Jane
Well. She was queen. That was unexpected.
Jane gave a half-panicked, disbelieving laugh. How could Edward do this to her? Why would he do this to her? He didn’t even believe that women belonged in leadership positions. If Edward had been in his right mind, he never would have chosen to make her queen.
That must have been it: Edward hadn’t been in his right mind. He’d had “the Affliction” boiling his brain and ruining his decision-making skills—which had until recently, in her opinion, been quite reasonable. But what could Edward possibly expect her to do with his crown?
She laughed again, although it came out as more of a sob. She was the queen. The ruler. The monarch. The sovereign. The leader. The head of state. The chief. The one wearing the proverbial pants. The person in charge. The boss. The. Queen. Of. England.
Jane had always resisted the notion that women were weaker than men, not just physically, but intellectually. Her education had been as good as Edward’s—they had even shared some of the same tutors for a time—and Jane had always excelled at whatever she put her mind to. She could speak eight languages, for heaven’s sake, and was considered by some of her instructors to be a marvel at rhetoric and reasoning. She understood the complexities of philosophy and the nuances of religion. She devoured books several times a day, the way ordinary people took their meals. She memorized poetry in Latin simply to pass the time. All this she could do as well as any man.
But could she rule a country?
Jane paced her new bedroom—a chamber in the royal apartments of the Tower of London fit for (what else?) a queen. Last night, after receiving her subjects (the thought made Jane’s stomach lurch) she’d been sent to her chambers to rest, Lord Dudley citing that a queen should not be kept up so late, and she’d need to be refreshed for a long day of queenly activities that awaited her in the morning.
Jane had been exhausted, so she’d complied, but she’d made certain everyone knew she wasn’t being sent to her room like a child. She’d shot Gifford a quick look—was he coming?—but Lord Dudley pulled Gifford aside to speak with him. So Jane had grabbed a book without checking what it was (it turned out to be Afterlives: The Hundred-Year Debate of E∂ians and Reincarnation), and hurled it onto the gigantic bed when she realized it was about death.
Then it had truly hit her: Edward was dead.
She would never see him again.
He was gone.
After a long, angry cry, she hadn’t been able to sleep, so as the sun lifted and somewhere (hopefully outside) Gifford turned into a horse, she explored her chambers. The decor was annoyingly opulent. Long, silk brocade drapes framed the windows, while several wardrobes lined the walls, filled with more gowns than she could imagine wearing. In the two places along the wall not occupied by wardrobes, there was a door that presumably joined the queen’s rooms with the king’s, and a vanity with a large glass mirror, just in case she wanted to look at herself and admire how very queenly she wasn’t.
No, there were circles under her eyes from last night’s journey and devastation. Her skin, previously flushed from days in the sun, now looked sallow and drawn. Her eyes were raw from crying, itchy and red and as puffy as a pastry. Not to mention all her normal flaws.
She looked nothing at all like a queen.
The worst part about her new chambers was that all these wardrobes and vanities and drapes meant there was no space—none at all—for a bookcase. Who on earth could feel comfortable enough to sleep in a room with no books?
Edward would never sleep again, she reminded herself tearfully.
He would never read a book again.
A knock sounded and she ignored it, choosing instead to flop down in the center of her bed, surrounded by pillows and blankets, and compose a mental list of all the things Edward would never do again. Obvious things, like eating and breathing, she skipped. She was on number twenty-seven: scratching his dog behind the ears, and number twenty-eight: eating ridiculous amounts of blackberry pudding, when her visitor knocked again, then entered anyway.
“Good morning.” Her mother swept into the room, followed by a troop of ladies-in-waiting. At Lady Frances’s instruction, some of the ladies drew a bath, scenting the water with rose oil until the smell filled the room and Jane’s eyes watered. Others opened the vanity, selecting a frightening array of cosmetics. Still more put tray after tray of food on a table: sausages and eggs, bread drizzled with honey, and fruit with rivers of cream.
