by Cynthia Hand
“Oh, you’re too kind,” said Mary stiffly. She took the box and opened it. Then she gasped and dropped it onto the floor. As the box overturned, a mousetrap bounced onto the carpet, making a sharp snapping sound as it went off.
Mary stifled a shriek. She pulled her feet up onto the chair, her face draining of color. She glanced desperately at Francis, who leapt up.
“Mother, what is the meaning of this?” Francis demanded. He quickly bent and shoved the trap back into the box.
“A reminder,” Catherine answered coolly. “You’re a king now, my dear, and there are . . . rats all about us. You will need protection from the vermin of this world.”
Ari felt sick. This was her fault. This was all her fault.
Francis’s hands shook as he passed the box to Liv, who’d sprung up to take it away. Mary still looked shaken. Catherine smiled at her.
“Now that you understand me fully, you’ll be a good girl, and do what you’re told.”
Mary put her feet back on the floor. Her dark eyes flashed with the contrariness that even Ari had already come to know. “I will not be threatened by you,” she said. “I am the queen.”
“For now,” Catherine said lightly. “Things are changing so quickly these days.”
“I am not—” Mary began, but Francis stepped forward.
“Mary and I are grateful to have your guidance, Mother,” he said. “For however long you wish to stay.”
Ari’s heart sank. Catherine had won.
TWENTY-FOUR
Francis
Francis’s coronation was to be held in Reims, where all the kings of France’s past had been officially crowned. Unfortunately, the moment the royal party arrived at the city gates, a soaking downpour appeared completely out of nowhere, leaving everyone looking like drowned rats. Or mice, in some cases.
“Get the king inside!” cried Duke Francis.
“Before he catches his death of cold!” cried Cardinal Charles.
“Or ruins his outfit!” cried Queen Catherine.
Because of the surprise rain, which absolutely no one had predicted (what was the point, Francis thought irritably, of paying people to see the future when they never saw anything remotely useful?), the Duke of Savoy caught a fever. As he was one of the highest-ranking guests, the entire production had to be delayed.
“Seems like someone should have dragged him inside, too,” Francis noted that Sunday afternoon. Mary nodded solemnly but seemed too distracted to joke around with him. “I mean, it makes sense to delay a coronation if the man about to get crowned king is the one who fell ill. But that’s not the case. I’m perfectly healthy. And yet, the coronation is delayed, all because of someone else. Now all the medals we gave out will have the incorrect coronation date.”
“Perhaps they will be collector pieces one day, more valuable than if they’d had the correct date,” Duke Francis replied.
“Or we can have new medals made,” suggested Catherine with a side-eye at Mary’s uncles. “I always find it bad luck to print the date on anything before the fact.”
Francis was rather beginning to feel that he was in a tug-of-war between his mother and Mary’s uncles. And Francis was the rope.
“Either way, I’ll be soundly mocked, I assume,” Francis said. “It will be as bad as that fiasco with the portrait.”
He was referring to a time when, about a year ago, Catherine had commissioned a portrait of the dauphin by the famous artist François Clouet, who had somehow managed to make Francis look like a sickly, sulking seven-year-old.
Catherine tsked. “Nothing could be as bad as the portrait. Everyone thought you were going to die.”
“I almost did. Of embarrassment.”
“Nobody remembers that anymore. You’re king now. Or you will be, tomorrow.”
But in truth, Francis didn’t mind the coronation being postponed. It gave him more time as Not King, even if everyone was calling him king because of the whole continuity-of-the-monarchy situation, which was very, very important to some people. Like, all of France, apparently.
But even with all the delays (which Francis was trying not to see as bad omens, even though everyone kept saying what bad omens they were), tomorrow arrived. The day of the coronation. The day he officially became the king of France.
It began with Francis putting on a gown.
Now, Francis didn’t have anything against gowns. He rather enjoyed when Mary wore them. But Francis was made to put on this gown over his shirt and trousers, which seemed like an excessive amount of clothes. Moreover, everything was made of white silk, and as everyone knows, wearing white silk is asking for trouble.
“There’s no tomato sauce on the menu, is there?” he asked the attendant.
“No, Sire.”
“None in the building?”
“Not as far as I know, Sire.”
“What about on the way there?”
“No tomatoes on the streets, Sire, but are you worried about mud, too? It has rained recently.”
Immediately, Francis was deeply worried about the mud. (It was better than thinking about the long years ahead of him. As king. King of France. Because his father had died.)
But the white silk (and Francis) made it to the cathedral without incident. Trumpets blared and a choir began singing an anthem.
Mary took his hand. “It’ll be all right.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Francis said.
The rest of the event simultaneously went very quickly and took forever (according to our research, about five hours), and frankly, it was all sort of a blur for Francis. He was anointed with special oils, there were songs and readings of scriptures, more songs, and a litany. It was just . . . a lot. Francis had practiced, so he knew basically what to do (but between you and us and Francis, he zoned out for most of it).
Finally, the actual crowning. He was presented with the usual scepter and ring, and of course the ridiculously heavy crown, and then he took the throne.
