by Cynthia Hand
Gifford sat on her left, Lord Dudley on her right, throughout the various courses of the meal: soups and soufflés, pies and pastries, and veal and venison. There was so much food, Jane thought she might explode. So much food, the people in the villages she and Gifford had visited could have lived on it for a week. The thought of so much extravagance and waste while there were Englishmen suffering and starving made her feel a bit sick.
They were halfway through the meal—eating some kind of meat pie—when Lord Dudley turned to Jane. “Your Majesty,” he said quietly, so that the other people at the table besides Gifford might not hear. “I thought we should discuss when to hold my son’s coronation. Not tonight, as I’m sure you’re exhausted, but tomorrow night would be appropriate, and then we’d have the day to prepare. I’ve already got his crown picked out.”
Jane stilled, her fork lifted halfway to her lips. “His crown?”
“Yes. To make Gifford the king.”
Gifford the king.
Jane’s hand trembled as she set her fork down.
The king. That was it, then. This whole mess made sense. The hasty wedding. The generosity of using the country house. The way he’d insisted she be crowned queen only moments after she learned of Edward’s death, foregoing all of the traditional procedures.
It was so obvious she felt stupid for not seeing it before. Through her, and through crowning Gifford king, John Dudley meant to rule England.
“No.” The word burst out of her. She darted a glance at Gifford. Shock flickered across his face, and then was snuffed out as quickly as a candle.
Dudley’s nose turned red. “And why not?”
She hardened her expression. Maybe she should have worn her crown today.
“Your Majesty,” he added.
She lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “There are several reasons, none of which I am obligated to divulge to you. But I will give you the most obvious reason, which is that Gifford is a horse.”
Dudley’s jaw practically dropped, which only encouraged Jane to go on.
“Consider it,” she said, leaning toward the duke. “How can your son help me rule the kingdom when he’s present only half the time—and during the half when most people are asleep?”
Gifford signaled for the serving boy to bring him more wine.
“Your Majesty, please reconsider,” Lord Dudley pleaded. “Your position will be much stronger with your husband as king. The people will see it as a sign of strength—”
She took a deep breath. “They need signs of my strength, not my reliance on the men around me.”
“But every queen needs a king,” Dudley sputtered.
She shook her head. “If you feel he needs a title, I can make him a duke. Duke of Clarence, perhaps. How’s that?”
Gifford snorted (a noise that was remarkably horse-like), lifted his goblet, and drank deeply.
“Your Majesty, I must implore you to change your mind.” Dudley paused and came at the subject in a new, calculatedly kind way. “This is understandably a difficult time for you. Let’s not be hasty with this decision.”
“Indeed,” she said coolly. “I would undoubtedly feel more at ease if I could visit my cousin’s body. Perhaps after that we can discuss the prince consort.”
Lord Dudley rubbed his chin, nearly losing a finger to the dagger of his nose, and nodded. “We should delay this discussion until a more suitable time presents itself.”
“Yes,” Jane agreed. “A more suitable time.”
She dared another look at her husband. Gifford’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright as he drained yet another goblet of wine. A servant rushed forward to refill.
“No more,” Jane said, much too loudly. She reached across her husband’s plate and laid a hand on the rim of his goblet just before the servant began to tip the pitcher of wine. “You’ve had enough.”
Chatter in the dining hall softened, and then made a full stop. Everyone looked at Jane with her hand over Gifford’s goblet, and the servant standing there awkwardly, and Gifford sitting between them with his face slowly turning red.
Belatedly, Jane realized what she had done.
Under the stares of shock and amusement, Jane pulled away from Gifford and his still-empty goblet, and slowly stood up.
Everyone else followed immediately.
“I’ve had a long day,” Jane announced. “I’d like to retire for the evening. Darling husband, do you wish to join me?” Maybe if they talked, he’d say all the things she wanted to hear: that he agreed with her, that he found the idea of being king silly and unnecessary, that this was all his father’s idea, his father’s scheming, not his.
She turned to Gifford. The turn of his mouth said something like, “I don’t know, what do you want me to do? I am, after all, yours to command.” But he held out his arm for her to take. “Nothing would delight me more than to spend time in your magnificent company.”
They walked in tense silence. When they reached their chambers she strode into her bedroom and threw off her outer robe like she couldn’t bear its weight any longer, then started plucking the jewels from her throat and hair.
Gifford lingered in the doorway.
“Are you coming in?” she asked, pausing to hurl her platform shoes into the corner. “There’s nowhere to sit, but feel free to pull up a wardrobe.”
He came in and let the door shut behind him.
“What would you like to discuss with me, Your Majesty?” Gifford’s tone held none of his typical friendliness. His brown eyes were cold. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“You’re angry,” she observed.
Gifford raised an eyebrow. “What right have I to be angry? I am merely your subject, Your Majesty.”
Jane scowled. “Don’t be silly. You aren’t merely my subject.”
“Then what am I, Your Majesty?”
Jane clenched her fists and paced faster. “You’re my husband. My prince consort.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. And your prince consort I shall remain.”
