by Cynthia Hand
Henry started to laugh. “I’m just kidding. That was hilarious! You should have seen your face.”
The Cardinal of Lorraine relaxed, letting out a long breath as he laughed faintly. Duke Francis smiled nervously.
“What a king you are,” said the duke. “The best king in the whole world. Good-humored, thoughtful, and not so bad with the ladies, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” said the cardinal, chuckling.
“Ah, I do know what you mean.” King Henry stretched his arms up over his head, then wrapped one around a woman’s shoulders—shoulders belonging to a woman who was not his wife yet was seated at the head of the table with him. This was Diane de Poitiers, his official mistress. Usually she was a lot more polished, but tonight she shifted uncomfortably and tugged at her sleeves and the bodice of her gown, as though it wasn’t fitting correctly.
Meanwhile, Henry’s unofficial mistresses were scattered about the banquet hall like bright flowers, all their faces turned toward him, as though he were their sunshine. They were easy to spot, and the length of time it had been since the king had called for them was clear in the relative eagerness of their expressions. Francis would have felt sorry for them, if he hadn’t been busy feeling sorry for his mother.
Queen Catherine de Medici, Francis’s mother, sat on the far end of the table from the king and Francis. Francis wished he could talk to her without yelling down the table, even if a conversation with Catherine had its own set of pitfalls. She was, as Mary liked to say, a playful sort of evil. Catherine loved to stir up trouble wherever she could. She’d been known to tell her ladies-in-waiting that there was going to be a themed costume party and laugh at them when they showed up in silly attire to a formal event. She’d arranged several marriages between couples who were bizarrely mismatched, like the son of a wealthy pig farmer to a noblewoman who fainted at the slightest whiff of a foul odor, or an exceptionally portly girl to an extremely skinny man. She was also known to dose the tea of certain women at court with laxatives and then tell them a long story and watch them squirm but not dare to interrupt her to excuse themselves.
In short, Francis felt Mary’s description of Catherine was accurate. Still, he loved his mother, even though he sometimes wondered how he’d been born of these two people, since he wasn’t very much like either of them. But he’d been told never to wonder such things aloud, as he had two younger brothers, either of whom could take the throne if there was ever a doubt of his legitimacy. Legitimacy was a surprisingly big deal for kings.
With a sigh, Francis turned to his father, ready to ask about the recent boar hunt he’d gone on (it seemed safer than inquiring further about his father’s extramarital conquests), but King Henry was in the middle of trailing his fingertips down Mistress Diane’s neck.
Gag.
No, Francis wasn’t like his father.
Not even close.
The king winked at a woman across the table, one of the dozen or so Catherines in attendance who was not Queen Catherine. She giggled and rested her fingers on the large brooch she wore, which showed off her, ah, gown’s plunging neckline.
Francis noticed something else that was plunging: his will to pretend he was comfortable with any of this.
Perhaps he could excuse himself—
“Bring the next course!” cried King Henry, and servants rushed to lay out yet more food. They had already eaten a stew of spiced duck, quail, and pigeons, a fillet of duck, chickens cooked on hot embers, a fillet of beef, a quarter of veal, two hens and four rabbits, and some salad because vegetables were important once in a while.
The third course was an enormous partridge pie, fruit (so no one got scurvy), slices of roast beef, and—please make sure you’re sitting—fried sheep’s testicles.
Francis really wasn’t hungry anymore.
More drinks were poured (wine, liqueurs, and other things meant to get the nobility ridiculously drunk), and somehow, even after consuming all that food, the king and his court still managed to eat more.
“Where is my niece tonight?” Cardinal Charles mused.
Francis gazed down the table. It was a fair question, if belated. Everyone who was anyone was in attendance—except the queen of Scotland. There was the ambassador from England (no one was speaking with him), and the ambassador from Spain (quite popular, as Francis’s sister had just married their king), and lords from holdings across France. This was a typical night of revelry in the Louvre Palace, because King Henry loved revelry.
