“And of course you had no idea that your father was planning on making you the king of England. Didn’t you hear him, Gifford? He’s already got your crown picked out.”
“What makes you afraid to share power?” he said hotly. “Why couldn’t I be king?”
So there it was. He wanted to be king.
Perhaps that was what he’d wanted all along.
The pillow dropped from her hand. She took a step back, the betrayal of it piercing her through. All her life, she’d known that she was being used as a pawn in other people’s political games—by her father, by Thomas Seymour, by her own mother, and now by Lord Dudley. But she hadn’t wanted to imagine that she’d be used by Gifford.
“Is that all I’ve been to you?” she asked, struggling to keep the tremor from her voice. “A means to an end?”
He stared at her, hurt flashing in his eyes. “You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t trust anyone!” she cried. “How can I when it’s clear that this is all a game?”
“Jane . . .”
“I saw you and your father speaking after the coronation. He put his hand on your shoulder, like he was proud of you. What were you even talking about?”
Gifford didn’t answer.
“See. You’re doing exactly what he wants!” Her face was hot. Boiling. She’d never been so wounded and so angry in her life.
“I am not!” Gifford scooped up a pillow from the floor and threw it at her, though his aim was wide and he missed by quite a bit.
“You’re even terrible at throwing!” she yelled.
“I missed on purpose!” He marched to the door connecting her room and his. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty, I’ve had enough accusations for one evening.”
“Fine! Go away. I don’t want to see you.”
He hauled open the door on her side, finding another door on the other. It had no handle. He pushed at it, rattling the door in its frame a few times before he realized it wasn’t going to let him through.
“What makes you think you’re qualified to be king when you can’t even open a door?”
With an indignant snort, he slammed her door shut again and marched out the front door.
Slam.
A few seconds later: slam.
He’d gone into his room.
Well, good. “I never want to see you again!” she shouted through the adjoining door.
“Just read your stupid books!”
“My books aren’t stupid. You’re stupid.” Jane threw a pillow at the door. An answering thump signaled another pillow or maybe even a shoe.
Jane sank to her bed, the fire draining out of her.
She choked on a sob.
She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. She refused to cry about Gifford.
But then she did. She was a sixteen-year-old girl, after all, and sometimes a sixteen-year-old girl needs to throw herself into a pillow and let the tears come as they may.
FIFTEEN
Gifford
G had never wanted to hit someone with a pillow so much before in his life. He couldn’t believe how the evening had gone. Nor could he believe how his wife really perceived his usefulness: as a half man, incapable of ruling over his own wine goblet, let alone the country.
Jane didn’t want him to be king.
It wasn’t like he had ever yearned for the crown. (Being royalty looked like too many people telling a person what to do, if you asked him.) And yet, when one’s wife wore the crown, one got to thinking maybe a follicular adornment like a crown wouldn’t be so bad. It made sense. Otherwise, how would the introductions of the royal couple go?
“Ladies and gentlemen, presenting Her Majesty, the Queen of England! Escorted by . . . this fellow.”
Really, he should blame his father. Dudley had been preparing him to become king, speaking of the coronation as if it were inevitable. Saying things like, “We’ll discuss that when you’re king. . . .” and “When you’re king, you should really have a changing room built closer to the stables.”
He’d never wanted the crown.
But he hadn’t thought his wife would deny it to him. And with such voracity. Granted, they had only been married for a little more than a week, so it shouldn’t have been surprising that she didn’t trust him. But how could she not trust him?
G spent the early morning of day five of Queen Jane’s rule cantering through the grassy lowlands to the north and east of the castle. He kept trying to think of all the reasons why it was good not to be a king.
First, it would be hard to gallop with a crown.
Second, if he were king, he would rarely be alone, and would hardly be allowed to jaunt about the countryside on his own. He’d probably have an advisor on his back. How degrading.