My Lady Jane(25)

The consummation.

“Jane,” he’d leaned to whisper in her ear. “Don’t fret. You’ll be all right.”

“He’s drunk,” she’d hissed. “So now we can add ‘inebriant’ to the list of his charms. A boozer. A lush. A tippler. A souse.”

“You will find something to like about him,” he’d answered, and kissed her cheek. “Be happy, cousin. For me.”

Then Gifford had led her away. To their bedchamber.

Edward thought, I am never going to consummate anything. I’m going to die a virgin.

And he’d felt more sorry for himself than ever.

The floor beside his bed creaked, and he opened his eyes. Master Boubou was hovering over him, and behind him Edward could make out the outline of Lord Dudley’s nose.

The doctor took Edward’s hand and felt for a pulse at his wrist, then frowned.

“So it’s good news, is it?” Edward smiled at his own joke and was immediately overtaken by coughing.

“I’m afraid not, Your Majesty,” said Boubou, when the coughs subsided. “You appear to have taken a turn for the worst. Your heart is very weak. Perhaps the wedding was simply too much exertion.”

Edward resolved that he would never, ever, no matter how bad things got, regret being there for Jane at her wedding. “So what’s to be done about it?”

“I’ve brought a tonic.” Boubou helped Edward to sit up as Lord Dudley handed him a goblet of a dark liquid that tasted as bad as it smelled, like rotted leaves with a touch of fennel. But almost immediately after the tonic touched his tongue, he felt slightly better, clearer of mind, less exhausted.

“I should probably bleed you at some point,” Boubou continued delicately after Edward had dutifully downed the tonic.

Edward tried not to cringe. He’d been bled once before, when he’d first become ill. He thought that if anything, the bleeding had only made him feel weaker. Plus it was unsettling watching his blood drain into a bowl.

“No,” he said. “No bleeding.”

Boubou didn’t argue, but the doctor didn’t seem to be afraid of him any longer, which Edward found disappointing.

Lord Dudley shuffled forward hefting a writing tray, which he placed carefully across Edward’s lap. Then he produced a large parchment scroll and unrolled it on the tray.

Revised Decree on the Line of Succession, the scroll read, followed by a lot of very fine print that swam before Edward’s eyes.

“What is this?” Edward asked.

“Your royal will, Your Highness,” the duke said, motioning for Boubou to bring him a quill and a pot of ink. “We discussed how you would name Jane Grey’s male heir as your successor. Remember?”

Edward had a vague recollection of this.

“But considering this most recent turn in your health,” Dudley continued, “I thought it might be prudent to revise the line of succession.”

For a moment Edward was confused. Then he realized. “Because you don’t think I’ll live long enough for Jane to have a son.”

Dudley said nothing, but his gaze lingered on the parchment. Edward squinted to read the flowery calligraphy. At the top was his title: Edward the Sixth, by the Grace of God, King of England, Ireland, and France.

(Back then the English monarchy liked to claim ownership of France, even though France had a perfectly suitable king of its own. The relationship between the two countries was obviously strained as a result.)

“‘For lack of issue of my body,’” he read, then stopped to take a breath. “‘Upon the event of my death, I bequeath my kingdom and the entitlements and protections thereof, to the Lady Jane Grey and the male heirs who follow her.’” He glanced up at Dudley. “You want me to make Jane herself the queen?”

Dudley nodded sagely, his eyes gleaming above his great nose.

Edward didn’t know why he felt surprised at this news.

“But she’s a woman,” he murmured. “The crown can’t go to a woman, right?”

“Jane would have my son to guide her,” Dudley said. “And me.”

Well, that made sense, thought Edward. Lord Dudley had been one of his most faithful and trusted advisors over the years. The duke had never led him astray.

Dudley handed him the quill.

Edward hesitated. He ignored Dudley’s protests and rose shakily from his bed, crossed to the window to stare down at the courtyard. For just a moment he thought he actually saw Jane down below him, the jewels of her golden gown catching the sun, her hair a gleam of red. But when he looked again she was gone.

Jane was on her honeymoon, he told himself. Not here.

Then he allowed himself to truly consider the idea of Jane as queen. His little, stubborn, and bookish, utterly sweet cousin Jane. Queen of England.

She wasn’t going to like that. She’d even said as much once. Too many rules.

But what was his alternative? Mary was still a Verity and a royal stick in the mud. Bess was still of an uncertain opinion when it came to her stance on E?ians. Jane was the only decent choice left from the royal line, unless you factored in Mary Queen of Scots.

He shuddered.

“Queen Jane,” he whispered to himself. “Queen Jane.”

It had a nice ring to it, he thought. Jane would be a kind queen, for one thing. She was well educated—some would even say too well educated, for a woman. She was clever. She had backbone, wouldn’t let the counselors make all the decisions. She could make a good ruler, an excellent ruler, even, in spite of the whole female problem. He allowed himself the sentimentality of picturing Jane in the palace, living in his chambers and taking her meals at his table and reading the books from his library.