Edward
When you were dying, Edward quickly discovered, people would let you do pretty much whatever you wanted. So he made some new unofficial decrees:
1. The king was allowed to sleep in as long as he wished.
2. The king no longer had to wear seven layers of elaborate, jewel-encrusted clothing. Or silly hats with feathers. Or pants that resembled pumpkins. Or tights. From now on, unless it was a special occasion, he was fine in just a simple shirt and trousers.
3. Dessert was to be served first. Blackberry pie, preferably. With whipped cream.
4. The king would no longer be taking part in any more dreary studies. His fine tutors had filled his head with enough history, politics and philosophy to last him two lifetimes, and as he was unlikely to get even half of one lifetime, there was no more need for study. No more lessons, he decided. No more books. No more tutors’ dirty looks.
5. The king was now going to reside in the top of the southeast turret, where he could sit in the window ledge and gaze out at the river for as long as he liked.
6. No one at court would be allowed to say the following words or phrases: affliction, illness, malady, sickness, disease, disorder, ailment, infirmity, convalescence, indisposition, malaise, plight, plague, poor health, failing health, what’s going around, or your condition. Most of all, no one was allowed to say the word dying.
And finally (and perhaps most importantly, for the sake of our story)
7. Dogs would now be allowed inside the palace. More specifically, his dog.
Edward had always loved dogs. Dogs were uncomplicated. They loved you without expectation. They were devoted and loyal, not because you were the king and you could have their heads chopped off if they displeased you, but because it was in their nature to be so. Most of the time he greatly preferred the company of dogs to the company of men.
Edward’s favorite dog was named Pet, short for Petunia. She was the best kind of dog, a large Afghan hound with flowing, wheat-colored hair and long, silky ears. Pet was warm and soft and goofy and always good for a laugh. And so for the past few days, simply because Edward said so, Pet had been allowed in the throne room, the dining hall, the council chambers, and his newly arranged bedchamber in the turret. Wherever the king went, so too went Pet.
His sister Mary, for the record, did not approve of dogs in the castle. It was undignified. It was unsanitary.
Bess was allergic. (Plus she was more of a cat person.)
But neither one of them could really protest, because their brother was dying, and how does one deny the wishes of a dying king?
So it was that on Friday morning, after breakfasting on blackberry pie and whipped cream, Edward was lounging on the throne in a shirt and pants, not even wearing his crown, with Pet’s head resting on his lap. He was scratching behind one of her silky ears, and Pet’s hind leg was moving in time to his scratching, because she couldn’t help herself. Mary was in the corner, muttering something about fleas. Bess was sniffling into a handkerchief. Lord Dudley, having just returned from his trip to his country estate to fetch his son, was sitting in a much smaller chair on Edward’s right, reading over some official-looking document, a pair of spectacles (or the early predecessor of what we think of as spectacles) perched on the landscape of his nose.
That’s when Edward heard the indignant footfalls ringing on the stone in the outer corridor and the familiar, high-pitched voice demanding, “No, I must speak with the king, now, please,” but before the steward even had a chance to announce, “Lady Jane Grey, Your Majesty,” which was protocol when someone was about to enter the king’s presence, the doors to the throne room burst open and in rushed Jane.
It was Friday, as we mentioned. If all went according to Lord Dudley’s plans, Jane and his son Gifford would be tying the knot tomorrow night.
Edward smiled, happy to see her. He hadn’t seen much of her lately on account of his illness, but she was just as he always pictured her, albeit a little travel-worn.
Jane, however, did not seem happy to see him. There were two bright pink spots in the middle of her cheeks and wisps of her ginger hair sticking to her sweat-dampened face, as if she’d run all the way from Bradgate. And she was frowning.
“Hello, cousin,” Edward said. “You’re looking well. Why don’t you sit down and have a nice cup of—”
Tea, he was going to offer. Because he was English and that’s what the English do under stress: they drink tea.
“No tea,” Jane interrupted, waving away the royal tea mistress who was approaching her with a teapot in one hand and a saucer and teacup in the other. “I need you to talk to you, Edward. It’s urgent.”
The throne room, which was full of courtiers, fell silent for a few seconds and then broke out into a rumble of scandalized murmurs, although whether the lords and ladies present were more scandalized by Jane’s casual use of Edward’s first name or her very rude refusal of his offer of tea, we can’t say. Lord Dudley cleared his throat.
“All right,” Edward said a bit nervously.
Jane’s gaze darted around the throne room, as if she had just noticed that she had an audience. Her face reddened even more. “I need to speak with you about, um . . . the reign of King Edward Plantagenet the Second. I’ve been reading this very important book about that period of English history, and I wanted your opinion on the subject.”
Alone, her eyes said. Now.
