My Lady Jane (15 page)

“It's raining now?” he said, and then he became aware of the pounding of water against the roof. Because, again, this was the kind of night he was having.

“Are you part of the Pack?” she asked. “You seem a bit green for that.”

He was about to say something like he didn't know what she was talking about with the Pack, and of course he wasn't an E∂ian. But before he could get this out, the girl's head cocked slightly to one side, listening, and then she snuffed the lantern. The hayloft was plunged into inky blackness.

“Wha—” he started, but she stepped close and put a finger to his lips to quiet him, and he lost his train of thought.

Below them, the barn door opened. A man bearing a lantern shuffled in. He spent a few minutes feeding the animals, all the while grumbling about the rain. The entire time Edward and the girl stood frozen in the hayloft, a breath away from each other, her finger still against his lips.

Even in the dark, her eyes were green. Like the emeralds in the crown jewels.

He was holding his breath. He wanted to kiss her, he realized, which was ludicrous. She'd been holding a knife at his throat moments ago. She was a stranger. She was a woman who wore pants. She couldn't be trusted.

Still, there she was, her finger against his lips, making him think of putting his lips on her lips. And when his gaze dropped, from her eyes to her lips, a girlish flush spread over her cheeks. Which made him want to kiss her even more.

The farmer went out.

The girl stepped back, the humor gone out of her expression. She cleared her throat and fingered the knife in her belt nervously.

“I should go,” she said.

For some reason, this was the last thing he expected—for her to leave now, after she'd woken him and threatened him and questioned him so relentlessly.
Now
she was leaving? And he didn't want her to go.

“But it's raining.” This sounded lame even to him. “And you haven't found out who I am yet.”

She shrugged. “Sadly, I don't care that much.”

She moved toward the ladder that would take her down to the barn floor. In another minute she'd be gone, and he'd be here in the same situation he'd started in—no clothes, no money, no plan. Alone.

“Wait,” he called.

She started down the ladder. She'd just reached the bottom when the barn door swung open, and there was the farmer again, this time holding a rusted old sword. The girl moved like she would run, but the farmer thrust the business end of the blade right at her chest. She froze.

“I knew you was in here,” the farmer growled. “Couldn't stay
away from my chickens, could you? Had to come back for the rest.”

She lifted her hands in a kind of surrender, but that aggravating smile tugged at her mouth. “They were very tasty chickens. I couldn't help myself.”

The farmer snorted in disgust. “I ought to run you through right here and be done with you. But I'll turn you over to the magistrate in the morning, and he'll cut off one of your hands. That'll teach you.”

I should do something,
Edward thought.
Save her, somehow.
But he was naked and unarmed. Not exactly a knight in shining armor.

The girl stood up straighter. “Or what about this? You let me go, and I'll steer clear of your chickens in the future.” Without waiting for an answer to her proposal, she feinted to one side and then darted to the other, but the man caught her by the hair. He dragged her away from the door. She struggled, reaching for her knife, but he grabbed it first and tossed it onto the dirt floor.

I really should do something,
Edward thought.
Now would be good.

“Or maybe,” the farmer said. “I'll cut off your hand myself. . . .”

Okay, that does it,
Edward thought.

There was a flash of light in the hayloft. The farmer looked up, startled, and then the bird that was Edward descended on him, talons clawing at the man's face. The farmer screamed and released his sword. The girl took this opportunity to knee the farmer in the acorns. He dropped to the floor. She kicked him. She paused then, as if she might say something, one of her smart
little lines, but she seemed to think better of it. She just grabbed up her knife and ran.

Edward followed her as best as he could from above. It was a good thing that as a bird he had sharp eyes, because she had a skill for melting into the shadows of the forest. It was difficult for him to navigate the trees. The rain was letting up, at least, a drizzle now, and the moon peeked between the clouds. The girl ran on and on, light on her feet, pacing herself, as if she were accustomed to taking such outings in the middle of the night.

