Chapter Text
London, 1527
"Wine, Aziraphale?"
Aziraphale Fell regarded the decanter of rich red Malmsey, glowing like rubies through the cut glass, and smiled to hide his nervousness. He was rather fond of wine, in general, but at the moment he wished for something rather more fortifying.
"Wine would be lovely, Your Grace," he responded, inclining his head and very quietly fiddling with his ring. The breeze from the open casement was just the slightest bit too warm, but Lambeth Palace was far enough from the overcrowded streets of central London to be quiet and lovely. Midsummer was only a few days away, and if it weren't for the officious man clad in purple and cloth-of-gold currently staring Aziraphale down it would have been a perfect June afternoon. Maybe after this Aziraphale would take the scenic route through the garden...
Unfortunately for Aziraphale, the direction the conversation took soon chased all notions of scenic routes from his head.
"I've told you a million times, Aziraphale," said the Archbishop of Canterbury with his characteristic broad smile which looked, Aziraphale thought, as if His Grace felt there was something faintly unbelievable about anything and everything, "you really ought to call me Cousin!"
"Cousin," acquiesced Aziraphale, his voice pitched slightly higher than he would have liked. (Why was he so nervous? There was really nothing to be nervous about! Just a friendly glass of wine, nothing out of the ordinary at all.) Fortunately, it went unnoticed, and he took the proffered cup with gratitude. Archbishop Gabriel Beaumains was a congenitally genial fellow, the kind of man who handed out sweetmeats to children and with the same breath (and the same vaguely confused smile with which he was now regarding Aziraphale) declare comfits "gross matter".
"And how is life treating you these days?" the Archbishop asked, taking a sip of his wine and sighing in pleasure. Aziraphale shifted - the chair, like all seats that had were, had ever been, or ever would be in Lambeth Palace, was overstuffed - and sought a sufficiently neutral answer.
"My flock is quite well," he said at last, "and I'm enjoying the good weather very much."
"Have you heard the news from Court?"
"Er... no? I can't say I have?"
"Well!" Gabriel leaned forward, his eyes lighting up. This, Aziraphale knew, indicated a Scandal was about to be explained in all its excruciatingly detailed glory. "There is a rumor going about that that Boleyn woman has, well, been successful."
"You mean - wait, which Boleyn? Mary or Anne?"
"Anne." Gabriel raised his eyebrows. Aziraphale raised his too, as it seemed the correct thing to do. (When it doubt, mirroring his ecclesiastical superiors was his favorite strategem.)
"And by successful, do you mean..."
Gabriel nodded.
Aziraphale nodded.
Gabriel paused for effect and then continued.
"A child."
"You mean-"
"Yes, Aziraphale, yes. Lady Anne has had Henry's child. A boy. So the rumors go."
Aziraphale set down his glass with a clink. "But- but - that can't-" He hated the way his voice was shaking. Soft, that's what he was. Soft, from his white-blond curls to his round body. No head for politics. Though this was certainly something to tremble about. Anne Boleyn was the King's most recent mistress, and by all accounts Queen Katherine's most dangerous rival yet. If she bore Henry his longed-for son, why then that would mean...
Disaster, essentially. The end of England as Aziraphale knew it. Possibly the end of Catholicism in England, if Henry's threats against Rome and Anne's open friendship with That Heretic Tyndale meant anything. And Aziraphale liked the life he had. Gabriel made it awkward at times, but it was mostly peaceful and he quite enjoyed it. The prospect of any part of that being gone... he found he couldn't bear the thought.
"Is it... absolutely certain?" Aziraphale asked tremulously, but the Archbishop just shrugged.
"Not completely, but it's enough to greatly concern Her Majesty. Who, as of course you know, considers me one of her closest allies..."
"Of course." Queen Katherine, being Spanish, was a devout Catholic, and as tensions with Rome continued to grow she and the English Church found themselves relying more and more on each others' support. But turning to Aziraphale, of all people, for help with a political scandal? It seemed unlikely. "But why-"
"Ah, why am I telling you all this?" Gabriel smiled grandly. "My dear Cousin, it has come to my attention that the whereabouts of the child are currently unknown. With Lady Anne due back at Court in July, we must assume that it has been put in the care of a nurse or a friend. Her Majesty has... the greatest interest in knowing where the child is."
"I would imagine so," agreed Aziraphale, there being absolutely no point in saying anything else.
"And so, it falls to you."
"H-how so?"
"I promised Queen Katherine that I would have my most trusted acquaintances look into it. There is no one I trust more than you, dear Cousin." the Archbishop raised his eyebrows at Aziraphale again, knowingly. "And I am aware that your duties make you friends wherever you go. I want you to find the infant."
"Me?" Aziraphale stuttered. "But - I am not a detective! I am a priest!"
"Consider it a holy duty," suggested Gabriel. "To save this country from falling into heresy, we churchmen must take up the flaming sword -" He lowered his voice, and though his tone remained friendly, the words he said next were dangerous. "You will do as I say, Aziraphale. You must find the child."
When Aziraphale got up to leave some time later, having made somewhat shaken smalltalk with the Archbishop until the decanter was empty, Gabriel accomanied him to the door of his study.
"A word of warning, Cousin," said the Archbishop as Aziraphale buttoned the toggles on his light summer coat. "Lady Anne has eyes everywhere. And I have heard rumors-" he lowered his voice again, this time almost to a whisper, as if his words carried great risk- "that Tyndale has sent agents to distribute his heretical works in London."