As all this activity unfolded around her, Jane remained on the bed, unmoving and unmoved.
“Well?” Lady Frances snapped her fingers at Jane, drawing startled glances from the maids. After a moment, she seemed to realize what she’d done, and softened her voice as she dropped her hand to her side. “Jane, my dear. Your Majesty. It’s time for a bath and breakfast. You must prepare to meet your people.”
Jane had met her people last night. “I’m mourning my cousin.”
“I know, my dear, but you must— That is, I think it would be wise to show yourself strong and capable immediately. Don’t wait for a crisis before you take action.”
“You think I should take action?” Jane asked.
“Indeed.” Her mother’s mouth twitched into a smile. “I think you should immediately prove yourself a capable ruler.”
Capable. Right. Jane fidgeted with the corner of a woven blanket. (Another thing Edward would never do.) “There are some issues I feel should be addressed. Minor issues.” Huge issues. When Gifford had taken her face between his hands and reminded her about their conversations in the country house, he’d made her remember the people. That was the only reason she’d agreed to take the throne. The people. The poor. She would do anything to help them.
“Good.” Lady Frances offered a hand and tugged Jane from the fortress of blankets. “Then we’ll bring those items before the Privy Council and begin solidifying your reign. You know Lord Dudley desires to aid you in the same manner he aided King Edward—may he rest in peace—as well as many others in the court. Including myself. We all want to help you become the queen you were meant to be.”
“I was never meant to be queen.”
“And yet you are.”
“Do you think I’ll make a good one?” Jane’s voice was unintentionally small. The words weren’t what she’d aimed for, either, but as soon as they were out, she was overcome with the desire for her mother’s approval and support.
Lady Frances narrowed her eyes and gazed at Jane the same way she scrutinized the servants at their housework. “If you can focus on ruling the kingdom instead of reading those silly books, you’ll be a queen always remembered.”
Apparently even Jane’s ascension to the throne wasn’t enough to make her mother proud of her. She swallowed down her disappointment. It didn’t matter, she told herself. She didn’t need her mother anymore.
She had Gifford.
Jane didn’t know if she could rule a country. She wasn’t meant for a life on the throne. She wasn’t even remotely prepared to be queen. But she did know one thing: Gifford would be there with her, he would help her, and she was going to give it her very best try.
“I want to see Edward’s body,” Jane announced later. “To say good-bye.”
She was walking through the hall with her mother, Lord Dudley trailing a few steps behind. They were on their way to the first of the day’s activities, not that anyone had bothered to tell her what it was. She supposed she’d find out soon enough, and in the meantime, the silence between the three of them was ripe for making demands.
“I want to see his body today. This morning.”
“I’m afraid that’s simply not a good idea, Your Majesty.” Dudley’s tone was gruff. “He was quite ill. It’s best to remember him as he was before.”
Jane choked back a wave of hot grief. “I want to see him. Where is he?”
“It’s simply not appropriate, Your Majesty—”
Jane clenched her jaw, then deliberately unclenched it. “I am the queen, and I demand to see my cousin’s body.”
“There’s simply too much to do today.”
If Lord Dudley said simply once more, she’d simply have his head chopped off.
No, that wasn’t true. She wouldn’t. He was Gifford’s father.
“Lord Dudley.” She addressed only him on this, since her mother had been silent on the matter so far. “As queen, it’s my duty to see to my predecessor’s funeral arrangements, and I wish to pay my respects to him first. Privately.”
He was silent as they turned into a more crowded hall. People glanced at her and whispered. A few bowed. “Very well,” Dudley said. “I will make arrangements for you to visit him. I’m afraid it won’t be today, though. There’s too much to do.”
If they waited much longer, she’d be visiting a rotting corpse. According to The Glorious and Gruesome Stages of Death: A Beginner’s Guide, bodies began deteriorating very quickly, bloating and stinking and decaying until all that was left was a horrifying echo of the people they had been before. Jane had seen her father and Katherine Parr shortly after they’d died, and that had been horrible enough.
