Gifford
There was nothing he could’ve done. If he hadn’t stopped Jane, she would’ve been hurt. G was a strong man, at least he thought he was, but under no circumstances did he have the ability to dispatch an entire wolf pack.
And those had been no ordinary wolves. They were part of the E∂ian Pack, G was sure of it.
He would not have stood a chance against them. The Pack was well known all over England. For E∂ians, they represented a kind of Robin Hood figure—taking back what for so long had been denied to them. For the rest of the country, they were terrifying bandits. Ruthless. Cunning. And even if G had managed to stop the attack while remaining alive, saving one small village would’ve done nothing to abate the numbers of the desperate and starving.
He sighed and scratched at the gold-leaf windowsill of the carriage, and a few flecks of gold flaked off into his palm. What those peasants wouldn’t do for a handful of the shiny metal. But for G’s father and the other nobles like him, gold was a mere decoration. G had never known hunger, not really, but he had seen it. He’d been all over the countryside as a horse, and it seemed to him that the entire kingdom was going hungry. But what could one person do?
Nothing, he thought. One person could do nothing. So there was no point being noble about it.
The driver hit a bump, causing one of Jane’s books to topple. G cut a glance toward Jane, expecting her to stage a dramatic rescue of the fallen tome, but her face remained a blank mask. Her chest heaved, perhaps still out of breath from the tumult of the attack. Just below her collarbone, her skin was red and splotchy.
G grabbed his flask of water, splashed a bit on a handkerchief, and handed it to her.
She looked at it warily for a moment, and then took it and pressed it against her delicate neck, along her collarbone, and just under her hairline in the back. She did it so gracefully that G decided he would include a description of the motion in his poem about her pout and the curve of her neck.
Oh that I were the handkerchief in that hand, that I might touch that neck. . . .
“Thank you,” she said, handing him back the kerchief.
Her silhouette against the moonlit window was lovely. This creature was his wife, he thought again with a kind of disbelief, and no matter what her (incorrect) perspective was, he’d saved her back there. At this instant, he could feel a pull toward her, a desire to protect her always. For the briefest of moments, G considered the romantic notion of secretly shoving the handkerchief inside his shirt, against his heart. He caught himself leaning ever so slightly toward her.
Jane turned to him, a blush on her cheeks. “My lord, if you’d be so kind as to remain on your own half of the seat. My books are crushed as is.”
Ah. There she is. The aloof and disappointed lady. G mentally slapped his own cheek, over and over until it burned red under his imaginary hand and he was sure he’d slapped out every romantic notion. He wanted to tell her she’d have more room if she’d just get rid of her books, but he supposed that in her case, it would be like telling a mother she’d have more room if she threw out her children.
So instead, he took the handkerchief, smiled sweetly at his lady, and let it fly out the window.
As the carriage pulled into the country house, his concerns about the Pack were momentarily replaced by his exasperation with Lady Jane.
The house staff was there to greet the happy couple, usher them into the parlor, and offer them water and wine—no more ale for G. They moved the copious amounts of luggage inside and then, in the tradition of servants faced with honeymooners (especially after news of ripped clothing in the marital bedchamber had reached their ears) they disappeared, leaving the couple alone. To do whatever it was that newlyweds did at night. On their honeymoon.
Which, judging by Jane’s behavior, consisted of staring out the window, counting the stars.
She hadn’t yet forgiven G for when he’d stopped her from hurling herself at the wolves, but seriously, what was her plan of attack? Drown them in petticoats? Crush them with her bulky knowledge of Herbs and Spices Indigenous to the Spanish Highlands: Volume Two? Maybe he should just call it a night. He opened the door to exit the drawing room, but was met with two servants.
“Your bedchambers are being prepared,” one of the men said.
G rolled his eyes as the servant closed the door in his face. Perhaps his father had instructed the staff to promote as much couple time as possible. “Don’t let one leave the room without the other,” he could imagine his father saying.
