My Lady Jane

by Cynthia Hand

  Gifford’s tone was paper dry as he said his part. “I, Gifford Dudley, hereby declare my devotion to you. I swear to love you, protect you, be faithful to you, and make you the happiest woman in the world. My love for you is as deep as the ocean and as bright as the sun. I will protect you from every danger. I am blind to every woman but you. Your happiness is paramount in my heart.”

  From the first row of guests, Gifford’s mother dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, and the girl fought a small fit of giggles. Edward was stoic faced, his blood-dotted handkerchief crumpled in his fingers.

  Gifford took her damp hand and pushed a ring onto her finger. “I give myself to you.”

  “I receive you.” It sounded more like a croak. “And I, Jane Grey, hereby declare my devotion to you. I swear to love you, parley with you, be faithful to you, and make you the happiest man in the world.”

  The original version of the vow her mother had suggested had said “obey you” but that simply would not do. It was enough that Jane had agreed to keep the word love where she had tried to insert the phrase “feel some sort of emotion,” but with obey she could not bend. She would consult him regarding decisions. She didn’t have to listen to him after that. And she would be faithful. She might try to make him happy, unless he insisted on being unreasonable.

  She continued: “My love for you makes the wind appear a mere breath, and the sea a mere drop. I will consult your wisdom. I am deaf to the call of temptation. Your happiness is my northern star.” She took his hand and shoved on the ring awkwardly, her bouquet still clutched in her fingers. “I give myself to you.” Never had she dreamed of uttering such words.

  “I receive you.” He, at least, looked equally miserable.

  The priest beamed. “Is there anyone who would like to contest this match?”

  Please please please. Jane risked a glance at Edward, who had not moved at all. There would be no last-minute rescue. No awful coincidence. Nothing to keep this from going any further.

  “Then,” declared the priest, “I name you husband and wife. You may kiss.”

  Jane squeezed her eyes shut and waited. Entire seconds fell by, and then a touch warmed her chin and lifted her face, which she’d turned down to her shoes. The kiss came quickly. It wasn’t anything more than a touch of his lips to hers, so light it might not have happened at all. But the guests were cheering and when she and Gifford turned to face everyone, Edward’s eyes were shining, her mother wore a triumphant smile, and the girl with Gifford’s parents was kissing her doll.

  “Now to survive the feast.” Gifford’s words were low, perhaps not even for her, but they were the first real words he’d spoken since they’d met.

  “Perhaps there will be a buxom serving girl to help you pass the time,” she snapped without thinking.

  Gifford met her eyes coldly. “Perhaps there will be a book for you to hide your face in.”

  They moved down the aisle together, to lead the way to the wedding feast, and the last shred of hope in her shriveled and died. He was as awful as she’d expected, and now she would be spending the rest of her life with him.

  And suddenly the rest of her life, stretched out before her with the marriage bed and children and seeing each other only when was absolutely necessary, seemed like an exceedingly long time.

  SIX

  Gifford

  Maybe he had been a bit rude.

  But to be fair, he’d had his reasons. One reason. Which was: he hadn’t been prepared for the fairness of the maiden who had met him at the altar.

  Until the ceremony, he had, in jest, been vocal about the possibility that Jane was hiding behind books because she was trying to conceal the hideousness of her face. But deep down he’d hoped it was true. Because that would’ve made it easier to tell her the truth about his horse curse. If she had been less attractive, there might’ve been the chance that a half horse/half man was the best she could do. But Jane Grey could certainly do better than Gifford.

  Not that she was a stunning creature. She did have that fire-red hair, after all. But G had to admit that not one in twenty men would find her unseemly. Her eyes were the color of varnished oak flecked with deep mahogany—perceptive eyes that seemed to drink in everything around her. Her skin was creamy and unblemished. Her figure had all the expected parts in all the right configurements. But it was the supple pout of her lips—and they had pouted a lot during the ceremony—that could inspire poetry.

  Like kissing cherries, he thought, but that wasn’t a very good comparison.

