Her Highness, the Traitor - By Susan Higginbotham Page 0,35

away from our son. It’s hardly the sort of marriage I wanted for him. He could do better.”

“We have other sons who can make good marriages.”

“Unless they all decide they need love matches, too, with the first pretty girl they see.”

“Does that mean you give your consent?”

John grimaced. “Probably, unless I have an attack of common sense. The lad did good service at Norwich; I suppose he deserves something as a reward. Besides, he’s headstrong. If I forbade the marriage, he’d probably marry the girl secretly. Some Norfolk connections wouldn’t hurt our family, I suppose, and Robsart’s a sensible man. One could have worse relations. So I suppose we might as well make a fine wedding of it.”

I hugged John.

“But this is as low as it goes,” warned John. “If Guildford or Hal decides to marry a tavern maid, he’ll get no sympathy from me.”

12

Frances Grey

November 1549

We’re going to see Uncle George!” Kate chanted as our entourage set out from Bradgate. “We’re going to see Uncle George!”

Mary took up the cry. “We’re going to see Uncle George!”

“So we heard,” muttered Jane. She rolled her eyes at Elizabeth Tilney, a relation of ours who was being brought up as one of Jane’s companions.

“I like Uncle George,” protested Mary, and I smiled at her. At four, she was a pretty child, but very small for her age, with a slightly misshapen back. She was seated on a pillion behind a groom, and bystanders in the towns through which we passed would stare, wondering how such a tiny creature could ride a horse so calmly. “He’s jolly.”

George Medley, Harry’s older half brother, was indeed jolly, and I was looking forward as much as my daughters to spending a few days at his Essex estate of Tiltey. We needed some merriment this year. During the summer, there had been dreadful unrest, and three thousand rebels had been killed by the Earl of Warwick’s men at Dussindale alone. Harry had managed to keep the peace in Leicestershire, and a sullen calm had settled over the rest of the country, but I still found myself looking around uneasily for angry mobs as I passed through countryside that was normally as safe and familiar to me as my own bedchamber.

Riding near me and my ladies was Adrian Stokes, a man of around thirty who had recently become my master of horse. He had been serving with Harry’s brother John in France as marshal of Newhaven, which had fallen to the French a couple of months before. When Master Stokes returned to England, Harry promptly hired him at the recommendation of his brother, without consulting me, of course. Although it had irritated me to have Harry interfere with the management of my own household in this manner, I could find no fault with the conduct of Master Stokes himself. Indeed, I could not remember when we had left for a journey in such good order and good time.

I also could not help but notice that Master Stokes was an exceptionally good-looking man. He was of average height and of a strong build, with dark brown, curly hair, a short, neat beard, and dark blue eyes. The young ladies who served in my household liked nothing more than to watch him get upon his horse, where he struck an especially good figure. Had he been inclined to lechery, he certainly could have found partners with whom to exercise his tastes.

Thanks to Master Stokes’s excellent planning for our travel, we arrived at Tiltey in good time. The younger children ran off to play, while we adults caught up on the news of the family. Then George Medley shook his head. “So, Frances, what do you think is going to happen to the Protector? Odds has it that he loses his head. Evens has it that he’s in for a long spell in the Tower.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t know?”

“No. I have heard nothing since Harry went to London, except about our travel arrangements. No news of any sort.”

“Well, there’s news, all right.” George shifted on his feet. “I don’t know why he didn’t tell you; it’s no secret. The Protector is in the Tower, you see. After the disaster this summer, the Earl of Warwick and others started talking about ending the protectorate. You really can’t blame them, I suppose. Anyway, Somerset got wind of this and dragged the poor king to the gates of Hampton Court. Ranted about how the council was trying to destroy him and the king—even