My Lady Jane (5 page)

G took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. “I'm thinking lots of things. Like the fact that the lady's face has rarely been seen because it's usually buried in a book.”

“You've never opposed the education of a lady before,” his mother said.

“And I am still not opposed to it. But what if she is merely using the
Second Volume of the Political History of England
to cover up some hideous malformation on her face?”

“Gifford!” his father said.

G's mouth snapped shut at the sound of his given name.

“Your sharp wit will get you nowhere.” Lord Dudley flared his nostrils and exhaled—a move that nearly produced a windstorm. “My boy. It sounds as if you are under the delusion that this match is merely a suggestion.” His lips disappeared into his beard, as they did when Lord Dudley was upset. “Believe me when I tell you the negotiations behind this match have been arduous and delicate, and your romantic notions of lifelong bachelorhood will not be humored.” He stood and put his fists knuckle-down on the desk, the top of his head reaching the mouth of the stuffed bear carcass hanging on the wall, caught in mid-roar. “Let me repeat. YOU WILL MARRY THE LADY JANE GREY!”

His voice echoed off the walls. Nobody moved for fear of disturbing the beast further.

Lord Dudley unclenched his fists and walked over to G.
“Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, son. I'm sure you will be very happy.”

“Thank you, Father,” G said through clenched teeth. “One last thing. Does Lady Jane know about . . . the equestrian situation?” G couldn't believe he'd resorted to using a phrase his father would use, as if the upcoming marriage had suddenly made him more ashamed of his curse.

Lord Dudley put his arm around his son, but it was only so he could escort him from the room.

“It matters not,” he said, and closed the door in G's face.

It matters not. What was that supposed to mean? That she knew about it and it was of no concern to her? Or she didn't know, and it wouldn't matter just as long as she repeated her vows before sunup?

Billingsly met G near the side entrance of the great estate.

“Your overcoat, my lord. I have your horse waiting to take you to your . . . dalliances.”

G rolled his eyes. Every time Billingsly used the code word
dalliances
, it sounded so suspicious. Maybe he should have come up with a different word. And yet,
dalliances
had a certain cadence to it. If he thought about it hard enough, he was sure he could incorporate it into his performance tonight.

Dalliances. Dalliances.
What rhymed with
dalliances
? G concentrated as he put his left foot into the stirrup and hoisted himself onto the back of his horse, Westley.
Valients . . . es
?
Balances
?

He was lost inside his own head, searching for rhymes, when
Stan passed him on his way down the road from the castle.

“Brother,” Stan said by way of greeting.

When G had asked Stan to call him G instead of Gifford, Stan had resorted to calling him the even more generic “brother.”

“Good evening, Stan,” G said.

“Where are you off to?”

G's heart rate increased. His brother was rarely curious about G's comings and goings. Maybe Stan knew about the wedding, which would give G more consequence in Stan's mind. Or maybe he was just making small talk. Either way, the scrutiny wasn't welcome.

“Um . . . I'm off to . . . dalliant.”

Stan tilted his head.

“To do the dalliant. To be dalliant.” God's teeth. He'd never really investigated how to use the word, and the only times he'd heard it uttered were in the form of one or both of his parents saying something like, “There he goes again. That boy and his many dalliances . . .”

“I have plans,” G said. “That may or may not involve dalliancing.”

Stan nodded. “Perhaps it will be a redheaded girl this time. A short one. With brown eyes. Would you fancy a girl like that?”

“I'm not generally picky,” G answered cautiously. “It's just a dalliance, after all.”

“Right. Well, carry on.”

“Thank you,” G said. “Good night, Stan.”

He put his head down and urged his horse into a smooth canter. At this point, he could not afford any more distractions or impediments. He held his lantern as steady as he could, but he didn't need much light for this journey. It was simply a turn to the right, then to the left, then two rights, then a slight right, then a hairpin left, then up the hill, then over the bridge, then a sharp left, and you were there. G could've done it with his eyes closed.

