My Lady Jane (11 page)

“Shall we?” he said.

Jane lit a lantern and held it high. “We shall.”

They didn't want to bother the servants or the coachman with details, which made what they were about to do seem slightly illicit and possibly the most exciting thing either of them had done.

G told only the stable boy of their plan, so that he could help prepare a simple horse and wagon. Jane hoisted herself up in a very unladylike manner, which made G smile, and then they were off.

There was no guard or lookout to stop them from entering town. G led the horse and wagon to the center of the small village, where light glowed in the windows of the largest structure. As the wagon came to a stop, the soft moans of the wounded met their ears.

G climbed down. “Wait here,” he told Jane.

Apparently, “wait here” meant “hurry along” to Jane, for she scrambled down the carriage before G had taken one step.

He rapped at the door, and when no one came to open it, he turned the latch himself.

“Who are ye?” a tired-looking man said.

“We are a husband and wife who heard of your misfortunes, and we bring food and supplies for the binding of wounds.”

The man narrowed suspicious eyes.

Jane stepped forward, took the man's hand softly in her own, turned the palm up, and placed a piece of bread there. “Sir, I have bread and dried beef and mead.”

G glanced at his wife. “Where did you get the mead?”

She ignored him. “Please let us be of service.”

A portly woman—who had been tending a boy's leg—came forward. “We would be grateful for it, my lady.”

“Oh, I am not a lady,” Jane said, although she couldn't hide her elegant manners and way of speaking.

The woman didn't argue. “Let 'em through, ye stubborn man,” she said.

The old man stood aside while G and Jane distributed food, strips of linen, tinctures, and salves to the people. G grabbed for the bottle of mead, but Jane said she would be in charge of its distribution.

His wife, he realized after all of two minutes, was magnificent. She was not afraid to wipe away blood, and patiently taught the villagers how to properly dress a wound and how to prepare more tinctures.

“I could use some meat,” an old man said to G.

“Quiet, please,” G said. “I'm watching the lady.” (This was obviously G's first foray into helping the needy, or anyone beyond himself, for that matter, and he was not used to the protocol of service.)

“Do you think she was ever employed as a healer?” G said.

“I don't know. She's your wife,” the old man said.

Jane looked up and caught G staring at her. She smiled and tossed him some linen strips. “Get to work,” she said.

As the two of them tied and cleaned and washed and fed and comforted, they began to hear rumblings of complaint, but not
about them. About the king.

“The Pack grows in power, and yet the king does nothing.”

“The previous king would never have let it get to this point.”

“The previous king was a lion. King Edward is a mouse.”

At this, Jane looked grievously offended, and G wondered anew about the nature of her feelings for the king.

The murmurs continued. “It's all the fault of those filthy E∂ians.”

“How are we to protect ourselves when they can transform into such cunning creatures? They should be rounded up and locked away, for the safety of the country.”

Jane flashed G a worried expression. He smiled in what he hoped was a comforting way and tossed her some fresh bandages.

After a couple of hours, every wound had been bound, every cut washed and cleaned and wrapped. As Jane and G made their exit, grateful lips kissed the knuckles of the two anonymous benefactors.

Jane had not recovered her good humor after hearing the people's grumblings about E∂ians and the king, so G tried to rouse her spirits by talking about what he would do if he ran the country, and eventually Jane joined in. Pretty soon they were shouting decrees they would implement if only they were the rulers of England.

“No more hungry people!” Jane said.

“Accessible medicine for all! Including steeping tinctures! And more tinctures that need to steep!” G said.

“Prosecution of those who prey on the weak!” Jane said.

“An unlimited fountain of free ale!” G said.

At which Jane frowned.

“And . . . the funding of higher education for women!” G said.

That seemed to satisfy his lady for the time being.

When they arrived at the house, G had only a couple of hours before horse time. In their bedchamber, Jane set a pillow and blanket on the floor next to the bed.

“Jane, I cannot allow you to sleep on the floor,” G said gallantly.

She smiled. “The pillow and blanket are for you, my lord.”

