My Lady Jane(101)

They’d met once, he and Mary, a few years back. He’d been traveling to Paris to craft a peace treaty with the French king. Mary had been eight. She’d been presented to him as the intended of Francis, the dauphin (which Edward kept thinking sounded like the word dolphin, which seemed an odd term for a prince). Mary had curtsied. Edward had bowed. She’d glared at him, every bit as vengeful as her portrait. He’d tried to ease the tension by complimenting her shoes.

She’d responded by stamping on his foot.

Hard.

She’d been sent straightaway to her chambers, because young ladies should not assault kings, but Edward hadn’t truly minded. He’d been overjoyed, in fact, by the idea that he wouldn’t be expected to talk to her, and that he wasn’t likely ever to see her again. Ever.

But now here he was, back in the Louvre Palace, here to plead his case before the king, and of course it would be wise for him to draw Scotland to his cause as well. At least that’s what Bess said, and Edward always believed what Bess said.

None of this he felt like explaining to Gracie, of course. “Just talk to her, if you get the opportunity,” he said. “You don’t have to sing my praises. Just tell her what you know of my situation. See if she’ll be amenable to helping us, in whatever she has the power to do, which may not be much, really, not from here, and she’s only a young girl, but—”

“All right,” Gracie said, holding up her hand. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Thank you.” She owed him that much, he felt, after the lengths he’d gone to ensuring that she could keep her pretty knife.

There was a tap on the door, and Jane and Bess entered, both appearing fatigued after the week’s activities with the Pack and the bear and their most recent stealthy boat ride across the English Channel. Jane, especially, looked peaked, like she hadn’t slept.

“Edward,” she greeted him. “You’re like a proper king again.”

Yes, he was once again wearing tights, gold-embroidered pumpkin pants, a silk undershirt, a gold-and-cream brocaded doublet with puffy sleeves, and a fur-trimmed velvet robe to top it off. He had forgotten how heavy all these layers of clothing were, when he’d been dressing like a peasant for weeks. He could feel the weight like the physical manifestation of all that he was responsible for, pulling him downward.

“You ladies are quite splendid, as well,” he said, looking from Gracie to Jane to Bess and back to Gracie.

Jane stood in front of him and smoothed down the fur at the edge of his robe. “This isn’t ferret, I hope.”

“White-spotted ermine,” he answered. “Although I believe I shall give up fur, when all of this is done. I would hate to be wearing some unfortunate E?ian by mistake.”

“I feel the same,” she said.

“How’s Gifford?” Edward asked, because suddenly he felt the young lord’s absence keenly. If Jane was like a sister to him, then perhaps Gifford would be his brother now. His friend. Nothing says friendship like staring down into the jaws of angry death together, he reasoned. “Is he still in the doghouse for locking you up?”

“He’s in the stables,” Jane said stiffly.

“Don’t punish him too long, Janey,” Edward entreated on Gifford’s behalf. “He only did it to keep you from harm.”

“But that’s the problem.” She settled with a sigh onto one of the parlor chairs. “I just don’t know how to talk him about it. Every time I try, I feel like I say something shrewish and high-pitched and stupid. Which is unlike me.”

He stifled a smile. “Anyway, I’m glad to have you along,” he said. “I’d rather face a giant mythical bear, I think, than have this meeting.”

Gracie seemed surprised at this. “This will be nothing, won’t it, after all the other trouble you’ve had? All you have to do is talk to the man.”

“I have to be the King of England,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I will have to speak to Henry as one king to another.” A task that frightened him, in some ways, much more than facing any beast.

“You are the king,” said Bess quietly. “It’s as simple as that, Edward. Be yourself.”

“So the King of France is named Henry. That won’t be confusing, will it?” said Gracie, fidgeting again with the neckline of her dress.

“It’s easy to remember this king,” Edward mused. “He is King Henry, and his wife is Queen Catherine. Like my father without all his extra wives.”

The door to the parlor opened, and an opulently dressed steward entered and bowed low to Edward. “His Majesty will see you now, Your Majesty.”

“No, not confusing at all,” muttered Gracie. She turned to address the steward. “Can you find me an audience with the young Queen Mary? I’m a Scot, you see, and I have some news for her from home. Nothing important, of course, but something that she’ll find entertaining.”

The steward looked slightly put out by the informal nature of her request. “I’ll see if the queen is receiving visitors,” he said. “Wait here.”

Jane stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Good luck, cousin.”

Gracie was frowning, he noticed. He delighted in the thought that she might be jealous of Jane kissing him. And he also knew a perfect opportunity when he saw it. He turned to Gracie. “Don’t I get a good luck kiss from you as well? I’m going to need as much luck as I can get.”