My Lady Jane(103)

Queen Catherine was shooting daggers at him with her eyes, but he forced himself to concentrate on the French king.

And the king was feeling generous.

“Very well,” Henry said after a long, dramatic pause. “You shall have French ships at your disposal, and you shall have French soldiers, as well, as many as I can spare. Get rid of that ridiculous cow who dares to call herself a queen.”

It took an effort for Edward not to sway on his feet, so great was the relief he felt in this moment. “I will,” he promised. “You have my thanks.”

“And I will expect that in the future, our countries will be better friends,” the king said.

He was indebting himself to France, Edward knew. The man would have more than just his thanks. But that was the price of his crown. He must be willing to pay it.

“Undoubtedly,” he said.

“And if I may give you some advice,” King Henry added. “From one king to another.”

“Of course. I’d be thankful for any wisdom you could offer me.”

“The thing for you do, young man, is to find yourself a wife. As soon as possible, I should think. Produce a son of your own. I have three sons, myself, and a number of bastards. It’s very comforting for me to know that I will find never myself in your predicament. My bloodline is secure. You should see to yours.”

Edward tried to thaw himself quickly, because at the word wife, his chest seemed to have frozen over. He couldn’t get proper air in his lungs.

A wife.

King Henry was right.

Edward could marry. He would have to marry. And soon.

“A wise prescription,” he managed to get out. “Again, I thank you.”

“Perhaps you will consider my daughter, Elisabeth,” Henry said, and Queen Catherine roughly pushed a young girl forward. The girl had been dressed extravagantly in an attempt to disguise the fact that she was quite plain. She curtseyed deeply before him.

“Uh . . . yes, I shall consider her,” he said. “Mademoiselle.”

“Votre Altesse.” (Which means, for those of you who don’t speak French, Your Highness.) The little princess didn’t meet his eyes.

He was in a bit of daze as he took his leave. He had not been considering all that was going to be expected from him, if indeed he took back his throne.

He had forgotten that, as the ruler of England, he would never truly be free.

King Henry held a celebration that night in Edward’s honor, so of course Edward had to attend, even though he would have liked to have spent some time alone to sort out his thoughts. This discussion of women and their merit had left him confused about how he actually felt on the subject. He wished that Jane was there to talk to (and possibly apologize to, but why would he need to apologize? He’d only said what Bess had told him to say, and besides, it was true, wasn’t it? Women were the weaker sex, were they not? Wasn’t that even written in the Holy Book?). But Jane was in her ferret state now. Gifford hadn’t made an appearance. Bess had returned to her chamber to strategize their next move. And he hadn’t seen Gracie since before he’d spoken with the king.

He wandered among the music and dancing and fancy French pastries. All this was a blatant over-expenditure of the French king’s wealth, it seemed to Edward. The Louvre Palace was huge, easily three times the size of Edward’s largest palace, and lavishly furnished. Under normal circumstances it would have given Edward a serious case of palace envy, but now he found the entire building rather vulgar.

His old life felt like a lifetime ago.

How was it possible, he thought, to be so lonely when he was surrounded by so many people? There was a throng of admirers about him, many of them women who had no doubt paid attention when the king had advised Edward to find himself a bride toute suite, but when they spoke to him, he found himself nodding blandly and not listening to their words, just staring into his goblet of wine.

A wife, he kept thinking. Such an intimidating word.

Bollocks.

But he’d be the king again, and he could decide for himself who and when he would marry. There was that to comfort him. No one could force his hand.

“Your Majesty,” came a high, sweet voice at his side. “I was wondering if you might honor me with a dance.”

He looked up.

It was Mary Queen of Scots. Of course he would have recognized her anywhere, with those eyes so dark they were almost black, those eyes that had haunted him from her portrait for all those years. But she looked different from the girl who’d stamped on his foot. Older, of course. She’d been eight then. She must be close to thirteen now. She wore a red satin gown and her black hair was braided and pinned in a complex pattern that must have taken hours. There was even a spot of rouge on her cheeks.

She looked quite grown-up.

“Your Majesty?” she queried.

“Your Majesty,” he answered, and bowed stiffly. “Of course I will dance with you.”

They moved to the center of the floor. The dance was long and complicated and held little opportunity for talking, a series of seemingly endless turns and whirls that left him breathless. Mary was light on her feet, an experienced dancer. She smiled at him often, which Edward didn’t know what to do with. Did she have a dagger meant for him tucked in the folds of her dress somewhere? Part of him expected to feel it pierce his side at any moment.