My Lady Jane (29 page)

“Hmm. Well, it doesn't matter,” King Henry said thoughtfully. “If they'd succeeded in poisoning you without such an amendment, Mary would still be sitting on your throne now, wouldn't she?”

“Correct.” Edward raised his hands, palms up, like,
What's a fellow to do?

“And so you are here, asking for my help,” King Henry said, a gleam in his eyes as if Edward were kneeling before him in supplication.

Edward was not going to do any kneeling, of course. He straightened his shoulders. “Mary cannot be allowed to get away with such treason,” he said, meeting the king eye to eye. “I have some ships and armies of my own, of course, but Mary needs her comeuppance. I thought it would please you, perhaps, to stand with me on this matter. We could send a different message to the world: that a king will not be cowed by some conniving, middle-aged female suffering from delusions of grandeur. We are men. We are kings. We will not yield on such matters.”

Queen Catherine was shooting daggers at him with her eyes, but he forced himself to concentrate on the French king.

And the king was feeling generous.

“Very well,” Henry said after a long, dramatic pause. “You
shall have French ships at your disposal, and you shall have French soldiers, as well, as many as I can spare. Get rid of that ridiculous cow who dares to call herself a queen.”

It took an effort for Edward not to sway on his feet, so great was the relief he felt in this moment. “I will,” he promised. “You have my thanks.”

“And I will expect that in the future, our countries will be better friends,” the king said.

He was indebting himself to France, Edward knew. The man would have more than just his thanks. But that was the price of his crown. He must be willing to pay it.

“Undoubtedly,” he said.

“And if I may give you some advice,” King Henry added. “From one king to another.”

“Of course. I'd be thankful for any wisdom you could offer me.”

“The thing for you do, young man, is to find yourself a wife. As soon as possible, I should think. Produce a son of your own. I have three sons, myself, and a number of bastards. It's very comforting for me to know that I will find never myself in your predicament. My bloodline is secure. You should see to yours.”

Edward tried to thaw himself quickly, because at the word
wife
, his chest seemed to have frozen over. He couldn't get proper air in his lungs.

A wife.

King Henry was right.

Edward could marry. He would have to marry. And soon.

“A wise prescription,” he managed to get out. “Again, I thank you.”

“Perhaps you will consider my daughter, Elisabeth,” Henry said, and Queen Catherine roughly pushed a young girl forward. The girl had been dressed extravagantly in an attempt to disguise the fact that she was quite plain. She curtseyed deeply before him.

“Uh . . . yes, I shall consider her,” he said. “Mademoiselle.”

“Votre Altesse.” (Which means, for those of you who don't speak French,
Your Highness
.) The little princess didn't meet his eyes.

He was in a bit of daze as he took his leave. He had not been considering all that was going to be expected from him, if indeed he took back his throne.

He had forgotten that, as the ruler of England, he would never truly be free.

King Henry held a celebration that night in Edward's honor, so of course Edward had to attend, even though he would have liked to have spent some time alone to sort out his thoughts. This discussion of women and their merit had left him confused about how he actually felt on the subject. He wished that Jane was there to talk to (and possibly apologize to, but why would he need to apologize? He'd only said what Bess had told him to say, and besides, it was true, wasn't it? Women were the weaker sex, were they not? Wasn't that even written in the Holy Book?). But Jane was in her ferret state now. Gifford hadn't made an appearance. Bess had returned
to her chamber to strategize their next move. And he hadn't seen Gracie since before he'd spoken with the king.

He wandered among the music and dancing and fancy French pastries. All this was a blatant over-expenditure of the French king's wealth, it seemed to Edward. The Louvre Palace was huge, easily three times the size of Edward's largest palace, and lavishly furnished. Under normal circumstances it would have given Edward a serious case of palace envy, but now he found the entire building rather vulgar.

His old life felt like a lifetime ago.