Jane was still staring out the window. He wasn’t sure she had even noticed his attempted departure. G was pretty certain there’d be no persuading her to the bedchamber at this point, but they had one month in this house, and the only way to survive the honeymoon would be a congenial companionship, rather than the scornful disdain of the present. So he tried to be affable.
“Can I get you anything, my lady?”
She didn’t turn around. “I have servants for that.”
G sighed loudly and sank onto a sofa. “What, exactly, have I done to you? Besides the offensive act of existing, and being forced to marry you?”
Jane turned around. “Those two grievances are beyond your control, and I would never hold you accountable for things beyond your control.”
“What then? What have I done to offend thee?” he said in a mock-formal tone.
She made a fist so tight, her knuckles turned white. “You are a drunken lothario who . . . who . . . cannot keep his horse in his pants!”
G tilted his head at this. “To be fair, my pants are not where I keep my horse.”
“Don’t try to deny it!” Jane said. “I heard it all from Stan, who mistook me for one of your . . . dalliances.”
G held a hand up. “My lady, if you please, let’s take these offenses one at a time.” He gestured toward a chair. She folded her arms. “Please,” he added.
She sat down, albeit in a chair he had not motioned to.
A peace offering, in the form of the truth, would be the best course of action at this point. “First, the charge of drunkenness. I will admit that on the night of our blessed union I was inebriated, but that was a solitary—or let’s say unusual—occurrence based on the fact that I was reluctant to bind my life to a lady about whom I’d heard much, but experienced very little.”
“And ‘binding your life’ would hinder your nightlife, would it not?”
“Ah, which brings us to your second charge. That of my being a lothario.” G paused and considered telling her about the poetry readings, but he thought better of it. He’d already endured humiliating horse jokes and derision about his lack of ability to control the power. How loudly would she laugh if she knew this “lothario” spent his days composing poems and plays, and his nights writing and performing them? “Yes, I have enjoyed the company of ladies.”
“Ha!” Jane pointed at him as if through her own verbal cunning she’d just gotten Alexander the Great to admit he was overly ambitious.
“Yes, yes,” G said, placating. “I crack under your withering stare. If I may continue?”
She nodded triumphantly.
“I spend my days as a horse. I haven’t been to court in years. I haven’t felt the sun on my skin for just as long. I wasn’t sure I could ever be fit to be a husband, since I’m only living half a life and it’s the half when most people sleep. You can’t imagine how lonely that can be. So yes, up until the night of our heavenly merger, I took comfort in relationships of the fleeting variety—”
“Otherwise known as prostitutes,” Jane interrupted.
“Despite my history with ladies of negotiable affection, I gave my word to your king to be a faithful husband of the utmost standing.”
Jane’s face softened the tiniest bit.
“And I have kept my word.”
She raised her eyebrows. “For two days.”
“Yes. Look, I’ve led a solitary existence. It’s hard to make friends. And despite the efforts of the Lion King, E∂ians are still feared and mistreated.”
Her face grew tight again. “Let’s discuss that. You have this magical ability, this ancient honor, passed down from our ancestors, destined to be bestowed upon the champions among us. And yet you call it a curse.”
“My lady, you have a distinctly naive and hopelessly optimistic view of E∂ians.”
“It is not naive,” Jane said. “My opinion has been cultivated over years and years of study.”
“Studying histories that glorify their legends.”
She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “Have you ever read one single book about them in your life?”
“No.” He preferred poetry and fiction to informational books. But he wasn’t about to admit that. He stood and walked over to her, towering above her. “I don’t have to read about it. I’ve lived that life. Tell me, lady, what would your beloved history books say about that E∂ian attack on those poor peasants earlier this evening? Where was the glory, the honor, in tearing apart an entire community for a few measly bits of meat? Where are those stories in your precious books?”
“Those were not E∂ians,” Jane said softly.
“Indeed they were,” G said. “Real wolves would not allow a feral dog into their ranks, nor would they work with men to raid a village. That, my dear, was the infamous Pack.”
