A/N: Here is another chapter. We saw lots of Clara this time around, so now let's flip and see some Cromwell!

This one took a little longer than expected, given that it's a bit shorter than the chapters of late, due to the fact that I got a kitten! He's a little orange tabby named Gimli, and his favourite places to sit are on my chest and on the keyboard of the laptop. It's really hard to get any writing done when you've got a kitten prancing across the computer every ten minutes. But I soon trained that out of him (well, mostly), and was able to get some writing done. Hurrah.

Chapter 14:

5 May, 1529

Thomas Cromwell barely had a moment to spare once his feet hit English soil once more.

His boat no sooner landed at Dover than he was mounting a horse and riding for London as fast as his steed would run. And no sooner had he arrived back in London than he was shedding his travel-stained garments and preparing to present himself at Whitehall. He barely had time to greet his family and shove his papers and receipts at Ralph for filing before he was off to the palace. All in all, it only took him about eight hours from the time he landed back on English shores to find himself ushered into the King's presence.

Thankfully, he had caught His Majesty at a convenient time, when he was in his closet with Anne Boleyn and of a mind to hear of his secretary's errand; had the King been off hunting or carousing with the Duke of Suffolk or some of his other companions, Cromwell knew he would've been required to wait until his master was in a more receptive frame of mind. But Henry VIII was eager enough to hear what news his secretary brought from Rome, and had him shown into the Royal Closet the moment his presence was announced.

"Master Cromwell," the King greeted, gesturing for his servant to rise before Cromwell had even reached the nadir of his bow. Henry looked much as he always did, and was clad simply but grandly in deep blue silk with a golden chain studded with pale jewels around his neck. Lady Anne sat at his right, as always, with a lute in her damask-covered lap, and she smiled warmly at him as he straightened. "We are pleased to see you back at home. What news from Rome?"

"Little to give Your Majesty much joy," Cromwell admitted, keeping his voice level and confident despite the somewhat dour tidings he bore. "The Pope continues to vacillate on the matter; he promises to pray for the souls of all involved, and hopes it will be resolved to everyone's satisfaction, but implied that he would do little else. Though there are several members of the Curia who are sympathetic to your cause and desirous of your friendship, Your Majesty may have to wait for the ruling of the legatine court, for I fear the Pope will do little else to aid you."

A black scowl immediately crossed the King's face, though thankfully it seemed directed more towards the Pope than the messenger. "Did His Holiness give any hint as to when we might expect such a ruling?" Henry inquired, sounding as though he was grinding his teeth.

"No, your Majesty," Cromwell replied quietly. "I believe that is still contingent on Cardinal Campeggio's health."

"How much longer can he expect to stall?" Lady Anne wondered incredulously. "It's near insulting, how Campeggio—and his master—make the King of England wait upon him like an errant schoolboy!" She gave a haughty toss of her head, which incidentally allowed her to meet Cromwell's eyes for a brief moment. Her pale eyes were gleaming like polished stones, and her cunning shone bright.

Cromwell knew what she was doing, and fully approved of the tack she was taking with the king. His Majesty kept threatening to break with Rome, and Anne (and Cromwell himself, for that matter) were doing all they could to subtly encourage the King to make good on his threats. The secretary therefore nodded in implicit agreement with Anne's assessment, then added mildly, but with a faint undertone of disapproval, "I believe His Holiness and Cardinal Campeggio are hoping Your Majesty will grow weary or impatient and cry off if they delay long enough."

The King gave a scornful huff of breath, and reached for Anne's hand. "Then they will be disappointed," he said vehemently, blue eyes burning. "I will not be swayed from my course—not for my kingdom, and all the riches in Christendom!" He punctuated this declaration with a fervent kiss to Anne's palm.

Lady Anne's expression became at once softer and more heated, and Cromwell was aware of the sudden tension that had sprung up between the King and his lady. He half-hoped the king would dismiss him before he had to witness any shows of particular affection. And sure enough, Henry barely glanced his way as he said, warmly but absently, "Thank you, Master Cromwell, for your diligence in this matter."

Cromwell bowed, and backed out of the room before he had to see anything more than his Majesty pressing a kiss to the inside of Lady Anne's wrist. Thus dismissed by his master, her turned his footsteps back towards the docks, and thence to Hampton Court, where Cardinal Wolsey still dwelled. In bygone years, Cromwell would've gone first to Wolsey, no matter what, but he was now in the King's service, and it was his duty to report first to His Majesty, despite how distractedly his report was received.

It was getting full late by the time his boat docked at Hampton Court; despite the hour, however, Cromwell was immediately shown into Wolsey's study. "Your Eminence," he said, bowing at the waist.

Before he'd even straightened fully up, the prelate himself had stood from behind his great desk to greet him. "Ah, Thomas, how good to see you back in England," Wolsey greeted, coming around to clap him on the shoulder before leading him over to a chair by the fire. "How was your journey? You made good time, I hear?"

"Good enough, Your Eminence," Cromwell replied, setting into the offered chair. "The roads in Italy were terrible, and the Low Countries were a stew of mud on my return, but the weather was generally good."

"What news from the Vatican?" Wolsey inquired, sitting forward and resting his elbows on his scarlet-draped knees.

"Little to give either Your Eminence or His Majesty any pleasure," Cromwell said, repeating the answer he'd given the king earlier, but with a tone of sympathy and understanding instead of the faint hint of apology and anger he'd adopted in the presence of the King. "I had to pay exorbitant sums merely to be allowed access to His Holiness, and the audience lasted barely five minutes. The Pope made it clear that he would pray for His Majesty, but do little else, and that the final judgment on the matter rests with Campeggio and the legatine court."

Wolsey heaved a distressed sigh, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb. "I was rather afraid of that," the Cardinal grumbled. "Clement is an old procrastinator. Well, I suppose I'll have to ensure Lorenzo knows what's at stake. What of the rest of the Curia?"

"There are plenty of impoverished Cardinals eager for the King of England's friendship, and still more who would be happy enough to spit in the Emperor's eye in addition," Cromwell replied, knowing that Wolsey had even fewer illusions about Rome than the King did. "But whether or not that will be enough..." He trailed off into silence.

The darkening of Wolsey's expression indicated clearly enough that he had followed Cromwell's train of thought. But nevertheless, he wished to know, "What are their names?"

"The highest ranking Cardinal I was able to cultivate was Agostino Spinola, the Camerlengo," Cromwell replied, remembering with a faint tilt of his lips the manner in which he had done so. Fair Sabina de Risi had been sorry to see him go—earnestly, he thought, since he amused her. He gave Wolsey a list of a few more amenable Cardinals, mainly Frenchmen and those Italians who had suffered particularly when the Emperor sacked Rome.

Wolsey nodded sagely as the list went on. "I know some of these men," he said, sounding relieved. "I have hope that they will be loyal friends if we need to sway the Pope one way or another. At the very least, we may convince him to write to Campeggio and order him to convene the court before we all get old."

Cromwell nodded in acquiescence, and shortly thereafter bid the Cardinal farewell and was back on a boat back to Shoreditch. The sun had already set, and he'd been on the road since dawn. Though he was used to working long hours on little sleep, even he had his limits, and right now he wanted little more than his bed. Hopefully Ralph would've gotten everything filed correctly, and he could just stagger into his house and sleep.

