Her Highness, the Traitor - By Susan Higginbotham Page 0,3

completely insufferable. Being the protector’s wife could make her only more so. “What of Thomas Seymour?” He was the younger brother of Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford; the two were Jane Seymour’s brothers. “Is he to have a role in all of this?”

“Something, I’m sure.” My husband yawned. “That’s to be discussed. These things take time.”

I stared out the window, my mind still trying to adjust itself to an England without Henry, who’d reigned nearly eight-and-thirty years, nearly as long as I had been alive. Softly, for I knew I was treading on delicate ground, I asked, “John, did you ever hate him for what he did to your father?”

“I never really thought about it.” My husband tipped my chin up gently and brushed his lips against mine. “I’ve got some time to spare before I return to the council. Do you have to hurry back to the queen?”

I smiled. It was not uncommon of my husband to avoid talking about a topic by making love to me. It was a tactic that might have been employed more often than I realized, and generally with success, for I had borne him thirteen children.

***

To a man’s eyes, I must have looked seemly enough as I returned to the queen’s lodgings at Whitehall. To a woman, it was obvious that unskilled hands had put me back into my clothes; all my fastenings were slightly awry. I hoped I had sent John back to his council meeting in somewhat better repair, though he had servants nearby who would probably step in to make him presentable.

Anne Seymour, Countess of Hertford, gave me a knowing look as I entered the outer room of the queen’s private chambers. The queen was in an inner chamber attending to business, it being the time of the day when she did this, but most of the other great ladies of England were here: the lady Mary, the new king’s eldest sister; the lady Frances, King Henry’s niece; a dozen or so others. I had known them all for years: together we’d buried Jane Seymour; greeted Anne of Cleves; watched helplessly as poor Katherine Howard giggled and flirted her way to the scaffold; speculated on who would be the king’s sixth, and it would prove, final, bride.

“Did you hear anything, Lady Lisle?” asked the lady Mary. Just shy of her thirty-first birthday, she was still reasonably attractive, despite her voice, which was oddly gruff for a woman’s.

I quaked at lying to a princess, but I did it anyway. “I have heard nothing new, Your Grace,” I said smoothly, sensing Anne Seymour’s eyes upon me. If I knew, she must certainly know, as well; her husband would no more leave her out of his confidence than mine would me. “I saw my husband, but he could tell me nothing more than that the king was doing poorly.” That, I consoled myself, could be viewed more as a gross understatement than as an outright lie.

“I can’t believe they have told us nothing. I know my father wished to make his peace with the Lord in private, but he is dying, for mercy’s sake! I simply cannot fathom that he would not want his queen or his children by his side.” Mary’s thin face hardened. “I am not putting up with this lack of communication any longer. When the queen finishes her business, we are going to go to the king’s lodgings togeth—”

A knock sounded upon the door, and a grave-looking man entered the room. “My lady,” he said, kneeling to Mary. “I am grieved to tell you that His Highness King Henry has departed from this life.”

Mary closed her eyes, then opened them again. What went through her head? After King Henry had repudiated her mother, Catherine of Aragon, and married Anne Boleyn, he had treated Mary horribly, declaring her a bastard. Only in the past several years had she been treated as a princess ought to be. Even after that, her father had been lacking: he’d not made a suitable marriage for her, so she was a maid at an age when many women were mothers ten times over; he’d not given her a household of her own, but seen fit to subsume hers within the queen’s. Her voice gave nothing away. “Has the queen been told?”

“Yes, my lady. She is being brought the news as we speak.”

“When did my father die?”

The man bowed his head even farther, perhaps as much out of caution as respect. “The king died two days