Innocent Traitor by Alison Weir Page A

through overmuch contact with the court.
    As I load my plate with gilded marchpane and candied oranges from the buffet, the consort of musicians in the corner begins playing a stately pavane. But no one is dancing. Instead, there is a babel of chatter, as goblets are replenished and the courtiers circulate, regrouping as their fancy takes them. The King sits on his chair of estate, his new Queen on a stool to his right, and beckons favored courtiers in turn to converse with them. From time to time, he takes his bride’s hand, raises it to his lips, and kisses it, his blue eyes narrowing playfully in lust. For all his infirmity, there is still much of the old Adam left in my uncle, and I make no doubt that he will hasten Kate away to bed as soon as he may.
    I watch this touching byplay out of the corner of my eye, as Henry and I discuss the events of the day with the Earl of Hertford, brother to the late Queen Jane. Then I am rudely jolted back to the world of politics by his lordship’s venturing into more contentious matters.
    “You heard about the treaty, Dorset?”
    “Treaty?” Henry looks nonplussed.
    “Then you’d better keep this under your bonnet,” Hertford says, lowering his voice and leaning forward so that we can hear him. “His Majesty has just signed a treaty with the Scots providing for the betrothal of the Prince to their little Queen.”
    I am truly shaken by this. Last year, the Scottish King, James V, died, leaving as Queen of Scots his infant daughter, Mary. I was aware that my uncle had been scheming to marry her to the Prince and so unite England and Scotland under Tudor rule, and when we heard that he had sent envoys to the Scottish Queen Regent in Edinburgh to ask for her daughter’s hand, we were appalled, but I never really thought the Scots would agree to it. So this is a bitter blow to my lord and me, who have long cherished the hope that Edward would marry our Jane, and I am hard put to keep the smile on my face.
    “Of course,” says Hertford, “the Scots do not want it, but they do not have the forces to resist. It is feared, though, that the Queen Regent will try to enlist the help of the French in order to break the treaty, but she must surely know that that will mean war.”
    “She’s a woman,” my lord remarks, “and women have little judgment in such matters.” I throw him a look, but I know better than to argue with Henry in public. He can be so pig-ignorant and tactless. I might be a woman, but I’ll wager I understand more of this matter than he does. Subtlety was never his strong point.
    “When is the marriage to take place?” I inquire of Lord Hertford.
    “Not for a few years, of course. His Majesty recalls that his brother Arthur died after being married too young. It was thought that over-exertion in the marriage bed killed him. But the King will ask for the Queen of Scots to be brought to court here to be educated.”
    “And do you think the Scots will agree to that?” asks my lord.
    “They might not have a choice,” answers Hertford grimly.
    After he has moved away to join another circle of courtiers, I snatch a quick word with my husband.
    “Henry, this is terrible, I know,” I mutter, “but if we just bide our time, all might yet work out for the best. After all, the Prince is far too young to be properly wed, and there’s many a slip betwixt cup and lip.”
    My lord nods, squeezing my hand. “You can console yourself too, my dear, with the sure knowledge that royal marriage negotiations often come to nothing.”
    “I shall direct my prayers to that end,” I tell him determinedly.
     
    Lying in bed at night, in our lodgings here at court, I am awake, pondering the situation. My mind is in turmoil, and I reach across the coverlet for Henry’s hand.
    “Are you awake, Husband?” I whisper, squeezing it.
    “Go to sleep, Frances,” he groans, roused from the deep slumber that inevitably follows the slaking of desire.
    “No. I can’t sleep. I am