“Yes.” Dudley produced a scroll of parchment and unrolled it on the desk upon which all the official court documents were signed and sealed.
“I bet you spend a fortune on hay,” Edward said, finding his smirk at last. He inspected the scroll. It was a royal decree—his permission, technically speaking—that Lady Jane Grey of Suffolk be wed, on this Saturday hence, to Lord Gifford Dudley of Northumberland.
His smirk faded.
Jane.
Of course it had been a fantasy, this notion he’d had of marrying Jane himself. She had very little in the way of political capital—a rich family, to be sure, a title, but nothing that would truly strengthen the position of the kingdom. Edward had always known that he was supposed to marry for England, not himself. All his life he’d had a constant stream of foreign ambassadors trotting out the portraits of the daughters of the various European royalty for him to peruse. He was meant to marry a princess. Not little Jane with her books and her big ideas.
Dudley put a quill in his hand. “We must consider the good of the country, Your Highness. I’ll ride for Dudley Castle tonight to fetch him.”
Edward dipped the quill in the ink but then stopped. “I need you to swear that he will be good to her.”
“I swear it, Your Majesty. He’ll be a model husband.”
Edward coughed again into the handkerchief Dudley had given him. There was that funny taste in his mouth, something sickly sweet that mixed badly with the lingering blackberries.
“I’m marrying off my cousin to a horse,” he muttered.
Then he put the quill to the paper, sighed, and signed his name.
TWO
Jane
“And the blessed event will take place Saturday night.”
Lady Jane Grey blinked up from her book. Her mother, Lady Frances Brandon Grey, had been speaking. “What’s happening Saturday night?”
“Stand still, dear.” Lady Frances pinched Jane’s arm. “We need to make sure these measurements are perfect. There won’t be time for alterations.”
Jane was already holding her book as still as possible, and at arm’s length. A feat of strength for someone who could wrap her own fingers around her upper arm.
“Note the bust hasn’t changed a smidge,” said the seamstress to her assistant. “Probably never will, at this rate.”
In another feat, this one of self-restraint, Jane did not smack the woman’s head with her book. Because the book was old and valuable: The Unabridged History of the Beet in England: Volume Five. She didn’t want to damage it. “All right, but what’s happening Saturday night?”
“Arms down now,” said the seamstress.
Jane lowered her arms, marking her place in her book with her index finger.
Her mother plucked the book from her hand, tossed the precious tome of beets onto the bed, and adjusted Jane’s shoulders. “Stand straight. You’ll want this gown to hang correctly. You won’t be carrying your books during the wedding, after all.”
“Wedding?” Mild curiosity edged into her tone as she leaned to one side to look at her mother around the seamstress. “Who’s getting married?”
“Jane!”
Jane snapped straight again.
The seamstress noted the final measurements of Jane’s hips (poor for childbearing—another of Jane’s failures) and gathered her supplies. “We’re finished now, my ladies. Have a good afternoon!” She fled the sitting room in a flurry of cloth and needles.
Lady Frances pinched Jane’s shoulder. “You’re getting married, my dear. Pay attention.”
Jane’s heart immediately began to beat faster, but she told herself not to worry. It was only an engagement, after all. She’d been engaged before. Four times, as a matter of fact.
“To whom am I engaged this time?” she asked.
Lady Frances smiled, mistaking Jane’s reaction for acceptance. “To Gifford Dudley.”
“Gifford who?”
The smile turned into a frown. “The younger son of Lord John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland. Gifford.”
Well, Jane knew of the Dudleys. Though the family itself was fairly minor as far as noble houses went, known more for the prize horses they bred and sold, there was one other interesting fact: John Dudley was the president of the High Privy Council, the right hand of the king, a trusted advisor and perhaps the most powerful man in England, aside from Edward himself. And some might argue that point, too.
“I see,” she said at last, though she had never encountered this Gifford fellow at court. That seemed suspicious. “Well, I’m sure he’ll be just as wonderful as the other fiancés were.”
“Do you have any questions?”
Jane shook her head. “I’ve heard all I need. It’s only an engagement, after all.”
“The wedding is on Saturday, darling.” Her mother looked annoyed. “At the Dudleys’ London home. We leave tomorrow morning.”
Saturday. That . . . was soon. Much sooner than she’d expected. Of course she’d heard Saturday before, but she hadn’t actually thought about how soon it was, or internalized what that might mean for her.