Jane frowned. “The Pack is just a rumor. E∂ians would never do such despicable things.”
“You are mistaken. To think such is to be naive.”
“I don’t understand you. You’re E∂ian, yet you speak of E∂ians with as much loathing as Verities.”
G poured two goblets of water from a pitcher on an end table. He was determined to keep his composure, despite the general irritating nature of conversing with his wife.
He handed her one of the goblets. “I do not loathe them. I just believe that random magical abilities do not constitute the honor of a man.”
“Or a woman,” Jane provided.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “Or a woman,” he acquiesced. “I didn’t choose to be what I am. One moment I was fighting with my father and daydreaming about running far away. The next moment, I was a horse, and literally running far away. Ever since, if the sun is up, I’m a horse. And if the sun is down, I’m a man. If it is a gift, I do not deserve it. If it is a curse, I do not deserve it.”
He took a sip of his water and then continued. “Evil will exist among E∂ians, just as goodness will exist among Verities. I believe E∂ians deserve protection from persecution. The scales need to be righted in the direction of equality. And if it were the other way around, and Verities were persecuted, I would still fight for equality. Not dominance. Dominance leads to tyranny.”
There was silence in the room for a long time.
“I did not know your feelings about the subject matter ran so deep, G,” Jane said.
She had called him G. That had to be a good sign if there ever was one. And her full lips were curved up ever so slightly.
“I didn’t know I felt so strongly about it, either,” he said. And that was the truth.
She glanced away demurely. “Perhaps if you didn’t waste away your human hours on drinking and whoring, you’d discover more things to give a shilling’s worth of thought about.”
G put his hand to his forehead and rubbed hard. He thought again about telling her he was a poet. But when he lowered his hand, he saw that she was smiling. Then she smiled wider. And her red hair, which moments before had looked like a den of scarlet snakes wrangled together in a prudish bun, now resembled beams of sunbursts around a fiery center. She was radiant.
“Do you know how I think we should spend the first night of our honeymoon?” she said in a soft, low voice.
For the first time since the announcement of their betrothal, G knew exactly how he wanted to spend the night. A pit of anxiety and anticipation formed in his stomach. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
Her eyes got brighter, if that was possible. “I think we should raid our food cupboards and take some smoked meat down to the peasants who were attacked earlier!”
G worked hard to keep his face from falling. “My lady, you read my mind,” he said, grateful that his lady could not read minds.
In addition to the meat, dried fruit, and hard-rind cheese from the larder, G and Jane also gathered up an assortment of herbs, strips of linens, and tea leaves.
As Jane put it, “Yarrow tea helps with the pain. I learned that from reading The Proper Treatment of Wounds on the Battlefield During the War of the Roses: A History.”
G watched in awe as she used a pestle and mortar to grind three different herbs and two spices. She then removed an innocuous-looking wooden slat from the wall in the corner of the larder, reached inside, and produced a corked bottle.
“Is that liquor, my lady?” G raised one eyebrow.
“I messaged ahead and had the servants hide it,” she said as if she believed strong marriages started out by hiding the liquor. She’d probably read it in a book somewhere.
G didn’t know whether to be impressed or really, really annoyed. Either way, he agreed that now was a great time for a drink. Except Jane poured a couple of ounces of the stuff into the mortar and then re-corked the bottle and returned it to its hiding place.
G made a mental note of where the wooden slat was.
She mixed the liquor with the powder and then poured it into a jar and sealed it shut. “They can let this tincture steep for eight days, and then it will help with those wounds that are difficult to heal.”
G nodded, understanding very little of what she had just said. They had dressed in their plainest clothing, and now they draped their most mundane cloaks around their shoulders, so as not to appear highborn. G wrapped their supplies in a sheet and hoisted it over his shoulder.
“Shall we?” he said.
Jane lit a lantern and held it high. “We shall.”
They didn’t want to bother the servants or the coachman with details, which made what they were about to do seem slightly illicit and possibly the most exciting thing either of them had done.
