Her Highness, the Traitor - By Susan Higginbotham Page 0,30

was plotting.”

“The man gave you no choice,” the duchess said briskly.

“He would never have stopped plotting against you,” I added for good measure.

The duke sighed and stared toward the window, then at the clock on the mantle. “It must be about to take place.” He slowly spread some marmalade over his bread and took the smallest of bites. “Delicious,” he said tonelessly.

For the next hour or so, the men talked about the other problems in the realm, of which there were many at the time. John, normally a taciturn man, hardly stopped talking long enough for the Protector to form a thought, much less a response, while we women discussed our gardens and our children in false, bright voices. Then one of the duke’s servants knocked on the door and entered. “The Constable of the Tower wishes to inform you that the sentence has been carried out, Your Grace. The body has been taken to the chapel for burial.”

I felt the Admiral’s shade glide into the room and make himself comfortable.

“Go back and make certain that the body is treated with all due respect, as befits an uncle of the king,” Somerset said.

“Yes, Your Grace.” The man bowed and backed out of the room.

Somerset pushed his untouched food away, propped his elbows on the table, and wept into his hands. Anne left her seat and knelt next to him, her arm around him. “If he had asked to see me, this never would have happened,” Somerset said, his words barely intelligible through his tears. “I would have never allowed him to be put to death. Why did he not ask? Why did no one offer to bring him to me?”

“Edward, let us go to our estates for a few days. You need some rest and quiet; these past weeks have strained you unbearably. Come. Let us get ready now. The Earl and Countess of Warwick will understand.” We nodded our assent.

“No. I must tell the king that the sentence has been carried out. He cannot be allowed to hear it from someone not in the family. He will hate me for it, but he deserves to hear it from me.” Somerset chuckled bitterly. “He already hates me anyway. Do you know what the king said in his deposition? My brother told him that he would be able to rule without a protector within a couple of years, as I was growing old and would not live long. The king replied, ‘It were better for him to die before.’”

“The king did not mean what you think,” I put in even before the duchess could. “He is a boy, for all that he is a king, and boys speak callously in that manner. He merely meant that if you were truly ill, you should not suffer.”

Somerset ignored my gloss on the king’s comment. “And I must tell our mother. She will never forgive me. Thomas was her favorite son.” Somerset rose and ran a hand over his face. “She never liked me nearly as much as she did him. Just like the king.”

The duchess took her husband’s hand again. “But the people love you, Edward. They call you their good duke.”

The Protector’s face cleared, and something of a faint smile broke through. “It’s true,” he said. “They do.”

***

The summer of 1549 was one of the most frightening ones ever seen in England. Not since the Pilgrimage of Grace twelve years before had the country seemed so much in danger. There was anger in Cornwall and Devon about the new prayer book put out by the government and about the other religious changes, anger in Norfolk about oppressive and corrupt local government. Discontent in one county seeped into the next county, and there were a number of small risings, but the best organized had been in the area around Norwich. William Parr, Marquis of Northampton, had been sent to deal with it, and had failed miserably, losing many of his men in the process.

It had been left to my husband—newly risen from a sickbed, for his health had been poor that year—to save Norwich from its fate. It was not from John but my sons Ambrose and Robert, who had served under him, that I had learned of my husband’s deeds: how he had told the city officials he would either save it or die in its service; how he had urged the rebels to accept a pardon and save their own lives; how, having been refused, he had proceeded to slaughter the