She didn’t want to see Edward in the rotting stage. The thought made a shudder run deep through her.
“Arrange it as soon as you’re able,” she said sharply, a terrible thought springing to her mind.
Dudley didn’t want her to see her cousin’s body.
Something was wrong here, outside of the obvious wrongness of Edward being dead and Jane being queen. Something was very wrong, and she intended to find out what it was.
The rest of the day was a whirlwind of first-day-as-queen moments:
Standing in front of the Privy Council as the members introduced themselves.
Sitting on the throne as some of the more prominent merchants of London came to visit her.
Signing documents about palace staff, various lords’ holdings, and marriage requests. The last bit made her feel a little guilty, but evidently the first several requests on the pile were for people who wanted the arrangement approved, so she decided to think of it as giving her blessing. Still, it was disconcerting to have that kind of power in her hands.
Those were a string of more actions that Edward would never again take: signing his name, picking at a thread on the throne cushion, and hearing every council member talk about how great and terribly important they were. (Maybe that wasn’t something to be missed.)
There were also a handful of invitations to preside over state events, visit various nobles’ country homes, and attend something called the Red Wedding. Jane checked the “will not attend” box without giving this last invitation a second thought. As if she wanted to go to any more weddings.
None of it seemed very important, though. Nothing significant or helpful to the people. It was all busy work. She was given time to eat, but otherwise kept occupied. There was little opportunity to think about Edward or ask questions about Dudley’s motives, or do much of anything but wonder if she couldn’t put in an order for a new throne—she felt like a child sitting in this one, her feet barely touching the floor.
And annoyingly, Lord Dudley insisted on accompanying her everywhere. Like he was afraid that the moment she was out of his sight, she’d be out the window and heading for the hills.
Which didn’t sound like such a bad idea at this point.
“There was much Edward wasn’t able to do in his final days,” he was saying to her now mournfully. Dusk was falling. They were both waiting for Gifford at an exit near the stables, with amber sunlight falling through the open door and casting long, dark shadows down the hallway. “Our late king was so very ill. One of his last acts was to name you as his successor. It was his only thought, his only goal in those hours, naming the one person he trusted above all others.”
Above even the duke himself? He was trying to flatter her, certainly.
“Yes. Well, I still wish to see his body,” she said.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” Dudley agreed faintly.
“I’d also like to travel to the palace at Greenwich, as soon as we’re able, to see to his room and his books. And what has happened to his dog, Petunia? I should like to see her as well. Can she be brought here?”
“Of course,” Dudley said, but she could tell by the look on his face that he had no real intention of seeing to her requests. But why deny her? What was he hiding?
She turned to gaze out at the sun, which was slowly falling below the horizon. She wished it would move faster. She’d feel better with Gifford here. “I also want all but one of the wardrobes moved out of my room,” she said, as if that were the conversation they’d been having the entire time. “There’s no need for every single one of them. Store them someplace else if you feel I need that many garments.”
Dudley’s lips thinned with a frown. “Your room would be quite bare without them, Your Majesty.”
“We’ll replace the wardrobes with something else, obviously.”
“What else could a queen possibly want in her chambers?” Lord Dudley managed to look genuinely flummoxed. “A large mirror, to make the room appear bigger? A golden stand to rest your crown upon each night?”
Jane wasn’t even wearing the crown now. She had no idea where it was.
Dudley continued. “A loom? Paintings? A spinning wheel? A chair for knitting in?”
He clearly didn’t know her at all. “Oh, my knitting skills are the foundations of textile legend,” she said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.
Dudley brightened, as though relieved to have figured out something that would occupy so much of her time. “A chair for knitting you shall have, then! And all the yarn and needles a beautiful queen could desire.”
Ha.