“I’m afraid Her Majesty is”—Francis tugged at his collar, thinking of the note she’d sent earlier—“not feeling like herself tonight.”
(At this very moment, Mary was still partying in the pub like it was 1599.)
The duke frowned. “When we saw her this morning, she seemed quite well. I made it clear that she must join us for dinner.”
Francis suppressed a smirk. Mary’s uncles clearly didn’t understand that insisting that Mary do something was bound to make her do the opposite.
“She’s assured me that it will pass,” he said.
“Ah.” Cardinal Charles looked at his brother. “She was out in the sun too long today. We should check in on her later. Perhaps send a servant to bring her chicken soup.”
“That won’t be necessary!” Francis said, a little too fast. “That is, I mean, I’ve already taken the liberty of sending a meal for her. There’s no need to worry. She only requires rest.”
The uncles both gave reluctant nods.
“You are such a good match for her, Your Highness,” Duke Francis said. “We could not imagine a better future husband for our beloved niece.”
Francis flushed at the thought of becoming Mary’s husband. She was clever, kind, powerful—not to mention breathtakingly beautiful. There was nothing that Francis didn’t admire about Mary. Becoming her husband would be a dream come true. Or it would have been, if there was any chance that she felt the same way.
Oh, Mary loved him. Francis was certain of that. But he was equally certain that she didn’t spend night after night lying awake, thinking about him. Francis, however, was intimately familiar with the complete darkness of his ceiling, as he passed hours staring at it, thinking up ways to make Mary laugh, or planning small gifts for her, or—let’s be honest—imagining what it might be like to kiss her rosebud lips.
As it was, it would be a marriage of one-sided adoration. That would have to be enough.
Anyway, marrying Mary was a long ways off. They’d been betrothed since they were children, and there hadn’t once been talk of setting a date.
“I’m honored that you think so,” Francis told the uncles. “Queen Mary is a remarkable young woman.” Remarkable. Incredible. Maybe—and Francis knew very well this was her least favorite descriptor, but he thought it anyway—perfect. He sighed admiringly, just thinking about her smile.
The third course continued. Francis pushed his food around his plate, and the courtiers grew ever more drunk. Soon, they wouldn’t be able to sit up in their chairs. Even the king was red-faced and slurring his solicitous words to Mistress Diane.
If Mary had been here, they could have laughed at everyone. But Mary was not here, which meant Francis had no one to laugh with, and therefore Francis wished he weren’t here, either.
She used to offer to let him join her to go dancing. Sure, they wouldn’t have been able to dance together, but they’d be together. And without his fancy clothes and attendants, nobody in Paris would be likely to recognize him as the dauphin. But Francis had always declined. Going out with all those strangers, stuck in some loud and alcohol-stinking room had sounded utterly nightmarish. Of course, King Henry’s royal banquets turned out basically the same.
He was nearly free, though. He just had to make it through dessert, and then he could escape back to his rooms and read.
Just then, the double doors at the opposite end of the banquet hall burst open, admitting a trio of guards and a . . . seagull?
The bird’
s wings were strapped down with someone’s belt, and its talons were tied up with a bit of string. Even so, the seagull struggled, screeching as it tried to escape the guard’s grasp.
The banquet hall went quiet as every eye swung toward the seagull and soldiers.
“Now what?” Duke Francis murmured.
King Henry rose to his feet. All eyes swung toward him now. “What is the meaning of this interruption?”
“This is no mere seagull, Your Majesty. It is an E∂ian spy. Our sources at Kershaw Place say that she arrived as a bird, changed into a human, and delivered a message. She tried to escape as a seagull again, but we caught her.”
“I see.” The king’s expression was serious now, all his merriment from earlier vanished. He even seemed, somehow, less drunk. “What were the contents of this message?”
