My Lady Jane(113)

As if on cue (or maybe a bit late on his cue), a kestrel flew through the window.

“Edward!” At least, she hoped the bird was Edward. It’d be embarrassing to just start talking with a strange bird.

At the flash of light, Jane turned away and covered her eyes.

“Jane!” the king greeted her happily. “Sorry, but it was harder to tell which window I should come to. I know you said the south-facing window, but I don’t have the best sense of direction as a bird.”

“No time for conversation, cousin,” Jane said. “Gifford’s waiting.”

“Right.” He sounded uncharacteristically nervous. “Let’s go.”

“But I did set out some clothes for you.”

“Oh, right. How thoughtful.” He shuffled around and hurried into his clothes. From the courtyard below Jane suddenly heard a shout: a soldier had come upon the broken glass from the window. They only had a few moments before they’d be discovered.

Edward looked at her grimly. “So what do we have in the way of weapons?”

Jane tossed him the fire poker.

He held it like a sword, so maybe it would be useful after all. “Good enough. And for you?”

Jane picked up the frying pan.





TWENTY-SEVEN


Gifford

Where was she? G paced back and forth on the other side of the Iron Gate, squinting into the darkness past the portcullis, hoping for a sign of his Jane. The minutes felt like hours, and the seconds felt like days. Every violent sound that pierced the night air (and there’d been a few violent sounds since he’d hoisted ferret-Jane over the abbey wall earlier) could be the harbinger of her death. The death of his wife. His beloved.

G loved her. But he hadn’t told her he loved her.

She had begged him to stay, and he’d wanted to, especially given the way she had kissed him. How had a girl like Jane kissed him like that? With her whole heart and her whole body? She’d probably read a dozen books with titles like The Kiss: It’s Not Just About the Lips.

The way Jane kissed, it was an art. She kissed by the book.

And yet, he’d still changed into a horse. And he hadn’t told her he loved her. Now she might die without knowing that she’d become his day and his night, and his sun and his moon. He adored Jane—he loved her! he loved her!—and he should have worn that for all to see. He shouldn’t have hidden his heart.

He closed his eyes and sent a quick prayer to the heavens that he would see her again.

He prayed Edward would keep her from harm.

He prayed if Edward failed, she would turn into a ferret and hide.

He prayed if she was discovered, she would slip from the soldier’s clumsy fingers.

And that if she couldn’t escape, they would kill her quickly.

G squeezed his eyes shut and tried to forget that last plea to heaven. Instead he composed a line of prose in his head.

If I may but see you again, my dearest, I will wear my heart upon my sleeve. . . .

He remembered Jane’s face right before she’d kissed him. He glanced at the flicker of the torches that framed the heavy gate, their flames weak and faint against the wind. Jane’s face could have taught those torches to burn bright. Last night, she was the sun, and all of the flowers in all of the counties turned toward her for warmth.

G pulled his quill, ink, and notebook from his pocket and fumbled as he tried to uncork the jar without spilling its contents.

(Unfortunately, reader, the much more portable pencil would not be invented until the late sixteenth century, and the closest thing to the pen we are all familiar with now was not invented until the nineteenth century, so G was left to fumble with ink and quill. The first people to read of our tale wondered why he bothered to bring a quill, ink jar, and notebook into battle at all, considering he was already carrying three swords—one for himself, Edward, and Jane, when they needed them—but G would argue that he was more familiar and comfortable with a quill in his hand rather than a sword, and if he had to choose one or the other to bring into battle, he’d bring the quill. Because when it came right down to it, he would probably have a better chance of defending himself with a quill.)

When G let his swords drop to the ground, he was finally able to put quill to paper.

Oh how she could teach the torches to burn bright. She was the sun—

Before he could finish his thought, he heard footfalls on the cobblestones inside the Tower, and then a hushed voice.

“Gifford?”

It was Edward. G pressed closer to the gate and could barely make out the silhouettes of two figures rushing toward him, but they didn’t come within a stone’s throw of G’s position before two other figures, with the distinct silhouettes of the Tower guards, intercepted them.

“Jane!” G called out in a loud whisper.

As G’s eyes adjusted to the scene before him, he saw Edward raise a . . . fire poker? . . . and Jane pull out . . . a frying pan?

Whose cockamamie idea were these weapons? Probably Jane’s. They seemed like Jane’s idea of weapons.

No one paid attention to her frying pan, though. Jane, by virtue of being a lady, was allowed to slide into the background. No one else so much as glanced in her direction as she retreated against the wall. She didn’t pose a threat.

Good, G thought. But part of him was grieved that she’d barely seemed to notice him at all.