Speaking of Ralph, his chief clerk was still up when Cromwell arrived back at the house at Austin Friars. "Master, good to see you back," the redhead said mildly, rising from his chair when he saw Cromwell enter the house. "How was your news received?"

"Well enough," Cromwell replied, trying not to yawn.

Ralph seemed to realise he was exhausted, and just fell into step with him on the way into the house. "I've already filed everything, and the house has been running fine in your absence," he listed as they climbed the stairs. "I'm sure we can have a more descriptive conversation tomorrow, Master, when you look less likely to fall over."

"I've been on the road for the past two weeks," Cromwell riposted dryly, covering a yawn with his hand. "And I have scarce stopped moving since I landed at Dover this morning."

"I'm sure Mistresses Alice and Joan will have a good breakfast for you tomorrow. And a good supper, as Lady Tyrell will be joining us," Ralph added innocently. "I'm certain she will be very cheered to see you've returned to London—and alone. She was convinced you'd be bringing back an Italian courtesan, and stood half-ready to claw out her eyes."

Cromwell didn't bother to suppress his smirk. Apparently his strategy there had borne fruit, if his carefully crafted letter had sent Clara into a jealous tizzy. "Well, I wanted to make sure she was thinking of me," he quipped with a laugh.

"I think you need have little worry on that account," Ralph drawled, shaking his head in amusement. "But that was perhaps a good idea—Lady Tyrell is very popular among the younger sons at court."

"I had a feeling she would be," Cromwell replied evenly, not rising to the bait even though it made his gut churn. Clara was a rich, comely young widow; of course she was going to be popular among the penniless contingent. He'd known the minute he'd thought to place her there that she'd doubtless be a fine catch for the young men hanging out for a wealthy wife. "Though hopefully my unaccompanied return will do something to put her fears to rest."

"I'm sure she'll be very relieved that she will not have to punch any Roman harlots. Master," Ralph said, utterly deadpan.

Ralph's tone and the mental picture were so diverting that Cromwell was laughing around his yawns as he retired, at long last, to bed.

6 May, 1529

Cromwell woke at his usual hour, and made enough time to break his fast with his family. Alice and Joan practically jumped on him the moment he stepped downstairs, and even Richard was enthusiastic about his return, though of course it was conveyed in a suitably manly sort of embrace. It was marvellous to see them all again... but he was still at Whitehall by nine o'clock, sifting through the three months of missed work. Ralph, Audley, and the others had done an exemplary job in his absence, but he still wanted to catch up personally on all the things he'd been absent for. And of course there was still the usual day's work. It was easy enough to slide back into old routines, and the hours slid by like water, punctuated only by the occasional visitor, stopping by to make inquiries or ask for favours or welcome him back to Whitehall (and occasionally, all three at once).

Immediately after dinner, he went forth to the King's Privy Closet with the documents that needed the regal signature. On his way there, he passed a coterie of women tarrying in an alcove off from the main gallery, clustered around a window. They were dressed in the black and silver attire indicating service in the Queen's household—save for one lady, who was clad mostly in black, likely indicating mourning. Mourning immediately brought Clara to mind, and therefore he looked a little closer at the women than was his usual wont. And it took him a mere moment to register that the face under the hood of the black-clad woman was the one he'd been longing to see for months.

He kept his eyes on her face, and saw the moment she turned to look at him. Had she heard his footsteps; could she pick them out from all the steps passing to and fro in the galleries? Was it that she felt his gaze heavy on her skin? Or was it just chance that turned her attention to his passage? At any rate, her dark eyes found his, and the delight that immediately lit in her face cheered him immensely. Cromwell broke his impassive countenance enough to send her the faintest of smiles before leaving the room, and hoped idly that no one had seen that little interaction. Especially since Clara's expression had been very, very telling.

The memory of that look carried him through the rest of the day, inspiring him to attend to his work with particular diligence, hoping to leave for home in time to sit down to supper with his family... and Clara. Cromwell hadn't forgotten the request he'd made of Lady Tyrell before he left her, in the wake of their... 'indiscretion' on the floor of his privy closet back in Shoreditch, that she know her desires upon his return. He certainly knew his own; hopefully, judging by her joy at seeing him once more, Clara was likewise clear on the matter.

It was a close thing, but Thomas did make it home before supper was served. Albeit not by much. But still, he was able to sit down with everyone. "My apologies for my near-tardiness," he said, taking his place at the head of the table. "There was much to catch up on." As he spoke, he let his gaze linger on Clara, seated across from Richard on the right side of the table. The lady lowered her head and blushed violently, but her lips were smiling and she kept stealing glances at him from under her lashes. The joy at the sight of him was still shining from her face, though clouded slightly with embarrassment and modesty.

"We understand, Uncle Thomas," Alice piped in. "We're glad you could make it, late or not."

"As I am," he replied, giving his niece a smile. "What did you occupy yourselves with during my absence?"

This inquiry brought forth a flood of information—Alice had been working on improving her mathematics, and had started embroidering a pair of gloves for Gregory; Joan had asked Lady Clara to teach her some Latin, and was occupied thusly in addition to her other lessons; Richard had been keeping an eye on the Cromwell interests in the market, as Ralph monitored those at court, and had been out a few times hawking; and they were all eager to speak of the news contained in Gregory's letters from Cambridge. Then they turned inquires back on him, wanting to know about his journey and his time in Rome and the fashions of the Italian ladies.

And through it all, Thomas kept an eye on Clara, watching her beam at the family gathered around her (well, when she wasn't favouring him with warm looks and sweet smiles). It was plain how much she had come to love all the people seated around the table, despite the fact that they were all below her, socially, and that she had not six months previously dismissed a deeper connection as ludicrous. Now, he could easily imagine Clara taking the seat at the foot of the table, helping him preside over their family as the lady of the house. It was a very appealing picture. And if the soft, dewy look in Clara's dark eyes as she regarded her dining companions was any judge, her thoughts were running along similar lines.

Once the last dishes had been cleared, Thomas sent for the gifts he'd brought his family from Italy. For Alice, there was a pearl necklace with a blue enamel pendant; for Joan, there was a pretty pearl-and-moonstone bracelet. There was much squealing and clapping of hands from the two girls upon the presentations of the presents. Richard and Gregory had new daggers, Richard's with a red cabochon on the hilt and Gregory's with a blue (though he would have to either wait to bestow the gift until Christmas, or post it up to Cambridge); Ralph had some new books that had been recently published. And though their gratitude was more restrained, it was no less heartfelt.

"And I have something for Lady Clara as well, but I seem to have forgotten it somewhere upstairs," Thomas added, as if anyone would believe that he'd forget any such thing. It was mostly a contrivance to get Clara alone, and going by the looks on everyone's faces, they all knew it, too. "Lady Clara?" he invited, standing from the table and extending his hand.

Clara looked up and met his eyes, a high flush on her cheekbones as she bit her lower lip uncertainly. However, there was no hesitation in her movements as she accepted his hand and stood, letting him lead her out of the hall and upstairs. She turned back once to glower at Ralph, who had apparently said something to Richard under his breath, proving that her ears were still as keen as ever.

