Her Highness, the Traitor - By Susan Higginbotham Page 0,68
scaffold, terrifying my horse. As I struggled to bring her under control, and to fight down the nausea that was engulfing me, I realized what they were doing: dipping their handkerchiefs in the duke’s lifeblood, which was seeping through the boards of the scaffold. The bloodstained handkerchiefs would become relics, like the bones and fingernails of the saints the faithful used to treasure.
“My lady? Shall I take you home now?”
I shook my head. My cheeks, I realized, were damp with tears. “No. Take me to the Tower. I wish to see the duke’s widow.”
***
In those days, John’s power was such that I could go almost anywhere in England I chose, except perhaps to the king’s private apartments. No one challenged me, therefore, as I passed through the Tower gates, having finally managed to make my way through the crowd that was still trying to catch the very last droplets of Somerset’s blood as Somerset’s body and head were bundled into a cart and taken to the Tower chapel for burial. But the guards outside of the Duchess of Somerset’s lodgings did shake their heads warningly as they ushered me inside. “My lady, she may be trouble.”
“I will take my chances.”
Surrounded by her ladies, Anne Seymour was slumped on a chair, her luxurious brown hair wild around her face. She was not even dressed properly, but was in her nightclothes. “Get out,” she hissed.
“I came to see if you needed anything,” I said, realizing as I spoke how stupid a remark that was. What could I do for her? Resurrect her husband? “I mean, to see if you needed any physic, or some spiritual comfort.”
Anne shook her head vaguely and gathered her robe around her more closely. She seemed to have forgotten she’d ordered me out. “I saw them bring him back just now,” she announced.
I looked to her ladies for confirmation. “Aye, Your Grace, she did. She wouldn’t let us keep her from the window.”
“There was so much blood,” Anne said, staring at the wall. “He must have left most of it on the scaffold, but there was plenty in the cart.” She gave a macabre laugh. “Who knew that a man could hold that much blood? Not me. Now I do. They didn’t even bother to wrap his body in a sheet. Just the head.”
“How in the world could you let her see that?” I whispered.
“We would have had to hold her by force to stop her. She was wild.”
“They let me visit him last night,” Anne continued. “We read to each other for a while and we held each other tight and kissed, just like it was when he first started courting me. He married me for love, you know. Other men didn’t want me. They said I was too outspoken and that my father couldn’t give me a large enough portion to make up for that, and then when I turned twenty, they said I was too old.” Tears were spilling down her cheeks. “But he never thought any of those things. He thought I was perfect. In all the years we were married, he never raised his hand against me, or even raised his voice to me. He loved me.”
“I know he did,” I said gently. Anne’s shoulders were shaking, and I put an arm around her.
“I loved him, too. I knew he would advance, but that’s not why I married him! I could have been happy to stay plain Lady Seymour. I would be happy to be that now, if that would bring him back to me.” She touched the pillow beside her. On it laid a little book. “He must have given me something to make me sleepy, because I fell asleep in his arms when I was in his chamber, and when I awoke, I had been carried back here. He told his guards that he couldn’t bear to say good-bye to me and asked them to tell me not to be angry with him for not waking me.” Anne shook her head. “As if I was ever angry at him in his life. With plenty of other people! But never with my dear Edward. And he did leave something for the children and me to remember him by. The constable sent it to me this morning.”
She picked up the little book—a nondescript almanac. Written in Somerset’s careful handwriting was: