by Cynthia Hand
She closed her eyes against the wave of shame. “I don’t know for certain that they were responsible, but . . .” Her gut told her they were. “If they did it, they did it for me,” she confessed. “Oh, Francis, I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”
He scoffed. “You didn’t tell them to murder my father, did you?”
“No, but . . .”
He raked a hand through his hair. “Then it’s not your fault. But—” Suddenly he turned on her. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I . . . I should have,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to burden you with anything more.”
“Burden me? Why, because you didn’t think I could handle it? Because you think I’m weak, like everyone else does?”
Her eyes widened. “No. No, of course not. I just—”
He pointed at her, scowling. “I told you your uncles were up to something. I told you so!”
He was right, but nobody likes an “I told you so,” even in French. Mary scowled right back at him.
“That was about the prenuptial agreement,” she protested.
“Oh, you don’t think that’s connected to what they’re doing now? What they did to my father?”
She regretted telling him. She understood that it had been the right thing, because he should know the truth about his father’s death. But it was rude to throw it back in her face.
“I don’t know,” she said sharply.
“Well, perhaps we should find out,” he said. “Now do you think it might be wise to spy on them?”
“Yes!” she said. “Why do you suppose I agreed to come to Château de Blois? I thought I might be able to discover what my uncles are up to here, at their home.”
“About that.” Francis was still frowning deeply. “You didn’t—you never—if you had only told me about your suspicions earlier, I would have . . .” He dragged his hand down his face, then sighed. “Fine. I can see why you might have wanted to come here. But if your uncles are really our enemy, Mary, you’ve just brought us into the lion’s den.”
“Oh, like Paris is any better?” she countered. “Your mother brought a mousetrap into our chambers!”
“She’s bluffing,” said Francis. “Fine. So she might know that you have a mousy side, and that’s a definite problem, but—”
“And how does she know that?”
“I certainly didn’t tell her. Perhaps you weren’t careful enough.”
Mary remembered, uneasily, the incident in the queen’s bedchambers. Deadly biscuit, indeed! “It doesn’t matter how she found out. You know what happens to E∂ians in this country. My royal blood won’t save me.”
Francis shuddered. “My mother would never really do that. She only cares for my welfare.”
Mary stared at him. “Have you even met your mother? She’s evil!”
“Your uncles are evil, too!” he yelled back.
“Yes, but—” Mary took a deep breath. “Fine. I will take care of this,” she said firmly. “I will discover the truth about my uncles, one way or another.”
“And you’ll tell me about it,” Francis said pointedly. “Immediately.”
“And you will smooth things over with your mother,” she said.
“I will try,” Francis agreed.
Mary twisted her ring around her finger. “And then we can decide what to do.”
But Francis didn’t seem satisfied. “Perhaps—just this once, probably—I should decide what to do, without your help. Alone.”
Her breath caught. “Francis.”
“Clearly there’s a conflict of interest for you in this situation. Considering your uncles killed my father so that you could be the queen.”
“I’m sorry,” Mary gasped.
“Don’t be sorry,” Francis said. “Be sure.”
He sounded, she thought, as a king should sound. She would almost have been proud of him if she hadn’t been so hurt by what he was saying.
There came a frantic barking at the chamber door. Flem, obviously, bearing some sort of news.
Francis grabbed his jacket where he’d flung it on the back of a chair. “I need to take a walk. Clear my head.”
He opened the door, and Flem darted past him, panting heavily. He gave a quick, perfunctory bow to Mary, so formal that it stung her, and exited to the gardens.
Mary sank onto the bed. A few days ago he would have wanted to take a walk with her. But they had just had their first official fight as a married couple. He was cross with her. Maybe he even felt like he could no longer trust her. And given what she’d told him, Mary couldn’t exactly blame him.
She became aware that Flem was still barking at her. She’d hardly ever seen her friend so excited, not even when the mailman came. Mary got up, bolted the door, and pulled the drapes over the windows. It felt risky, undergoing an E∂ian transformation here, in an unfamiliar setting, after all that had happened. There were undoubtedly secret passages here, too, and possibly peepholes or other E∂ians sent to spy. But Flem seemed desperate to tell her something.
“All right, dear, out with it,” she said when she’d secured the room as best as she could.
There was a burst of light. She held out her robe to Flem, but the girl seemed too agitated to take it.
“I’ve found Bea!”
Mary gasped. “You found her?”
