by Cynthia Hand
The Tower of London, too, held that stillness when they arrived. That feeling of a held breath.
(We’d like to take this opportunity to point out that, in spite of the name, the Tower of London is actually a castle with many towers. The White Tower, Bloody Tower, the Flint Tower . . . It’s all very impressive.)
There were few reasons that might explain why Jane was being taken to the tower in the middle of the night, and none of them were good.
“This is all so ominous,” G muttered as the carriage jerked to a halt while the first portcullis was raised. One of the horses whinnied and tossed its head. “My friend up there agrees.”
They started moving again, now crossing the bridge over the moat. There was a foul odor rising from that cesspool, but Jane hardly cared, and didn’t even bother to cover her nose, or tell Gifford the impressive—if disgusting—history of the Tower of London moat.
When the second portcullis was raised, they moved through the outer ward, under another portcullis (there were a lot of portcullises, Jane observed somewhere in the back of her mind), and then made their way toward the majestic White Tower.
The carriage stopped right before the door to the keep. Jane glanced across the Tower Green, toward the chapel. Torches burned on walls, but there was no movement, save the rustling of raven wings above. “Please just tell me what this is about,” she said.
But her guard only took her book and left it on the seat. She was ushered into a great hall where a crowd of council members waited, and though everyone turned to look at her when she entered, flanked by her husband and a troop of guards, hardly anyone spoke.
Jane looked to the throne for Edward, but her cousin wasn’t there. “What is all this?” she asked again. “Why was I brought here? Where is Edward?”
Lord Dudley strode forward, his nose an arrow that pointed straight at her. “Lady Jane. I’m relieved you could return so quickly.”
It wasn’t as if she’d been given a choice.
“There is news.”
Obviously.
Jane glanced at G, whose face had grown impassive at his father’s appearance. “Please,” Jane said at last. “Tell me.”
Lord Dudley’s voice was somber, but it sounded across the throne room like a gong. “King Edward the Sixth is dead. Long live Queen Jane.”
TWELVE
Gifford
The words “Queen Jane” rang in G’s ears, but the more pressing matter was the sudden and extreme paleness of his wife’s face. He felt that familiar urge to protect her, the one that had manifested during the Pack attack.
“Edward is dead?” Jane said, her voice almost inaudible.
Oh right, G thought. The king’s death should’ve been the most pressing issue. It was only Jane’s close relationship to the king that stopped him from saying, Yes, my lady, but did you hear the second part? About the whole queen thing?
Lord Dudley nodded solemnly. “He succumbed to ‘the Affliction’ this morning.”
Jane’s gaze went vacant. She stared at nothing for a long moment. G edged toward her, and then back, not sure what to do. Was she going to faint? Or would she consider that a very cliché thing for a woman to do? Desperate to console her, he almost considered shouting, Quick, someone, get her a book! Any book! But he wasn’t sure if she was the stubborn Jane of the “I have servants for that” variety, or the Jane he’d almost kissed earlier, and he didn’t want to be humiliated in court by having his attempts to help his wife rebuked.
Especially if she was to be queen.
A flurry of activity broke out at one end of the throne room as Jane’s mother swept in.
“Darling Jane,” she said, swooping over to her daughter, taking her in her arms. “I am so sorry about your dearest friend and cousin, the king.”
She spoke louder than necessary, but G suspected she wanted everyone to hear.
Jane limply returned her mother’s embrace, and then all at once seemed to notice that the throne room was bursting with people and every single one of their faces was focused on her.
“I think I’d like to be excused for a moment,” she said, a little louder and to no one in particular. “I’m sure the rest of you need time to mourn as well.”
G glanced at Lord Dudley, who seemed surprised by Jane’s declaration.
“Um . . . I’m sorry, my lady, but you need to stay for the coronation,” the duke said.
“Oh?” Jane said. “Is the new king to be crowned immediately?”
Lord Dudley frowned. “No. A new queen.”
“Ah,” she said. “Princess Mary?”
