My Lady Jane

by Cynthia Hand

  “Thank you for warning me, Mother,” she called as her mother swept out of the room.

  Her mother didn’t answer, of course. Too much to do before Saturday.

  Saturday. That was four days away.

  Jane got dressed quickly. Then she grabbed her book about beets, chose a second and third book (E∂ians: Historical Figures and Their Downfall and Wilderness Survival for Courtiers) just in case she finished the first, and headed out to the stables. If this Gifford person was going to be her husband (but a lot of things could happen between now and Saturday, she reminded herself), then she had a right to know exactly what she was getting herself into.

  Over the years, Jane had studied every map of England, both historical and modern, and that included more localized maps of the kingdom. And so she knew that Dudley Castle, where the Dudleys resided when they weren’t in London, was a little more than a half a day’s ride from Jane’s home at Bradgate. She could have simply ridden her horse to Dudley Castle, but violence was on the rise in the kingdom and the countryside was reportedly dangerous to travel alone and unguarded. (The household staff said E∂ians were responsible for the disorder—some group called the Pack—but Jane refused to believe these awful rumors.) The last thing she needed on top of this sudden marriage announcement was to get caught in some kind of scuffle. So in the interest of safety (and not enraging her mother), she ordered a carriage to drive her to Dudley.

  All she needed was to check on the nose situation.

  It was a lovely day. The rolling hills that surrounded Bradgate were bright with early summer. Trees were in bloom. Sunlight glimmered off the stream that burbled alongside the road. The red brick of the manor gleamed invitingly behind her on a small rise. Deer leapt away as the carriage rattled along, while birds sang pretty songs.

  Jane liked London; there were benefits to staying there, of course, one being close proximity to her cousin Edward. But Bradgate Park was her home. She loved the fresh air, the blue sky, the old oak trees standing on distant knolls. Her grandfather had intended the park to be the best deer-hunting ground in all of England—and it was, so it frequently received prestigious royal visitors, but that hardly mattered to Jane. (She didn’t hunt, though Edward was quite good, she’d heard.) To Jane, walking through Bradgate Park was the second-best way to escape any problem of Real Life.

  The first-best way, of course, was through books. So as she left Bradgate behind, she allowed herself to become enraptured by the unabridged history of beets. (Did you know the ancient Romans were the first to cultivate the beet for the root, rather than just the greens?)

  Jane, as we mentioned earlier, loved books. There was nothing she relished more than the weight of a hefty tome in her hands, each beautiful volume of knowledge as rare and wonderful and fascinating as the last. She delighted in the smell of the ink, the rough feel of the paper between her fingers, the rustle of sweet pages, the shapes of the letters before her eyes. And most of all, she loved the way that books could transport her from her otherwise mundane and stifling life and offer the experiences of a hundred other lives. Through books she could see the world.

  Not that her mother would ever understand this, Jane thought after she finished the last page of her beet book and closed it with a sigh. While Lord Grey had encouraged her studies when he’d been alive, Lady Frances had never accepted Jane’s hunger for knowledge. What could a young lady possibly need to know, she’d often said, besides how to secure herself a husband? All that Jane’s mother ever cared for was influence and affluence. She loved nothing more than to remind people that she was of royal blood—“My grandmother was a queen,” she was fond of saying, over and over and over again. Too bad that the late King Henry had written Lady Frances out of the line of succession years ago. Probably because he just didn’t like her attitude.

  Power and money. That was all that mattered to Lady Frances. And now she was selling off her own daughter the way one barters a prized mare. Without so much as asking her.

  Typical.

  Jane shook away the familiar resentment toward her mother and put her book aside, cringing at a bend in one corner, likely sustained when Lady Frances had abducted the book and hurled it to the bed. The poor book. It didn’t deserve to be hurt just because Jane had to get married.

  Married. Uck.

  She wished people would stop trying to marry her off. It was such a bother.

  Jane’s first engagement had been to the son of a silk merchant. Humphrey Hangrot had been his name, and since Hangrot Silk had been the only silk merchant in all of England, they controlled the prices. Humphrey’s parents were not shy about reminding the Grey family of their exciting new wealth. Most notably this was done by draping their stick-figure son in layers and layers of their most expensive brocade available. Jane had lost count of the number of balls she’d been forced to attend at the Hangrot family home; she’d survived by always having a book in hand.

