Chapter Sixty-Six: Confrontations

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27th of December 1534 - Hampton Court Palace

"And what are your plans for these monasteries?" Anne asked looking up at Cromwell, she had summoned him to her when she heard that his report had been presented to the council. 

Not that he had brought the report to her, Anne wondered if the men around her saw her as nothing more than a carrier of the child that she carried. 

Had they truly forgotten that their King had left her as regent in his absence, that she was an anointed Queen and they owed her such respect rather than trying to keep her out of the governance of her country. 

"They are to be dealt with as His Majesty had planned," Cromwell replied cryptically, a frown forming on his face recalling that the Queen herself was of a similar belief as he. 

The Queen had spent her formative years at the sophisticated Renaissance court of Margaret of Austria before she went to France where she had served the late Queen Claude and had a friendly relationship with the Queen of Navarre. 

Staring back down at the documents that she had been handed, Anne could not hide the frown that formed on her face at her displeasure of what she was seeing. 

Many of the monasteries had been found unfit for purpose in Cromwell's investigation and were likely to be closed down at His Majesty's pleasure. 

"It is my desire that such institutions should be returned to the people. That the revenues be distributed to charitable and educational institutions so that it might better the common folk," Anne stated firmly. 

Her mind was already set on what she wanted to do and how it would benefit the people rather than line nobles pockets with more wealth; if they wished to avoid a revolt by the common folk then the institutions needed to be used to better them. 

"I do not believe that His Majesty will agree," Cromwell murmured with a shake of his head, his hands clasped behind his back knowing that such profits from the sale of the land would be used to line the King's pockets. 

Wars were expensive things and they had already raised taxes on the current efforts that led their King and his allies across France and towards Italy in hopes of wresting control away from the Emperor.

"His Majesty trusts my judgement as his Queen. He left me as his regent while he is away and I intend to do what is best for our people," Anne told him, her eyes moving away from the paper where she took note of the religious houses being closed down to look at him. 

A part of her almost dared him to disagree, to quarrel with her in this matter when there was no one above her that could reprimand her. 

This report could not have come at a greater time as the King was away and Anne could put her own plans into action, she could show Henry that she was capable and do something to further endear the people to her. 

"Majesty," Cromwell stated before moving to leave the room, a deep frown forming on his face as he turned away from her and she could not see his face as he left the room. 

He was displeased that she had refused him, could see not see that if they acted as he wanted then the Catholic faith would surely fail in England; that the people would see the truth about the Pope and turn away from him. 

Watching Cromwell stalk from the room, Anne sat back in her seat and rested a hand on her bump; a thoughtful look filling her face before she reached for a blank piece of paper. 

If she was going to pull this off then she would need some help and it was clear that Cromwell would not serve her when he had an agenda of his own on what should be done with the religious houses. 

It would be to Henry Percy, 6th Earl of Northumberland that she would call to her aid and she hoped that he would not refuse her after everything that had happened. 

He had been tasked with staying behind by the King as he was High Sheriff of Northumberland and a member of the privy council, it was felt that he would be of better use here than abroad. 

Anne paused for a moment as she thought of him, her quill hovering over the parchment as she pondered her decision; they had both moved passed what had happened and she was sure he would not refuse her if she asked this of him.

***

27th of December 1534 - Somewhere in France

Sitting around the campfire, Thomas Wyatt did his best to tune out the chattering around him from the other men that he shared the fire with. 

They all huddled together trying to ignore the chill that settled upon the camp as they marched through France, the weather only seeming to grow worse and he wished they could have waited until the summer to launch such an attack. 

His head was lowered and his eyes followed the movement of his quill as he worked on his newest piece of poetry that had come to wary mind; his fingers feeling a little numb from the cold night air, though that did not deter him. 

Graven in diamonds with letters plain, There is written her fair neck round about, "Noli me tangere, Caesar's, I am". 

He could not help but think of the dark-haired maiden that he had admired from a far, he had met her through their fathers when both of them had been constable of Norwich Castle. 

There was none that could deny that she was not the typical English rose that many men desired, there was something about her that held a man's gaze and if he stared too long his heart. 

"Mister Wyatt," greeted a voice snapping him from his thoughts, the image of the lady disappearing from his mind and he felt a pit form in his stomach when he saw who spoke to him. 

It was certainly not the Boleyn that he wished would speak with him, he had been rather disheartened that Anne barely spared him a glance anymore and would not even offer him so much as a kind smile. 

"His Majesty has a mission for you, he asks that you ride ahead to Venice to speak with the Doge and convince him of His Majesty's mission," George stated, it was getting late and he was looking forward to turning in for the night; perhaps he might even write to his wife to ease his mind. 

The weeks had been long since they had left England behind and George doubted any of them were prepared for the task that now sat before them as they edged through France towards Italy. 

Should they arrive in Italy with some backing from the lords there, then perhaps there task would be a little easier; they were hopeful in taking Milan first then moving forward.

"Then I shall leave at first light," Wyatt murmured, he was not looking forward to getting up early. He moved to start packing up his things so that he might get some sleep, he did not get much further as George took the parchment that he had been writing on from him. 

