by Cynthia Hand
Edward didn’t laugh at her with the others. He turned to the guards. “Take her away.”
A man—it was Peter Bannister, actually—slung a rope around the former queen’s neck and led her from the room.
Edward approached the throne. It was just a glorified chair, he thought. It wasn’t even that comfortable. Nevertheless, he sat down on it carefully and surveyed the room. Because that was what was expected of him.
The people quieted once more. Then slowly, in a rustle of fabric and a shuffle of shoes, they kneeled before Edward. “Long live King Edward,” they said in one voice. “Long live the king.”
A lump rose in his throat. He didn’t feel the way he’d expected to feel in this moment. He didn’t feel triumphant, or victorious, or righteously entitled to the throne. He felt much the way he did the first time he’d been told that he was king. A sinking in his stomach. A dread.
Bess bent to pick up the crown from where it had clattered to the floor when Mary had showed the world her true self. She walked slowly and purposefully to stand beside Edward. She smiled. Then she raised the crown above his head and . . .
Edward caught her wrist. “Wait.”
She froze. “Edward, what are you doing?”
“What Mary said is true,” he whispered. “I’m not the rightful ruler.”
“Of course you are,” she said.
“Why, because I’m a boy?”
“Did you not hear what I said before? About why Father chose you?”
He looked down at his feet and smiled wistfully. “You’re the generous one, sister. I never really considered the welfare of my people. I’m not wise. I’m just a boy.”
“You’ve never been just a boy,” she said.
“I don’t have the heart of a king, but you do,” he said earnestly.
She stared at him. “Me?”
“You’re the one who’s going to make England great.” He took the crown gently from her hands and stood. Jane and Gifford and Gran were all standing near the front, mouths open in shock—even Gran, who he’d always thought unshockable. He wished that Gracie were here. He’d been trying not to dwell too much on Gracie, as she was probably still fighting alongside his soldiers at the city wall, and he couldn’t afford to be distracted by the thought of what was happening with her. But he would have liked to have seen her face when he did what he was about to do.
“Listen well,” he announced to the people assembled. “I, King Edward the Sixth, do hereby abdicate my crown to my sister Elizabeth Tudor, who I find, by both her birthright and her immeasurable good qualities, to be the rightful heir to the throne of England. Any rights and privileges I have heretofore enjoyed as monarch of this fine land, I bestow upon her.”
Silence.
He met Jane’s eyes. She closed her mouth and tried to smile. Then she nodded slightly.
“Long live Queen Elizabeth!” she called out, her voice small but strong. She turned to Gifford, who had been clasping her hand all the while, and nudged him.
“Oh. Long live Queen Elizabeth!” he added, and then the other voices began to join in, louder and louder.
“Come, sister,” he said to Bess. He took her hand and led her to the throne.
“Are you sure?” she whispered as she sat carefully in his chair. (King or not, it was going to be a while before he stopped thinking of it as his chair.) “Consider what you’re giving up.”
He knew what he was giving up. Power. Prestige. Wealth beyond measure. A life of leisure and luxury. A person always standing by to make sure he didn’t choke. And, most of all, his future. Edward couldn’t honestly imagine who he would turn out to be if he wasn’t king. By stepping down he was relinquishing his very identity.
But his country needed a ruler who was worthy and capable. England needed Bess.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life,” he said. “You’re going to be a fine queen, Bess. The best. Even better than Father. Trust me.”
She gave him that subtle, thoughtful smile at his familiar words before she bowed her head for a moment, her eyes closed, her face as pale as chalk. He could see all twenty-two of her freckles. Then she looked up to address the people. “Very well. If that’s my fate, I will be as good to you as ever a queen was to her people.”
“Long live Queen Elizabeth!” they answered unanimously. “Long live the queen!”
Edward placed the crown upon her head.
