by Cynthia Hand
“But that’s the problem.” She settled with a sigh onto one of the parlor chairs. “I just don’t know how to talk him about it. Every time I try, I feel like I say something shrewish and high-pitched and stupid. Which is unlike me.”
He stifled a smile. “Anyway, I’m glad to have you along,” he said. “I’d rather face a giant mythical bear, I think, than have this meeting.”
Gracie seemed surprised at this. “This will be nothing, won’t it, after all the other trouble you’ve had? All you have to do is talk to the man.”
“I have to be the King of England,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I will have to speak to Henry as one king to another.” A task that frightened him, in some ways, much more than facing any beast.
“You are the king,” said Bess quietly. “It’s as simple as that, Edward. Be yourself.”
“So the King of France is named Henry. That won’t be confusing, will it?” said Gracie, fidgeting again with the neckline of her dress.
“It’s easy to remember this king,” Edward mused. “He is King Henry, and his wife is Queen Catherine. Like my father without all his extra wives.”
The door to the parlor opened, and an opulently dressed steward entered and bowed low to Edward. “His Majesty will see you now, Your Majesty.”
“No, not confusing at all,” muttered Gracie. She turned to address the steward. “Can you find me an audience with the young Queen Mary? I’m a Scot, you see, and I have some news for her from home. Nothing important, of course, but something that she’ll find entertaining.”
The steward looked slightly put out by the informal nature of her request. “I’ll see if the queen is receiving visitors,” he said. “Wait here.”
Jane stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Good luck, cousin.”
Gracie was frowning, he noticed. He delighted in the thought that she might be jealous of Jane kissing him. And he also knew a perfect opportunity when he saw it. He turned to Gracie. “Don’t I get a good luck kiss from you as well? I’m going to need as much luck as I can get.”
Her green eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “I’m not sure I’m terribly lucky.”
“You’re lucky for me.”
“Oh, all right.” Her lips were a quick, warm brush against his cheek. “Good luck, Sire.”
“Your Majesty?” the steward prompted.
It was time.
He tried not to think too hard about how this one meeting would make or break them. They needed soldiers. And ships. And steel. Without the French king’s help, they could not hope to overcome Mary. Everything was riding on this single encounter. On his words.
His knees were trembling, he realized, ever so slightly. Even a kiss from Gracie was not enough to overcome his nerves.
“Remember what we talked about,” Bess told him as they moved forward through the door.
He nodded.
“Stay with that and you’ll be fine,” she said. “Stick to the plan. Play to the king’s weaknesses and your strengths.”
“I’ll do my best,” Edward said. That was all that he could do.
The King of France was nothing like Edward’s father had been. This particular Henry was a cool, collected sort of man with a well-trimmed beard who liked to wear white fur and heels that elevated his height. He was fond of dogs, but he was not an E∂ian or a supporter of their cause. He was quite vocal, instead, about how distasteful he found those people who became animals, like such a thing was a matter of rude behavior. This made Edward’s position a bit precarious, under the circumstances.
Still, King Henry was proving to be sympathetic to Edward’s plight. He wanted to hear all about how Edward had lost his throne, like it was the best kind of royal gossip.
“So this Mary herself took part in the plot to poison you?” the king asked in horror when Edward reached that part of his story.
“She put the fork to my lips,” Edward answered. “But I wouldn’t take it.”
“Such brazenness,” King Henry exclaimed. “This woman attempting to murder a king, her own brother, no less. Such audacity. And however did you escape?”
Edward took a deep breath. Be yourself, Bess had told him, but what she really meant was, Be yourself unless you sometimes find yourself turning into a bird, in which case, don’t be that—don’t admit that, ever. Be a respectable Verity, for heaven’s sake.
“One of my servants smuggled me out,” he lied smoothly. “In the back of a hay cart. It was quite the terrible ordeal.”
“Ha!” The king was greatly amused by this. “A hay cart. Imagine.”
He laughed, and the members of the court laughed with him.
“So you see,” Edward continued delicately when the merriment died down. “If my sister is allowed to sit unchallenged on my throne, it will send a dangerous message to rest of the world: that any grasping, covetous woman of royal blood can reach for the crown and succeed in taking it, even from a rightful, ruling king. Then queens will start popping up all over Europe like rabbits in a garden. It will be chaos.”
He tried to sound supremely confident. Bess had coached him to say all of this about the awful precedent Mary would set and the terrifying anarchy of women, but for some reason he felt unsettled when he spoke the words, especially with Jane and Bess standing behind him, these two women who he now held in the highest possible regard.
King Henry leaned forward on his throne. “Well, that makes sense. Yes, they’re always reaching, aren’t they?” He cast a quick accusatory glance at Queen Catherine beside him. She was a notorious schemer, Edward knew from Bess, and the French king often worried that his own wife would be the end of him someday, so his son would end up on the throne and she could rule as regent.
“Yes, they reach far above their station,” Edward agreed. “And you and I both know that it is a man’s place, not a woman’s, to rule a country. Women are ill designed for such a task.”
“But you yourself put a woman on the throne, did you not?” King Henry asked, gesturing to Jane.
The court fell silent.