She went for more than a mile or two before she stopped in a small grove to rest. Edward fluttered to the branches in the tree above her. She glanced up.

“Should I be worried about bird droppings on my head?” she laughed at him.

He gave an indignant squawk.

“Come down. You can change back now.” She swung her cloak from off her shoulders. “Here.”

He dropped to the ground, but then he stood there for several minutes in bird form without anything flashy happening.

“You really are a greenie, aren't you?” she asked. “Do you not even know how to change back, then?”

He changed. Still naked. The girl looked at the ground with a stifled smile and held out the cloak. Edward grabbed it and put it on, which was loads better than the horse blanket, but still left him feeling exposed and drafty.

“Thanks for your help.” The girl tucked a stray black curl
behind her ear. “I'd have gotten clear of him myself, but it would've been messier.”

“So you're a chicken thief,” Edward said.

“Among other things,” she admitted.

He'd never met a common criminal before. He would have found the whole thing wildly exciting if he wasn't so tired of things being so wildly exciting.

“I'm Gracie,” she said, meeting his eyes.

“Is that your first name or your last name?” he said.

She grinned. “Grace MacTavish,” she clarified, and gave a little bow. “At your service.”

“Edward,” he replied simply.

“Not Dennis?” She had dimples, he noticed, not when she smiled so much as when she was trying not to smile.

“Not Dennis.”

“Good. I would have felt sorry for you with a name like Dennis. Shall we go?”

“Where?” he asked.

“Somewhere safer.”

Safer sounded good. Out of habit he held out his arm. She looked at him incredulously, but then she took it and they started walking.

“I would have turned back there,” she said as they made their way through the trees. “But then I would have lost my clothes as well, and it's a half day's hard run to the next place I've got clothes stashed. And I adore these boots,” she added.

“Turned? So you're an E∂ian?” His heart thudded stupidly in his chest. What was it about this girl that flustered him so?

“Yes, an E∂ian,” she said. “I've never seen a kestrel E∂ian before. You make an attractive bird.”

His stomach turned over. “I'm a kestrel? Are you quite sure that's what I am?”

“I'm not much for bird watching, but I know my birds of prey,” she said. “Why should that bother you?”

He didn't answer, but the truth was that in the rules of falconry, which Edward had been practicing since he was a boy, there were certain birds suited to certain stations. The king's bird was the gyrfalcon, the largest and most majestic bird of them all. As a prince he had worked with falcons (only slightly lesser in grandeur), while his father's knights had used sacrets; the ladies, merlins; the squires, lanners; and so on and so on.

The kestrel was the smallest and weakest of the falcon species. Only the servants worked with kestrels.

He stifled a cough. “What animal are you?”

Dimples. “I suppose you'll have to wait and see.”

His legs suddenly felt weak, and it wasn't from the effect of the pretty girl. All of this exertion had been too much for him. His head was cloudy. He stumbled.

She tightened her grip on his arm.

“You're not well,” she observed. “Do you want to stop?”

He nodded. She led him under a tree with a large root sticking out of it, where he could sit. He spent several minutes coughing
weakly into the cloak. She stood a few paces away, studying him.

“Do you have ‘the Affliction'?” She looked a bit worried at the prospect of having strolled arm in arm with a diseased man.

“No.” Edward looked up at her. “No, I was being poisoned.”

Those mischievous eyebrows of hers lifted. “Poisoned? By whom?”

“By Lord Dudley,” he said, too tired now to try to think up an answer besides the truth.

“Why would someone want to poison you?”

“Because . . .” This was it. The moment he'd tell her who he was, and she'd have to decide what to do with him. “Because I'm . . .” he tried again.

“Out with it,” she urged. “I'm not sure I can stand the suspense.”

Well, if she was going to decide to cut his throat after all, at least it'd be over quickly. Best to be done with it.

“I'm Edward Tudor,” he answered. “And I need your help.”