Staring down at the poem that Wyatt had written, George could only wonder if the poet had lost his wits; there was no doubt in his mind who this poem was about. 

When his sister had approached him with her concerns about Wyatt had shared around court, he had brushed it off with a weak promise that he would deal with it. 

Now George could see the error in his judgement, he had thought them old poems that Wyatt had written when Anne was serving the Infanta; he had never dreamed the man would be foolish enough to be writing such things now. 

"If I, were you, I would be a shade more careful, Mister Wyatt. It would be a great shame if such poems were brought to His Majesty's attention for the wrong reason," George scolded him, his voice level and he scrunched up the paper in his hand. 

He did not have to be clever to know that the King would not take such poems lightly, he recalled the poems that Anne had shown him that had been circulating around court. 

Thomas frown at the action of his poem being scrunched up, he reached out to snatch it back only for George to throw it into the flame of the campfire. 

The parchment started to quickly burn and George put a hand on Wyatt's shoulder, drawing his attention away from the burning poem and back to himself.

 "Perhaps you might even find yourself a head shorter. His Majesty is a jealous man afterall and he cares greatly for my sister, your Queen," George continued without hesitating hoping to talk some sense into him. 

If he did not see how truly dangerous his writing was then George knew that he would have to deal with him further, their fathers had been friends and he would hate to see something happen to Thomas. 

George could not speak truly on what the King felt for Anne but they would not give him reason to think for even a moment that Anne was unfaithful to him. 

It was unlikely that Anne would be sent to a nunnery if Henry suspected adultery, he would likely cut off her head and whoever else he felt was too connected to Anne. 

"It is my advice Mister Wyatt that you set aside any notions of your infatuation with my sister," George continued firmly, he stared right at Thomas knowing that he would not allow any harm to come to Anne. 

He was close with her, closer than he was with Mary and George did not wish to consider what would happen if the King for one moment thought that Anne had cuckolded him. 

Henry had once loved Anne with such a passion, he had chased her for years running Anne's reputation as he went; his sister had refused him at each turn until there was no where else she could go. 

Having seen what had happened to Mary, the horrible names people dubbed their older sister with; George could understand why Anne had refused knowing that no nobleman would consider her a good match if they considered her a whore. 

It had all been for nothing when Henry had laid eyes on her, Anne had even fled back to Hever Castle to get away from his longing but her actions had only inflamed the King for her more. 

None of them could have ever predicted that Anne would end up as Queen while Katherine was set aside and that the former Queen would be cast down as she had been. 

The evidence that Ippolito had given the King had been everything that Henry had needed to free himself from Katherine when even the Pope under the Emperor's thumb was on her side. 

"My sister is your Queen and whatever notions of fancy you have, must be forgotten," George implored him, his eyes searching Thomas's face for a sign that he understood what he was saying to him. 

Surely the man knew that such poems would be used against Anne, that there were those close to the King's ear that would use his poems as evidence that Anne was betraying the King in the worst possible way. 

There were people at court that would happily see the Boleyns fall, place their own daughters on Anne's throne if given the chance. 

Thomas scoffed at George's words, he gathered his things together and glared at the Boleyn son knowing that he would never understand how he felt. 

Anne was not an English Rose by any means, her colouring was exotic compared to the paled skinned blonde beauties at court. 

Thomas could not help but admire her, she had done what others considered impossible and she had set their country aflame by catching the King's attention; things would never be the same again for England.

Her dark hair was often complimented by the clothes that she wore, she selected colours that complimented her very well; the court had been transformed after Anne's rise as Queen compared to what it had been under Katherine. 

"I merely write what I think, my lord Bedford. It is the truth nothing less," Thomas replied simply, stuffing his things into the bag that he had with him. 

If he was to leave for Venice then he must prepare now, he did not wish to leave anything behind to find it burned later; he had no doubts his poetry book would be taken by the Boleyns and destroyed if they saw it. 

"A truth that you would lose your head for?" George demanded, surely Thomas was not foolish enough not to see the danger that his poems offered. 

If his writings fell into the wrong hands, George doubted that anyone would be able to convince the King that Anne was innocent. 

Whatever Thomas believed his truth to be, George did not care only that he could bring ruin to Anne; he did not believe for a second that Anne would have entertained Thomas in a way that the poet imagined. 

If anything, there was only one man that Anne would have done such things that Thomas's poems suggested; she had loved Henry Percy and would have been happy as his wife. 

Opening his mouth to reply, Thomas paused with the witty remark that he had planned on the tip of his tongue before he shook his head and turned away from George. 

Stalking away from George, Thomas refused to look back at him as the anger built inside of him; he had done nothing wrong and the few people that he had shown his poems to had seemed to enjoy them. 

He was even working with Mark Smeaton to set some of his pieces to music, the musician had rather enjoyed the poems that Thomas had shown him and had encouraged him to work on more pieces. 

Watching Thomas walk away, George hoped that it was the last time that he had to deal with the poet; though the pit forming in his stomach told him perhaps that he would have to deal with him again. 

For Anne's sake, George would do whatever it took to make Thomas stop writing such poems about her and listen to her concerns.

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