My Lady Jane (21 page)

The fifth key did the trick. The lock clicked. All three of them heard it. Just as the guard charged the heavy wooden door, G pulled it wide open. The guard fell in and G struck him on the head with the bedpost. The guard crumpled to the floor, unmoving, but breathing.

“Quick!” G whisked Jane up to his shoulder and grabbed the guard's sword.

As he crept down the stairs, it occurred to him that as a weasel, she could've saved herself and left him to die. Again.

But when the time came, she didn't. Again.

This was the perfect time of night to escape the Tower of London, mostly because it was the time with the fewest number of guards, and the ones on duty were either exhausted or sneaking
sips from a hidden flask.

Nevertheless, G and Jane ran into three guards. After all, they were royal prisoners. They couldn't expect to make it to the stables completely unhindered.

The first guard G dispatched quickly in a move that Jane would probably describe as elegant swordsmanship, but he knew was really the result of the sword slipping from his sweaty hand. As he lunged to retrieve it before it hit the ground, he plunged the sword through the heart of a guard who was just rounding the corner.

The second encounter was not so graceful. The guard raised his sword and his other hand in a fighting stance, and G did the same, hoping it wasn't obvious he'd skipped out on half of his childhood fencing lessons in favor of playing his favorite rhyming game with one of his nannies.

The two stood there for a long time, staring, preparing for what? G wondered. Attack/counterattack? Someone to give the go-ahead?

Jane, impatient with the stare down, scampered off G's shoulder, across the floor to the guard, up his leg, and inside his shirt.

The guard did some strange jerky motions, not unlike a young child learning the famed estampie dance from Spain. G used the distraction to dispatch the man, making sure to aim his sword away from any bulky parts where Jane might be.

The third guard came along, saw the bleeding second guard, looked at Gifford with his sword raised (a formidable sight, if one
wasn't aware of his sword skills), and took off running.

G scooped Jane up and sprinted away as well. He started toward the stables where he'd first been held.

“We must hurry,” he said, trying not to imagine what he looked like, talking to the hedgehog on his shoulder. “That one will probably sound an alarm. We need a horse.”

The little rodent dug her claws into his shoulder.

“Yes, yes, but we need one that stays a horse. Especially if soldiers will be chasing us soon.”

He opened the stable door as quietly as possible, backed inside, looking for any pursuers, and when there were none, he shut the door, turned around, and nearly ran into the pointy end of a man's sword.

The sword's owner was a tall man with a beard and a uniform, but not the soldier kind of uniform. More like the hired-help kind.

G put his hand on his rat in an automatic protective motion.

“Please,” he said. But before he could go on, the man lowered his sword.

“Are you Gifford?”

G didn't know if he should try to deny his identity, but there was no point. He nodded.

“Where's the queen?” the man said.

“I'm sorry, who are you?”

The man pushed by him and opened the door a crack, peeked out, and then shut it again.

“Where's the queen?” he said again.

“I'm afraid you won't believe me if I tell you,” G responded.

“Try me.”

G took Jane off his shoulder—she was trembling—and cradled her in his arms. “She's here.”

The man's scowl softened, and he leaned forward with a smile. “Ah! She's a wee ferret. She's a beau'iful thing.”

“Ferret!” G exclaimed. “That's what you are, my dear, a ferret.” He'd heard of the creatures, but he'd never seen one. “See? So much better than a rat.”

The man grabbed G's arm and pulled him toward the stables. “We'd best be getting you on your way, if you have any hope of escaping.”

“Who are you?” G asked again. “Are you the one who slid the letter under my door?”

The man nodded. “Name's Peter Bannister. I'm the royal kennel master. I was loyal to King Edward. Sent my daughter to protect him, but a lot of good that did.”

“Protect him? From what? ‘The Affliction'?”

Peter opened one of the stalls and hoisted a saddle onto the steed inside. “From the likes of your dirty father. The king never had ‘the Affliction.'”

G stood still with his mouth open in surprise.

“There's no time to explain. Get on yer horse. Follow my daughter. She'll lead you safely away.”

While G mounted the horse (with Jane on his shoulder), Peter disappeared down toward the end of the stables and out the door
that led to the kennels. He returned moments later with a beautiful Afghan hound.

“There's a good girl,” he said, ruffling the dog's fur. “Follow Petunia, my lord. She'll help you.”

