel having been manipulated by a grasping hoyden.

"Did Mistress Anne put you up to this, Mary?" he asked, careful to use his most regal tone of voice as he asked, the one he knew his children could never lie to.

Mary shook her head fervently, "She didn't even want me to tell you, Papa! She tried not even to tell me! But I knew she wasn't well. I knew something was wrong. So I took her into the chapel and made her swear on the Bible and the Holy Cross to tell me the truth. And she did. But she doesn't know I'm talking to you. I wanted to ask you to marry her without her knowing, so that I could make things better for her, like she did for me after Kathie left."

Henry couldn't help himself. Mary's innocence and naivety was just too amusing. He chuckled.

"I know you mean well, sweetheart. And I love you for it. But I couldn't marry Mistress Anne. She's not of high enough birth. My brides have to be Earl's daughters, at the very least. Mistress Anne's father isn't even a Baron. And besides, she'd have to agree to marry me as well for our marriage to be valid."

Mary's eyes went wide, "But Papa, you're the King! If you want to make Mistress Anne's father an Earl or a Duke, then you can. You made Uncle Charles a Duke just for being your friend, didn't you?"

Once again, Henry couldn't deny the childish logic. "Well… Yes, I suppose I did," he admitted.

"Well, then!" Mary replied, as though that decided everything, which, Henry supposed, in her eyes, it did, "And of course Mistress Anne will marry you, if you ask her. Who wouldn't want to marry you?"

Before Henry could respond, she had jumped ahead, "I know! I'll call Mistress Anne in here and you can ask her now!"

Before Henry could stop her, she had leapt out of his arms, gone to the door and sent a page running for Mistress Boleyn.

The next thing Henry knew, he was watching as Anne curtsied before them and Mary was asking her, "Mistress Anne, if Papa asked you to marry him, would you say yes?"

There was an awkward silence. Anne shot Henry a sideways glance. He tried to return her open curiosity as to how they'd found themselves in this position with a slight, encouraging smile. Goodness knows the poor girl looked like she needed some comfort. Her dark eyes, though they still shone, shone with a bitter, damp light and her dusty green gown was straining at the seams over her swollen belly.

"If your father considered me worthy to be his Queen, then I would be honoured to agree to his proposal, Your Highness," Anne replied at last, her words slow and careful.

Something in her caution touched Henry's gallantry. She was obviously trying to brazen out what had happened without drawing too much attention to herself. The fact that he had been the one to put her in this position, after all she had done to help him, sickened him.

Without quite knowing how he had got there, he found himself on his feet, holding out his hand to the young woman before him.

"Then you'd better get up, My Lady. I won't have my wife abasing herself before me, not when that could harm our child," he said softly.

Anne's eyes flashed to him, "Truly?" she mouthed.

"Truly," Henry repeated. "My daughter the Princess has asked it of me, and who am I to deny her, especially when this is the last Christmas I will ever spend with her? I will give our child a name and a father, Lady Anne. My honour as a knight demands no less."

Then, before he could lose his nerve, he turned to Mary, "Send for Lady Salisbury, Master Lupton, your Aunt Mary and Uncle Charles and Master Boleyn. We'll await them in the chapel."

Spring 1525

"Anne, I really don't think you ought to come North. You're so heavy with child. What happens if something happens to you on the journey? Would you risk the Prince of Wales to see Mary married?"

"How can you even ask that, Henry? This is not about the child I carry. This is about Mary and my position as your Queen! I love Mary like the younger sister I have never had. Of course I want to see her married, just as much as she wants to have me there! Besides, all your Queens have always travelled with you. Don't you see, I have to do the same? If I want people to accept me as your Queen, then I have to do exactly as they would have done! As Katherine would have done!"

Anne's eyes were burning. Her back was ramrod straight, despite the bulge of her belly that ordinarily pulled her spine down a fraction.

Henry hesitated, but when tears of fury came to Anne's eyes, he yielded. Better to have her come north with him and Mary, despite her condition, than to distress her so much by refusing that she miscarried the child here and now. Besides, William and Kathie had both been born while he was Duke of York. Perhaps York was a lucky place for him. Perhaps Anne would give him another son if she went into confinement at York, rather than at Richmond, like he'd planned.

"Very well, sweetheart. Tell your ladies to start packing. You shall come with us when we leave, if that's what you really want," he sighed.

Ungainly as she was, Anne flung herself into his arms, "Thank you, husband! Thank you so much. You won't regret this, I promise you!"

Anne never got to witness her stepdaughter's wedding to the King of Scots after all. She made it as far as Doncaster before the rigours of travel proved to be too much for her and she was forced to take to her bed. Before the day was out, she had miscarried. Miscarried of a beautiful, almost fully-grown male child.

