Edward
It took them four days to get to Paris. And now Gracie was wearing a dress.
“What are you staring at?” she asked when Edward could not stop ogling her.
“You,” he replied. “You’re a girl. I mean, a woman. I’m amazed at the transformation.”
“I clean up nicely when the situation calls for it.” She tugged at the bodice of her gown to cover more of her cleavage. “But it doesn’t suit me, I find.”
The gown was gray velvet, and it cinched her in at the waist and exposed the upper swell of her chest, a side of her that Edward had never seen before, and it made his eyes wander to places they shouldn’t. She was beautiful, but she was right; the finery didn’t suit her. The gown diminished her somehow, pushed and squeezed and swallowed her in yards of fabric.
“Thank you for doing this,” he murmured.
“You’re welcome.” Her hand rose self-consciously to touch the back of her pinned-up hair. “But I don’t really know how I’ll be any help to you with the King of France.”
“Not with the king,” Edward said. “With Mary Queen of Scots. Who lives with the King of France.”
He couldn’t help the shudder that passed through him.
Gracie’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Why, because we’re both Scottish?”
“Because she hates me, and I need her to like me. I think that if anyone can get her to like me, Gracie, it’s you. Because you’re Scottish, yes. And because you’re you.”
Her cheeks colored slightly. She nodded. “So she hates you. Why?”
“Because she was supposed to be my wife.”
“What?” Gracie exclaimed. “When was this?”
“When I was three.”
Yes, Edward had been a lad of three tender years when his father betrothed him to Mary, who’d been a baby at the time but a queen already, since her father had died when she was six days old. Such a match would have unified England and Scotland for good, in the Lion King’s way of thinking. Henry had even wanted Mary to live with them at the palace, so he would oversee her upbringing and teach her to think like a proper Englishwoman.
Mary’s legal guardians had other ideas. They’d signed a treaty approving the engagement, but they didn’t honor it. So later, when King Henry received word that Mary’s regents had accepted another offer of marriage, this one from the King of France, pairing her with the French dauphin, Francis, King Henry had eaten the messenger immediately and remained a roaring lion for days.
Then he’d invaded Scotland.
For years Henry’s soldiers had chased the fledgling queen from place to place all around the Scottish countryside, but they never managed to capture her. It was believed to be E∂ian magic that enabled her to escape them. She had a habit of vanishing like smoke from the tightest of spaces. And so Henry, who was usually more tolerant of E∂ians, since he himself had proved to be one, had punished the Scottish E∂ians for harboring her. This was most likely why, Edward knew, the cottage belonging to Gracie’s family had been burned. Because his father had been angry with a toddler.
The people called it the Rough Wooing. Emphasis on rough.
Edward had been a child through all of this, but he remembered being told that he was going to marry a queen, and he remembered staring up at a portrait of Mary Queen of Scots that hung in one of the palace hallways. The girl couldn’t have been older than four years old when the portrait had been commissioned, yet she still held herself like a queen. She accused Edward with her dark eyes. I loathe you, the painting almost seemed to sneer at him. I will always hate you. You’d better hope that we don’t get married. I will make your life a living nightmare.
That was the one bit of relief Edward had experienced after his father died. He no longer needed to pursue Mary Queen of Scots. She slipped away to the custody of the French king and his family at the Louvre Palace, where she’d been residing ever since.
They’d met once, he and Mary, a few years back. He’d been traveling to Paris to craft a peace treaty with the French king. Mary had been eight. She’d been presented to him as the intended of Francis, the dauphin (which Edward kept thinking sounded like the word dolphin, which seemed an odd term for a prince). Mary had curtsied. Edward had bowed. She’d glared at him, every bit as vengeful as her portrait. He’d tried to ease the tension by complimenting her shoes.
She’d responded by stamping on his foot.
Hard.
She’d been sent straightaway to her chambers, because young ladies should not assault kings, but Edward hadn’t truly minded. He’d been overjoyed, in fact, by the idea that he wouldn’t be expected to talk to her, and that he wasn’t likely ever to see her again. Ever.