Let’s pause for a moment. We know, we know, we’re so close to the end now that you can practically taste the happily ever after. And who would have seen that coming, right? I mean, who could have predicted that Edward would stand up then, and right there in front of the Privy Council and all of his adoring fans, he’d say that she—Elizabeth I—should be the Queen of England?
Because obviously she was the most qualified for the position. At long last Edward had arrived at the enlightened state of knowing that a woman could do a job just as well as a man.
Yep. That’s how it happened. Edward abdicated his throne. Elizabeth would be crowned queen at Westminster Abbey that same week, and we all know she’d be the best ruler of England ever. And now history can more or less pick up along the same path where we left it.
But what happened to Edward, you ask? Well. We still have a little bit of the story left to tell.
Edward spent the better part of the next few days thinking about (what else?) Gracie McTavish. Because he still wanted to tell her that he’d stepped down from the throne and see that surprised look on her face. And because (let’s be honest) he still very much wanted to kiss her. He thought about it embarrassingly often.
But the charming Scot was nowhere to be found.
“She’ll turn up eventually,” Bess said as he anxiously paced the throne room. She picked at a stray thread on the red velvet cushion of the throne. “You needn’t worry, Edward.”
Bess was right. Bess was always right, even more so now that she was queen; it was getting annoying. Gracie was alive. There’d been exaggerated tales of a valiant black-haired woman leading the Pack during the false attack on the city walls—but then where had Archer been? And where was Archer now?
The entire Pack had not yet made an appearance in London. They’d retreated back to the Shaggy Dog the moment the fighting was done. Gracie, he figured, must be among them.
With Archer, probably, Edward thought miserably. Burned bright in his memory was the way Archer had told Gracie that she was looking very fine. And the way that flea-bitten man had ogled her like she was a piece of meat.
He couldn’t stand the idea of Gracie with Archer. And why wouldn’t she have come to see him? Their last moment together in France had ended badly, but so badly that she wouldn’t want to see him again?
“Edward, sit down,” Bess said. “You’re making me queasy.”
He sank into a chair. Pet lumbered up to him, tail wagging. He scratched behind her ear, and she gave a happy dog sigh and collapsed at his feet. Pet had asked to remain a guardian to the queen, and after all she’d done for their cause, Bess had agreed (even though she wasn’t too fond of dogs—remember, cat person). It was a little awkward at times, but the least they could do—well, that and give her a scratch and the scraps from the table every now and then.
“Um, Your Majesty,” came a voice from the doorway. A frightened voice. “About your crown.”
“What about my crown?” Bess asked the trembling servant who came to cower before her—Hobbs, Edward remembered the man’s name was.
“Have you . . . moved it?” asked Hobbs.
“Moved my crown?” Bess frowned. “Where would I move it?”
“Normally it’s kept on a velvet cushion in the king’s—I mean the queen’s—chamber.”
“Right.” Edward and Bess exchanged worried glances. The citizens of England seemed to unilaterally accept Bess as the official ruler of the country now, but if someone had literally stolen her crown, it could mean trouble. Not to mention that the crown was virtually priceless.
“Speak, Hobbs,” Bess commanded. “Tell us what’s happened.”
Hobbs shifted from one foot to the other nervously. “It’s gone, Your Majesty.”
“Gone.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Gone where?” Bess’s voice rose, and the servant flinched.
“Gone missing!” Hobbs cried. “My job is to polish it. That’s what I do, every Thursday—I polish the crown, only today when I went to retrieve it, I found . . .” He started to cry. “I found . . .” He hiccupped. “I found . . .”
Hobbs held out his fist, which was clasped around something very small—much too small to be a crown. Maybe a crown jewel. But it meant bad news all the same.
“What is it?” Edward and Bess both leaned forward to look. “Show us,” Bess said.
Hobbs opened his hand. He was sure he was going to lose his head for this. So he was shocked when both the former king and the current queen broke into broad smiles.
“Your Majesty?”
“It’s all right, Hobbs,” Bess said.