Cardinal Charles bowed and shouted, “Vivat rex! May the king live forever!”
In thunderous reply, the entire congregation joined in. “Vivat rex! May the king live forever!”
It was a bit dizzying, all that noise, the heat, the weight of the crown on his head.
When it was over, Francis was relieved. And terrified.
He was king.
As guests filed out of the cathedral, stretching their legs and rolling their shoulders after sitting still for so long, Mary came to stand next to Francis. “Well,” she murmured softly, “that was awkward.”
Indeed, it was. In fact, the history books would later agree, saying, “Overall, it was perhaps the most awkward and least convincing coronation day in French history.”
To which your narrators must wonder, if five hours of ceremony and singing and anointing isn’t enough to convince people, what the heck is?
At last, Francis, Mary, Queen Catherine, and the rest of the coronation party were walking out of the cathedral, more than ready to climb into the carriages that would take them to nice, soft beds. Yes, walking, because even though Francis had just been crowned king of France (he was trying very hard not to think about it), he still had to do regular things like walk places. It just seemed so much more mundane now, given all the majesty and celebration of half an hour ago. Already, the coronation seemed like a dream. Not a good dream, but a dream, nonetheless, and suddenly, Francis understood a thing about his father that he never had before.
Perhaps King Henry had so many “visions” of parties and festivals and celebrations because he wanted that feeling again. Henry, from what Francis could tell, had liked the feeling in the cathedral, the singing and anointing and various expensive outfits, and every needless event he’d thrown since then had been an attempt to regain that emotional high. Including, he realized with a deep sadness, that jousting tournament. His final vision.
Francis was sure he’d be a very boring king by comparison. But perhaps easier on the royal treasury.
�
�How do you feel?” Mary asked quietly. She’d been quiet ever since that horrible showdown in which Francis’s mother had, in effect, blackmailed her. And there was even more on Mary’s mind, he knew. Her ladies trailed behind her, all except Bea. She was still missing. And there had still been no word from Mary’s mother.
But let’s make it about Francis again, shall we?
“I feel”—Francis heaved a sigh—“tired. Hollowed out.”
“You did well today,” she said.
He hadn’t completely humiliated himself by forgetting lines or freezing up, although the weight of the crown had nearly toppled him over on more than one occasion.
“You’re the king now.” Catherine strode up beside them. “You cannot afford to be tired.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible, Mother. Aren’t kings allowed to sleep?” His father had slept all the time. Well, “slept,” possibly. But he didn’t want to bring that up to his mother.
“Only when their power is secure.”
Ugh. His mother was being insufferable. He still couldn’t believe that she’d given them a mousetrap as a gift.
“I’ve just been formally crowned,” Francis said. “Surely—”
Catherine shook her head. “Your power is slightly more secure than it was yesterday, but we still have so much work to do.”
We. Because his mother was now his regent.
“Aren’t you glad that I have been a reigning monarch for many, many, many years?” she said, smiling at Mary.
Mary’s shoulders were up near her ears. Her jaw tightened. She placed her hand on Francis’s arm. “You always have my support,” she murmured.
Catherine sniffed. “You have done very well to allow your mother to help you rule your country, my dear Mary. Francis could take a lesson from that.”
Mary’s fingers tightened over Francis’s arms. “My mother may assist me, but she—as well as the whole of Scotland—knows that I am queen.”
“Not that Knox fellow,” Catherine quipped.
Thank God they’d reached a line of carriages by then, resplendent with gold filigree and fine white stallions. Francis wanted to hug the horses.
“Your Majesties!” Duke Francis jumped out from behind the carriages, smiling as they approached. “Congratulations once again. You’ll make a fine king. All of France will sing your praises.”
A creeping discomfort crawled down Francis’s spine. This was the same way the Duke of Guise had spoken to Henry, and the same way he always spoke to Mary. Francis didn’t want to be anywhere near the uncles, but he supposed it would be impossible to avoid them now that he was king.
Catherine didn’t try to hide her sneer as the Duke of Guise bowed comically low, with respect so exaggerated it made Francis recoil.
“Your Highness. Nephew.” He said it with a serpent-like smile. “The House of Guise would be honored for the royal family to join us in the Château de Blois. We are all family now, aren’t we? It would send a message of unity, if you were to stay with us for a time.”
Francis rubbed at his eyes. The Château de Blois was over a hundred miles south of Paris. It would take them a week to get there. “I don’t—”
“The king doesn’t wish to travel so far from Paris,” his mother answered for him. “He should return to the Louvre, where there is much he needs to attend to.”
She meant much she needed to attend to.
“But surely he deserves some measure of rest after all he’s been through,” argued the duke.
“That’s right.” Mary swept forward, as though she thought traveling all the way to the Loire Valley was a great idea. “Thank you, Uncle. We would be happy to stay in your home for a while. Wouldn’t we, dear?” She smiled at Francis.
Merde.
“Good, good.” The duke smiled again. “I’ve already made all the arrangements. We can travel there tonight.”
“Very well,” said Catherine. “But if Francis is going, then I am going. I am the Queen Mother, after all. I follow my son.”