Once they arrived upstairs in his privy closet, Thomas left the door open in a pointed assurance that nothing untoward would occur between them. He hadn't forgotten how skittish Clara had been after being caught by Ralph, how she'd fled from him and shied away from his touch. Though he certainly wouldn't mind another clinch like the one Ralph had interrupted, he didn't want to discomfit Clara or chase her off.

It would be much better if she came to him on her own.

Though he'd said that he had forgotten where he'd left Clara's gifts, Thomas knew exactly where they rested, though he made a show of checking this pouch and that chest. While he did so, he was very aware of Clara settling into her usual chair, and he could feel her eyes on him as he moved around. When he straightened up from the wooden box in which he'd stashed the things he'd brought for her and met her eyes with a quizzical loft of his eyebrow, Clara just held his gaze, unabashed—though her colour deepened along her cheeks.

He was smiling as he extended the first of the gifts he'd brought for her. "For you, since you are now at court," he said, enjoying the way her face lit up at the gift of a new book. "Il Libro del Cortegiano, by Baldassarre Castiglione," he supplied as Clara opened the book and peered at the faceplate. "It was published in Venice last year, about the perfect courtier and his attributes. I thought it might be interesting to you, since you are now a courtier yourself."

Clara was smiling widely, though her brow furrowed a little as she registered the language her new book was written in. "Italian?" she inquired.

Thomas nodded, taking a seat in the chair beside her—the same chairs they had occupied the night in February when they had both drunk too much brandywine and behaved badly—and it was as if no time at all had passed between then and now, as they fell easily back into old patterns. "There are, as yet, no translations," he explained apologetically. "However, as you speak Latin, French, and a measure of Spanish, I imagined Italian would hardly be a stretch for your intellect." The compliment to her mind made her flush deeply with pleasure, but he pretended he hadn't noticed and added off-hand, "I am of course at your disposal should you encounter any difficulties."

"Thank you," Clara said fervently, looking up from her new book to meet his eyes. "For the book, I mean. And your offer of assistance, which will doubtlessly be needed. Thank you," she said again, dropped her gaze and blushing like a coy maiden.

"You're quite welcome," Thomas replied quietly. He paused for a moment, running a thumb over the small crystal bottle in his hand, before reaching out to hand it to her. "I brought this for you as well. I... caught whiff of it in Rome, and it reminded me of you."

He tried to sound unconcerned and casual, but he could still remember the day he'd purchased this for her, when walking through the streets of Rome he'd caught the scent of roses and ambergris—nearly the same scent that Clara always wore. It had stopped him nearly dead in the street, sending his mind flying back to England, to the moment he'd had Clara spread out beneath him with his face buried in her neck, breathing in the smell of her as she wound around him like a rose on a trellis. The memory had been so intense, he'd nearly staggered right in the middle of a Roman street. Once he was master of himself again, he'd followed his nose to a perfumery, sifting through various perfumes until he found one he thought Clara would like, still based essentially on her favoured scent, but different enough to be interesting and exotic.

Clara uncapped the bottle and wafted it under her nose, closing her eyes and breathing in. A pleased smile curved her lips, and she immediately moved to dab some of the perfume on her wrists before carefully stoppering the bottle. "I smell roses and ambergris and... something else," she mused, holding her wrist up under her nose. "Another flower?"

"Jasmine," Thomas supplied. "It is a flower more common to the warmer regions of the world—England is too cold for it, though it grows in Italy."

"It is a beautiful scent," Clara sighed, before taking another deep inhalation. "Thank you, Thomas. These are marvellous gifts—truly, thank you," she said earnestly, looking over at him and smiling.

"I'm glad they give you such pleasure," he replied, answering her smile with his own. He took a deep breath in through his nose, smelling the womanly fragrance perfuming his closet and mingling with the scent of ink and parchment and woodsmoke. The room had not been graced with such an aroma regularly since Liz's death (and Liz had favoured musk and lavender as her perfume of choice).

"Here," Clara said softly, twisting a little in her seat and extending her wrist to him. "How does it suit?" she asked, meeting his gaze with her own. There was a measure of trepidation in her face, which was openly honest as usual, but also resolve.

Slowly, carefully, as though if he moved too quickly she would startle and flee, Thomas reached out and wrapped his fingers around the proffered arm, bringing it closer to his face. He bent to inhale, the tip of his nose barely brushing against the perfumed skin, whilst he let his thumb move in a slow, circular caress along the inside of Clara's delicate wrist. Her scent in his lungs, her flesh under his hands... it was a heady feeling, to have his senses so full of Clara after so long an absence.

"Tantalising," he murmured, his voice low and husky, opening his eyes to meet the gaze of the woman beside him. She was looking at him with eyes so dark they were nearly black, her lower lip between her teeth, her thin chest heaving with her quick, shallow breaths. "It suits you well."

Clara shifted her arm in his grasp—not pulling away, just shifting—and reached out to cradle his face in her hand, letting her own thumb caress his cheek and the corner of his lips in an echo of his own movement. The feel of her delicate hand against his skin sent sizzles of desire through his body, and he had to take a deep breath and restrain himself before he tightened his grip on her arm and used it to pull her into his lap, thereby picking up where they left off the last time they were alone in this room together.

Instead, he took a deep breath (once again filling his nose with the heady scent of roses and jasmine) and broke the heavy silence that had descended between them. "Clara," he began lowly, "before I left for Rome, I asked something of you."

Her hand stilled, and her gaze dropped. "Yes, you did," she murmured, so quiet as to nearly be inaudible. She made to pull away, but Thomas slid his hand up from her wrist to press her hand to his cheek, keeping her in place. "Are you certain you are interested in my answer? You seemed to prefer the company of another, when last I heard from you."

Presumably she was referring to Sabina de Risi; obviously, his little scheme to make her jealous had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Perhaps even a little too well, if he had made her so insecure. She couldn't possibly have thought that he'd abandon her for a courtesan he'd known for less than two months? "Of course I want your answer," he replied.

Clara said nothing, but kept her eyes downcast, and her hand was limp in his grasp. Thomas narrowed his eyes and stared hard at her. He had thought she was receptive to him—more than receptive... until he brought up a potential rival. Then she wilted. And while he was uncomfortable with the idea of revealing too much of his heart and the contents thereof, and would rather go back to fencing with Cardinals in the Curia than speak of his feelings, it seemed he would have to say something to incite Clara to do the same.

So he cleared his throat, a little awkwardly, and said gruffly, "I missed you, while I was away. I missed our talks."

That brought a bit more spark back into her, and he could see her lips twitching up into a faint smile. "I missed you too," she whispered, and her thumb moved to skim across his cheek.

Her dark eyes flickered up to his, then down, then back up. Clara bit at her lower lip again, before taking a deep breath, visibly gathering her courage before standing. She didn't pull herself from his hold, but only moved to stand in front of him before she placed her other hand on his face, cupping his jaw in her hands. They stood there for a long moment, just looking at one another.

Then Clara bent down, and placed a soft, chaste kiss on his lips.

Thomas drew in a sharp breath of shock through his nose, but then immediately relaxed into the contact once he'd got past his shock. He closed his eyes and kissed back, tilting his head up for a better angle—but slowly, gently, letting Clara have control, letting her have what she wanted from him now that she had enough boldness to take it. They shared a bare handful of closed-mouth kisses before she drew back, though she continued to cradle his face in her hands and rested her forehead against his.

