My Lady Jane(3)

“I know.” He’d always thought Queen Catherine had died more of a broken heart than any physical malady, although he supposed that a broken heart often led to a broken body.

He wouldn’t have a chance to get his heart broken, he thought, a fresh wave of self-pity washing over him. He was never going to fall in love.

“It’s a dreadful way to die,” Mary continued. “You cough and cough until you cough your lungs right out.”

“Thank you. That’s very comforting,” he said.

Bess, who’d always been a quiet one next to her solemnly loquacious sister, shot Mary a sharp look and laid her gloved hand over Edward’s. “Is there anything we can do for you?”

He shrugged. His eyes burned, and he told himself that he was definitely not going to cry about this whole dying thing, because crying was for girls and wee little babies and not for kings, and besides, crying wouldn’t change anything.

Bess squeezed his hand.

He squeezed back, definitely not crying, and recommenced pondering the view outside the window and the Meaning of Life.

Life is short.

And then you die.

Shortly. Six months, a year at best. Which seemed like an awfully small amount of time. Last summer, a famous Italian astrologer had done Edward’s horoscope, after which he had announced that the king would live forty more years.

Apparently famous Italian astrologers were big, fat liars.

“But at least you can rest assured knowing that everything will be all right once you’ve gone,” Mary said solemnly.

He turned to look at her. “What?”

“With the kingdom, I mean,” she added even more solemnly. “The kingdom will be in good hands.”

He hadn’t really given much thought to the kingdom. Or any thought, truthfully. He’d been too busy contemplating the idea of coughing his lungs right out, and then being too dead to care.

“Mary,” Bess chided. “Now is not the time for politics.”

Before Mary could argue (and by the look on her face, she was definitely going to argue that now was always the time for politics), a knock sounded on the door. Edward called, “Come in,” and John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland and Lord President of the King’s High Privy Council, stuck his great eagle nose into the room.

“Ah, Your Majesty, I thought I’d find you up here,” he said when he spotted Edward. His gaze swept hurriedly over Mary and Bess like he couldn’t be bothered taking the time to really see them. “Princess Mary. Princess Elizabeth. You’re both looking well.” He turned to Edward. “Your Majesty, I wonder if I might have a word.”

“You may have several,” Edward said.

“In private,” Lord Dudley clarified. “In the council room.”

Edward stood and brushed off his pants. He nodded to his sisters, and they dropped into their courtly curtsies. Then he allowed Lord Dudley to lead him down the stairs and across the palace’s long series of hallways into the king’s council chamber, where the king’s advisors normally spent hours each day filling out the appropriate royal paperwork for the running of the country and making all the decisions. The king himself never spent much time in this room, unless there was a document that required his signature, or some other important matter that required his personal attention. Which wasn’t often.

Dudley closed the door behind them.

Edward, winded from the walk, sank into his royal, extra-cushy red velvet throne at the head of the half circle of chairs (usually occupied by the other thirty members of the Privy Council). Dudley produced a handkerchief for him, which Edward pressed to his lips while he rode out a coughing fit.

When he pulled the handkerchief away, there was a spot of pink on it.

Bollocks.

He stared at the spot, and tried to hand the handkerchief back to Dudley, but the duke quickly said, “You keep it, Your Majesty,” and crossed to the other side of the room, where he began to stroke his bearded chin the way he did when he was deep in thought.

“I think,” Dudley began softly, “we should talk about what you’re going to do.”

“Do? It’s ‘the Affliction.’ It’s incurable. There’s nothing for me to do but die, apparently.”

Dudley manufactured a sympathetic smile that didn’t look natural on his face, as he wasn’t accustomed to smiling. “Yes, Sire, that’s true enough, but death comes to us all.” He resumed the beard stroking. “This news is unfortunate, of course, but we must make the best of it. There are many things that must be done for the kingdom before you die.”

Ah, the kingdom, again. Always the kingdom. Edward nodded. “All right,” he said with more courage in his voice than he felt. “Tell me what I should do.”

“First we must consider the line of succession. An heir to the throne.”

Edward’s eyebrows lifted. “You want me to get married and produce an heir in less than a year?”

That could be fun. That would definitely involve kissing with tongue.

Dudley cleared his throat. “Uh . . . no, Your Majesty. You’re not well enough.”

Edward wanted to argue, but then he remembered the spot of pink on the handkerchief, and how exhausting he’d found it simply walking across the palace. He was in no shape to be wooing a wife.

“Well, then,” he said. “I suppose that means the throne will go to Mary.”