It could be nothing, Francis thought. It could have been a love letter, or a recipe, or anything. They have no proof this seagull is a spy.
But Francis didn’t say those words out loud. He couldn’t. France was a staunchly Verity kingdom, and to be branded a sympathizer at a time when tensions ran so high . . . Francis had no illusions about how difficult ruling France would be; it would be impossible if anyone suspected the truth.
“Here it is, Sire.” One of the guards, a man with a wide, bushy mustache, pulled a folded paper from his pocket. “Shall I read it aloud?”
“No, no. It could be something inappropriate for the dinner table. Give it here.” Henry snapped his fingers and the guard put the paper into the king’s hand. He read it briefly with no change of expression and then handed it (over Francis’s head) to Duke Francis, who read it and handed it to Cardinal Charles.
“I would also like to see it,” Francis said after everyone, it seemed, knew what the paper said but him.
Henry nodded. “Give it to my son. He loves to read.” Henry motioned vaguely at Francis, and the cardinal slid the paper down the table to Francis.
Slowly, Francis looked it over, and a chill worked its way up his spine. This wasn’t a note. It was a pamphlet, entitled “E∂ians Must Rise: Why Scotland Will Fall If Verities Are Allowed to Continue Ruling,” written by a man named John Knox. The contents were even more sinister than the title.
Verities are incomplete souls. That they cannot change form tells us the truths of their spirits—they are lacking, less than, and unworthy of this world. Scotland should no longer suffer under these deficient rulers. We E∂ians must rise up and take our natural place as the true leaders of our country.
We will take on the hollow Verity queen. We will chase out the Verity regent. We will make a monarchy of our own, with strong E∂ian men who will produce strong E∂ian sons.
It went on like that for a while, dragging both Verities and women through the mud. It ended with a rather gruesome depiction of a girl with her head on the chopping block, an axe racing to meet her neck. Resting on the girl’s hair was a golden crown.
Mary.
His Mary. His Mary, who was away from the palace right now, with no protection but her ladies. His Mary, whose life had been threatened more times than either of them could count. And here was another threat, a pamphlet delivered to a tavern in Paris on the exact night that Mary was out dancing in a tavern in Paris. Was it the same one? Her note hadn’t said where she was going.
Francis hurled the terrible pamphlet across the table, then tried to hide his shaking hands under his legs.
“Well,” said the king darkly. “I believe my son’s reaction says it all. The only matter left is to deduce whether this is actually an E∂ian or simply an unfortunate seagull.” He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Have you seen it change shape?”
“Not personally, Sire, but our sources—”
“Yes, you said there were witnesses.” King Henry stepped away from his seat at the head of the table and strode toward the men and their captive. The gazes of everyone in the court followed along, eager anticipation in their eyes, until finally, he stood before the struggling, squawking seagull. “Change,” the king commanded. “Change back into a human.”
The bird merely continued struggling.
“Change,” commanded the king. He was an imposing figure, the king of France, dressed in his royal robes and wearing his crown—because a monarch should never squander an opportunity to remind his underlings that he was in charge. “You will change immediately, or my guards will wring your neck and we’ll have a fourth course on this table.” He gestured to the silver platters filled with various kinds of fowl.
Francis’s heart skipped a beat. Surely his father wouldn’t do something so terrible as that. And besides, didn’t E∂ians revert to their human forms once they died? Would Henry actually—
A white light flared through the room, and by the time the glare cleared, a woman stood before the king, long brown curls concealing her unclothed body.
Everyone in the hall gasped, as though they’d never seen an E∂ian change shape before. Maybe they hadn’t. Maybe the only E∂ians they’d ever seen had been in books or pamphlets about what to do if they saw one. (The books and pamphlets all said the same thing: report to the nearest guard so the E∂ian could be arrested.)
For a moment, Francis let himself hate this woman. She’d been carrying that vile pamphlet, which literally called for the death of Mary, Queen of Scots. It was because of her that those terrible words, that awful image, had entered his mind.
