My Lady Jane (22 page)

“If the English killed your family, forced you from your home, hunted you, hurt you at every turn, then why did you help me? And don't give me that rot about being a friend to the pathetic creatures of the world. Tell me why.”

It was the first time he'd ever seen her look embarrassed. She gave a little sigh. “The truth?”

“The truth.”

“I liked the look of you.”

He sat back, amazed. He thought (although he wasn't entirely sure) that she meant that she'd found him good-looking. “You liked—”

“You had kind eyes. A nice smile.” She was blushing.

This was wonderful, wonderful news. “Have you seen your own eyes?” he said impulsively. “Green like . . . forest moss.”

“Moss?”

“Like pools of . . .” He cursed himself that he was not more of a poet.

“Yes?” Her lips twitched as she clearly tried not to laugh at him.

“Beautiful eyes,” he stumbled on.

“Pools of beautiful eyes?”

“Yes. Exactly. And your hair. And your smile, as well, is so . . . And you're funny and clever. And brave. I've never met a girl like you.”

“Oh, I'm not so very brave.” She was looking at him.
That way
. He could smell her, the lavender soap from Gran's bathtub mixed with a woodsy smell that never seemed to leave her.

He glanced down at her mouth. He couldn't help it.

And (miracle of all miracles) she looked down at his.

He wet his lips nervously. What if he didn't do it correctly? What if their noses bumped? What if she found his lips chapped? What if his breath was foul?

“Gracie,” he murmured, her name a kind of music on his lips. “Grace.” Their faces were close. Almost close enough.

His heart started to beat like a war drum. He inched even closer.

“Sire,” she breathed. “I—”

“Please call me Edward,” he said. “Things don't have to be so formal between us.”

Before he lost his nerve he reached out and tucked one of her wild curls behind her ear.

He leaned in. This was it. His first kiss. His first k—

“BOY!” yelled a distant voice. “WHERE ARE YOU, BOY!”

Grace drew back abruptly. “Your granny is calling you.”

“She can wait,” he said.

“IT'S TIME FOR YOUR MEDICINE!” Gran called out.

Gracie jumped to her feet. “You should go in.”

“BOY!”

She hastily brushed off her trousers. “Besides, I just remembered some chores your sister wanted me to get done. Some very important chores. Full of . . . tasks.”

“Tasks?” Edward said, doubtful.

“Yes, tasks. Lots of them.”

“Gracie,” he started as she backed away from him. “Wait.”

“GET IN HERE, BOY!”

He watched helplessly as Gracie set off toward the keep, almost at a run.

“BOY!”

At that moment we should confess that Edward briefly considered murdering his dear sweet grandmother. And he might have gotten away with it, too, on account of the rest of the world thinking the old lady was already dead.

When he entered the keep, Gran was waiting for him with one of her nasty potions.

“Ah, there you are, boy. Drink up.”

“I wish you'd stop calling me boy,” he muttered.

“And what would you have me call you?”

“I'm a man,” he said.

She threw back her grizzled head and laughed heartily. “That's cute. Tell me another one.”

She handed him a steaming goblet. He protested—
How much of this stuff are you going to make me drink, anyway? The poison is gone, isn't
it? This tastes like rotten apples
—but she made him choke it down. Gran had made him suffer through many terrible things in the name of ridding his body of the poison. The first day, in addition to the rotten apple brew she made him guzzle by the jugful, she'd forced him to stand for twenty minutes under the spray of an icy waterfall, then bathe in a tub of boiled milk. On the second day she'd wrapped a chicken gizzard around his neck, stuck a lump of charcoal under his tongue, and made him say the alphabet backward.

“What was the alphabet part for?” he'd asked after he finally reached
a
.

“Nothing,” Gran had chortled. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

Gran delighted in torturing him.

“And when you're done with that, go see your sister. If you're not feeling too manly to speak with a woman,” Gran chortled now as he gulped down the last of the potion.

He did what she told him, but only because he'd been wanting to talk to Bess anyway. Not because he was a little boy who was scared of his grandmother.