Francis sighed. “I’d much rather—”
No one seemed to hear him, though, not even Mary. She’d decided that they were going, and before he even realized, Francis was in the carriage.
Just what he wanted after five long hours of coronating.
As the carriages rolled south, leaving Reims behind, Francis sank into the cushioned bench with a sigh. He was king now, which should give him a certain measure of control over his life—a few more choices—but the crown might as well have been a collar. What he wanted mattered even less now than it had before.
What he wouldn’t give for those halcyon days of being nothing but a dauphin.
It took well over a week to reach the château. They had stopped in Paris so the servants could pack more clothes and immediate necessities; everything else would follow in a few days. Francis and Mary left the carriage only to stretch their legs, and then they were always whisked right back into the compartment.
The land was charming here, with sweeping hills, orderly vineyards, and lush orchards. They passed by several châteaus, each more elegant than the last, until finally they arrived at their destination, with so much fanfare it was embarrassing.
The townspeople had decorated the streets with Francis’s sun emblem, in celebration of his arrival, and he’d heard the cheering long after the carriages had deposited him and his court at the doors to the royal apartments. They seemed genuinely excited that the new king and queen had chosen (ahem) to come here of all places, and Francis wasn’t halfway to his rooms when he was informed of a feast tonight, in his honor.
After that, he raced upstairs to avoid any more social interaction. That had been useless. He’d found a schedule placed on one of the many tables in his rooms, detailing where he was to go, what he was to do, and—most important—what he was supposed to wear.
Francis blew out a breath and, alone for the first time in a thousand years, walked to the window where he could see the Loire River rushing by, the townspeople still celebrating in the streets, and the stars beginning to appear on the horizon.
As for the rooms Francis had been assigned, they were lavishly decorated. A massive fireplace stood along one wall, and the canopied bed was large enough for ten of him. Truly, the château was marvelous. Stately. Fit for a king. It was easy to see why Mary had wanted to come here.
Francis wished these beautiful rooms didn’t feel so much like a cage. But tomorrow, he’d begin the business of ruling a kingdom. Well, more likely it would be Catherine. And Mary. And her uncles. They were the experts, as they kept reminding him. And as he’d already seen, Mary was more than ready to put herself in charge.
A soft knock came against his door. Mary.
He started to call, “Come in,” but the door opened before he could finish, and Mary stepped inside.
Could he not even control his own door?
Obviously he wanted her to come in, but she hadn’t even waited out of politeness.
Was this what his life would be like now? Caught between what Catherine wanted and what Mary’s uncles convinced her she wanted? The years stretched long before him. He would be a king in name only, the instrument through which his mother and wife ruled France.
Without waiting for an invitation, Mary took a seat near the fireplace. “Something is on your mind.” (She was incredibly perceptive, that Mary.)
Francis looked into the crackling fire.
“Francis.” A note of irritation touched her voice. “Tell me, what is on your mind?”
He could tell her. He could say all the things he’d been thinking, tell her all the frustrations he’d been feeling, but what would that accomplish? Truly, he didn’t want to fight. Not with her, his wife, and one of the few allies he had.
He already knew how such a conversation would go. He’d say she’d spoken over him after the coronation. She’d reply that she’d known he was too tired to decide. He’d ask why she hadn’t considered he was also too tired to travel to the Loire Valley.
She’d inform him that they were already here now, so there was no point in discussing it further.
Instead of fumbling his way through that argument and all her superior logic, Francis just slouched into a chair and gazed beyond Mary, into the fireplace.
“I just keep asking myself why,” he said finally. “Why Father decided to hold a tournament. Why he felt the need to participate. Why he was so proud that he had to compete again.”
Mary’s expression melted into compassion. “Oh, Francis.”
“I wasn’t ready,” he said. “Father should still be king. He should not have participated in that joust.”
Mary didn’t respond.
“And what of Montgomery? Everyone said he would be dealt with, but no one has told me anything about where he is.”
Her eyes shifted downward.
“And why would the man agree to joust with the king, anyway?” Francis shook his head. “I know, I know, he couldn’t exactly turn down his monarch. But still, that should have made him more careful. People die in jousting tournaments.” Francis’s voice broke. “My father died. My father. And”—he drew a shuddering breath—“I just don’t understand why.”
Finally, Mary met his eyes. Her voice was soft but steady as she said, “I think I do.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Mary
Francis stared at her. “What do you understand?”
Mary swallowed. At some point in the past five minutes she’d realized that withholding things from Francis hadn’t protected him. “I know why your father died,” she murmured. “At least, I think I do. My uncles made it happen.”
He went still. “What?”
She told him everything: the conversation she’d overheard, especially that bit about Montgomery, the jubilation of her uncles now that Henry was dead, their advice that she should tell Francis what to do and guide his every decision. By the time she stopped talking, Francis’s blue eyes had gone completely cold. He jumped to his feet and started to pace.
“The audacity you’d have to have, to kill a king,” he said, and gave a hard, humorless laugh. “Your uncles are monsters.”