He was being so childish.
“Stop saying ‘Your Majesty’!” Jane tore a pillow off her bed and hurled it at him. He sidestepped it quickly. “I told you not to call me that.”
He blinked slowly, as though trying to give an impression of guilelessness. “Then what should I call you, Your Majesty?”
“Use my name.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He bowed and swirled his hand a few times in an overly dramatic display of courtesy. “Anything you say, Your Majesty. And not to question Your Majesty, but shouldn’t you be using the royal we? You are all of England now.” He paused a beat. “Your Majesty.”
“Why are you even angry about this?” She hurled another pillow, which he again artfully dodged. “You hate politics. You’ve been avoiding court for years.” She gave a bitter laugh. “The idea’s so ridiculous it’s almost sad. Can you imagine yourself prancing around the throne room, having carrots fed to you between petitions? What use could you possibly be as the king?”
“So you think I’m ridiculous. You think I’m useless.”
“I didn’t say that.” She brandished another pillow.
“You didn’t have to say it. Just because I don’t spend all my time with a book attached to my nose doesn’t mean I can’t infer what you meant.” He still hadn’t moved, aside from dodging pillows. His hands were behind his back. His chin was lifted. Even his hair was perfect. “Admit it. You’re ashamed that I’m an E∂ian.”
“No! But this is still a dangerous place for E∂ians, and it’s already causing talk that dinner is held after dark—just like our wedding—even in high summer.”
“Tell them I’m a vampire,” he said. “That should give them something to talk about. Anyway, what about all those decrees we discussed? Making the kingdom safe for E∂ians? Protecting the innocent? Helping the poor? What were you doing all day if not securing the safety of your people, Your Majesty?”
“A hundred things you couldn’t begi
n to understand since you spent your day galloping about the fields and eating apples. I didn’t ask for any of this, you know. I haven’t had a moment’s peace since we came here. First I’m told that my best friend is dead, and oh, by the way, that means that I’m the queen now—surprise!—a position I’m not remotely prepared for and I only agreed to accept because you encouraged me. Then, instead of being allowed to mourn for my cousin, I’m shuffled from place to place, signing insignificant documents and picking the color of the new table linens and meeting people I hate, all the while wondering why your father clearly wants you on the throne so badly.”
“Why wouldn’t he want me on the throne?” Gifford asked.
“Well, you have to admit, this is awfully convenient for you, a quick marriage to someone who’s suddenly in line for the throne. After all, I know you didn’t marry me for my hair.”
“I married you because I was given no choice,” he said.
“And of course you had no idea that your father was planning on making you the king of England. Didn’t you hear him, Gifford? He’s already got your crown picked out.”
“What makes you afraid to share power?” he said hotly. “Why couldn’t I be king?”
So there it was. He wanted to be king.
Perhaps that was what he’d wanted all along.
The pillow dropped from her hand. She took a step back, the betrayal of it piercing her through. All her life, she’d known that she was being used as a pawn in other people’s political games—by her father, by Thomas Seymour, by her own mother, and now by Lord Dudley. But she hadn’t wanted to imagine that she’d be used by Gifford.
“Is that all I’ve been to you?” she asked, struggling to keep the tremor from her voice. “A means to an end?”
He stared at her, hurt flashing in his eyes. “You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t trust anyone!” she cried. “How can I when it’s clear that this is all a game?”
“Jane . . .”
“I saw you and your father speaking after the coronation. He put his hand on your shoulder, like he was proud of you. What were you even talking about?”
Gifford didn’t answer.
“See. You’re doing exactly what he wants!” Her face was hot. Boiling. She’d never been so wounded and so angry in her life.
“I am not!” Gifford scooped up a pillow from the floor and threw it at her, though his aim was wide and he missed by quite a bit.
“You’re even terrible at throwing!” she yelled.
“I missed on purpose!” He marched to the door connecting her room and his. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty, I’ve had enough accusations for one evening.”
“Fine! Go away. I don’t want to see you.”
He hauled open the door on her side, finding another door on the other. It had no handle. He pushed at it, rattling the door in its frame a few times before he realized it wasn’t going to let him through.
“What makes you think you’re qualified to be king when you can’t even open a door?”
With an indignant snort, he slammed her door shut again and marched out the front door.
Slam.
A few seconds later: slam.
He’d gone into his room.
Well, good. “I never want to see you again!” she shouted through the adjoining door.
“Just read your stupid books!”
“My books aren’t stupid. You’re stupid.” Jane threw a pillow at the door. An answering thump signaled another pillow or maybe even a shoe.
Jane sank to her bed, the fire draining out of her.
She choked on a sob.
She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. She refused to cry about Gifford.
But then she did. She was a sixteen-year-old girl, after all, and sometimes a sixteen-year-old girl needs to throw herself into a pillow and let the tears come as they may.
FIFTEEN
Gifford
G had never wanted to hit someone with a pillow so much before in his life. He couldn’t believe how the evening had gone. Nor could he believe how his wife really perceived his usefulness: as a half man, incapable of ruling over his own wine goblet, let alone the country.
