by Cynthia Hand
Everyone glanced at Edward and Bash. The weapons master was, at the moment, on the offensive. Edward retreated gracefully behind a tree to buy himself some time and rest before he began his own offense. But for the moment, it appeared that Bash had the upper hand.
“You see, Gifford?” his father crowed. “You see how your king cowers?”
“Edward does not cower!” Jane banged her frying pan against her hand. Stan and Dudley didn’t seem impressed by her threatening display, but G knew she’d fight them, too, if it came to that. Though his wife was little, she was fierce.
Bash advanced, and Edward continued to retreat. Advance. Retreat. Advance. But just as Bash looked ready to deliver a stunning blow, Edward’s feet flicked and he was out from behind the tree and driving his opponent backward.
“Unexpected, yes?” Edward said, breathing hard. “Just like you taught me.”
Jane whooped in a way that would have seemed unladylike if anyone had been paying proper attention.
Both men went back to the dance of two expert swordsmen, and G turned to his father, the clang of blades in the background.
“Perhaps, Father,” he said, “you will change your mind about who win will this scuffle in light of some recent news. The first is this: King Edward is fully recovered from your poison. I watched him kill the Great White Bear of Rhyl without even breaking a sweat. He’s no sickly boy. The second, which might be even more disconcerting to you: your beloved firstborn has fled.”
G jerked his head toward the spot where Stan had stood only moments before. Indeed, between the far buildings, Stan’s retreating form could be seen careening around a corner. He always did have the courage of a flea.
“I could go after him,” Jane suggested. “With my frying pan.”
“He’s not worth it, my dear. Save your frying pan for someone who matters.”
Jane hmphed but stayed where she was.
“And the final piece of news . . .” G suddenly swung the tip of his sword closer to that eagle nose. “Since you last saw me, I have spent every waking hour sharpening my fencing skills. I have sliced candlesticks and skewered straw dummies and sparred with some of the finest blades of France. I might not be able to beat a weapons master, but I can easily best an old, top-heavy, pusillanimous, two-faced, paltry, odious excuse for a man.” He pushed his sword forward until it was against his father’s coat. “Drop your sword.”
Lord Dudley, lacking in grace and honor—and at this point in time, any sort of backup—dropped his sword and fell to his knees, just as Edward disarmed Bash of his blade.
Bash put his hands together. “I will give you anything you ask of me, Sire,” he panted, and bowed his head.
“Fealty. Swear your fealty,” Edward demanded.
“My king, my sovereign, your smallest wish is my soul’s desire. Kill me if you need, but if you deign to let me live, I will be your humble servant, in whatever capacity you deem fit.”
Edward wiped sweat off his brow and looked to G. “Do what you will,” he said, nodding at Lord Dudley.
Now this was a matter between father and son.
G turned and placed the tip of his sword on his father’s chest. He pressed it with enough force to break through the topmost layer of fabric.
“Now, Gifford, think about what you’re doing.” Dudley’s voice was unnaturally high.
“Shut it, Father.” G spat the word in disgust.
“My son, please. I only did what I did for the good of the kingdom.”
“A kingdom you destroyed? Even now, at this very moment, men are fighting out there behind the walls, fighting and dying because of what you did. You’re a most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise breaker, the owner of not one good quality.”
Lord Dudley held out his hand. “You just don’t understand politics. Have you learned nothing? Everyone involved in the running of a kingdom deserves to die at some point. It’s how the game is played. You win or you die.”
“You deserve to die.” G looked at his father’s outstretched hand and it made him sick that he shared the same blood as this man. (Or maybe not, because he didn’t have the nose.) With a flick of his sword, he cut a gash in Lord Dudley’s palm.
Behind him, Jane gasped.
Dudley fell to his knees. “My son. My boy. I understand you are angry. What can I do to make you spare my life? I’ll do anything. Anything!”
“Anything?” G said. “Will you give me your estate?”
“Yes! I will give you all that I have and more!”
“Will you stop telling people that I’m a half-wit and admit publicly that I’m an E∂ian?”
“Yes!”
“Will you tell me that I’m just as good as Stan?”
Dudley hesitated. “Well, Stan’s exceptional.” He looked again at G’s sword. “But . . . yes. You are quite . . . good. Please don’t kill me.”
Jane’s small hand crept to his shoulder. G reached up to place his hand over hers. He let out a breath and looked up at the night sky. He already knew what he was going to do with his father. Yes, some would say that Lord Dudley deserved to die, but G was not the king, nor was he a judge, nor was he an executioner.
“I will leave you, Father, to the will of the people, who by this time tomorrow will all know of your treachery.”
Jane used rope to tie Bash and Dudley to the iron lattice of the portcullis (she had, after all, once read a book on the proper securing of captives), and once the prisoners were bound, the three of them made their way into the White Tower. To the throne room.
