Her Highness, the Traitor - By Susan Higginbotham Page 0,9
Her little granddaughter, Mary, was now that country’s queen.
“No. That’s where it concerns us. He knocked that line out altogether. Didn’t want a little Scottish lass on the throne, I suppose.”
I did a quick calculation. “So that means I am next in the succession?”
“No, it means Jane is. King Henry passed you over, but he willed that if the lady Elizabeth died without heirs, the crown will pass to your heirs.” Harry forestalled my next question. “I don’t know why he chose to skip over you, but my guess is that he preferred not to have a woman on the throne, and was hoping you’d have a son by the time that contingency came to pass. But for now, that leaves our Jane as third in line to the throne.”
“Such a thing might never come to pass. It is bound never to come to pass. King Edward will certainly marry and have children, as will the lady Elizabeth. The lady Mary—well…”
“She’s missed her chance,” Harry said bluntly. “She might yet get a husband, but a child at her age?”
“It hardly matters, with a healthy young brother and a healthy young sister.” I resumed my sewing. “Jane’s chances are as remote as mine ever were. And I am glad of it. A woman should not rule.”
“Spoken like a good niece of King Henry,” Harry said. “But I am surprised to hear you hold your own sex in such low regard. And Jane is a brilliant girl. Perhaps most women could not rule, but she could be an exception.”
“I pray it never comes to that.”
“But with Mary a Catholic, and both she and the lady Elizabeth still officially bastards…”
“Harry! Men have died for saying such foolish thoughts aloud.” I looked around to make sure we were alone.
Harry stared out the window. “Well, it’s very remote, as you say,” he said briskly, with the appearance of pulling himself back to earth. “But I do know this: a girl with as good a claim to the throne as our Jane should be able to make a very good marriage. A very good one.”
“That idea, I like,” I confessed.
“I thought you would. Now, let me tell you what else I have heard. The Earl of Hertford—or the Duke of Somerset as we must begin to learn to call him—is giving consideration to ceasing to hear the Mass. Don’t you think it’s time we thought more seriously about doing the same ourselves, my dear?”
***
The old king had been buried; the new king had been crowned. A few days after the latter event, Harry came to me again. “Tom Seymour’s man has been to see me.”
“Since when did Tom Seymour become too important to come himself?”
“Since he asked for our Jane to come live with him. He wants to broker a good match for her.”
“What match could he broker that you could not broker yourself?”
“One to the new king.”
I stared at my husband. “He is offering to make Jane Edward’s queen?”
“That’s the sum of it, my dear. Think of it. They’re the same age, they’re well educated, and they’re Protestant. And then there’s the matter of the succession. What better bride for King Edward than the girl who’s third in line to the throne?”
“What does the Duke of Somerset have to say about it?”
“Oh, nothing, because Tom hasn’t mentioned it to him. No doubt he’d disapprove if Tom did, just by dint of the fact of Tom being the one to mention it.”
“Tom Seymour is unmarried. Is he suitable to care for a young girl?”
“Why not? We’d be sending her suitably attended. But why not express your concerns to him yourself? He has asked us to meet him at his place.”
***
Seymour Place, as Tom Seymour had renamed Hampton Place when it was granted to him several years before, was just a short ride down the Thames from our own house, Dorset House. The smile Tom bestowed upon me far exceeded the one he gave to my husband. “Doubly blessed! My friend Harry and his lovely lady. I suppose your lord has told you why we are here, my lady?”
I nodded. “Yes. You wish to marry my daughter to the king.”
“Can you think of a worthier bride, my lady, than your fair daughter?”
“No, but there will surely be others pushing a foreign bride upon the king.”
“The king will remember that his own mother was an English bride, as were his grandmother Elizabeth of York and his great-grandmother Elizabeth Woodville.” Tom Seymour turned another smile upon me. “And believe