“I thought you said we were to follow your daughter.”

Just then a horn blew, and then another. Peter's eyes went wide. “Go!”

He threw open the stable doors and then G and Jane and their horse and Petunia-the-dog galloped away into the night.

PART TWO

Hey, there! It's us, your friendly neighborhood narrators. We just wanted to take a break for a minute to tell you something important: up until now, what we've shown you has been loosely based on what we've been able to uncover in our research, filling in the blanks where needed.

But from this point on, dear reader, we are going to go deep, deep, abyss-to-the-inner-crust-of-the-earth deep into the stuff the historians don't want you to know about, the stuff they will go to extreme lengths to hide. (Because can you imagine the cost and hassle of rewriting all of the history books?) We've traversed the great plains of Hertfordshire, spelunked the dark tunnels of Piccadilly, hiked the rolling hills of the Cotswolds searching for the descendants of our lovers and the poisoned king, and we have compiled
what we so delicately refer to as . . . THE TRUTH. (Because of the danger, we considered changing our names. But we didn't. Still, we sleep with swords under our pillows.)

If the truth of what happened to our heroes and heroine scares you—and God's teeth, it should scare you—do not venture past this point.

But if you are a bucker of the system, a friend of truth, an ally of love, and a believer in magic, then read on.

NINETEEN

Edward

“Take that, you lily-livered scut!” Gracie shouted, swinging her sword.

Edward sidestepped the blow in the nick of time. He puffed out his chest. “That's King Lily-Livered Scut to you.”

She laughed. “Yes, Sire,” she said. “Of course. How could I forget?”

His heart was pounding from more than just the exertion of the fight. This whole sparring-with-a-girl situation made him wildly uncomfortable. It wasn't proper, of course. What if he were to hurt her? But Gran had said that was nonsense and sent them outside to “work up a sweat.”

Right. Edward was definitely sweating now. Gracie was making sure of that, what with the distracting trousers that hugged her
in all the right places as she parried and thrust at him, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed, the sheen of her own perspiration on her forehead and what glimpses of her neck he could see around the tumble of black curls. It was outright unfair, he thought. How could he be expected to concentrate?

“Your Majesty.” She grinned and swiped at him again. He struck back at her lightly, a series of moves designed to impress her with his vast knowledge of swordplay, and she retreated.

“You're not bad. For a girl,” he said.

Her next blow glanced off his shoulder, not hard but certainly unexpected. Somehow she'd made it past his superior defense techniques, but it must have been blind luck. He darted away, regained his footing, then advanced on her again. She retreated. She was open; she left him all kinds of vulnerable places to strike. Still, he could not bring himself to really hit her.

“Come on, Sire,” she scoffed as his broom gently grazed her leg. “Enough with the chivalry.”

“My lady,” he said gallantly, “I'm willing to stop whenever you are. Perhaps you'd be better off sticking to more womanly pursuits, like embroidery or music or—”

She bashed him in the ribs. If it'd been a real sword in her hand, instead of half of a broken broomstick, he would have been done for. As it was, he went to his knees, the wind knocked out of him. She rapped his hand then, hard enough that he dropped his broom, and she kicked it out of the way. Before he could reach for it, she lifted her foot and sent him sprawling into the grass. When
he looked up, the blunt end of her broomstick was at his throat.

Beaten. By a girl.

Inconceivable.

His mind whirled with excuses. He was still getting over the effects of the poison, of course. His twisted ankle remained a bit tender, not to mention the dog bite on his leg. A broom was not the same as a good sword in your hand—it was a poor replacement, in fact, different to balance, difficult to hold. The sun was in his eyes.

“Do you yield?” she asked.

He laughed up at her and rubbed his knuckles where she'd struck him. “Hey, that hurt.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Sire,” Gracie said, but she didn't look sorry. “Now, does England yield?”

“To Scotland?”

“Aye.”

“Never.” He grabbed her broom, a move he'd never be able to pull off with a real sword, and pulled her down to him. They wrestled, which gave Edward some lovely opportunities to touch her, to feel the gentle curves of her body against his. But Gracie was a wild thing is his arms, and not in the good way (although it certainly wasn't in a bad way, either). Within moments she'd somehow managed to flip him and was sitting on his chest, pinning his arms.

Inconceivable.

“Do you yield?” she asked breathlessly.

