“Stay here. I’m going to check on something.”
G stepped out into the passageway, and Jane followed close behind. He’d known she wouldn’t stay.
The hallways were strangely quiet, even for the predawn hour. At the very top of the White Tower, they stopped at a window that overlooked the direction of the encampment. G peeked his head out and saw the soldiers and the banners with an embroidered pomegranate on a bed of roses.
And then his mouth turned down. And his shoulders sagged. And his heart sank.
“What do you see?” Jane asked in a hushed whisper.
“An army at the gates.” G tried not to look as terrified as he felt. “Mary’s army.”
SIXTEEN
Edward
“Are we there yet?” Edward asked for the umpteenth time.
“We’re five minutes closer than the last time you asked,” answered Gracie.
“Well, when are we going to get there?”
“Another day,” she answered. “Perhaps two if you keep stopping to ask me silly questions.”
Edward sighed. After day upon day (upon day) of trudging north through the woods in the seemingly endless rain, always wet and chilled to the bone, the king was tired of walking. His feet hurt, his head ached, his injured ankle bothered him, and fits of coughing and dizziness regularly overtook him.
The poison was still killing him, he supposed.
Right now the poison was the least of his worries. A few days ago there’d been soldiers on the road. The sight of them had filled Edward with dread, because the banners the soldiers marched under were not of the red roaring lion that marked Edward’s reign, but a pomegranate on a bed of roses. Mary’s insignia.
They’d been marching toward London.
Which meant things were about to get really bad for Jane.
“Can’t we find a way to get there any faster?” he asked, also for the umpteenth time.
Gracie smiled over at him with false sweetness. “You know, this journey would be far quicker if you’d turn yourself into a bird and ride upon my shoulder. Quicker and quieter.”
They’d had this argument before.
“No.” Edward didn’t think it proper to be carried by a woman—how would she ever be able to see him as a man if she was the one bearing him to safety? “If we could just travel on the main road . . .” he suggested.
This was also something they’d argued about.
“No,” she refused flatly. “The last thing we need is to come upon more soldiers, or even worse, members of the Pack. We have to stay out of sight.”
“Then perhaps we could acquire a horse. . . .”
She stopped walking and turned to look at him. “Acquire a horse, you say? Do you know of any nice, friendly farms just giving away their horses?”
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “You’re a thief, aren’t you?” At least that was what she claimed as her occupation: stealer of chickens, professional bandit, highwayman when the need arose, cat burglar, occasional pickpocket. She admitted easily to her loose association with the law. Edward wondered how one came by that particular skill set at the tender age of seventeen, which is how old she told him she was, but Gracie didn’t answer a lot of questions when it came to her past. She was somewhat evasive about her present situation, as well.
“Stealing a horse is punishable by death,” she reminded him.
“Unless you happen to know a king who could pardon you.”
She set her hand against her hip and he instantly regretted bringing up who he was. Ever since he’d confessed to being king, the girl had been moody. Oh, she seemed to like him well enough most of the time; she was kind and often merry of soul, and sometimes even wonderfully, confusingly flirtatious, but every now and then she’d remember that he was not just her travel companion but the King of England, and then she’d go quiet. Or even worse, she’d get annoyed with him.
Like now, for instance.
“Well, Sire,” She loved to call him Sire, but the way she said it made him suspect she was making fun of him. “You might not have noticed, but you’re not exactly a king around here. We can’t snap our fingers and have a coach with golden wheels and four fine white horses to carry us wherever we wish to go. We have to make do with our own two feet.”
Edward tried to think of a clever reply, but then he had to stop to lean against a tree, because he was out of breath.
Gracie saw the haggard look on his face and turned to squint toward the west, where the sun was quickly descending. “We should stop for the night.” She slung her pack against a nearby stump and started to set up a quick, makeshift camp.
“I could keep going,” he wheezed as she bustled around gathering kindling. “I’m perfectly capable of continuing.”
She ignored him.
“All right, then,” he conceded graciously after she got a fire started. “We can stop, if you feel you can’t go on.” Even as he spoke his traitorous body sank to the ground beside the fire, craving its heat. He closed his eyes. Just to rest them for a moment.