But then he caught himself. Just because the guards said the pamphlet was hers didn’t mean it was true. It could have been planted with her, or they could have discovered it somewhere completely unrelated to Kershaw Place and brought it here as “evidence.” It would hardly be the first time a man or woman had been accused of being a spy simply because they were an E∂ian in a Verity kingdom.
So Francis could not rush to judgment. He didn’t have enough information.
He bit his lip—and then stopped. No one appeared to be looking at him, but all it took was one glance.
And to protect the person he cared about more than anyone in the world—more than himself, even—he could never let anyone believe him a sympathizer.
“Well.” The king’s gaze roamed down the woman’s body. “How interesting. You are an E∂ian.”
The woman didn’t speak a word, and now that she was in her human form, she was no longer struggling or screeching. But she was trembling with terror. Even from the far side of the hall, Francis could see her shaking. His heart twisted. Surely there was something he could do.
“Tell me about the pamphlet,” King Henry commanded.
She remained silent.
“Was it yours?”
She kept her gaze firmly on the ground.
“Are you part of Knox’s little Scottish rebellion?”
Still nothing. Just that fearful trembling. This poor woman. Maybe she was a spy. Maybe she wasn’t. But surely, no matter what she was, she didn’t deserve the humiliation of standing naked before the entire court. Before the king.
“Tell me now!” roared the king.
The woman only closed her eyes. She must have understood the danger she was in, but still she refused to speak.
Francis couldn’t take it anymore. Spy or no, she deserved some dignity. He started to stand, started to remove his jacket—
A chair scraped as Queen Catherine rose to her feet, sniffing derisively. “I’m appalled,” she announced, slipping the pamphlet into the folds of her gown. “We’re in the middle of supper. And you”—she leveled her royal glare on the guards—“intrude with such a trivial matter? No proof? No allegations beyond your assumptions and a scrap of paper that you claim belongs to her? No good reason to bother the king during a meal with this?” The queen curled her lip as she glanced toward the E∂ian woman.
Francis’s heart pounded. There was one thing he could always be sure of when it came to his mother, which was that he could never be sure what she was about to do. It seemed entirely possible she would have all three guards and the E∂i
an woman sentenced to death, right here and now, because her meal had been interrupted. (You see why Ari had been more than a little hesitant to come rushing in with news of Nostradamus’s vision.)
The queen of France swept off her silk shawl and draped it over the E∂ian woman’s shoulders. “Cease wasting our time, soldiers. Take her to the dungeon and find a blanket or something to cover the rest of her filthy peasant body.”
Duke Francis nodded. “Yes. Get her out of our sight. I will interrogate the prisoner personally. Find out what else she knows.”
Queen Catherine glared at Duke Francis as if she’d like to argue, but instead she turned to the nearest servant. “Send dessert to my rooms. I have grown bored of this company.” With that, she left the banquet hall without waiting to be dismissed by the king.
Tension hung low over the hall until King Henry sighed and waved the guards away. “Go on,” Henry said. “You heard my”—the word practically choked him—“wife.”
The E∂ian woman clung to the shawl as the guards led her from the room, and one at a time, courtiers returned to their meals, murmuring frantically about the interruption and the queen’s rather rude exit.
“Do you think she is a spy?” Cardinal Charles asked his brother as they resumed eating. “She looked English to me. That E∂ian-loving queen has no shame.”
“Perhaps she’s Scottish. The pamphlet was written by that Knox fellow, after all.” Duke Francis stabbed one of the fried sheep’s testicles. “I’ll find out soon enough. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? She’s an E∂ian. She should be put to death.”
At least they weren’t asking Francis about the pamphlet. For the moment, the uncles had forgotten him. All the better. He kept his gaze locked on his plate as he listened to the uncles talk about the woman, and then encourage King Henry as he began to boast about how he’d hunt down all the E∂ians in France.