How was it possible, he thought, to be so lonely when he was surrounded by so many people? There was a throng of admirers about him, many of them women who had no doubt paid attention when the king had advised Edward to find himself a bride
toute suite
, but when they spoke to him, he found himself nodding blandly and not listening to their words, just staring into his goblet of wine.

A wife,
he kept thinking.
Such an intimidating word.

Bollocks.

But he'd be the king again, and he could decide for himself who and when he would marry. There was that to comfort him. No one could force his hand.

“Your Majesty,” came a high, sweet voice at his side. “I was wondering if you might honor me with a dance.”

He looked up.

It was Mary Queen of Scots. Of course he would have recognized her anywhere, with those eyes so dark they were almost
black, those eyes that had haunted him from her portrait for all those years. But she looked different from the girl who'd stamped on his foot. Older, of course. She'd been eight then. She must be close to thirteen now. She wore a red satin gown and her black hair was braided and pinned in a complex pattern that must have taken hours. There was even a spot of rouge on her cheeks.

She looked quite grown-up.

“Your Majesty?” she queried.

“Your Majesty,” he answered, and bowed stiffly. “Of course I will dance with you.”

They moved to the center of the floor. The dance was long and complicated and held little opportunity for talking, a series of seemingly endless turns and whirls that left him breathless. Mary was light on her feet, an experienced dancer. She smiled at him often, which Edward didn't know what to do with. Did she have a dagger meant for him tucked in the folds of her dress somewhere? Part of him expected to feel it pierce his side at any moment.

The dance ended. He thanked her. He turned to flee.

“Will you walk with me?” she asked, before he could. She held out a small hand.

He nodded and tucked her hand into his arm.

“I spent the afternoon with your lady, Grace,” Mary informed him as they strolled along the outer edge of the room. “I found her stories quite amusing.”

God's teeth, what had Gracie told her? “Yes, she's an amusing woman,” he said.

“Quite. It made me miss Scotland, to hear her brogue.” Mary herself had no Scottish accent that Edward could discern. Too many years away from home.

They walked in awkward silence. Edward found himself tongue-tied. He could feel the gaze of others on them, keen and speculative, especially that of the French queen and her dour-looking daughter, Elisabeth.

“You're taller than I remember,” Mary Queen of Scots said at last.

“Yes, I find you changed as well.”

She flushed. “Forgive me, regarding your foot last time.”

He smiled. “Forgiven,” he said. “I hope we can put all that past ugliness behind us and be friends.”

“Yes. Friends. It's just, I didn't like to be told what to do, or to whom I should be married,” she said, her voice lifting a little. “It made me cross to look at you.”

“Believe me, I understand.”

She stopped and pulled her hand from his arm. Her dark eyes were earnest when she gazed up at him, but not naive. “I still don't like to be told.” He followed her gaze when she peered out into the center of the room, where Edward spotted a sulky-faced blond boy in splendid clothing.

Ah, the dauphin, he assumed. Prince Francis.

“He seems all right,” Edward observed as they watched the boy grab a handful of sweets from a passing tray and stuff them into his mouth. Then the crown prince picked his nose, and ate
that, too. “Oh. That's unfortunate.”

Mary Queen of Scots pursed her lips unhappily. “Sometimes he pulls my hair or calls me names.”

“He'll grow out of that, I think,” Edward said. And hopefully the nose picking, as well.

The little queen turned to regard Edward with a carefully blank expression that made him feel sad for them both, that they would have learned to wear such masks at their young age. “I think I would like England better than France, don't you?” she said quietly.

He lowered his voice to match hers. “Definitely. Apart from the food.”

“Oh yes,” Mary agreed. “The food here is good. But the king is quite mad sometimes. And the queen is horrid to me, she hates me, and . . . and this is not a friendly place for people like us.”

Edward was intrigued. Gracie had done her work well on Mary, obviously. She wanted to confide in him. To trust him. “Like us?” he repeated.

She pulled on his shoulder to make him lean toward her, so she could whisper in his ear. “I hear you're a kestrel.”