Edward glanced at his cousin. Her eyes were closed. Her lips moved like she was counting backward from ten.
Edward turned quickly back to the king.
“My desire was for my crown to pass to my cousin’s male heirs,” Edward explained. “Naturally. Of course I couldn’t have considered Jane a queen on her own merits.”
Oh, she was going to stab him in his sleep. At least she was being mercifully silent. For now. Edward cleared his throat. “But unfortunately, I became ill so quickly that there simply wasn’t time for Jane to produce a male heir. And in the absence of a boy to inherit the throne, Dudley persuaded me to amend the line of succession to name Jane as the ruler, to be followed by her sons, of course. A decision I regret, but there wasn’t much of a choice at that point.”
“Hmm. Well, it doesn’t matter,” King Henry said thoughtfully. “If they’d succeeded in poisoning you without such an amendment, Mary would still be sitting on your throne now, wouldn’t she?”
“Correct.” Edward raised his hands, palms up, like, What’s a fellow to do?
“And so you are here, asking for my help,” King Henry said, a gleam in his eyes as if Edward were kneeling before him in supplication.
Edward was not going to do any kneeling, of course. He straightened his shoulders. “Mary cannot be allowed to get away with such treason,” he said, meeting the king eye to eye. “I have some ships and armies of my own, of course, but Mary needs her comeuppance. I thought it would please you, perhaps, to stand with me on this matter. We could send a different message to the world: that a king will not be cowed by some conniving, middle-aged female suffering from delusions of grandeur. We are men. We are kings. We will not yield on such matters.”
Queen Catherine was shooting daggers at him with her eyes, but he forced himself to concentrate on the French king.
And the king was feeling generous.
“Very well,” Henry said after a long, d
ramatic pause. “You shall have French ships at your disposal, and you shall have French soldiers, as well, as many as I can spare. Get rid of that ridiculous cow who dares to call herself a queen.”
It took an effort for Edward not to sway on his feet, so great was the relief he felt in this moment. “I will,” he promised. “You have my thanks.”
“And I will expect that in the future, our countries will be better friends,” the king said.
He was indebting himself to France, Edward knew. The man would have more than just his thanks. But that was the price of his crown. He must be willing to pay it.
“Undoubtedly,” he said.
“And if I may give you some advice,” King Henry added. “From one king to another.”
“Of course. I’d be thankful for any wisdom you could offer me.”
“The thing for you do, young man, is to find yourself a wife. As soon as possible, I should think. Produce a son of your own. I have three sons, myself, and a number of bastards. It’s very comforting for me to know that I will find never myself in your predicament. My bloodline is secure. You should see to yours.”
Edward tried to thaw himself quickly, because at the word wife, his chest seemed to have frozen over. He couldn’t get proper air in his lungs.
A wife.
King Henry was right.
Edward could marry. He would have to marry. And soon.
“A wise prescription,” he managed to get out. “Again, I thank you.”
“Perhaps you will consider my daughter, Elisabeth,” Henry said, and Queen Catherine roughly pushed a young girl forward. The girl had been dressed extravagantly in an attempt to disguise the fact that she was quite plain. She curtseyed deeply before him.
“Uh . . . yes, I shall consider her,” he said. “Mademoiselle.”
“Votre Altesse.” (Which means, for those of you who don’t speak French, Your Highness.) The little princess didn’t meet his eyes.
He was in a bit of daze as he took his leave. He had not been considering all that was going to be expected from him, if indeed he took back his throne.
He had forgotten that, as the ruler of England, he would never truly be free.
King Henry held a celebration that night in Edward’s honor, so of course Edward had to attend, even though he would have liked to have spent some time alone to sort out his thoughts. This discussion of women and their merit had left him confused about how he actually felt on the subject. He wished that Jane was there to talk to (and possibly apologize to, but why would he need to apologize? He’d only said what Bess had told him to say, and besides, it was true, wasn’t it? Women were the weaker sex, were they not? Wasn’t that even written in the Holy Book?). But Jane was in her ferret state now. Gifford hadn’t made an appearance. Bess had returned to her chamber to strategize their next move. And he hadn’t seen Gracie since before he’d spoken with the king.
He wandered among the music and dancing and fancy French pastries. All this was a blatant over-expenditure of the French king’s wealth, it seemed to Edward. The Louvre Palace was huge, easily three times the size of Edward’s largest palace, and lavishly furnished. Under normal circumstances it would have given Edward a serious case of palace envy, but now he found the entire building rather vulgar.
His old life felt like a lifetime ago.
How was it possible, he thought, to be so lonely when he was surrounded by so many people? There was a throng of admirers about him, many of them women who had no doubt paid attention when the king had advised Edward to find himself a bride toute suite, but when they spoke to him, he found himself nodding blandly and not listening to their words, just staring into his goblet of wine.
A wife, he kept thinking. Such an intimidating word.
Bollocks.
But he’d be the king again, and he could decide for himself who and when he would marry. There was that to comfort him. No one could force his hand.
“Your Majesty,” came a high, sweet voice at his side. “I was wondering if you might honor me with a dance.”
He looked up.
