My Lady Jane(106)

“And then I’ll be the King of England again,” he said.

“You never stopped being the king, in my opinion. But now you’ll get to truly rule,” she continued. “You’ll be able to right all of the wrongs of this country. It was true, all that you said to Archer. You can see to it that E?ians and Verities live side by side in peace. You can change the way things are done, rein in the wild spending and live modestly, see that there’s gold in our coffers again, restructure the taxes to take the burden from the common people, ease their suffering, yet still see to the needs of the nobles. You could be a better king than Father. Wise and just and even-tempered.”

“Better than Father?” He could not conceive of such a thing.

“Yes. England can be prosperous once again. I long to see that day,” his sister said passionately.

He stared off into the horizon, lost in thought. He’d spent the better part of the night flying, and thinking while he flew. It had been the first time he hadn’t lost himself to the bird joy. He supposed that was something of an accomplishment.

“Did you know,” he said after a moment, “that Mary Queen of Scots is a mouse?”

“Of course.”

He glanced up at her, startled. “You knew that? How is it that you know absolutely everything?”

“I’m a cat,” she confessed. “She smelled tasty.”

That drew a startled laugh out from him. “Kestrels eat mice, too.” He remembered the one mouse he’d killed, the night he first became a bird. He wanted to fly again, to stretch his wings.

“We’ll have to practice restraint, if we encounter her again,” Bess remarked.

“We will,” he said softly.

Bess was scrutinizing his face. “What’s troubling you, Edward? Are you afraid? Of this battle to come?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. His hand curled into a fist on the railing. He looked up at her, his gray eyes fierce and shining. “I am ready to fight.”

But it occurred to Edward, not for the first time since our story began, that he had been a poor excuse for a king before. That he did not deserve to be king now. That someone else (anyone else, really, except for Mary) might be better suited for the job.





TWENTY-SIX


Jane

The E?ian encampment was quiet save for the crackle of campfires and the muted voices of soldiers, who were huddled in groups around the fires, discussing tactics or telling stories they’d never told anyone else, but needed to be told. In case they died in the morning.

The sunlight was fading from the sky. From the opening of her tent, Jane couldn’t see London—that was hidden by hundreds of other tents. But she knew it was there. Looming large on the landscape of her destiny.

A chestnut horse trotted toward her through the camp.

Gifford.

Jane breathed out a sigh. Many E?ians had been sent to scout earlier, including Gifford, and she’d worried the whole time he was gone.

She pulled the tent flap wide to let him in and save him the indignity of transforming into a naked man outside. Gifford squeezed past her, carefully avoiding stomping on the lone sleeping pallet, and held still while Jane slung a cloak over his back.

It was the same evening ritual they’d performed since leaving Helmsley, an attempt to hold on to as much of their overlapping human time as possible. Sure, there was the usual scramble for clothes and the impending second change, but they’d made it work so far. Same for a similar morning routine, which was sometimes shortened when neither of them wanted to wake up. Ferrets and young men were both notoriously late sleepers.

But things had been awkward between them since the bear hunt. For obvious reasons.

“I hope your horse time was productive,” Jane said. The tent was dim, lit by a single lantern hanging from the topmost pole. “If we can’t pull this off, we’ll be right back in the Tower waiting for our executions.”

Light flared inside the tent. “Don’t talk like that.” Gifford quickly adjusted the cloak and found the clothes Jane had laid out for him. “We’re going to live tomorrow, and for long after. We’ll have years and years to fight about everything you want to fight about.”

He made it sound like it was a desirable thing.

“I hope so,” Jane said. “I’ve been making a list.”

“I don’t doubt it. What shall we fight about first?”

“I think you know.”

“Uh . . .” He was more or less dressed now, the cloak a crescent moon around his feet. She turned to him and crossed her arms.

“You locked me up. In a cage.” How could he not understand what a problem that was?

“I was trying to keep you safe!” he countered.

Jane threw up her hands. “I don’t want to be kept safe! And I definitely don’t want you to be the one to decide whether or not I need to be kept safe! That’s not your duty.”

For a few moments, they just stared at each other.

“I’m your husband,” he said at last. “If keeping you safe isn’t my duty, what is?”

For the first time, Jane realized that maybe he was just as uncertain in this relationship as she was. Maybe he wasn’t as sure of himself as she’d always assumed.

“As my husband,” she said softly, “your duty is to respect me. To trust me. If I say I want to do something, you can’t stop me just because I might get hurt. That’s not living. I need to make my own decisions.”