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.
With Archer, probably, Edward thought miserably. Burned bright in his memory was the way Archer had told Gracie that she was looking very fine. And the way that flea-bitten man had ogled her like she was a piece of meat.
He couldn’t stand the idea of Gracie with Archer. And why wouldn’t she have come to see him? Their last moment together in France had ended badly, but so badly that she wouldn’t want to see him again?
“Edward, sit down,” Bess said. “You’re making me queasy.”
He sank into a chair. Pet lumbered up to him, tail wagging. He scratched behind her ear, and she gave a happy dog sigh and collapsed at his feet. Pet had asked to remain a guardian to the queen, and after all she’d done for their cause, Bess had agreed (even though she wasn’t too fond of dogs—remember, cat person). It was a little awkward at times, but the least they could do—well, that and give her a scratch and the scraps from the table every now and then.
“Um, Your Majesty,” came a voice from the doorway. A frightened voice. “About your crown.”
“What about my crown?” Bess asked the trembling servant who came to cower before her—Hobbs, Edward remembered the man’s name was.
“Have you . . . moved it?” asked Hobbs.
“Moved my crown?” Bess frowned. “Where would I move it?”
“Normally it’s kept on a velvet cushion in the king’s—I mean the queen’s—chamber.”
“Right.” Edward and Bess exchanged worried glances. The citizens of England seemed to unilaterally accept Bess as the official ruler of the country now, but if someone had literally stolen her crown, it could mean trouble. Not to mention that the crown was virtually priceless.
“Speak, Hobbs,” Bess commanded. “Tell us what’s happened.”
Hobbs shifted from one foot to the other nervously. “It’s gone, Your Majesty.”
“Gone.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Gone where?” Bess’s voice rose, and the servant flinched.
“Gone missing!” Hobbs cried. “My job is to polish it. That’s what I do, every Thursday—I polish the crown, only today when I went to retrieve it, I found . . .” He started to cry. “I found . . .” He hiccupped. “I found . . .”
Hobbs held out his fist, which was clasped around something very small—much too small to be a crown. Maybe a crown jewel. But it meant bad news all the same.
“What is it?” Edward and Bess both leaned forward to look. “Show us,” Bess said.
Hobbs opened his hand. He was sure he was going to lose his head for this. So he was shocked when both the former king and the current queen broke into broad smiles.
“Your Majesty?”
“It’s all right, Hobbs,” Bess said.
Edward started taking off his clothes.
“Um, Your Majesty . . .” Hobbs was very confused now.
“You don’t still need me here, do you?” Edward asked Bess as he pulled his shirt over his head.
“I can manage,” Bess said. “Go.”
“Thanks.” He gave her a grateful smile and turned toward the window, shuffling off his pants. Then there was a flash of blinding light, and when Hobbs could see again, the boy who had been king had simply vanished.
Hobbs stared down his hand, at the item he’d found resting in place of Bess’s crown.
A tiny wooden fox.
When Edward came down to rest on the roof of the Shaggy Dog, he saw, with his magnificent kestrel eyes, that one of the back doors had been left open a crack. This door turned out to be the entrance to a small storeroom, which was currently crammed to the gills with all manner of freshly delivered food and supplies.
A gift, compliments of Queen Elizabeth, as a promise that she would honor Edward’s agreement with the Pack.
In the center of the floor was something Bess hadn’t sent: a stack of clean, neatly folded clothes. Nothing fancy, of course. A simple linen shirt, black pants, and a pair of boots in exactly his size. Edward put this on so fast that he got the shirt backward at first.
When he came out of the storeroom there was a man waiting for him. The man grunted something like, “She’s up thar,” and pointed to the hill behind the inn.
Edward ran.
He came upon Gracie standing at the top of the hill under a large, spreading oak. She didn’t see him at first. She was staring out at the setting sun.
Edward stopped and drank in the sight of her. She was wearing a long gray skirt and a white blouse, her hair loose and spilling all over her shoulders. She had a small satchel slung across her back, and the pearl-handled knife strapped to her belt.
He cleared his throat, heart hammering.
She turned. “Sire.”
“I’m not the king anymore,” he blurted out stupidly.
“I’m the leader of the Pack,” she said at the same time.
He wasn’t sure he heard her correctly. “Wait, what?”
“Archer’s dead,” she informed him. “He took an arrow to the chest in the first ten minutes of the siege.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” A minute ago, Edward could have wished a pox on Archer. But now he felt rather bad for him. “Did you . . . hear the part where I said I’m not the king?”
“It’s all anyone can talk about around here. You didn’t do that . . . for me, did you?” Her green eyes were genuinely worried.
“No, I didn’t do it for you,” he answered quickly. (Although if we’re being totally honest here, there was a teeny tiny bit of Edward that really had wanted to give up the throne of England so he’d be free to kiss a Scottish pickpocket as often as he liked.) “I wasn’t thinking of you at all!”
She looked down. “Oh. I see.”
“What I mean to say is, I don’t want to be king,” Edward continued in a rush. “All my life the crown’s been forced upon my head. But when I had a choice in the matter, I found I didn’t want it.”
She bit her lip to keep from smiling. Dimples. And that was all it took.
Edward closed the space between them in two strides. He didn’t really know what he was doing, only that he had to do something right now or he’d explode. Her warm heart-shaped face was in his hands, his fingers caught in her curls. She opened her mouth to say something, and he kissed her.
He kissed her!
He knew he must be doing it right because after a few stampeding heartbeats her eyes closed and her hands reached up to grasp at his shoulders and she kissed him back.
Edward felt like he was flying, only his feet were firmly on the ground.
He kissed her and kissed her.
With tongue, it must be noted.
She pulled away, green eyes wide. “Good Lord,” she breathed.
He considered that a compliment.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” He tucked a glossy black curl behind her ear, then dragged his thumb gently over her chin.
She leaned in until her lips were nearly touching his. “I have some idea.”
He kissed her again.
Of course this whole kissing Gracie thing didn’t mean that Edward was going to marry her, and that they were going to live happily ever after. (But if he played his cards right, who knows?) The happily ever after of this book belongs to Gifford and Jane. Naturally. But for now, Edward just kissed Gracie. More slowly this time. An explorer of new worlds.
Some time later he said, “Now give me Bess’s crown back, imp.”
She laughed and pulled the crown out of the satchel. “Fine. Have it. But I thought you said you didn’t want it.”
“I don’t want it. I’m not a gyrfalcon, am I? I’m a kestrel,” he said against her ear. “Not a king.”
She turned her head and kissed him, a teasing brush of her lips on his. “All right, then,” she said in her charming brogue. “But just so you know, Edward . . .”
He kissed her again. “You called me Edward!”
“Yes. Edward.” She grinned up at him. “You’ll always be a king to me.”