G lived to run. And ran to live.
And now, after the humiliation of turning into a horse in front of his new bride, he was trapped in this room like a caged . . . beast was the word she’d used. A wife was simply a new person to disappoint.
And since this was supposedly the first day of his happily-ever-after, he could only conclude that marriage consisted of four solid walls, a door too small to squeeze through, and a window too high to jump from.
The lines of a poem formed in his head.
The stifling air, damp and dank for want of release,
The horse, too still and stuck, in need of a little grease,
To shimmy his frame through a door too small,
But even then, he’d be stuck in the hall . . .
Not his best work.
SEVEN
Edward
“Edward, dear,” Mistress Penne said from her chair beside his bed. “Eat your soup.”
She lifted the spoon to his lips, and he allowed her to feed him a few swallows, but then he turned his face away.
“Just two more bites,” she coaxed.
“I’m not hungry.” He would have liked to remind her that he was the king and not some little boy she could boss around, but getting all those words out seemed like a lot of effort. Instead he fell back against the pillows and pressed closer into the steady warmth of Pet’s body where she was stretched out beside him. The dog’s tail thumped against the blankets. She licked her lips and gave him a yearning look expressing that if he didn’t want to eat his food, she’d gladly undertake such a task for him.
He was too tired to give her any.
“Sire,” the nurse tried again. “You must eat if you are to regain your strength.”
He knew this was true, but it didn’t make it any less humiliating. He was mortified when he thought about last night. How, as he’d walked to the carriage after the wedding feast, his legs had abruptly given out underneath him and he’d tumbled to the muddy ground. How one of his stewards had lifted him easily in his arms like the king had no more substance than a woman, and carried him the rest of the way. How he’d also had to be carried up the stairs to his bedchamber, and how he’d spent every moment since then in bed. He’d slept for the entire night and most of the morning, but had awakened to a feeling of bone-deep exhaustion, as if he had not slept a wink. And now he was being spoon fed like a toddler.
He was dying, he finally admitted to himself.
He’d known this before, of course, but now the idea seemed real. His strength had abandoned him, and he doubted it would ever return. The coughing fits were coming more frequently, and there was a lingering pain in his joints and spine. Even his head felt diluted, as if his thoughts had to work their way through a bank of clouds to reach him.
He was dying.
Already. Hadn’t it been less than a week ago that Master Boubou had given him six months to live? A year at best.
He was dying, he thought numbly. Sooner than expected, apparently. Soup was of no consequence.
“Sire,” the nurse prodded.
“Leave me,” he muttered, and when she did not move away quickly enough, he barked, “Leave me!” and Pet raised her head and bared her teeth at the old woman.
Mistress Penne bustled away. Edward soothed Pet by resting his hand on the smooth space at the crown of her head and stroking. Her tail thumped again. He closed his eyes.
Behind his eyelids he replayed Jane’s wedding. He remembered her standing in her wedding gown, all gold and silver and jewels, her red hair shining. He recalled the way Gifford’s gaze had swept over Jane as they had approached him, the flicker of surprise and definite male interest in his eyes before he’d forced his expression back into perfect blankness.
When Edward had seen that flicker, he’d felt hope for Jane. That maybe this would be more than a marriage of convenience. That maybe she’d find love.
He thought, I will never find love.
He remembered the touch of Jane’s small, cool hand in the crook of his arm as he’d walked with her.
He thought, I will never feel a woman’s touch.
He remembered the way Jane’s cheeks had flushed when Gifford had tilted her face up to be kissed.
He sighed. Pet scooched up on the bed and licked his chin. He pushed her head away, but resumed stroking her behind the ear.
His last moment with Jane had been at the end of the night, when Lord Dudley had announced that it was time for the young couple to “turn in,” as he’d phrased it, and Jane had come to him to say good-bye. He’d known by the gleam in her dark eyes and the ramrod straight way that she was holding herself that she was both furious and terrified at what came next.
The consummation.
“Jane,” he’d leaned to whisper in her ear. “Don’t fret. You’ll be all right.”
“He’s drunk,” she’d hissed. “So now we can add ‘inebriant’ to the list of his charms. A boozer. A lush. A tippler. A souse.”