My Lady Jane (4 page)

In the distance, a castle jutted into the sky at the top of a steep hill. A bustling village huddled at the base, the villagers stopping to gawk as the carriage passed through the town gates and began the slow climb up. Jane admired the castle's towering keep (built in the eleventh century, if she knew her architectural history, which of course she did) with its beautiful white stone and narrow, slitted windows. It looked like a very defendable place, she thought, almost ominously so. Like the owners expected an attack at any moment.

The carriage had to pass through three more gates and over a moat before they reached the central courtyard, where the driver stopped outside the elegant castle apartments. These were a new, more modern addition, clearly, with peaked roofs and many windows. The whole place seemed like the look-don't-touch kind of home. Perfectly manicured. Never enjoyed.

Jane scanned the dozens of windows for movement, but all was quiet, save the horses loitering in the wide field on the far side of the castle.

So these were the prize horses Lord Dudley bragged about so much.

She hopped out of the carriage and walked toward a closed gate to look at them.

All the horses were fine creatures with sleek coats and spindle-thin legs. But the best among them was a beautiful stallion on the other side of the field. His muscles rippled as he thundered across the grass, his head high and ears alert. He thrashed his head so his
mane streamed back in the wind, the sun gleaming off his chestnut coat. He was simply magnificent. While, true, her experience with horses was generally limited to the gentle and well-mannered geldings appropriate for a lady, Jane thought she had never seen a horse more worthy of the constant bragging.

How amazing it would be, she imagined then, to live as a horse. The ability to run like that, to fly across the ground on those strong, powerful legs. No one nagging her, pinching her, commenting on what a small, insignificant person she was.

What she wouldn't give for the ability to change into a horse and escape not just this engagement, but everything that was wrong with her life.

“My lady,” came a man's voice from behind her. “May I help you with something?”

Jane turned and craned her neck, first noting that the gentleman who stopped beside her was a well-dressed fellow. Then she finished looking up.

There it was.

The nose.

Truly, it was a great, arching eagle nose that would enter a room five whole seconds before the rest of him did. (It may help the reader to recall the long-nosed plague doctor mask that would appear in the next several decades. It is said the design of those beaked masks was actually inspired by the Dudley nose, though never within a Dudley heir's hearing.)

God's teeth! What if this was Gifford?

“I'm here to visit Lord Gifford Dudley,” she said hesitantly, catching herself as she addressed the nose. But it was right over her. It was hard to avoid. She took a measured step backward in hopes she'd be able to meet his eyes.

“Ah.” The man smiled knowingly. “You're here to visit my brother.”

Whew. This nose—rather, this man—wasn't Gifford, but Stan Dudley, the older brother who sometimes accompanied his father to court. (Not that Jane paid much attention at court; she had so many books to read.) But what if Gifford's nose was worse?

She clutched her books to her stomach and considered prayer. Would praying for a decent-size nose be considered sacrilege?

“Yes. I'd like to see Gifford now.”

“I'm afraid he's unavailable. He's, uh, busy with the horses.” Stan glanced at the pasture, but if Gifford was out there, Jane couldn't see him. The only creatures were the horses, who'd moved to a new spot of grass.

“He won't receive me?”

“Not right now.”

This was infuriating. She wanted to at least lay eyes upon her intended before they were to be wed. Was that so much to ask?

Stan turned his head, momentarily blocking the sun with his nose. “I see you're upset. I'm terribly sorry, but you know my brother never has time for ladies until after dark.”

Ladies . . . plural?

Sir Nose went on: “You must be . . . Anne? Frederica? Janette?”

Jane blinked at him. “I'm sorry? Who?”

Stan crossed his arms and inspected her more closely. “Red hair. That is unusual. I can't recall my brother mentioning one of his ladies was a redhead.”

“One of his ladies?” she managed to squeak.

“Surely you didn't think you were the only one. But I'd thought he usually preferred brunettes. Taller. With more . . . shape.”

Jane gasped. This was outrageous. Who did this Stan fellow think he was? Why, Jane was of royal blood (her great grandmother was a queen, after all), cousin and friend to Edward VI. She had the king's ear, and it would not be long until that royal auricle heard all about the rude, impolite, presumptuous, rotten man—

She was saying none of this out loud, she realized. Instead she was standing there, slack-jawed, while the mouth beneath the Dudley nose continued to guess her name. There were so many names. At least one for every letter of the alphabet. Did Gifford have relations with all of these women? Or was Stan simply being mean?