“No. It is you, my lady.” Lord Dudley bowed in her direction.
Jane turned to her left, then to her right, seeming to search for the lady to whom he was referring.
And then recognition dawned upon her face.
Her mouth opened slightly. “But . . . but . . . I don’t want to be queen. It’s not my right. Mary is the rightful heir.”
A squire stepped forward and unrolled a scroll of paper. “By royal decree, from His Majesty King Edward. A Revised Line of Succession. ‘Upon the event of my death, I bequeath my kingdom and the entitlements and protections thereof, to the Lady Jane Grey and the male heirs who follow her.’”
Lord Dudley raised an elbow. “May I escort you to the throne so we can commence with the coronation?”
“So quickly?” She stepped back.
“We need a queen. Now, my lady,” Lord Dudley said.
Jane’s mother bowed deeply before her. G could tell from Jane’s face that this act was perhaps the most disturbing gesture of support she could have received. Her brows knitted together, her hands stayed firmly at her side, and she gazed pleadingly at G. He was pretty sure if she could turn into a Brown Carpathian bull she would stampede out of the castle and never return.
Horse, she mouthed. He then realized she wanted him to become a horse, and carry her far away. G wished he had the ability to comply.
Here was his lady, shaking ever so minutely under the heavy stares of every member of court. This was the Jane with the brilliant red hair and radiant face. The one who didn’t pretend everything was under her control. The one who was most accustomed to a book staring back at her, not a person. Not a roomful of people. The one who, realizing what a formidable task ruling a country was, would never lunge for the crown when given the chance.
This was his lady. His wife. And he would take care of her.
G stepped forward, took her hand, and draped it over his arm. They stood, nose to nose, for a very long moment, the hum of murmurs in the throne room dimming to near silence.
“You can do this,” G whispered.
Her voice was ragged. “I can’t.”
He shrugged. “Okay, we’ll tell them thank you so much for the very kind offer of running the country, but no thank you. I have no desire to honor my cousin, the king’s, wishes. Now where are my damn books?”
Jane cracked the tiniest of smiles. “That sounds about right.”
“Or, perhaps, as an alternative, and merely a suggestion”—G ran his fingers lightly over her knuckles—“you could accept the throne, and do everything you said you would do if you ever ran the country.”
She looked up. He took her face in his hands.
“Remember the people we helped? Now you could help an entire kingdom, from giving the highest born a new perspective and lending aid to the lowest peasants. We could help them, together. I’ll be right here with you. Except when . . . I have to be outside. But I’m with you, Jane.”
“Is it possible?” Jane said. “That we could help others and rule?”
G gave her a look of eternal optimism. “Let’s not forget the free fountain of never-ending ale.”
Jane threw her arms around G, taking him and the entire court by surprise. The more conservative ladies in the throne room daintily held lace handkerchiefs to their bright cheeks. The servants in attendance gave one another knowing looks, as though to say, With such a forward lady, no wonde
r there were shredded clothes in the wedding bedchamber.
Lord Dudley, on the other hand, beamed as if the couple were producing a male heir right then and there.
A chill went down G’s spine at the sight of his father’s smile. His father never smiled. Which made G wonder just what the duke was up to.
Lord Dudley led Jane to the throne, but she would not let go of G’s hand. In fact, she squeezed his fingers until he winced, increasing the pressure as the Archbishop of Canterbury lowered the crown onto her head. She let go only to hold the scepter and the orb, the final symbols of the monarchy.
The hand with the orb shook, and Jane’s eyes narrowed enough that G thought she might chuck the ball toward Lord Dudley’s eagle nose. He had to admit it provided a very tempting target. But she refrained, and placed the orb and scepter back on the pillow.
“Long live Queen Jane!” Lord Dudley announced.
“Long live the queen!” the members of court replied.