“Ah. Of course.”

G lowered himself onto the hard wooden floor, and Jane climbed into the bed, blowing out the candles as she pulled the covers tight around her.

Neither of them said another word. But each fell asleep to the sound of the other's breathing.

TEN

Edward

Dearest Edward,

I hoped to visit you this morning, but when I arrived at the palace I was informed that you are not receiving visitors. I must confess my surprise and disappointment that you would not see even me, but I know there must be a good reason, and I suspect that this self-imposed isolation means that your illness is taking its toll. For this I am so very sorry, cousin, and I wish there was something I could do to make you well again.

I'm sure you must be wondering what it is I came to see you about this morning, mere hours after my wedding. My dear cousin, the wedding is precisely the topic I wanted to discuss with you. Or rather, my newly acquired husband.

Gifford is a horse.

I'm certain you knew this, what with your referrals to “his condition” and assumptions that I would find it intriguing. What I cannot fathom is why you chose not to tell me. We've always told each other everything, have we not? I consider you to be my most trusted confidant, my dearest and most beloved friend. Why, then, did you neglect this rather critical detail? It doesn't make sense.

But perhaps in this, too, I wonder now, you felt you had a good reason.

I hope that we will be able to speak more on this subject when I return from my honeymoon in the country.

All my love,

Jane

Edward sighed. He carefully folded the letter and laid it on the bedside table. Over the past three days he had read Jane's letter no fewer than a hundred times, and each time he felt as though she were sitting beside him, chastising him of course, but there all the same.

He closed his eyes and mentally composed a letter back to Jane. It went something like this:

Dearest Jane,

Sorry I made you marry a horse. Your father-in-law is trying to kill me. Send help.

But Edward knew that he could expect no help from Jane. Any message he might write to inform her of his predicament or warn her of Lord Dudley's insidious intentions for both Jane and the kingdom would surely be intercepted by the duke. Even if the
message did somehow manage to make it out of the palace, it would likely fall into Gifford's hands, and Edward could only assume Jane's husband was in league with his father.

So. The king was in trouble, or, as they would have phrased it at the time, up ye olde creek sans ye olde paddle.

He sighed again. The night Pet had turned out to be a girl, Edward and Peter Bannister (and Pet, too, but she wasn't much help with strategy, bless her heart) had come up with a plan to get Edward out of the castle. It was a good plan. First, Edward should stop ingesting poison. Then, when the poison he had already unwittingly taken had worn off, when he had regained some of his strength, when he could at least walk again without falling, he would request to be taken out to the gardens for fresh air. (Because it's a well-known fact that fresh air has magical healing properties.) Then, on one of these walks through the gardens, Peter Bannister would happen by with a horse and help Edward onto said horse. And then Edward would flee.

But things weren't going according to plan.

For the past three days Edward hadn't eaten anything that didn't pass a sniff inspection from Pet. Which was tough, because in order to obtain a sniff inspection from Pet, one had to wait until someone wasn't hovering over him (which these days was proving to be difficult) and then quickly lower his plate to the floor beside his bed (because he wasn't allowing Pet to sleep in the bed anymore, because, well, that would be inappropriate) and then wait for her to wag her tail. Code for: no wicked smells
here; feel free to chow down.

At first the poison had only been offered up once a day, in his berries and berry-related pastries, but then Mistress Penne had noticed that the king seemed to have lost his passion for blackberries, and the wicked smell began to infiltrate the rest of his food. And then his wine.

So now he was down to water and hunks of bread and cheese that Peter Bannister sometimes slipped him. At this rate he was looking at dying of poisoning or dying of starvation.

The word
famished
had taken on a whole new meaning for Edward. He found that most of his dreams were now centered around a vision of himself sitting at a table laden with minced meat pies and roast legs of lamb and bowls and bowls of sweet, ripe blackberries.

Oh, how he missed blackberries.

But in spite of the fact that not a drop of poison had crossed his lips in over three days, Edward was not getting better. He could barely stand on his own, let alone walk, and had to be helped to the chamber pot. The coughing had not subsided; if anything, it was getting worse. His handkerchief was more pink than white now. His thoughts were still so cloudy most of the time.

