Here, your narrators will point out two facts that may have contributed to the Duke of Northumberland’s embarrassment surrounding his second son. One: the E∂ian power was widely considered to be hereditary, and neither the duke nor his supposedly devoted wife had the magic. Two: the duke had an epic nose, the proportions of which were legendary; Gifford’s nose was the perfect size, and the shape could’ve been the inspiration of sonnets.
The combination of these two details made the duke often glance sideways toward his wife, and repeatedly treat Gifford as if he wasn’t there.
That was why at the age of thirteen, Gifford had requested his name be reduced to just G, since nobody seemed to care what his name was anyway.
Billingsly led G from the side entrance down the third main hall, where G caught a glimpse of himself in a hanging mirror and paused to fish a stray piece of hay out of his chestnut-colored hair. His mother had strict rules of civility inside the castle, the most important of which was, “All signs of equestrian escapades are to be left in the stable, where they belong.”
His mother had always approached his curse as if G wanted to spend his days as a quadruped. As if it were just another way for a privileged teenage boy to rebel. She often forgot that he didn’t ask for this curse, and that if he could find a way to control it, he would give Billingsly’s right arm for that information.
As if he could hear G’s thoughts, Billingsly pulled his right arm in front of his body, and away from G’s line of sight.
“In here, my lord,” he said as he swung open the doors of the drawing room, using his left arm.
Inside the room, his father sat behind an ornate wooden desk, his mother, Gertrude, standing behind him. Her hand rested on Lord Dudley’s shoulder as if they were posing for a portrait. His little sister, Temperance, was on the couch, playing with her knights-and-ladies doll set.
“Giffy!” she said when she saw him enter the room. Tempie was the only one in the world who could get away with calling him Giffy.
“Hi, Curly,” G answered, for Tempie had the curliest blond tresses in all of England.
“Ah, son,” Lord Dudley said. He motioned to a woman standing in the corner, Tempie’s nurse, who immediately took hold of the little girl’s hand and led her from the room. Tempie waved awkwardly as she balanced her dolls and held her nurse’s hand. “Thank you for joining us with such haste.”
“Father,” G answered with a slight bow of his head, although now he knew something must be wrong, because “joining with haste” was the best compliment his father had given him in two years. (His previous compliment had been in recognition of “keeping to the background” when Rafael Amador, the emissary from Spain, was visiting.)
“We have some excellent tidings for you,” his father continued. Gertrude stood a little taller at this. “And for your future happiness.”
Uh-oh, thought G. Future happiness was always code for—
“You have grown into a fine young man, and a stout, er, stallion,” his father said. “We may not have a handle on controlling the equestrian situation, but this minor daily divergence from humanity does not preclude you from leading a relatively normal life, nor will it strip you of the rights and privileges afforded any nobleman.”
First of all, G was annoyed that neither of his parents could tell it like it was and use the phrase “horse curse,” instead referring to it as his “equestrian condition” or a “minor daily divergence from humanity” or some such nonsense. But the more worrisome part of his father’s speech was the bit about the “rights and privileges afforded any nobleman.” Because this could only mean—
“Marriage, son,” Lord Dudley said. “Marriage to a well-vetted and—as far as can be anticipated without being tested—fertile young lady, of excellent lineage and equally verifiable family connections.”
G’s worst fears come true. “Wow, Father. Fertile and well vetted? You make it sound so very romantic.”
At this point, Lady Gertrude moved her hand from her husband’s shoulder and placed it on the back of his neck, as if to prove a showing of such ardent affection was indeed possible in forced marriages. “Darling boy, if left to your own devices, I fear you would never marry.”
“I thought that fact was already established and agreed upon,” G said. A month after he’d first begun to turn into a horse, he’d overheard his mother lament to his father that no self-respecting lady would want a half horse for a husband. And then his father had said his chances would’ve been better had he been a horse both day and night, and skipped the human part entirely. Then perhaps his parents could sell him and receive some compensation for all their trouble.
G had gone out and slept in the barn after that.
Now, in the drawing room, Lord Dudley shook off his wife’s hand as if he were shooing away a pesky insect. “It is my wish for all of my children to marry.”
“Why? You don’t need heirs from me,” G said. “I’m second son.”
“Which is why I have invested the last fortnight securing your happiness—”
“You mean, arranging for me to wed a perfect stranger,” G interjected. “Well, thanks but no thanks, Father.”
A vein G had never noticed before popped out on Lord Dudley’s forehead. “I am securing your happiness and thus ensuring your future and your own estate and a fortune for future generations of Dudley men and you will get married and father a son or two or seven before you turn into a horse forever, is that understood?”
G backed up a step, partly to avoid Lord Dudley’s increasingly airborne spittle and partly because he did not know turning into a horse forever was even a possibility, although he had to admit the freedom of galloping far away and blending in with the wild horses of the Cornwall region sounded tempting when compared to impending nuptials. It wasn’t like he wanted to spend the rest of his life alone. Marriage had its merits, he supposed. But what kind of husband could he make? His parents’ own marriage had taught him that when there is no great love in the beginning, better acquaintance would only lead to more contempt.
Besides, what woman would marry him once she found out the truth?
“But Father—”
“You’re getting married, or I’ll have you gelded, so help me, I will,” Lord Dudley ground out.
“And what is the name of my dearly intended?” G asked.
This response seemed to calm Lord Dudley a degree. “Lady Jane Grey.”
“Lady Jane Grey?” G hoped he had heard his father wrong. He hadn’t been present in court for several years now, but he knew of Jane. Her reputation preceded her.
The book girl.
“Lady Jane Grey. Daughter of Lady Frances Brandon Grey. First cousin once removed to King Edward.”
Lady Gertrude leaned forward. “What do you think, my boy?”
G took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. “I’m thinking lots of things. Like the fact that the lady’s face has rarely been seen because it’s usually buried in a book.”
“You’ve never opposed the education of a lady before,” his mother said.
“And I am still not opposed to it. But what if she is merely using the Second Volume of the Political History of England to cover up some hideous malformation on her face?”