FOURTEEN

Jane

Well. She was queen. That was unexpected.

Jane gave a half-panicked, disbelieving laugh. How could Edward do this to her?
Why
would he do this to her? He didn't even believe that women belonged in leadership positions. If Edward had been in his right mind, he never would have chosen to make her queen.

That must have been it: Edward hadn't been in his right mind. He'd had “the Affliction” boiling his brain and ruining his decision-making skills—which had until recently, in her opinion, been quite reasonable. But what could Edward possibly expect her to do with his crown?

She laughed again, although it came out as more of a sob. She was the queen. The ruler. The monarch. The sovereign. The leader.
The head of state. The chief. The one wearing the proverbial pants. The person in charge. The boss. The. Queen. Of. England.

Jane had always resisted the notion that women were weaker than men, not just physically, but intellectually. Her education had been as good as Edward's—they had even shared some of the same tutors for a time—and Jane had always excelled at whatever she put her mind to. She could speak eight languages, for heaven's sake, and was considered by some of her instructors to be a marvel at rhetoric and reasoning. She understood the complexities of philosophy and the nuances of religion. She devoured books several times a day, the way ordinary people took their meals. She memorized poetry in Latin simply to pass the time. All this she could do as well as any man.

But could she rule a country?

Jane paced her new bedroom—a chamber in the royal apartments of the Tower of London fit for (what else?) a queen. Last night, after receiving her subjects (the thought made Jane's stomach lurch) she'd been sent to her chambers to rest, Lord Dudley citing that a queen should not be kept up so late, and she'd need to be refreshed for a long day of queenly activities that awaited her in the morning.

Jane had been exhausted, so she'd complied, but she'd made certain everyone knew she wasn't being
sent to her room like a child
. She'd shot Gifford a quick look—was he coming?—but Lord Dudley pulled Gifford aside to speak with him. So Jane had grabbed a book without checking what it was (it turned out to be
Afterlives: The Hundred-Year Debate of E∂ians and Reincarnation
), and hurled it onto
the gigantic bed when she realized it was about death.

Then it had truly hit her: Edward was dead.

She would never see him again.

He was gone.

After a long, angry cry, she hadn't been able to sleep, so as the sun lifted and somewhere (hopefully outside) Gifford turned into a horse, she explored her chambers. The decor was annoyingly opulent. Long, silk brocade drapes framed the windows, while several wardrobes lined the walls, filled with more gowns than she could imagine wearing. In the two places along the wall not occupied by wardrobes, there was a door that presumably joined the queen's rooms with the king's, and a vanity with a large glass mirror, just in case she wanted to look at herself and admire how very queenly she wasn't.

No, there were circles under her eyes from last night's journey and devastation. Her skin, previously flushed from days in the sun, now looked sallow and drawn. Her eyes were raw from crying, itchy and red and as puffy as a pastry. Not to mention all her normal flaws.

She looked nothing at all like a queen.

The worst part about her new chambers was that all these wardrobes and vanities and drapes meant there was no space—none at all—for a bookcase. Who on earth could feel comfortable enough to sleep in a room with no books?

Edward would never sleep again, she reminded herself tearfully.

He would never read a book again.

A knock sounded and she ignored it, choosing instead to flop down in the center of her bed, surrounded by pillows and blankets, and compose a mental list of all the things Edward would never do again. Obvious things, like eating and breathing, she skipped. She was on number twenty-seven: scratching his dog behind the ears, and number twenty-eight: eating ridiculous amounts of blackberry pudding, when her visitor knocked again, then entered anyway.

“Good morning.” Her mother swept into the room, followed by a troop of ladies-in-waiting. At Lady Frances's instruction, some of the ladies drew a bath, scenting the water with rose oil until the smell filled the room and Jane's eyes watered. Others opened the vanity, selecting a frightening array of cosmetics. Still more put tray after tray of food on a table: sausages and eggs, bread drizzled with honey, and fruit with rivers of cream.