It was Mary Queen of Scots. Of course he would have recognized her anywhere, with those eyes so dark they were almost black, those eyes that had haunted him from her portrait for all those years. But she looked different from the girl who’d stamped on his foot. Older, of course. She’d been eight then. She must be close to thirteen now. She wore a red satin gown and her black hair was braided and pinned in a complex pattern that must have taken hours. There was even a spot of rouge on her cheeks.
She looked quite grown-up.
“Your Majesty?” she queried.
“Your Majesty,” he answered, and bowed stiffly. “Of course I will dance with you.”
They moved to the center of the floor. The dance was long and complicated and held little opportunity for talking, a series of seemingly endless turns and whirls that left him breathless. Mary was light on her feet, an experienced dancer. She smiled at him often, which Edward didn’t know what to do with. Did she have a dagger meant for him tucked in the folds of her dress somewhere? Part of him expected to feel it pierce his side at any moment.
The dance ended. He thanked her. He turned to flee.
“Will you walk with me?” she asked, before he could. She held out a small hand.
He nodded and tucked her hand into his arm.
“I spent the afternoon with your lady, Grace,” Mary informed him as they strolled along the outer edge of the room. “I found her stories quite amusing.”
God’s teeth, what had Gracie told her? “Yes, she’s an amusing woman,” he said.
“Quite. It made me miss Scotland, to hear her brogue.” Mary herself had no Scottish accent that Edward could discern. Too many years away from home.
They walked in awkward silence. Edward found himself tongue-tied. He could feel the gaze of others on them, keen and speculative, especially that of the French queen and her dour-looking daughter, Elisabeth.
“You’re taller than I remember,” Mary Queen of Scots said at last.
“Yes, I find you changed as well.”
She flushed. “Forgive me, regarding your foot last time.”
He smiled. “Forgiven,” he said. “I hope we can put all that past ugliness behind us and be friends.”
“Yes. Friends. It’s just, I didn’t like to be told what to do, or to whom I should be married,” she said, her voice lifting a little. “It made me cross to look at you.”
“Believe me, I understand.”
She stopped and pulled her hand from his arm. Her dark eyes were earnest when she gazed up at him, but not naive. “I still don’t like to be told.” He followed her gaze when she peered out into the center of the room, where Edward spotted a sulky-faced blond boy in splendid clothing.
Ah, the dauphin, he assumed. Prince Francis.
“He seems all right,” Edward observed as they watched the boy grab a handful of sweets from a passing tray and stuff them into his mouth. Then the crown prince picked his nose, and ate that, too. “Oh. That’s unfortunate.”
Mary Queen of Scots pursed her lips unhappily. “Sometimes he pulls my hair or calls me names.”
“He’ll grow out of that, I think,” Edward said. And hopefully the nose picking, as well.
The little queen turned to regard Edward with a carefully blank expression that made him feel sad for them both, that they would have learned to wear such masks at their young age. “I think I would like England better than France, don’t you?” she said quietly.
He lowered his voice to match hers. “Definitely. Apart from the food.”
“Oh yes,” Mary agreed. “The food here is good. But the king is quite mad sometimes. And the queen is horrid to me, she hates me, and . . . and this is not a friendly place for people like us.”
Edward was intrigued. Gracie had done her work well on Mary, obviously. She wanted to confide in him. To trust him. “Like us?” he repeated.
She pulled on his shoulder to make him lean to
ward her, so she could whisper in his ear. “I hear you’re a kestrel.”
His heart beat faster in spite of himself. This was a country still in the hands of the Verities. It was dangerous, even for him, to admit to being an E∂ian here.
But this journey was about taking risks.
He turned Mary so he could whisper, “I am. What are you?”
She smiled conspiratorially, her dark head close to his, her breath on his cheek. “I’m a mouse. That’s how I get away if people chase me—I turn into a little black mouse that nobody ever notices. I’m very good at hiding. And listening. I hear such things, you wouldn’t believe them if I told you.” She leaned even closer. “I have a secret army, you know, back in Scotland. All of them E∂ians. Isn’t that marvelous?”
“Marvelous,” Edward agreed.
She bit her lip. “I will send my army to help you. But I think someday I might turn into a mouse, and run away from France and never return. Will you help me then?”
His breath caught. “Of course,” he said. “You’ll always be welcome in England, Your Majesty.”
She took his hand and squeezed it. Her fingers were soft, her nails perfectly cut and rounded. “Call me Mary.”
“Mary,” he said, and he became aware of an ache in his chest. He pushed past it. “And you should call me Edward.”
“Edward.” She smiled. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
Yes, he thought, and the ache bloomed into something larger. He understood her. Maybe a little too well.
Mary looked pleased. “And here’s your lady,” she said, glancing past him. “Hello, again.”
“My lady?” Edward turned to see Gracie approaching them in the gray velvet gown. His chest swelled at the sight of her.
“I’m not his lady,” Gracie corrected. “I’m just his friend.”
Queen Catherine was calling for Mary to dance with the dauphin. “He always steps on my feet,” the little queen said with a scowl, becoming once again the furious girl from her portrait. She swept away to join her betrothed. Edward felt a weight lift at her departure. He offered his hand to Gracie.
