My Lady Jane (34 page)

With Archer, probably, Edward thought miserably. Burned bright in his memory was the way Archer had told Gracie that she was looking very fine. And the way that flea-bitten man had ogled her like she was a piece of meat.

He couldn't stand the idea of Gracie with Archer. And why wouldn't she have come to see him? Their last moment together in France had ended badly, but so badly that she wouldn't want to see him again?

“Edward, sit down,” Bess said. “You're making me queasy.”

He sank into a chair. Pet lumbered up to him, tail wagging. He scratched behind her ear, and she gave a happy dog sigh and collapsed at his feet. Pet had asked to remain a guardian to the queen, and after all she'd done for their cause, Bess had agreed (even though she wasn't too fond of dogs—remember, cat person). It was a little awkward at times, but the least they could do—well, that and give her a scratch and the scraps from the table every now and then.

“Um, Your Majesty,” came a voice from the doorway. A
frightened voice. “About your crown.”

“What about my crown?” Bess asked the trembling servant who came to cower before her—Hobbs, Edward remembered the man's name was.

“Have you . . . moved it?” asked Hobbs.

“Moved my crown?” Bess frowned. “Where would I move it?”

“Normally it's kept on a velvet cushion in the king's—I mean the queen's—chamber.”

“Right.” Edward and Bess exchanged worried glances. The citizens of England seemed to unilaterally accept Bess as the official ruler of the country now, but if someone had literally stolen her crown, it could mean trouble. Not to mention that the crown was virtually priceless.

“Speak, Hobbs,” Bess commanded. “Tell us what's happened.”

Hobbs shifted from one foot to the other nervously. “It's gone, Your Majesty.”

“Gone.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Gone where?” Bess's voice rose, and the servant flinched.

“Gone missing!” Hobbs cried. “My job is to polish it. That's what I do, every Thursday—I polish the crown, only today when I went to retrieve it, I found . . .” He started to cry. “I found . . .” He hiccupped. “I found . . .”

Hobbs held out his fist, which was clasped around something
very small—much too small to be a crown. Maybe a crown jewel. But it meant bad news all the same.

“What is it?” Edward and Bess both leaned forward to look. “Show us,” Bess said.

Hobbs opened his hand. He was sure he was going to lose his head for this. So he was shocked when both the former king and the current queen broke into broad smiles.

“Your Majesty?”

“It's all right, Hobbs,” Bess said.

Edward started taking off his clothes.

“Um, Your Majesty . . .” Hobbs was very confused now.

“You don't still need me here, do you?” Edward asked Bess as he pulled his shirt over his head.

“I can manage,” Bess said. “Go.”

“Thanks.” He gave her a grateful smile and turned toward the window, shuffling off his pants. Then there was a flash of blinding light, and when Hobbs could see again, the boy who had been king had simply vanished.

Hobbs stared down his hand, at the item he'd found resting in place of Bess's crown.

A tiny wooden fox.

When Edward came down to rest on the roof of the Shaggy Dog, he saw, with his magnificent kestrel eyes, that one of the back doors had been left open a crack. This door turned out to be the entrance to a small storeroom, which was currently crammed to the gills
with all manner of freshly delivered food and supplies.

A gift, compliments of Queen Elizabeth, as a promise that she would honor Edward's agreement with the Pack.

In the center of the floor was something Bess hadn't sent: a stack of clean, neatly folded clothes. Nothing fancy, of course. A simple linen shirt, black pants, and a pair of boots in exactly his size. Edward put this on so fast that he got the shirt backward at first.

When he came out of the storeroom there was a man waiting for him. The man grunted something like, “She's up thar,” and pointed to the hill behind the inn.

Edward ran.

He came upon Gracie standing at the top of the hill under a large, spreading oak. She didn't see him at first. She was staring out at the setting sun.

