Her Highness, the Traitor - By Susan Higginbotham Page 0,31

rebels; how, wishing to spare the survivors, he had ridden into their midst in person to demonstrate the sincerity of his renewed offer of pardon; how he had executed the leaders of the rebellion but refused the demands of the town officials that he punish even more widely. From my sons, not my husband, I had learned the city of Norwich had declared that each year on the anniversary of the battle, its citizens would close their shops and give thanks for Norwich’s deliverance.

The Protector had not shown similar gratitude. When John asked that our son Ambrose, who had been one of the first to ride against the rebels, receive as a reward for his good services the reversion of certain offices, he’d been refused in favor of one of Somerset’s own friends. Every request John made of the Protector, no matter how easy it would have been for him to fulfill, was refused.

After these slights, John said little to me, and I did not question him. I knew it was just a matter of time before he came to me, and in mid-September, he did. “I don’t know what to do, Mouse.”

Even though I had been anticipating that John would confide in me sooner or later, I blinked, both at the admission and the use of my childhood name, which I’d begged John to stop using when I became a grown-up young lady of twelve. “John?”

“The Protector. This can’t continue as it is, Jane. He’s unfit for his office. I have kept telling myself he’ll grow into the position; it’s not what he was raised to do, after all. He was raised to be an ordinary knight—as was I.” John’s mouth twitched upward faintly. “He’s been far too willing to make concessions to the rebels, at the expense of the gentry. He’s carried on about their grievances so much, one would think he’s one of them. Jane, I care about the people! I truly do. Do you think I don’t feel for the common man? But Somerset takes it too far; the rabble can’t have the rule of the land. Is he trying to make his own nephew less secure on the throne? And it’s not just his behavior toward the rebels; it’s his behavior toward those who are governing the realm with him. Once—twice—I have seen him reduce grown men to tears. Not weaklings, but men who have fought bravely on the battlefield. He doesn’t seek advice from the council very often, and when he does seek our advice, he ignores it. He’s become worse since he executed his brother, too. More prone to anger, more sharp tongued, more uncompromising. Maybe he’ll be more like himself when the guilt over Thomas Seymour’s death eases, but when? We’ve some years to get through until the king comes of age or is old enough to be declared to be of age. Can we afford to wait all these years on the hope the Protector improves? If we keep letting him drag us into the mire, can we pull ourselves free?”

“Are you saying he should be removed as Protector?”

“Yes, I am, and I am not the only one. Trust me, much of the council is of the same mind. But it is tearing at my soul, for we have been friends, and I know him for a good man. I know also he means well toward the king, too; he loves the boy, for all he can’t show it that well. But he is sowing the seeds of disaster, and if this keeps up, it will be left for the king a few years from now to reap them, if he hasn’t already.”

“Do you think he will agree to step down?”

“Aye, that is the crux of the matter. Probably not; he’s too proud.” John snorted. “Paget has taken it upon himself to send him long letters of advice, he tells me. I saw a copy of one. I can’t say I’d be pleased to get such letters myself, but Somerset hardly seems to notice them. I suspect he doesn’t even read them.”

“So he will have to be forced out.”

“Yes. I don’t want to do it. More than anything, I don’t want to shed blood—his or mine or anyone else’s. But this can’t go on. I’m torn, Mouse.”

“You must choose between your friendship with Somerset and your duty to the kingdom—and to the king. That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?”

John looked at me and sighed. “When you put it that