“I found her scent, at least. I was sniffing around near the cellar, and I caught it. She’s here. I’m sure of it.”
If Bea was here—if she had been here, at her uncles’ château, all this time—perhaps Liv was not the only one of Mary’s ladies who was in the employ of her uncles. Perhaps they all were. She reached out and grasped Flem’s arm. “You’re not a spy for my uncles, are you? If you were, I’d understand. They’re very persuasive. But I need to know. I need you to tell me.”
Flem cocked her head to one side. “What are you going on about? Of course I’m not spying for your uncles. I patently dislike your uncles, particularly your uncle Charles. Pardon me, my queen, but I’ve always quite wanted to bite him in the arse.”
She was telling the truth. Mary felt it. Also, she knew Flem to be a terrible liar. Every time she tried to be deceitful she got this guilty look on her face and refused to meet a person’s eyes. “You say you caught her scent by the cellar?”
“Yes. I’m certain it’s Bea.”
Mary nodded. “Show me where.”
A few minutes later a woman dressed in a dark, inconspicuous robe and hood made her way to the cellar stairs holding a large basket. If anyone had seen her (which no one did) they would have thought her a washwoman, perhaps, bearing a basket of laundry. They would not have thought, Now there goes the Queen of Scots—oh, and France now, we guess.
Mary moved quickly down the stairs. In the cellar she found the usual cellar stuff—tubs of onions and potatoes, some salted meat, a large stash of ale, that kind of thing. She put the basket down, and Flem, in dog form again, hopped out and started to sniff around. After only a few seconds of investigating, the dog darted into a corner of the room, where there was a door. Upon opening it, Mary discovered yet another set of stairs, this one descending farther down, under the building. It was a black hole down there. Flem whimpered. Mary lit a candle, and without hesitation, followed the stairs into the dark.
What she found was a dungeon. There was a line of cells, each closed off by a door with a barred window at the top. Piles of chains upon the floors. It smelled of excrement and fear. Mary’s stomach turned at the prospect of what might happen in this place.
But it was empty. No prisoners at the current time. No Bea.
Flem whimpered again.
“I know,” said Mary. “But can you smell her?”
The dog traversed the corridor, nose to the ground. At the last cell on the right, she scratched at the door. Mary found it unlocked. She turned a slow circle in the cell, noting scratch marks on the walls, and dark stains on the floor, but there was no sign of her missing lady-in-waiting.
Flem didn’t
seem discouraged. She bounded over to the back wall and then pointed as she might have done if she’d treed a fox. (Although Flem never participated in foxhunting, which we as your narrators highly disapprove of, because of the poor foxes and especially if they might possibly be E∂ians.)
“There’s nothing here,” said Mary.
“Bark!” said Flem.
“What, you think there’s a secret door here somewhere?”
“BARK BARK!” said Flem.
“Shhh! Someone might hear you!” Mary admonished.
“Bark,” said Flem much more quietly.
Mary scanned the wall for a seam, but it looked like a simple stone wall. Still, she knew that appearances are often deceiving, and she trusted Flem. There must be a secret latch or switch.
It was the sconce, she discovered, the iron fitting meant to hold a candle, attached to the wall. (Of course it was.) She should have known right off—it was much too nice and clean for a space like this. And who would care if a prisoner had a candle to see by?
Mary firmly pushed the candle back, because everyone knows that’s how it works, and it gave way easily, and right before her eyes the stone wall swung open, revealing the secret passage.
“Eureka!” Mary cried. (We doubted that this was her exact word, as how would Mary know about a town in Oregon, but as it turns out, Eureka is Greek for “I found it,” and was first uttered by the mathematician and inventor Archimedes sometime between 300 and 200 BCE. And Mary had studied Greek. So she did, indeed, exclaim Eureka! when she opened the secret door.)
“Bark!” said Flem approvingly.
This is going very well, Mary thought. It was a bit of welcome excitement, given the drudgery and sorrow of the past few days. Francis had made her feel so badly about herself, but here she was solving a mystery, finding her friend, and gathering evidence against her uncles. It was turning into quite the productive day. Maybe later she and Francis would even “kiss and make up” and he’d apologize for being so mean to her.
They reached the end of the passage, where there was a huge and heavy (and imposingly locked) oak door.
“Droppings!” muttered Mary. She pushed against the door with her shoulder, but there was no possibility of forcing it. “Damned English oak!”
“Bark!” said Flem quietly. “Growl! Bark! Growl!”
