My Lady Jane (8 page)

“My lady, Lord G has an affinity for running when he is in this condition. And now that he is trapped here for the day, and he has eaten . . .”

Jane held her hand up. “Say no more, Billingsly.” She turned toward the horse. “Lord Gifford. It seems fitting that you be relegated to your room all day, considering your behavior last night. Perhaps the confinement will provide the impetus you need to develop the ability to control your gift.”

Gift
. G's nostrils flared.
There's no controlling it,
he thought.
And call me G!

He spent the day pacing. He knew this situation was only temporary, and that he would not be trapped in this room forever, but for G, running across the countryside, tethered to nothing, was an essential part of his soul. He often wondered if that was how he got the curse in the first place. Something deep inside of him yearned to run, to break free of the disappointment his parents displayed toward him. Not only was he the second, and therefore unimportant son—the one without the esteemed nose—but as he grew up, he was always “wasting” his time reading poetry and plays. Rubbish,
his father had called it. As a boy of thirteen, he'd skipped out on his fencing classes to read under a tree behind Durham House. When his father caught him and threatened severe punishment, G had run across the field, down the road leading away from London, and didn't stop until he reached the edge of the dark forest.

G lived to run. And ran to live.

And now, after the humiliation of turning into a horse in front of his new bride, he was trapped in this room like a caged . . .
beast
was the word she'd used. A wife was simply a new person to disappoint.

And since this was supposedly the first day of his happily-ever-after, he could only conclude that marriage consisted of four solid walls, a door too small to squeeze through, and a window too high to jump from.

The lines of a poem formed in his head.

The stifling air, damp and dank for want of release,

The horse, too still and stuck, in need of a little grease,

To shimmy his frame through a door too small,

But even then, he'd be stuck in the hall . . .

Not his best work.

SEVEN

Edward

“Edward, dear,” Mistress Penne said from her chair beside his bed. “Eat your soup.”

She lifted the spoon to his lips, and he allowed her to feed him a few swallows, but then he turned his face away.

“Just two more bites,” she coaxed.

“I'm not hungry.” He would have liked to remind her that he was the king and not some little boy she could boss around, but getting all those words out seemed like a lot of effort. Instead he fell back against the pillows and pressed closer into the steady warmth of Pet's body where she was stretched out beside him. The dog's tail thumped against the blankets. She licked her lips and gave him a yearning look expressing that if he didn't want to eat his food, she'd gladly undertake such a task for him.

He was too tired to give her any.

“Sire,” the nurse tried again. “You must eat if you are to regain your strength.”

He knew this was true, but it didn't make it any less humiliating. He was mortified when he thought about last night. How, as he'd walked to the carriage after the wedding feast, his legs had abruptly given out underneath him and he'd tumbled to the muddy ground. How one of his stewards had lifted him easily in his arms like the king had no more substance than a woman, and carried him the rest of the way. How he'd also had to be carried up the stairs to his bedchamber, and how he'd spent every moment since then in bed. He'd slept for the entire night and most of the morning, but had awakened to a feeling of bone-deep exhaustion, as if he had not slept a wink. And now he was being spoon fed like a toddler.

He was dying, he finally admitted to himself.

He'd known this before, of course, but now the idea seemed real. His strength had abandoned him, and he doubted it would ever return. The coughing fits were coming more frequently, and there was a lingering pain in his joints and spine. Even his head felt diluted, as if his thoughts had to work their way through a bank of clouds to reach him.

He was dying.

Already. Hadn't it been less than a week ago that Master Boubou had given him six months to live? A year at best.

He was dying, he thought numbly. Sooner than expected, apparently. Soup was of no consequence.

“Sire,” the nurse prodded.

“Leave me,” he muttered, and when she did not move away quickly enough, he barked, “Leave me!” and Pet raised her head and bared her teeth at the old woman.

Mistress Penne bustled away. Edward soothed Pet by resting his hand on the smooth space at the crown of her head and stroking. Her tail thumped again. He closed his eyes.

Behind his eyelids he replayed Jane's wedding. He remembered her standing in her wedding gown, all gold and silver and jewels, her red hair shining. He recalled the way Gifford's gaze had swept over Jane as they had approached him, the flicker of surprise and definite male interest in his eyes before he'd forced his expression back into perfect blankness.

When Edward had seen that flicker, he'd felt hope for Jane. That maybe this would be more than a marriage of convenience. That maybe she'd find love.

He thought,
I will never find love
.

He remembered the touch of Jane's small, cool hand in the crook of his arm as he'd walked with her.

He thought,
I will never feel a woman's touch
.