But now here he was, back in the Louvre Palace, here to plead his case before the king, and of course it would be wise for him to draw Scotland to his cause as well. At least that’s what Bess said, and Edward always believed what Bess said.
None of this he felt like explaining to Gracie, of course. “Just talk to her, if you get the opportunity,” he said. “You don’t have to sing my praises. Just tell her what you know of my situation. See if she’ll be amenable to helping us, in whatever she has the power to do, which may not be much, really, not from here, and she’s only a young girl, but—”
“All right,” Gracie said, holding up her hand. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Thank you.” She owed him that much, he felt, after the lengths he’d gone to ensuring that she could keep her pretty knife.
There was a tap on the door, and Jane and Bess entered, both appearing fatigued after the week’s activities with the Pack and the bear and their most recent stealthy boat ride across the English Channel. Jane, especially, looked peaked, like she hadn’t slept.
“Edward,” she greeted him. “You’re like a proper king again.”
Yes, he was once again wearing tights, gold-embroidered pumpkin pants, a silk undershirt, a gold-and-cream brocaded doublet with puffy sleeves, and a fur-trimmed velvet robe to top it off. He had forgotten how heavy all these layers of clothing were, when he’d been dressing like a peasant for weeks. He could feel the weight like the physical manifestation of all that he was responsible for, pulling him downward.
“You ladies are quite splendid, as well,” he said, looking from Gracie to Jane to Bess and back to Gracie.
Jane stood in front of him and smoothed down the fur at the edge of his robe. “This isn’t ferret, I hope.”
“White-spotted ermine,” he answered. “Although I believe I shall give up fur, when all of this is done. I would hate to be wearing some unfortunate E∂ian by mistake.”
“I feel the same,” she said.
“How’s Gifford?” Edward asked, because suddenly he felt the young lord’s absence keenly. If Jane was like a sister to him, then perhaps Gifford would be his brother now. His friend. Nothing says friendship like staring down into the jaws of angry death together, he reasoned. “Is he still in the doghouse for locking you up?”
“He’s in the stables,” Jane said stiffly.
“Don’t punish him too long, Janey,” Edward entreated on Gifford’s behalf. “He only did it to keep you from harm.”
“But that’s the problem.” She settled with a sigh onto one of the parlor chairs. “I just don’t know how to talk him about it. Every time I try, I feel like I say something shrewish and high-pitched and stupid. Which is unlike me.”
He stifled a smile. “Anyway, I’m glad to have you along,” he said. “I’d rather face a giant mythical bear, I think, than have this meeting.”
Gracie seemed surprised at this. “This will be nothing, won’t it, after all the other trouble you’ve had? All you have to do is talk to the man.”
“I have to be the King of England,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I will have to speak to Henry as one king to another.” A task that frightened him, in some ways, much more than facing any beast.
“You are the king,” said Bess quietly. “It’s as simple as that, Edward. Be yourself.”
“So the King of France is named Henry. That won’t be confusing, will it?” said Gracie, fidgeting again with the neckline of her dress.
“It’s easy to remember this king,” Edward mused. “He is King Henry, and his wife is Queen Catherine. Like my father without all his extra wives.”
The door to the parlor opened, and an opulently dressed steward entered and bowed low to Edward. “His Majesty will see you now, Your Majesty.”
“No, not confusing at all,” muttered Gracie. She turned to address the steward. “Can you find me an audience with the young Queen Mary? I’m a Scot, you see, and I have some news for her from home. Nothing important, of course, but something that she’ll find entertaining.”
The steward looked slightly put out by the informal nature of her request. “I’ll see if the queen is receiving visitors,” he said. “Wait here.”
Jane stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Good luck, cousin.”
Gracie was frowning, he noticed. He delighted in the thought that she might be jealous of Jane kissing him. And he also knew a perfect opportunity when he saw it. He turned to Gracie. “Don’t I get a good luck kiss from you as well? I’m going to need as much luck as I can get.”
Her green eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “I’m not sure I’m terribly lucky.”