(You’re probably thinking the same thing we were: where did Jane get the rope to tie the prisoners? We researched this very conundrum thoroughly, and after two weeks we can say, without a doubt: nobody knows. It’s a question that has baffled historians and archaeologists alike. Professor Herbert Halprin explains: “Ropes have been a mystery to scholars throughout the ages. The first ropes were thought to appear as far back as 17,000 BC and made of vines. Unfortunately, being made of vines, none of those early examples survived. Later, da Vinci drew sketches for a rope-making machine, but it was never built. In medieval times, there were secret societies, called Rope Guilds, whose rope-twisting practices were protected via a complicated series of handshakes and passwords—” Okay. Your narrators are interrupting the dear professor, for reasons of boredom. Plus, his English accent sounded sketchy and forced. We asked him where Jane could’ve gotten the rope, but maybe he thought we asked him where anyone could’ve gotten any rope at any given point in history. Trust us, we are as frustrated as you must be about the lack of a definitive answer.)
Anyway. It was time for our heroes to do what they’d come to do. It was time to face Mary. Finally.
“We should make this quick, like in and out,” said G as they approached the throne room. He nodded his head toward the windows, where the shades of approaching dawn filtered through. A few more minutes and he’d be a horse again, stuck in the White Tower. And he’d been there and done that already.
But as they reached the door to the throne room, Edward paused.
“You really think this will work?” he asked suddenly. “Because there are probably loads of people on the other side of this door.” He glanced down at his ill-fitting uniform. “Maybe they won’t recognize me.”
“They’ll recognize you,” assured Jane. “This will work.”
“Either that or we’re all about to die,” G added. “But it’s for a good cause.”
Edward nodded and put his hand on the door.
“Wait!” G stopped him. He turned to Jane. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
“Now?”
“I don’t know if I’ll get another chance.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve been weak. I’ve been a horse, when I should have stayed a man. But I can’t go in there and face whatever we’re about to face without you knowing that I am yours. Flesh, man, fur, horse . . . I am yours, Jane.”
He glanced again at the window. The sun
was almost up. “At least for a few more seconds.”
Jane stood on tiptoe so she could look into his eyes. “Stay with me, G.”
He sighed. “I have never wanted so much in my life to stay human.”
“But you didn’t even try before. Why wouldn’t you try?”
G shook his head, ashamed. “For most of my life, it’s been easier to run. What if my heart’s true desire is to keep running? What if I can’t get my house in order, and be the man you want? But Jane.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Dear Jane. You are my house. My home. I may have only half a life, but what I have, I pledge to you. I . . . I love you.”
“You love me?” she whispered.
“The very instant I saw you, my heart flew to your service,” he said.
“Really?”
“No,” he admitted. “Not exactly. But it’s a good line, am I right?”
“G.” She sighed. “Talk sense, please.”
“When I first saw you, I thought you were so beautiful that you couldn’t possibly love me. I never saw true beauty until that night.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “But I didn’t know you then. I didn’t know how clever you were, how courageous, how kindhearted, how true to yourself you always are. My lady. Jane. I would not wish any companion in the world but you.”
Her eyes were shining. “I love you, too.”
“You do?”
She smiled. “I do. But I have one question.”
“What is it, my lady?”
“Do you see the light through yonder window?”
G blinked, confused. “What?”
Jane took his face in her hands. “The sun is up,” she whispered. “See?”
“It can’t be the sun. I am still a man,” G said.
“The sun is up, and you are still a man,” Jane confirmed.
G closed his eyes, and for the first time in six years, eight months, and twenty-two days, he felt the sunlight on his skin. He breathed in its rays and absorbed its glow, and there rose a peace in his heart, the kind of calm that comes from the feeling of arriving home after a long journey. His curse was broken.
The two lovers embraced, while Edward and your narrators turned their heads to give the lovebirds their moment of blessed union.
“Ahem. Are you quite done?” Edward asked, when lips finally parted long enough for them to take a breath.
“Not quite.” G pressed one last soft kiss to Jane’s poetry-inspiring mouth. “Now we’re ready.”
“Good,” said Edward. “Because there’s still something I have to do.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Edward
Edward threw open the door and strode into the throne room.
He’d done it. He’d gotten into the Tower, a nigh-impossible feat. He’d fought bravely and well. He’d dispatched the guards, confronted Dudley, even beaten Bash at swords. And now he was about to reclaim his crown. Everything had gone according to Jane’s plan. He was nearly there—he could practically taste his victory.
His first surprise was that the throne room was almost empty. He’d supposed it would be bustling with courtiers and members of the Privy Council there to advise Mary and show the queen their support during the attack on the city wall. But at best there were a dozen people present. Not exactly the boisterous crowd he’d been hoping to witness his glorious return.
Still, the room fell silent when he entered, all eyes turning to him, mouths opening in shock. Because even though he was streaked with sweat and stained with blood and not wearing any shoes, he was undoubtedly King Edward, back from the grave.
This was going to be good.
He turned to the steward stationed next to the door, whom he’d known since he was a young boy. “Announce me, Robert,” Edward commanded.
The man looked like he was seeing a ghost (which he kind of was) but he obeyed without question. “His Majesty Edward Tudor.”
Edward padded toward the throne to stand before Mary.
“You’re sitting in his chair,” piped up Jane from behind him.
Mary fidgeted with her handkerchief. “Oh, Eddie. I’m so glad to see you’re alive. My heart was simply broken when they told me you were dead.”