Concerning the wedding, of course.
Edward was quiet for a moment, trying to figure out how best to handle the logistics of seeing Jane in private.
“It is of great historical importance!” Jane insisted.
“Ah . . . yes,” Edward stammered. “Very well. I would be delighted to talk to you about the reign of King . . .”
“Edward Plantagenet,” Jane provided.
“The First.”
“The Second,” she corrected.
“Yes, of course. Why don’t we go for a walk and you can tell me all about it?”
Jane’s small shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank you.”
Edward stood up. His eyes met Dudley’s. The duke looked decidedly disapproving, but Edward ignored him.
“I’m going to walk with Lady Jane in the orchard,” Edward announced. “Carry on without me.”
“But, Your Majesty,” protested Mistress Penne, rushing forward. She was his nursemaid, a plump, kind-faced old woman who had looked after him when he was a baby and been called back to his side during his illness earlier in the year. Lately she was always hovering, fretting that he wasn’t dressed warmly enough, worrying that any small exertion might be too much of a strain on his now-delicate constitution. “Are you sure that’s wise, in your condition?”
That was one of the forbidden words, but Edward decided he would allow it from Mistress Penne because when he’d get his fevers she’d sit next to his bed and put a cool cloth on his forehead, and stroke his hair, and sometimes even sing to him.
“Yes, Sire, perhaps you should rest,” agreed Dudley.
Edward waved them off. “What’s the worst that could happen? I could catch my death?”
He was trying to be brave and jovial in the face of it all, but in this he obviously failed. Dudley looked disappointed in him. Mary appeared more solemn than usual. Mistress Penne put her hand over her wrinkled mouth and shuffled away, sniffling.
Brilliant, he thought. Just brilliant. But should dying people have to apologize?
Jane looked at him, suddenly taking in his plain clothes and lack of crown and the wag-tailed dog at his side. “Edward? What’s going on?” she asked.
“Come,” he said, stepping down from the throne and offering Jane his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
And so they walked, dog and girl and king, out of the palace and across the grounds and down through the entire length of the orchard, where they settled under the white blossoms of an apple tree.
“All right,” he said, once they were certainly out of earshot of anyone from court. “What’s the matter, Janey?”
“I can’t get married tomorrow,” she burst out. “You’ve got to call it off.”
“But why?” Edward picked up his scratching of behind Pet’s ears, and she made a happy dog noise deep in her throat.
“I simply cannot marry him, that’s all. Not him.”
“But I hear he’s a fine young man, Jane,” Edward said. “Lord Dudley assured me that Gifford will be a model husband.”
When he wasn’t busy galloping around the countryside, Edward thought a tad guiltily.
Jane picked at the brocade on her gown. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it? A fine young man. A good match. How fortunate I am, indeed. Well. I went to Dudley Castle a few days ago, for I thought I might get a chance to see him or speak with him before we’re to be wed, and . . .”
Ah, so she must have seen Gifford in his steed-like state. Which must have been rather a shock, if nobody had told her that Gifford was an E∂ian beforehand. “What happened?” he asked.
“It was awful. It turns out, Gifford Dudley is a . . . he’s a—” She couldn’t even finish the word. “Please, Edward,” she said, and to his horror, her voice wavered and broke. “You don’t understand. He’s a hor—”
“I know,” he said.
She stared at him. “You know?”
“Yes. Lord Dudley told me.”
“But then why did you agree to the match?” she cried indignantly. “How could you wish me to marry such a—”
“I didn’t think you’d mind,” Edward said.
Her brown eyes widened. “What?”
“I thought you’d be intrigued by his condition.”
“No, I can assure you, I am not intrigued by anything to do with him.” Jane’s nose wrinkled up in distaste. “And I wouldn’t exactly say he has a condition.”
“Then what would you say?” Edward was starting to feel as though he’d missed something.
“He’s a horrible skirt-chaser!” she exclaimed. “A stud, a lady-killer, a womanizer!”
Oh.
So she didn’t know about Gifford’s steed-like state.
“Well, Janey,” he said with a cough. “That’s hardly surprising, is it? They say he’s handsome.”
“Do they?” she said, with an edge of hysteria. “Do they say that?”
“Yes,” Edward affirmed. “And rich, handsome young men with titles can generally have their pick of the ladies.”
Unless you were a teenage king with a coughing problem.
Jane’s mouth pursed. “I can’t marry him. Please, Edward, you must put a stop to it.”
Edward couldn’t stop this wedding, he knew, not in his country’s present political climate. But he sensed that if he explained the true reason for her rushed nuptials (that they were in a great hurry for her to produce an heir who would inherit the throne of England after he died), it would only upset her further. Instead he tried to think of something soothing to tell her, but nothing especially soothing came to mind.
