My Lady Jane(67)

Gifford, who had been quiet all this time, suddenly leaned toward Jane until his mouth was against her ear. “I have to get out of here,” he said urgently. “It’s almost morning.”

He was right. She could sense the glow of dawn behind the windows. And Mary was not turning out to be very reasonable.

“Give us until tonight,” Jane pleaded. “We need time to consider—”

“There’s nothing to consider,” Mary said. “It’s a simple yes or no.”

Gifford shifted from foot to foot. “Jane—”

“I haven’t slept or eaten,” Jane argued. “Before I make such a decision, I need to rest. To think. Please, if we could just—”

It was too late. The first ray of sunshine breached the window. Next to Jane, another kind of light flared. There was the sound of clothing tearing and hooves clapping against the marble floor.

The crowd let out a collective gasp of horror. Guards rushed forward, swords in hand.

Mary surged up from the throne.

Jane’s heart sank.

Gifford was a horse.

Jane had the wild thought of leaping onto Gifford’s back and riding away as quickly as they could. (Of course, that would violate Horse Rule 3: no riding the horse.) But it would be difficult for him to navigate the narrow, winding stairs in his current state, and even though Gifford was pressing close to Jane as if to protect her, there was no way to climb atop him. Her hands were still bound behind her back.

“Seize them,” Mary commanded.

Soldiers yanked her away. She tried to wriggle free, and Gifford snapped and kicked, but then one of the men held a sword to Gifford’s long neck. Someone else pressed a knife to Jane’s throat.

Girl and horse met each other’s eyes, and that was when they stopped fighting.

“Well.” Mary settled back onto the throne. She spoke with that sweet voice again, but now Jane couldn’t miss the edge of contempt. “How surprising.”

One of the guards looped a rope around Gifford’s neck. He didn’t resist. A guard came up behind Jane, cut the ropes binding her wrists, and clasped on a pair of metal shackles. Which seemed like overkill.

“Dearest Jane,” Mary said. “My late brother had such fondness for you. It is in his memory that I make this offer. That, and as I said earlier, I’ve always felt a little sorry for you. Not just because you couldn’t comprehend the game being played around you, but because of that unfortunate red hair of yours. It’s just— Well, I don’t want to be rude.”

No, Jane thought, you just want to take my throne and kill my husband.

She turned to look at Gifford, who didn’t stir. He’d only been her husband for a little while, such a very little amount of time, relatively speaking. She didn’t know his favorite color or the food he liked best—outside of apples, which seemed like a horse preference. She’d assumed he’d been part of this game, trying to manipulate her like everyone else, but that didn’t matter to her now. What would happen to him? What would happen to them both?

“My offer is fair, and I urge you to accept,” Mary was saying.

“I’m still waiting to hear what it is,” Jane said numbly.

“Ah. Dear. I’m sorry. I thought it must have been obvious what I want from you. What everyone else has already done.” Mary gestured at Lady Frances and Lord Dudley. “Accept me as your rightful queen and denounce evil. Denounce heretics. Denounce E?ians.”

Of course.

“Sweet little Jane. You like to prattle on about E?ians and heroes and other such nonsense. You are young and those sorts of things seem attractive to you, but you must grow up now. Renounce the E?ians, including your husband, and live out the rest of your days in exile. I’ve arranged for you to be sent to a monastery, even. You’ll be quite safe and comfortable there.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

Mary made a swift slice of her hand over her throat. “I didn’t think that needed to be said, either, what with the extensive reading you’ve done, but I suppose I’ve overestimated you.”

Jane glanced at her mother, who nodded. Urging her to give in. As she herself must have done.

The throne room was silent as everyone waited to hear Jane’s answer.

“What will happen to my husband?” she asked.

Mary shook her head with false sadness, but her eyes were sparkling. “In the morning, he will be burned at the stake.”

Jane’s hands flew to her mouth—or rather, would have, but she was still shackled. The metal bit deeply into her wrists as she strained against it. “No,” she breathed. “Don’t hurt him. He can’t help what he is.”

Mary tilted her head. “So you knew that he is an abomination?”

Jane’s eyes cut to Dudley.

The duke said, “Of course I hadn’t the faintest idea, Your Majesty. If Gifford was in and out of the house at all hours and refused to go to court, I assumed my son was merely acting out like any normal boy. Why would I assume he had something darker to hide?”

“That’s a lie,” Jane said, but no one cared.

“This is about you, dear. Did you know your husband was a beast?” Mary pressed.

“I found out on our wedding night. Everyone who knew”—she glared at Dudley—“neglected to tell me.”