  And now, he had to tell those lips about the curse. He’d promised the king he would share the news with his bride before he and she . . . before they . . . what was the official term for it?

  Ugh. Consummated, G thought. What was it with this obsession with consummation of a marriage? As if the “I do”s weren’t enough. At least the nobility of England no longer required live witnesses to the event.

  But right now, at the wedding supper, a bigger problem was emerging. Every time G thought about how to break the news to her, he gulped down a cup of ale. And he thought about it a lot. Every time he looked at his new bride. And he looked at her a lot.

  As a side note, he decided her frown would not inspire poetry. Because the poem would read: Her frown made him desire they be better strangers.

  And what was Jane’s relationship with the king anyway? When Edward had summoned G expressly to tell him how “special” Jane was, Gifford had gotten the distinct impression that perhaps the king would have preferred to have Jane for himself. Yes, she was Edward’s cousin, but perhaps they were “kissing cousins,” judging from the way Jane had clutched the king’s arm as they’d walked down the aisle together. And the way she’d kept glancing in Edward’s direction during the ceremony.

  Perhaps his wife was in love with another man.

  The thought left a bad taste in his mouth. He washed it down with more ale.

  He turned away and scanned the crowd. Billingsly was coming toward him, threading his way through the tables. “My lord,” he whispered in G’s ear. “Your father has asked me to gently urge you to switch from ale to cider.”

  “Billingssssssly,” G said, marveling how long one could sustain the s in Billingsly’s name. Perhaps he had consumed more ale than he’d thought. “Billingssssssssssssssssly.” He leaned away from his bride. “I wonder if you might do me a favor.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I wonder if you might tell Lady Jane about the whole . . .” G waved his hand in a circle as if to say, “Fill in the blank about the horse stuff.”

  Billingsly looked from Jane back to G. “My lord, under other circumstances, I would gladly assist you. But I believe the lady would prefer to hear such news from you.”

  “Coward.” G took another swig from the goblet of ale in front of him. Where was the honor among servants these days? He caught a hard glance from his new wife, and judging from the narrowness of her eyes, he assumed she disapproved of his ale consumption. He wished his ale consumption was all there was to cause disapproval.

  G raised his glass toward her, and said loudly, “To my beautiful bride!”

  The entire assembly hall raised their goblets in response. “To the Lady Jane!” they said in unison.

  G took another gulp, and thought about the best way to break the equestrian news.

  My dear, you know those four-legged majestical beasts of the land? Well, you married one!

  No. That could not be the right approach.

  My sweet, have you ever had a difficult time deciding between man or beast? Well, now you don’t have to!

  Again, he thought better of this tactic.

  Sweet lady, there are those of us who sleep lying down, and those of us who sleep standing up. I can do both.

  No.

  You know how some men claim to have another, perhaps hairier side?

  Have you ever cursed the fact that your loved one has just the two legs?

  Did you know that horses have incredi
ble balance?

  Hey! What’s that over there? And then he would gallop away.

  G shook his head and could almost feel the ale swirling in his brain. It was at that moment he reasoned to himself that the assembly hall was not the place to tell his wife about his alter ego. Too many people.

  Hours later, when G was practically sloshing with ale, he came to the conclusion that the walk to their bedchamber was not the place to tell his wife, either. Too many mounted deer heads on the walls.

  Minutes later, as his wife stomped into the bedchamber, and G then mimed the action of a man carrying a woman across the threshold, he decided that the bedchamber was not the appropriate place to disclose his secret. Too quiet.

  After that, the only other possible time to tell her would’ve been the few seconds between the act of stripping off his boots and then falling downward, and he happily would’ve told her then, only his lips were smashed against the wooden slats of the floor before he could get the words out.

  But he’d promised the king he would tell Jane, and a promise was a promise. So just before the world went dark, he said, against the floor, “Mah Lavy? I ammmm a horrrrrrfffff.”

  “Pardon me?” Jane’s voice came from somewhere in the black clouds behind his lids.