Edward started taking off his clothes.
“Um, Your Majesty . . .” Hobbs was very confused now.
“You don’t still need me here, do you?” Edward asked Bess as he pulled his shirt over his head.
“I can manage,” Bess said. “Go.”
“Thanks.” He gave her a grateful smile and turned toward the window, shuffling off his pants. Then there was a flash of blinding light, and when Hobbs could see again, the boy who had been king had simply vanished.
Hobbs stared down his hand, at the item he’d found resting in place of Bess’s crown.
A tiny wooden fox.
When Edward came down to rest on the roof of the Shaggy Dog, he saw, with his magnificent kestrel eyes, that one of the back doors had been left open a crack. This door turned out to be the entrance to a small storeroom, which was currently crammed to the gills with all manner of freshly delivered food and supplies.
A gift, compliments of Queen Elizabeth, as a promise that she would honor Edward’s agreement with the Pack.
In the center of the floor was something Bess hadn’t sent: a stack of clean, neatly folded clothes. Nothing fancy, of course. A simple linen shirt, black pants, and a pair of boots in exactly his size. Edward put this on so fast that he got the shirt backward at first.
When he came out of the storeroom there was a man waiting for him. The man grunted something like, “She’s up thar,” and pointed to the hill behind the inn.
Edward ran.
He came upon Gracie standing at the top of the hill under a large, spreading oak. She didn’t see him at first. She was staring out at the setting sun.
Edward stopped and drank in the sight of her. She was wearing a long gray skirt and a white blouse, her hair loose and spilling all over her shoulders. She had a small satchel slung across her back, and the pearl-handled knife strapped to her belt.
He cleared his throat, heart hammering.
She turned. “Sire.”
“I’m not the king anymore,” he blurted out stupidly.
“I’m the leader of the Pack,” she said at the same time.
He wasn’t sure he heard her correctly. “Wait, what?”
“Archer’s dead,” she informed him. “He took an arrow to the chest in the first ten minutes of the siege.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” A minute ago, Edward could have wished a pox on Archer. But now he felt rather bad for him. “Did you . . . hear the part where I said I’m not the king?”
“It’s all anyone can talk about around here. You didn’t do that . . . for me, did you?” Her green eyes were genuinely worried.
“No, I didn’t do it for you,” he answered quickly. (Although if we’re being totally honest here, there was a teeny tiny bit of Edward that really had wanted to give up the throne of England so he’d be free to kiss a Scottish pickpocket as often as he liked.) “I wasn’t thinking of you at all!”
She looked down. “Oh. I see.”
“What I mean to say is, I don’t want to be king,” Edward continued in a rush. “All my life the crown’s been forced upon my head. But when I had a choice in the matter, I found I didn’t want it.”
She bit her lip to keep from smiling. Dimples. And that was all it took.
Edward closed the space between them in two strides. He didn’t really know what he was doing, only that he had to do something right now or he’d explode. Her warm heart-shaped face was in his hands, his fingers caught in her curls. She opened her mouth to say something, and he kissed her.
He kissed her!
He knew he must be doing it right because after a few stampeding heartbeats her eyes closed and her hands reached up to grasp at his shoulders and she kissed him back.
Edward felt like he was flying, only his feet were firmly on the ground.
He kissed her and kissed her.
With tongue, it must be noted.
She pulled away, green eyes wide. “Good Lord,” she breathed.
He considered that a compliment.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” He tucked a glossy black curl behind her ear, then dragged his thumb gently over her chin.
She leaned in until her lips were nearly touching his. “I have some idea.”
He kissed her again.
Of course this whole kissing Gracie thing didn’t mean that Edward was going to marry her, and that they were going to live happily ever after. (But if he played his cards right, who knows?) The happily ever after of this book belongs to Gifford and Jane. Naturally. But for now, Edward just kissed Gracie. More slowly this time. An explorer of new worlds.
Some time later he said, “Now give me Bess’s crown back, imp.”