"You always surprise me, Clara," Thomas murmured softly after a moment.

He could feel her shoulders quiver with her silent mirth, and she tilted her head to bump the tip of her nose against his. "I cannot know what will come of this," she whispered against his lips. "But you asked me to know what I wanted from you upon your return. And the truth is... whatever it is I can have with you, I want."

A brilliant flare of triumph ran through his veins like lightning, and Thomas let his face crease into a wide smile, standing up and using his hands to frame Clara's face in turn as her own moved down to rest on his shoulders. She'd chosen him. Out of all the men in England, of all the young pups at court who sought her favour and courted her affections, Clara Tyrell, that scion of old blood, had chosen Thomas Cromwell, a low-born lawyer from Putney. Perhaps not with whole-hearted enthusiasm, but he had a feeling that was due more to uncertainty than desire. There is the difference between us, dear Clara, Thomas thought to himself. You want whatever you can have. Whereas I want everything, and will do anything I can to get it.

"I am very glad to hear it," he finally replied, smiling down into her brown eyes and gently stroking her cheekbones with his thumbs. "For I too know what I want from you," he went on, tilting his head as though to kiss her again. He did not, however; he stopped just short, and whispered, close enough that their lips almost brushed, "Everything."

Thomas could feel her shaking breaths against his face, feel her trembling underneath his hands—and feel the curve of her smile as she arched her neck and took the kiss he was teasing her with. "You are very bold, Thomas Cromwell," Clara whispered against his mouth, once the kiss was over.

"You kissed me, Clara Tyrell," he reminded her, sliding one of his hands away from her face and down to her neck, his grip on which he used to tug her back in for another soft, lazy kiss.

They remained in their languid embrace, hands remaining pointedly above the level of their collarbones, until Clara apparently heard something in another part of the house which caused her to pull away from his loose hold with a startle and a soundless gasp, sending a nervous look towards the open door. Whatever noise reached her ears was not alarming, since she relaxed shortly thereafter. However, she did not return to his embrace—which was, Thomas allowed, perhaps wise.

Instead, Clara gripped her elbows and looked down. "I... I did say that I would honour my late husband with a year of mourning," she began haltingly. "I... he died on the 19th of June, I'm told—I was too sick at the time to mark it myself... I... could we wait, until then?" she asked meekly. "I don't mean to lead you on, I promise, but I... I did love Robin truly and faithfully, and I owe him a year," she repeated.

Was she truly so fretful over such a small thing? Did she think that a mere month's wait would be enough to sap him of his resolve, or quell his feelings for her? He'd wanted her for months, now, after having been celibate for nearly two years; a few more weeks of waiting was nothing. Smiling, Thomas stepped forward to put his hands on her shoulders and pressed a firm kiss to her forehead. "Of course I will wait," he assured her quietly. "Clara, I promise I will not press you on this matter. If you wish to wait, we will wait."

Though she made no sound, he could feel her sigh and relax under his hands. "Thank you," she murmured softly. "I don't... I don't know what will come of this... of us," she stumbled on. "I—we—know what we want, but... well, I... don't know how we'll go about getting it. I trust in God, and of course I trust you, but—"

She was cut off when Thomas nipped in and kissed her swiftly, drinking the words off her lips. Every time she said she trusted him or did something to prove it, he wanted to kiss her; now he was allowed (well, after a fashion) and meant to take advantage of it. And he wondered, briefly, if her trust would ever cease engendering that reaction in him.

"Thomas..." Clara began to scold, once he leaned back. But there was a reluctant smile tugging at her lips.

"That was the last until June, I swear," he assured her with a grin. "Just to tide me over. " Then he sobered, and reached up to trace the lines of her face, which had become so dear. "Let me court you, Clara," he entreated lowly. "When your mourning is past, let me pay court to you—secretly," he added, addressing what he knew would be her first and strongest objection. "We'll sort everything out as we need to, but for now..."

"For now," Clara agreed, blushing. "Very well, Master Cromwell. When my time of mourning is past, you may pay court to me." She bit her lower lip again, looking mischievous instead of conflicted, and then leaned in and pecked him on the corner of his mouth before skimming across the carpet back to her chair. She settled herself down and arranged her skirts, sending him a coy, flirtatious look from under her lashes. "Have you some time at the moment, Thomas? I would like to begin reading my new book," she asked sweetly.

A crooked grin spread across his face. "Minx," he accused in a low tone, making Clara smirk, before he took his seat and bent his head to help her translate the Italian.

17 May, 1529

Shortly after Cromwell's return home, Cardinal Campeggio finally announced that the opening of the legatine trial on the King's marriage would take place on the 31st of May. Cromwell supposed at least something came from his otherwise-disappointing mission to Rome if the Pope was finally inspired to write to his legate and prod him into convening the court. The King's mood immediately lifted, and Cardinal Wolsey's relief was practically palpable.

Cromwell, meanwhile, became very busy. As the King's Secretary—and also as a trained lawyer—he had much to do to prepare for the opening of the trial. He barely had time to spend with his family, let alone with his friends... or Clara. Though the latter might be a blessing. There was still a month until her year of mourning was over, and at least his near-constant occupation ensured that the time passed quickly and that there would be less temptation.

(Although he might need to have a word with her. While Clara's court-face had improved in leaps and bounds since winter, she was still deplorably easy to read. And it was therefore plain to see that Lady Tyrell had some feelings for or dealings with Master Secretary, given the intent way her eyes followed him whenever they were in company together and the bright blush that bloomed across her cheeks.)

Still, he was still somewhat perturbed that she was unable to accompany him to a sermon this Sunday, as was their usual custom; she had been specifically requested to attend on Queen Katherine today, and could not demur. Thomas had always found her earnest faith and her genuine goodness to be entirely charming, and he enjoyed hearing her insights and interpretations of the sermon after, since they were often different than his own. He felt as though something crucial was lacking every time he had to pass a Sunday without her company.

Therefore, he was quite pleased when Clara sought him out on Monday, later in the evening.

Most of the court had already supped, and was gathered for dancing and merrymaking in the great hall, though Cromwell remained in his closet attending to business with a handful of clerks. His attention was drawn away by a low, quick knocking on the door, which when opened by one of his under-clerks revealed Lady Tyrell, dressed in a black silk gown as usual, but pairing it with a silvery-white kirtle and trimming the neckline and her hood with pearls instead of jet beads—both signs that she was slowly coming out of mourning. She smiled politely at the young man who opened the door for her, and then her dark eyes sought him out, and her smile turned hopeful and a little shy.

Cromwell waved the onlookers away, pinning the more curious of them with a stern glare, and moved to take Clara's arm, leading her over to the windows and secluding them as best he could behind the curtains. "Clara, how good to see you," he murmured. "How do you fare this evening?"

"I am quite fine. I have some information for you," Clara replied softly, her eyes still nervously flickering between himself and the other side of the room, where waited the clerks. He knew she was anxious about gossip, and he could somewhat understand her discomfiture. If she was seen coming to him, or if one of the clerks said the wrong thing to the wrong person... if somehow, word got back to Queen Katherine that Lady Tyrell was slinking in to speak surreptitiously with Master Secretary, Her Majesty would draw the correct conclusion about her attendant's loyalties, and that fount of information would likely dry up.

