Gifford (call him G!)
The worst part about waking up when the sun went down was the distinct grassy taste of hay in his mouth, an unfortunate side effect of actually having hay in his mouth. But the affliction of unwanted-hay-in-the-mouth-itis (or “hay-mouth” as his mother referred to it, like someone else would refer to morning breath) was not to be avoided when one ended each day as an undomesticated horse and began each night as an undomesticated man.
Almost man, his mother would say. At nineteen years of age, he was almost a man. Definitely undomesticated.
As he pushed himself into a crouching position, and then into a standing position, G (please call him G, and avoid referring to him by his terrible given name, Gifford Dudley, the second—and therefore insignificant—son of Lord John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland) stretched out his haunches, which were now hips.
He reflected on this morning’s jaunt across the countryside. He’d gone northwest this time, running at a flat-out canter over green hills and lush forests for hours before he had to search for water. There was nothing, he imagined, that could compete with the feeling of a life without boundaries or borders, and the wind running through his hair. Mane.
He hadn’t asked for this power. (If he had, he definitely would’ve requested the ability to control it as well, even though it would be rather missing the point for a curse to come with an on/off switch.) Still, there was an upside to it. He belonged to no one. (Who would want a half horse/half man?) He could pick a spot on a map and then go there the next time the sun was up. (Provided his horse brain remembered the way. G would argue that horses were not known for their sense of direction, instead of the likelihood that he—even as a man—could get lost in his own closet.) Best of all, he had no human-ish responsibilities.
After the freedom he enjoyed during his days, nightfall was usually a bit of a letdown. G searched out the pail of water his servant always left for him in the corner, and once he spotted it he galloped over (in a human way, but probably resembling a horse more than any other human could) and ladled a cupful of water into his mouth.
The transformation always left him dehydrated, and tonight he needed his wits about him. Due to an entirely nighttime existence, there were only so many activities in which the human G could participate. With the casual, often brash way G spoke, and his general rambunctious demeanor, it was easy for his parents to assume he spent his human hours in the boudoirs of questionable ladies or getting tipsy in brothels. Lady Dudley was often overheard lamenting, “That boy and his dalliances . . . What are we to do?”
G let them believe that; in fact, he often boasted of his conquests with different ladies in order to play along. If they thought he was something of a Casanova (although they of course couldn’t equate him to the literal Casanova, who wouldn’t be born for another two hundred years), it left G the freedom to do as he pleased. Besides, the truth of how he spent his nights was far more humiliating. He would rather his parents believed he was carousing with the ladies.
A sharp knock sounded on the stable door.
“My lord?” Billingsly called from the other side.
“Yes,” G said, trying to shake the whinny out of his voice like someone else would clear his throat in the morning.
“Your trousers.”
The stable door opened just wide enough for an arm covered in the blue of the steward uniform to extend through, holding a pair of trousers.
“Thank you, Billingsly.” G took the pants and stepped into them as Billingsly set the rest of his clothes on a wooden table so the hay wouldn’t besmirch the young lord’s ensemble.
“And, my lord, your father would like a word with you when you are appropriately attired.”
“My father?” G said, alarmed. “He’s returned to the castle?”
“Yes, my lord,” Billingsly said.
G fastened the buttons on the front of his jacket and pulled on his tall leather boots. “Please tell my father I am otherwise occupied. I have . . . plans.”
Billingsly cleared his throat. “I’m afraid, my lord, your father was rather insistent. You’ll have to reschedule your . . . um . . . po—”
“Billingsly!” G cut off his servant as the heat rose in his cheeks. “I thought we had an agreement that we would never mention the . . . thing . . . outside of . . . the place.”
“I’m sorry, my lord. But I couldn’t recall your requested code word for it.”
G closed his eyes and sighed. Billingsly had only recently discovered the true nature of G’s secret night outings and had been convinced (cough, bribed) not to tell G’s parents. “Dalliances, Billingsly. My dalliances.”
“Right, my lord. Your dalliances will have to wait, because your mother requests your company as well. She is with your father in the drawing room.”
