Her Highness, the Traitor - By Susan Higginbotham Page 0,1

I had been given to distinguish me from my stepmother, Joan, whose name was sufficiently close to mine as to cause confusion sometimes. “He is to be my ward—that is, in my care—now that his father is dead and his mother’s remarried. He’ll be staying here a long time.”

John, who was seven years of age to my three (almost four, as I liked to point out), executed a respectful bow, but did not match my stepmother’s welcoming smile. “You look cold, John,” my stepmother said then, her voice lacking its natural warmth. “Why don’t you sit by the fire?”

It was an order rather than a suggestion, and the boy said, “Yes, mistress,” and obeyed. His voice was not a Kentish one, even I at my young age could tell.

“He seems very ill mannered,” my stepmother said when the boy was out of earshot.

“He’s coming among strangers, and he’s tired. He’s a London boy, don’t forget, not used to riding.” My father chuckled. “Stared at my horse as if he were at the menagerie at the Tower. I had him take the reins for a time while coming here, though, and he did quite well. He’s sharp.”

“Aye, like his father. And look where that got him, speaking of the Tower.”

“Where’s that, Mama?” I could not resist asking. “What tower?”

“Never you mind,” said my stepmother briskly as my father gave her what I had begun to recognize as a meaningful look. I was a quiet child, which meant adults often said interesting things in my presence they might have avoided saying in front of a more talkative girl, but sometimes to my disappointment they remembered themselves. Pitching her voice in a manner that informed me that future comments would not be welcome, she said to my father, “How much does he know of all that, by the way?”

“Most all, I fear. Some of the neighbors talked before they stopped speaking to the family altogether, and he figured out the rest for himself. He’s sharp, as I said.”

“Oh.” My stepmother’s voice softened. “Poor lad.” She glanced at me. “Jane, why don’t you join Master Dudley by the fire?”

I obeyed. John was sitting on a bench and staring into the flames. Shy as I was, I was being brought up to converse properly, as became a well-bred young lady. “Hello,” I said brightly.

John looked at me with apparent reluctance, though in my opinion, I was at least more interesting than the fire, crackle as it might. “They called you ‘Mouse’ just now,” he said with the air of one feeling bound to say something. “That’s a strange name.”

“That’s just what they call me here. My real name is Jane.” I paused. “Jane and John. They sound almost alike.”

John grunted.

“I have my own pony,” I went on, undaunted. How I had forgotten to mention this to John immediately I had no idea, for there was no creature I loved more than my new pony, which I was just learning to ride. I’d tried my best to let everyone in Kent know of my new acquisition. “Father said you don’t know how to ride yet.”

“No. Why should I? I’m from London.”

I did know something about London. Father was often at the king’s court there. But I didn’t know all that much. I contemplated this apparently horseless place for a time before asking, “How do you go places there? Walk?”

The boy gave me a pitying look for my ignorance. “Just for short distances. People do ride, especially if they’re coming in or out of the country, but if you’re traveling from one part of London to another, it’s best to take a boat down the Thames.”

“Really?”

“My father used to take me all of the time before he died.”

“My mother’s dead,” I offered companionably. “She died the same day I was born.” (I thought at the time only that this was rather an interesting coincidence.) “They say she got sick. What did your father die of?”

“They cut off his head.”

I stared at him in bewilderment. I vaguely knew that men who did wrong things could get hanged, though I had never seen such a dreadful sight. But cutting a man’s head off? “Like a chicken?”

“Yes.”

I placed my hands on my neck and determined that losing one’s head would not be an easy accomplishment. “But why?”

“Mouse,” said my father, putting his hand on my shoulder and looking at John apologetically. “That’s enough questions for now. Your mother needs you to help her with—well, she needs you to help her