Edward stopped and drank in the sight of her. She was wearing a long gray skirt and a white blouse, her hair loose and spilling all over her shoulders. She had a small satchel slung across her back, and the pearl-handled knife strapped to her belt.

He cleared his throat, heart hammering.

She turned. “Sire.”

“I'm not the king anymore,” he blurted out stupidly.

“I'm the leader of the Pack,” she said at the same time.

He wasn't sure he heard her correctly. “Wait, what?”

“Archer's dead,” she informed him. “He took an arrow to the
chest in the first ten minutes of the siege.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.” A minute ago, Edward could have wished a pox on Archer. But now he felt rather bad for him. “Did you . . . hear the part where I said I'm not the king?”

“It's all anyone can talk about around here. You didn't do that . . . for me, did you?” Her green eyes were genuinely worried.

“No, I didn't do it for you,” he answered quickly. (Although if we're being totally honest here, there was a teeny tiny bit of Edward that really had wanted to give up the throne of England so he'd be free to kiss a Scottish pickpocket as often as he liked.) “I wasn't thinking of you at all!”

She looked down. “Oh. I see.”

“What I mean to say is, I don't want to be king,” Edward continued in a rush. “All my life the crown's been forced upon my head. But when I had a choice in the matter, I found I didn't want it.”

She bit her lip to keep from smiling. Dimples. And that was all it took.

Edward closed the space between them in two strides. He didn't really know what he was doing, only that he had to do something right now or he'd explode. Her warm heart-shaped face was in his hands, his fingers caught in her curls. She opened her mouth to say something, and he kissed her.

He kissed her!

He knew he must be doing it right because after a few stampeding heartbeats her eyes closed and her hands reached up to
grasp at his shoulders and she kissed him back.

Edward felt like he was flying, only his feet were firmly on the ground.

He kissed her and kissed her.

With tongue, it must be noted.

She pulled away, green eyes wide. “Good Lord,” she breathed.

He considered that a compliment.

“You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that.” He tucked a glossy black curl behind her ear, then dragged his thumb gently over her chin.

She leaned in until her lips were nearly touching his. “I have some idea.”

He kissed her again.

Of course this whole kissing Gracie thing didn't mean that Edward was going to marry her, and that they were going to live happily ever after. (But if he played his cards right, who knows?) The happily ever after of this book belongs to Gifford and Jane. Naturally. But for now, Edward just kissed Gracie. More slowly this time. An explorer of new worlds.

Some time later he said, “Now give me Bess's crown back, imp.”

She laughed and pulled the crown out of the satchel. “Fine. Have it. But I thought you said you didn't want it.”

“I don't want it. I'm not a gyrfalcon, am I? I'm a kestrel,” he said against her ear. “Not a king.”

She turned her head and kissed him, a teasing brush of her lips
on his. “All right, then,” she said in her charming brogue. “But just so you know, Edward . . .”

He kissed her again. “You called me Edward!”

“Yes. Edward.” She grinned up at him. “You'll always be a king to me.”

TWENTY-NINE

Jane

Okay, we're almost to the happily ever after. But before that, we have to talk about the wedding. Oh, we know there was already a wedding. We mean a
second
wedding.

Jane and Gifford's second wedding was very much like their first wedding.

Except this wedding took place outside.

During the day.

And the bride and groom actually liked each other.

And they were both human at the time of the nuptials, which was indeed the case at their first blessed union, but given the daytime nature of this one, we thought we should make that clear.

Jane and Gifford stood below an arch laced with flowers, a field spreading all around them. There were only a handful of
chairs for guests, but every one of them was full. Lady Dudley and G's younger sister, Temperance, were seated in the front row. Edward and Gracie (holding hands, of course), Bess, and Gran sat on the opposite row. Peter Bannister and Pet had also come, both in their human states (and this was the first time anybody ever saw Pet wearing actual clothes). Notably absent were those who'd conspired to set up the first wedding: Lady Frances had gone into exile when it became clear she wouldn't be able to manipulate (or pinch or poke) Jane any longer (she ran off with the Grey Estates' master of horse, which was quite the scandal); the Privy Council was certainly not invited; and Lord Dudley—well.