“Father, don’t be daft.” Gifford approached, a tall shadow against the twilight sky. “What my wife desires—and what you should have guessed, had you paid attention—is bookcases. And books, of course, to fill them. Not more decorations or useless items. She wants books.”
Jane’s heart jumped as Gifford paused next to her, the sleeve of his jacket brushing her elbow. He knew about bookcases. He’d called her his wife. A tiny thrill managed to burst through the grief and confusion she’d been swamped in all day. “My husband is correct,” she said, smiling. “Bookcases. Books. There’s nothing I like more.”
“Except me.” Gifford winked at her, though; they both knew that wasn’t true.
Dudley clapped his hand down on Gifford’s shoulder. “Ah, son. I’m glad to see you return from your daily deviation from—”
“Yes.” Gifford cleared his throat. “Same as I do every evening.”
Tension snapped between the men. Jane’s skin prickled at the sudden memory of Gifford slipping away last night to go speak with his father.
What had Gifford and Dudley talked about? Gifford had said nothing to her about Dudley since her coronation. He had been unusually quiet, actually, about everything. Uncharacteristically quiet. One might even say suspiciously quiet.
Well, he’d been a horse all day, of course. He hadn’t had time to confide everything.
Jane sighed. She didn’t trust Lord Dudley, but why? There had to be more to her misgivings than her dislike of the man (and his nose).
“Come.” Gifford offered his arm, and she took it. “Let’s go in to supper. I’m starving for something other than hay.”
Dinner was insufferable. First she had to dress in layers and layers of foolish finery: furs and silks and velvets, jewels on her fingers and neck and hair, and worst of all, a type of platform shoe that she was forced to wear so that her dresses, which hadn’t yet been hemmed to her slight frame, wouldn’t drag the floor. Then she and Gifford were paraded into the great hall, where a hundred courtiers waited. At her arrival, they all stood until she took her place at the head of the table. Everyone was watching her, and she dearly would have liked to shrink or crawl under the table, neither action befitting of a queen.
Gifford sat on her left, Lord Dudley on her right, throughout the various courses of the meal: soups and soufflés, pies and pastries, and veal and venison. There was so much food, Jane thought she might explode. So much food, the people in the villages she and Gifford had visited could have lived on it for a week. The thought of so much extravagance and waste while there were Englishmen suffering and starving made her feel a bit sick.
They were halfway through the meal—eating some kind of meat pie—when Lord Dudley turned to Jane. “Your Majesty,” he said quietly, so that the other people at the table besides Gifford might not hear. “I thought we should discuss when to hold my son’s coronation. Not tonight, as I’m sure you’re exhausted, but tomorrow night would be appropriate, and then we’d have the day to prepare. I’ve already got his crown picked out.”
Jane stilled, her fork lifted halfway to her lips. “His crown?”
“Yes. To make Gifford the king.”
Gifford the king.
Jane’s hand trembled as she set her fork down.
The king. That was it, then. This whole mess made sense. The hasty wedding. The generosity of using the country house. The way he’d insisted she be crowned queen only moments after she learned of Edward’s death, foregoing all of the traditional procedures.
It was so obvious she felt stupid for not seeing it before. Through her, and through crowning Gifford king, John Dudley meant to rule England.
“No.” The word burst out of her. She darted a glance at Gifford. Shock flickered across his face, and then was snuffed out as quickly as a candle.
Dudley’s nose turned red. “And why not?”
She hardened her expression. Maybe she should have worn her crown today.
“Your Majesty,” he added.
She lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “There are several reasons, none of which I am obligated to divulge to you. But I will give you the most obvious reason, which is that Gifford is a horse.”
Dudley’s jaw practically dropped, which only encouraged Jane to go on.
“Consider it,” she said, leaning toward the duke. “How can your son help me rule the kingdom when he’s present only half the time—and during the half when most people are asleep?”
Gifford signaled for the serving boy to bring him more wine.
