G pulled his quill, ink, and notebook from his pocket and fumbled as he tried to uncork the jar without spilling its contents.
(Unfortunately, reader, the much more portable pencil would not be invented until the late sixteenth century, and the closest thing to the pen we are all familiar with now was not invented until the nineteenth century, so G was left to fumble with ink and quill. The first people to read of our tale wondered why he bothered to bring a quill, ink jar, and notebook into battle at all, considering he was already carrying three swords—one for himself, Edward, and Jane, when they needed them—but G would argue that he was more familiar and comfortable with a quill in his hand rather than a sword, and if he had to choose one or the other to bring into battle, he’d bring the quill. Because when it came right down to it, he would probably have a better chance of defending himself with a quill.)
When G let his swords drop to the ground, he was finally able to put quill to paper.
Oh how she could teach the torches to burn bright. She was the sun—
Before he could finish his thought, he heard footfalls on the cobblestones inside the Tower, and then a hushed voice.
“Gifford?”
It was Edward. G pressed closer to the gate and could barely make out the silhouettes of two figures rushing toward him, but they didn’t come within a stone’s throw of G’s position before two other figures, with the distinct silhouettes of the Tower guards, intercepted them.
“Jane!” G called out in a loud whisper.
As G’s eyes adjusted to the scene before him, he saw Edward raise a . . . fire poker? . . . and Jane pull out . . . a frying pan?
Whose cockamamie idea were these weapons? Probably Jane’s. They seemed like Jane’s idea of weapons.
No one paid attention to her frying pan, though. Jane, by virtue of being a lady, was allowed to slide into the background. No one else so much as glanced in her direction as she retreated against the wall. She didn’t pose a threat.
Good, G thought. But part of him was grieved that she’d barely seemed to notice him at all.
The guards drew their swords and faced the king.
“Gentlemen,” Edward said. “Sheathe your weapons. I am King Edward the Sixth, by the grace of God, ruler of England, France, and Ireland. In earth, the supreme head. I am your rightful sovereign.”
“King Edward is dead,” one of the men responded. “And besides, doesn’t France have its own, separate king?”
“I am not dead,” argued Edward. “There are nefarious villains who would have you believe I died. But any accounts of my demise have been grossly exaggerated, I assure you, for here I am, very much alive.”
The guards exchanged looks.
“He speaks the truth,” G called from his position beyond the gate. “He is our true king. I have traveled with him to France to gather troops. I have fought alongside him as he killed the Great White Bear of Rhyl. Long live King Edward!”
The guard on the right began to lower his sword, until the guard on the left said, “Hold on. There’s no such thing as the GWBR. He obviously lies.”
The first guard scratched his head. “But what if he speaks the truth?”
“If he’s not speaking the truth, and we let him go, we’ll be hanged for treason. But if he is speaking the truth, we could kill him here, and no one would ever be the wiser.”
“No!” G said. “Bad decision!”
The guard on the right re-raised his sword and took a deep breath as if to speak, but he didn’t get a sound out before a loud bong rang out and he dropped like a stone. Jane stood behind the guard, her frying pan raised to where the man’s head had been.
“Wonderful, Jane!” G grinned. Frying pans. Who knew?
Edward, with his excellent mastery of fencing and his years of training and his newfound strength, swiftly dispatched the other guard with two flicks of his fire poker.
“Well done, Sire,” G said. For a moment, he wondered if it was indeed the best choice to skip those fencing lessons in favor of writing poetry. But that worry would have to wait until later. After the sword fight.
Edward sprinted to the gate, and soon Jane was there, too, and they used their combined weight to activate the pulley-and-counterweight system that raised the portcullis.
It didn’t lift fast enough for G. His gaze held Jane’s through the bars. The sound of paws against gravel announced Pet’s sudden arrival, and the dog scrambled under the portcullis and ran to Edward. As soon as G could, he crawled underneath and took his wife in his arms. “Jane.”
“Gifford.”
“I . . . we . . . There are so many things I should’ve told you—”