My Lady Jane(6)

It could be ideal.

“Is he handsome?” he asked. Dudley’s other son, Stan, had suffered the misfortune of inheriting his father’s eagle nose. Edward hated the idea of marrying Jane off to that nose.

Dudley’s thin lips tightened. “Gifford is a bit too easy on the eye for his own good, I’m afraid. He tends to attract . . . attention from the ladies.”

Jealousy pricked at Edward. He gazed up once more at the portrait of his father. He resembled Henry; he knew that. They had the same reddish-gold hair and the same straight, majestic nose, the same gray eyes, bracketed by the same smallish ears. Edward had been considered handsome once, but now he was thin and pale, washed out from his bout with the illness.

“ . . . but he will be faithful, of that I can assure you,” Dudley was blathering on. “And when he and Jane produce a son, you will have your E?ian heir. Problem solved.”

Just like that. Problem solved.

Edward rubbed his forehead. “And when should this wedding take place?”

“Saturday, I think,” answered Dudley. “Assuming you approve of the match.”

Edward had a coughing fit.

It was Monday now.

“That soon?” he wheezed when he could breathe again.

“The sooner the better,” Dudley said. “We need an heir.”

Right. Edward cleared his throat. “Very well, then. I approve the match. But Saturday . . .” That seemed awfully soon. “I don’t even know what my schedule looks like on Saturday. I’ll need to consult—”

“I’ve already checked, Your Majesty. You’re free. Besides, the ceremony must take place after sundown,” added Dudley.

“Right. Because in the daytime, he’s . . .” Edward made a faint whinnying noise.

“Yes.” Dudley produced a scroll of parchment and unrolled it on the desk upon which all the official court documents were signed and sealed.

“I bet you spend a fortune on hay,” Edward said, finding his smirk at last. He inspected the scroll. It was a royal decree—his permission, technically speaking—that Lady Jane Grey of Suffolk be wed, on this Saturday hence, to Lord Gifford Dudley of Northumberland.

His smirk faded.

Jane.

Of course it had been a fantasy, this notion he’d had of marrying Jane himself. She had very little in the way of political capital—a rich family, to be sure, a title, but nothing that would truly strengthen the position of the kingdom. Edward had always known that he was supposed to marry for England, not himself. All his life he’d had a constant stream of foreign ambassadors trotting out the portraits of the daughters of the various European royalty for him to peruse. He was meant to marry a princess. Not little Jane with her books and her big ideas.

Dudley put a quill in his hand. “We must consider the good of the country, Your Highness. I’ll ride for Dudley Castle tonight to fetch him.”

Edward dipped the quill in the ink but then stopped. “I need you to swear that he will be good to her.”

“I swear it, Your Majesty. He’ll be a model husband.”

Edward coughed again into the handkerchief Dudley had given him. There was that funny taste in his mouth, something sickly sweet that mixed badly with the lingering blackberries.

“I’m marrying off my cousin to a horse,” he muttered.

Then he put the quill to the paper, sighed, and signed his name.





TWO


Jane

“And the blessed event will take place Saturday night.”

Lady Jane Grey blinked up from her book. Her mother, Lady Frances Brandon Grey, had been speaking. “What’s happening Saturday night?”

“Stand still, dear.” Lady Frances pinched Jane’s arm. “We need to make sure these measurements are perfect. There won’t be time for alterations.”

Jane was already holding her book as still as possible, and at arm’s length. A feat of strength for someone who could wrap her own fingers around her upper arm.

“Note the bust hasn’t changed a smidge,” said the seamstress to her assistant. “Probably never will, at this rate.”

In another feat, this one of self-restraint, Jane did not smack the woman’s head with her book. Because the book was old and valuable: The Unabridged History of the Beet in England: Volume Five. She didn’t want to damage it. “All right, but what’s happening Saturday night?”

“Arms down now,” said the seamstress.

Jane lowered her arms, marking her place in her book with her index finger.

Her mother plucked the book from her hand, tossed the precious tome of beets onto the bed, and adjusted Jane’s shoulders. “Stand straight. You’ll want this gown to hang correctly. You won’t be carrying your books during the wedding, after all.”

“Wedding?” Mild curiosity edged into her tone as she leaned to one side to look at her mother around the seamstress. “Who’s getting married?”

“Jane!”

Jane snapped straight again.

The seamstress noted the final measurements of Jane’s hips (poor for childbearing—another of Jane’s failures) and gathered her supplies. “We’re finished now, my ladies. Have a good afternoon!” She fled the sitting room in a flurry of cloth and needles.