“How dare you,” Edward said to her, his voice so dark with fury that he didn’t sound like himself. “How dare you steal what is mine. You poisonous bunch-back’d toad!”
“Ooh, that’s a good one.” There was a rustle of paper behind him as Gifford wrote the line down.
His sister’s face paled. “Now, brother—”
“You have the audacity to call me brother after what you’ve done? I should have you drawn and quartered. Or would you prefer to be burned at the stake? Purified—isn’t that what you called it? Isn’t that what you had planned—a great burning of traitors?”
“It was Dudley’s doing,” Mary said softly. “He took your throne because he wanted it for his son. I simply took it back.”
Edward laughed, but it was not a merry sound. “Oh, am I supposed to thank you for keeping my chair warm?”
She stared at him mutely.
“No more lies, sister,” Edward said. “Let us speak plainly now, about what’s to be done.”
This would be the part where she’d beg for her life, he thought, where she’d cry and plead and grovel before him. He wondered if he could ever find it in his heart to forgive her.
Probably not.
But in this he was surprised again, because Mary did not beg. She stood up slowly, her back straight and unyielding before him. Still wearing his crown. “You’re only a foolish boy,” she said at last. “How could you possibly know what to do with this great kingdom?”
“I’ve been ruling this great kingdom for years,” he pointed out.
She scoffed. “You call that ruling? You were a puppet of the council, nothing more. And look what we’ve come to. E∂ians running about freely, causing havoc at every turn, savaging the land, defiling our very way of life. You have let this country slide to the edge of ruin. The E∂ians are determined to bring us into an age of darkness and perversity, and you are helping them.”
“I am an E∂ian,” he said. “Like my father before me. I am my father’s son.”
“And I am my father’s daughter,” Mary replied hotly. “I am his firstborn child, his only true heir. He may have played at marriage with a bunch of E∂ian harlots, but my mother was his only legitimate wife. Which makes me, and not you, who are basically a bastard, the rightful ruler of England.”
Huh, thought Edward. He hadn’t been expecting her to argue. His mouth opened, then closed again. He wanted to say, Wait, no, that’s not right at all. I’m the rightful ruler. Mary can’t be. Because she’s a woman.
But that logic didn’t make sense to him anymore. He didn’t believe it.
He couldn’t think of what to say. He was, quite literally, speechless.
At his silence, a triumphant gleam appeared in Mary’s eyes.
“I am the queen,” she said, drawing herself up still further. “All my life I’ve watched you wrest that title from me, you a flagrant heretic, a pathetic, trifling boy. You talk of stealing, but it’s you who are the thief here. You are the usurper.”
“No,” a voice called out from the back of the room. An authoritative voice.
Bess.
Edward spun around to watch his other sister come up the aisle.
Bess’s gray eyes narrowed as she looked at Mary. “Edward is the rightful heir to the throne of England, because our father named him as his heir. The king can name whoever he wishes to succeed him.”
“But Father only named him because he was deceived by the foul E∂ians into casting aside his good and virtuous wife.” Mary pressed. “And only because Edward was a boy.”
Bess smiled knowingly. “Wrong, sister. Father left his throne to Edward because he knew, even then, that Edward had the heart of a king. Father knew that Edward would be generous and thoughtful when it came to the welfare of his people, and wise in his decisions
. Father knew that Edward would be the best choice for this country.”
Huh, Edward thought again, frowning. He might have been flattered at these words, but deep down he knew that they weren’t true. When he’d “ruled” before, he hadn’t given much thought at all to the well-being of his people. In truth, he’d known nothing about his people. And he certainly hadn’t been wise. He’d done what he was told, signed what they’d put before him, agreed to the course of action the men around him informed him was the correct one. He had been a puppet, a king in name only. And his father had chosen Edward solely because he’d been born a son and not a daughter.
Bess came to stand beside him. “Edward is the true king,” she said. “It’s Edward who will lead England to peace and prosperity. He will make England great.”
She turned to address Mary. “You would have led us all to ruin. You who conspired to kill your own brother and pilfer his crown. You who threaten to tear the very fabric of our nation in two. You’re a disgrace to the royal blood that runs through your veins.”
“Arrest her!” Mary shouted at the guards. “Off with her head!”
The guards didn’t move. They looked to Edward. He said nothing.
“The game is up, Mary,” Bess continued smoothly. “You’ve lost.”
“No!” The word echoed in the room. Then Mary let out a bellow of rage and barreled toward Bess with outstretched hands, as if she would choke the life from her sister.
But before she could reach Bess, a light flashed.
The onlookers gave a collective gasp.
Where Mary had been standing, there was now a chubby gray mule.
The first person to laugh was an elderly woman near the front of the room—a stranger to court, people would later remark, but a distinctive figure who gave everyone who played at card games a peculiar sense of déjà vu.
“Oh dear. What an ass!” the old lady cackled, and then everybody began to giggle while the old mule brayed and stood there looking generally miserable at the turn of events that had befallen her. (As narrators, we’d like to inform you now that Mary was never seen as a human again. She remained an ass, all the rest of her days. As asses typically do.)