By the time G tied his horse outside the Shark's Fin Inn, the moon was high. He could already hear the raucous crowd inside cheering and hissing and shouting oaths and clanging goblets. He checked in with the barkeep, signing his name as John Billingsly, and then took a stool at a table with four other men, who had clearly already downed multiple flagons of ale.

“Back again for more, are ye?” said the man with the bushiest beard.

G ignored him and placed his hand over his vest pocket, feeling for his latest work, “The Ecstasy of Eating Greenery.” Then he reached down and felt for the dagger at his hip.

Public poetry readings were known to be a rough business, especially when presenting new material. A man could lose a lot more than just his pride.

FOUR

Edward

When you were dying, Edward quickly discovered, people would let you do pretty much whatever you wanted. So he made some new unofficial decrees:

  
            
1.
   
The king was allowed to sleep in as long as he wished.

  
            
2.
   
The king no longer had to wear seven layers of elaborate, jewel-encrusted clothing. Or silly hats with feathers. Or pants that resembled pumpkins. Or tights. From now on, unless it was a special occasion, he was fine in just a simple shirt and trousers.

  
            
3.
   
Dessert was to be served first. Blackberry pie, preferably. With whipped cream.

  
            
4.
   
The king would no longer be taking part in any more dreary studies. His fine tutors had filled his head with
enough history, politics and philosophy to last him two lifetimes, and as he was unlikely to get even half of one lifetime, there was no more need for study. No more lessons, he decided. No more books. No more tutors' dirty looks.

  
            
5.
   
The king was now going to reside in the top of the southeast turret, where he could sit in the window ledge and gaze out at the river for as long as he liked.

  
            
6.
   
No one at court would be allowed to say the following words or phrases:
affliction
,
illness
,
malady
,
sickness
,
disease
,
disorder
,
ailment
,
infirmity
,
convalescence
,
indisposition
,
malaise
,
plight
,
plague
,
poor health
,
failing health
,
what's going around
, or
your condition
. Most of all, no one was allowed to say the word
dying
.

And finally (and perhaps most importantly, for the sake of our story)

  
            
7.
   
Dogs would now be allowed inside the palace. More specifically, his dog.

Edward had always loved dogs. Dogs were uncomplicated. They loved you without expectation. They were devoted and loyal, not because you were the king and you could have their heads chopped off if they displeased you, but because it was in their nature to be so. Most of the time he greatly preferred the company of dogs to the company of men.

Edward's favorite dog was named Pet, short for Petunia. She was the best kind of dog, a large Afghan hound with flowing,
wheat-colored hair and long, silky ears. Pet was warm and soft and goofy and always good for a laugh. And so for the past few days, simply because Edward said so, Pet had been allowed in the throne room, the dining hall, the council chambers, and his newly arranged bedchamber in the turret. Wherever the king went, so too went Pet.

His sister Mary, for the record, did not approve of dogs in the castle. It was undignified. It was unsanitary.

Bess was allergic. (Plus she was more of a cat person.)

But neither one of them could really protest, because their brother was dying, and how does one deny the wishes of a dying king?

So it was that on Friday morning, after breakfasting on blackberry pie and whipped cream, Edward was lounging on the throne in a shirt and pants, not even wearing his crown, with Pet's head resting on his lap. He was scratching behind one of her silky ears, and Pet's hind leg was moving in time to his scratching, because she couldn't help herself. Mary was in the corner, muttering something about fleas. Bess was sniffling into a handkerchief. Lord Dudley, having just returned from his trip to his country estate to fetch his son, was sitting in a much smaller chair on Edward's right, reading over some official-looking document, a pair of spectacles (or the early predecessor of what we think of as spectacles) perched on the landscape of his nose.

That's when Edward heard the indignant footfalls ringing on the stone in the outer corridor and the familiar, high-pitched voice
demanding,
“No, I must speak with the king, now, please,”
but before the steward even had a chance to announce, “Lady Jane Grey, Your Majesty,” which was protocol when someone was about to enter the king's presence, the doors to the throne room burst open and in rushed Jane.