Needless to say, her ambitious, ever-reaching father was not pleased.

"How could you have been so stupid! God, Anne, I thought you were the sensible one of my children! How could you not see that this travel would endanger the child?!"

Thomas was ranting at Anne, who lay back on a heap of silken pillows, too physically and emotionally drained to offer any words in her own defence. He was so het up, he didn't even hear the door creaking slightly as it opened behind him.

"Well, I suppose there's nothing to be done now. But when the King gets back from York, you'd better find your way back into his bed and get yourself with child again. And next time, don't you dare risk the child! Don't you dare be this foolish ever again!"

He whirled on his heel, intending to stalk out of the room, but he got no further. A furious roar of, "Lord Ormonde!" stopped him in his tracks.

Alarmed, he glanced to the doorway, heart sinking as he realised the King was standing there.

"Majesty!" He began to bow, but the King strode into the room, seized him by the chin and dealt him a ringing backhanded blow, the rings on his fingers drawing blood as they bit into Thomas's skin.

"What is this?! How dare you speak to your Queen in such an insolent manner? And when she's still suffering physical and emotional pain as well! You're her father, you ought to be supporting her, not berating her!"

Thomas opened his mouth to protest, but Henry cut him off, "I don't want to hear it, Lord Ormonde. Get out of my sight. And next time, remember. A miscarriage is a terrible thing, but it is a natural one. I will not have my wife condemned for something she cannot help! Particularly not by her own father!"

Not even waiting to see Thomas leave the room, Henry swept over to the bed and gathered Anne tenderly into his arms.

"Sweetheart," he breathed into her hair. She looked up at him, eyes wet.

"I'm so sorry. I've failed you. Papa was right, I should never have insisted on coming North."

"No, sweetheart. No. I'm glad you did. Haven't we had the most wonderful summer? And Mary was so delighted you came too. You wanted to be a mother to her, as you promised when you married me. How could I ever be angry with you for that?"

"But you need a son. You need a Prince of Wales. And I've cost you that. My pride, my determination to act the Queen…"

"Do you know how many miscarriages I went through with my first Queen, Anne?" Henry interrupted her self-recriminations before they could go any further. She shook her head.

"Three. And two stillborn children as well. A son and a daughter. And I never blamed her. Not once. I could see what it was costing her, how much each separate loss hurt her. So I never blamed her. I never took my frustrations out on her. I swear to you, I will do you the same honour. A single miscarriage is no reason to lose hope, darling. Not when we are both young enough to have plenty more children. So you rest and recover your strength while I take Mary to York and see her married to King James and then we will start again. I will come back to you and we will start again. By God's Grace, this is just a set-back and boys will follow. Boys will follow, I promise you."

The tension seeped out of Anne at his words. She slumped against him and he kissed her, settling her more comfortably on her pillows.

"I'll send Mary in to say goodbye," he whispered, before he kissed her hand where it lay on the coverlet and went to the door.

Rumours spread quickly after Anne lost the child. People had always suspected that their honourable had only married the knight's daughter because he'd felt sorry for her. They assumed that, once she lost the child, the King would seek an annulment and make himself a match with a far more suitable bride. His son's former betrothed, the Princess Catherine of Austria, for instance.

Those who thought that, however, underestimated just how fond Henry had become of his dark-haired young bride. Her fiery nature and lashing wit, far from annoying him, were a pleasant reminder of his first wife, his beloved Kate. He had no intention of setting his Boleyn bride aside, unexpected and unorthodox though the circumstances of their marriage may have been.

To prove it, he lavished honours on the younger Boleyns once he returned from York. Anne's beloved brother George became the Marquess of Pembroke and was married to the King's distant cousin, Margaret Stanley, great-granddaughter of the Earl of Derby who had once been Lord Thomas Stanley and helped put the King's father on the throne. Anne's older sister's husband, Sir William Carey, meanwhile, became Baron Hunsdon, making Anne's sister Mary a Baroness.

All Thomas Boleyn earned himself, however, was a permanent posting to the Portuguese Court as Ambassador, ostensibly to ease contact between Henry and his eldest daughter, the Duchess of Beja, but in reality, simply to keep him out of the way. Henry hadn't yet forgiven Thomas for his blatant disregard for royal protocol the morning after Anne's miscarriage. He didn't want to risk him being anywhere near his Queen, until he had, in the King's words 'learnt to conduct himself with the respect and decorum expected of a member of the royal household.'

May 1528

"Anne, they're beautiful, darling!" Henry gushed, bending over the cradle to take up one of his new-born daughters, "As beautiful as their mother!"

Anne managed a tired smile, "You should have heard them yelling a few minutes ago. They weren't so beautiful then, let me tell you!"