  He could not repeat himself. Besides, it wasn’t his fault his wife couldn’t understand plain English.

  G wasn’t sure what awakened him. Perhaps the distant sound of servants beginning breakfast preparations in the kitchen. They always started so early.

  Or maybe it was the sound of soft breathing coming from the bed above him. G was not used to sharing a bedchamber with another person, although at the moment, because of his hazy brain, he couldn’t remember exactly who it was.

  Or perhaps it was the gray tones of the impending dawn.

  Dawn.

  DAWN!

  G threw off the blanket covering him (his new wife must have draped it over him at some point during the night) and using the fringe hanging down the side of the headboard tapestry, he pulled himself up.

  Jane was asleep, her red hair splayed out over the pillow like a halo of fire. G paused for a moment, admiring the soft swell of her cheekbones, and wondered why he had not previously noticed that her neck curved in a very delicate and appropriate way as it connected to her shoulder. He would have to include that particular body part in his poem about her pout.

  Dawn, he reminded himself. It was moments away.

  G reached out and jostled her shoulder. The change was so close, he could feel it. Jane moaned and shook off his hand.

  “My lady, wake up!” She didn’t respond. “Jane!” he shouted louder, nudging her.

  She turned toward his voice and her eyes fluttered. “It is not morning,” she said.

  “Yes, it is. What do you think that light through yonder window is? I must warn you of something, and it really is not extraordinarily consequential, but it can be rather alarming if you’re not prepared for it—” Why was he using so many words? Why hadn’t he practiced this speech? He’d barely ever said two words to her in a row, and now suddenly he was using all the words. “You’ve heard of that ancient, some would say beautiful, magic of our ancestors—” Uh-oh. It was too late. In one swoop, he was standing over her, much taller than he’d been a moment ago.

  Jane’s eyes went wide. She scooted to the farthest edge of the bed and brought her fingers to her lips. “Wha—?”

  G stepped backward, his hindquarters smashing up against the wall. This bedchamber was certainly not made with a horse (on his wedding night) in mind. Originally he had planned on sharing his equestrian news, gently excusing himself just before dawn, and trotting down to the stables. Of course, that plan would have required significantly less ale.

  Jane furrowed her brows. “Gifford?”

  It’s G, he thought, but then he remembered he hadn’t had the time or the mental acuity to tell her to call him G. He threw his head back and let it drop again in what he hoped would look like a nod.

  She raised a gentle hand toward his face. G leaned down and sniffed her palm and then the curves of her fingers, his equestrian instincts taking over. He caught a whiff of wine on her wrist, surely left over from the night before, and used his horse lips to try to draw out the remnants.

  Oh, no, he thought. I just nibbled on her wrist. He couldn’t help it, though. The wine had been particularly aromatic last night. (He would have to ask the servants which year was used.) But before he did anything else, he had to force himself to stop nibbling her wrist. He needed a distraction from the smell of wine, so he lowered his head to the table next to the bed, and promptly ate the bridal bouquet. There. That would satisfy his nibbling for the time being.

  When he was finished, Jane sighed and gathered up the torn stems of what was once a bundle of White Roses of York and a dozen cowslips. G remembered because his mother had picked them out specifically, having pledged her troth holding a similar bouquet when she’d married G’s father.

  “You are an E∂ian?” Something between awe and yearning appeared on Jane’s face.

  G gave his best nod.

  Jane set the stems down on the table and turned back to G. “You must tell me everything. How did you get the magic? When did it first appear?”

  G tried to follow her questions, but a sensuous odor wafted into the bedchamber, filling his large nostrils and making his mouth water.

  He sniffed loudly and whinnied.

  “Gifford? Are you listening to me?” Jane’s voice cut through his preoccupation with his olfactory senses.

  He wanted to answer that of course he wasn’t listening to her. She obviously wasn’t the source of the scent.

  He stamped his right hoof on the wooden floor, hoping the lady would understand the simplest of horse signals.

  “Change back so you can speak to me,” Jane said. “Please.”

