her with a teapot in one hand and a saucer and teacup in the other. “I need you to talk to you, Edward. It’s urgent.”
The throne room, which was full of courtiers, fell silent for a few seconds and then broke out into a rumble of scandalized murmurs, although whether the lords and ladies present were more scandalized by Jane’s casual use of Edward’s first name or her very rude refusal of his offer of tea, we can’t say. Lord Dudley cleared his throat.
“All right,” Edward said a bit nervously.
Jane’s gaze darted around the throne room, as if she had just noticed that she had an audience. Her face reddened even more. “I need to speak with you about, um . . . the reign of King Edward Plantagenet the Second. I’ve been reading this very important book about that period of English history, and I wanted your opinion on the subject.”
Alone, her eyes said. Now.
Concerning the wedding, of course.
Edward was quiet for a moment, trying to figure out how best to handle the logistics of seeing Jane in private.
“It is of great historical importance!” Jane insisted.
“Ah . . . yes,” Edward stammered. “Very well. I would be delighted to talk to you about the reign of King . . .”
“Edward Plantagenet,” Jane provided.
“The First.”
“The Second,” she corrected.
“Yes, of course. Why don’t we go for a walk and you can tell me all about it?”
Jane’s small shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank you.”
Edward stood up. His eyes met Dudley’s. The duke looked decidedly disapproving, but Edward ignored him.
“I’m going to walk with Lady Jane in the orchard,” Edward announced. “Carry on without me.”
“But, Your Majesty,” protested Mistress Penne, rushing forward. She was his nursemaid, a plump, kind-faced old woman who had looked after him when he was a baby and been called back to his side during his illness earlier in the year. Lately she was always hovering, fretting that he wasn’t dressed warmly enough, worrying that any small exertion might be too much of a strain on his now-delicate constitution. “Are you sure that’s wise, in your condition?”
That was one of the forbidden words, but Edward decided he would allow it from Mistress Penne because when he’d get his fevers she’d sit next to his bed and put a cool cloth on his forehead, and stroke his hair, and sometimes even sing to him.
“Yes, Sire, perhaps you should rest,” agreed Dudley.
Edward waved them off. “What’s the worst that could happen? I could catch my death?”
He was trying to be brave and jovial in the face of it all, but in this he obviously failed. Dudley looked disappointed in him. Mary appeared more solemn than usual. Mistress Penne put her hand over her wrinkled mouth and shuffled away, sniffling.
Brilliant, he thought. Just brilliant. But should dying people have to apologize?
Jane looked at him, suddenly taking in his plain clothes and lack of crown and the wag-tailed dog at his side. “Edward? What’s going on?” she asked.
“Come,” he said, stepping down from the throne and offering Jane his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
And so they walked, dog and girl and king, out of the palace and across the grounds and down through the entire length of the orchard, where they settled under the white blossoms of an apple tree.
“All right,” he said, once they were certainly out of earshot of anyone from court. “What’s the matter, Janey?”
“I can’t get married tomorrow,” she burst out. “You’ve got to call it off.”
“But why?” Edward picked up his scratching of behind Pet’s ears, and she made a happy dog noise deep in her throat.
“I simply cannot marry him, that’s all. Not him.”
“But I hear he’s a fine young man, Jane,” Edward said. “Lord Dudley assured me that Gifford will be a model husband.”
When he wasn’t busy galloping around the countryside, Edward thought a tad guiltily.
Jane picked at the brocade on her gown. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it? A fine young man. A good match. How fortunate I am, indeed. Well. I went to Dudley Castle a few days ago, for I thought I might get a chance to see him or speak with him before we’re to be wed, and . . .”
Ah, so she must have seen Gifford in his steed-like state. Which must have been rather a shock, if nobody had told her that Gifford was an E∂ian beforehand. “What happened?” he asked.
“It was awful. It turns out, Gifford Dudley is a . . . he’s a—” She couldn’t even