"Perhaps we should contrive a signal or a code of some sort in the future, so that I might know when it is you at the door," Cromwell commented, already thinking about a pattern of knocks or a hand signal of some sort that would let him know she needed to speak to him so that he could contrive a way to meet with her unseen.

"That would doubtlessly be wise," Clara agreed, before she inclined her head towards him and lowered her voice still further, so much so that he had to bend his head as well to hear her at all. "Especially given the things which I have to relate."

And as he did, he was overwhelmed by the fragrance of jasmine and roses, and felt a low thrill in his stomach. She was wearing his scent, marking herself with his claim to her, and it made a part of him want to pound his chest with triumph. Especially since the young bucks around court who'd been sniffing around had only gotten bolder since she had begun to slowly put away her mourning, and there were times he ground his teeth so hard at the sight of the young men hovering around his Clara that he went home in the evening with a pounding headache.

"Yesterday, the Queen met with Bishop Fisher," Clara murmured. "Her Majesty sent us out of her privy closet and into an antechamber, but I could still hear them through the door. They discussed the coming trial. Her Majesty wishes, under Fisher's advisement, to solemnly swear before Bishops and notaries that she never consummated the marriage with Prince Arthur. She also wishes to formally protest, likewise in the presence of notaries, the hearing of her case here, in England, and request that it be heard instead in Rome, by the Pope himself."

Cromwell's eyebrows lifted, and then he smiled. This was precisely the sort of the thing he'd hoped Clara would overhear when he'd thought to place her at court. He doubted anyone could prevent the Queen from carrying out her plans, but forewarned was forearmed. Especially if Clara could find out what method Katherine would use to send her protestation abroad, or which notaries she would swear before.

Clara went on, "Queen Katherine says she doesn't trust Campeggio—and certainly not Wolsey—to be impartial in the matter. Fisher says she also ought to make a protest before the court which formally denies its right to try her, and that the fact that she's protesting to them in no way recognises its authority to hear the case. Or... something. There was much lawyer's speak," she finished, wrinkling her nose a little.

"I am certain I can fill in the gaps," Cromwell said, already imagining the kind of legal parlance these things would be framed in. "Was there anything else? Anything about the brief which has been sent from Spain?"

Clara shook her head. "No. I believe Her Majesty has a copy that was sent from Spain, but the original will be remaining there," she replied.

"Mmm, unsurprising," Cromwell said absently. "I wouldn't part with it either." Ferdinand, Katherine's father, had been a canny old fox, and attempted to cover for every single eventuality in the dispensation—whether the marriage had, had not, or had only possibly been consummated. Much of the King's case was being built on the fact that there was a technical fault in the dispensation, and that could be proved or disproved by producing the original dispensation, which had been sent to Spain for Queen Isabella. Katherine had been sent a copy, the veracity of which upon many of the King's lawyers were casting doubt, but in all likelihood no one in England would ever lay eyes on the original. There was too much danger of something happening to it.

Of course, without it, little could be definitely said either way, and Cromwell was enough of a lawyer to realise it could drag on for years if they were continuing to come at the matter from the dispensation angle. He thought it was much better—and much better for England—for the King to attack the source, which was to challenge the right of the Pope to dispense the matter at all. And Henry was moving slowly in that direction, but had not yet given up hope of gaining his desires through established channels.

In the end, Cromwell supposed it would come down to Campeggio and the legatine hearing. Everything would hang on that decision.

"Thank you for bringing this to me, Clara," Cromwell said distractedly. He smiled at her and clapped a hand to her shoulder before waving her away with an absentminded gesture. His mind was already occupied in planning his next move. He'd have to pass this information on to Wolsey, who as one of the judges would want to know that his authority was being undermined by the Queen. Should he tell the King? No, no... that wasn't his place—not yet. He'd tell Wolsey, and then the Cardinal could inform His Majesty if he felt he needed to know.

He called one of his clerks over, once he'd ensured Clara had quit the room, and sent him with a message to Wolsey. Then he sat back down at his desk and got back to work.

30 May, 1529

And then, suddenly, the waiting was over. All the preparations would be put to the test; tomorrow, the Legatine Court would convene at Blackfriars. And today, the Sunday before, seemed less like a day of rest and more like the deep breath before a plunge.

"You seem very calm," Clara commented mildly as she settled down into a chair beside him in the Billingsgate cellar where the week's sermon was being held. They had been unable to walk together today, due to the distance and their duties—a pity, since it was a lovely spring day, and they had not had much time together of late.

"Do I?" Thomas inquired lightly, arching his eyebrows and giving her a lopsided smile. He didn't feel very calm; it felt as though there was a tight knot somewhere inside his guts. Though since he refused to allow it to affect his behaviour, he supposed he did appear to be the very picture of serenity.

"Comparatively, yes," Clara nodded. "Her Majesty has spent the entire day at her prie-dieu—which, I suppose, is not unusual—and everyone is very tense. Bessie Perris got her ears boxed by Anne Clifford for giggling too loudly," she informed him, sounding slightly indignant—though that was likely due to the over-stern punishment for a trifling offense than any real feelings for the Perris maid. "I hear Lady Anne and His Majesty were closeted together alone for hours after dinner," she went on, gossiping as was her usual wont as they waited for the preacher to arrive.

Thomas had little interest in the court hearsay as such (especially since he was likely aware of much of it long before most other palace inhabitants), but it amused him to listen to Clara's interpretation of it. It was also quite informative for him to hear what the courtiers were saying—what information was being passed around, how it changed, and who was saying what—and thereby give him ideas about how he might start, quash, or somehow control the rumour mill around Whitehall and Hampton Court. But that was more of a thought experiment than any concrete plans.

"And I heard that when they finally emerged, Lady Anne's gown was dishevelled," Clara added in a whisper, sounding scandalised. "Do you think they... I mean, the court convenes tomorrow, and I know His Majesty believes it will be the matter of mere weeks to get his marriage annulled, so do you think he and Lady Anne... er?" Her cheeks were very rosy by the end of her somewhat piecemeal query, in which she never outright asked that which she wanted to know, seemingly too embarrassed to speak the actual words.

Still, Thomas knew well enough what she was implying. "I very much doubt it," he replied firmly. "Lady Anne is holding out for marriage, and as of now the King is still unable to bestow that upon her." Given what he'd gathered about Anne Boleyn, she wasn't about to jeopardise her career until her crown was a sure thing. He wouldn't have given in at this point, when things were still so uncertain, and he imagined Anne—clever, calculating, resolute Anne—was of similar mind.

Clara seemed to accept his reply, and moved on with a shrug. "I also hear Campeggio has taken to his bed—again," she said with a roll of her eyes. "My brother thinks he'll use his infirmity to put off the opening of the trial again, but I think if Campeggio delays even once more, His Majesty will fly into some kind of rage and throw him out of the country."

He had to restrain a snort at the mental image her words provided. "At this point, I don't think Campeggio will postpone the trial again. If His Majesty didn't have him thrown out of the country, I imagine Cardinal Wolsey would throttle him," Thomas replied, amused. "No, he's taken to his bed to gather his strength, I believe. The trial will open as planned tomorrow, you mark my words."

