the inhabitants of said room, G would be dismissed as a ghost. Until the following morning, when the owner of said trousers discovered their absence.
G walked to the adjoining tavern, holding his trousers up to account for the ale belly of the previous owner. He made the decision then and there to cut back on his ale consumption.
The coronation of the queen was so recent that G was fairly certain people wouldn’t be able to recognize Her Majesty Queen Jane, let alone her consort. Nevertheless, G kept his head down as he crept from the back rooms and toward the bar. He was so focused on reaching the front door without assault, he almost missed the faint whisper.
“Long live Queen Mary.”
G stopped and whipped about. Two red uniforms caught his eye. The soldiers were standing at the bar, the bartender handing them brown bags full of something bulky.
Perhaps G had misheard the declaration. But no, the names Mary and Jane sounded nothing alike. Then he heard another declaration, whispered again, this time from one of the soldiers at the bar, and in a response.
“Long live the true and rightful queen.”
G froze in step. His heart tried to escape up his throat. He swallowed it back down. He knew that he must keep a low profile, although that was more of an automatic response before it was based in logical reasoning. Reason would tell him he was the queen’s consort, after all. The soldiers should be under his wife’s control.
And yet, here were the rumblings of treason in this random tavern just outside of London. Several more soldiers dotted the seats in the great room of the place, but they had no ale in front of them. Only food and water. G had a moment to be grateful he wasn’t dressed in his usual finery, and therefore did not look out of place.
He strode to the front door, an urgency in his step that wasn’t there before, and as he exited the tavern, he noticed points of light dotting the hillside.
Campfires. Tents. An encampment. Within marching distance of London. He needed to get back to the Tower, and fast. Curse his damn curse. Why couldn’t he just change at will? He was a horse minutes ago. Minutes ago! He got down on all fours right there in the dirt road and squeezed his eyes shut and—
“Stand up, ye daft beggar,” one of the wobbly tavern patrons said.
G waved him off and tried to focus on the feeling of the wind in his mane, his haunches springing from the—
“Had too much to drink, that one,” another man slurred. “Thinks he’s an arse!”
Realizing it wasn’t going to work, G shot up from the ground. “A horse,” G said sharply to anyone who would listen. “A horse! My wife’s kingdom for a horse!”
A group of drunken men looked at Gifford as if they were disgusted someone could consume so much ale.
“Peace, ye fat guts!” The largest and sweatiest of the men spat at G. “No one’s gotchyer horse.”
“No, I need a horse.”
The large man belly laughed. “Of course ye do. Hey, Mason, get the beggar man a horse!”
The whole group belly laughed, and G thought better of telling them it really wasn’t that funny, and that the man who had spoken really had the fat guts, and instead he just took off running toward the castle.
G ran flat out for a good minute, minute and a half, before he realized he would have to pace himself, and as a man, he didn’t have the endurance he enjoyed as a horse.
It was going to be a long trip back to the castle.
Hours later, when he reached the gates, and spent extra time convincing the guards he really was the prince consort, he staggered into the main hall and through the series of stairways that would lead him to the queen’s chamber. It was well after the queen would’ve given up on him for supper and turned in.
He used his fist to bang on her chamber door.
“Jane!” he shouted. “Jane, open up.”
After a few long moments, she opened the door, the vestiges of sleep still in her gaze, a long robe draped over her shoulders. At the sight of G, she pulled the robe even tighter.
“What is it?” she said primly.
He pushed his way inside and shut the door behind them.
“This is very—” Jane started to say, but G cut her off.
“My lady, Your Majesty . . . Jane. You need to call a meeting of