My Lady Jane (33 page)

“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.)

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.