“All right,” Stan said. “I give up. I'll tell him you came by, if you tell me who you are.”

She mustered the strongest tone she could. “I am Lady Jane Grey. His fiancé.”

Stan went still for a moment, and then hurried into a bow. “Oh, I see. My lady. I'm so sorry. I didn't realize. I should never have said all those things. It's just you have such red hair for a highborn. I mean . . . I would never have mentioned the other ladies. Because there are no other ladies. Anywhere. In the world. Except my wife.
And you. Gifford will be a faithful and loyal husband to you. Like a dog! Well, not like a dog.” He sighed. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything—”

Jane just glared at him. Well, at his nose. It was hard to see much else.

“Please accept my sincerest apologies, my lady.” Stan Dudley made several feeble attempts at reparation, mumbled something about leaving her to her thoughts—which were surely as pure as the whitest blossoms of the most virginal tree—and then he was gone.

So. Her husband-to-be was a philanderer. A smooth operator. A debaucher. A rake. A frisker. (Jane became something of a walking thesaurus when she was upset, a side effect of too much reading.) No wonder no one had seen him, since the libertine was too busy with the horses during the day—allegedly—and too busy with the strumpets at night.

This was not acceptable.

Jane stomped back to her carriage. She imagined all the things she would say to Gifford, Edward, her mother, and whoever else had arranged this marriage for her. Angry, angry things.

She'd thought this engagement would ruin Gifford's life. But for the first time (in, perhaps, ever), she'd been wrong: the engagement to Lord Gifford Dudley would ruin her life.

Unless she put a stop to it.

Jane straightened her spine. She was not going to marry Gifford Dudley. (And what kind of name was Gifford Dudley, anyway? Honestly!) Not Saturday. Not ever.

THREE

Gifford (call him G!)

The worst part about waking up when the sun went down was the distinct grassy taste of hay in his mouth, an unfortunate side effect of actually having hay in his mouth. But the affliction of unwanted-hay-in-the-mouth-itis (or “hay-mouth” as his mother referred to it, like someone else would refer to morning breath) was not to be avoided when one ended each day as an undomesticated horse and began each night as an undomesticated man.

Almost man,
his mother would say. At nineteen years of age, he was almost a man. Definitely undomesticated.

As he pushed himself into a crouching position, and then into a standing position, G (please call him G, and avoid referring to him by his terrible given name, Gifford Dudley, the second—and therefore insignificant—son of Lord John Dudley, Duke of
Northumberland) stretched out his haunches, which were now hips.

He reflected on this morning's jaunt across the countryside. He'd gone northwest this time, running at a flat-out canter over green hills and lush forests for hours before he had to search for water. There was nothing, he imagined, that could compete with the feeling of a life without boundaries or borders, and the wind running through his hair. Mane.

He hadn't asked for this power. (If he had, he definitely would've requested the ability to control it as well, even though it would be rather missing the point for a curse to come with an on/off switch.) Still, there was an upside to it. He belonged to no one. (Who would want a half horse/half man?) He could pick a spot on a map and then go there the next time the sun was up. (Provided his horse brain remembered the way. G would argue that horses were not known for their sense of direction, instead of the likelihood that he—even as a man—could get lost in his own closet.) Best of all, he had no human-ish responsibilities.

After the freedom he enjoyed during his days, nightfall was usually a bit of a letdown. G searched out the pail of water his servant always left for him in the corner, and once he spotted it he galloped over (in a human way, but probably resembling a horse more than any other human could) and ladled a cupful of water into his mouth.

The transformation always left him dehydrated, and tonight he needed his wits about him. Due to an entirely nighttime existence,
there were only so many activities in which the human G could participate. With the casual, often brash way G spoke, and his general rambunctious demeanor, it was easy for his parents to assume he spent his human hours in the boudoirs of questionable ladies or getting tipsy in brothels. Lady Dudley was often overheard lamenting, “That boy and his dalliances . . . What are we to do?”

G let them believe that; in fact, he often boasted of his conquests with different ladies in order to play along. If they thought he was something of a Casanova (although they of course couldn't equate him to the literal Casanova, who wouldn't be born for another two hundred years), it left G the freedom to do as he pleased. Besides, the truth of how he spent his nights was far more humiliating. He would rather his parents believed he was carousing with the ladies.

A sharp knock sounded on the stable door.

“My lord?” Billingsly called from the other side.

