Gifford
Where was she? G paced back and forth on the other side of the Iron Gate, squinting into the darkness past the portcullis, hoping for a sign of his Jane. The minutes felt like hours, and the seconds felt like days. Every violent sound that pierced the night air (and there’d been a few violent sounds since he’d hoisted ferret-Jane over the abbey wall earlier) could be the harbinger of her death. The death of his wife. His beloved.
G loved her. But he hadn’t told her he loved her.
She had begged him to stay, and he’d wanted to, especially given the way she had kissed him. How had a girl like Jane kissed him like that? With her whole heart and her whole body? She’d probably read a dozen books with titles like The Kiss: It’s Not Just About the Lips.
The way Jane kissed, it was an art. She kissed by the book.
And yet, he’d still changed into a horse. And he hadn’t told her he loved her. Now she might die without knowing that she’d become his day and his night, and his sun and his moon. He adored Jane—he loved her! he loved her!—and he should have worn that for all to see. He shouldn’t have hidden his heart.
He closed his eyes and sent a quick prayer to the heavens that he would see her again.
He prayed Edward would keep her from harm.
He prayed if Edward failed, she would turn into a ferret and hide.
He prayed if she was discovered, she would slip from the soldier’s clumsy fingers.
And that if she couldn’t escape, they would kill her quickly.
G squeezed his eyes shut and tried to forget that last plea to heaven. Instead he composed a line of prose in his head.
If I may but see you again, my dearest, I will wear my heart upon my sleeve. . . .
He remembered Jane’s face right before she’d kissed him. He glanced at the flicker of the torches that framed the heavy gate, their flames weak and faint against the wind. Jane’s face could have taught those torches to burn bright. Last night, she was the sun, and all of the flowers in all of the counties turned toward her for warmth.
G pulled his quill, ink, and notebook from his pocket and fumbled as he tried to uncork the jar without spilling its contents.
(Unfortunately, reader, the much more portable pencil would not be invented until the late sixteenth century, and the closest thing to the pen we are all familiar with now was not invented until the nineteenth century, so G was left to fumble with ink and quill. The first people to read of our tale wondered why he bothered to bring a quill, ink jar, and notebook into battle at all, considering he was already carrying three swords—one for himself, Edward, and Jane, when they needed them—but G would argue that he was more familiar and comfortable with a quill in his hand rather than a sword, and if he had to choose one or the other to bring into battle, he’d bring the quill. Because when it came right down to it, he would probably have a better chance of defending himself with a quill.)
When G let his swords drop to the ground, he was finally able to put quill to paper.
Oh how she could teach the torches to burn bright. She was the sun—
Before he could finish his thought, he heard footfalls on the cobblestones inside the Tower, and then a hushed voice.
“Gifford?”
It was Edward. G pressed closer to the gate and could barely make out the silhouettes of two figures rushing toward him, but they didn’t come within a stone’s throw of G’s position before two other figures, with the distinct silhouettes of the Tower guards, intercepted them.
“Jane!” G called out in a loud whisper.
As G’s eyes adjusted to the scene before him, he saw Edward raise a . . . fire poker? . . . and Jane pull out . . . a frying pan?
Whose cockamamie idea were these weapons? Probably Jane’s. They seemed like Jane’s idea of weapons.
No one paid attention to her frying pan, though. Jane, by virtue of being a lady, was allowed to slide into the background. No one else so much as glanced in her direction as she retreated against the wall. She didn’t pose a threat.
Good, G thought. But part of him was grieved that she’d barely seemed to notice him at all.
The guards drew their swords and faced the king.
“Gentlemen,” Edward said. “Sheathe your weapons. I am King Edward the Sixth, by the grace of God, ruler of England, France, and Ireland. In earth, the supreme head. I am your rightful sovereign.”
“King Edward is dead,” one of the men responded. “And besides, doesn’t France have its own, separate king?”
“I am not dead,” argued Edward. “There are nefarious villains who would have you believe I died. But any accounts of my demise have been grossly exaggerated, I assure you, for here I am, very much alive.”