His heart beat faster in spite of himself. This was a country still in the hands of the Verities. It was dangerous, even for him, to admit to being an E∂ian here.

But this journey was about taking risks.

He turned Mary so he could whisper, “I am. What are you?”

She smiled conspiratorially, her dark head close to his, her
breath on his cheek. “I'm a mouse. That's how I get away if people chase me—I turn into a little black mouse that nobody ever notices. I'm very good at hiding. And listening. I hear such things, you wouldn't believe them if I told you.” She leaned even closer. “I have a secret army, you know, back in Scotland. All of them E∂ians. Isn't that marvelous?”

“Marvelous,” Edward agreed.

She bit her lip. “I will send my army to help you. But I think someday I might turn into a mouse, and run away from France and never return. Will you help me then?”

His breath caught. “Of course,” he said. “You'll always be welcome in England, Your Majesty.”

She took his hand and squeezed it. Her fingers were soft, her nails perfectly cut and rounded. “Call me Mary.”

“Mary,” he said, and he became aware of an ache in his chest. He pushed past it. “And you should call me Edward.”

“Edward.” She smiled. “I'm glad we understand each other.”

Yes,
he thought, and the ache bloomed into something larger. He understood her. Maybe a little too well.

Mary looked pleased. “And here's your lady,” she said, glancing past him. “Hello, again.”

“My lady?” Edward turned to see Gracie approaching them in the gray velvet gown. His chest swelled at the sight of her.

“I'm not his lady,” Gracie corrected. “I'm just his friend.”

Queen Catherine was calling for Mary to dance with the dauphin. “He always steps on my feet,” the little queen said with a
scowl, becoming once again the furious girl from her portrait. She swept away to join her betrothed. Edward felt a weight lift at her departure. He offered his hand to Gracie.

“Shall we?”

She shook her head so hard a curl came loose from its pin and tumbled into her face. “I don't know how to dance.”

“There's something you don't know how to do?” he said incredulously. “How can that be?”

She laughed and considered the couples whirling around them. “It is a different world that you live in, Sire. So full of color and music. So very grand. I can see why you'd miss it.”

He didn't miss it, he thought. Not really.

“Let's walk along the river,” he suggested. “It's stuffy in here.”

“If that's what you command.” She took his arm and he led her outside, where the stars were bright and the palace seemed to stretch on and on against the Seine.

“Let me teach you to dance,” he said when they'd found a quiet place.

“I'm not sure that would be wise,” she answered wryly. “I'd hate for you to die now, after all this trouble I've gone to keep you alive.”

“It's largely a matter of bowing and curtseying.” He dropped into a bow. “Now you.”

Grace stood still for a moment, considering, then slowly and awkwardly curtsied.

“See, that wasn't so bad. Take my hand,” he directed.

She did.

“Now I'll draw you toward me, and we'll bow, and then we'll step away, and bow.”

They practiced for a while, moving in time to the music that was still spilling from inside the palace.

“You're quite good at this,” she admitted as he guided her through the steps.

“I've had years of lessons. My instructors often said that the key to a successful dance is to make it seem like you can't help yourself. You look into your partner's eyes, as if that gaze binds you while your body moves to the music.”

They both seemed to be holding their breath as they looked into each other's eyes. He put his hands on her waist, and lifted her in a slow circle. Her arms went around his neck as he lowered her to her feet.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked impulsively. “I've never kissed a girl before, and I want it to be you. Will you?” It was terribly inappropriate, what he was asking her, and he knew it. There were rules for people like him. The future could go two ways: he could fight and die in this endeavor to take back his crown, or he could fight and win, and then he'd be the King of England and he'd marry some foreign princess to strengthen the ties between their countries, or one of these days a little black mouse was going to show up at his palace door, and he knew what she'd expect of him, and he knew that he should probably comply. And Gracie would still be a Scottish pickpocket, and he'd have no business kissing her.