Her Highness, the Traitor - By Susan Higginbotham Page 0,28
the wilder the rumors became. At one milestone, the tale was that he had been plotting to kill the Protector; at the next, the story was going about that he had been planning to kill the king himself, followed by the lady Mary, and then to marry the lady Elizabeth and jointly rule England with her. One account even had it that he had been caught breaking into the king’s bedchamber and had killed the king’s faithful dog when it barked at him. One thing was certain: he was a prisoner in the Tower, but my Jane was safe at Dorset House. So was Harry.
“I am a lucky man,” he said when I arrived. “I was with Seymour the night before he was arrested—staying at his house, as a matter of fact. I would ride to and from Parliament with him, dine with him. They arrested him when we were preparing to leave for Westminster together. His house is being searched on orders of the council, and I’ve no doubt our bargain about Jane will be brought out. I’ll have to give evidence, I suppose.”
“Harry, tell me you knew nothing about any plans to do violence to the king.”
“I’ll tell you, and I’ll mean it. Seymour went on a great deal about building an affinity; you’d think we were in the last century. The worst I ever thought he would do would be to get the king declared to be out of his majority and the Protector removed from power. And I never heard any plans about precisely how he was going to do it.”
“But you encouraged such talk.”
“If Tom Seymour wants to talk about something, he’s going to whether one encourages him or not. I listened. He’s been telling all and sundry these things, it appears.”
“How did the council find out?”
“The Earl of Rutland. Something Seymour said made him nervous, and he went to the Earl of Warwick—he admires Warwick—and told him. Warwick brought him to Somerset immediately. But you haven’t even asked about Jane yet.”
“I haven’t had the chance, Harry.” It was late, and Jane was already asleep in her chamber. “You started speaking as soon as I entered the room.”
“True, my dear,” Harry conceded. He made a motion with his hand that served as a sort of apology. “I’m concerned about the effect all of this will have on her. I just hope she doesn’t have to give evidence against him. They say the lady Elizabeth might be questioned. It seems he had hopes of marrying her.” He snorted. “Poor Seymour. He did aim high. But I suppose after you’ve bedded a queen, the girl who’s second in line to the throne is the next logical choice. I’m surprised he didn’t try for the lady Mary, but then again, perhaps not.”
“Harry, promise me, if he gets freed from prison, you will not let our daughter go back to him.”
“Don’t fear. I’ve no intention. From henceforth, Jane stays with us—until she goes to her husband.”
Encouraged, I went on. “And that you will have nothing to do with him. Harry, you could have ended up in prison yourself.”
“You don’t need to tell me that,” Harry said huffily. He sighed. “But yes, I have learned my lesson.”
***
Over the past few weeks, it seemed as if every man in London was called upon by the Protector to depose as to what he knew about Tom Seymour and his doings. There seemed to be no one whom he had not confided in at one time or another. Harry had had to go before the Protector several times—each time he was summoned, I paced my chamber, fearing he would not come back—and the letters he and I had written to Seymour were duly dragged out. Even Jane’s letter to Seymour did not escape Somerset’s sharp eye, but she herself was not called upon to give evidence, the Protector having satisfied himself she knew nothing of any interest to him.
As it became clear neither Harry nor Jane would suffer for Seymour’s folly, I relaxed, then marveled at all that had gone on in the past couple of months while my girl sat quietly at Seymour Place, practicing her music and improving her Latin and Greek. Seymour had come to the king’s chambers at any odd time he pleased, examining the locks and windows to gauge how easily a boy could be smuggled out. With the help of his friend Sharington, the man who’d so handily persuaded me to send my daughter back, he had