My Lady Jane (19 page)

“We need to go,” Edward said. “I need to be there, now.”

Bess shook her head. “Mary wanted this—for you to be dead and the crown upon her own head—to rid the kingdom of E∂ians and return to the purity of the old days. She will stop at nothing.”

He remembered the bite of poisoned pudding that his sister had pressed firmly to his lips. To ensure that very thing.

“So she was in on it all along?” he asked. “With Dudley.”

“No.” Bess's mouth tightened. “It was by chance that Mary and I found out about Dudley poisoning you. One day, on our way to see you, we happened to overhear a conversation between the doctor and the nurse concerning an extra ingredient they were adding to your blackberries. When Mary confronted Dudley about it, he claimed that he was paving the way for Mary to take the throne, although I think he always intended for Jane to rule, and for Gifford to rule over Jane, and Dudley himself to rule over Gifford. But Mary bought his story, and played along, as did I, although all the while I was trying to find a way to save you.”

“Like with the jar of apricots,” he remembered. “You did save me.”

She nodded and smiled at him tenderly. “You're my little brother. I could not stand by and let any harm come to you.”

“But Mary is my sister, too,” Edward said. “She's my godmother, for heaven's sake. How dare she try to steal away my birthright! I am the rightful king!” He was overcome by another wave of fatigue, so much that Bess rose to offer him her chair, and he couldn't help but accept.

“I am the king,” he muttered.

“Not to Mary, you're not,” Bess said, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Not anymore.”

SEVENTEEN

Jane

There was no battle for the kingdom.

Within minutes of Mary's arrival, red-coated soldiers had swarmed in, wrested Gifford's sword away from him (not that he really attempted to use it), and bound Jane and Gifford's hands with ropes. In short order they were marched down the stairs and through the Tower at sword point.

“I'll try reasoning with her,” Jane said as they made their way to the throne room.

“Do you think it will do any good?” Gifford was pale, but she could see he was trying to be brave.

“I don't know. Just let me do the talking. Everyone knows that Mary hates E∂ians.”

“She can't tell just by looking at me, you know. It's not like I
have a tail hidden in my trousers.”

“Even so. Now would be a fantastic time to learn to control your gift.”

They reached the throne room, which was packed with soldiers and nobility alike. Her ladies-in-waiting were all there, a few looking faint on account of all the excitement, while others had their noses turned up like they'd never thought Jane made a good queen, anyway.

Her mother was there. She looked up as Jane and Gifford entered, but didn't meet Jane's eyes. A guard poked Jane in the ribs to get her moving toward the throne.

Where Mary waited.

Edward's eldest sister reclined in the throne, Jane's crown already gracing her brow. She wore a voluminous gown of crimson damask, with roses embroidered along the blue background of the hems. She looked regal, as though she'd known her whole life that this was what she was meant to do.

“Jane.” Mary's tone was sweet as she leaned forward. “You haven't been harmed?”

Jane stood before her own throne. She kept herself as straight and tall as possible and let her eyes sweep over the assembly near the throne: dukes, members of the Privy Council, and standing at the front, John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland.

“You,” Jane murmured. “Whose side are you on now?”

His only answer was a slippery smile.

“Jane.” A note of irritation snapped in Mary's voice. “You
haven't been harmed?”

Jane turned her eyes back on Mary. “You're sitting in my chair.”

A few people in the crowd gasped, but Mary only smiled. “Jane. Dear one. Surely you know that it was only through the plots of others that you managed to sit here at all. The throne was always meant to be mine until Edward”—her voice cracked at the late king's name—“produced an heir. Unfortunately my brother never had that opportunity. He was taken from us too quickly. The law states that I am next in the line of succession.”

“Edward amended his will. It was his final act before he died.” Jane didn't look at Lord Dudley again, but hadn't that been exactly what he'd said? Now he was just standing there, accepting Mary as queen?

“I feel sorry for you, Jane.” Mary nodded to herself. “You were caught in this game without the smallest hint how to play it.”

“Edward left the throne to me.” Jane kept her voice soft but firm. “He revised the line of succession.”

“My brother was ill and persuaded to do nonsensical things by certain parties who had everything to gain.” Mary looked pointedly at Lord Dudley. “Those parties were given a choice—the same choice I'm going to give to you.”

“But the crown is not your right,” Jane said, in spite of feeling—just days before—that it wasn't her right, either. Jane at least knew it, while Mary seemed to feel entitled to the throne.

“The Privy Council disagrees.”