“Your Majesty, please reconsider,” Lord Dudley pleaded. “Your position will be much stronger with your husband as king. The people will see it as a sign of strength—”
She took a deep breath. “They need signs of my strength, not my reliance on the men around me.”
“But every queen needs a king,” Dudley sputtered.
She shook her head. “If you feel he needs a title, I can make him a duke. Duke of Clarence, perhaps. How’s that?”
Gifford snorted (a noise that was remarkably horse-like), lifted his goblet, and drank deeply.
“Your Majesty, I must implore you to change your mind.” Dudley paused and came at the subject in a new, calculatedly kind way. “This is understandably a difficult time for you. Let’s not be hasty with this decision.”
“Indeed,” she said coolly. “I would undoubtedly feel more at ease if I could visit my cousin’s body. Perhaps after that we can discuss the prince consort.”
Lord Dudley rubbed his chin, nearly losing a finger to the dagger of his nose, and nodded. “We should delay this discussion until a more suitable time presents itself.”
“Yes,” Jane agreed. “A more suitable time.”
She dared another look at her husband. Gifford’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright as he drained yet another goblet of wine. A servant rushed forward to refill.
“No more,” Jane said, much too loudly. She reached across her husband’s plate and laid a hand on the rim of his goblet just before the servant began to tip the pitcher of wine. “You’ve had enough.”
Chatter in the dining hall softened, and then made a full stop. Everyone looked at Jane with her hand over Gifford’s goblet, and the servant standing there awkwardly, and Gifford sitting between them with his face slowly turning red.
Belatedly, Jane realized what she had done.
Under the stares of shock and amusement, Jane pulled away from Gifford and his still-empty goblet, and slowly stood up.
Everyone else followed immediately.
“I’ve had a long day,” Jane announced. “I’d like to retire for the evening. Darling husband, do you wish to join me?” Maybe if they talked, he’d say all the things she wanted to hear: that he agreed with her, that he found the idea of being king silly and unnecessary, that this was all his father’s idea, his father’s scheming, not his.
She turned to Gifford. The turn of his mouth said something like, “I don’t know, what do you want me to do? I am, after all, yours to command.” But he held out his arm for her to take. “Nothing would delight me more than to spend time in your magnificent company.”
They walked in tense silence. When they reached their chambers she strode into her bedroom and threw off her outer robe like she couldn’t bear its weight any longer, then started plucking the jewels from her throat and hair.
Gifford lingered in the doorway.
“Are you coming in?” she asked, pausing to hurl her platform shoes into the corner. “There’s nowhere to sit, but feel free to pull up a wardrobe.”
He came in and let the door shut behind him.
“What would you like to discuss with me, Your Majesty?” Gifford’s tone held none of his typical friendliness. His brown eyes were cold. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“You’re angry,” she observed.
Gifford raised an eyebrow. “What right have I to be angry? I am merely your subject, Your Majesty.”
Jane scowled. “Don’t be silly. You aren’t merely my subject.”
“Then what am I, Your Majesty?”
Jane clenched her fists and paced faster. “You’re my husband. My prince consort.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. And your prince consort I shall remain.”
He was being so childish.
“Stop saying ‘Your Majesty’!” Jane tore a pillow off her bed and hurled it at him. He sidestepped it quickly. “I told you not to call me that.”
He blinked slowly, as though trying to give an impression of guilelessness. “Then what should I call you, Your Majesty?”
“Use my name.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He bowed and swirled his hand a few times in an overly dramatic display of courtesy. “Anything you say, Your Majesty. And not to question Your Majesty, but shouldn’t you be using the royal we? You are all of England now.” He paused a beat. “Your Majesty.”
“Why are you even angry about this?” She hurled another pillow, which he again artfully dodged. “You hate politics. You’ve been avoiding court for years.” She gave a bitter laugh. “The idea’s so ridiculous it’s almost sad. Can you imagine yourself prancing around the throne room, having carrots fed to you between petitions? What use could you possibly be as the king?”
“So you think I’m ridiculous. You think I’m useless.”