“I’m sorry, Jane,” he tried. “I can’t. I . . .”
“If you care for me at all,” she said then, “you won’t force me to marry him.”
Edward experienced a tightness in his chest. He coughed into his handkerchief until purple spots appeared on the edges of his vision. Pet raised her head from his lap and cast an accusatory glare in Jane’s direction.
“Are you all right?” Jane murmured. “Edward. Are you . . . ill?”
“I’m dying,” he confessed.
He watched the color drain from her face.
“I thought it was only a chest cold,” she murmured.
“No.”
“Not ‘the Affliction’?” she guessed, and closed her eyes when he just gazed at her sadly.
“I do intend to get a second opinion,” he said. “A better one.”
“When?” she asked in a small voice. “When do they think . . .”
“Soon enough.” He took her small ink-stained hand in his. “I know this marriage is not what you want. Believe me, I understand. Remember when I was engaged to Mary Queen of Scots?” He shuddered. “But you have to marry somebody, Janey, because that’s what young ladies of high birth do: they get married. You can’t hide in your books forever.”
Jane bent her head. A lock of runaway red hair fell into her face. “I know. But why him?” she asked. “Why now?”
“Because I trust Lord Dudley,” he said simply. “And because I’m out of time. I need to know that you’ll be taken care of. After I’m gone, who knows who you’d be matched to? There are worse fates than ending up with someone young and good-looking and rich.”
“I suppose,” she said.
He knew he should tell her about the horse thing. This was a detail she should be aware of. But he couldn’t find the appropriate wording for what was essentially, and by the way, the guy you’re marrying actually is a stud. Literally.
He should tell her.
He’d get someone else to tell her.
“Do this for me, Jane,” he said gently. “Please. I’m asking as your king, but also as your friend.”
She remained silent, staring down at their clasped hands, but something changed in her expression. He saw there the beginnings of acceptance. His chest felt tight again.
“All will be well, you’ll see.” He squeezed her hand. “And, if it will make you feel better, I’ll speak to this Gifford fellow about his carousing problem. I’ll make him swear to be a picture of fidelity. I’ll threaten him with the rack or something.”
She looked up. “You could do that?”
He smirked. “I’m the king. Anything else you’d like me to do to him? The stocks? The cat o’ nine tails? Thumbscrews? The Spanish tickler?”
He was relieved to see the hint of a smile that played across her lips.
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, sliding her hand from his to bury her fingers in the fur at Pet’s scruff. “He might be in need of a good foot roasting.”
“Done,” he agreed.
She let out a little sigh. “I suppose there is one other thing you can do for me, cousin,” she said after a moment.
“Whatever you desire,” he said. “Name it.”
Her warm brown eyes met his. “Walk me down the aisle?”
His heart squeezed again. “Of course,” he said. “It would be my pleasure.”
After he’d seen her off in a carriage back to Chelsea (where the Grey family stayed while they were in London) Edward sought out Lord Dudley, who he found in the council chambers engaged in what appeared to be a very serious conversation with Mistress Penne. On the subject of his failing health, no doubt.
“So,” the duke said as Edward drew near. “Did you persuade her?”
Mistress Penne felt his forehead with the back of her hand. At his side, Pet let out a low growl, and the nurse withdrew her hand.
“I’m fine,” he said.
The nurse gave him a look that conveyed that she was still offended by his earlier flippancy, and retreated with a rustle of skirts. He watched the door swing closed behind her. Then he dropped into his red cushy chair and reached for the bowl of blackberries.
“Sire,” Lord Dudley began. “You must take care to—”
Pet stuck her long nose into the blackberries and snuffed, sending the bowl clattering to the floor and berries rolling in every direction.
Edward gave the dog a stern look as servants rushed in to clean up the mess.
“Bad dog,” he said.
She wagged her tail.
“Sire, you mustn’t overexert yourself,” Dudley said.
“I’m fine,” Edward insisted. “The fresh air did me good. And yes, Jane has agreed to marry your son. But why did no one tell her about the horse . . . situation?”
Dudley shook his head as if the issue was entirely unimportant. “I’ve found that women do not need to be burdened with such minor details.”
Well, that makes sense, thought Edward. “Even so, I’d like to speak with your son.”
Dudley’s mouth disappeared into his beard. “My son Gifford?” he asked, as if he hoped Edward might inexplicably need to parlay with Stan.
“Yes. Send for him immediately.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Your Highness.” Dudley gestured to the window, where sunlight was streaming in from the west. There were still hours before sunset.
“Oh. Right,” Edward said. “Well, as soon as night falls, then.”