“You’re lucky for me.”
“Oh, all right.” Her lips were a quick, warm brush against his cheek. “Good luck, Sire.”
“Your Majesty?” the steward prompted.
It was time.
He tried not to think too hard about how this one meeting would make or break them. They needed soldiers. And ships. And steel. Without the French king’s help, they could not hope to overcome Mary. Everything was riding on this single encounter. On his words.
His knees were trembling, he realized, ever so slightly. Even a kiss from Gracie was not enough to overcome his nerves.
“Remember what we talked about,” Bess told him as they moved forward through the door.
He nodded.
“Stay with that and you’ll be fine,” she said. “Stick to the plan. Play to the king’s weaknesses and your strengths.”
“I’ll do my best,” Edward said. That was all that he could do.
The King of France was nothing like Edward’s father had been. This particular Henry was a cool, collected sort of man with a well-trimmed beard who liked to wear white fur and heels that elevated his height. He was fond of dogs, but he was not an E∂ian or a supporter of their cause. He was quite vocal, instead, about how distasteful he found those people who became animals, like such a thing was a matter of rude behavior. This made Edward’s position a bit precarious, under the circumstances.
Still, King Henry was proving to be sympathetic to Edward’s plight. He wanted to hear all about how Edward had lost his throne, like it was the best kind of royal gossip.
“So this Mary herself took part in the plot to poison you?” the king asked in horror when Edward reached that part of his story.
“She put the fork to my lips,” Edward answered. “But I wouldn’t take it.”
“Such brazenness,” King Henry exclaimed. “This woman attempting to murder a king, her own brother, no less. Such audacity. And however did you escape?”
Edward took a deep breath. Be yourself, Bess had told him, but what she really meant was, Be yourself unless you sometimes find yourself turning into a bird, in which case, don’t be that—don’t admit that, ever. Be a respectable Verity, for heaven’s sake.
“One of my servants smuggled me out,” he lied smoothly. “In the back of a hay cart. It was quite the terrible ordeal.”
“Ha!” The king was greatly amused by this. “A hay cart. Imagine.”
He laughed, and the members of the court laughed with him.
“So you see,” Edward continued delicately when the merriment died down. “If my sister is allowed to sit unchallenged on my throne, it will send a dangerous message to rest of the world: that any grasping, covetous woman of royal blood can reach for the crown and succeed in taking it, even from a rightful, ruling king. Then queens will start popping up all over Europe like rabbits in a garden. It will be chaos.”
He tried to sound supremely confident. Bess had coached him to say all of this about the awful precedent Mary would set and the terrifying anarchy of women, but for some reason he felt unsettled when he spoke the words, especially with Jane and Bess standing behind him, these two women who he now held in the highest possible regard.
King Henry leaned forward on his throne. “Well, that makes sense. Yes, they’re always reaching, aren’t they?” He cast a quick accusatory glance at Queen Catherine beside him. She was a notorious schemer, Edward knew from Bess, and the French king often worried that his own wife would be the end of him someday, so his son would end up on the throne and she could rule as regent.
“Yes, they reach far above their station,” Edward agreed. “And you and I both know that it is a man’s place, not a woman’s, to rule a country. Women are ill designed for such a task.”
“But you yourself put a woman on the throne, did you not?” King Henry asked, gesturing to Jane.
The court fell silent.
Edward glanced at his cousin. Her eyes were closed. Her lips moved like she was counting backward from ten.
Edward turned quickly back to the king.
“My desire was for my crown to pass to my cousin’s male heirs,” Edward explained. “Naturally. Of course I couldn’t have considered Jane a queen on her own merits.”
Oh, she was going to stab him in his sleep. At least she was being mercifully silent. For now. Edward cleared his throat. “But unfortunately, I became ill so quickly that there simply wasn’t time for Jane to produce a male heir. And in the absence of a boy to inherit the throne, Dudley persuaded me to amend the line of succession to name Jane as the ruler, to be followed by her sons, of course. A decision I regret, but there wasn’t much of a choice at that point.”