  As for Humphrey, he’d introduced himself to her as the “future king . . . of silk,” and instructed her to touch his sleeve. No, really touch it. Feel it. Had she ever beheld such fine cloth? She’d asked him if he realized the worms were boiled in their own cocoons in order to degum the silk, and he refused to speak to her after that. The engagement had dissolved thanks to the sudden arrival of a second silk merchant, one who was willing to undercut Hangrot Silk’s prices enough to take all of their business, which led to the immediate destitution of the family. No one, it turned out, wanted to pay Hangrot Silk’s outrageous prices, and the family retreated to a small home in the country where they faded from the public memory.

  The second engagement had been to Theodore Tagler, a virtuoso violinist from France. He’d been touring England with the Oceanous Orchestra when his family came to visit London. Several highborn families had heard about the Taglers’ desire to find a wife for their son—a lady of refined taste and good family, and who wouldn’t mind her husband’s long absences, should she decide not to accompany him on tour. Lord and Lady Grey had immediately suggested Jane—they were still trying to recover from the Hangrot scandal—and the match was approved.

  Jane had a fair ear for music and enjoyed many sonatas, minuets, and symphonies. She even liked the occasional opera—her favorites being the tragedies in which the lovers both died in the end as punishment for a small act of mercy—but she hadn’t been fond of her new fiancé’s style of playing, which she found rather boisterous. Theodore himself turned out to be rather boisterous as well. The saying “bull in a china shop” came to mind. How he’d been able to handle such a delicate instrument had been a mystery to her, and it had been the instrument that dissolved this engagement as swiftly as the last.

  The violin, a one-of-a-kind Belmoorus from the late violin maker Beaufort Belmoor, had been stolen. Snatched. Thieved. Taken from its place in the home of Beaufort Belmoor’s children. It had been tracked across France and through Spain, all the way to England. The “owner” who’d loaned the violin to Theodore Tagler—as all non-musician owners of instruments do to ensure their possessions are played regularly—had been arrested and, in spite of Theodore’s innocence in the matter, he and his family had also gone into immediate destitution.

  The third engagement had been to Walter Williamson, the grandson of a famous but reclusive inventor, though what it was he had invented was said to be a state secret. If it hadn’t been for the whole marriage thing, Jane wouldn’t have minded Walter; he appeared intelligent and well read, and spoke often of the legacy his grandfather had left. He, too, had aspirations of invention. It was in his blood, he said, not that he had ever shown a hint of creativity.

  Only a month into the engagement, papers were released revealing Walter’s grandfather had been a thief, imprisoned these last fifteen years. Public regard of the Williamson family plummeted, and (as you can surmise) the result was immediate destitution.

  And the fourth engagement—well, the young man turned out not to exist. Jane’s mother (for Jane’s father had died bet
ween the third and fourth engagements) had received a miniature painting of a handsome fellow, not realizing it had been a sample work—an advertisement for the artist’s skills. And while Jane’s mother was typically intelligent, she’d been desperate to marry Jane off to someone by now, and had misunderstood the note accompanying the miniature. “I present to you an opportunity fit for someone of Lady Jane’s rank” had meant the skill of the artist, not the imaginary—though incredibly handsome—fellow in the painting. Her mother had announced the acceptance of the proposal before the artist could write back to inquire about travel for Jane’s portrait and a reminder that his fee was non-refundable.

  In a fit of anger and embarrassment, Lady Frances told a revised story in which she was the victim of a vicious prank—and so soon after her own husband’s tragic death. This time it was the artist who fell into immediate destitution.

  It seemed that agreeing to marry Lady Jane was a very risky business.

  If her track record with fiancés was anything to go by, Gifford Dudley’s days—and the days of his family’s prosperity—were numbered.

  She almost felt sorry for him.

  Jane picked up the second book, the one about E∂ians, and traced the word with her forefinger. What she wouldn’t give to have an animal form. Something no one would dare to bother or force weddings upon, like a bear. But if being an E∂ian was hereditary, as many people insisted, then the trait had skipped her. (No one was supposed to know, but Jane had once overheard her parents arguing about her mother’s E∂ian magic.) And if the gift was bestowed on the worthy (another popular hypothesis, though less scientific), all her efforts to be so deserving had fallen woefully short.

  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.