Dudley still looked uncomfortable. “But, Sire, there are so many preparations that need to be made before tomorrow’s ceremony. It will be difficult to get my son away from—”
“I desire to speak with him,” Edward said in his I-Am-the-King voice. “I will speak with him tonight.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Dudley conceded. “As soon as the sun is down.”
Suddenly Edward was tired, so very tired. He sagged against the back of his chair. Pet whined and licked at his hand.
“Are you all right, Your Highness?” Dudley asked.
“I. Am. Fine.” Edward straightened. “I’ll be in my chambers,” he said, although he had no idea how he was going to manage the stairs. “Send Gifford there when he arrives.”
“Yes, Sire,” the duke said tightly, and then he left Edward to catch his breath.
It was less than an hour past sunset when, as expected, there came a knock on the door to Edward’s room. Pet started barking but stopped immediately when Gifford Dudley stepped inside.
The two boys stood examining each other. Gifford was predictably tall, broad of shoulder, and boorishly square of jaw. He was as comely as his father had described him, and for a moment Edward actually hated him for looking so decidedly strong and able-bodied. But then Gifford dropped into a bow, and Edward remembered he was king.
“You sent for me, Sire?” Gifford murmured.
“Yes. Please sit down.” They both sat awkwardly. “I wish to discuss Jane.”
“Jane?” Edward couldn’t tell if Gifford meant this as a statement or a question or if he even knew who Edward was referring to.
“Your future wife.”
Gifford nodded and scratched at the side of his neck, bearing an expression very similar to one that Jane had been wearing earlier today: the staring-into-the-face-of-doom look.
“Jane is a special person to me,” Edward began. “She is . . .”
There really wasn’t a good enough word to describe Jane.
“I have yet to meet her,” said Gifford delicately. “But I’m sure she’s very . . . special.”
“She is.” Edward sat forward in his chair. “What troubles me, Gifford—”
“Please, call me G,” Gifford interjected.
Edward frowned. “What troubles me, er . . . G, is that you haven’t been at court these past years, and while I understand why”—he cast Gifford a significant look that said, I know all about the horse thing— “and I know your family to be perfectly respectable and worthy of someone as . . . special as my cousin Jane, I feel that I don’t know you.”
Then he stopped talking for a minute because Pet, with her tail wagging, had plopped herself down right next to Gifford’s chair—Gifford’s, not Edward’s, mind you—and was staring up at the young lord adoringly. Gifford smiled down on her and reached out to scratch what Edward knew was just the right place behind Pet’s chin.
She sighed and put her head in his lap.
Even she couldn’t resist this fellow’s charms.
Edward started coughing, and then coughing, and then coughing some more, so hard that his eyes watered. When the spasms subsided both Pet and Gifford were looking at him with concern.
“Anyway,” Edward wheezed. “I want to know, G, that as her husband you will take care of my dear cousin.”
“Of course,” Gifford said quickly.
“No,” Edward clarified. “I mean that there will be no one else that you’re going to take care of. Ever. Only Jane.”
Comprehension dawned in Gifford’s eyes.
“Jane deserves a devoted and virtuous husband,” Edward continued. “So you will be a devoted and virtuous husband. If I hear even a whisper of anything otherwise I will be very unhappy. And you would not like to see me unhappy.”
Gifford looked decidedly alarmed, which pleased Edward. He might no longer be strong, but he was still powerful. He smiled. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Gifford said. “I understand, Your Majesty.”
“Good,” Edward said. “You’re dismissed.”
Gifford was on his feet, already nearly to the door, when Edward called after him, “Oh, and one more thing.”
Gifford froze, then turned. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Jane is unaware of your condition. Your . . .”
Gifford sighed heavily. “Horse curse. My horse curse.”
“Yes. No one has informed her yet. I want you to be the one to tell her.”
Gifford’s eyes flashed with something resembling panic. “Me?”
“She deserves to hear it from her husband,” Edward said. As he spoke the words he thought that this sounded like a very wise idea. A kingly idea. Inspired. “You probably won’t see her before the wedding, I understand, but before the night is through, before you and she . . .” He stopped. He didn’t want to think about the end to that sentence. “You should tell her.”
There it was again, the doomed look, on Gifford’s too-handsome face. “Have I a choice, Sire?”
“Do any of us have a choice where destiny is concerned?”
Gifford lowered his head. “A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm,” he said, his voice building in intensity.
Edward stared at the young lord for a few long minutes. “I assume that means you’ll tell her.”
“Yes, Sire,” the young lord mumbled, and took his leave.
Edward watched from the window as, below in the courtyard, Gifford mounted his horse and galloped off the palace grounds. Edward felt good about how the conversation had gone. Then he crossed to his bed and slung himself down into it.
Pet came over to lick at his face.
“Off with you, traitorous dog,” he said, pushing her away playfully, but then he scooted over to make room, and she jumped up beside him.