“Hmm. Well, it doesn’t matter,” King Henry said thoughtfully. “If they’d succeeded in poisoning you without such an amendment, Mary would still be sitting on your throne now, wouldn’t she?”
“Correct.” Edward raised his hands, palms up, like, What’s a fellow to do?
“And so you are here, asking for my help,” King Henry said, a gleam in his eyes as if Edward were kneeling before him in supplication.
Edward was not going to do any kneeling, of course. He straightened his shoulders. “Mary cannot be allowed to get away with such treason,” he said, meeting the king eye to eye. “I have some ships and armies of my own, of course, but Mary needs her comeuppance. I thought it would please you, perhaps, to stand with me on this matter. We could send a different message to the world: that a king will not be cowed by some conniving, middle-aged female suffering from delusions of grandeur. We are men. We are kings. We will not yield on such matters.”
Queen Catherine was shooting daggers at him with her eyes, but he forced himself to concentrate on the French king.
And the king was feeling generous.
“Very well,” Henry said after a long, dramatic pause. “You shall have French ships at your disposal, and you shall have French soldiers, as well, as many as I can spare. Get rid of that ridiculous cow who dares to call herself a queen.”
It took an effort for Edward not to sway on his feet, so great was the relief he felt in this moment. “I will,” he promised. “You have my thanks.”
“And I will expect that in the future, our countries will be better friends,” the king said.
He was indebting himself to France, Edward knew. The man would have more than just his thanks. But that was the price of his crown. He must be willing to pay it.
“Undoubtedly,” he said.
“And if I may give you some advice,” King Henry added. “From one king to another.”
“Of course. I’d be thankful for any wisdom you could offer me.”
“The thing for you do, young man, is to find yourself a wife. As soon as possible, I should think. Produce a son of your own. I have three sons, myself, and a number of bastards. It’s very comforting for me to know that I will find never myself in your predicament. My bloodline is secure. You should see to yours.”
Edward tried to thaw himself quickly, because at the word wife, his chest seemed to have frozen over. He couldn’t get proper air in his lungs.
A wife.
King Henry was right.
Edward could marry. He would have to marry. And soon.
“A wise prescription,” he managed to get out. “Again, I thank you.”
“Perhaps you will consider my daughter, Elisabeth,” Henry said, and Queen Catherine roughly pushed a young girl forward. The girl had been dressed extravagantly in an attempt to disguise the fact that she was quite plain. She curtseyed deeply before him.
“Uh . . . yes, I shall consider her,” he said. “Mademoiselle.”
“Votre Altesse.” (Which means, for those of you who don’t speak French, Your Highness.) The little princess didn’t meet his eyes.
He was in a bit of daze as he took his leave. He had not been considering all that was going to be expected from him, if indeed he took back his throne.
He had forgotten that, as the ruler of England, he would never truly be free.
King Henry held a celebration that night in Edward’s honor, so of course Edward had to attend, even though he would have liked to have spent some time alone to sort out his thoughts. This discussion of women and their merit had left him confused about how he actually felt on the subject. He wished that Jane was there to talk to (and possibly apologize to, but why would he need to apologize? He’d only said what Bess had told him to say, and besides, it was true, wasn’t it? Women were the weaker sex, were they not? Wasn’t that even written in the Holy Book?). But Jane was in her ferret state now. Gifford hadn’t made an appearance. Bess had returned to her chamber to strategize their next move. And he hadn’t seen Gracie since before he’d spoken with the king.
He wandered among the music and dancing and fancy French pastries. All this was a blatant over-expenditure of the French king’s wealth, it seemed to Edward. The Louvre Palace was huge, easily three times the size of Edward’s largest palace, and lavishly furnished. Under normal circumstances it would have given Edward a serious case of palace envy, but now he found the entire building rather vulgar.
His old life felt like a lifetime ago.
How was it possible, he thought, to be so lonely when he was surrounded by so many people? There was a throng of admirers about him, many of them women who had no doubt paid attention when the king had advised Edward to find himself a bride toute suite, but when they spoke to him, he found himself nodding blandly and not listening to their words, just staring into his goblet of wine.
