Her Highness, the Traitor - By Susan Higginbotham Page 0,66

me and my family so disrespectfully—and slanderously—even in her present difficulties? It was not something that should be borne.

Yet I did bear it, knowing what distress hearing of the remark would cause John, who with Katheryn at his side looked at peace, as he had not been for weeks. Instead of confronting my daughter-in-law, I sat still on my bench and prayed to myself that whatever Fate had in store for Somerset, it would be determined soon, so Somerset’s shadow would no longer hang over our every family gathering.

Four days later, I got my wish: King Edward signed Somerset’s death warrant.

***

For anyone who had been a member of King Henry’s court, it had been almost impossible to avoid attending executions. Indeed, some courtiers had become virtual connoisseurs of death, critically eying each performance upon the scaffold as if the condemned were a new player come to court. Had the doomed person dressed perfectly, as had Anne Boleyn? Had he managed a witty quip, as had Sir Thomas More? How large a crowd had he attracted? Did he falter in his last speech, or deliver it clearly and well? Had the executioner been given a generous sum of money by the deceased?

I was not one of those who delighted in such ordeals. True, I had attended the executions of Katherine Howard and her accomplice in adultery, Jane Boleyn, but that was out of pity for a queen I had once served and had found it impossible to dislike, exasperating as her royal whims and as foolish as her actions had been. My one concern had been to keep from fainting or vomiting. I had managed to avoid both, though only because I averted my eyes at the proper time. Never again, I had vowed, would I attend another execution.

Yet on the morning of January 22, the day set for Somerset’s execution, I rode to Tower Hill to watch the duke die.

I was not supposed to be there. John, who had moved to Westminster with the king the day before, had not forbidden it, but he had not anticipated I would make such a trip, either. Why I felt impelled to witness this I did not know; I had never been close to Somerset, even at the height of my husband’s friendship with him, and I certainly had no warm feelings toward him after he had plotted to destroy my husband. But his wife and I had once been friends of a sort, and his fourteen-year-old daughter was my son’s bride.

Somerset’s execution had been scheduled for eight in the morning, slightly earlier than was the custom, and the council had ordered the London constable to tell the populace to stay in their homes until ten in the morning. Despite this, as I rode from Ely Place to Tower Hill, the streets were full of people, all of them headed in the same direction as I.

Knowing it would be unwise to make my identity known, I was accompanied by only one manservant, and I had worn a plain gown. Were it not that some of the officials recognized me and gave way to allow me to ride near to the scaffold, I might have been unable to see anything but a figure in the distance. Instead, I was close enough to see the duke’s face as he was led out to Tower Hill. It was slightly before eight; Somerset was punctual to the last.

His hair and beard had been trimmed carefully, and he was elegantly and richly clothed; I’d not seen him dressed so finely since his daughter Anne married my son. Having climbed the scaffold, he knelt and prayed, raising his hands upward as naturally as if he were in his own chapel. As he made his devotions, the people stood still and silent, their faces solemn or streaked with tears. No one was jostling for a better view; instead, men stood with their arms around their wives, mothers with their hands on their children’s shoulders, supporting each other through this ordeal. Even the cutpurse I spotted nearby abandoned his prey to concentrate on the duke.

Somerset rose and walked to the east side of the scaffold. For a moment, he and the crowd gazed at each other adoringly. Then Somerset sighed sharply and began his speech, the same sort of speech that had been heard on Tower Hill too many times. “Dearly beloved friends, I am brought hither to suffer death, albeit that I never offended against the king, neither by word