Lord Dudley was never heard from again. As far as we know, he lived, sentenced to finish out his days near a sulfur mine. It was that or death, and he chose sulfur. Whether or not he was happy with that decision, we may never know.

Anyway, back to the wedding.

On everyone's lap rested a book. Any book. In case the wedding got boring. As the priest droned on in the same manner as last time, Jane was both pleased and annoyed that no one was taking advantage of her thoughtfulness.

“And now,” said the priest, “let us declare the miracles of holy matrimony.”

First, true love.

With her free hand, Jane squeezed Gifford's, smiling up at him. Love, they definitely had. It felt true. Her heart pounded as the priest extolled the wonders of love and finding one's perfect match.

“I love you,” Gifford whispered, and Jane warmed all over.

“We're not to the vows yet,” the priest muttered out of the side of his mouth.

“Sorry.”

Second, virtue.

Gifford's gaze dropped to peer down her bodice.

Jane snorted and laughed, drawing Looks from everyone. But she didn't care. Not this time.

Third, progeny.

Well, that was under discussion. Maybe one day.

“Now you may give your vows,” said the priest.

“I'm going first,” Jane said. Gifford had gone first at their previous wedding, and it was only fair that Jane got to lead this time. “I, Jane Grey-Dudley, hereby declare my devotion to you. I swear to love you faithfully and forever, rescue you when you're in mortal peril, and keep a pantry stocked with apples so that you never go hungry. To illustrate the depth of my emotions, I've written a list of things you outrank.”

Jane took a moment to unfold the paper flowers she'd been carrying. Gifford shifted nervously, trying to get a look at the writing. She flicked the papers toward her so he couldn't see.

“Gifford, I love you more than knitting, though to be honest, I love a lot of things more than I love knitting.

“I also love you more than being queen, which admittedly, I didn't love a lot.

“I know I'm not inspiring much confidence at this point, but
there's something else I thought I'd bring up.” She lifted her eyes to him. “I love you more than I love books.”

Gifford laughed and leaned down to kiss her, but the priest cleared his throat. “Ring. Then more vows. Kissing comes last.”

Gifford heaved a melodramatic sigh and offered his hand. “Very well.”

Jane pulled a ring from the pocket sewn into her gown—the same ring she'd put on his finger during their first wedding, stashed in a drawer since that night. Now, she slipped it onto his finger and held her hand over his. “I give myself to you.”

“I receive you,” he whispered. And then, louder: “I know I said this last time, but this time, I mean it with my whole heart. I, Gifford Dudley, hereby declare my devotion to you. I swear to love you, protect you, be faithful to you, and make you the happiest woman in the world. My love for you is as deep as the ocean and as bright as the sun. I will protect you from every danger. I am blind to every woman but you. Your happiness is paramount in my heart.” He retrieved the matching ring and pushed it onto her finger. “I give myself to you, my Lady Jane.”

“I receive you.” Jane didn't wait for instructions to kiss. She stood on her toes and wrapped her arms around her husband's shoulders and kissed him as the guests clapped and clapped.

THIRTY

Gifford

What's a wedding without the wedding night? Considering that their first wedding night ended with a heap of horse dung in the corner of their room, it wasn't difficult to hope for something better this time.

And better it was, for G loved his lady, and his lady loved him.

And there were no secrets between them anymore, save one. G wanted to confess it to his lady before they commenced with the very special hug.

He asked Jane to sit next to him on the bed. “There's something I need to tell you.”

“Go on,” Jane said.

G took her hand in his and traced his finger over the delicate skin of her arm. What she didn't realize was that he was scrawling
the words of a poem he had recently written. It was inspired by his lady and he had spent many long hours trying to find the words that adequately conveyed the feelings of his heart.