A wife, he kept thinking. Such an intimidating word.
Bollocks.
But he’d be the king again, and he could decide for himself who and when he would marry. There was that to comfort him. No one could force his hand.
“Your Majesty,” came a high, sweet voice at his side. “I was wondering if you might honor me with a dance.”
He looked up.
It was Mary Queen of Scots. Of course he would have recognized her anywhere, with those eyes so dark they were almost black, those eyes that had haunted him from her portrait for all those years. But she looked different from the girl who’d stamped on his foot. Older, of course. She’d been eight then. She must be close to thirteen now. She wore a red satin gown and her black hair was braided and pinned in a complex pattern that must have taken hours. There was even a spot of rouge on her cheeks.
She looked quite grown-up.
“Your Majesty?” she queried.
“Your Majesty,” he answered, and bowed stiffly. “Of course I will dance with you.”
They moved to the center of the floor. The dance was long and complicated and held little opportunity for talking, a series of seemingly endless turns and whirls that left him breathless. Mary was light on her feet, an experienced dancer. She smiled at him often, which Edward didn’t know what to do with. Did she have a dagger meant for him tucked in the folds of her dress somewhere? Part of him expected to feel it pierce his side at any moment.
The dance ended. He thanked her. He turned to flee.
“Will you walk with me?” she asked, before he could. She held out a small hand.
He nodded and tucked her hand into his arm.
“I spent the afternoon with your lady, Grace,” Mary informed him as they strolled along the outer edge of the room. “I found her stories quite amusing.”
God’s teeth, what had Gracie told her? “Yes, she’s an amusing woman,” he said.
“Quite. It made me miss Scotland, to hear her brogue.” Mary herself had no Scottish accent that Edward could discern. Too many years away from home.
They walked in awkward silence. Edward found himself tongue-tied. He could feel the gaze of others on them, keen and speculative, especially that of the French queen and her dour-looking daughter, Elisabeth.
“You’re taller than I remember,” Mary Queen of Scots said at last.
“Yes, I find you changed as well.”
She flushed. “Forgive me, regarding your foot last time.”
He smiled. “Forgiven,” he said. “I hope we can put all that past ugliness behind us and be friends.”
“Yes. Friends. It’s just, I didn’t like to be told what to do, or to whom I should be married,” she said, her voice lifting a little. “It made me cross to look at you.”
“Believe me, I understand.”
She stopped and pulled her hand from his arm. Her dark eyes were earnest when she gazed up at him, but not naive. “I still don’t like to be told.” He followed her gaze when she peered out into the center of the room, where Edward spotted a sulky-faced blond boy in splendid clothing.
Ah, the dauphin, he assumed. Prince Francis.
“He seems all right,” Edward observed as they watched the boy grab a handful of sweets from a passing tray and stuff them into his mouth. Then the crown prince picked his nose, and ate that, too. “Oh. That’s unfortunate.”
Mary Queen of Scots pursed her lips unhappily. “Sometimes he pulls my hair or calls me names.”
“He’ll grow out of that, I think,” Edward said. And hopefully the nose picking, as well.
The little queen turned to regard Edward with a carefully blank expression that made him feel sad for them both, that they would have learned to wear such masks at their young age. “I think I would like England better than France, don’t you?” she said quietly.
He lowered his voice to match hers. “Definitely. Apart from the food.”
“Oh yes,” Mary agreed. “The food here is good. But the king is quite mad sometimes. And the queen is horrid to me, she hates me, and . . . and this is not a friendly place for people like us.”
Edward was intrigued. Gracie had done her work well on Mary, obviously. She wanted to confide in him. To trust him. “Like us?” he repeated.
She pulled on his shoulder to make him lean toward her, so she could whisper in his ear. “I hear you’re a kestrel.”
His heart beat faster in spite of himself. This was a country still in the hands of the Verities. It was dangerous, even for him, to admit to being an E∂ian here.