G told only the stable boy of their plan, so that he could help prepare a simple horse and wagon. Jane hoisted herself up in a very unladylike manner, which made G smile, and then they were off.
There was no guard or lookout to stop them from entering town. G led the horse and wagon to the center of the small village, where light glowed in the windows of the largest structure. As the wagon came to a stop, the soft moans of the wounded met their ears.
G climbed down. “Wait here,” he told Jane.
Apparently, “wait here” meant “hurry along” to Jane, for she scrambled down the carriage before G had taken one step.
He rapped at the door, and when no one came to open it, he turned the latch himself.
“Who are ye?” a tired-looking man said.
“We are a husband and wife who heard of your misfortunes, and we bring food and supplies for the binding of wounds.”
The man narrowed suspicious eyes.
Jane stepped forward, took the man’s hand softly in her own, turned the palm up, and placed a piece of bread there. “Sir, I have bread and dried beef and mead.”
G glanced at his wife. “Where did you get the mead?”
She ignored him. “Please let us be of service.”
A portly woman—who had been tending a boy’s leg—came forward. “We would be grateful for it, my lady.”
“Oh, I am not a lady,” Jane said, although she couldn’t hide her elegant manners and way of speaking.
The woman didn’t argue. “Let ’em through, ye stubborn man,” she said.
The old man stood aside while G and Jane distributed food, strips of linen, tinctures, and salves to the people. G grabbed for the bottle of mead, but Jane said she would be in charge of its distribution.
His wife, he realized after all of two minutes, was magnificent. She was not afraid to wipe away blood, and patiently taught the villagers how to properly dress a wound and how to prepare more tinctures.
“I could use some meat,” an old man said to G.
“Quiet, please,” G said. “I’m watching the lady.” (This was obviously G’s first foray into helping the needy, or anyone beyond himself, for that matter, and he was not used to the protocol of service.)
“Do you think she was ever employed as a healer?” G said.
“I don’t know. She’s your wife,” the old man said.
Jane looked up and caught G staring at her. She smiled and tossed him some linen strips. “Get to work,” she said.
As the two of them tied and cleaned and washed and fed and comforted, they began to hear rumblings of complaint, but not about them. About the king.
“The Pack grows in power, and yet the king does nothing.”
“The previous king would never have let it get to this point.”
“The previous king was a lion. King Edward is a mouse.”
At this, Jane looked grievously offended, and G wondered anew about the nature of her feelings for the king.
The murmurs continued. “It’s all the fault of those filthy E∂ians.”
“How are we to protect ourselves when they can transform into such cunning creatures? They should be rounded up and locked away, for the safety of the country.”
Jane flashed G a worried expression. He smiled in what he hoped was a comforting way and tossed her some fresh bandages.
After a couple of hours, every wound had been bound, every cut washed and cleaned and wrapped. As Jane and G made their exit, grateful lips kissed the knuckles of the two anonymous benefactors.
Jane had not recovered her good humor after hearing the people’s grumblings about E∂ians and the king, so G tried to rouse her spirits by talking about what he would do if he ran the country, and eventually Jane joined in. Pretty soon they were shouting decrees they would implement if only they were the rulers of England.
“No more hungry people!” Jane said.
“Accessible medicine for all! Including steeping tinctures! And more tinctures that need to steep!” G said.
“Prosecution of those who prey on the weak!” Jane said.
“An unlimited fountain of free ale!” G said.
At which Jane frowned.
“And . . . the funding of higher education for women!” G said.
That seemed to satisfy his lady for the time being.
When they arrived at the house, G had only a couple of hours before horse time. In their bedchamber, Jane set a pillow and blanket on the floor next to the bed.
“Jane, I cannot allow you to sleep on the floor,” G said gallantly.
She smiled. “The pillow and blanket are for you, my lord.”
“Ah. Of course.”
G lowered himself onto the hard wooden floor, and Jane climbed into the bed, blowing out the candles as she pulled the covers tight around her.
Neither of them said another word. But each fell asleep to the sound of the other’s breathing.