  But to G, it sounded like wah wah wah and wah wah wah, for all he could focus on was the smell in the air.

  Apples, G thought.

  He closed his eyes and shook his mane.

  With a helping of . . . hay.

  The door to the bedchamber squeaked open an inch, and the aroma intensified. G turned away from the lady, who was apparently still talking because her mouth was moving, and toward the door.

  “Lady Jane?” It was Billingsly’s voice coming through.

  Jane pulled the bedcovers up to her neck. “Yes?”

  “It’s Billingsly, my lady. I believe Lord G is still within the room? I am here to help.”

  “Please come in,” Jane said.

  Billingsly entered carrying an apple in one hand and clutching stalks of hay in the other. G released a full-blown neigh at the sight.

  Billingsly held out the apple and G latched on to it with his teeth, the succulent juices dripping onto his tongue.

  “There’s a good boy,” Billingsly said, scratching G’s neck.

  Before he could consider how it would look to Jane, G nuzzled Billingsly’s cheek in response. He quickly pulled back and shook out his mane, in what he hoped was a very dignified manner. Yes, he was a horse, but he was still a man. Except anatomically. And he would be treated accordingly, with the utmost respect.

  “Here, boy,” Billingsly said, dangling the hay in front of G’s nose and then tossing the bundle into the far corner of the room. “Fetch!”

  G sauntered over to the corner and began chewing.

  “I asked him to change back to talk to me, but he won’t,” Jane said. “It’s disrespectful to remain a horse in the bedchamber, I should think.”

  Considering what had to have been a monumental shock, she seemed to be taking the equestrian news rather well.

  “My lady, Lord G does not have the ability to change as he pleases. He is a horse from sunup to sundown.”

  “Does not have the ability? I’ve read about E∂ians who undergo their initial change in moments of great emotion, but the ability to control it can be learned through focused training. All it
requires is determination and discipline. Perhaps Gifford simply lacks that, but I would be pleased to help. I’ve quite a knowledge of E∂ians.”

  And, good feelings gone. He blew a raspberry toward her and she flinched.

  “I’m sorry, did I offend the beast?” Jane said.

  “My lady, you might consider leaving the bedchamber to Lord G for the day.”

  Her lips pressed together. “Why should I be the one to leave?”

  “Because Lord G, in his present state, cannot fit through the door.”

  (This was true, for the average size of a human being during this age was much shorter than it is today, and the doorframes reflected that.)

  At this, G looked frantically about for escape options. The window was nearly large enough for him to leap through; however, they were at least fifty feet above the ground, and horses were not known for their ability to absorb the impact of a fifty-foot free fall.

  G scraped his hoof along the floorboards, as if he were a bull looking to charge. The only problem was, he had nowhere to go. He snorted. With no place to run, the curse was feeling very much like a prison as opposed to its usual feeling of freedom.

  “My lady, Lord G has an affinity for running when he is in this condition. And now that he is trapped here for the day, and he has eaten . . .”

  Jane held her hand up. “Say no more, Billingsly.” She turned toward the horse. “Lord Gifford. It seems fitting that you be relegated to your room all day, considering your behavior last night. Perhaps the confinement will provide the impetus you need to develop the ability to control your gift.”

  Gift. G’s nostrils flared. There’s no controlling it, he thought. And call me G!

  He spent the day pacing. He knew this situation was only temporary, and that he would not be trapped in this room forever, but for G, running across the countryside, tethered to nothing, was an essential part of his soul. He often wondered if that was how he got the curse in the first place. Something deep inside of him yearned to run, to break free of the disappointment his parents displayed toward him. Not only was he the second, and therefore unimportant son—the one without the esteemed nose—but as he grew up, he was always “wasting” his time reading poetry and plays. Rubbish, his father had called it. As a boy of thirteen, he’d skipped out on his fencing classes to read under a tree behind Durham House. When his father caught him and threatened severe punishment, G had run across the field, down the road leading away from London, and didn’t stop until he reached the edge of the dark forest.