As all this activity unfolded around her, Jane remained on the bed, unmoving and unmoved.

“Well?” Lady Frances snapped her fingers at Jane, drawing startled glances from the maids. After a moment, she seemed to realize what she'd done, and softened her voice as she dropped her hand to her side. “Jane, my dear. Your Majesty. It's time for a bath and breakfast. You must prepare to meet your people.”

Jane had met her people last night. “I'm mourning my cousin.”

“I know, my dear, but you must— That is, I think it would be wise to show yourself strong and capable immediately. Don't wait for a crisis before you take action.”

“You think I should take action?” Jane asked.

“Indeed.” Her mother's mouth twitched into a smile. “I think you should immediately prove yourself a capable ruler.”

Capable. Right. Jane fidgeted with the corner of a woven blanket. (Another thing Edward would never do.) “There are some issues I feel should be addressed. Minor issues.” Huge issues. When Gifford had taken her face between his hands and reminded her about their conversations in the country house, he'd made her remember the people. That was the only reason she'd agreed to take the throne. The people. The poor. She would do anything to help them.

“Good.” Lady Frances offered a hand and tugged Jane from the fortress of blankets. “Then we'll bring those items before the Privy Council and begin solidifying your reign. You know Lord Dudley desires to aid you in the same manner he aided King Edward—may he rest in peace—as well as many others in the court. Including myself. We all want to help you become the queen you were meant to be.”

“I was never meant to be queen.”

“And yet you are.”

“Do you think I'll make a good one?” Jane's voice was unintentionally small. The words weren't what she'd aimed for, either, but as soon as they were out, she was overcome with the desire for her mother's approval and support.

Lady Frances narrowed her eyes and gazed at Jane the same way she scrutinized the servants at their housework. “If you can
focus on ruling the kingdom instead of reading those silly books, you'll be a queen always remembered.”

Apparently even Jane's ascension to the throne wasn't enough to make her mother proud of her. She swallowed down her disappointment. It didn't matter, she told herself. She didn't need her mother anymore.

She had Gifford.

Jane didn't know if she could rule a country. She wasn't meant for a life on the throne. She wasn't even remotely prepared to be queen. But she did know one thing: Gifford would be there with her, he would help her, and she was going to give it her very best try.

“I want to see Edward's body,” Jane announced later. “To say good-bye.”

She was walking through the hall with her mother, Lord Dudley trailing a few steps behind. They were on their way to the first of the day's activities, not that anyone had bothered to tell her what it was. She supposed she'd find out soon enough, and in the meantime, the silence between the three of them was ripe for making demands.

“I want to see his body today. This morning.”

“I'm afraid that's simply not a good idea, Your Majesty.” Dudley's tone was gruff. “He was quite ill. It's best to remember him as he was before.”

Jane choked back a wave of hot grief. “I want to see him. Where is he?”

“It's simply not appropriate, Your Majesty—”

Jane clenched her jaw, then deliberately unclenched it. “I am the queen, and I demand to see my cousin's body.”

“There's simply too much to do today.”

If Lord Dudley said
simply
once more, she'd
simply
have his head chopped off.

No, that wasn't true. She wouldn't. He was Gifford's father.

“Lord Dudley.” She addressed only him on this, since her mother had been silent on the matter so far. “As queen, it's my duty to see to my predecessor's funeral arrangements, and I wish to pay my respects to him first. Privately.”

He was silent as they turned into a more crowded hall. People glanced at her and whispered. A few bowed. “Very well,” Dudley said. “I will make arrangements for you to visit him. I'm afraid it won't be today, though. There's too much to do.”

If they waited much longer, she'd be visiting a rotting corpse. According to
The Glorious and Gruesome Stages of Death: A Beginner's Guide
, bodies began deteriorating very quickly, bloating and stinking and decaying until all that was left was a horrifying echo of the people they had been before. Jane had seen her father and Katherine Parr shortly after they'd died, and that had been horrible enough.