And it was over. Just like that. Hours ago, they were alone in their country house, possibly about to kiss, and now Jane was queen. Although G had missed the last few years of court, and therefore any sort of changes to royal protocol, he distinctly remembered the coronation of King Edward. There’d been three days of celebrations in anticipation of the event, and the coronation itself had lasted hours. And it had taken place in the opulent Westminster Cathedral, not this less formal throne room. King Edward had been nine at the time, and seemed barely able to stand under the weight of the crown and the royal robes.
But Jane’s coronation had lasted ten minutes. There were no street-side celebrations to welcome the new queen. None of the pomp and splendor that should accompany a coronation. Even now, as G glanced around the throne room, the expressions on faces ranged from forced smiles to worried glances, excepting the mother of the queen and G’s own still strangely beaming father.
Lord Dudley stood by the throne, assuming a position of power a little prematurely, by G’s assessment. A line had formed to receive the queen, and vow allegiance to her, but G was no longer watching the line. Instead, movement at the entrance caught his attention. A messenger entered the room—cautiously, as all messengers did after the reign of the Lion King.
When Lord Dudley saw the messenger, he casually stepped away from the throne and met the boy, who handed over a sealed envelope. G tilted his head to get a better view around a particularly portly lady-in-waiting. Lord Dudley broke the seal, but not before G noticed a royal imprint in the red wax that sealed the letter.
As the duke read the parchment, he frowned and then frowned deeper. He refolded the letter, stowed it in his pocket, and hastened away.
No one else took note of the transaction. The once uncertain atmosphere around Jane had turned into excitement for the new Queen of England.
G leaned down to whisper in Jane’s ear. “Your Majesty.”
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare ‘Your Majesty’ me.”
He smiled. “My lady, please excuse me for a moment.”
Worry sparked in Jane’s eyes, but she nodded. “Hurry back.”
G quickly and quietly followed his father to a far corner of the room. Lord Dudley pulled his most trusted advisor inside a small alcove. He produced the envelope and handed it over. The advisor read the contents, frowned, and dropped the hand holding the letter to his side.
“It is as I feared,” Lord Dudley said. “Despite our best efforts, word of Jane’s ascension has reached Mary before our men could apprehend her. Someone must have sent warning.”
G ducked a little farther behind a pillar.
“Where is she?” his advisor asked.
“They do not know. She has most probably fled to Kenninghall. But more importantly, she refuses to accept Jane as rightful queen.”
G felt his heart beating through his ribs at this news. But what his father said next was even more frightening.
“Find her. Arrest her. Do it before nightfall tomorrow. If we fail, Mary could retain the backing of the army. And then we will lose the throne.”
G’s skin went cold as the advisor rushed toward the exit, presumably to execute Lord Dudley’s orders. How had Mary not known about the revised order of succession? Maybe the king had not gone so far as to consult with his sisters, but surely he’d at least told them about his wishes before his death. Hadn’t he?
G watched as his father pulled down on the ends of his jacket and straightened his back, all the while shifting his face from a tense expression to one of practiced optimistic decorum. G strode over to him.
“Father,” he said.
Lord Dudley startled but recovered quickly. “Gifford, you should be attending to the queen.”
“Father, I saw the messenger.”
The duke made a swatting motion with his hand. “Oh, that was nothing. A trifle about your new living quarters. So many things to arrange.”
G took a deep breath, hesitant to reveal his eavesdropping, but he had to know more. “I heard what you said to your advisor. About Mary.”
Lord Dudley took hold of G’s arm and yanked him behind one of the ornate royal banners hanging from the ceiling.
“Be careful, son. Do not speak of such things. They are not your concern.”
“If they are a threat to my wife, they are very much my concern,” G said, trying hard to keep from raising his voice.
“I beg to differ. A queen and her consort do not need to be informed of every little detail of running a kingdom. That’s why I have a job.”
“Little detail? I heard you say—” G spoke too loudly and his father cut him off with a scathing glance.
“I heard you say,” G continued quietly, “that you . . . that we could lose the throne if Mary is not captured.”
