“By Heaven! he will have your Grace in leading-strings next,” muttered Seymour.
“Does your Highness mean to deny me all freedom of action?” cried Edward, somewhat sharply. “May I not walk forth at any hour I please—especially when disengaged? If so, I had better be back at Hertford than a prisoner in the Tower.”
“Far be it from me to place any restraint upon your Highness’s movements,” rejoined the lord protector; “and if it be your pleasure to walk forth early, you shall have no interference from me. Only I must give directions that you be properly attended, and that no one,” and he glanced menacingly at his brother—”be allowed to approach you without my consent.”
“No one has approached me except my cousin, the Lady Jane Grey, and my uncle, Sir Thomas,” rejoined the king. “Fowler will explain all to your Highness, if you question him.”
“That will I,” replied the gentleman of the privy-chamber, advancing a few steps, and bowing profoundly. “The Lady Jane Grey came forth to read in the garden, and there encountered his highness, who was similarly engaged. It would have done your Highness good to see how little those two exalted personages heeded the cold, though I was half-perished by it.”
“What makes the Lady Jane Grey abroad so early?” demanded the lord protector, bending his brows upon Dorset. “You should keep her within her chamber, my lord. The privy garden is for the king’s sole use, and none but he may enter it.”
“I am well aware of that, your Highness,” replied the marquis. “I knew not that my daughter had so trespassed, and am sorry for it. Bear in mind what the lord protector has said, Jane.”
“Doubt it not,” she replied, meekly. “I am not likely to forget the reproof administered by his highness; but it was in ignorance that I offended.”
“You will walk in the privy garden whenever you list, Jane, so long as you remain in the Tower,” said Edward, taking her hand. “I, the king, give you permission—let who will say you nay. You need not fear disturbing me, for I shall go there no more.”
The lord protector bit his lips, and looked perplexed; but perceiving that his brother was enjoying his confusion, he turned his rage against him.
“How is it that I find you with the king, sir?” he demanded, sharply.
“Because I chance to be with his highness when you seek me, brother. I know no better reason,” replied Seymour, coolly.
“I do not seek you, but I find you where I would not have you,” rejoined Hertford, sternly. “Take heed, sir. As governor of the king’s person, it is for me, and for me alone, to decide who is fit, or unfit, to approach him. I do not deem you a judicious counsellor, and therefore forbid you to come nigh his grace without my sanction.”
The only answer vouchsafed by Seymour was a disdainful smile.
Still more enraged, the lord protector went on: “After this warning, if you seek by any indirect means to obtain an interview with his highness, I will have you before the council, to whom you shall answer for your disobedience to my mandates.”
Seymour glanced at his royal nephew, whose spirit being now roused, he promptly responded to the appeal.
“Your Highness is mistaken,” said Edward, addressing the lord protector with great firmness: “my entirely-beloved uncle Sir Thomas always gives me the best advice, and such as your Grace and the council must approve, if you were made acquainted with it. I will not be debarred of his society. Tell the council so. Nay, I will tell them so myself if needed.”
“There are some of the council now present, who will doubtless report to their colleagues what your Highness has declared,” said Seymour, glancing at the Constable of the Tower and Lord Lisle.
“Assuredly the council will take the matter into immediate consideration, if his majesty shall express any such desire,” said Sir John Gage; “but bound as they are to uphold the authority of him they have appointed governor to his grace, I can little doubt their decision. I trust, however, that his highness the lord protector, in his wisdom and discretion, will withdraw the interdict he hath imposed on his brother Sir Thomas Seymour—the rather that it seems to me harsh and uncalled for, and liable to censure.”