"I hope so—Maud's cousin Tony has promised to find us good seats," Clara replied without thinking. And he knew it was without thought because the moment she registered what she'd said, she winced. "Not that the spectacle is the only reason I want the trial to commence tomorrow as planned," she immediately began to backtrack, flushing red. "It's just... the tension is getting to everyone, and nothing can move forward while we're all waiting to see what will happen. I think we'll all be glad when things are over and sorted..." Then she apparently realised what 'over and sorted' might entail, since she trailed off into silence with a furrowed brow. She heaved a silent sigh, giving the whole thing up as a bad job, before changing the subject. "Are you going, tomorrow?" she inquired.

"Yes, I'm to attend on His Majesty, and take a place of honour in his booth," Thomas replied, allowing himself to sound pleased at being included. And he was deeply pleased—for a common-born lawyer to take a seat next to the Duke of Suffolk and Viscount Rochford, for a mere secretary to enter the courtroom next to the King of England... that was a rare honour. And it was doubtlessly proof that the King appreciated his hard work and favoured him as a servant, and was therefore an indication that his career was on the upswing.

"Oh, Thomas!" Clara breathed, reaching out to grip his hand. "Thomas, that's marvellous! I'm so very happy for you."

Thomas twisted his hand around to clasp her hand in return, turning his head to meet her shining brown eyes. "As I am, dear Clara. As am I," he agreed.

Royal favour was the key to all his ambitions, and it seemed it was now beginning to turn his way. With the King's favour, he could encourage His Majesty to look kindly on the Lutheran cause, in tandem with Lady Anne. Between the two of them, they might even be able to steer the King, and thereby England, away from the cesspool of Rome and into the clear waters of true Christianity. That was the outcome he desired above all things. But he also had a thought for himself and his family, were he to be the recipient of the King's bounty. There would perhaps be lands and stewardships for Richard and Gregory, and even better marriages for the girls. And perhaps, if the regal favour was particularly generous, he himself might even be able to openly court and marry Lady Tyrell, with no backlash from her father or Spencer.

Lady Clara Cromwell, his mind whispered, like it had that night in Rome when the future had spread out before him like a rich turkey carpet. He remembered the way it felt, as though his chest was a stock pot boiling over with possibilities. He felt it again now, sitting in a cellar next to the woman he hoped he could one day marry with her soft white hand held in his. Tomorrow, it would begin; his future, Clara's future, England's future hinged on the outcome of this trial.

Thomas bent his elbow and brought Clara's hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the backs of her fingers. Then he looked over to meet her dark eyes, and smiled. And as the priest finally entered the room to begin the sermon, he said softly, knowing she would hear, "Anything is possible now."

31 May, 1529

It was all Cromwell could do to keep his face composed as he walked towards the Blackfriars complex. He was at the side of the King of England, surrounded by the Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk and Lord Rochford, walking through streets thronged with cheering people, and he was there as no one's servant but the king's. This was, he thought (and not for the first time that morning), quite possibly the most amazing, unlikely thing that had ever happened to him. Had someone said to him even five years ago, when he was still in Wolsey's employ and high in his favour, being considered for the post of the King's secretary, that he would one day accompany His Majesty and some of the premier nobles in England as though he were an equal... he would've laughed in their face.

Or rather, he supposed, he would have nodded courteously, offered them something to drink to soothe their obviously overtaxed mind, and then laughed himself silly behind closed doors.

But here he was, striding up the priory steps to the chapel on the heels of Henry VIII. 'Thou art the God that doest wonders', Cromwell said silently to himself, making the quotation into a praise and a prayer that he sent up to Heaven as he passed the doors of the hall.

The theatre was already occupied by the judges at the front, and presided over by the red-clad forms of Cardinals Wolsey and Campeggio. It was also packed full of people, many in the rich gowns and jewels of courtiers. Cromwell cast his eyes here and there as he followed the nobles to the booth where he was privileged enough to sit, trying to spot Clara—or, failing that, her brother or Anthony Knivert, with whom she was attending. But though he peered at what seemed like every face in the hall, he couldn't find her.

Feeling slightly disappointed, Cromwell settled back into his seat (next to Lord Rochford), and waited for the Queen to arrive. He judged that Her Majesty was approaching when the sound of cheering outside grew even louder. Despite everything, Queen Katherine was very popular and loved generally by the English people. Especially the citizens of London.

The heavy wooden doors swung open, and he rose in tandem with everyone else as the Queen swept into the theatre, sailing down the aisle like a stately barge, propelled by sails of rich black velvet. Instinctively, Cromwell began to tally up the worth of her outfit, and concluded that the cloth of the gown itself was worth nearly as much as all the pearls adorning it. Especially when you considered the fineness of the velvet, and the quality of the dye—it was so dark a black it was nearly purple.

Once both the King and the Queen took their seats on opposing sides of the dais (Cromwell privately thought of it as a stage, recalling Clara's throwaway comment about getting good seats; he hoped Sir Anthony had come through for her), the rest of the audience was seated as well, and Cardinal Campeggio did his best to stand as he recited the opening benediction: "In nomine patris, filiis, et spiritu sancti."

"Amen," the crowd murmured, including Cromwell, though it left a slight sour taste in his mouth.

Campeggio remained standing, if you could call it standing when he hunched so low, and began to speak. "I declare this legatine court, commissioned by his Holiness Pope Clement, is now in session. And all that is said here is said under oath, and in the presence of God Almighty," he intoned, his reedy, accented voice as stern as he could make it. "I call upon His Majesty to speak first as to this matter."

The King stood regally from his seat, and nodded graciously towards the panel of churchmen before turning to face the gallery, comprised of both bishops and spectators. "Your Eminences know well what cause I have to be here," Henry began, ostensibly addressing the clerics but actually directing his voice out into the audience. "It concerns some scruples I have regarding my marriage which prick my conscience. I have consulted widely to discover the truth, and I have read in Leviticus that it was against God's law, and a sin, for me to marry my brother's wife." He paused for dramatic effect, and Cromwell had to admire his monarch's natural showmanship. Henry was playing the crowd like a lute, and they were all hanging on his words. "Your Eminences, I am not the only one who questions the validity of my marriage. All of my bishops share my doubts, and they have signed a petition to put the matter to question."

But then the King's monologue was abruptly interrupted by a protest from—who else?—Bishop Fisher. "My Lords, I tell you now I never signed my name to any such document," Fisher objected indignantly, hurling himself to his feet. "And if it appears there—"

Wolsey glowered down at the Bishop of Rochester from his lofty position on the dais and interrupted sternly, "The court has not invited you to speak, your grace."

"And if it appears there," Fisher insisted, ignoring Wolsey's chastisement, "Bishop Tunstall wrote it, without my consent!"

Tunstall puffed himself up like an offended goose, glaring across the aisle at his accuser. He looked as though he were about to struggle to his feet and start brawling with Fisher like a pair of Shoreditch fishwives. Cromwell was almost looking forward to it, if for nothing else but the sheer absurdity of it, even as it made him roll his eyes inwardly. Behold the priests of the Catholic Church.

Wolsey, however, was unwilling to book further disruption. "He has the floor; sit down, sir!" the Archbishop of York snapped, growing more fractious as murmurs broke out through the gallery.

