jewel-encrusted clothing. Or silly hats with feathers. Or pants that resembled pumpkins. Or tights. From now on, unless it was a special occasion, he was fine in just a simple shirt and trousers.
3.Dessert was to be served first. Blackberry pie, preferably. With whipped cream.
4.The king would no longer be taking part in any more dreary studies. His fine tutors had filled his head with enough history, politics and philosophy to last him two lifetimes, and as he was unlikely to get even half of one lifetime, there was no more need for study. No more lessons, he decided. No more books. No more tutors’ dirty looks.
5.The king was now going to reside in the top of the southeast turret, where he could sit in the window ledge and gaze out at the river for as long as he liked.
6.No one at court would be allowed to say the following words or phrases: affliction, illness, malady, sickness, disease, disorder, ailment, infirmity, convalescence, indisposition, malaise, plight, plague, poor health, failing health, what’s going around, or your condition. Most of all, no one was allowed to say the word dying.
And finally (and perhaps most importantly, for the sake of our story)
7.Dogs would now be allowed inside the palace. More specifically, his dog.
Edward had always loved dogs. Dogs were uncomplicated. They loved you without expectation. They were devoted and loyal, not because you were the king and you could have their heads chopped off if they displeased you, but because it was in their nature to be so. Most of the time he greatly preferred the company of dogs to the company of men.
Edward’s favorite dog was named Pet, short for Petunia. She was the best kind of dog, a large Afghan hound with flowing, wheat-colored hair and long, silky ears. Pet was warm and soft and goofy and always good for a laugh. And so for the past few days, simply because Edward said so, Pet had been allowed in the throne room, the dining hall, the council chambers, and his newly arranged bedchamber in the turret. Wherever the king went, so too went Pet.
His sister Mary, for the record, did not approve of dogs in the castle. It was undignified. It was unsanitary.
Bess was allergic. (Plus she was more of a cat person.)
But neither one of them could really protest, because their brother was dying, and how does one deny the wishes of a dying king?
So it was that on Friday morning, after breakfasting on blackberry pie and whipped cream, Edward was lounging on the throne in a shirt and pants, not even wearing his crown, with Pet’s head resting on his lap. He was scratching behind one of her silky ears, and Pet’s hind leg was moving in time to his scratching, because she couldn’t help herself. Mary was in the corner, muttering something about fleas. Bess was sniffling into a handkerchief. Lord Dudley, having just returned from his trip to his country estate to fetch his son, was sitting in a much smaller chair on Edward’s right, reading over some official-looking document, a pair of spectacles (or the early predecessor of what we think of as spectacles) perched on the landscape of his nose.
That’s when Edward heard the indignant footfalls ringing on the stone in the outer corridor and the familiar, high-pitched voice demanding, “No, I must speak with the king, now, please,” but before the steward even had a chance to announce, “Lady Jane Grey, Your Majesty,” which was protocol when someone was about to enter the king’s presence, the doors to the throne room burst open and in rushed Jane.
It was Friday, as we mentioned. If all went according to Lord Dudley’s plans, Jane and his son Gifford would be tying the knot tomorrow night.
Edward smiled, happy to see her. He hadn’t seen much of her lately on account of his illness, but she was just as he always pictured her, albeit a little travel-worn.
Jane, however, did not seem happy to see him. There were two bright pink spots in the middle of her cheeks and wisps of her ginger hair sticking to her sweat-dampened face, as if she’d run all the way from Bradgate. And she was frowning.
“Hello, cousin,” Edward said. “You’re looking well. Why don’t you sit down and have a nice cup of—”
Tea, he was going to offer. Because he was English and that’s what the English do under stress: they drink tea.
“No tea,” Jane interrupted, waving away the royal tea mistress who was approaching