He found his sister waiting for him in his chamber. “Come. Sit,” she said, and pointed him to a chair. Edward sat. On the table in front of him there was a map of Europe with several wooden figures placed upon it in strategic positions. The figures all resembled lumpy dogs.

One of the ways Gracie was making herself useful.

His gaze fell on London, and he turned his thoughts to Jane. Bess had a network of E∂ian raven spies at the Tower of London, and occasionally a raven made its way to Helmsley with news, the most recent of which being that the new Queen Mary had rounded up all the known E∂ians on the staff and meant to make an example of them in a large bonfire at the end of the month. And after that she was planning to send soldiers into London to gather up the E∂ians from there, as well.

Mary's purge of E∂ians was already well under way.

But, in spite of Bess's best efforts, there had strangely been no word of what had become of his cousin. It was as if Jane and Gifford had simply up and vanished from London the same day that Mary had arrived there. Edward assumed that Mary probably had Jane secretly locked up in a tower somewhere, if he knew his sister. But he also knew Jane, and he knew Jane could be . . . spirited . . . when challenged, and Mary taking away her throne would be the biggest challenge of all. His cousin had a troublesome habit of speaking her mind in tense situations.

And Mary was easily offended and rather too fond of saying, “Off with her head!”

In other words, Edward was worried.

But they couldn't rescue Jane or stop the E∂ian bonfire—not yet. They weren't ready to take on Mary's considerable forces, i.e., the English army. At least, not according to Bess, who seemed to be working out a plan.

Edward looked over the map and the wooden figures on the
table before him. “These are parts of an army?” he asked Bess incredulously. “Whose?”

Her lips turned up in what was not quite a smile. “Mine. I have my contacts, my favors owed. When I found out that you were being poisoned and Mary was building a secret army to make herself queen, I thought I might put together a secret army of my own.” She smoothed her hand over the map, and her smile vanished. “But it's not enough men, Edward. Mary's army is greater by half. She has the support of both the Spanish and the Holy Roman Emperor. The Spanish armada is formidable. Unbeatable, they say. I don't know yet how we're going to overcome them.”

He glanced up at his sister. Her face was drawn in concentration. She was staring at a line of ships in the English Channel.

“Who do these belong to?” he asked, picking up a ship and turning it over in his hand.

“France. I believe their King Henry will support you, not Mary, as the rightful monarch, once he sees that you're alive. He's got to be afraid of a woman usurping the throne the way she did. It's the only solution I can think of.”

Edward had underestimated Bess. He knew that now. She knew the world in a way that Edward himself didn't fully understand.

“If we could get ships and troops from France,” Bess continued, almost to herself, “and perhaps at the same time seek the support of Mary Queen of Scots, reinforcements from Scotland, then we might stand a chance. . . .”

He felt his face drain of color. “Did you say . . . Mary Queen of Scots?”

Bess didn't seem to notice his dismay. “Of course, who knows the state of the Scottish army? And help from the French king won't come cheap. He'll want something from you in return, probably, and you'll forever be in his debt if you succeed, but it's the only way.”

The only way. To regain his throne. To save Jane.

Edward swallowed. “Sounds like I'm going to France,” he said lightly, but his heart was beating fast. “When do I leave?”

Bess bit her lip. “I want you to rest a few days more. Gather your strength. You're going to need it.”

“Can't we send someone to retrieve Jane?”

“Who would we send? Gran?” Bess shook her head.

“Gran's not a terrible idea.”

“I know Jane is dear to you,” Bess said. “I also know that she's in danger. But Jane is one person, Edward. There are thousands of lives at stake. There's a kingdom on the edge of a knife. We must tread carefully.”

He sighed. On the map, London was just a finger's length from Helmsley. But Jane was very far away.

“Very well,” he said tersely. “A few more days, and I'll depart for France.” He rose from the chair, crossed to the window, and slung his leg up onto the sill. He wanted to be a bird now. Then he could fly away to Jane. To at least tell her that he hadn't forgotten her. That he was coming for her, even if it took longer than he meant to.