But then the King swept in and quelled the discord immediately "I'm not going to argue with you now," he said, barely raising his voice. However, everyone immediately quieted in order to hear him. "After all, you are but one man," he added, with the faintest hint of withering scorn in his voice. Then Henry picked the thread of his narrative back up, and once again began to spin for his listeners. "As for the main issue: if I am asked why I waited so long to bring this question to trial, I shall answer truthfully that it was the great love that I bore for Her Majesty which prevented me doing so. It is I myself who bear all responsibility for my conscience which troubles and doubts me."

This was a good tack to take, Cromwell acknowledged, and he himself had advised His Majesty to do so. However, he couldn't help but wonder how many of the audience really believed it. He knew the King himself did, with all his heart... but he also knew the royal heart had been goaded on in no small measure by the charms of Anne Boleyn.

Henry finished his brief with incomparable dignity: "Gentlemen of the court, I ask for one thing and one thing only: justice." Thus having spoken his piece, the King of England seated himself back onto his throne.

Cardinal Wolsey thus took control of the courtroom, his voice ringing out with not inconsiderable authority. "In a moment, the court will call upon the Queen's Majesty to reply to the King's statement, but first, I must tell the court that the Queen has sought, through her advisors, to question the competence of this court to try her case."

Shocked and scandalised murmurs broke out across the gallery, and Cromwell couldn't suppress a quick quirk of his lips. He had carried that information to the Cardinal, and Clara had brought it to him. He wondered where Clara was, if she was in the theatre, and what she thought of hearing intelligence she had unearthed presented to the world. Was she feeling elated? Proud? Shocked? He'd have to ask her about it later; for himself, he was feeling all three on her behalf, as well as a measure of smugness that he had been able to discover such a jewel, and that he'd had the good sense to make use of it.

"Further," Wolsey was saying, "she questions the impartiality of her judges. And finally, she contends that this matter is already in the hands of a higher authority—namely the Pope—and therefore can only be tried in Rome."

Bless you, Clara, for ferreting out such damaging information. While the English people loved Queen Katherine, they were still suspicious of foreigners, and there were plenty of people who would be muttering darkly about her desire to see the matter settled in a foreign court by foreign judges. Such mutterings would likely be fed by Boleyn gold, inciting people to spread those rumours and remind them that Katherine was Spanish, and that she held Spain more dear than England.

"Now," Wolsey went on, after a momentary pause to let the outrage sink in, "as to the first matter, Cardinal Campeggio and I can confirm that we have the necessary authorization from His Holiness to try this matter here. Further, we reject any notion of prejudice on our part, and will continue to try this case here as we have been appointed. So, I call upon Her Majesty Queen Katherine to address the court," he finished, looking to the Queen as though he hadn't just spent the last minute utterly undermining her entire case.

Queen Katherine gave Wolsey a look that could've stripped the flesh from his bones; Cromwell knew that Her Majesty and the Cardinal were not good friends at the best of times, but now it seemed that the feud had taken on a new virulence. Then the queen looked across at her husband, who was studiously avoiding her eyes, before rising and turning to look at the gallery, which had fallen silent with anticipation.

Then, to everyone's surprise, the Queen moved to where the King sat and fell on her knees at his feet.

"My Lord," Katherine began beseechingly, keeping her focus on her husband as the entire room broke out into gasps and shocked whispers. The King himself looked horrified, and tried to make her rise, but the queen would not be moved. "Sir," she begged, "I beseech you, for the love that has been between us, let me have justice and right. Give me some pity and compassion for I am a poor woman and a stranger, born out of your dominion. I have no friends here, and no counsel. I flee to you, as head of justice in this realm."

Her voice grew louder, intended to be audible to all corners of the theatre chamber: "I call God and all the world to witness that I have been to you a true, humble, and obedient wife, ever comfortable to your will and pleasure. I have loved all those who you have loved for your sake, whether or not I had cause, whether they be my friends or enemies." And Cromwell didn't miss the significant glance the Queen cast towards the booth in which he was seated with Suffolk, Norfolk, and Rochford. "By me you have had many children, although it has pleased God to call them from this world. But when you had me at first, I take God as my judge, I was a true maid without touch of man," she insisted adamantly, before finishing, voice low but sharp, "And whether or not it be true, I put it to your conscience."

If Cromwell had admired the King's showmanship, it was nothing compared to the overwhelming admiration that suffused him at Katherine's. Such high courage, such eloquence! God did her a disservice by not making her a man; she could have outdone all the heroes of history. But more than that, he felt, God had done her a disservice by taking her children. Her son, had he lived, would have been a most formidable king. The sacrifices that had to be made for reform, he thought with a pang of regret. Cromwell did not regret much, but he did regret what would have to happen to Katherine of Aragon in order to advance the Lutheran religion.

Meanwhile, the Queen was still staring at the king, as if willing him to respond to her. Henry, however, was pointedly not meeting Katherine's eyes; he had not done so during her entire speech. Just as tellingly, he was silent.

Katherine rose from her knees gracefully, pale eyes still fixed on her husband. Then she dropped into a curtsey, her dignity absolute, and moved slowly off the dais, extending a hand to her usher and allowing him to escort her down the aisle and back towards the exit. Was she leaving? Now? Before anything had even happened?

Cromwell could only barely hear Campeggio's incredulous aside, sounding just as confused as himself. "Now what is she doing?" he asked of Wolsey, though in the tone of someone who is not so much expecting an answer and more of someone who can't believe the stupidity of those around him.

At a gesture from Wolsey, the crier struck the floor with his staff three times and cried, "Katherine, Queen of England, come back into the court!"

Cromwell rose to his feet as she passed, an island of serenity and dignity untouched by the chaos breaking out around her. The crier called for her again, but the Queen did not even deign to notice. He watched her and her usher share some dialogue on the way out, wondering what they were saying, but knowing that even Clara's keen ears probably couldn't discern what it was over the shocked murmurs in the chamber and the raucous cheers that spilled into the building as the Queen departed.

Wolsey, up at the front of the building, was fuming. "She spits in the face of papal law," he was shouting to Campeggio. "She holds this court in contempt!"

And though Rochford and Norfolk were talking among themselves in what would surely be interesting listening, Cromwell's attention was caught by Wolsey, up at the front. His patron was standing and staring at the King as though the sight of His Majesty struck him to the heart with terror. He couldn't see the King's face, so Cromwell wasn't sure what Henry's expression was... but judging from Wolsey's, it was not at all pleased.

Cromwell glanced over to where Norfolk and Rochford, Wolsey's two great enemies, had their heads bent together. He knew they were further scheming ways to use this turn of events to bring his Cardinal down. And he knew this certainly looked bad for Wolsey. Only time, he supposed, would tell whether or not he could or would come out on top. But things were suddenly much less clear cut for the King and for Wolsey and their hopes of a speedy annulment.

Later that night, as he was preparing to leave Whitehall for Shoreditch, a figure appeared in his peripheral vision. Still somewhat on alert from his time back in Rome, where he had not been entirely confident in his safety, Cromwell startled violently, spinning around and putting a hand to the knife he still concealed in his sleeve. Thankfully, he registered who was beside him before he unsheathed the blade and stabbed... but he thought she recognised the movement, since she shrank back a little and stared at him with wide brown eyes.

