by Cynthia Hand
She knew she should excuse herself as soon as possible, to report the momentous news of the wedding to Queen Catherine. It was obvious the queen didn’t know about it, and it would be best if she learned of it from Ari. It would prove that Ari was indeed useful to her as one of Queen Mary’s ladies.
But just for a few moments, Ari lingered to chat with Bea and joke with Flem, to have her hair done up into elaborate braids by Hush, and to try on one of Queen Mary’s jeweled necklaces. All the while, she basked in the warmth of Liv’s hazel eyes.
“I’m so glad you’ve come to join us,” Liv said merrily. “Now you have an excuse to talk to me. Regularly, I mean. Without me having to be in disguise.”
It seemed miraculous, this idea that she’d be seeing Liv, and yes, talking to her, every single day.
Ari smiled at her. “Nothing would make me happier,” she said.
NINE
Francis
That night, the wedding announcement went something like this:
Henry called every noble in Paris to join him in the throne room, packing people so tightly there was hardly space to breathe. Then he gave a long speech about France’s alliance with Scotland and the importance of great friends. At some point in there, servants had thrown open the windows and started fanning the edges of the crowd, because the heat was unbearable. People had started to sweat, filling the room with the toxic reek of body odor and too much perfume.
By then, either someone had suggested that Henry might start wrapping it up, or he too had begun growing weak from the heat and smell and so decided to finish before everyone fainted. Either way, he finally got to the point, motioning for Francis to step forward and for Mary to approach the throne.
Nerves crowded in Francis’s throat. This was it.
“For years, these two young lovebirds have been promised to each other,” Henry said as he made Francis and Mary hold hands. “After much deliberation, I’ve decided that now is the time for our two houses—our two kingdoms—to be joined in holy matrimony.”
A ripple of excitement wove through the crowd.
“The royal wedding will take place in five days’ time, at Notre-Dame Cathedral. Everyone who brings a gift is invited!”
A cheer rose up, filling the hall with joyful thunder. At the front of the crowd, Mary’s ladies all clapped and giggled. Flem made kissy faces in their direction.
Francis felt his face turn red. He hated the feeling of everyone watching him, but he’d do his best to make a good impression, since it reflected on Mary as well. He straightened his shoulders and met her brown eyes. She looked beautiful, wearing that cream-colored gown she liked so much, and her hair done up in a twisting braid with her crown set atop the auburn tresses.
She was taller than he was, only by three inches (although Francis hoped he might still grow to meet her height one day, or maybe even taller, because come on), and she carried herself so regally. If he had to get married, he was glad it was Mary.
She smiled.
He smiled.
She gave his hands a reassuring squeeze.
It was all part of the show, of course, but even so, when he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, he meant it.
An hour later, all the most important nobles had been seated in the banquet hall and served confit de canard, a glass of red wine, and personalized invitations to the wedding.
From their places at the king’s table, Francis and Mary sat through approximately fifty thousand toasts in their honor, and even though Francis had done his best to keep his sips small, he could feel heat crawling up his neck and face, not to mention the fogginess creeping through his thoughts. It took longer and longer to figure out how to say thank you to the various well-wishers. By the time Guillemette de Sarrebruck raised her glass to offer her praise of the happy couple, Francis was barely touching the liquid to his lips. He’d had too much a thousand toasts ago.
Henry, of course, was done for. As the meal progressed and his goblet was continually refilled, the king spoke louder and louder.
“My son is getting married!” he’d shout occasionally, setting off another round of toasts and cheering. “Francis will be making heirs by the end of the week, just you wait! A virile young man like this will keep Mary pregnant for years.”
People whooped and leered in Francis’s direction. Or maybe Mary’s. It was hard to tell when the room tilted this way and that.
Francis looked at Mary, whose smile had become somewhat wooden. It must be difficult, Francis had always thought, being a woman in King Henry’s court.
He desperately wanted to make a joke of some kind—reassure her that as far as he understood, pregnancies didn’t last multiple years and she’d give birth far, far sooner than that—but it seemed extra awkward given the conversation about how one becomes pregnant and that Francis still needed to find a way to stop his father from observing the wedding night.
“To the happy couple!” someone in the back shouted, and all the glasses went up, Francis’s and Mary’s included. Francis only pretended to drink.
“To France and Scotland!” someone else called. More glasses. More fake drinking.
“To the king!” Again with the toasting.
“This is the best night of my life!” Henry slurred as a servant hurried to refill his glass. “I’m so proud. I love wine.”
Francis leaned toward Mary. “In my pants,” he whispered.
The tension around Mary’s jaw eased as she flashed him a real smile. “I didn’t think you were serious about that.”
“Of course I was.”
“If I’d realized, I’d have improved so many toasts already.” Her smile brightened her whole face. “We’ll have to make up for it.”
The king’s voice boomed nearby. “Hello, my dear Catherine. You’re particularly lovely tonight. And”—he paused—“I see that you’ve wrapped yourself up like a gift.”
