My Lady Jane (31 page)

Jane turned into a ferret and ran up his leg and side until she perched on his shoulder.

Gifford stroked her fur. “Nicely done, my dear. Now can we go to sleep?”

She considered asking him to practice, too. But if he wanted to, he would suggest it. He would try. But since he didn't offer to try, she became a girl again, dressed, and together they squeezed onto the narrow sleeping pallet.

“This is nice,” G said against her hair, pulling her back against his chest. “Thank you for not making me sleep on the floor.”

“You're welcome,” she murmured. It was more than nice, she thought as she closed her eyes and tried to quiet her mind. She'd go to bed like this every night, if she could. But this could be their last night together.

It was starting to feel terribly familiar, this feeling that tomorrow they could die.

The sounds of birds singing woke her a few hours later. She stretched her arms and wiggled her toes; she was still a girl.

“Did you sleep?” Gifford's voice behind her was deep and groggy.

Jane nodded and pulled herself out of their makeshift bed. “Not well, but it was better than nothing.” In truth, she'd tossed
and turned for hours. There was much riding on her today.

Gifford sat up and smoothed back his hair. “I didn't sleep. I kept thinking about you breaking your curse.”

Jane looked over at him, hopeful.

“Your heart's desire, you said.” He rose to his feet, his clothes all sleep-tousled and a pressure mark running the length of his face. He was beautiful, she thought, if one could call a man beautiful. There was a question in his eyes, and she knew the answer.

“Gifford, I—” The word balanced on her tongue. Was it so difficult to say? It couldn't be wrong. The feeling had been gathering in her since those days in the country house, growing and deepening ever since. And now that she knew the secret to controlling her form, they could actually have a future together.

She desperately wanted a future together.

“Jane.” He glanced at the tent flap. “It's almost time. The sun.”

“Don't change,” she whispered. “Stay with me.”

“I want to, but—” He began tugging at his clothes, loosening his shirt collar and picking at the buttons.

“Don't change!” Jane went to him and took his shoulder, like her touch could break his curse. “Want to stay with me more than you want to do anything else.”

“I'm sorry, Jane. I wish—”

She grabbed his face and kissed him, shoving her fingers through his hair to draw him closer. “Stay with me,” she pleaded against his lips. “Don't change.”

Gifford pulled back for a heartbeat, his eyes wide with surprise. “Jane,” he breathed. “I—”

“Don't change.” She lifted her gaze to his. “Please.”

“Oh, Jane.” He kissed her. Softly at first, but then she pulled him close and pressed her lips harder to his. And that was it. She could feel him giving in by the way his body pressed against hers, the way one of his hands cupped her cheek, and the way the other slid down her arm. She could feel his desire to stay human in the fevered, desperate way he kissed her. Like he wanted this to last, to make this moment stretch on.

But then he jerked back and threw his shirt free, bright white light enveloping him.

“No!” Jane's eyes stung with tears.

The light faded, and Gifford stood there as a horse.

Jane pressed her hands to her mouth to hold in a faint sob.

His head dropped.

“It's all right,” she said tremulously after a long moment. “It's very difficult to master the change. Even Gran said she had a hard time with it, remember? You can try again. When you're better rested.”

She went to lift the flap for him to step out of the tent.

“I'll see you later,” she said. “Tonight.”

He didn't look at her as he passed. He just went. Then she was alone in the dim space that still smelled faintly of horse.

She stared down at the tangled blankets they'd shared, trying not to cry. Perhaps she'd put too much hope in his feelings for her.
What if he didn't care about her as much as she cared about him? What if that was why he hadn't stayed human? She'd
tried
. Oh, she'd tried, and they'd
kissed
. But it hadn't been enough.

She hadn't been enough.

Jane spent the day waiting for dusk.

She didn't see Gifford, except the occasional glimpse of him running with other horses, or resting in the shade. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Not that she had time to dwell on him. There was so much to do to prepare for nightfall.