“I didn’t say that.” She brandished another pillow.
“You didn’t have to say it. Just because I don’t spend all my time with a book attached to my nose doesn’t mean I can’t infer what you meant.” He still hadn’t moved, aside from dodging pillows. His hands were behind his back. His chin was lifted. Even his hair was perfect. “Admit it. You’re ashamed that I’m an E∂ian.”
“No! But this is still a dangerous place for E∂ians, and it’s already causing talk that dinner is held after dark—just like our wedding—even in high summer.”
“Tell them I’m a vampire,” he said. “That should give them something to talk about. Anyway, what about all those decrees we discussed? Making the kingdom safe for E∂ians? Protecting the innocent? Helping the poor? What were you doing all day if not securing the safety of your people, Your Majesty?”
“A hundred things you couldn’t begin to understand since you spent your day galloping about the fields and eating apples. I didn’t ask for any of this, you know. I haven’t had a moment’s peace since we came here. First I’m told that my best friend is dead, and oh, by the way, that means that I’m the queen now—surprise!—a position I’m not remotely prepared for and I only agreed to accept because you encouraged me. Then, instead of being allowed to mourn for my cousin, I’m shuffled from place to place, signing insignificant documents and picking the color of the new table linens and meeting people I hate, all the while wondering why your father clearly wants you on the throne so badly.”
“Why wouldn’t he want me on the throne?” Gifford asked.
“Well, you have to admit, this is awfully convenient for you, a quick marriage to someone who’s suddenly in line for the throne. After all, I know you didn’t marry me for my hair.”
“I married you because I was given no choice,” he said.
“And of course you had no idea that your father was planning on making you the king of England. Didn’t you hear him, Gifford? He’s already got your crown picked out.”
“What makes you afraid to share power?” he said hotly. “Why couldn’t I be king?”
So there it was. He wanted to be king.
Perhaps that was what he’d wanted all along.
The pillow dropped from her hand. She took a step back, the betrayal of it piercing her through. All her life, she’d known that she was being used as a pawn in other people’s political games—by her father, by Thomas Seymour, by her own mother, and now by Lord Dudley. But she hadn’t wanted to imagine that she’d be used by Gifford.
“Is that all I’ve been to you?” she asked, struggling to keep the tremor from her voice. “A means to an end?”
He stared at her, hurt flashing in his eyes. “You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t trust anyone!” she cried. “How can I when it’s clear that this is all a game?”
“Jane . . .”
“I saw you and your father speaking after the coronation. He put his hand on your shoulder, like he was proud of you. What were you even talking about?”
Gifford didn’t answer.
“See. You’re doing exactly what he wants!” Her face was hot. Boiling. She’d never been so wounded and so angry in her life.
“I am not!” Gifford scooped up a pillow from the floor and threw it at her, though his aim was wide and he missed by quite a bit.
“You’re even terrible at throwing!” she yelled.
“I missed on purpose!” He marched to the door connecting her room and his. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty, I’ve had enough accusations for one evening.”
“Fine! Go away. I don’t want to see you.”
He hauled open the door on her side, finding another door on the other. It had no handle. He pushed at it, rattling the door in its frame a few times before he realized it wasn’t going to let him through.
“What makes you think you’re qualified to be king when you can’t even open a door?”
With an indignant snort, he slammed her door shut again and marched out the front door.
Slam.
A few seconds later: slam.
He’d gone into his room.
Well, good. “I never want to see you again!” she shouted through the adjoining door.
“Just read your stupid books!”
“My books aren’t stupid. You’re stupid.” Jane threw a pillow at the door. An answering thump signaled another pillow or maybe even a shoe.
Jane sank to her bed, the fire draining out of her.
She choked on a sob.
She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. She refused to cry about Gifford.
But then she did. She was a sixteen-year-old girl, after all, and sometimes a sixteen-year-old girl needs to throw herself into a pillow and let the tears come as they may.