Her Highness, the Traitor - By Susan Higginbotham Page 0,42
lied, and I was glad to see that Jane shook her head with equal vehemence.
***
When I had told Adrian Stokes that Harry seldom came to my bed, I had been exaggerating, but not by much. It was true having Mary had nearly killed me and left her slightly misshapen, but I had recovered quickly, and no one had told me I couldn’t have another baby. And it wasn’t as if Harry were consistent, anyway. When he felt like sleeping with me, he seemed to be able to put aside his worries about my health easily enough. He just didn’t feel like sleeping with me all that often. I could console myself that he didn’t seem to feel like sleeping with anyone else, either, as I’d never seen signs that he had a mistress or consorted with whores, but on nights when I longed to feel a man’s arms around me, it wasn’t much consolation.
Tonight, however, Harry paid me a visit. Usually I welcomed him, but tonight I resisted his attempts to remove my night shift. “You didn’t tell me about the Protector, Harry. Why?”
“Really, my dear, it was just a foolish omission.”
“Yet you told Jane.”
“Well, yes. She is interested in that type of thing.”
“And what makes you think I am not? I am not a dolt, Harry. But in any case, I am your wife and have been for sixteen years. I should hear these things from you, whether or not you think I am interested in them.”
“Well, yes,” Harry conceded. “There’s logic in that.” He grinned at me. “I’ve rarely seen you angry at me, Frances. It makes you rather interesting.”
I snorted, and Harry drew me to him, then removed my clothing and began to caress me in a manner that made me gasp and clutch him to me. He was not always so attentive to my own desires, and if this was the result of the council’s promotion of him—well, the council deserved the heartiest thanks. Perhaps it was also his way of apologizing; if so, I would accept it.
But as I climaxed, my mind was not on Harry. It was, I realized to my shame, on Adrian Stokes.
13
Jane Dudley
December 1549
The council has agreed that you can see your husband on Christmas Day,” I told the Duchess of Somerset.
“Only for that one day? I had hoped for more.”
“It is the best I can do,” I snapped. “Really, as there are members of the council who would like to put him to death, I consider it a victory of sorts.”
Anne lowered her eyes. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I am sorry. I truly am grateful beyond words for what you have been able to do for us. It is just that I miss him so much, and I fret so about him. You cannot know what it is like, not knowing whether he will be alive a month from now.” She brushed a hand across her eyes, which did show the signs of many sleepless nights.
I patted her other hand. “The men who want his death are in the decided minority, I am told.”
The duchess bristled. “Why should anyone want my dear Edward’s death? He has done nothing, except to be too kind and forbearing to the peasants.” She rose from the chair in my chamber in which she had been sitting. “But I must go and make ready for my visit. There is so much to do. Do you think the guards will let me bring in my jam for him? And some new shirts and handkerchiefs?”
“I am sure of it. In fact,” I added archly, “you might want to get some new things for yourself, as well. You will want to look your best. The council has agreed that you may be alone with him when you visit.”
Anne let out a girlish squeal of pleasure. Then she kissed me lightly on the cheek and hurried away.
***
A few days later, John developed a fever, which confined him to his bed. After a miserable day, he was at last on the verge of resting for the night when a knock sounded on his chamber door and William Paulet, Lord St. John, was announced. “Tell him to come back at another time,” I said to our servant. “My lord is ill.”
“My lady, Lord St. John says it’s urgent.”
I sighed. All the commotion at our house that had taken place since Somerset’s removal had given me a certain appreciation for the man’s burden of office. I might have protested further, but John