The Privy Council had voted to give the crown to Mary? Jane prickled. How dare they turn on her? She could not believe it. After listening to them brag about themselves for hours on her first day as queen, she rather felt she'd earned their respect and loyalty.

“As I said,” Mary went on, “I want to be fair. I'm giving everyone a choice to bow to me.”

Gifford, who had been quiet all this time, suddenly leaned toward Jane until his mouth was against her ear. “I have to get out of here,” he said urgently. “It's almost morning.”

He was right. She could sense the glow of dawn behind the windows. And Mary was not turning out to be very reasonable.

“Give us until tonight,” Jane pleaded. “We need time to consider—”

“There's nothing to consider,” Mary said. “It's a simple yes or no.”

Gifford shifted from foot to foot. “Jane—”

“I haven't slept or eaten,” Jane argued. “Before I make such a decision, I need to rest. To think. Please, if we could just—”

It was too late. The first ray of sunshine breached the window. Next to Jane, another kind of light flared. There was the sound of clothing tearing and hooves clapping against the marble floor.

The crowd let out a collective gasp of horror. Guards rushed forward, swords in hand.

Mary surged up from the throne.

Jane's heart sank.

Gifford was a horse.

Jane had the wild thought of leaping onto Gifford's back and riding away as quickly as they could. (Of course, that would violate Horse Rule 3: no riding the horse.) But it would be difficult for him to navigate the narrow, winding stairs in his current state, and even though Gifford was pressing close to Jane as if to protect her, there was no way to climb atop him. Her hands were still bound behind her back.

“Seize them,” Mary commanded.

Soldiers yanked her away. She tried to wriggle free, and Gifford snapped and kicked, but then one of the men held a sword to Gifford's long neck. Someone else pressed a knife to Jane's throat.

Girl and horse met each other's eyes, and that was when they stopped fighting.

“Well.” Mary settled back onto the throne. She spoke with that sweet voice again, but now Jane couldn't miss the edge of contempt. “How surprising.”

One of the guards looped a rope around Gifford's neck. He didn't resist. A guard came up behind Jane, cut the ropes binding her wrists, and clasped on a pair of metal shackles. Which seemed like overkill.

“Dearest Jane,” Mary said. “My late brother had such fondness for you. It is in his memory that I make this offer. That, and as I said earlier, I've always felt a little sorry for you. Not just because you couldn't comprehend the game being played around you, but because of that unfortunate red hair of yours. It's just— Well, I don't want to be rude.”

No,
Jane thought,
you just want to take my throne and kill my husband.

She turned to look at Gifford, who didn't stir. He'd only been her husband for a little while, such a very little amount of time, relatively speaking. She didn't know his favorite color or the food he liked best—outside of apples, which seemed like a horse preference. She'd assumed he'd been part of this game, trying to manipulate her like everyone else, but that didn't matter to her now. What would happen to him? What would happen to them both?

“My offer is fair, and I urge you to accept,” Mary was saying.

“I'm still waiting to hear what it is,” Jane said numbly.

“Ah. Dear. I'm sorry. I thought it must have been obvious what I want from you. What everyone else has already done.” Mary gestured at Lady Frances and Lord Dudley. “Accept me as your rightful queen and denounce evil. Denounce heretics. Denounce E∂ians.”

Of course.

“Sweet little Jane. You like to prattle on about E∂ians and heroes and other such nonsense. You are young and those sorts of things seem attractive to you, but you must grow up now. Renounce the E∂ians, including your husband, and live out the rest of your days in exile. I've arranged for you to be sent to a monastery, even. You'll be quite safe and comfortable there.”

“And if I don't agree?”

Mary made a swift slice of her hand over her throat. “I didn't think that needed to be said, either, what with the extensive reading
you've done, but I suppose I've overestimated you.”

Jane glanced at her mother, who nodded. Urging her to give in. As she herself must have done.

The throne room was silent as everyone waited to hear Jane's answer.

“What will happen to my husband?” she asked.

Mary shook her head with false sadness, but her eyes were sparkling. “In the morning, he will be burned at the stake.”

Jane's hands flew to her mouth—or rather, would have, but she was still shackled. The metal bit deeply into her wrists as she strained against it. “No,” she breathed. “Don't hurt him. He can't help what he is.”

Mary tilted her head. “So you knew that he is an abomination?”

Jane's eyes cut to Dudley.

The duke said, “Of course
I
hadn't the faintest idea, Your Majesty. If Gifford was in and out of the house at all hours and refused to go to court, I assumed my son was merely acting out like any normal boy. Why would I assume he had something darker to hide?”