He was going to say no again, but then he got looking at her eyelashes, which were so long that they cast shadows on her rosy
cheeks. And he knew he'd say yes to just about anything she asked of him.

“Yes,” he conceded. “I yield.” He looked up at her, panting. “I'm a bit rusty, I'm afraid.” That and, before now, people usually had let him win.

She got off him and picked up her broom. He tried not to look disappointed.

“You're getting better,” she said, although he knew she wasn't referring to his fighting, but his condition in general. He
was
getting better. Even after a mere two days at the abandoned castle under Gran's torturous but effective care, his body felt stronger, his thoughts clearer. He hardly coughed anymore.

He was going to live.

Gracie reached down to offer to help him to his feet. “Do you want to make a real go of it now, Sire? Are we done playing with our dolls?”

“Call me Edward,” he said, scrambling up without her help.

She dropped back into fighting stance. Edward grabbed his broom out of the grass. He wiped sweat off his brow and smiled.

“Take that, you beef-witted varlet!” He made an honest try at hitting her this time. She dodged easily, almost skipped out of his way. Edward had the sudden suspicion that up to now she'd been going easy on him.

“Who are you calling beef-witted?” she laughed at him. “Your mother was a hamster, and your father stank of elderberries!” And away they went, whirling and stabbing with their brooms, almost
dancing as they moved about the field.

She was good. Really good.

“Where did you learn to fight like this?” he panted as she nearly disarmed him again. Not for the first time it occurred to him that in spite of the hours he'd spent in Gracie's company, he still knew next to nothing about her.

She tossed her hair out of her face, then brought her broom down hard against his. He only just managed to push her off.

“It was just something I picked up along the way,” she answered, as slippery as ever when it came to this type of question. “I prefer knives, though. Nothing beats a sharp knife in your boot.”

“Along your way to where?” he pressed. “Why are you in England?”

“Mind your own business!” She jabbed at him with her broom, but he parried. “You beetle-headed, flap-ear'd knave!”

A laugh burst from him. “You cankerblossom!” he cried, aiming a blow that made her duck. “But seriously, Gracie. Don't you think it's about time you told me something about yourself?”

“What you see is what you get, Sire.” She gave him a quick bow, then swung at him again. “You poisonous bunch-backed toad!”

Sire
, again. He might have preferred
toad
.

“Enough.” He sighed, then suddenly threw his broomstick to the ground. “I don't want to play games anymore.”

Gracie lowered her own broomstick uncertainly. “Sire?”

“Perhaps you'd better be on your way, Gracie. I appreciate all you've done for me, but I'm sure you have better things to do than play at swords. You said you would see me to my grandmother, and you did. You don't have to stay.”

His heart was beating fast again. He was taking a gamble, he knew. Calling her bluff.

Her eyebrows came together. “You don't trust me? After everything?”

“I want to trust you, really I do, but I don't know you,” he said. “I'm grateful for what you've done to help me, but I don't understand your reasons for doing so. You could be a spy for Mary Queen of Scots, for all I know.” He shuddered at the thought.

Gracie stared at him for a few tense heartbeats, her brow still furrowed, and then she let the broomstick drop to the ground.

“Fine,” she said irritably. “Come on.”

She walked to the edge of the grounds where the forest began, away from the ruins of the castle and out of earshot of anyone who might hear them. He followed. She spent a few minutes picking up pieces of wood from the forest floor and then throwing them down again, as if she was searching for something. (He hoped that she hadn't at long last decided that he wasn't worth all this aggravation, and was choosing a branch to club him with.) Finally, she seemed to find one she liked. She sat down against an elm tree. Edward lowered himself to the ground a few feet away. He waited for her to speak.

“You asked me once when it was that I knew I was a fox.” She
drew her knife out of her boot and started stripping down the piece of wood in her hand. “I was seven.”

She was going to tell him a sad story; he could tell by the way the light had gone out of her remarkable eyes. He was tempted to stop her, because he hated sad stories, and he had no right to demand something so personal from her, but then again, there was truth to what he'd just told her. He needed to know who she was.

Gracie was deftly shaping the wood with her knife, her gaze fixed on her work so she didn't have to look at him as she talked. “That night I woke to our cottage burning. We were all inside, my ma and da and brothers—I had two brothers—and they'd blocked the door from the outside, boarded the windows, too.”

“The English,” he said, and she didn't answer, but if it'd been anyone else, he knew she would have corrected him.