His father and his mother both here at the estate, in the same room, and summoning him? This sounded rather serious. Yes, his father occasionally requested G’s company to discuss his future, his equestrian curse, his inheritance (or lack thereof, considering he was the second son), his desire for more comfortable hoof-wear and a blacksmith who could keep his mouth shut. But his mother rarely participated in these discussions. She was more at ease in a nurturing role, like giving him sartorial advice or fixing his hair (or mane, depending on the position of the sun in the sky).
G looked at Billingsly. “It’s not Christmas, is it?”
“It’s May, my lord.”
“Somebody’s birthday?”
“No, my lord.”
“Somebody died?” For a moment, he let himself believe it might have been his perfect older brother, Stan, who had died, leaving behind his perfect wife and their perfect son, but then he realized Stan never made mistakes, and leaving behind a family due to an untimely death would most certainly be considered bad form. In addition, then G would be responsible for marrying and heiring. He shuddered at the thought.
“Not that I am aware of, my lord,” answered Billingsly.
G pressed his noble lips together and blew, a sound that was all horse.
“Shall I translate that to mean you are in compliance?”
G closed his eyes. “Yes.”
“Very good, my lord.”
What G wouldn’t give at this moment to be able to change into a horse at will. Then he could put fifty miles between himself and his father’s nose. (He would probably need forty-nine of those miles just to get out from under the sniffer.)
Twilight transformed into deep dusk as G made the trek up from the stables to the side door of the apartments. His mind was galloping at breakneck speed wondering what his parents wanted to speak to him about.
From the time he was old enough to sit at the supper table, he’d been aware of his inferior position in the family. Stan always got served before G—the main course and all the side dishes. When their father introduced the two of them, it was always, “This is Stan, the next Duke of Northumberland, heir to the Dudley fortune.” Long pause. “Oh, and this is my other son, Stan’s brother.”
Here, your narrators will point out two facts that may have contributed to the Duke of Northumberland’s embarrassment surrounding his second son. One: the E∂ian power was widely considered to be hereditary, and neither the duke nor his supposedly devoted wife had the magic. Two: the duke had an epic nose, the proportions of which were legendary; Gifford’s nose was the perfect size, and the shape could’ve been the inspiration of sonnets.
The combination of these two details made the duke often glance sideways toward his wife, and repeatedly treat Gifford as if he wasn’t there.
That was why at the age of thirteen, Gifford had requested his name be reduced to just G, since nobody seemed to care what his name was anyway.
Billingsly led G from the side entrance down the third main hall, where G caught a glimpse of himself in a hanging mirror and paused to fish a stray piece of hay out of his chestnut-colored hair. His mother had strict rules of civility inside the castle, the most important of which was, “All signs of equestrian escapades are to be left in the stable, where they belong.”
His mother had always approached his curse as if G wanted to spend his days as a quadruped. As if it were just another way for a privileged teenage boy to rebel. She often forgot that he didn’t ask for this curse, and that if he could find a way to control it, he would give Billingsly’s right arm for that information.
As if he could hear G’s thoughts, Billingsly pulled his right arm in front of his body, and away from G’s line of sight.
“In here, my lord,” he said as he swung open the doors of the drawing room, using his left arm.
Inside the room, his father sat behind an ornate wooden desk, his mother, Gertrude, standing behind him. Her hand rested on Lord Dudley’s shoulder as if they were posing for a portrait. His little sister, Temperance, was on the couch, playing with her knights-and-ladies doll set.
“Giffy!” she said when she saw him enter the room. Tempie was the only one in the world who could get away with calling him Giffy.
“Hi, Curly,” G answered, for Tempie had the curliest blond tresses in all of England.
“Ah, son,” Lord Dudley said. He motioned to a woman standing in the corner, Tempie’s nurse, who immediately took hold of the little girl’s hand and led her from the room. Tempie waved awkwardly as she balanced her dolls and held her nurse’s hand. “Thank you for joining us with such haste.”