It was Friday, as we mentioned. If all went according to Lord Dudley's plans, Jane and his son Gifford would be tying the knot tomorrow night.

Edward smiled, happy to see her. He hadn't seen much of her lately on account of his illness, but she was just as he always pictured her, albeit a little travel-worn.

Jane, however, did not seem happy to see him. There were two bright pink spots in the middle of her cheeks and wisps of her ginger hair sticking to her sweat-dampened face, as if she'd run all the way from Bradgate. And she was frowning.

“Hello, cousin,” Edward said. “You're looking well. Why don't you sit down and have a nice cup of—”

Tea, he was going to offer. Because he was English and that's what the English do under stress: they drink tea.

“No tea,” Jane interrupted, waving away the royal tea mistress who was approaching her with a teapot in one hand and a saucer and teacup in the other. “I need you to talk to you, Edward. It's urgent.”

The throne room, which was full of courtiers, fell silent for a few seconds and then broke out into a rumble of scandalized murmurs, although whether the lords and ladies present were more scandalized by Jane's casual use of Edward's first name or her very
rude refusal of his offer of tea, we can't say. Lord Dudley cleared his throat.

“All right,” Edward said a bit nervously.

Jane's gaze darted around the throne room, as if she had just noticed that she had an audience. Her face reddened even more. “I need to speak with you about, um . . . the reign of King Edward Plantagenet the Second. I've been reading this very important book about that period of English history, and I wanted your opinion on the subject.”

Alone,
her eyes said.
Now.

Concerning the wedding, of course.

Edward was quiet for a moment, trying to figure out how best to handle the logistics of seeing Jane in private.

“It is of great historical importance!” Jane insisted.

“Ah . . . yes,” Edward stammered. “Very well. I would be delighted to talk to you about the reign of King . . .”

“Edward Plantagenet,” Jane provided.

“The First.”

“The Second,” she corrected.

“Yes, of course. Why don't we go for a walk and you can tell me all about it?”

Jane's small shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank you.”

Edward stood up. His eyes met Dudley's. The duke looked decidedly disapproving, but Edward ignored him.

“I'm going to walk with Lady Jane in the orchard,” Edward announced. “Carry on without me.”

“But, Your Majesty,” protested Mistress Penne, rushing forward. She was his nursemaid, a plump, kind-faced old woman who had looked after him when he was a baby and been called back to his side during his illness earlier in the year. Lately she was always hovering, fretting that he wasn't dressed warmly enough, worrying that any small exertion might be too much of a strain on his now-delicate constitution. “Are you sure that's wise, in your condition?”

That was one of the forbidden words, but Edward decided he would allow it from Mistress Penne because when he'd get his fevers she'd sit next to his bed and put a cool cloth on his forehead, and stroke his hair, and sometimes even sing to him.

“Yes, Sire, perhaps you should rest,” agreed Dudley.

Edward waved them off. “What's the worst that could happen? I could catch my death?”

He was trying to be brave and jovial in the face of it all, but in this he obviously failed. Dudley looked disappointed in him. Mary appeared more solemn than usual. Mistress Penne put her hand over her wrinkled mouth and shuffled away, sniffling.

Brilliant,
he thought.
Just brilliant.
But should dying people have to apologize?

Jane looked at him, suddenly taking in his plain clothes and lack of crown and the wag-tailed dog at his side. “Edward? What's going on?” she asked.

“Come,” he said, stepping down from the throne and offering Jane his arm. “Let's get out of here.”

And so they walked, dog and girl and king, out of the palace
and across the grounds and down through the entire length of the orchard, where they settled under the white blossoms of an apple tree.

“All right,” he said, once they were certainly out of earshot of anyone from court. “What's the matter, Janey?”

“I can't get married tomorrow,” she burst out. “You've got to call it off.”

“But why?” Edward picked up his scratching of behind Pet's ears, and she made a happy dog noise deep in her throat.

“I simply cannot marry him, that's all. Not him.”

“But I hear he's a fine young man, Jane,” Edward said. “Lord Dudley assured me that Gifford will be a model husband.”