The guards exchanged looks.
“He speaks the truth,” G called from his position beyond the gate. “He is our true king. I have traveled with him to France to gather troops. I have fought alongside him as he killed the Great White Bear of Rhyl. Long live King Edward!”
The guard on the right began to lower his sword, until the guard on the left said, “Hold on. There’s no such thing as the GWBR. He obviously lies.”
The first guard scratched his head. “But what if he speaks the truth?”
“If he’s not speaking the truth, and we let him go, we’ll be hanged for treason. But if he is speaking the truth, we could kill him here, and no one would ever be the wiser.”
“No!” G said. “Bad decision!”
The guard on the right re-raised his sword and took a deep breath as if to speak, but he didn’t get a sound out before a loud bong rang out and he dropped like a stone. Jane stood behind the guard, her frying pan raised to where the man’s head had been.
“Wonderful, Jane!” G grinned. Frying pans. Who knew?
Edward, with his excellent mastery of fencing and his years of training and his newfound strength, swiftly dispatched the other guard with two flicks of his fire poker.
“Well done, Sire,” G said. For a moment, he wondered if it was indeed the best choice to skip those fencing lessons in favor of writing poetry. But that worry would have to wait until later. After the sword fight.
Edward sprinted to the gate, and soon Jane was there, too, and they used their combined weight to activate the pulley-and-counterweight system that raised the portcullis.
It didn’t lift fast enough for G. His gaze held Jane’s through the bars. The sound of paws against gravel announced Pet’s sudden arrival, and the dog scrambled under the portcullis and ran to Edward. As soon as G could, he crawled underneath and took his wife in his arms. “Jane.”
“Gifford.”
“I . . . we . . . There are so many things I should’ve told you—”
“We should get going,” Edward said.
(Now, we, as narrators, feel the need to inform you, dear reader, that we do not know how Edward always managed to thwart kisses. All we do know is that it was a gift he demonstrated throughout his life, most notably when his third cousin the Lady Dalrymple of Cheshire was about to kiss her new husband over their wedding altar, just after the priest pronounced them man and wife, and Edward stepped forward from his place of honor by the priest and said, “I hate to interrupt, but I thought now would be an excellent time to remind the wedding party not to throw rice, on account of the fact that birds, even kestrels, can choke on it.”)
Back to the scene at hand. Edward said to G and Jane, “Now we must get to the White Tower. And Mary.”
They all turned toward the huge stone structure that stood in the exact center of the Tower of London. The White Tower—the most ancient and well fortified of the castle buildings. Where Mary would be sitting on Edward’s throne.
“Did you bring the swords?” Edward asked G.
G ran back to the other side of the gate and tried to act like he hadn’t just left the swords sitting there. Jane kept her frying pan, but G and Edward each took a sword.
They were coming into the Tower of London as thieves in the night, and G was struck by the difference from the last time, when Jane was to be crowned queen, with royal guards escorting them in ceremony and deference. But before they could even start toward the White Tower, three more figures blocked the way. The first was a man G didn’t know. The second was G’s brother, Stan. The third was the owner of one giant eagle nose.
Edward raised his sword immediately. “Bash,” he said.
“I’m sorry, what?” G was confused.
Edward tilted his head to indicate the first man with the sword. “That’s Bash, the weapons master. He taught me everything I know about swordplay.”
“Oh, excellent,” G said faintly. “Bash. Is that short for something?”
The man called Bash just glowered at them and dropped into a fighting stance. G moved in front of Jane and held his arm across her, feeling the urge to protect her, although he knew when it came down to it, there’d be no stopping her.
Dudley sneered at them. “How quaint. A sickly boy, a useless man-horse, and a girl. This should be easy.”
G had to admit his father had a point. Perhaps Edward could compete with Bash, but there was no way G could take on both Stan and his father.
“John Dudley,” spat out Edward. “You treacherous snake. You are a traitor to your country and your king. I will see your head on a pike.”