Francis glanced at Mary, wondering if he should say it. She frantically shook her head. Then they both looked over just in time to see one of the court ladies boldly approaching the king’s table, where the queen and his official mistress both sat, finishing their meals.
Henry grabbed the woman’s hand and gave it a long, lingering kiss. She tittered, while Diane stood and went to speak with someone else. Queen Catherine smiled—well—wickedly, but remained in conversation with Claude, Francis’s younger sister.
“Looks like they’re fighting again,” Mary murmured, meaning Diane and Henry.
Brooch Catherine still had that gaudy jewel resting on her chest, although the bodice of her gown went all the way up to her collarbones. It was an interesting choice, given how she’d caught Henry’s attention last night.
“Yes, yes,” Henry was saying, his eyes on the brooch. “All wrapped up. I hope you intend to let me unwrap you later.”
“Perhaps,” teased Brooch Catherine, her hand lifting to her chest to draw Henry’s eye. Francis’s eyes went there too—just in time to see her scratch violently through the lace, then force her hand down to her side.
“My dear!” Henry said. “Already trying to unwrap. I knew you couldn’t resist me.”
Francis quickly looked away.
“Oh.” Mary giggled a little. “It’s Catherine.”
“Yes. As we’ve already established.”
“No, I mean”—Mary stifled another giggle—“your mother. The itching powder. Look at Brooch Catherine. She can’t stop scratching, and her skin is red above her bodice.”
“Oh.” Francis looked, and then immediately looked away again, because King Henry was still talking about unwrapping. But yes, the would-be mistress bore the marks of frantic scratching. “My mother did that?”
“Oh, yes,” Mary said. “I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly. I suppose your father won’t be”—Mary made a gagging sound—“unwrapping her tonight after all.”
“Mother does love spoiling his plans,” Francis agreed.
“We should make the rounds,” Mary su
ggested. “Before the banquet is over.”
“Talk to people?” Francis asked, pretending that he was only pretending to be appalled. “Face to face?”
“Well, yes.” Mary smiled wryly. “That is how it’s done.”
“Why should I talk to anyone else? You’re the only one I need.” Blasted wine! Francis ducked his head to hide his flush. “What I mean to say is—Everyone else—You are—” Maybe now was the time to consider becoming a monk—the kind that took a vow of silence.
Mary touched his chin. “Eyes up, Francis.”
He couldn’t. Not when he was more than a little tipsy and his mind kept drifting to Thursday. Thursday night.
“Francis,” Mary said again, more forcefully. “Eyes up.”
It was something she’d been telling him for years, ever since they were children and the betrothal had been announced. For days, they’d been practicing a dance together for the engagement party, both of them laughing and having fun. But at the party when they were supposed to perform the dance, Francis had frozen. He’d often been the center of attention, what with being the king’s eldest son, but even at four years old, he’d understood that moment was different. What had been a fun game with his new best friend was suddenly much more serious, and as the music had started, he’d stood there while Mary began her part of the dance.
The music had stopped. Then started over.
Francis hadn’t moved, instead staring at his feet and trying not to cry as the music swelled and stopped again, when suddenly a soft finger tapped his chin. “Eyes up,” Mary had said, and it had worked. He’d lifted his eyes and met hers, and this time, when the music began again, they both danced the carefully rehearsed steps.
The end of the dance had called for a chaste kiss, and Francis, at four, hadn’t really understood what that meant. He’d just stood up on his toes—because even then, Mary was taller—and they’d shared a brief peck on the lips. It had been their first kiss, and their only kiss, and sixteen-year-old Francis still sometimes thought about that moment with fondness.
So now, at those words—“Eyes up, Francis”—he did as he always did: he met her gaze and let her steady him. She was the strong one, he often felt, the steady one, the one who knew what to do and how to do it. She was the one who reminded him that if he solved problems one step at a time, he could endure anything.
He could endure anything if she were with him.
A full-on blush warmed his face now, but hopefully she’d think it was the wine. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s time to make the rounds. Divide and conquer?”
Mary nodded. “I’ll take the givers, you take the beggars?” That was the way they’d started classifying the people of the court: people who were always trying to give something to royalty in order to create debts owed to them, and those who were always asking for the crown’s help.
“Let’s do it,” Francis said, but before he could extract himself from the table, his mother found him.
“Francis,” she said.
“Hello, Mother.”
Mary, who was already making her way into the crowd, glanced over and raised an eyebrow, but Francis motioned for her to keep going. He’d be all right with his mother.
“Walk with me,” Queen Catherine commanded.
Francis walked with her. “How have you been?”
“Busy,” Queen Catherine replied.
“Busy what?” Francis asked, although he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know.
“Busy protecting the kingdom, as always.”
“How’s it going? Did you read that Knox pamphlet?”
“I did.” Catherine’s gaze was hard. “What a disgusting man. He really should be stopped.”
“That’s the point of Thursday, I’m told: to protect Mary and begin ridding Scotland of the E∂ian menace.” Francis felt dirty just saying it, but this was a Verity kingdom and all that. Mary had to say it from time to time, too; he knew that it hurt her deeply.
“Indeed,” Catherine said. “You must be excited about the wedding. Finally, after all this waiting.”