Bess slipped out of the room behind him, closing the door.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. The sky overhead was blue and beckoning, but he resisted its call. “I'm sorry, Jane.” A wave of melancholy overtook him. “Oh, Janey, where are you?”

TWENTY

Jane

Jane, as it happened, was fleeing for her life.

After escaping the city, they'd started in . . . some direction. Still in her ferret state, Jane clung to Gifford's shoulder while he rode their stolen horse out of London as fast as they could go. Pet ran on ahead of them, leading the way. To where, Jane couldn't tell.

It was away from Mary's soldiers; that was all that mattered.

The roads would be the first place anyone would look, so they diverted into the forest. The hooves of their stolen steed beat the ground in a relentless tempo. Hounds bayed in the distance, making Pet lift her nose to the wind. It seemed their pursuers gained on them. Jane huddled in the curve of Gifford's neck, terrified and exhausted, as they veered here and there, lost in the dark, dark night.

Gifford hunched lower over the horse. Jane scrambled to adjust her weight, but he scooped her up and held her against his chest. “I have a plan,” he said.

Wonderful. Jane loved plans.

He glanced down at her. “It's a good plan. I think.”

Jane bit him—not hard—urging him to just get it out.

“Shortly, the sun will rise and I will begin my daily departure from my two-legged self to my four-legged self, and then we will be able to move more quickly. I'll send my equine friend here off on another path to create a diversion. Meanwhile, you will remain in your ferrety form and I will carry you . . . somewhere safe.”

Jane cocked her head. It wasn't a terrible plan (although it was a tad vague), but what about Horse Rule 3? (No riding the horse.)

Gifford shook his head. “I know what you're thinking, dear, but now's not the time for such rules. We need to be fast. You weigh next to nothing in this form. As long as we can find a way to secure you to me without the use of those magnificent claws, I'll be able to run at top speed.”

That sounded good to Jane.

“Excellent,” said Gifford. “I'm glad we're agreed.”

They careened down a narrow deer trail. The minutes stretched like hours. With the trees growing tall and ancient all around them, it was difficult to track the moon and stars. But eventually the woods lightened to a soft purple, and birds began to sing, and Jane felt herself breathe more easily. This terrible night was almost over, and she'd survived it. They were still being hunted down like dogs,
sure. But things never seemed as bad in the light of day.

Gifford called to Pet and reined in the horse.

They were just slowing to a trot when Jane changed.

One instant, she was a ferret, cupped in Gifford's hand and pressed against his chest. The next, she was engulfed in a blinding white light and then she was a girl, sitting sideways on the saddle with her legs hanging off one side, and she was most definitely naked.

Their stolen horse snorted and stopped, disgusted with the sudden weight of two people.

“Jane! This wasn't part of the plan!” Gifford untied his cloak and threw it around her shoulders. “You didn't bite me when I explained it, so I assumed we were in agreement.”

Jane scrambled off the saddle and landed in an undignified heap on the ground. She tried to get up, but her legs were wobbly after the sudden transformation.

Gifford dismounted and knelt beside her. “Are you all right?”

She nodded.

There'd been so much she'd wanted to tell him before, when she'd been locked in the Tower, but now (possibly for the first time in her life) Jane felt tongue-tied.

Gifford looked like he wanted to say something, too. He took her hands in his, fingers grazing the rings of cuts and bruises on her wrists from the shackles, and she sucked in a sharp breath. Her wrists hadn't hurt so much as a ferret, though there'd been a shadow of pain. Now they felt like they were on fire.

“You're wounded,” Gifford observed.

“It's nothing.” She tried to smile at him. “So, I suppose I can't control the change yet.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “What's that, you say? You can't
control the change
? How's that possible, when you've read so very many books on E∂ians?”

Her face felt hot. She sat up straighter. “Well, these are just less-than-ideal conditions. I will be able to perfect the change with a bit of practice, I'm sure.”

“Oh, I'm sure you will. You should try. Change back, and we'll go,” he said.

He was teasing her. She wasn't sure if she liked it. She took a deep breath and concentrated on the idea of becoming a ferret again, because that was the plan, but nothing happened. She tried again. Nothing.

