My Lady Jane

by Cynthia Hand

  Gracie jumped to her feet and made herself busy tending to the fire. “Anyway, you’re a greenie,” she said as she strategically arranged more pieces of wood. “You’ve just discovered your E∂ian form. You’ll learn to control it, in time.”

  He sighed. “How do you do control it?”

  “It’s not so hard. When I want to change, I take a deep breath to clear the head, and I think something like, To be a fox now would be to find our supper, and to find our supper would be to help the young king, and then the fox rises to the occasion. Speaking of which,” she added, turning to her pack. “I’ve brought us some dessert.”

  She took out a handkerchief and unfolded it, and there, glistening in the firelight, was a handful of blackberries.

  Edward didn’t know what happened. One minute he was fine, pleased, even, at the prospect of having the taste of blackberries on his tongue again, and then the next he was thrashing in a violent series of seizures, his eyes rolling back in his head, his mouth foaming. He could barely discern Gracie’s face over him, her eyes wide with worry.

  After several moments the shaking passed. He lay for a while curled on to his side, exhausted and panting, then coughing again, always coughing, then vomiting up rabbit. When he was done Gracie laid her cool hand against his forehead.

  “You’re hot,” she murmured.

  He wished he could take that as a compliment. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t have one or two days to get to Helmsley, do I? I’m still dying, apparently.”

  Her jaw set. “You need to change. It’s the only way.”

  All that was left of his pride seemed to have deserted him. “How?” he whispered.

  “I’ll wrap you loose, so you won’t be injured, and bind you to me, and carry you.”

  “Bind me to you?” he croaked, struggling to keep his eyes open.

  “Like a mother would carry her bairn,” she said, grabbing his hand. “You’d be safe, and we’d go quickly. I can run like the wind, even when I’m not a fox.” She pulled his hand into her chest, where he could feel the strong beat of her heart. “I promise you. I can get you to your granny.”

  “All right,” he whispered, a hint of a smile appearing on his lips. “I can’t very well say no to spending the night resting against your bosom, can I?”

  She snatched his hand away. “Don’t be fresh.”

  He gave a soft laugh, and then he was a kestrel. Gracie sighed and pulled the cloak around him, and it was dark, and warm there against her, and good. Really, really good.

  He became slowly aware of a faintly bad smell. He stretched and was surprised to find himself in his human body again, on a real bed, it felt like, covered in furs. He opened his eyes. A single candle burned in the darkness, and as his eyes adjusted he could make out a figure sitting by his bed. A woman.

  “Gracie? Where are we?”

  “You’re at Helmsley,” said a voice, but it wasn’t the Scot’s voice. It was Bess. She smiled at him and caught his hand. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.”

  “I was beginning to think so, too,” he admitted.

  “Here.” She brought a cup to his lips. He drank and then hissed at the taste. It wasn’t water, but a concoction so foul it made his eyes tear.

  “It will snake the poison from your blood,” Bess told him. “Gran made it.”

  “Gran’s here?”

  “Of course I’m here,” came a gruff old voice from the doorway. “Where else do you suppose I would be?”

  “Hello, Gran.”

  “You’ve got yourself in quite the pickle, haven’t you, my boy?” Gran said. She went to the window and drew back the heavy velvet curtains. Warm midday sunshine poured in.

  “Gran,” Bess admonished warmly. “You shouldn’t address him as boy. He’s still the king.”

  “He’s a birdbrained boy, as far as I can tell,” the old lady cackled. “I mean, getting himself poisoned. My word, child. People tried to poison me ten times a day, when I was queen. None of them ever succeeded.”

  “Yes, Gran,” he said. “It was in poor form to get myself poisoned.”

  “Now get up,” she ordered. “You need to get the blood moving through you, to give the antidote a chance to work.”

  He still felt light-headed and wobbly, but he didn’t argue. He let Bess support him as he sat up and swung his legs out of bed. That’s when he discovered he was wearing only the white linen shirt Gracie had stole for him, which hit him mid-thigh.

