My Lady Jane(54)

“Yes.” Gifford cleared his throat. “Same as I do every evening.”

Tension snapped between the men. Jane’s skin prickled at the sudden memory of Gifford slipping away last night to go speak with his father.

What had Gifford and Dudley talked about? Gifford had said nothing to her about Dudley since her coronation. He had been unusually quiet, actually, about everything. Uncharacteristically quiet. One might even say suspiciously quiet.

Well, he’d been a horse all day, of course. He hadn’t had time to confide everything.

Jane sighed. She didn’t trust Lord Dudley, but why? There had to be more to her misgivings than her dislike of the man (and his nose).

“Come.” Gifford offered his arm, and she took it. “Let’s go in to supper. I’m starving for something other than hay.”

Dinner was insufferable. First she had to dress in layers and layers of foolish finery: furs and silks and velvets, jewels on her fingers and neck and hair, and worst of all, a type of platform shoe that she was forced to wear so that her dresses, which hadn’t yet been hemmed to her slight frame, wouldn’t drag the floor. Then she and Gifford were paraded into the great hall, where a hundred courtiers waited. At her arrival, they all stood until she took her place at the head of the table. Everyone was watching her, and she dearly would have liked to shrink or crawl under the table, neither action befitting of a queen.

Gifford sat on her left, Lord Dudley on her right, throughout the various courses of the meal: soups and soufflés, pies and pastries, and veal and venison. There was so much food, Jane thought she might explode. So much food, the people in the villages she and Gifford had visited could have lived on it for a week. The thought of so much extravagance and waste while there were Englishmen suffering and starving made her feel a bit sick.

They were halfway through the meal—eating some kind of meat pie—when Lord Dudley turned to Jane. “Your Majesty,” he said quietly, so that the other people at the table besides Gifford might not hear. “I thought we should discuss when to hold my son’s coronation. Not tonight, as I’m sure you’re exhausted, but tomorrow night would be appropriate, and then we’d have the day to prepare. I’ve already got his crown picked out.”

Jane stilled, her fork lifted halfway to her lips. “His crown?”

“Yes. To make Gifford the king.”

Gifford the king.

Jane’s hand trembled as she set her fork down.

The king. That was it, then. This whole mess made sense. The hasty wedding. The generosity of using the country house. The way he’d insisted she be crowned queen only moments after she learned of Edward’s death, foregoing all of the traditional procedures.

It was so obvious she felt stupid for not seeing it before. Through her, and through crowning Gifford king, John Dudley meant to rule England.

“No.” The word burst out of her. She darted a glance at Gifford. Shock flickered across his face, and then was snuffed out as quickly as a candle.

Dudley’s nose turned red. “And why not?”

She hardened her expression. Maybe she should have worn her crown today.

“Your Majesty,” he added.

She lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “There are several reasons, none of which I am obligated to divulge to you. But I will give you the most obvious reason, which is that Gifford is a horse.”

Dudley’s jaw practically dropped, which only encouraged Jane to go on.

“Consider it,” she said, leaning toward the duke. “How can your son help me rule the kingdom when he’s present only half the time—and during the half when most people are asleep?”

Gifford signaled for the serving boy to bring him more wine.

“Your Majesty, please reconsider,” Lord Dudley pleaded. “Your position will be much stronger with your husband as king. The people will see it as a sign of strength—”

She took a deep breath. “They need signs of my strength, not my reliance on the men around me.”

“But every queen needs a king,” Dudley sputtered.

She shook her head. “If you feel he needs a title, I can make him a duke. Duke of Clarence, perhaps. How’s that?”

Gifford snorted (a noise that was remarkably horse-like), lifted his goblet, and drank deeply.

“Your Majesty, I must implore you to change your mind.” Dudley paused and came at the subject in a new, calculatedly kind way. “This is understandably a difficult time for you. Let’s not be hasty with this decision.”

“Indeed,” she said coolly. “I would undoubtedly feel more at ease if I could visit my cousin’s body. Perhaps after that we can discuss the prince consort.”

Lord Dudley rubbed his chin, nearly losing a finger to the dagger of his nose, and nodded. “We should delay this discussion until a more suitable time presents itself.”

“Yes,” Jane agreed. “A more suitable time.”

She dared another look at her husband. Gifford’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright as he drained yet another goblet of wine. A servant rushed forward to refill.

“No more,” Jane said, much too loudly. She reached across her husband’s plate and laid a hand on the rim of his goblet just before the servant began to tip the pitcher of wine. “You’ve had enough.”