position; it’s not what he was raised to do, after all. He was raised to be an ordinary knight—as was I.” John’s mouth twitched upward faintly. “He’s been far too willing to make concessions to the rebels, at the expense of the gentry. He’s carried on about their grievances so much, one would think he’s one of them. Jane, I care about the people! I truly do. Do you think I don’t feel for the common man? But Somerset takes it too far; the rabble can’t have the rule of the land. Is he trying to make his own nephew less secure on the throne? And it’s not just his behavior toward the rebels; it’s his behavior toward those who are governing the realm with him. Once—twice—I have seen him reduce grown men to tears. Not weaklings, but men who have fought bravely on the battlefield. He doesn’t seek advice from the council very often, and when he does seek our advice, he ignores it. He’s become worse since he executed his brother, too. More prone to anger, more sharp tongued, more uncompromising. Maybe he’ll be more like himself when the guilt over Thomas Seymour’s death eases, but when? We’ve some years to get through until the king comes of age or is old enough to be declared to be of age. Can we afford to wait all these years on the hope the Protector improves? If we keep letting him drag us into the mire, can we pull ourselves free?”
“Are you saying he should be removed as Protector?”
“Yes, I am, and I am not the only one. Trust me, much of the council is of the same mind. But it is tearing at my soul, for we have been friends, and I know him for a good man. I know also he means well toward the king, too; he loves the boy, for all he can’t show it that well. But he is sowing the seeds of disaster, and if this keeps up, it will be left for the king a few years from now to reap them, if he hasn’t already.”
“Do you think he will agree to step down?”
“Aye, that is the crux of the matter. Probably not; he’s too proud.” John snorted. “Paget has taken it upon himself to send him long letters of advice, he tells me. I saw a copy of one. I can’t say I’d be pleased to get such letters myself, but Somerset hardly seems to notice them. I suspect he doesn’t even read them.”
“So he will have to be forced out.”
“Yes. I don’t want to do it. More than anything, I don’t want to shed blood—his or mine or anyone else’s. But this can’t go on. I’m torn, Mouse.”
“You must choose between your friendship with Somerset and your duty to the kingdom—and to the king. That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?”
John looked at me and sighed. “When you put it that way, there’s no choice at all, is there?”
“None indeed,” I said sadly.
***
No one wanted bloodshed, but for a few frightening days in October, it seemed as if that would be exactly what we would get. Forces gathered around John and his allies in London, while others gathered around the Protector at Hampton Court. Every spare chamber at Ely Place was crammed with the council members and their entourages, to the puzzlement of both my youngest daughter, Katheryn, who could no longer play hiding games in its once vacant spaces, and of Jerome, who asked plaintively one day when all of the grim-faced strangers could be expected to leave. “Soon,” I said hopefully, while I hurried off to ensure yet more provisions were brought in for our many house guests. Civil strife, I was finding, lessened no one’s appetites.
The war over the few days, however, would be fought not with swords, but with pen and paper. From Ely Place, the council sent letters to Somerset; from Windsor Castle, where he had hastened with the reluctant king, Somerset sent letters to the council. Everybody, it seemed, was writing to everybody. The printers of London had never been happier; both sides were furiously producing handbills, which still could be found gracing the walls of sundry buildings weeks after all had
“Are you saying he should be removed as Protector?”
“Yes, I am, and I am not the only one. Trust me, much of the council is of the same mind. But it is tearing at my soul, for we have been friends, and I know him for a good man. I know also he means well toward the king, too; he loves the boy, for all he can’t show it that well. But he is sowing the seeds of disaster, and if this keeps up, it will be left for the king a few years from now to reap them, if he hasn’t already.”
“Do you think he will agree to step down?”
“Aye, that is the crux of the matter. Probably not; he’s too proud.” John snorted. “Paget has taken it upon himself to send him long letters of advice, he tells me. I saw a copy of one. I can’t say I’d be pleased to get such letters myself, but Somerset hardly seems to notice them. I suspect he doesn’t even read them.”
“So he will have to be forced out.”
“Yes. I don’t want to do it. More than anything, I don’t want to shed blood—his or mine or anyone else’s. But this can’t go on. I’m torn, Mouse.”
“You must choose between your friendship with Somerset and your duty to the kingdom—and to the king. That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?”
John looked at me and sighed. “When you put it that way, there’s no choice at all, is there?”
“None indeed,” I said sadly.
***
No one wanted bloodshed, but for a few frightening days in October, it seemed as if that would be exactly what we would get. Forces gathered around John and his allies in London, while others gathered around the Protector at Hampton Court. Every spare chamber at Ely Place was crammed with the council members and their entourages, to the puzzlement of both my youngest daughter, Katheryn, who could no longer play hiding games in its once vacant spaces, and of Jerome, who asked plaintively one day when all of the grim-faced strangers could be expected to leave. “Soon,” I said hopefully, while I hurried off to ensure yet more provisions were brought in for our many house guests. Civil strife, I was finding, lessened no one’s appetites.
The war over the few days, however, would be fought not with swords, but with pen and paper. From Ely Place, the council sent letters to Somerset; from Windsor Castle, where he had hastened with the reluctant king, Somerset sent letters to the council. Everybody, it seemed, was writing to everybody. The printers of London had never been happier; both sides were furiously producing handbills, which still could be found gracing the walls of sundry buildings weeks after all had
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