She looked down at her plate, her cheeks tinged with pink, and G wondered if he had been too straightforward. But really, did she even need him here for this conversation? She obviously didn’t need him by her side, ruling the kingdom. Why did she want him around for the drafting of decrees?
They ate the rest of their dinner in silence, being that there appeared to be no safe topics left to discuss, and then they went to their separate adjoining residences, the door between them never opened.
They didn’t see much of each other for the next few days. G’s daylight hours were spent wandering farther and farther from the castle, to the point where on the eighth night of the reign of Queen Jane, he had gone so far from the castle that when the sun set, he was still miles away. He made it to a cluster of trees outside one of the villages surrounding London just as the transformation took place, and he hid himself in a patch of bushes. Why hadn’t he figured out to control this blasted curse yet?
He guessed because he hadn’t really tried.
What he wouldn’t give to be at Dudley Castle right now, with its remote location and the roads he knew in the dark of night.
Yes, he’d run into this problem a few times when he’d gotten carried away at his home, and he’d discovered that the best course of action was to find a tavern attached to a brothel. There it was easy to grab clothes strewn about, the owners of which would be too sloshed to care. And these kinds of taverns were easy to find. Just follow the noise.
G wrangled up a few of the leafier vines, positioned them in all the right places, and ventured out of the trees and into the village, keeping to the shadows and following the noise to the nearest tavern, which was called The Three Ladies. Judging by the “ladies” standing outside, G had found his place.
There are two rules to finding clothes when you need them and are currently without: the first, act like you know what you’re doing; the second, do it all in one continuous motion. G took note of the nearest darkened window, inhaled deeply, and dropped the back cluster of leaves. (He would need an empty hand.)
He threw open the window and climbed in, incurring feminine gasps and another figure drunkenly clamoring for light. But it was too late, because G was already out the bedroom door wearing someone else’s trousers, and pulling his arms through shirtsleeves.
To the inhabitants of said room, G would be dismissed as a ghost. Until the following morning, when the owner of said trousers discovered their absence.
G walked to the adjoining tavern, holding his trousers up to account for the ale belly of the previous owner. He made the decision then and there to cut back on his ale consumption.
The coronation of the queen was so recent that G was fairly certain people wouldn’t be able to recognize Her Majesty Queen Jane, let alone her consort. Nevertheless, G kept his head down as he crept from the back rooms and toward the bar. He was so focused on reaching the front door without assault, he almost missed the faint whisper.
“Long live Queen Mary.”
G stopped and whipped about. Two red uniforms caught his eye. The soldiers were standing at the bar, the bartender handing them brown bags full of something bulky.
Perhaps G had misheard the declaration. But no, the names Mary and Jane sounded nothing alike. Then he heard another declaration, whispered again, this time from one of the soldiers at the bar, and in a response.
“Long live the true and rightful queen.”
G froze in step. His heart tried to escape up his throat. He swallowed it back down. He knew that he must keep a low profile, although that was more of an automatic response before it was based in logical reasoning. Reason would tell him he was the queen’s consort, after all. The soldiers should be under his wife’s control.
And yet, here were the rumblings of treason in this random tavern just outside of London. Several more soldiers dotted the seats in the great room of the place, but they had no ale in front of them. Only food and water. G had a moment to be grateful he wasn’t dressed in his usual finery, and therefore did not look out of place.
He strode to the front door, an urgency in his step that wasn’t there before, and as he exited the tavern, he noticed points of light dotting the hillside.
Campfires. Tents. An encampment. Within marching distance of London. He needed to get back to the Tower, and fast. Curse his damn curse. Why couldn’t he just change at will? He was a horse minutes ago. Minutes ago! He got down on all fours right there in the dirt road and squeezed his eyes shut and—
“Stand up, ye daft beggar,” one of the wobbly tavern patrons said.
G waved him off and tried to focus on the feeling of the wind in his mane, his haunches springing from the—
“Had too much to drink, that one,” another man slurred. “Thinks he’s an arse!”
Realizing it wasn’t going to work, G shot up from the ground. “A horse,” G said sharply to anyone who would listen. “A horse! My wife’s kingdom for a horse!”
A group of drunken men looked at Gifford as if they were disgusted someone could consume so much ale.