There were many false starts, because at first he tried to capture the moment a horse fell in love with a ferret.

Shall I compare thee to a barrel of apples?

Thou art more hairy, but sweeter inside.

Rough winds couldn't keep me from taking you to chapel,

Where finally a horse would take a bride. . . .

And then he tried to wax poetic about the ferret alone. . . .

Shall I compare thee to a really large rat?

Thou art more longer, with less disease.

One would never mistake you for a listless cat . . .

Nor a filthy dog, because my dog has fleas.

He could never confess his passion for poetry with those paltry examples.

And then, at the second wedding, as G basked in the glow of Jane's radiant smile, inspiration finally hit him, and after the feast he put quill to paper and wrote and wrote until he had it right.

“Tell me, my love.”

“You remember how I had a reputation? With . . . ladies?”

“Yes,” she said, eyeing him warily.

“The truth is, there were never any ladies, nor late night romps
at houses of ill repute.”

His Jane looked confused. “Then where did all the stories come from?”

“There were late nights, but those nights consisted of . . .” His voice trailed off as his heart raced.

“Of what?” Jane said, her mind racing to all sorts of unsavory conclusions.

“P—” He started to say the word, but paused.

“Perversion?” Jane said.

“No.”

“Peculiar habits?”

“No. Well, one.”

“If you don't tell me right away what it is, I will knit all of your clothes from now on,” she said, and she fully intended to follow through on her threat.

“Poetry,” G blurted out.

“Pardon me?” Jane said.

G climbed out of bed and stood at the foot. He pulled out the paper and began his recitation.

“My Lady Jane . . .

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date;

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;

Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”

With a deep breath, G tore his eyes away from the paper to assess his lady's reaction.

“That was . . . lovely,” Jane said.

“You really think so?”

“Yes. I mean, I'm glad we will not be forced to live by your quill, because I am rather used to having food on the table. But, I appreciate the effort behind those words.”

(Now, some of you might recognize these words as belonging to a certain Mr. Shakespeare, the likes of whom hadn't actually been born yet in the year 1553. But you should also know that there are all kinds of conspiracy theories about who actually wrote Shakespeare's plays and sonnets, and we contend that the real writer was a very old and very happy Gifford Dudley—assisted by Jane and the immeasurable knowledge she drew from books—who went on writing not to make himself famous or rich, but to make a certain lady happy.)

G smiled and fell back onto the bed. “You have no idea what
a relief it is to hear you say that.”

Jane lay down next to him, on her side, her head propped up by her hand. “Do you have any other confessions, my lord?”

“Hmmm,” G said. “You heard the one about how much I love you?”

Jane put her hand on his chest, and slowly pulled on the tie that held his undershirt closed. G's breath caught.

“Yes, I remember that one.”

The knot fell open.

“And, you know the one where I don't know much about swordsmanship?” Gifford's voice was low and soft.

“Yes, I remember that one as well.”

Jane tugged at the top button of his vest. G clasped her hand in his. “Kiss me, Jane.”

Lips met lips, soft and questioning at first, and then, quite suddenly, desperate and wanting. And where at their first wedding, their wedding-night chamber seemed full of the echoes of strangers eager to have their say, tonight, they were very much alone. G lost himself in Jane's kiss. He pulled back for a moment. “I have to tell you, Jane, the way you kiss is a work of art—”

“Shut up and kiss me,” Jane said.

They kissed again, lips exploring and asking and answering, and then eager fingers fumbled at buttons and untied ribbons and never did their lips part except for a moment here and there to say it again.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

They collapsed into each other, and although it would be indelicate to detail what happened next, these narrators will tell you that a “very special hug” does not begin to describe it.

P.S. They totally consummated.

And now, dear reader, there isn't much more to say on the matter except this: Gifford and Jane lived happily ever after, their destinies colliding quite often. Which pleaseth them both.