"Heretical works?"
"Oh yes. It would seem that Will Tyndale has finally finished his English New Testament."
Aziraphale pondered this thought as he left the grounds of Lambeth Palace and made for the Horseferry. The sun was beginning to set, and he hoped very much that he would be home by the time it was fully dark. The empty roads by St. James' were known for pickpockets, though, he reflected, the few remaining lepers who inhabited the Hospital were unlikely to be a threat.
Tyndale's New Testament. Gabriel spoke of it like a curse, and it was certainly heretical, but surely it couldn't be that bad for people unschooled in Latin to be able to read the holy scriptures?
No. Such a thought was surely a sin. It wasn't for Aziraphale to question. If everyone else believed - no, knew - an English bible to be heresy, it must be so.
Aziraphale paid the ferryman a penny, though it was free for the Archbishop's guests (the man looked awfully tired, he thought, after a long day of ferrying around the type of people who visited Gabriel; it was the least he could do), and chose the quieter route, skirting Westminster. It wasn't as if he was likely to run into rampaging nobles at this hour, but it was always best to steer clear. There were rumors circling that the King had his eye on St James' as a potential deer park, which scheme, if brought to fruition, would certainly spell the end of all peace and quiet in the parish of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Aziraphale could see it all too clearly: Henry's courtiers in their velvets and brocades, trampling the serene pig fields and chasing their quarry right up to the doorstep of the church. And after that would follow hunting lodges and more roads, and one day the whole of it would be paved over to make room for the Court's entertainments. Aziraphale didn't suppose that he, a mere parish priest, would have much to say about it, and he considered himself far above using his connection to the Archbishop to pull rank. All the same it would be a sad, sad day.
Thus reflecting upon the doomful fate of his parish and the somewhat more significant fate of Catholicism in Britain, Aziraphale was so wrapped up in his own head that he quite forgot about the existence of other humans. He failed to greet a few of his parisioners as he passed them, and as he rounded the Charing Cross he did not notice the hushed and rather suspicious conversation taking place between a slight boy in grey breeches and a tall man in black. If he had observed this interaction his (habitually powerful) curiosity might have been aroused, and Things might have progressed rather differently. At is was, Aziraphale saw nothing, and made it back to his house behind the church in time for his Compline prayers.
The Reverend Aziraphale Fell, pastor of St Martin-in-the-Fields, might not have noticed the pair of lurking gentleman under the shadow of the Charing Cross, but the importance of their suspicious discourse cannot be overstated.
A few minutes after the good Reverend had vanished and the street was once again clear of pedestrians, the boy and the man emerged from the shadows, looked this way and that, and set off together towards Bishop's Inn, some way down the Strand. As they walked (rather unevenly; the lad often had to skip to keep up with the man's long legs) they continued their conversation in low, urgent voices.
"What do you mean, she's out of town?" the man demanded. He was long and thin, dressed all in black, with startling red hair and black-glass spectacles that he had somehow attached to his head with wires around his ears.
"Exactly what I said," retorted the lad. His hair was dark under his cap, his accent was French, and his voice was light, even for a boy. "Lady Anne has gone to visit her family in the country. She won't be back until July, at the earliest."
"Don't suppose this has anything to do with the Rumor?" demanded the red-haired man.
"About the child?" the lad shrugged, nonchalant. "No idea."
"Bee...." groaned the man disgustedly. "Why not? You're her lady-in-waiting, for God's sake!"
"That's Madame Beatrice to you, Crowley," sneered the apparent lad. "I am a duchess, you know."
"Well pardonnez moi, Madame la Duchesse."
"Sarcasm ill becomes you Saxons," sniffed la Duchesse.
"And I can't just give it to you?" the red-haired man was growing impatient. "The book? And you can deliver it to her when she gets back?"
"Don't talk nonsense. There's a private message too, isn't there? To be delivered by word of mouth? Honestly, I don't see why Will picked you, of all people."
"Because I'm the best. They love me over there." Crowley paused in his self-aggrandisment when he realized the implications of Beatrice's announcement. "You mean I have to stay in London for weeks?"
Bee shrugged, and glanced sideways at her compatriot with a twinkle of mischief in her dark eyes. "I suppose so. You do have friends here, yes? I hear your Order is very hospitable-"
"Shut up."
Bee laughed out loud at the real fear that had showed on Crowley's face for a moment, that not even his spectacles could fully conceal. "Madame de Tracy's establishment is somewhere around here, I think. I'm sure she would be positively overjoyed to see you again, if you prefer her girls to the good canons."
Crowley gave her a Look which was filled with enough pure loathing that if not for his spectacles he could have curdled several pints of milk and turned the sweetest Madeira into vinegar. Beatrice, apparently immune to such Looks, shrugged inelegantly.
"I'll see you in July, then," she said pitilessly, and vanished down in a side alley in a cloud of flies that her passing had disturbed from the refuse. Crowley stood in the street and stared after her, expression once again unreadable, for quite a long time before groaning in defeat and turning his steps towards the Bishop's Inn. Only staggering amounts of alcohol, he reasoned, could possibly make this despicable situation any better.
He spared once last glance for the sky before going in. The summer night was clear, and above the smoke of the city the stars were out.