When the sun was almost down she made her way to Edward's command tent. Gifford trotted toward her, chestnut coat shining in the honey light, and then he vanished into the tent without pausing to acknowledge her whatsoever.

Her heart sank.

She watched as the camp readied itself for battle. The men put on their armor and strapped on shields and swords. The archers tested their bows. The cavalry saddled their horses. And the noncombatants pinned open their tent flaps, preparing to receive the wounded.

There would be wounded. There would be dead.

“All they have to do is look scary.” Edward came outside his tent and saw Jane brooding over the infirmaries. “It's like you said. They'll distract Mary from us.”

“I know.” Jane hugged herself. “But some will inevitably be injured. They're here to draw fire.” Archer was out there among the
assembling troops, ready to lead the Pack into battle. Gracie, she knew, had insisted on joining him in the fight. What if Gracie was hurt? What would it mean to Edward if she were killed?

A chill ran through her. What if Edward himself was killed? Her plan wasn't perfect. There were variables she couldn't possibly account for. He could die.

She didn't know if she could survive his death a second time. Or Gifford's.

Gifford.

(At this point we as the narrators would just like to say something about the true danger of this entire situation. We should remind you now that we only promised to tell you an alternate story to what the history books record. You'll be lucky if you can find a history book that mentions Jane at all—since she's often skipped over in the line of English monarchs—but if you do, that book will say that Lady Jane Grey ruled England for nine days, was deposed by Mary, and then had her head chopped off. Well. We already know that didn't happen in our tale. Our Jane still has her head.

But we can't promise that Jane's always going to be safe in the part that's coming up, or Gifford, or Edward, or any of the other characters you've come to know and love. The truth is, any of them could die at any moment, and then, well, Queen Mary would undoubtedly spend the next five years living up to the nickname Bloody Mary by having hundreds of poor E∂ians burned at the stake. So keep that in mind as you read onward.

Anyway, back to Jane and her worrying.)

“We're all doing this for the same reason,” Edward said gently. “The soldiers know it. They're willing to sacrifice everything for that reason, if sacrifice is what they must do.”

“What reason is that?”

“To make England the kind of place that we would have it be: a land of peace and prosperity, a kingdom where we are permitted to be our true selves without fear.”

“That's worth maybe dying for.” Gifford's voice came from behind her.

She turned. At seeing him as a man again, a shiver ran through her, both delight and sorrow. She'd
begged
him not to change this morning, and he had anyway.

“See?” Edward nudged Gifford with his elbow. “Even the horse agrees.”

Gifford bowed.

“Screw your courage to the sticking-place, right, G?” Edward said. He clapped Gifford on the shoulder and leaned to kiss Jane's cheek. “Now I'd better change. To make sure I have time to get hold of the bird joy.”

He'd
better
get hold of the bird joy,
Jane thought. And truly, he'd improved, as far as she'd seen. But if he wasn't there when she was ready . . .

Her cousin became a kestrel and flew into the starry sky. She watched him go.

“You don't have to be the one to do this, Jane,” Gifford said, when they were alone. “There are others who could.”

She smiled at him sadly. “I must do this. I was queen for only nine days, and I don't wish to be queen again, but I do love England. I want to fight for it. For E∂ians. For us.”

Gifford searched her eyes, stepping close, but he didn't touch her. Didn't kiss her. His change this morning was still too thick between them.

“Then let's go, my lady.”

They returned to the tent and found Pet sitting with her chin on Edward's chair.

“Come on, Pet.” Jane kept her voice soft. “I know you want to help Edward. We'll do it just like I told you earlier. Come on.”

Pet whined like maybe she found this whole thing a very dumb idea, but she followed Jane and Gifford out of the camp.

“Don't worry, Pet,” Gifford said as they walked. “I can defend us, should the need arise.”

Pet whined again, and Jane agreed. She wasn't totally confident in her husband's skills as a swordsman. Although she supposed he'd managed well enough with the giant bear.