Gifford's gaze dropped to her collarbone. Then the shape of her under the cloth. “Wait. Never mind. Stay just like that.”

Jane yanked the cloak more tightly around her and jumped to her feet. “Gifford Dudley! Eyes to yourself.”

He laughed and began taking off his boots. And then his socks. And then his belt.

“What are you doing?”

“It's morning,” he explained as he continued undressing. “These are my only clothes—the guards gave them to me when I was moved from the stables to the Tower—so it would be a real shame to ruin them in my transformation.”

His shirt went next, revealing the contours of his chest. Jane tried not to stare. When he began tugging at his trousers, she
meep
ed, clapped her hands over her eyes, and spun away. “Have you no shame?”

“None at all.”

“And I don't suppose you brought clothes for me?”

He whinnied in reply.

Jane turned around. “No clothes for me?” she repeated to her husband, the horse.

Gifford didn't answer.

She bit her lip and eyed the clothing strewn over the ground. Trousers. How degrading. But less degrading, possibly, than spending the day wrapped in a thin cloak and nothing else.

A sharp bark pierced the air, startling her. Pet had circled back to find them all just standing around doing nothing. She barked again, and Jane remembered the soldiers still pursuing them.

They had to hurry.

Gifford's plan had been all well and good, but what kind of plan was
go somewhere safe
? Now that she was the sole human of the group, the decisions were up to her, she supposed. Because no one here was capable of talking back.

First, she decided, she would get dressed.

“Gifford.” She cleared her throat. “I don't want to question your honor, but that's exactly what I'm doing.” She threw the cloak over his head so that he couldn't peek at her while she put
on the clothes he'd just discarded.

Gifford-the-horse made a huffing sound, but held still as she dressed. His clothes were warm and slightly sweaty. They smelled of horse. Everything was much too big, but she tightened the belt as small as it would go and rolled the hems of her pants and sleeves. Then she tied her hair into a quick braid and freed Gifford of his blind.

“So I'm to ride on
your
back?” she asked nervously. “And break Horse Rule three?”

He tossed his head in the affirmative.

She tromped over in too-large boots to inspect the other horse's saddle.

She'd read about saddles in
The Great Saddle Controversy: Pros and Cons of Various Saddles and the Best Choice for a Patriotic Englishman
. This saddle only vaguely resembled the ones she'd seen sketched in the book, but how hard could it be? Seat, saddle tree, girth, blanket. There was a small saddlebag as well, but Jane didn't open it to inspect its contents. No time.

Pet let out a yip.
Hurry,
she seemed to say.

“Hold your horses,” Jane muttered as she began to unsaddle the borrowed horse. This proved to be a challenge, since the horse was much taller than she, and the saddle weighed at least half what she did, but finally she managed to haul it off and dump it on the ground.

The pad of blanket underneath was damp with sweat, but she didn't have a choice except to drape it over Gifford's back with
an apology. Still, she was wearing his clothes. He could wear their horse's blanket.

Next came the saddle again. Gifford was at least kind enough to walk over to a large rock, flat enough for Jane to stand on. But his movement had gotten the blanket all out of place, so she had to drop the saddle, fix the blanket, and urge Gifford to stay still while she adjusted the saddle into place. With some difficulty, she fitted the girth strap into its buckle and tugged as tight as she dared. When she hopped off the rock to inspect her work, she realized horse-Gifford looked a lot . . . rounder than normal. “Are you holding your breath?”

Gifford blew out and resumed his normal proportions while Jane tried again to tighten the girth.

By now, Pet was running circles around the group. Jane gave the girth strap one more good yank—Gifford dramatically heaved a breath—and then reached for the other horse's bridle.

Gifford shied away from her, snorting. The message was clear: she might be able to break Horse Rules 1 and 3, but Horse Rule 2 still stood. No bridling the horse.

“Fine, but at least let me take this off. I don't want him to trip on the reins.” She unbuckled the other horse's bridle and let it slide to the ground. Then she grabbed the saddlebag and strapped it onto Gifford.