“Yes,” G said, trying to shake the whinny out of his voice like someone else would clear his throat in the morning.

“Your trousers.”

The stable door opened just wide enough for an arm covered in the blue of the steward uniform to extend through, holding a pair of trousers.

“Thank you, Billingsly.” G took the pants and stepped into them as Billingsly set the rest of his clothes on a wooden table so the hay wouldn't besmirch the young lord's ensemble.

“And, my lord, your father would like a word with you when
you are appropriately attired.”

“My father?” G said, alarmed. “He's returned to the castle?”

“Yes, my lord,” Billingsly said.

G fastened the buttons on the front of his jacket and pulled on his tall leather boots. “Please tell my father I am otherwise occupied. I have . . . plans.”

Billingsly cleared his throat. “I'm afraid, my lord, your father was rather insistent. You'll have to reschedule your . . . um . . . po—”

“Billingsly!” G cut off his servant as the heat rose in his cheeks. “I thought we had an agreement that we would never mention the . . . thing . . . outside of . . . the place.”

“I'm sorry, my lord. But I couldn't recall your requested code word for it.”

G closed his eyes and sighed. Billingsly had only recently discovered the true nature of G's secret night outings and had been convinced (cough, bribed) not to tell G's parents. “Dalliances, Billingsly. My dalliances.”

“Right, my lord. Your dalliances will have to wait, because your mother requests your company as well. She is with your father in the drawing room.”

His father and his mother both here at the estate, in the same room, and summoning him? This sounded rather serious. Yes, his father occasionally requested G's company to discuss his future, his equestrian curse, his inheritance (or lack thereof, considering he was the second son), his desire for more comfortable hoof-wear and a blacksmith who could keep his mouth shut. But his mother
rarely participated in these discussions. She was more at ease in a nurturing role, like giving him sartorial advice or fixing his hair (or mane, depending on the position of the sun in the sky).

G looked at Billingsly. “It's not Christmas, is it?”

“It's May, my lord.”

“Somebody's birthday?”

“No, my lord.”

“Somebody died?” For a moment, he let himself believe it might have been his perfect older brother, Stan, who had died, leaving behind his perfect wife and their perfect son, but then he realized Stan never made mistakes, and leaving behind a family due to an untimely death would most certainly be considered bad form. In addition, then G would be responsible for marrying and heiring. He shuddered at the thought.

“Not that I am aware of, my lord,” answered Billingsly.

G pressed his noble lips together and blew, a sound that was all horse.

“Shall I translate that to mean you are in compliance?”

G closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Very good, my lord.”

What G wouldn't give at this moment to be able to change into a horse at will. Then he could put fifty miles between himself and his father's nose. (He would probably need forty-nine of those miles just to get out from under the sniffer.)

Twilight transformed into deep dusk as G made the trek up from the stables to the side door of the apartments. His mind was
galloping at breakneck speed wondering what his parents wanted to speak to him about.

From the time he was old enough to sit at the supper table, he'd been aware of his inferior position in the family. Stan always got served before G—the main course and all the side dishes. When their father introduced the two of them, it was always, “This is Stan, the next Duke of Northumberland, heir to the Dudley fortune.” Long pause. “Oh, and this is my other son, Stan's brother.”

Here, your narrators will point out two facts that may have contributed to the Duke of Northumberland's embarrassment surrounding his second son. One: the E∂ian power was widely considered to be hereditary, and neither the duke nor his supposedly devoted wife had the magic. Two: the duke had an epic nose, the proportions of which were legendary; Gifford's nose was the perfect size, and the shape could've been the inspiration of sonnets.

The combination of these two details made the duke often glance sideways toward his wife, and repeatedly treat Gifford as if he wasn't there.

That was why at the age of thirteen, Gifford had requested his name be reduced to just G, since nobody seemed to care what his name was anyway.

Billingsly led G from the side entrance down the third main hall, where G caught a glimpse of himself in a hanging mirror and paused to fish a stray piece of hay out of his chestnut-colored hair. His mother had strict rules of civility inside the castle, the most important of which was, “All signs of equestrian escapades are to
be left in the stable, where they belong.”

His mother had always approached his curse as if G wanted to spend his days as a quadruped. As if it were just another way for a privileged teenage boy to rebel. She often forgot that he didn't ask for this curse, and that if he could find a way to control it, he would give Billingsly's right arm for that information.

As if he could hear G's thoughts, Billingsly pulled his right arm in front of his body, and away from G's line of sight.