The duke placed a heavy hand on G’s shoulder and threw his nose to the air as he inhaled sharply. G was surprised he didn’t inhale half the court along the way.
“Son, I am only going to explain this once. Your wife is queen. The late King Edward provided for this succession, and received the ratifying signatures from all thirty-one members of the Privy Council. You are the queen’s consort, and very soon you will make a powerful king.”
G? As king?
Well, that was a terrifying idea, but he and Jane had talked at length about what they’d do if they ruled the country. Together, they could make a difference. Besides, he’d look great in a crown.
“Still, you have much to learn,” G’s father went on. “Leave these matters to me. Trust me, I will not allow a foot-stomping illegitimate hag to get in my way!”
“You mean, to get in the queen’s way,” G said slowly. “Right, Father? The queen’s way?”
“Yes, yes, the queen’s way,” Lord Dudley said dismissively.
“But Mary is rather popular among the people despite being a bit duddy. If she rallies support—”
G’s father put a hand up. “Gifford, I have put forth great effort to secure your future, and the future of our country. I have done things you would never be brave enough to do. Focus on becoming king. Until then, keep your expert opinions limited to things you understand. Like apples.”
With that, his father ducked out from behind the banner, leaving G with that fallen expression that can only come from the harsh rebuke of a father. He stepped out from the chapel. When Jane saw him, she didn’t smile. Maybe his father was right. Until he was crowned king, he shouldn’t worry about things that didn’t concern him.
THIRTEEN
Edward
The king (the actual king, we mean), through no particular fault of his own, was lost.
During the first few hours in his newly acquired E∂ian form, he’d been caught up in what he could only describe as a kind of beautiful bird joy—the sweet euphoria of flight, of riding the wind, testing the strength of his wings, encompassed in the soundless serenity of the world as seen from so high above. He’d lost himself in how good it felt to no longer be . . . well, dying.
Edward didn’t kn
ow this at the time, because he had no way of looking at himself and assessing what kind of species of bird he actually was, but he had transformed into a kestrel, which is, for those readers who are not bird-enthusiasts, a small falcon—Falco tinnunculus—with very handsome brown-speckled feathers. Edward simply knew that he had wings and a beak and two legs that ended in talons, which made him some kind of bird. And he knew that up there, against the sky, he was free in a way that he had never been free before.
But after a while—who knows how long, really, as kestrels aren’t known for their ability to keep track of time—he began to have a nagging human thought in the back of his brain, and it was this:
I should be doing something.
Which led to: I should be going somewhere.
He strained to remember more. It’s not somewhere that I should be going to, so much as someone, he thought. Someone who will help me.
Then he remembered that he was not just a bird, but a king, and someone had attempted to assassinate him and steal his throne, and he had a sister named Bess who had told him—what had she told him? That his mother had also been a bird, a beautiful white bird, and wasn’t it divine to be a bird, to rule the air, to dive and lift so, to hover, and then the bird joy had him again.
Some time later he thought, No, that wasn’t all Bess told me. She said to go to Gran—his grandmother—although he hadn’t seen the old lady in years.
At Helmsley. Which was an abandoned, half-fallen-down old castle.
North, somewhere.
Now which way was north?
As a sixteen-year-old human boy, Edward had never possessed the keenest sense of direction, since most of the time when he wished to travel to a place he was taken by carriage and did none of the driving. As an only-a-few-hours-old bird, he didn’t know north, either. He knew there was a river in one direction, and a series of low hills in another direction, an expanse of green field below him, and in that field he somehow knew there was a little brown field mouse, just coming out of its hole. Without consulting him at all, his body plummeted toward the defenseless creature, wings tucking in, talons reaching, until Edward-the-bird struck the mouse with tremendous force and snatched it from the face of the earth. The poor thing gave a rather awful shriek, which was understandable, and then went quiet. Edward-the-bird flapped off to a nearby tree branch, still clutching the mouse, and then, to Edward-the-boy’s horror . . . he ate it, bones and fur and all.