Trumpets sounded in the distance—the attack on the city had begun. Jane, Gifford, and Pet moved swiftly in the opposite direction, moving parallel to the old Roman wall that protected the city.

“Here.” Jane guided the group to a wide ditch that ran alongside the wall. The high weeds would provide the perfect cover, as long as they stayed quiet. “Keep low.”

Gifford snorted. “That's easy for you to say.”

She arched her neck to look up at him. “No one asked you to
be so tall.” But she was pleased her demure stature was finally good for something. It was an advantage at last. A boon. An asset. A virtue— She stopped herself from continuing her synonym spiral. There was work to do. “We'll head for Saint Katherine's.”

The three of them sneaked as quickly as they dared. Every shout from beyond the wall made the two (at the moment) humans duck. Pet always turned her ear toward the sound, growing statue still, and then wagged her tail when she was sure that all was clear.

It had been a last-minute idea to send Pet with Jane and Gifford, and Jane was glad for the companionship, even if Pet was sometimes a naked girl and that made everyone uncomfortable. Pet was always good to have in a scrape.

She hoped tonight wouldn't be too much of a scrape.

Ahead of them, a large priory stood against the darkening sky. Jane knew this land well—she and Edward had sometimes played near here as children. There were several abbeys in this part just outside of London, and a church, gardens, and a hospital. She could already see the Tower and its many structures before them, rising against the night. Torches shone along the walls. She wondered where Edward was—if he was circling overhead already, waiting for her. But she didn't see him. It was too dark.

“Look here,” Gifford said, glancing around. “We're on Tower Hill.”

Jane shuddered. They were standing on the ground where Gifford was to have been executed not so long ago. A huge, newly built pyre stood nearby, stacked with brush just waiting to be lit.
Awaiting the E∂ians Mary had been rounding up over the last few weeks. Jane had never seen a burning, but one of her books—
The Persecution of E∂ians Throughout the Ages: A Detailed Account of Animal Form Downfall
—had indeed given detailed accounts of the way one died when burned at stake. A terrible, painful death.

That was meant to be Gifford. Her Gifford. Her stupid horse husband who didn't even try to control his form. Who didn't love her, not the way she loved him. But Jane would fight any war if it meant keeping him safe.

She reached for Gifford's hand and found him already reaching for hers. If they failed tonight, this pyre would be waiting for both of them by dawn.

They hurried by the Aldgate and farther south down East Smithfield Road, until they reached Saint Katherine's Abbey. The three of them aimed for the gardens, keeping to the heavy brush and weeds that grew on the river's edge.

“This is as far as you go,” Jane said as they settled behind a low wall near the abbey. She pointed across a dark field, toward a small bridge that crossed the moat and led straight into the Tower of London. The Iron Gate—Jane's destination—stood on the other side, a lowered portcullis blocking the way in. There were four guards on the bridge; it didn't require much in the way of sentries, which was why she'd chosen it.

She took a moment to catch her breath. The Thames rushed by not twenty feet away, but Jane could hardly hear the noise over the pounding of her own heartbeat as she watched the guards,
analyzing their movements, trying to find a pattern.

“I don't like this.” Gifford glanced at her worriedly. “It's not safe.”

“It's not your choice,” she snapped, but softened when he winced. “I must. And you know I must. I'm the only one who can. A horse would get caught. Even a dog. But not me.”

“My darling, I don't think ferrets are as stealthy as you imagine.”

Jane pinched his arm. “I'm as stealthy as I need to be. I rescued you from Beauchamp Tower, didn't I?”

“Yes, but—”

“And I could hold perfectly still if I wanted.”

“Not even while you sleep, my sweet.”

“And I could vanish for hours and you'd never find me.”

“Only because you'd have fallen asleep in the fold of some forgotten blanket.” But he looked terrified. “Please reconsider.”

“It's the only way,” she said, lifting her eyes to his. Waiting. Hoping. Wanting him to say something more. Hadn't she proved her feelings last night when she didn't change? If he'd just say something now, that might help ease the knot of emotions and anxiety.