“That's a lie,” Jane said, but no one cared.

“This is about you, dear. Did you know your husband was a beast?” Mary pressed.

“I found out on our wedding night. Everyone who knew”—she glared at Dudley—“neglected to tell me.”

“And were you surprised?” Mary's tone was honey sweet.

“Certainly.”

“And do you reject his vile magic? Do you renounce your ties to him?” Mary leaned forward. “It's simple. Name yourself a Verity and your life will be spared. Or deny me, and I'll have your head.”

Jane closed her eyes. Her shoulders ached. Her wrists stung, and liquid heat dripped down her hands—blood. Never before had she been so mistreated, and a desperate part of her wanted to say yes, she denounced him and she'd go live in a monastery, exiled for the rest of her days.

But Gifford would die.

He hadn't abandoned her. A former womanizer and drunk and (current) horse he might be, but he'd just proven himself to be the most loyal person in her life. In spite of the way she'd treated him, her accusations and her hurled pillows and her scorn, he'd tried to warn her. He hadn't fled when the army arrived. He hadn't switched sides.

Could she abandon him now?

Gifford-the-horse had kept his head down throughout this entire interrogation, his nose almost brushing the floor, the very picture of docility. But now he lifted his head. His eyes, at once both human and horse, met hers.
Do it,
his eyes urged.
Renounce me. Save yourself
.

Memories of their time in the country floated back to her: their banter, reading beneath the tree, helping those in need, and most of all, that almost kiss as the sky was deep with twilight and candles burned around them. There was no denying the truth:
Gifford Dudley was a good man, E∂ian or not. And he was her husband. For better or worse.

The answer must have shown on her face.

“Little Jane, be reasonable.” Mary pressed her hands together. “What purpose will your death serve?”

“It will serve to prove that you do not control this kingdom. It will serve to prove that not everyone will bow down to you. You think to rule us with fear, but you cannot. I will never renounce my beliefs, or my husband.”

Mary's face darkened with anger. “Take her away! And do something about this . . . animal!”

Soldiers grabbed at Jane. She couldn't resist, not with her bleeding wrists cuffed behind her back, but she continued speaking.

“E∂ians are people, too. You only hate them because you fear them!”

Mary's guards dragged her away, and no one lifted a finger to help her.

Jane had read about despair.

The hopelessness of Socrates, who'd felt no recourse but to poison himself rather than facing a life in a cave prison. The terror of Anne Boleyn, Bess's mother, who'd been beheaded just years before, after being tried for adultery. The resignation of Cleopatra, who'd taken her own life with the bite of an asp after she and her husband lost the Battle of Actium.

The despair in books was a distant, safe thing. She'd thought
she understood the depth of the emotion as she read through the pages of her beloved books, her life touching those of men and women long dead. She'd felt for them, cried for them, tried to breathe for them when they no longer breathed. And then, she'd been able to close the book and place it on its shelf, the words trapped between the leather covers.

Oh, sometimes it had taken her hours or days to recover from a particularly emotional book, but there'd always been another to take her mind off the anguish.

There were no books here.

Nothing could distract her from the forced march up the stairs of the Queen's House (built at the bidding of Anne Boleyn, and then ironically the place of her captivity before she was executed), into a bare room where Jane was to live out the remaining hours of her life. Nothing could distract from the four brick walls surrounding her, the cold and the darkness, or the searing pain in her wrists and shoulders even after the shackles had been removed.

Too sore and tired to pace, Jane slumped in the middle of the floor. There was no furniture; it had been removed so she couldn't spend her last night in a bed. Such decency, she inferred, was above her, an E∂ian-loving heretic.

“I am sixteen years old,” she told the empty room. “And tomorrow I will die.”

That's what the guards had told her. Tomorrow she'd be beheaded.

Who would go first? Her, or Gifford? Would they be able to
see each other? Perhaps Jane would be made to watch as her husband burned alive, and then her head would come off before she could even shed a tear. Or the other way around, maybe. Gifford might see the axe swing and a flash of red hair flying, and then they'd light the pyre beneath him.

Jane hugged her knees and shuddered. Her imagination was too vivid.

Night fell. She knew only because the faint light from the windows faded, not because her body gave her any useful signals. Her head was light with thirst and hunger. When she ran her tongue along her lips, they were dry and cracked. Her stomach felt hollow. If she could have escaped into sleep, she would have, but shocks of terror and dread jabbed at her mind every other minute, reminding her that these hours were the last she had left.