She laughed and pulled the crown out of the satchel. “Fine. Have it. But I thought you said you didn’t want it.”
“I don’t want it. I’m not a gyrfalcon, am I? I’m a kestrel,” he said against her ear. “Not a king.”
She turned her head and kissed him, a teasing brush of her lips on his. “All right, then,” she said in her charming brogue. “But just so you know, Edward . . .”
He kissed her again. “You called me Edward!”
“Yes. Edward.” She grinned up at him. “You’ll always be a king to me.”
TWENTY-NINE
Jane
Okay, we’re almost to the happily ever after. But before that, we have to talk about the wedding. Oh, we know there was already a wedding. We mean a second wedding.
Jane and Gifford’s second wedding was very much like their first wedding.
Except this wedding took place outside.
During the day.
And the bride and groom actually liked each other.
And they were both human at the time of the nuptials, which was indeed the case at their first blessed union, but given the daytime nature of this one, we thought we should make that clear.
Jane and Gifford stood below an arch laced with flowers, a field spreading all around them. There were only a handful of chairs for guests, but every one of them was full. Lady Dudley and G’s younger sister, Temperance, were seated in the front row. Edward and Gracie (holding hands, of course), Bess, and Gran sat on the opposite row. Peter Bannister and Pet had also come, both in their human states (and this was the first time anybody ever saw Pet wearing actual clothes). Notably absent were those who’d conspired to set up the first wedding: Lady Frances had gone into exile when it became clear she wouldn’t be able to manipulate (or pinch or poke) Jane any longer (she ran off with the Grey Estates’ master of horse, which was quite the scandal); the Privy Council was certainly not invited; and Lord Dudley—well.
Lord Dudley was never heard from again. As far as we know, he lived, sentenced to finish out his days near a sulfur mine. It was that or death, and he chose sulfur. Whether or not he was happy with that decision, we may never know.
Anyway, back to the wedding.
On everyone’s lap rested a book
. Any book. In case the wedding got boring. As the priest droned on in the same manner as last time, Jane was both pleased and annoyed that no one was taking advantage of her thoughtfulness.
“And now,” said the priest, “let us declare the miracles of holy matrimony.”
First, true love.
With her free hand, Jane squeezed Gifford’s, smiling up at him. Love, they definitely had. It felt true. Her heart pounded as the priest extolled the wonders of love and finding one’s perfect match.
“I love you,” Gifford whispered, and Jane warmed all over.
“We’re not to the vows yet,” the priest muttered out of the side of his mouth.
“Sorry.”
Second, virtue.
Gifford’s gaze dropped to peer down her bodice.
Jane snorted and laughed, drawing Looks from everyone. But she didn’t care. Not this time.
Third, progeny.
Well, that was under discussion. Maybe one day.
“Now you may give your vows,” said the priest.
“I’m going first,” Jane said. Gifford had gone first at their previous wedding, and it was only fair that Jane got to lead this time. “I, Jane Grey-Dudley, hereby declare my devotion to you. I swear to love you faithfully and forever, rescue you when you’re in mortal peril, and keep a pantry stocked with apples so that you never go hungry. To illustrate the depth of my emotions, I’ve written a list of things you outrank.”
Jane took a moment to unfold the paper flowers she’d been carrying. Gifford shifted nervously, trying to get a look at the writing. She flicked the papers toward her so he couldn’t see.
“Gifford, I love you more than knitting, though to be honest, I love a lot of things more than I love knitting.
“I also love you more than being queen, which admittedly, I didn’t love a lot.
“I know I’m not inspiring much confidence at this point, but there’s something else I thought I’d bring up.” She lifted her eyes to him. “I love you more than I love books.”
Gifford laughed and leaned down to kiss her, but the priest cleared his throat. “Ring. Then more vows. Kissing comes last.”
Gifford heaved a melodramatic sigh and offered his hand. “Very well.”