Bash made an offensive move—“Watch out!” Jane cried—and Edward reacted quickly. He lunged toward Bash as if he’d been waiting his whole life to duel the fencing master. The two of them almost danced to and fro, their swords flashing in the moonlight. Edward looked brilliant in G’s opinion—strong and quick on his feet. He fought like the king he was.
G turned to his brother, who lifted his own impressive blade.
“Stan,” G entreated. “Come to your senses. The king is alive. This will all come down to two sides: the righteous and the imposters. Right now, you stand with the latter.”
Stan’s sword wobbled, and he glanced sideways at his father.
“You’re wrong,” Lord Dudley said. “You’ve always been a fool.”
“The fool thinks he is wise,” G retorted. “But the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”
That was a great line, he thought. He tried to remember where he’d stashed the quill and paper.
His father looked annoyed. He cleared his throat. “Whatever. Bash will dispatch the boy, and we all know that you’re no skilled swordsman.”
Everyone glanced at Edward and Bash. The weapons master was, at the moment, on the offensive. Edward retreated gracefully behind a tree to buy himself some time and rest before he began his own offense. But for the moment, it appeared that Bash had the upper hand.
“You see, Gifford?” his father crowed. “You see how your king cowers?”
“Edward does not cower!” Jane banged her frying pan against her hand. Stan and Dudley didn’t seem impressed by her threatening display, but G knew she’d fight them, too, if it came to that. Though his wife was little, she was fierce.
Bash advanced, and Edward continued to retreat. Advance. Retreat. Advance. But just as Bash looked ready to deliver a stunning blow, Edward’s feet flicked and he was out from behind the tree and driving his opponent backward.
“Unexpected, yes?” Edward said, breathing hard. “Just like you taught me.”
Jane whooped in a way that would have seemed unladylike if anyone had been paying proper attention.
Both men went back to the dance of two expert swordsmen, and G turned to his father, the clang of blades in the background.
“Perhaps, Father,” he said, “you will change your mind about who win will this scuffle in light of some recent news. The first is this: King Edward is fully recovered from your poison. I watched him kill the Great White Bear of Rhyl without even breaking a sweat. He’s no sickly boy. The second, which might be even more disconcerting to you: your beloved firstborn has fled.”
G jerked his head toward the spot where Stan had stood only moments before. Indeed, between the far buildings, Stan’s retreating form could be seen careening around a corner. He always did have the courage of a flea.
“I could go after him,” Jane suggested. “With my frying pan.”
“He’s not worth it, my dear. Save your frying pan for someone who matters.”
Jane hmphed but stayed where she was.
“And the final piece of news . . .” G suddenly swung the tip of his sword closer to that eagle nose. “Since you last saw me, I have spent every waking hour sharpening my fencing skills. I have sliced candlesticks and skewered straw dummies and sparred with some of the finest blades of France. I might not be able to beat a weapons master, but I can easily best an old, top-heavy, pusillanimous, two-faced, paltry, odious excuse for a man.” He pushed his sword forward until it was against his father’s coat. “Drop your sword.”
Lord Dudley, lacking in grace and honor—and at this point in time, any sort of backup—dropped his sword and fell to his knees, just as Edward disarmed Bash of his blade.
Bash put his hands together. “I will give you anything you ask of me, Sire,” he panted, and bowed his head.
“Fealty. Swear your fealty,” Edward demanded.
“My king, my sovereign, your smallest wish is my soul’s desire. Kill me if you need, but if you deign to let me live, I will be your humble servant, in whatever capacity you deem fit.”
Edward wiped sweat off his brow and looked to G. “Do what you will,” he said, nodding at Lord Dudley.
Now this was a matter between father and son.
G turned and placed the tip of his sword on his father’s chest. He pressed it with enough force to break through the topmost layer of fabric.
“Now, Gifford, think about what you’re doing.” Dudley’s voice was unnaturally high.
“Shut it, Father.” G spat the word in disgust.
“My son, please. I only did what I did for the good of the kingdom.”
“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.”