  “Um, where are my pants?”

  Gran scoffed. “Oh, please, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” She got on the other side of him and poked him in the ribs. “Up with you.”

  He stood. It did not escape his notice that Gran was as unpleasantly fragrant as ever, but the skunk smell was actually working to clear his head. He felt weak and hollowed out and half-naked, of course, but decidedly better.

  Maybe he wasn’t going to die.

  Gracie appeared in the doorway. Her gaze went straight to his white, white legs.

  “Your Majesty,” she said with a grin, and curtsied impertinently, which looked all wrong because she was still wearing trousers.

  Or maybe he wanted to die, after all.

  Still, as Gran had said, it was nothing she hadn’t seen before.

  Gran and Bess were both looking from Gracie to Edward and back again with amused expressions. Then Bess snapped out of it and fetched his pants. He tried to ignore his burning face as she helped him put them on, one leg and then the other. Once they were fastened, he stood up straight and said, “I can manage,” shook Bess off as she tried to help him, and walked slowly but steadily across the room to the window. It looked like a summer day outside: birds singing, green grasses swaying in a half-tended garden below, sky so blue you would doubt that it had ever rained.

  “How long have we been here?” he asked.

  “You arrived early this morning,” Bess provided.

  Less than a day, then. Gracie had run them here in less than a day. He glanced back at her. “You can run pretty fast, for a girl.”

  “Well, I may have held up a nobleman on the road and borrowed his horse,” she confessed.

  A crime punishable by death, he remembered. “I owe my life to you,” he said.

  Her dimples appeared. “A girl does what she can, Sire.”

  “Oh, I like her,” Gran announced. “Can you play cards, my dear?”

  “A bit. And I hear you’re the queen of hearts,” Gracie answered, which clearly pleased the old lady even more.

  “There’s no time for cards, Gran.” Bess’s expression was so solemn that she vaguely resembled Mary for a moment. Which made Edward remember Mary. And her soldiers, marching toward his castle.

  Gran sighed. “True enough for you, but not so for me. Come along, you,” she said to Gracie, grabbing the girl’s arm and towing her toward the door. “I’ll show you how to play trump.”

  “Keep an eye on her sleeves,” Edward called after them. “You never know what she might be hiding up there.”

  Gracie made a face that said, Do I look like an amateur to you? and he was tempted to warn Gran, too, that the Scot was more than what she seemed. But then they were gone.

  “We need to talk,” Bess said in a low voice.

  He crossed back to the window and leaned against the sill. Bess closed the door, then pulled a chair up beside him. “All right, Bess,” he murmured, suddenly tired again. “Tell me what’s happened.”

  “Jane became queen, as you intended.”

  “As Dudley intended,” he corrected darkly.

  “The duke also attempted to capture Mary and me and throw us in the Tower, so we would pose no threat to Jane’s rule,” Bess continued. “But I slipped out when I heard them coming, and Mary caught wind of it through one of her craftier spies, and escaped to her estate at Kenninghall, and from there she went to Flanders to enlist help from the Holy Roman Emperor. She raised an army, of course, and from what I understand, she took back the thr
one this morning.”

  “We need to go,” Edward said. “I need to be there, now.”

  Bess shook her head. “Mary wanted this—for you to be dead and the crown upon her own head—to rid the kingdom of E∂ians and return to the purity of the old days. She will stop at nothing.”

  He remembered the bite of poisoned pudding that his sister had pressed firmly to his lips. To ensure that very thing.

  “So she was in on it all along?” he asked. “With Dudley.”

  “No.” Bess’s mouth tightened. “It was by chance that Mary and I found out about Dudley poisoning you. One day, on our way to see you, we happened to overhear a conversation between the doctor and the nurse concerning an extra ingredient they were adding to your blackberries. When Mary confronted Dudley about it, he claimed that he was paving the way for Mary to take the throne, although I think he always intended for Jane to rule, and for Gifford to rule over Jane, and Dudley himself to rule over Gifford. But Mary bought his story, and played along, as did I, although all the while I was trying to find a way to save you.”