“Father,” G answered with a slight bow of his head, although now he knew something must be wrong, because “joining with haste” was the best compliment his father had given him in two years. (His previous compliment had been in recognition of “keeping to the background” when Rafael Amador, the emissary from Spain, was visiting.)
“We have some excellent tidings for you,” his father continued. Gertrude stood a little taller at this. “And for your future happiness.”
Uh-oh, thought G. Future happiness was always code for—
“You have grown into a fine young man, and a stout, er, stallion,” his father said. “We may not have a handle on controlling the equestrian situation, but this minor daily divergence from humanity does not preclude you from leading a relatively normal life, nor will it strip you of the rights and privileges afforded any nobleman.”
First of all, G was annoyed that neither of his parents could tell it like it was and use the phrase “horse curse,” instead referring to it as his “equestrian condition” or a “minor daily divergence from humanity” or some such nonsense. But the more worrisome part of his father’s speech was the bit about the “rights and privileges afforded any nobleman.” Because this could only mean—
“Marriage, son,” Lord Dudley said. “Marriage to a well-vetted and—as far as can be anticipated without being tested—fertile young lady, of excellent lineage and equally verifiable family connections.”
G’s worst fears come true. “Wow, Father. Fertile and well vetted? You make it sound so very romantic.”
At this point, Lady Gertrude moved her hand from her husband’s shoulder and placed it on the back of his neck, as if to prove a showing of such ardent affection was indeed possible in forced marriages. “Darling boy, if left to your own devices, I fear you would never marry.”
“I thought that fact was already established and agreed upon,” G said. A month after he’d first begun to turn into a horse, he’d overheard his mother lament to his father that no self-respecting lady would want a half horse for a husband. And then his father had said his chances would’ve been better had he been a horse both day and night, and skipped the human part entirely. Then perhaps his parents could sell him and receive some compensation for all their trouble.
G had gone out and slept in the barn after that.
Now, in the drawing room, Lord Dudley shook off his wife’s hand as if he were shooing away a pesky insect. “It is my wish for all of my children to marry.”
“Why? You don’t need heirs from me,” G said. “I’m second son.”
“Which is why I have invested the last fortnight securing your happiness—”
“You mean, arranging for me to wed a perfect stranger,” G interjected. “Well, thanks but no thanks, Father.”
A vein G had never noticed before popped out on Lord Dudley’s forehead. “I am securing your happiness and thus ensuring your future and your own estate and a fortune for future generations of Dudley men and you will get married and father a son or two or seven before you turn into a horse forever, is that understood?”
G backed up a step, partly to avoid Lord Dudley’s increasingly airborne spittle and partly because he did not know turning into a horse forever was even a possibility, although he had to admit the freedom of galloping far away and blending in with the wild horses of the Cornwall region sounded tempting when compared to impending nuptials. It wasn’t like he wanted to spend the rest of his life alone. Marriage had its merits, he supposed. But what kind of husband could he make? His parents’ own marriage had taught him that when there is no great love in the beginning, better acquaintance would only lead to more contempt.
Besides, what woman would marry him once she found out the truth?
“But Father—”
“You’re getting married, or I’ll have you gelded, so help me, I will,” Lord Dudley ground out.
“And what is the name of my dearly intended?” G asked.
This response seemed to calm Lord Dudley a degree. “Lady Jane Grey.”
“Lady Jane Grey?” G hoped he had heard his father wrong. He hadn’t been present in court for several years now, but he knew of Jane. Her reputation preceded her.
The book girl.
“Lady Jane Grey. Daughter of Lady Frances Brandon Grey. First cousin once removed to King Edward.”
Lady Gertrude leaned forward. “What do you think, my boy?”
G took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. “I’m thinking lots of things. Like the fact that the lady’s face has rarely been seen because it’s usually buried in a book.”
“You’ve never opposed the education of a lady before,” his mother said.
“And I am still not opposed to it. But what if she is merely using the Second Volume of the Political History of England to cover up some hideous malformation on her face?”
“Gifford!” his father said.
G’s mouth snapped shut at the sound of his given name.
