Her Highness, the Traitor - By Susan Higginbotham Page 0,70

out of trouble.” He headed toward the chamber door, then turned with a slight smile. “Did you know where they buried Somerset?”

“In the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula, of course.”

“Yes, but do you know who he lies between?” I shook my head. “Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard. If those aren’t an odd threesome, I don’t know what is.”

20

Frances Grey

January 1552 to February 1552

With the court festivities of Christmas over, the girls and I returned to Bradgate. I was glad to be there, for despite all of the determined gaiety, London was a gloomy place that January, the impending fate of the Duke of Somerset casting a pall over everything.

Even in the comfort of my home at Bradgate—my husband’s inheritance, but a house I had come to love as my own—I was despondent after the duke’s death, not so much for the duke but for the sake of his eldest son, Edward, Earl of Hertford. I had met him at court a time or two and had found him to be a charming yet serious-minded young man, who might be particularly suitable for Jane as a husband. Indeed, after the Thomas Seymour debacle, Harry, anxious to make amends with Somerset, had suggested Jane might marry Hertford, but the negotiations had been desultory at best and had died out altogether when Harry aligned himself with Northumberland. Now the Earl of Hertford, son of a traitor, was worth little as a husband, unless the council chose to restore him to his father’s forfeited estates. But I was sorry not only for the loss of the young man as a potential match for Jane, but also for his own bereavement.

Jane did not give any indication of what she thought about the loss of her potential suitor, and I did not ask her. Since I had overheard the conversation she had had with Ascham the previous summer, my manner to her had been more distant and cool. I no longer lost my temper with her, but I no longer asked the sort of questions about her studies that had always made her roll her eyes at me. My manner at times toward her had been so astringent, I had seen her blink in puzzlement, which I am ashamed to admit gave me a certain petty satisfaction. When Aylmer, distressed at the pleasure Jane had taken in decking herself out in fine robes and curling her hair for the visit of Mary of Guise, asked that his mentor in Zurich, Heinrich Bullinger, address a few words to Jane about the manner of dress suitable for a young lady professing godliness, I did not even protest that Jane hardly needed such instruction. Even when the lady Elizabeth was named—much to Jane’s annoyance—as an example to be followed, I kept my counsel. “Master Aylmer knows best about these things, and you must follow his advice,” I said sweetly.

“But he is telling me I spend too much time with my music, and you have always encouraged me to spend more time on it!”

I had, not only because I loved music, but also because it was something I could understand. “He knows best,” I repeated. “Not me.”

***

In early February, John Aylmer hurried into my chamber. It was about the time of the week that he usually reported on my daughters’ studies, and in which I tried to formulate intelligent questions, so I at first thought nothing of it when he was announced. Then I saw his face. “My lady, the lady Jane is acting very strange. I have never seen her thus.”

I asked no questions, but followed him to the chamber where Jane had her lessons. She was in her usual place, surrounded by books, pen, and parchment, but she was slumped over her desk listlessly. “I don’t want to study,” she said, lifting her head at my approach. “I’m tired.”

Her sulky voice was slurred. For a moment, I thought she might have smuggled some of our wine to her room and drunk it undiluted, as my sister Eleanor and I had once done in our youth on a mutual dare. But no. There was no smell of wine, and John Aylmer had been at university; he would know the effects of drink when he saw them. I looked at Jane more closely. She was perspiring, though the February day was a particularly bitter one. Suddenly fear clawed at my heart. “Don’t you feel well?”

“I told you, I’m tired.” Jane suddenly pulled off her French hood, revealing her fine