Jane didn’t want him to be king.
It wasn’t like he had ever yearned for the crown. (Being royalty looked like too many people telling a person what to do, if you asked him.) And yet, when one’s wife wore the crown, one got to thinking maybe a follicular adornment like a crown wouldn’t be so bad. It made sense. Otherwise, how would the introductions of the royal couple go?
“Ladies and gentlemen, presenting Her Majesty, the Queen of England! Escorted by . . . this fellow.”
Really, he should blame his father. Dudley had been preparing him to become king, speaking of the coronation as if it were inevitable. Saying things like, “We’ll discuss that when you’re king. . . .” and “When you’re king, you should really have a changing room built closer to the stables.”
He’d never wanted the crown.
But he hadn’t thought his wife would deny it to him. And with such voracity. Granted, they had only been married for a little more than a week, so it shouldn’t have been surprising that she didn’t trust him. But how could she not trust him?
G spent the early morning of day five of Queen Jane’s rule cantering through the grassy lowlands to the north and east of the castle. He kept trying to think of all the reasons why it was good not to be a king.
First, it would be hard to gallop with a crown.
Second, if he were king, he would rarely be alone, and would hardly be allowed to jaunt about the countryside on his own. He’d probably have an advisor on his back. How degrading.
Third, he had to admit, his lady was the more knowledgeable one. He was sure that somewhere along the way, Jane had read a book with a title like, How to Rule a Kingdom, Even if You’re Thirty-Second in the Line of Succession and Chances Are You’ll Never Actually Rule: Volume One of Three.
And finally, being a king was exactly the kind of responsibility G liked to avoid. If he were king, people would expect great things of him. His every action would be judged and weighed against the monarchs of the past. And if he made mistakes, well, a king’s mistakes had consequences. It was a lot of pressure.
Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown, G thought. Which was a pretty good line. He wished he had ink and paper. And hands with opposable thumbs, so he could write it down.
G snuffed (the horse’s equivalent of a sigh). He’d never wanted to be king. And his lady presented some logical reasons for her decision, although at the time, he would’ve appreciated the logical reasons being delivered in a less hostile way. Preferably with fewer pillows whooshing past his head.
Still, the rejection burned.
G slowed from a canter and leisurely trotted over toward a brook winding its way through the valley. He lowered his head and slurped water. It tasted cool on his tongue, and helped calm his burning ego.
What did a life as prince consort look like? He couldn’t help picturing it as some sort of personal valet, who attended the left side of the queen with astute devotion and when the queen said, “I’m thirsty,” he would reply by jumping to his feet and saying, “Your Majesty, if I have to search out the magical Carpesian Waters of Romania myself, killing loads of bandits along the way, you. Shall. Have. Your. Water.”
G shook his mane and whinnied, the sound definitely coming across as a whine, even to his own ears. He realized that in reality, he would not be a personal valet, and even if he were, there would most likely be a pitcher of water nearby.
The sun shot across the sky much faster than he liked. He could almost see the streak marks.
Sometimes he dreaded turning into a horse and leaving his humanity behind, but today, he dreaded the setting sun and the fact that he would soon have to face his wife. He wanted to be supportive and caring, and he wanted to talk about how they were going to change the kingdom, and he didn’t want to feel inferior and powerless, becau
se he knew Jane—at least he thought he knew her—and he knew she would not make him feel inferior and powerless.
G had always thought of himself as a rather enlightened sort of fellow, especially compared to the other men of the day. When his brother Stan’s wife had questioned Stan during a family dinner, she’d been locked in her room for three days. G would never react so harshly. Jane loved books, and that had never scared him like it did other men. Yes, it had irritated him in the beginning—a perfectly reasonable reaction—but that was because her books were bulky and space-consuming and seemed to be more important to her than he was. Or people in general. Then Jane had read to him underneath the tree, in that soft lilting voice of hers, so sure in the pronunciations of all the big words. Like sesquipedalian. Which Jane said meant “big word.”
He had never blamed her for reading. Or for thinking. Or for stating her opinion so often. And God’s teeth, she stated her opinion often.
He would never have lorded his “lord and master” title over her.
But now, she was his queen. His sovereign. His ruler. The night of the coronation, he had pledged his allegiance to her, and her alone.
How was he supposed to be a husband after that? Was he to be lord and master of his household, as long as his household, the queen, agreed?
The sun continued its speedy trajectory toward the horizon, and G turned back toward London and hastened his trot.
His thoughts didn’t sound like his own. They sounded more like his father’s or his brother’s. G had never fully formed his own opinions regarding the roles of men and women in the world. His partnership with Jane had always naturally felt like that: a partnership. Not a dominion. Not a master/servant situation. Even when they didn’t particularly like each other, they treated each other with disdain equally.
She tried to throw herself into a Pack attack, and he prevented it.
He tried to drink himself into an ale-induced stupor, and she hid the stuff.
She educated him about herbs and . . . that other plants that grew in . . . that one place she was reading about. He educated her to accept that not all E∂ians were good.
