My Lady Jane(44)

“You looked like you needed a book,” G said. “It was on top of the pile.”

“Thank you.” But the words were automatic, and Jane spent most of the ride staring out the window as a knot of worry tightened in her stomach.

It was late when they arrived in the outskirts of London, so a certain stillness of sleeping was to be expected. But tonight, either because of her mysterious summons or because there was truly something off about the city, there was a subtle almost-paralysis in the streets. As if everything were a painting. Even the wind had died.

Their carriage clattered unnaturally loudly down the road. A few people appeared in doorways, staring.

The Tower of London, too, held that stillness when they arrived. That feeling of a held breath.

(We’d like to take this opportunity to point out that, in spite of the name, the Tower of London is actually a castle with many towers. The White Tower, Bloody Tower, the Flint Tower . . . It’s all very impressive.)

There were few reasons that might explain why Jane was being taken to the tower in the middle of the night, and none of them were good.

“This is all so ominous,” G muttered as the carriage jerked to a halt while the first portcullis was raised. One of the horses whinnied and tossed its head. “My friend up there agrees.”

They started moving again, now crossing the bridge over the moat. There was a foul odor rising from that cesspool, but Jane hardly cared, and didn’t even bother to cover her nose, or tell Gifford the impressive—if disgusting—history of the Tower of London moat.

When the second portcullis was raised, they moved through the outer ward, under another portcullis (there were a lot of portcullises, Jane observed somewhere in the back of her mind), and then made their way toward the majestic White Tower.

The carriage stopped right before the door to the keep. Jane glanced across the Tower Green, toward the chapel. Torches burned on walls, but there was no movement, save the rustling of raven wings above. “Please just tell me what this is about,” she said.

But her guard only took her book and left it on the seat. She was ushered into a great hall where a crowd of council members waited, and though everyone turned to look at her when she entered, flanked by her husband and a troop of guards, hardly anyone spoke.

Jane looked to the throne for Edward, but her cousin wasn’t there. “What is all this?” she asked again. “Why was I brought here? Where is Edward?”

Lord Dudley strode forward, his nose an arrow that pointed straight at her. “Lady Jane. I’m relieved you could return so quickly.”

It wasn’t as if she’d been given a choice.

“There is news.”

Obviously.

Jane glanced at G, whose face had grown impassive at his father’s appearance. “Please,” Jane said at last. “Tell me.”

Lord Dudley’s voice was somber, but it sounded across the throne room like a gong. “King Edward the Sixth is dead. Long live Queen Jane.”





TWELVE


Gifford

The words “Queen Jane” rang in G’s ears, but the more pressing matter was the sudden and extreme paleness of his wife’s face. He felt that familiar urge to protect her, the one that had manifested during the Pack attack.

“Edward is dead?” Jane said, her voice almost inaudible.

Oh right, G thought. The king’s death should’ve been the most pressing issue. It was only Jane’s close relationship to the king that stopped him from saying, Yes, my lady, but did you hear the second part? About the whole queen thing?

Lord Dudley nodded solemnly. “He succumbed to ‘the Affliction’ this morning.”

Jane’s gaze went vacant. She stared at nothing for a long moment. G edged toward her, and then back, not sure what to do. Was she going to faint? Or would she consider that a very cliché thing for a woman to do? Desperate to console her, he almost considered shouting, Quick, someone, get her a book! Any book! But he wasn’t sure if she was the stubborn Jane of the “I have servants for that” variety, or the Jane he’d almost kissed earlier, and he didn’t want to be humiliated in court by having his attempts to help his wife rebuked.

Especially if she was to be queen.

A flurry of activity broke out at one end of the throne room as Jane’s mother swept in.

“Darling Jane,” she said, swooping over to her daughter, taking her in her arms. “I am so sorry about your dearest friend and cousin, the king.”

She spoke louder than necessary, but G suspected she wanted everyone to hear.

Jane limply returned her mother’s embrace, and then all at once seemed to notice that the throne room was bursting with people and every single one of their faces was focused on her.

“I think I’d like to be excused for a moment,” she said, a little louder and to no one in particular. “I’m sure the rest of you need time to mourn as well.”

G glanced at Lord Dudley, who seemed surprised by Jane’s declaration.

“Um . . . I’m sorry, my lady, but you need to stay for the coronation,” the duke said.

“Oh?” Jane said. “Is the new king to be crowned immediately?”

Lord Dudley frowned. “No. A new queen.”

“Ah,” she said. “Princess Mary?”

“No. It is you, my lady.” Lord Dudley bowed in her direction.