"You startled me, Clara," Thomas said, once he was master of himself, taking his hand from his sleeve.

"My apologies," she said softly, and when she came closer she made some deliberate noise with her brocade skirts. "I saw you today, in the courtroom. You looked very well, and I was happy to see you with such exalted company."

"Thank you," he smiled, reaching out to touch her arm and assure her that he was fine and that there were no hard feelings. Then he changed from a touch to a grip and pulled her into a dark alcove where they could have more private conversation out of sight, steering her around to let the weak light illuminate her face as much as possible, so he could read her expression. "I could not find you, myself, though I looked. Where were you standing?"

"Maud and I were up in the loft above you. Her cousin Tony got us seats there," she explained.

"Ah, that would be why I was unable to see you. I looked." Clara smiled, but still looked a little pensive and said nothing. Thomas eyed her a little, and wondered what she was thinking. "I was very impressed with Her Majesty today," he ventured, knowing he had to draw her out and wagering that whatever occupied her mind had something to do with the Queen. "She has a high courage—much like another lady of my acquaintance."

That drew a quick twitch of a smile from Clara, but didn't remove the furrow between her brows. Thomas waited quietly, knowing she would speak soon enough if he let her. And she did. "The Queen won't go back," Clara blurted suddenly. "To the trial. She doesn't recognise its authority, and so she won't go back. What will happen if she does not?"

Presumably this was something Clara had overheard in the Queen's rooms, and once again Thomas applauded his foresight in placing her there. She was repaying his investment in her already. "Things will carry on in her absence," he replied with a shrug. "Only she will have no chance to speak for herself."

"Will that matter?" Clara asked, looking up at him with her big, honest dark eyes. "If she's there or not, will it matter to the verdict?"

Thomas looked back at her, assessing her open face in the faint, flickering light of their shadowy alcove. That was a surprisingly cynical question for Clara, and he was unsure for a moment about how to answer her. Then he decided to follow his own advice and give her a truth: "It will matter very much," he said. "Having the witnesses see her there will doubtless have a very profound effect on the proceedings. Or not, as the case may be. Were I her counsel, I would convince her to attend no matter her personal feelings. I doubt Fisher will."

"He won't," Clara answered. "Her Majesty does not wish to attend any further, and no one will dare make her."

"Hmm," Thomas hummed thoughtfully. He wondered how it would affect the trial, whether the Queen's absence would be a burden or a boon. For himself, he could only imagine Katherine's absence harming her cause, though it would also harm the trial itself by casting doubt on the legitimacy of the proceedings, especially when paired with her formal protest. He imagined Wolsey would find it much easier with the Queen's presence at the hearing, but for himself... he wasn't sure. He hadn't weighed all the options yet, or imagined the potential outcomes. And thus he supposed it was a good thing that no one was likely to ask his opinion. "Will you stay with her, during the trial? Or will you attend?"

Clara shrugged a little, ducking her head before straightening back up, allowing him to see the conflict in her eyes. "I don't know. I... want to know what's going to happen, but... I should stay with the queen, shouldn't I?" she said, biting her lower lip. "I am one of her ladies. I know she would not begrudge me, or any of us, our choice to attend or not, but... if I... she should trust me, shouldn't she? So I should stay."

Presuming that this was an oblique way of asking for his advice, Thomas gave some thought to the matter. It was true that Clara's keen ears would be more valuable in the soft quiet of the Queen's confidence than as one witness among many in the clamour of the Blackfriars theatre. "Perhaps it would be wise for you to remain with the queen," he allowed. "I'm sure your brother will bring you news of the daily happenings in court, as will I."

Clara nodded jerkily, teeth still worrying at her lower lip. She lapsed into silence again, and Thomas waited for her to speak her thoughts. "What will happen to her?" she finally wondered. "To the Queen. If the Cardinals rule against her, what will happen to her?"

That was something easy for him to answer. "She will be styled not as Queen of England, but as Princess Dowager of Wales. Still, every honour will be given her, and she will still be the second lady at court, after the new Queen," he assured her, knowing Clara was likely fretting about the fate of her kindly mistress. He took a chance and reached out to take her hand, brushing his thumb across the soft skin. "Do not worry for her, Clara. Her Majesty will be well provided for, should her marriage be undone." And he brought her hand to his mouth for a kiss.

He could feel more than hear the soft gasp that passed her lips at the contact. Her fingers tightened on his, shifting to grip his hand as much as he gripped hers, and Clara took a step closer. "Twenty more days," she whispered, before pressing a kiss of her own on his fingers.

The scent of her—jasmine and roses, the scent of his claim to her—combined with the feeling of her lips on his skin was stirring, and he drew in a quiet breath before releasing it silently though his nose. "So you're counting too?" he quipped wryly, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers, nearly touching their noses together and bringing their clasped hands down to rest on his chest.

"Perhaps it is wicked or unfaithful of me... but yes, I'm counting," she confessed in a whisper, lifting her eyes, black in the darkness, to his.

Something hot and heavy sparked in the air between them, and Thomas felt his heart begin to beat faster. They were so close; it would be an easy matter to duck his head a bit more and steal a kiss. To back her up against the wall of the alcove and press his body against hers. To slide his hands down to her hips and lift her up, to wrap her legs around his waist, to hitch up her skirt and pick up where they left off in February. Or, at the very least, steal her back to Austin Friars and peel her clothes off and then pick up where they left off in February. What were twenty mere days to the months of frustrated longing they'd already been suffering?

He was in within a hair's-breadth of throwing caution to the wind and doing just that when Clara stiffened in his grasp. Presumably she'd heard something too soft for his ears, which presaged an interruption. She nervously slipped out of his hold and hurried to the entrance of the niche, peering carefully around the corner in the direction she'd come. That interruption was perhaps for the best, Thomas allowed, taking a deep breath and recollecting himself. Especially if he was within moments of kissing her in a shadowy alcove in Whitehall, of all places. Subtle that was not.

Whatever the noise was, it was either no longer approaching or no longer threatening. Possibly both. Clara relaxed with a soundless sigh, and turned to give him a rueful smile. Apparently she had also felt the spark and the kindling lust, and was also aware of how fortuitous the disruption was. "I should return, before I'm missed," she murmured, her cheeks pink.

"Of course," Thomas agreed, pointedly leaving at least an arm's-length of space between them. "Will we have the pleasure of your company tomorrow?"

"Yes, unless the Queen wants me for something in particular, but I don't think that's likely," Clara replied. Her sweet smile turned a little wry as she edged out of the alcove. "Twenty days."

"Twenty days," Thomas repeated, keeping his hands to himself as he watched her hurry back towards the palace.

A/N part deux: So, I finished this one right before NaNoWriMo kicks off. There probably won't be any updates in November for that reason, but there will be some after! Especially because this is my NaNoWriMo project! (And yes, I know that's now how it's supposed to work, but a group of friends and I are having our own NaNoWriMo and Lauren says I can work on previously-started projects if I wanna. So there. I do what I want, Thor!) So come December, there should be another update, pending any acts of God. Huzzah!

Happy pre-emptive Thanksgiving to those who'll celebrate it in November!