Innocent Traitor Read Online Free Page A

merchant business in London—I feel at home here, bustling about in the bakehouse, the pantry, the larders, the buttery, and the servants’ hall, chattering and joking with William Yates, the master cook, and his legion of underlings and servitors. Here there are no airs and graces, just hard work and good comradeship, even if tempers do get a bit strained in the steam and the heat from the roaring cooking fires. The kitchens in any noble household are also the place where those who work learn the most about the lords and ladies who employ them, for servants are prone to relieving the tedium of their duties by gossiping about their betters, who are an endless source of fascination to them, and even by sharing information that should have been kept strictly private. In fact, I sometimes think that we servants know more about the lives of Lord and Lady Dorset than they do themselves!
    On this day the messenger, by now the merrier for several beakers of ale, became very confidential with Master Yates, and I overheard the most astonishing thing.
    “There’s a rumor,” he was saying, “that Master Secretary Cromwell is worried that the Prince might die in infancy, as so many do, and that he has already urged His Majesty to marry again for the sake of his people and his kingdom.”
    “And do you think the King will agree?” asked Master Yates.
    “The word is that he has already” was the reply, “and with the Queen not yet in her grave.”
    Perhaps, I thought, His Highness was thinking of that motherless infant…I sincerely hoped so.
     
    Two months have passed since then, and there has been no more talk of the King remarrying. Perhaps, after all, it was just a rumor. But Prince Edward, we hear, is thriving, which gives great satisfaction to the Marquess and Marchioness.
    “He has been given his own household,” says my lady during her daily visit to the nursery, which takes place just before dinner every morning, and affords her the opportunity to inspect her baby in its cradle and to give the staff instructions or reprimands, as her mood takes her. Yesterday she was complaining about Mrs. Mallory, the wet nurse I engaged, who apparently gave offense by failing to curtsy when the Marchioness entered the room. Last week the table had not been polished to her satisfaction. But today she is disposed to be talkative. And since I run this nursery, she will condescend to converse with me on matters that are within my remit, even if they do concern the King.
    “His Highness has issued the strictest instructions for the cleaning of the Prince’s rooms,” she tells me. “The walls and floors are to be washed down three times a day, so that the place is kept wholesome and free from infection. And all visitors are carefully checked in case they carry some deadly illness. When the Prince is weaned, his food will be assayed for poison.”
    She gives me one of her looks. I never know what my lady is thinking. Does she wish me to do the same in my own nursery? Or is she amazed at the King’s fastidiousness? She is a taxing mistress, and I cannot ever be certain that I give satisfaction. Yet my little Lady Jane is flourishing under my care. How could she not be—I love her as much as if she were my own and would gladly lay down my life for her, if needs must. Which is more than one can say for her own mother, who barely seems to notice her.
    “The King has appointed Lady Margaret Bryan as Lady Governess to the Prince,” continues the Marchioness. “She was nurse to the Lady Elizabeth and will have charge of Prince Edward until he is six and commences his education. My lord says that the King visits his son frequently and delights in his progress. He even involves himself in the smallest details of the nursery. He approves the baby clothes chosen for the Prince; he has appointed the right age for weaning him and suggested remedies for teething troubles.”
    Thank God I don’t have him or Lord Dorset poking their noses in