“In here, my lord,” he said as he swung open the doors of the drawing room, using his left arm.

Inside the room, his father sat behind an ornate wooden desk, his mother, Gertrude, standing behind him. Her hand rested on Lord Dudley's shoulder as if they were posing for a portrait. His little sister, Temperance, was on the couch, playing with her knights-and-ladies doll set.

“Giffy!” she said when she saw him enter the room. Tempie was the only one in the world who could get away with calling him Giffy.

“Hi, Curly,” G answered, for Tempie had the curliest blond tresses in all of England.

“Ah, son,” Lord Dudley said. He motioned to a woman standing in the corner, Tempie's nurse, who immediately took hold of the little girl's hand and led her from the room. Tempie waved awkwardly as she balanced her dolls and held her nurse's hand. “Thank you for joining us with such haste.”

“Father,” G answered with a slight bow of his head, although
now he knew something must be wrong, because “joining with haste” was the best compliment his father had given him in two years. (His previous compliment had been in recognition of “keeping to the background” when Rafael Amador, the emissary from Spain, was visiting.)

“We have some excellent tidings for you,” his father continued. Gertrude stood a little taller at this. “And for your future happiness.”

Uh-oh,
thought G. Future happiness was always code for—

“You have grown into a fine young man, and a stout, er, stallion,” his father said. “We may not have a handle on controlling the equestrian situation, but this minor daily divergence from humanity does not preclude you from leading a relatively normal life, nor will it strip you of the rights and privileges afforded any nobleman.”

First of all, G was annoyed that neither of his parents could tell it like it was and use the phrase “horse curse,” instead referring to it as his “equestrian condition” or a “minor daily divergence from humanity” or some such nonsense. But the more worrisome part of his father's speech was the bit about the “rights and privileges afforded any nobleman.” Because this could only mean—

“Marriage, son,” Lord Dudley said. “Marriage to a well-vetted and—as far as can be anticipated without being tested—fertile young lady, of excellent lineage and equally verifiable family connections.”

G's worst fears come true. “Wow, Father. Fertile and well vetted? You make it sound so very romantic.”

At this point, Lady Gertrude moved her hand from her husband's shoulder and placed it on the back of his neck, as if to prove a showing of such ardent affection was indeed possible in forced marriages. “Darling boy, if left to your own devices, I fear you would never marry.”

“I thought that fact was already established and agreed upon,” G said. A month after he'd first begun to turn into a horse, he'd overheard his mother lament to his father that no self-respecting lady would want a half horse for a husband. And then his father had said his chances would've been better had he been a horse both day and night, and skipped the human part entirely. Then perhaps his parents could sell him and receive some compensation for all their trouble.

G had gone out and slept in the barn after that.

Now, in the drawing room, Lord Dudley shook off his wife's hand as if he were shooing away a pesky insect. “It is my wish for all of my children to marry.”

“Why? You don't need heirs from me,” G said. “I'm second son.”

“Which is why I have invested the last fortnight securing your happiness—”

“You mean, arranging for me to wed a perfect stranger,” G interjected. “Well, thanks but no thanks, Father.”

A vein G had never noticed before popped out on Lord Dudley's forehead. “I am securing your happiness and thus ensuring your future and your own estate and a fortune for future generations
of Dudley men and you will get married and father a son or two or seven before you turn into a horse forever,
is that understood
?”

G backed up a step, partly to avoid Lord Dudley's increasingly airborne spittle and partly because he did not know turning into a horse forever was even a possibility, although he had to admit the freedom of galloping far away and blending in with the wild horses of the Cornwall region sounded tempting when compared to impending nuptials. It wasn't like he wanted to spend the rest of his life alone. Marriage had its merits, he supposed. But what kind of husband could he make? His parents' own marriage had taught him that when there is no great love in the beginning, better acquaintance would only lead to more contempt.

Besides, what woman would marry him once she found out the truth?

“But Father—”

“You're getting married, or I'll have you gelded, so help me, I will,” Lord Dudley ground out.

“And what is the name of my dearly intended?” G asked.

This response seemed to calm Lord Dudley a degree. “Lady Jane Grey.”

“Lady Jane Grey?” G hoped he had heard his father wrong. He hadn't been present in court for several years now, but he knew of Jane. Her reputation preceded her.

The book girl.

“Lady Jane Grey. Daughter of Lady Frances Brandon Grey. First cousin once removed to King Edward.”

Lady Gertrude leaned forward. “What do you think, my boy?”