Pet whined and barked and circled again, tighter. Both horses' ears flickered backward. Even Jane could hear the pounding of hooves now. Mary's men were catching up.

She threw herself onto Gifford's back and tried not to fall off as he launched himself like an arrow in the direction they'd been heading before, the other horse following close behind.

Jane tried to keep her head down. Twigs and brush snapped around her as Gifford ran tirelessly on. He leapt and swerved and pounded through the trees and close underbrush, sure-footed and strong, and even when the forest became too thick for speed, he stubbornly continued forward.

They'd been going for a while when, as abruptly as he'd started, Gifford stopped. The other horse stopped, too, and Pet, who sat down a few feet away. For a minute they all just stood there, breathing hard.

“What are we doing?” Jane hissed.

The other horse began ripping up bites of grass. Gifford bobbed his head, as if acknowledging a good idea, and nibbled on his own patch of greenery.

“Gifford, this is not the ideal time to take a break,” Jane admonished him, leaning over his neck. “The soldiers are still close.”

Gifford shook his head so his mane rubbed across her face. She spat out horsehair, straining to hear anything under the wind rustling trees and the horse teeth grinding grass into a gross, green pulp.

“This is stupid,” she commented.

Then, without warning, Gifford turned on the other horse and bit the air close to his nose.

The horse—previously believing Gifford to be a friendly man-horse—reared up and screamed. Jane shrieked and clutched the pommel as tightly as she could while Gifford pushed forward, snapping and lunging at the other horse. He circled around him, blocking the jagged path of the way they'd come until the poor creature had no choice but to peel off into the woods.

They listened to the horse crash through the underbrush. Then Jane, Gifford, and Pet were alone.

Jane pressed her hands against her chest and dropped her forehead against Gifford's neck. “That was mean,” she said, and reached forward to flick his ear. “He was a nice horse.”

Gifford blew out a breath and immediately began picking his way through the woods, doubling back to the deer trail.

So as to leave less of a trail, Jane realized. Now anyone who followed them here would likely follow the new trail the other horse had left, not expecting Jane and Gifford to go back the way they'd come.

“I see now,” Jane said. “I guess I forgot the plan. That was still mean, though. You should try to be nicer to the other horses. You're herd animals. Who will you run with if he goes back to tell the others of your two-faced personality? Who will you compare apple notes with? Soon you won't have any friends but me.”

They ran on and on until the sky turned a fiery red. They'd lost their pursuers hours ago, no baying dogs or thundering horses behind them now, but they still kept up a steady pace through the woods.
She was just about to suggest that they make camp when they came upon a small, abandoned farm. Gifford paused at the edge of the trees, giving Jane a chance to appraise the tumbledown cottage and the barn tucked behind it.

“This seems a good place to spend the night, doesn't it?”

Gifford made a noise that sounded like assent and she slid from his back to look around. Pet ran with her, tail flagged with canine joy, stopping every few feet to check for danger. They found none. The cottage was in bad shape, the thatched roof caved in and the rooms full of birds and mouse nests, but the barn still seemed intact. They could take shelter there.

Jane's legs were shaky from riding so long, and her whole body felt weak with hunger, but she was able to haul open the barn door just wide enough for a saddled horse to fit through, and then Gifford trotted inside, pausing to nose at her shoulder as he passed.

“I'm so hungry I could eat a horse. Oh. Sorry, G. Not you, of course.” She pulled the door closed. There was a rusty lantern hanging on the wall, and she moved to light it. Then she turned to Gifford. “Now let me take that saddle before you ruin it when you change.”

Pet zipped around the barn, sniffing here and there. Then, just as Jane was about to get to work, Pet ran back to the door and scratched to be let out. She looked decidedly uncomfortable.

“You should have gone before we came inside,” Jane muttered and opened the door a crack. Alone with her horse husband, Jane set about unbuckling the girth and relieving him of his humiliation.
He shook and stretched at the sudden freedom, then—to Jane's horror—rolled on to his back and rubbed himself against the dirt floor.

“Now that's just ridiculous.” Jane snapped the blanket, making drops of sweat fly off, and laid it over a post to dry. The saddle followed.