“What are you doing?”
“It’s morning,” he explained as he continued undressing. “These are my only clothes—the guards gave them to me when I was moved from the stables to the Tower—so it would be a real shame to ruin them in my transformation.”
His shirt went next, revealing the contours of his chest. Jane tried not to stare. When he began tugging at his trousers, she meeped, clapped her hands over her eyes, and spun away. “Have you no shame?”
“None at all.”
“And I don’t suppose you brought clothes for me?”
He whinnied in reply.
Jane turned around. “No clothes for me?” she repeated to her husband, the horse.
Gifford didn’t answer.
She bit her lip and eyed the clothing strewn over the ground. Trousers. How degrading. But less degrading, possibly, than spending the day wrapped in a thin cloak and nothing else.
A sharp bark pierced the air, startling her. Pet had circled back to find them all just standing around doing nothing. She barked again, and Jane remembered the soldiers still pursuing them.
They had to hurry.
Gifford’s plan had been all well and good, but what kind of plan was go somewhere safe? Now that she was the sole human of the group, the decisions were up to her, she supposed. Because no one here was capable of talking back.
First, she decided, she would get dressed.
“Gifford.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t want to question your honor, but that’s exactly what I’m doing.” She threw the cloak over his head so that he couldn’t peek at her while she put on the clothes he’d just discarded.
Gifford-the-horse made a huffing sound, but held still as she dressed. His clothes were warm and slightly sweaty. They smelled of horse. Everything was much too big, but she tightened the belt as small as it would go and rolled the hems of her pants and sleeves. Then she tied her hair into a quick braid and freed Gifford of his blind.
“So I’m to ride on your back?” she asked nervously. “And break Horse Rule three?”
He tossed his head in the affirmative.
She tromped over in too-large boots to inspect the other horse’s saddle.
She’d read about saddles in The Great Saddle Controversy: Pros and Cons of Various Saddles and the Best Choice for a Patriotic Englishman. This saddle only vaguely resembled the ones she’d seen sketched in the book, but how hard could it be? Seat, saddle tree, girth, blanket. There was a small saddlebag as well, but Jane didn’t open it to inspect its contents. No time.
Pet let out a yip. Hurry, she seemed to say.
“Hold your horses,” Jane muttered as she began to unsaddle the borrowed horse. This proved to be a challenge, since the horse was much taller than she, and the saddle weighed at least half what she did, but finally she managed to haul it off and dump it on the ground.
The pad of blanket underneath was damp with sweat, but she didn’t have a choice except to drape it over Gifford’s back with an apology. Still, she was wearing his clothes. He could wear their horse’s blanket.
Next came the saddle again. Gifford was at least kind enough to walk over to a large rock, flat enough for Jane to stand on. But his movement had gotten the blanket all out of place, so she had to drop the saddle, fix the blanket, and urge Gifford to stay still while she adjusted the saddle into place. With some difficulty, she fitted the girth strap into its buckle and tugged as tight as she dared. When she hopped off the rock to inspect her work, she realized horse-Gifford looked a lot . . . rounder than normal. “Are you holding your breath?”
Gifford blew out and resumed his normal proportions while Jane tried again to tighten the girth.
By now, Pet was running circles around the group. Jane gave the girth strap one more good yank—Gifford dramatically heaved a breath—and then reached for the other horse’s bridle.
Gifford shied away from her, snorting. The message was clear: she might be able to break Horse Rules 1 and 3, but Horse Rule 2 still stood. No bridling the horse.
“Fine, but at least let me take this off. I don’t want him to trip on the reins.” She unbuckled the other horse’s bridle and let it slide to the ground. Then she grabbed the saddlebag and strapped it onto Gifford.
Pet whined and barked and circled again, tighter. Both horses’ ears flickered backward. Even Jane could hear the pounding of hooves now. Mary’s men were catching up.
She threw herself onto Gifford’s back and tried not to fall off as he launched himself like an arrow in the direction they’d been heading before, the other horse following close behind.