And Dudley was becoming suspicious. “You must eat, Sire,” the duke was admonishing him at this very moment, as Mistress Penne offered him a bowl of chicken broth and Edward pushed it away. At least chicken broth didn't appeal to him that much, but even the oily brown substance was making his mouth water.
Edward was trying very hard not to smell it, lest he be overcome by his hunger and grab the bowl and drain it, poison or not.

“You must at least try, Your Majesty,” Dudley said.

Edward's teeth clenched for a few seconds before he reined in his temper. “Why must I try?” he replied. “Will this bowl of broth keep me from dying?”

Dudley's lips thinned. “No, Sire.”

“Then why bother?” Edward raised himself up slightly. “You've got your precious document signed now, don't you? You don't need me anymore. So if I'm going to die, I'm going to do it on my own terms.”

If this was a political game then he was showing his hand, he realized. He should be more cautious, but he didn't care. He was tired of feeling helpless.

The duke stared at Edward with narrowed eyes, studying his face. Then in a cold voice he said, “As you wish, Sire,” and slunk away, closing the door behind him.

Mistress Penne, still holding the bowl of broth, clucked her tongue in disapproval.

Edward imagined the nurse's less-than-slender form stretched on the rack while he dropped poisoned berries into
her
mouth.

From beside the bed, Pet gave a low growl. Mistress Penne eyed her warily and then exited the room, taking the broth with her.

Edward's stomach rumbled. He groaned.

Pet whined and licked his hand. He couldn't quite bring himself to pet her.

He picked up the letter from Jane and read it again.

“My confidant,” he murmured to himself. “My most beloved friend.”

He wondered if he would ever see her again.

That afternoon, his sisters came to visit him, without Dudley or Mistress Penne or even a servant to accompany them.

He couldn't believe his good luck. He had almost forgotten his sisters in this whole mess, but here they were, Mary and Bess in his room, each holding a box, a present of some kind, both averting their eyes from him as if they couldn't bear to see how wasted away he had become.

Help had arrived at last, he thought.

His sisters, Mary especially, had connections. Mary's uncle was the Holy Roman Emperor, who Edward usually counted as a bit of an enemy, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Mary could rally an army for him, a few soldiers, at least. She could oust Lord Dudley, if it came to that. And Bess was tremendously clever. She'd studied books on herbs and medicines, he thought he remembered. Perhaps she could find an antidote for the poison.

“I am glad to see you both,” he breathed, smiling weakly.

“Oh, Eddiekins, we're so sorry this has happened to you.” Mary put her box on the little table in the corner and moved to sit at the edge of his bed, sending Pet scrambling out of the way of her voluminous skirts.

Mary ignored the dog. She took Edward's hands in hers and
leaned toward him earnestly. Her breath smelled of wine. “I want you to know that I will look after England,” she said, her voice overly loud, like she was making a speech to the masses. “I will restore our country to its former glory. There will be no more of these blasphemous reformational ideas that Father spread in order to justify his own sinful lifestyle. We will root out this E∂ian infestation, starting with that horrible Pack that everyone's talking about. I'll see them all burn. We will be free of Father's impurity. I swear it.”

Well, Dudley had been right on that count, Edward thought. Mary hated E∂ians. But he had bigger problems at the moment.

He glanced at Bess, who was staring at him intently, then back to Mary. “Listen, both of you.” He took a deep breath. “I don't have ‘the Affliction.' Lord Dudley has been poisoning me.”

Mary pulled free of Edward's grasp.

“Eddie,” she said soothingly. “No one's trying to harm you. Lord Dudley least of all.”

He scrambled to sit up. “No! He is! You must arrest him!”

Mary's brow rumpled. “Eddie, my dear boy. The duke has been your trusted advisor for years.”

“He wants the country for himself,” Edward insisted. “He wants me dead.”

There was a moment of heavy silence.

“Why do you think Lord Dudley is attempting to poison you, Edward?” Bess queried then, softly.