She didn't want to see Edward in the rotting stage. The thought made a shudder run deep through her.

“Arrange it as soon as you're able,” she said sharply, a terrible thought springing to her mind.

Dudley didn't want her to see her cousin's body.

Something was wrong here, outside of the obvious wrongness of Edward being dead and Jane being queen. Something was very wrong, and she intended to find out what it was.

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of first-day-as-queen moments:

Standing in front of the Privy Council as the members introduced themselves.

Sitting on the throne as some of the more prominent merchants of London came to visit her.

Signing documents about palace staff, various lords' holdings, and marriage requests. The last bit made her feel a little guilty, but evidently the first several requests on the pile were for people who wanted the arrangement approved, so she decided to think of it as giving her blessing. Still, it was disconcerting to have that kind of power in her hands.

Those were a string of more actions that Edward would never again take: signing his name, picking at a thread on the throne cushion, and hearing every council member talk about how great and terribly important they were. (Maybe that wasn't something to be missed.)

There were also a handful of invitations to preside over state events, visit various nobles' country homes, and attend something called the Red Wedding. Jane checked the “will not attend” box without giving this last invitation a second thought. As if she wanted to go to any more weddings.

None of it seemed very important, though. Nothing significant
or helpful to the people. It was all busy work. She was given time to eat, but otherwise kept occupied. There was little opportunity to think about Edward or ask questions about Dudley's motives, or do much of anything but wonder if she couldn't put in an order for a new throne—she felt like a child sitting in this one, her feet barely touching the floor.

And annoyingly, Lord Dudley insisted on accompanying her everywhere. Like he was afraid that the moment she was out of his sight, she'd be out the window and heading for the hills.

Which didn't sound like such a bad idea at this point.

“There was much Edward wasn't able to do in his final days,” he was saying to her now mournfully. Dusk was falling. They were both waiting for Gifford at an exit near the stables, with amber sunlight falling through the open door and casting long, dark shadows down the hallway. “Our late king was so very ill. One of his last acts was to name you as his successor. It was his only thought, his only goal in those hours, naming the one person he trusted above all others.”

Above even the duke himself? He was trying to flatter her, certainly.

“Yes. Well, I still wish to see his body,” she said.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Dudley agreed faintly.

“I'd also like to travel to the palace at Greenwich, as soon as we're able, to see to his room and his books. And what has happened to his dog, Petunia? I should like to see her as well. Can she be brought here?”

“Of course,” Dudley said, but she could tell by the look on his face that he had no real intention of seeing to her requests. But why deny her? What was he hiding?

She turned to gaze out at the sun, which was slowly falling below the horizon. She wished it would move faster. She'd feel better with Gifford here. “I also want all but one of the wardrobes moved out of my room,” she said, as if that were the conversation they'd been having the entire time. “There's no need for every single one of them. Store them someplace else if you feel I need that many garments.”

Dudley's lips thinned with a frown. “Your room would be quite bare without them, Your Majesty.”

“We'll replace the wardrobes with something else, obviously.”

“What else could a queen possibly want in her chambers?” Lord Dudley managed to look genuinely flummoxed. “A large mirror, to make the room appear bigger? A golden stand to rest your crown upon each night?”

Jane wasn't even wearing the crown now. She had no idea where it was.

Dudley continued. “A loom? Paintings? A spinning wheel? A chair for knitting in?”

He clearly didn't know her at all. “Oh, my knitting skills are the foundations of textile legend,” she said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

Dudley brightened, as though relieved to have figured out something that would occupy so much of her time. “A chair for
knitting you shall have, then! And all the yarn and needles a beautiful queen could desire.”

Ha.

“Father, don't be daft.” Gifford approached, a tall shadow against the twilight sky. “What my wife desires—and what you should have guessed, had you paid attention—is bookcases. And books, of course, to fill them. Not more decorations or useless items. She wants books.”