But this journey was about taking risks.
He turned Mary so he could whisper, “I am. What are you?”
She smiled conspiratorially, her dark head close to his, her breath on his cheek. “I’m a mouse. That’s how I get away if people chase me—I turn into a little black mouse that nobody ever notices. I’m very good at hiding. And listening. I hear such things, you wouldn’t believe them if I told you.” She leaned even closer. “I have a secret army, you know, back in Scotland. All of them E∂ians. Isn’t that marvelous?”
“Marvelous,” Edward agreed.
She bit her lip. “I will send my army to help you. But I think someday I might turn into a mouse, and run away from France and never return. Will you help me then?”
His breath caught. “Of course,” he said. “You’ll always be welcome in England, Your Majesty.”
She took his hand and squeezed it. Her fingers were soft, her nails perfectly cut and rounded. “Call me Mary.”
“Mary,” he said, and he became aware of an ache in his chest. He pushed past it. “And you should call me Edward.”
“Edward.” She smiled. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
Yes, he thought, and the ache bloomed into something larger. He understood her. Maybe a little too well.
Mary looked pleased. “And here’s your lady,” she said, glancing past him. “Hello, again.”
“My lady?” Edward turned to see Gracie approaching them in the gray velvet gown. His chest swelled at the sight of her.
“I’m not his lady,” Gracie corrected. “I’m just his friend.”
Queen Catherine was calling for Mary to dance with the dauphin. “He always steps on my feet,” the little queen said with a scowl, becoming once again the furious girl from her portrait. She swept away to join her betrothed. Edward felt a weight lift at her departure. He offered his hand to Gracie.
“Shall we?”
She shook her head so hard a curl came loose from its pin and tumbled into her face. “I don’t know how to dance.”
“There’s something you don’t know how to do?” he said incredulously. “How can that be?”
She laughed and considered the couples whirling around them. “It is a different world that you live in, Sire. So full of color and music. So very grand. I can see why you’d miss it.”
He didn’t miss it, he thought. Not really.
“Let’s walk along the river,” he suggested. “It’s stuffy in here.”
“If that’s what you command.” She took his arm and he led her outside, where the stars were bright and the palace seemed to stretch on and on against the Seine.
“Let me teach you to dance,” he said when they’d found a quiet place.
“I’m not sure that would be wise,” she answered wryly. “I’d hate for you to die now, after all this trouble I’ve gone to keep you alive.”
“It’s largely a matter of bowing and curtseying.” He dropped into a bow. “Now you.”
Grace stood still for a moment, considering, then slowly and awkwardly curtsied.
“See, that wasn’t so bad. Take my hand,” he directed.
She did.
“Now I’ll draw you toward me, and we’ll bow, and then we’ll step away, and bow.”
They practiced for a while, moving in time to the music that was still spilling from inside the palace.
“You’re quite good at this,” she admitted as he guided her through the steps.
“I’ve had years of lessons. My instructors often said that the key to a successful dance is to make it seem like you can’t help yourself. You look into your partner’s eyes, as if that gaze binds you while your body moves to the music.”
They both seemed to be holding their breath as they looked into each other’s eyes. He put his hands on her waist, and lifted her in a slow circle. Her arms went around his neck as he lowered her to her feet.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked impulsively. “I’ve never kissed a girl before, and I want it to be you. Will you?” It was terribly inappropriate, what he was asking her, and he knew it. There were rules for people like him. The future could go two ways: he could fight and die in this endeavor to take back his crown, or he could fight and win, and then he’d be the King of England and he’d marry some foreign princess to strengthen the ties between their countries, or one of these days a little black mouse was going to show up at his palace door, and he knew what she’d expect of him, and he knew that he should probably comply. And Gracie would still be a Scottish pickpocket, and he’d have no business kissing her.
But he didn’t care.
“I won’t pretend that I’m a fine lady,” Gracie said, lifting her chin. “It doesn’t matter what dress you put me in. I don’t belong in a palace.”
“I know. Kiss me.”