  “Like with the jar of apricots,” he remembered. “You did save me.”

  She nodded and smiled at him tenderly. “You’re my little brother. I could not stand by and let any harm come to you.”

  “But Mary is my sister, too,” Edward said. “She’s my godmother, for heaven’s sake. How dare she try to steal away my birthright! I am the rightful king!” He was overcome by another wave of fatigue, so much that Bess rose to offer him her chair, and he couldn’t help but accept.

  “I am the king,” he muttered.

  “Not to Mary, you’re not,” Bess said, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Not anymore.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Jane

  There was no battle for the kingdom.

  Within minutes of Mary’s arrival, red-coated soldiers had swarmed in, wrested Gifford’s sword away from him (not that he really attempted to use it), and bound Jane and Gifford’s hands with ropes. In short order they were marched down the stairs and through the Tower at sword point.

  “I’ll try reasoning with her,” Jane said as they made their way to the throne room.

  “Do you think it will do any good?” Gifford was pale, but she could see he was trying to be brave.

  “I don’t know. Just let me do the talking. Everyone knows that Mary hates E∂ians.”

  “She can’t tell just by looking at me, you know. It’s not like I have a tail hidden in my trousers.”

  “Even so. Now would be a fantastic time to learn to control your gift.”

  They reached the throne room, which was packed with soldiers and nobility alike. Her ladies-in-waiting were all there, a few looking faint on account of all the excitement, while others had their noses turned up like they’d never thought Jane made a good queen, anyway.

  Her mother was there. She looked up as Jane and Gifford entered, but didn’t meet Jane’s eyes. A guard poked Jane in the ribs to get her moving toward the throne.

  Where Mary waited.

  Edward’s eldest sister reclined in the throne, Jane’s crown already gracing her brow. She wore a voluminous gown of crimson damask, with roses embroidered along the blue background of the hems. She looked regal, as though she’d known her whole life that this was what she was meant to do.

  “Jane.” Mary’s tone was sweet as she leaned forward. “You haven’t been harmed?”

  Jane stood before her own throne. She kept herself as straight and tall as possible and let her eyes sweep over the assembly near the throne: dukes, members of the Privy Council, and standing at the front, John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland.

  “You,” Jane murmured. “Whose side are you on now?”

  His only answer was a slippery smile.

  “Jane.” A note of irritation snapped in Mary’s voice. “You haven’t been harmed?”

  Jane turned her eyes back on Mary. “You’re sitting in my chair.”

  A few people in the crowd gasped, but Mary only smiled. “Jane. Dear one. Surely you know that it was only through the plots of others that you managed to sit here at all. The throne was always meant to be mine until Edward”—her voice cracked at the late king’s name—“produced an heir. Unfortunately my brother never had that opportunity. He was taken from us too quickly. The law states that I am next in the line of succession.”

  “Edward amended his will. It was his final act before he died.” Jane didn’t look at Lord Dudley again, but hadn’t that been exactly what he’d said? Now he was just standing there, accepting Mary as queen?

  “I feel sorry for you, Jane.” Mary nodded to herself. “You were caught in this game without the smallest hint how to play it.”

  “Edward left the throne to me.” Jane kept her voice soft but firm. “He revised the line of succession.”

  “My brother was ill and persuaded to do nonsensical things by certain parties who had everything to gain.” Mary looked pointedly at Lord Dudley. “Those parties were given a choice—the same choice I’m going to give to you.”

  “But the crown is not your right,” Jane said, in spite of feeling—just days before—that it wasn’t her right, either. Jane at least knew it, while Mary seemed to feel entitled to the throne.

  “The Privy Council disagrees.”

  The Privy Council had voted to give the crown to Mary? Jane prickled. How dare they turn on her? She could not believe it. After listening to them brag about themselves for hours on her first day as queen, she rather felt she’d earned their respect and loyalty.