“Yes, of course.” Francis offered his mother his arm. “So excited.”
“You don’t seem all that excited,” Catherine said.
Francis went rigid. Could everyone tell?
“Don’t worry,” Catherine said. “No one can tell any more than usual.”
“Oh,” said Francis. “That’s good, I suppose.” He needed to get better at pretending. He needed to copy everything Mary did. Well, maybe not everything. “Mary and I are a good match,” he went on. “I’m honored to become her husband.”
“But?”
“But this all seems so, I don’t know, fast. I’m only sixteen. Why should I worry about heirs yet?”
Catherine looked at him askance. “Henry will live to torment me a very long time, but there is always a need for heirs. You can’t have too many. Except, of course, in the cases you do. You can’t have multiple heirs competing for a single throne. That leads enterprising young rulers to taking out the competition.” She patted his hand. “And that is why you need to make your own heirs. It secures your position above the competition.”
“What if I’m not the right man for the job?”
“Of king?”
“Of potato peeling,” he said. “No, of course of king.” What else was there for him?
Catherine sighed. “You don’t have a choice, son. You’re next in line for the throne. You must fulfill your duty, and it’s best that it happen in stages. First you’ll marry Mary and work on the heir situation. You’ll have plenty of time to prepare yourself for becoming a good king, just like your father.”
“Just like him?” Francis frowned.
“Better, I hope.” Catherine squeezed his hand. “You actually seem to like Mary.”
Francis bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from saying anything about that. “We are a good match,” he said again. “I just wish . . .”
“Yes?” she prompted.
“None of this is my choice. Becoming king. Who I marry. I don’t even get to decide when and where my own wedding will take place.”
“It’s too late to change the date,” Catherine said, missing the point.
Francis sighed. And it was too late to allow Mary to choose her own flowers. Cowslips, she’d said.
“But if there’s something else I can help you with . . .”
Francis started to say no, but then an idea occurred to him. “I do have another concern.”
“About Mary?”
Francis shook his head. “Forgive me if this sounds indelicate—”
“As though I’ve ever cared about such things.”
“But when you and Father first married, the wedding night was, um, observed. By my grandfather.” If it was awkward talking to his father about these things, it was ten times worse talking to his mother.
“Ah, yes.” A frown pulled at Catherine’s mouth. “Yes, that was part of the happiest day of my life. How could I forget?”
Catherine de Medici was the reason Francis himself was fluent in sarcasm.
“Then you probably know what I’m going to ask,” Francis said. “Father intends to watch my wedding night, but I’d rather not put Mary through that.”
Francis could have asked for the favor for himself, but he thought his mother might empathize more with Mary. Woman to woman. Francis hoped.
“Of course,” Catherine said. “There’s no talking him out of anything, unfortunately, so I won’t even try. But I’ll think of something that will keep him out of your way. Not to worry.”
Relief poured through Francis. “Thank you, Mother. Knowing you’re on our side brings me a great deal of comfort.”
Even now, Brooch Catherine was scratching while the king offered her a bite of strawberry cake.
Queen Catherine looked away from the scene and smiled. “Anything for you, my son.” She patted his shoulder and then sent him on his way. “Go on, then. Show them the future king of France.”
TEN
Mary
Dear Mama, Mary wrote carefully across the parchment. I am pleased to inform you that King Henry has seen fit to honor my betrothal at last, and Francis and I are to be wed on Thursday. She sat back and read over that first sentence, chewing the inside of her cheek. For some reason she was having difficulty forming the words for what should have been an easy letter to write. How would her mother respond, she wondered. Would she smile and clap her hands at the idea that her only daughter was finally getting married? Would her eyes light with joy?
Mary picked up the quill again.
All I can tell you is that I account myself one of the happiest women in the world. I have spoken to the dauphin, and he, too, is greatly pleased. It was a bit of a white lie to say that Francis was “greatly pleased.” If anything, he was more anxious than usual concerning their wedding, and especially the wedding night, but it seemed appropriate to reassure her mother that she and Francis both still approved of the match. We are fortunate, indeed, that we know one another so intimately already, and get along so well.
There was a light tapping, tapping at her chamber door, and Bea slipped noiselessly inside, wearing only her dressing gown, her black hair unbound down her back. “Do you have a letter for me yet?” her lady asked.
Mary bent over the desk and scribbled hastily: My only sorrow, dear Mama, is that it will be impossible for you to be here with me on this most auspicious of days. But I know that you will be with me in spirit, so I can truly rejoice.
Your devoted daughter, she signed. Mary, Queen of Scots.
Bea had removed her shoes and was opening the curtains, and beyond that, the window. “Are you nearly ready?” she asked impatiently. “I’d like to go before it gets too late in the day.”
Mary nodded. She skimmed quickly back over the letter, checking her grammar. Normally when she wrote to her mother it was in a cipher that only Mary de Guise had the key to translate, being that she was transmitting bits of the most secret espionage. But this letter was one that Mary would be expected to write. Even if the method of delivery would be considered unusual and also illegal.