She gave a little laugh. “You’re a forward one, aren’t you?”
“Grace. I’ve wanted to kiss you from the moment I clapped eyes on you. It’s been agony not kissing you all this time.”
“Agony?” She sounded doubtful.
He cupped her face in his hands. “Poison was less painful, believe me. I nearly strangled Gran that day you carved me the wooden fox at Helmsley. Please put me out of my misery.”
She laughed again, nervously. “All right, then. It’s only a kiss.”
Only a kiss, he told himself.
A kiss. Nothing more.
And then he could surrender to being a grown-up and being a king and doing all the things that were expected of him.
She shivered and wet her bottom lip with her teeth, and Edward thought he would burst into flames. He leaned closer to her. Fell into those green, green . . . pools of beautiful eyes. He prayed he wouldn’t mess this up. It felt important, as big as winning his country back. Bigger. His eyes closed.
“Wait,” Gracie said. “Sire.”
“Dammit,” he breathed. “Call me Edward.”
“I can’t,” she said, her voice wavering. “I know you want me to. But I can’t forget who you are. You will always be the king.”
The words were like cold water splashing him. He opened his eyes and drew himself away from her abruptly. “All right. I understand.”
“I like you. I do. But I can’t—”
He rubbed his hand down the front of his face. “I should go.”
She frowned. “Sire . . .”
“Dammit!” The word burst out of him. Light flared. He was a kestrel. He was flying away. He gave a great cry that pierced the still night air, and then he flew higher, and faster, until Gracie was a speck he could leave behind.
“So. You have all you asked for,” Bess said, much later.
“Right,” he said sarcastically. He leaned against the rail of the fine French ship that was carrying them back to England. The sun was rising. The wind ruffled his hair.
“What’s the matter with you?” Bess wanted to know.
“Nothing. Yes. I have my army.” He was watching Jane and Gifford, who were standing close farther up the bow, spending their few minutes together, that precious and brief window of time before Gifford would change into a horse. How easy it was for them. How simple.
“It’s the strangest army to ever walk this earth,” Bess said with that quiet, almost smug smile of hers. “Made up of Frenchmen and Scots and thousands of E∂ians rallying behind you, brother. We’re going to win, Edward. If we play our cards right.”
“And then I’ll be the King of England again,” he said.
“You never stopped being the king, in my opinion. But now you’ll get to truly rule,” she continued. “You’ll be able to right all of the wrongs of this country. It was true, all that you said to Archer. You can see to it that E∂ians and Verities live side by side in peace. You can change the way things are done, rein in the wild spending and live modestly, see that there’s gold in our coffers again, restructure the taxes to take the burden from the common people, ease their suffering, yet still see to the needs of the nobles. You could be a better king than Father. Wise and just and even-tempered.”
“Better than Father?” He could not conceive of such a thing.
“Yes. England can be prosperous once again. I long to see that day,” his sister said passionately.
He stared off into the horizon, lost in thought. He’d spent the better part of the night flying, and thinking while he flew. It had been the first time he hadn’t lost himself to the bird joy. He supposed that was something of an accomplishment.
“Did you know,” he said after a moment, “that Mary Queen of Scots is a mouse?”
“Of course.”
He glanced up at her, startled. “You knew that? How is it that you know absolutely everything?”
“I’m a cat,” she confessed. “She smelled tasty.”
That drew a startled laugh out from him. “Kestrels eat mice, too.” He remembered the one mouse he’d killed, the night he first became a bird. He wanted to fly again, to stretch his wings.
“We’ll have to practice restraint, if we encounter her again,” Bess remarked.
“We will,” he said softly.
Bess was scrutinizing his face. “What’s troubling you, Edward? Are you afraid? Of this battle to come?”
“No,” he said without hesitation. His hand curled into a fist on the railing. He looked up at her, his gray eyes fierce and shining. “I am ready to fight.”
But it occurred to Edward, not for the first time since our story began, that he had been a poor excuse for a king before. That he did not deserve to be king now. That someone else (anyone else, really, except for Mary) might be better suited for the job.