“Your sharp wit will get you nowhere.” Lord Dudley flared his nostrils and exhaled—a move that nearly produced a windstorm. “My boy. It sounds as if you are under the delusion that this match is merely a suggestion.” His lips disappeared into his beard, as they did when Lord Dudley was upset. “Believe me when I tell you the negotiations behind this match have been arduous and delicate, and your romantic notions of lifelong bachelorhood will not be humored.” He stood and put his fists knuckle-down on the desk, the top of his head reaching the mouth of the stuffed bear carcass hanging on the wall, caught in mid-roar. “Let me repeat. YOU WILL MARRY THE LADY JANE GREY!”
His voice echoed off the walls. Nobody moved for fear of disturbing the beast further.
Lord Dudley unclenched his fists and walked over to G. “Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, son. I’m sure you will be very happy.”
“Thank you, Father,” G said through clenched teeth. “One last thing. Does Lady Jane know about . . . the equestrian situation?” G couldn’t believe he’d resorted to using a phrase his father would use, as if the upcoming marriage had suddenly made him more ashamed of his curse.
Lord Dudley put his arm around his son, but it was only so he could escort him from the room.
“It matters not,” he said, and closed the door in G’s face.
It matters not. What was that supposed to mean? That she knew about it and it was of no concern to her? Or she didn’t know, and it wouldn’t matter just as long as she repeated her vows before sunup?
Billingsly met G near the side entrance of the great estate.
“Your overcoat, my lord. I have your horse waiting to take you to your . . . dalliances.”
G rolled his eyes. Every time Billingsly used the code word dalliances, it sounded so suspicious. Maybe he should have come up with a different word. And yet, dalliances had a certain cadence to it. If he thought about it hard enough, he was sure he could incorporate it into his performance tonight.
Dalliances. Dalliances. What rhymed with dalliances? G concentrated as he put his left foot into the stirrup and hoisted himself onto the back of his horse, Westley. Valients . . . es? Balances?
He was lost inside his own head, searching for rhymes, when Stan passed him on his way down the road from the castle.
“Brother,” Stan said by way of greeting.
When G had asked Stan to call him G instead of Gifford, Stan had resorted to calling him the even more generic “brother.”
“Good evening, Stan,” G said.
“Where are you off to?”
G’s heart rate increased. His brother was rarely curious about G’s comings and goings. Maybe Stan knew about the wedding, which would give G more consequence in Stan’s mind. Or maybe he was just making small talk. Either way, the scrutiny wasn’t welcome.
“Um . . . I’m off to . . . dalliant.”
Stan tilted his head.
“To do the dalliant. To be dalliant.” God’s teeth. He’d never really investigated how to use the word, and the only times he’d heard it uttered were in the form of one or both of his parents saying something like, “There he goes again. That boy and his many dalliances . . .”
“I have plans,” G said. “That may or may not involve dalliancing.”
Stan nodded. “Perhaps it will be a redheaded girl this time. A short one. With brown eyes. Would you fancy a girl like that?”
“I’m not generally picky,” G answered cautiously. “It’s just a dalliance, after all.”
“Right. Well, carry on.”
“Thank you,” G said. “Good night, Stan.”
He put his head down and urged his horse into a smooth canter. At this point, he could not afford any more distractions or impediments. He held his lantern as steady as he could, but he didn’t need much light for this journey. It was simply a turn to the right, then to the left, then two rights, then a slight right, then a hairpin left, then up the hill, then over the bridge, then a sharp left, and you were there. G could’ve done it with his eyes closed.
By the time G tied his horse outside the Shark’s Fin Inn, the moon was high. He could already hear the raucous crowd inside cheering and hissing and shouting oaths and clanging goblets. He checked in with the barkeep, signing his name as John Billingsly, and then took a stool at a table with four other men, who had clearly already downed multiple flagons of ale.
“Back again for more, are ye?” said the man with the bushiest beard.
G ignored him and placed his hand over his vest pocket, feeling for his latest work, “The Ecstasy of Eating Greenery.” Then he reached down and felt for the dagger at his hip.
Public poetry readings were known to be a rough business, especially when presenting new material. A man could lose a lot more than just his pride.