He remembered the way Jane's cheeks had flushed when Gifford had tilted her face up to be kissed.

He sighed. Pet scooched up on the bed and licked his chin. He pushed her head away, but resumed stroking her behind the ear.

His last moment with Jane had been at the end of the night, when Lord Dudley had announced that it was time for the young
couple to “turn in,” as he'd phrased it, and Jane had come to him to say good-bye. He'd known by the gleam in her dark eyes and the ramrod straight way that she was holding herself that she was both furious and terrified at what came next.

The consummation.

“Jane,” he'd leaned to whisper in her ear. “Don't fret. You'll be all right.”

“He's drunk,” she'd hissed. “So now we can add ‘inebriant' to the list of his charms. A boozer. A lush. A tippler. A souse.”

“You will find something to like about him,” he'd answered, and kissed her cheek. “Be happy, cousin. For me.”

Then Gifford had led her away. To their bedchamber.

Edward thought,
I am never going to consummate anything. I'm going to die a virgin.

And he'd felt more sorry for himself than ever.

The floor beside his bed creaked, and he opened his eyes. Master Boubou was hovering over him, and behind him Edward could make out the outline of Lord Dudley's nose.

The doctor took Edward's hand and felt for a pulse at his wrist, then frowned.

“So it's good news, is it?” Edward smiled at his own joke and was immediately overtaken by coughing.

“I'm afraid not, Your Majesty,” said Boubou, when the coughs subsided. “You appear to have taken a turn for the worst. Your heart is very weak. Perhaps the wedding was simply too much exertion.”

Edward resolved that he would never, ever, no matter how bad things got, regret being there for Jane at her wedding. “So what's to be done about it?”

“I've brought a tonic.” Boubou helped Edward to sit up as Lord Dudley handed him a goblet of a dark liquid that tasted as bad as it smelled, like rotted leaves with a touch of fennel. But almost immediately after the tonic touched his tongue, he felt slightly better, clearer of mind, less exhausted.

“I should probably bleed you at some point,” Boubou continued delicately after Edward had dutifully downed the tonic.

Edward tried not to cringe. He'd been bled once before, when he'd first become ill. He thought that if anything, the bleeding had only made him feel weaker. Plus it was unsettling watching his blood drain into a bowl.

“No,” he said. “No bleeding.”

Boubou didn't argue, but the doctor didn't seem to be afraid of him any longer, which Edward found disappointing.

Lord Dudley shuffled forward hefting a writing tray, which he placed carefully across Edward's lap. Then he produced a large parchment scroll and unrolled it on the tray.

Revised Decree on the Line of Succession,
the scroll read, followed by a lot of very fine print that swam before Edward's eyes.

“What is this?” Edward asked.

“Your royal will, Your Highness,” the duke said, motioning for Boubou to bring him a quill and a pot of ink. “We discussed how you would name Jane Grey's male heir as your successor. Remember?”

Edward had a vague recollection of this.

“But considering this most recent turn in your health,” Dudley continued, “I thought it might be prudent to revise the line of succession.”

For a moment Edward was confused. Then he realized. “Because you don't think I'll live long enough for Jane to have a son.”

Dudley said nothing, but his gaze lingered on the parchment. Edward squinted to read the flowery calligraphy. At the top was his title: Edward the Sixth, by the Grace of God, King of England, Ireland, and France.

(Back then the English monarchy liked to claim ownership of France, even though France had a perfectly suitable king of its own. The relationship between the two countries was obviously strained as a result.)

“‘For lack of issue of my body,'” he read, then stopped to take a breath. “‘Upon the event of my death, I bequeath my kingdom and the entitlements and protections thereof, to the Lady Jane Grey and the male heirs who follow her.'” He glanced up at Dudley. “You want me to make Jane herself the queen?”

Dudley nodded sagely, his eyes gleaming above his great nose.

Edward didn't know why he felt surprised at this news.

“But she's a woman,” he murmured. “The crown can't go to a woman, right?”

“Jane would have my son to guide her,” Dudley said. “And me.”

Well, that made sense, thought Edward. Lord Dudley had been one of his most faithful and trusted advisors over the years. The duke had never led him astray.

Dudley handed him the quill.

Edward hesitated. He ignored Dudley's protests and rose shakily from his bed, crossed to the window to stare down at the courtyard. For just a moment he thought he actually saw Jane down below him, the jewels of her golden gown catching the sun, her hair a gleam of red. But when he looked again she was gone.

Jane was on her honeymoon, he told himself. Not here.

