Her Highness, the Traitor

10

Frances Grey

January 1549





My first thought when my husband’s messenger galloped into Bradgate was that something had befallen Jane or my husband in London. “What on earth is it?” I called as I hastened to meet him. “Is someone ill?”

“No, my lady, but the marquis wants you and the girls to come to London immediately.” Before I could get out a question, the messenger added, “It is the Admiral, my lady. He is under arrest.”

***

As I neared London, I began to hear the rumors about the Admiral’s downfall. The closer I got to the city, the wilder the rumors became. At one milestone, the tale was that he had been plotting to kill the Protector; at the next, the story was going about that he had been planning to kill the king himself, followed by the lady Mary, and then to marry the lady Elizabeth and jointly rule England with her. One account even had it that he had been caught breaking into the king’s bedchamber and had killed the king’s faithful dog when it barked at him. One thing was certain: he was a prisoner in the Tower, but my Jane was safe at Dorset House. So was Harry.

“I am a lucky man,” he said when I arrived. “I was with Seymour the night before he was arrested—staying at his house, as a matter of fact. I would ride to and from Parliament with him, dine with him. They arrested him when we were preparing to leave for Westminster together. His house is being searched on orders of the council, and I’ve no doubt our bargain about Jane will be brought out. I’ll have to give evidence, I suppose.”

“Harry, tell me you knew nothing about any plans to do violence to the king.”

“I’ll tell you, and I’ll mean it. Seymour went on a great deal about building an affinity; you’d think we were in the last century. The worst I ever thought he would do would be to get the king declared to be out of his majority and the Protector removed from power. And I never heard any plans about precisely how he was going to do it.”

“But you encouraged such talk.”

“If Tom Seymour wants to talk about something, he’s going to whether one encourages him or not. I listened. He’s been telling all and sundry these things, it appears.”

“How did the council find out?”

“The Earl of Rutland. Something Seymour said made him nervous, and he went to the Earl of Warwick—he admires Warwick—and told him. Warwick brought him to Somerset immediately. But you haven’t even asked about Jane yet.”

“I haven’t had the chance, Harry.” It was late, and Jane was already asleep in her chamber. “You started speaking as soon as I entered the room.”

“True, my dear,” Harry conceded. He made a motion with his hand that served as a sort of apology. “I’m concerned about the effect all of this will have on her. I just hope she doesn’t have to give evidence against him. They say the lady Elizabeth might be questioned. It seems he had hopes of marrying her.” He snorted. “Poor Seymour. He did aim high. But I suppose after you’ve bedded a queen, the girl who’s second in line to the throne is the next logical choice. I’m surprised he didn’t try for the lady Mary, but then again, perhaps not.”

“Harry, promise me, if he gets freed from prison, you will not let our daughter go back to him.”

“Don’t fear. I’ve no intention. From henceforth, Jane stays with us—until she goes to her husband.”

Encouraged, I went on. “And that you will have nothing to do with him. Harry, you could have ended up in prison yourself.”

“You don’t need to tell me that,” Harry said huffily. He sighed. “But yes, I have learned my lesson.”

***

Over the past few weeks, it seemed as if every man in London was called upon by the Protector to depose as to what he knew about Tom Seymour and his doings. There seemed to be no one whom he had not confided in at one time or another. Harry had had to go before the Protector several times—each time he was summoned, I paced my chamber, fearing he would not come back—and the letters he and I had written to Seymour were duly dragged out. Even Jane’s letter to Seymour did not escape Somerset’s sharp eye, but she herself was not called upon to give evidence, the Protector having satisfied himself she knew nothing of any interest to him.

As it became clear neither Harry nor Jane would suffer for Seymour’s folly, I relaxed, then marveled at all that had gone on in the past couple of months while my girl sat quietly at Seymour Place, practicing her music and improving her Latin and Greek. Seymour had come to the king’s chambers at any odd time he pleased, examining the locks and windows to gauge how easily a boy could be smuggled out. With the help of his friend Sharington, the man who’d so handily persuaded me to send my daughter back, he had been plotting to coin money with an eye toward paying an army to help him overthrow his brother. He had bragged of how well he would govern England once the Protector was locked up and he himself was in power. Less sinister, but more disturbing to me as a mother, were the stories that emerged about a flirtation with the lady Elizabeth. Seymour had popped into the princess’s room in the morning, bare-legged, and had made as if to pounce on the girl. With the queen assisting, apparently with the notion that this was simply Seymour having his fun, he had held Elizabeth down and cut a black gown of hers he disliked into shreds. Then the queen herself had caught her husband embracing Elizabeth, and the fun had ended. Might he have been engaging in such conduct with my Jane? She was young—but not so young that such behavior by a man was beyond belief.

“There is something I must talk to you about,” I said, half stammering, as I came into Jane’s chamber at Dorset House. “The Admiral. He seems to have been very familiar with the lady Elizabeth while you were both there.”

“Yes, my lady. He was.”

“In what way?”

Jane’s face puckered in puzzlement. “The same way he was with me, I suppose. He would pay her compliments on her music. He liked to dance with her—with me, too. And with the queen, too, of course, before she became great with child and preferred to sit and watch. He never spoke much about what we were reading; I don’t think he cared for it himself. He would go riding with us and the queen quite often. The lady Elizabeth is a good horsewoman, better than me; he always would praise her. Sometimes they would make a game of seeing who could ride the fastest, but it made the queen worry too much, so they stopped.”

“And after you came to live with him again after the queen’s death? Was he familiar with you?”

“No, my lady. Not like the old days. I spent most of my time with his mother, doing needlework and practicing my music when I wasn’t having my lessons. He seemed very busy, much more than he had been when the queen was alive. He was always coming and going. Even when Father stayed there, I hardly saw him. The most I saw of him was when he took me to court for Christmas. I enjoyed that.”

“Jane, I must ask you a delicate question. Did he ever lay his hands upon you?”

“My lady?”

“Like—like a lover might.”

“No, Mother! Nothing like that.” Jane’s expression, half indignant at this insult to the Admiral, half puzzled at my asking such a strange question, was worth a thousand denials.

I let out my breath with relief. “Then I am glad to hear it.”

“Mother, is the Admiral in trouble? Am I the cause of it?”

“You are not the cause of it, but he is in very serious trouble. It has to do with the Protector and things that he has been saying against him.”

“Oh, the Protector,” Jane said offhandedly. “The Admiral hates him.”