When he wasn't busy galloping around the countryside, Edward thought a tad guiltily.

Jane picked at the brocade on her gown. “That's what they all say, isn't it? A fine young man. A good match. How fortunate I am, indeed. Well. I went to Dudley Castle a few days ago, for I thought I might get a chance to see him or speak with him before we're to be wed, and . . .”

Ah, so she must have seen Gifford in his steed-like state. Which must have been rather a shock, if nobody had told her that Gifford was an E∂ian beforehand. “What happened?” he asked.

“It was awful. It turns out, Gifford Dudley is a . . . he's a—” She couldn't even finish the word. “Please, Edward,” she said, and to his horror, her voice wavered and broke. “You don't understand. He's a hor—”

“I know,” he said.

She stared at him. “You know?”

“Yes. Lord Dudley told me.”

“But then why did you agree to the match?” she cried indignantly. “How could you wish me to marry such a—”

“I didn't think you'd mind,” Edward said.

Her brown eyes widened. “What?”

“I thought you'd be intrigued by his condition.”

“No, I can assure you, I am not intrigued by anything to do with him.” Jane's nose wrinkled up in distaste. “And I wouldn't exactly say he has a condition.”

“Then what would you say?” Edward was starting to feel as though he'd missed something.

“He's a horrible skirt-chaser!” she exclaimed. “A stud, a lady-killer, a womanizer!”

Oh.

So she didn't know about Gifford's steed-like state.

“Well, Janey,” he said with a cough. “That's hardly surprising, is it? They say he's handsome.”

“Do they?” she said, with an edge of hysteria. “Do they say that?”

“Yes,” Edward affirmed. “And rich, handsome young men with titles can generally have their pick of the ladies.”

Unless you were a teenage king with a coughing problem.

Jane's mouth pursed. “I can't marry him. Please, Edward, you must put a stop to it.”

Edward couldn't stop this wedding, he knew, not in his country's present political climate. But he sensed that if he explained the true reason for her rushed nuptials (that they were in a great hurry for her to produce an heir who would inherit the throne of England after he died), it would only upset her further. Instead he tried to think of something soothing to tell her, but nothing especially soothing came to mind.

“I'm sorry, Jane,” he tried. “I can't. I . . .”

“If you care for me at all,” she said then, “you won't force me to marry him.”

Edward experienced a tightness in his chest. He coughed into his handkerchief until purple spots appeared on the edges of his vision. Pet raised her head from his lap and cast an accusatory glare in Jane's direction.

“Are you all right?” Jane murmured. “Edward. Are you . . . ill?”

“I'm dying,” he confessed.

He watched the color drain from her face.

“I thought it was only a chest cold,” she murmured.

“No.”

“Not ‘the Affliction'?” she guessed, and closed her eyes when he just gazed at her sadly.

“I do intend to get a second opinion,” he said. “A better one.”

“When?” she asked in a small voice. “When do they think . . .”

“Soon enough.” He took her small ink-stained hand in his. “I know this marriage is not what you want. Believe me, I understand.
Remember when I was engaged to Mary Queen of Scots?” He shuddered. “But you have to marry somebody, Janey, because that's what young ladies of high birth do: they get married. You can't hide in your books forever.”

Jane bent her head. A lock of runaway red hair fell into her face. “I know. But why him?” she asked. “Why now?”

“Because I trust Lord Dudley,” he said simply. “And because I'm out of time. I need to know that you'll be taken care of. After I'm gone, who knows who you'd be matched to? There are worse fates than ending up with someone young and good-looking and rich.”

“I suppose,” she said.

He knew he should tell her about the horse thing. This was a detail she should be aware of. But he couldn't find the appropriate wording for what was essentially,
and by the way, the guy you're marrying actually
is
a stud. Literally
.

He should tell her.

He'd get someone else to tell her.

“Do this for me, Jane,” he said gently. “Please. I'm asking as your king, but also as your friend.”

She remained silent, staring down at their clasped hands, but something changed in her expression. He saw there the beginnings of acceptance. His chest felt tight again.