First, they needed clothes. Most of the clothes in the wardrobes were military uniforms, which were all too big for Jane. (Not to mention the indignity of pants.) But since nudity was out of the question, she pulled on the smallest set she could find and laid out another uniform next to the broken window.
“Come on, birdbrain.” She glanced out, but all she saw was dark. From this angle, she couldn’t see much of anything—not the battle where Bess and Archer led their attack on the city wall, not even the place nearby where Gifford was hopefully unharmed and waiting for her. But she could hear the guards calling to each other in the courtyard below. They probably hadn’t seen where she’d gone (although surely they’d heard the window bashing, so they might have a general idea), but they knew someone had infiltrated the tower. At some point they’d get organized and search it structure by structure. If she stayed here much longer, she’d be caught.
But Edward wasn’t here yet.
What would she do if he didn’t come?
Jane tried to ignore the wild thudding of her heart and moved on to search the cabinets, looking for weapons, but they were all filled with stockings, boots, and hats. Further inspection only turned up a few vaguely weapon-like items. A frying pan. A rolling pin. Oh, and the fire poker.
Jane snatched it up from where she’d dropped it on the floor and smiled at the pointed tip. That could work.
But where was Edward?
As if on cue (or maybe a bit late on his cue), a kestrel flew through the window.
“Edward!” At least, she hoped the bird was Edward. It’d be embarrassing to just start talking with a strange bird.
At the flash of light, Jane turned away and covered her eyes.
“Jane!” the king greeted her happily. “Sorry, but it was harder to tell which window I should come to. I know you said the south-facing window, but I don’t have the best sense of direction as a bird.”
“No time for conversation, cousin,” Jane said. “Gifford’s waiting.”
“Right.” He sounded uncharacteristically nervous. “Let’s go.”
“But I did set out some clothes for you.”
“Oh, right. How thoughtful.” He shuffled around and hurried into his clothes. From the courtyard below Jane suddenly heard a shout: a soldier had come upon the broken glass from the window. They only had a few moments before they’d be discovered.
Edward looked at her grimly. “So what do we have in the way of weapons?”
Jane tossed him the fire poker.
He held it like a sword, so maybe it would be useful after all. “Good enough. And for you?”
Jane picked up the frying pan.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Gifford
Where was she? G paced back and forth on the other side of the Iron Gate, squinting into the darkness past the portcullis, hoping for a sign of his Jane. The minutes felt like hours, and the seconds felt like days. Every violent sound that pierced the night air (and there’d been a few violent sounds since he’d hoisted ferret-Jane over the abbey wall earlier) could be the harbinger of her death. The death of his wife. His beloved.
G loved her. But he hadn’t told her he loved her.
She had begged him to stay, and he’d wanted to, especially given the way she had kissed him. How had a girl like Jane kissed him like that? With her whole heart and her whole body? She’d probably read a dozen books with titles like The Kiss: It’s Not Just About the Lips.
The way Jane kissed, it was an art. She kissed by the book.
And yet, he’d still changed into a horse. And he hadn’t told her he loved her. Now she might die without knowing that she’d become his day and his night, and his sun and his moon. He adored Jane—he loved her! he loved her!—and he should have worn that for all to see. He shouldn’t have hidden his heart.
He closed his eyes and sent a quick prayer to the heavens that he would see her again.
He prayed Edward would keep her from harm.
He prayed if Edward failed, she would turn into a ferret and hide.
He prayed if she was discovered, she would slip from the soldier’s clumsy fingers.
And that if she couldn’t escape, they would kill her quickly.
G squeezed his eyes shut and tried to forget that last plea to heaven. Instead he composed a line of prose in his head.
If I may but see you again, my dearest, I will wear my heart upon my sleeve. . . .
He remembered Jane’s face right before she’d kissed him. He glanced at the flicker of the torches that framed the heavy gate, their flames weak and faint against the wind. Jane’s face could have taught those torches to burn bright. Last night, she was the sun, and all of the flowers in all of the counties turned toward her for warmth.