My Lady Jane(119)

“Listen well,” he announced to the people assembled. “I, King Edward the Sixth, do hereby abdicate my crown to my sister Elizabeth Tudor, who I find, by both her birthright and her immeasurable good qualities, to be the rightful heir to the throne of England. Any rights and privileges I have heretofore enjoyed as monarch of this fine land, I bestow upon her.”

Silence.

He met Jane’s eyes. She closed her mouth and tried to smile. Then she nodded slightly.

“Long live Queen Elizabeth!” she called out, her voice small but strong. She turned to Gifford, who had been clasping her hand all the while, and nudged him.

“Oh. Long live Queen Elizabeth!” he added, and then the other voices began to join in, louder and louder.

“Come, sister,” he said to Bess. He took her hand and led her to the throne.

“Are you sure?” she whispered as she sat carefully in his chair. (King or not, it was going to be a while before he stopped thinking of it as his chair.) “Consider what you’re giving up.”

He knew what he was giving up. Power. Prestige. Wealth beyond measure. A life of leisure and luxury. A person always standing by to make sure he didn’t choke. And, most of all, his future. Edward couldn’t honestly imagine who he would turn out to be if he wasn’t king. By stepping down he was relinquishing his very identity.

But his country needed a ruler who was worthy and capable. England needed Bess.

“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life,” he said. “You’re going to be a fine queen, Bess. The best. Even better than Father. Trust me.”

She gave him that subtle, thoughtful smile at his familiar words before she bowed her head for a moment, her eyes closed, her face as pale as chalk. He could see all twenty-two of her freckles. Then she looked up to address the people. “Very well. If that’s my fate, I will be as good to you as ever a queen was to her people.”

“Long live Queen Elizabeth!” they answered unanimously. “Long live the queen!”

Edward placed the crown upon her head.

Let’s pause for a moment. We know, we know, we’re so close to the end now that you can practically taste the happily ever after. And who would have seen that coming, right? I mean, who could have predicted that Edward would stand up then, and right there in front of the Privy Council and all of his adoring fans, he’d say that she—Elizabeth I—should be the Queen of England?

Because obviously she was the most qualified for the position. At long last Edward had arrived at the enlightened state of knowing that a woman could do a job just as well as a man.

Yep. That’s how it happened. Edward abdicated his throne. Elizabeth would be crowned queen at Westminster Abbey that same week, and we all know she’d be the best ruler of England ever. And now history can more or less pick up along the same path where we left it.

But what happened to Edward, you ask? Well. We still have a little bit of the story left to tell.

Edward spent the better part of the next few days thinking about (what else?) Gracie McTavish. Because he still wanted to tell her that he’d stepped down from the throne and see that surprised look on her face. And because (let’s be honest) he still very much wanted to kiss her. He thought about it embarrassingly often.

But the charming Scot was nowhere to be found.

“She’ll turn up eventually,” Bess said as he anxiously paced the throne room. She picked at a stray thread on the red velvet cushion of the throne. “You needn’t worry, Edward.”

Bess was right. Bess was always right, even more so now that she was queen; it was getting annoying. Gracie was alive. There’d been exaggerated tales of a valiant black-haired woman leading the Pack during the false attack on the city walls—but then where had Archer been? And where was Archer now?

The entire Pack had not yet made an appearance in London. They’d retreated back to the Shaggy Dog the moment the fighting was done. Gracie, he figured, must be among them.

With Archer, probably, Edward thought miserably. Burned bright in his memory was the way Archer had told Gracie that she was looking very fine. And the way that flea-bitten man had ogled her like she was a piece of meat.

He couldn’t stand the idea of Gracie with Archer. And why wouldn’t she have come to see him? Their last moment together in France had ended badly, but so badly that she wouldn’t want to see him again?

“Edward, sit down,” Bess said. “You’re making me queasy.”

He sank into a chair. Pet lumbered up to him, tail wagging. He scratched behind her ear, and she gave a happy dog sigh and collapsed at his feet. Pet had asked to remain a guardian to the queen, and after all she’d done for their cause, Bess had agreed (even though she wasn’t too fond of dogs—remember, cat person). It was a little awkward at times, but the least they could do—well, that and give her a scratch and the scraps from the table every now and then.

“Um, Your Majesty,” came a voice from the doorway. A frightened voice. “About your crown.”

“What about my crown?” Bess asked the trembling servant who came to cower before her—Hobbs, Edward remembered the man’s name was.

“Have you . . . moved it?” asked Hobbs.

“Moved my crown?” Bess frowned. “Where would I move it?”

“Normally it’s kept on a velvet cushion in the king’s—I mean the queen’s—chamber.”