“My dog,” he said breathlessly, winded from all this excited
talking he was doing. “My dog could smell the poison in my blackberries.”

Both ladies turned to look at Pet, who was sitting on her haunches across the room. The dog rose to her feet uncertainly.

Mary's nose wrinkled in distaste. “Eddie, please. Now is not the time for jokes.”

“I'm not joking,” he protested. “I've never been more serious in my life. My dog will tell you. Won't you, Pet?”

He looked pleadingly at Pet.

She cocked her head at him quizzically.

“Come on, Pet. It's all right. Show them,” he urged.

They all stared at the dog.

“You think your dog can talk?” Bess said slowly.

“Yes. She's . . .”
An
E∂ian,
he was about to say, but the word died on his lips. Mary had just been talking about how she wanted to purge E∂ians from the country.

Pet whined and lay down on the floor, her brown eyes worried.

Mary shook her head. “Edward,” she said even more solemnly than usual. “You're not well.” She stood up and went to the table where she'd laid the box. She undid the ribbon and opened it. “Lord Dudley thinks of you as a son, you know. He is devastated by what's happening to you.”

Edward fell back, flummoxed. He could not think of anything else to say that would convince them.

“He said you haven't been eating,” Mary said, as if this entire outburst of Edward's was forgotten. “So I brought you something.”

She reached into the box and lifted up . . . a blackberry pudding.

“Your favorite,” she said brightly.

The sweet smell of the berries filled Edward's nostrils. His stomach clenched. “Haven't you heard anything I've said?” he gasped.

“Now, Eddie, don't be difficult.” Mary produced a little silver knife and a china plate and cut him a hefty portion. She sat down next to him and lifted the fork to his mouth.

“Have a bite, Eddie,” she said. “For me.”

He met her eyes, hers glittering with some dark determination, his glossed by a sheen of tears. In that moment he understood the truth.

Mary was in on it.

“Be a good boy, Eddie.” She pushed the fork forward.

“Don't call me Eddie,” he returned in a low voice. He gathered his strength and reached up to take the fork. He turned it around slowly, balancing the precarious morsel of pudding. His hand wavered, trembled, but he managed to hold the tines to her lips. “You first, sister.”

His heart ached with the betrayal of it. She was his sister. She was a terrible, humorless, traitorous, bloodthirsty, dowdy spinster of a woman, twenty years his elder, but she was still his sister. His own flesh and blood.

Silence.

Mary stared at him. Bess still was standing across the room
like she'd been frozen in place, her expression unreadable.

Mary smiled quickly and took the fork back from Edward, set it on the plate. “I couldn't possibly,” she said. “I'm watching my figure.”

“You're watching your figure do what?” he asked.

Her eyes closed for a moment. Then she smiled again, tensely. “Oh, Edward, always joking, aren't you?” She stood up and brushed imaginary crumbs from her skirt. “At least your illness hasn't robbed you of your sense of humor.”

He wanted to tell her that he'd given the throne to Jane and see if she'd find that so funny. He couldn't imagine that Mary would be in collusion with Lord Dudley if she knew that particular detail of the duke's plan.

But telling Mary about the newly revised line of succession would only put Jane in danger. So instead he said, “The duke will turn on you, too, you know. Just as soon as he's done with me.”

She stiffened. “You are confused, brother. You're not thinking clearly. And I am sorry for you.” She touched his shoulder like maybe she even meant it. “I am sorry.”

He waited for her to leave before he turned his attention to Bess. He'd never seen his other sister's face so pale and drawn. Her freckles stood out against her nose. He remembered a time when he was a child, when she'd let him count her freckles. Twenty-two of them, he thought.

“Do you think I'm confused, too, Bess?” he asked.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly. Her gray eyes were
fierce and shining. They were her father's eyes. His eyes.

She walked over to place her gift for him on the bedside table, then leaned down to kiss his cheek.

“I believe you,” she whispered against his ear. “I will help you. Trust me, Edward.”

“Rest, brother,” she said more loudly, as if there was someone else in the room.