Henry chuckled, "They're half Tudor and half Boleyn. Do you really expect them to be easy-going?"

He bounced the child he was holding gently and then passed her over to her mother, before picking up her sister. Anne cradled her daughter and cocked her head to one side, considering. "Perhaps not. Let's just hope Lady Bryan and Lady Salisbury are prepared for their new charges, hmm?"

"Speaking of which, what are we going to name these two? We can't exactly present them to their new governesses without any names. And which is the older?"

"You're holding her. The midwives tied a green ribbon around her ankle."

"Ah, so they did," Henry nodded and Anne exhaled slowly.

"Could we name one of them Margaret?" she asked, "The Duchess of Alençon was so good to me when I was in France as a child. I loved her like a mother. I like the idea of honouring her by naming one of my daughters after her."

"Of course we can, sweetheart," Henry beamed, "And we'll ask her to be godmother as well, how about that?"

Anne was too tired to really show her appreciation for his words, but her eyes lit up. That was all the encouragement Henry needed.

"That's our youngest suitably christened," he whispered, leaning across to bestow a brief kiss on Anne's temple, "Now, as for our eldest, I wonder, if you're naming Margaret for the woman you saw as a mother, perhaps I should name our other daughter for my mother. After all, I have daughters named for my wife, my sister and my grandmother, but none for my mother. It's time I remedied that, don't you think?"

"Indeed," Anne replied, exhaustion slurring her words, "Elizabeth?"

"Elizabeth," Henry confirmed. "Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret. Our Princesses of the May."

June 1528

The silence hung heavy in the room. Henry looked between his councillors. The gravity of the situation was written on each of their faces. He sighed.

"I think it's plain what we have to do, gentlemen. I'm disbanding the Court with immediate effect. Go home to your estates and pray to God that he lets our blessed country off lightly this time. I'll summon you again when this accursed disease has run its course."

"Majesty," the Council replied as one, standing with a scraping of benches and beginning to bow their way out of the room. Only two of Henry's most trusted – Cardinal Wolsey and Charles Brandon - paused.

"Sire, what of the Queen and the infant Princesses? Have you plans to ensure their safety?"

Henry didn't answer for a moment. When he did, his voice was heavy.

"The Queen will have to remain where she is. She's too weak to travel yet. We'll just have to hope Leeds Castle is isolated enough to remain untouched. As for the Princesses, I intend to send them to Ludlow. I pray to God they'll be safe enough in Wales."

There was nothing more to say. Brandon and Wolsey nodded, then bent to kiss Henry's hand before they left. In an uncharacteristic show of affection, Henry pulled Brandon into a brief hug.

"Take care of my sister," he breathed. "And, if, God forbid, the worst should happen, I leave the Queen and the Princesses in your hands as well."

Brandon gasped. He knew Henry was fond of him, but he'd never expected him to rest such responsibility on his shoulders. Before he could respond, however, Henry's moment of weakness was over. He pulled back and clasped Brandon's hand.

"Godspeed, my Lord Suffolk. I pray you find all as it should be at Bradgate."

Brandon nodded. He went to the door, glancing back only once. The glance he shared with Henry in that instant, however, was worth ten thousand words.

The rider burst into the courtyard at Warwick Castle, their sweat-lathered horse almost collapsing out from under them as they wrenched to a halt.

"The King!" They bellowed, "I must see the King!"

So clear was their urgency, that even now, at this time when everyone feared nothing more than contagion, they were ushered into His Majesty's presence without even stopping to change their sweat-soaked clothes.

Henry didn't even have to ask. The moment he saw the anguish on the courier's face, he knew. He sprang to his feet.

"The Queen?"

The courier nodded. "One of the laundresses at Leeds caught it and infected the castle. From there, it spread like wildfire. In Her Majesty's weakened condition, there was nothing anyone could do. Her Grace perished three days ago and was buried in the chapel beneath the altar."

The silence was suddenly so thick one could have cut it with a knife. The colour drained from the King's face. He swayed on his feet, scarcely seeming to see the courtiers gathered below him.

"Your Grace."

No one was ever sure who dared speak first, but they were forever grateful to them for breaking the stifling deadlock.

"Proclaim Court mourning," The King's voice was choked, but it was clear enough for all that, "Proclaim mourning throughout the whole of England."

He stumbled to the door, seemingly half-drunk with the first shock of his grief. As he crossed the threshold, he spoke again.

"When this is all over, we'll give her the funeral she deserves. When this is all over."

He didn't turn around. He didn't even wait for a response. He shouldered his way out of the room, leaving the select group of his attendants frozen with horror. None of them dared to go after him, not when he so clearly wanted to be alone with his grief.

That didn't mean, however, that they were deaf to the ragged, gasping sobs that echoed through Warwick's passages.