  “As I said,” Mary went on, “I want to be fair. I’m giving everyone a choice to bow to me.”

  Gifford, who had been quiet all this time, suddenly leaned toward Jane until his mouth was against her ear. “I have to get out of here,” he said urgently. “It’s almost morning.”

  He was right. She could sense the glow of dawn behind the windows. And Mary was not turning out to be very reasonable.

  “Give us until tonight,” Jane pleaded. “We need time to consider—”

  “There’s nothing to consider,” Mary said. “It’s a simple yes or no.”

  Gifford shifted from foot to foot. “Jane—”

  “I haven’t slept or eaten,” Jane argued. “Before I make such a decision, I need to rest. To think. Please, if we could just—”

  It was too late. The first ray of sunshine breached the window. Next to Jane, another kind of light flared. There was the sound of clothing tearing and hooves clapping against the marble floor.

  The crowd let out a collective gasp of horror. Guards rushed forward, swords in hand.

  Mary surged up from the throne.

  Jane’s heart sank.

  Gifford was a horse.

  Jane had the wild thought of leaping onto Gifford’s back and riding away as quickly as they could. (Of course, that would violate Horse Rule 3: no riding the horse.) But it would be difficult for him to navigate the narrow, winding stairs in his current state, and even though Gifford was pressing close to Jane as if to protect her, there was no way to climb atop him. Her hands were still bound behind her back.

  “Seize them,” Mary commanded.

  Soldiers yanked her away. She tried to wriggle free, and Gifford snapped and kicked, but then one of the men held a sword to Gifford’s long neck. Someone else pressed a knife to Jane’s throat.

  Girl and horse met each other’s eyes, and that was when they stopped fighting.

  “Well.” Mary settled back onto the throne. She spoke with that sweet voice again, but now Jane couldn’t miss the edge of contempt. “How surprising.”

  One of the guards looped a rope around Gifford’s neck. He didn’t resist. A guard came up behind Jane, cut the ropes binding her wrists, and clasped on a pair of metal shackles. Which seemed like overkill.

  “Dearest Jane,” Mary said. “My late brother had such fondness for you. It is in his memory that I make this offer. That, and as I said earlier, I’ve always felt a little sorry for you. Not just be
cause you couldn’t comprehend the game being played around you, but because of that unfortunate red hair of yours. It’s just— Well, I don’t want to be rude.”

  No, Jane thought, you just want to take my throne and kill my husband.

  She turned to look at Gifford, who didn’t stir. He’d only been her husband for a little while, such a very little amount of time, relatively speaking. She didn’t know his favorite color or the food he liked best—outside of apples, which seemed like a horse preference. She’d assumed he’d been part of this game, trying to manipulate her like everyone else, but that didn’t matter to her now. What would happen to him? What would happen to them both?

  “My offer is fair, and I urge you to accept,” Mary was saying.

  “I’m still waiting to hear what it is,” Jane said numbly.

  “Ah. Dear. I’m sorry. I thought it must have been obvious what I want from you. What everyone else has already done.” Mary gestured at Lady Frances and Lord Dudley. “Accept me as your rightful queen and denounce evil. Denounce heretics. Denounce E∂ians.”

  Of course.

  “Sweet little Jane. You like to prattle on about E∂ians and heroes and other such nonsense. You are young and those sorts of things seem attractive to you, but you must grow up now. Renounce the E∂ians, including your husband, and live out the rest of your days in exile. I’ve arranged for you to be sent to a monastery, even. You’ll be quite safe and comfortable there.”

  “And if I don’t agree?”

  Mary made a swift slice of her hand over her throat. “I didn’t think that needed to be said, either, what with the extensive reading you’ve done, but I suppose I’ve overestimated you.”

  Jane glanced at her mother, who nodded. Urging her to give in. As she herself must have done.

  The throne room was silent as everyone waited to hear Jane’s answer.

  “What will happen to my husband?” she asked.

  Mary shook her head with false sadness, but her eyes were sparkling. “In the morning, he will be burned at the stake.”