Then he allowed himself to truly consider the idea of Jane as queen. His little, stubborn, and bookish, utterly sweet cousin Jane. Queen of England.

She wasn't going to like that. She'd even said as much once. Too many rules.

But what was his alternative? Mary was still a Verity and a royal stick in the mud. Bess was still of an uncertain opinion when it came to her stance on E∂ians. Jane was the only decent choice left from the royal line, unless you factored in Mary Queen of Scots.

He shuddered.

“Queen Jane,” he whispered to himself. “Queen Jane.”

It had a nice ring to it, he thought. Jane would be a kind queen, for one thing. She was well educated—some would even say too well educated, for a woman. She was clever. She had backbone, wouldn't let the counselors make all the decisions. She could make a good ruler, an excellent ruler, even, in spite of the whole female
problem. He allowed himself the sentimentality of picturing Jane in the palace, living in his chambers and taking her meals at his table and reading the books from his library.

Wearing his crown.

“Is there a problem, Sire?” Dudley prompted. “Do you need to lie down?”

“Give me the document,” Edward said. Dudley moved the parchment to a nearby side table, and Edward signed his name carefully. The duke leaned over him to drip wax onto the bottom of the paper and helped Edward to press the ring with the royal seal into the wax. After that was finished, Dudley signed the paper himself, as a witness, along with Master Boubou. Then Dudley rolled the scroll up and whisked it out of sight.

Weariness tugged at Edward again, and he got back into bed, sinking against his plethora of pillows. He closed his eyes.

He had just made Jane the most powerful woman in England.

He liked the idea, but there was still something nagging at him. A doubt. A whisper of worry.

He tried to ignore it. His stomach rumbled, and he decided that any misgivings he might be feeling were due to how hollow and exhausted he was. He really should eat something, he thought. He wished Mistress Penne had left the soup.

He opened his eyes to ask Dudley to send for her but fell silent when he saw the duke and the doctor standing close together, staring out the window where he had been standing a few moments before.

“So. It is done,” the duke said in a low voice.

“It is done,” Boubou affirmed almost mournfully. “And it will be done, as I promised.”

A chill trickled down Edward's spine. He must have made some kind of noise, because both men turned to look at him. Edward quickly closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing.

“It won't be long now,” he heard Boubou say from the far side of the room, then the creak of the door's hinges. “A day or two, at most.”

Edward felt a shadow fall over him. “Sleep well, Your Majesty,” came Lord Dudley's voice, almost tenderly, and the duke's clammy fingers brushed a strand of hair from Edward's feverishly hot face. Edward didn't move, but next to him he felt Pet's body tense, the beginnings of a growl working its way up through her chest.

He flexed his fingers where they were buried in her fur, trying to put her at ease.

Lord Dudley turned and hurried out, the sound of his footsteps falling urgent on the stairs. Edward opened his eyes. Pet let out a soft, angry bark.

“It's all right, girl,” he said to Pet.

She turned over to have her belly rubbed. He obliged her absent-mindedly, trying to clear his thoughts enough to interpret what he'd just heard.

It is done.
Well, he'd signed the document, so that was probably the
it
they'd been referring to.

But then Boubou had said,
It will be done
, and something about a promise. And Edward had no idea what that meant.

And, then, most troubling of all:
It won't be long now. A day or two at most.

It won't be long now.

He was fairly certain that the
it
in this instance was his death.

He slept until the nurse returned a few hours later. This time she carried a plate of blackberry pie, piled high with whipped cream.

Edward's mouth watered.

He had the fork in his hand, a piece of delicious pie nearly to his lips, when Pet snarled. Not growled. Not barked. Snarled. Then she lunged toward the pie.

Edward was so surprised that he dropped the fork.

Mistress Penne was so surprised that she dropped the plate. It clattered loudly to the floor.

He expected to see Pet dash to lick up the pie (he really should have given her some of the venison from his soup earlier), but the dog ignored the food completely. She leapt to the floor between Mistress Penne and Edward, teeth bared, hackles raised, hair standing up all over her body. The sounds coming from her throat belonged to a much bigger animal.

The nursemaid's watery eyes bulged. “The dog has gone mad,” she gasped.

Edward was inclined to agree. Pet looked truly terrifying.

“Back away slowly,” he advised. “Once you get to the door,
run and get Peter Bannister. He's the kennel master. Send him here. He'll know what to do.”

“I can't leave you here.”

“Pet won't hurt me,” Edward said with more confidence than he felt. He was about seventy-five percent certain, at least, that Pet wouldn't hurt him.

This was all it took to satisfy Mistress Penne. She took three hasty steps back and then was gone.