“My family was all E∂ians, as I told you. My da was a beautiful red stag, and my mum a doe, which is why they got on so well. My brother Fergus was a black horse with a white star on his forehead.” She laughed softly. “My brother Daniel was a big, lumbering hound. Myself, I'd never changed before. That night was the first time.”

She fell silent. Edward shifted uncomfortably.

“The rest of my family were too big to get out of the cottage,” she continued after a moment. “Only I could squeeze out. My da told me I had to go. He said I should make my way south, to a convent in France where I had an aunt. He even drew me a kind of map, as the house was filling with smoke, and tied it to my neck
with my mum's handkerchief.”

She closed her eyes.

“Why?” Edward asked softly. “The English soldiers just . . . burned houses with people inside them?”

“They burned any place that housed E∂ians.” With her knife she stabbed at the piece of wood fiercely, chips littering the ground near her feet. The carving was taking on a shape now, but Edward couldn't tell what. “And they burned the homes of those who would protect them.”

He wasn't so naive as to deny that such things had happened. Under his father's orders, undoubtedly. Edward wanted to believe that, as king, he wouldn't have authorized this kind of abuse. But even in that, he wasn't entirely sure. He'd been awfully hands-off in the running of the country. He'd signed the papers his advisors had thrust at him. He'd trusted them to do what was best for the kingdom.

The world felt different to him now. He felt different.

“Did you ever make it to France?” he asked.

She gave a bitter laugh. “I tried. I lost the map after the first week, so after that I just ran south until my paws bled. I nearly starved, because I hadn't yet learned to hunt or steal. I would have died if . . .”

She stopped whittling momentarily and swallowed hard, like this next part pained her to speak of even more than losing her family.

“If . . . ?” Edward prompted gently, when she didn't finish her thought.

She looked up and met his eyes. “If the Pack hadn't found me.”

Edward sucked in a breath. “Oh,” he said, trying to sound like this was no big deal. “The Pack.”

“They weren't always so bad as they are now,” Gracie explained. “In the beginning, the Pack was about securing safety for the E∂ian people. Yes, we stole and we plundered and occasionally we got into unfortunate scrapes with certain soldiers, but for the most part we kept to the shadows. We survived. We helped one another.”

She brushed an errant curl from her face. “The leader was like a father to me. He took me in when I had no one else. He taught me everything I know, and not just how to get by. He taught me to read and write. Mend a shirt. Figure numbers. Handle a bow, a sword, a knife. Carve and whittle. And he also taught me history and philosophy and the like.”

“What happened to him?” he asked, because he knew from her clouded expression that something had. Not long ago, he thought.

“He got old.” Gracie resumed her whittling. “Another man—Thomas Archer is his name—challenged him for the leadership, and won. After that things were different. Archer believes that E∂ians should do more than simply survive. He believes that we are one with nature, and therefore we should dominate it. Take what we want. Punish anyone who would challenge or harm E∂ians. Archer gathered up a group of men who become wolves, and they
started to go about making trouble.”

“So you left,” Edward assumed.

“Yes.” She frowned in concentration as she began working on the finer details of her carving. “I went off one night and didn't return. Which didn't sit well with Archer. I was useful to him.”

“So that's why you were so keen to avoid them.”

She coughed lightly. “Er, yes. Archer put a price on my head.”

“How much?” Edward asked.

She glanced at him. “Why do you want to know?”

“We're short of money, of course. Every little bit helps.”

She caught on that he was joking. Her dimples appeared. “Ten sovereigns.”

His eyes widened. “Ten sovereigns! How fast can we get to this Archer fellow?”

“The Pack uses a tavern as their headquarters,” she said matter-of-factly, as if turning her in was a real possibility. “The Shaggy Dog. It's about half a day's ride from here, I'd say.”

She was finished with her carving. She wiped her knife and slid it gently back into her boot. Edward leaned forward to look at the figure. It was fox, which actually bore a remarkable resemblance to Gracie in her E∂ian form, gracefully suspended in the act of running.

“Is there anything you can't do?” he asked.

“Needlepoint,” she said, smiling. She put the fox into his hand. “I can only carve foxes. Everything else I try ends up looking like a lumpy dog.”

Together they gazed down at the little wooden fox. “It's nice,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“I only have one more question, then,” he said.

She nodded. “Ask it.”