“I know,” Mary said irritably. “But it’s locked. I’m no good at picking locks, are you?”
“Whine,” said Flem.
“Usually I don’t have to bother with locks,” Mary said. “I just slip underneath the door.”
“Bark!” said Flem.
Oh. “All right,” Mary said, removing her cloak, folding it neatly, and placing it at her feet. Emergency rules it was, then. “Stand watch, won’t you?”
Flash. She was a mouse. She was under the door in no time, as a mouse. Mary glanced around, sniffing. The room was deserted.
Flash. She was a person again. She turned and unlocked the door, admitting Flem and allowing herself access to her clothes.
Sometimes it was so handy, being a mouse.
She pulled the cloak around her and fumbled about the room for a light. It would have been easier to see in the darkness as a mouse, but she didn’t want to change back and forth needlessly. She located a candlestick on a desk—she was in a study of some kind, perhaps—and searched the drawer for a match.
“Whine,” said Flem.
“Be patient,” Mary said. “I’m trying my best.” At that moment her fingers closed around a matchbook. She held it up and stuck a match triumphantly, lit the candle. Smiled.
Another light flashed. Flem (as a girl) tapped her on the shoulder.
“Mary,” she whispered. “Oh, Mary, look.”
The walls were lined with cages, each one filled with animals: a rabbit, a fox, a badger, a parrot, a seagull, a lizard, even a cage containing a large glass bowl, which held a goldfish. Which seemed a little extreme.
Mary and Flem stared, openmouthed, in horror. E∂ians. They must be.
There was a feeble croaking sound from one of the cages, and Flem rushed toward it. “Bea!” she cried.
There was a sad-looking raven, half-starved, from the look of her. Her feathers, which were normally a glossy, well-groomed black, were dull and mottled with dirt. Her eyes hardly seemed to recognize them. But it was Bea.
“Find something to break the lock,” said Mary between clenched teeth.
It turned out they didn’t need to. There was a key in the desk drawer. They unlocked Bea’s cage at once and drew her out, Mary holding her gently in her arms, stroking her feathers.
“I’m so sorry. I should have thought to look for you here. I should have come sooner.”
Francis had been so right. She should have been spying on her uncles weeks ago.
Flem was moving around unlocking all the cages. Her uncles would know someone had been here, but Mary didn’t care. Most of the E∂ians stayed in their animal forms and scurried off without a word. But others remained for a moment. Lights began to flash. The fish became a man, who gurgled his thanks. The parrot became the old court jester who’d been reported drowned in the Seine years ago, his body never found. He was emaciated and battered-looking now. The seagull became a haggard-looking woman. Mary wondered if this was the woman who had been caught with John Knox’s pamphlet.
The woman bowed to Mary. “My thanks, Your Highness,” she said in a quavering voice with a strong Scottish brogue. “Perhaps we have misjudged you, in Scotland.”
Mary was surprised and a little dismayed that the woman recognized her. “Perhaps you have,” she said. “Do you know what has happened with my mother?”
“No,” said the seagull woman. “I’ve been down here for weeks.” Then she staggered toward the door.
Mary turned her attention back to Bea. “Oh, my dear. Are you all right?”
“Croak,” said Bea weakly.
Mary stroked her wing. “Stay as you are. I’ll carry you out.”
She should have stayed for a few moments longer and poked about for more clues, evidence about the death of the king, perhaps, or some idea of what the uncles were up to now. But she was too eager to get Bea out of this terrible place, so she and Flem (as a dog again) hurried back along the secret passage, through the empty dungeon, into the cellar, up the stairs, and through the halls of the château until they reached Mary’s chambers, where they rushed in and laid Bea upon the bed, bolting the door behind them.
The flash of light from Bea’s transformation was more of a flicker. Flem hurried to cover her up, not out of modesty, but to warm her. The girl immediately started to shiver and shake. Mary threw herself down beside her and wrapped her arms about her friend, while Flem ran to the fireplace to build the fire up to a roar, then went out to get some food.
“I knew you would find me,” whispered Bea. “He caught me, coming back to you. He had a net, and a man outside your window. He seemed to be expecting me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Mary said. “Who was it? Was it—”
“Your uncle Francis,” Bea said. “He said he was sorry, too, but he couldn’t have you knowing. Not just yet. He said you had enough to think about, with your wedding and the king’s impending tragedy.” She shivered. “What tragedy did he mean?”
“The king is dead,” Mary answered. “He was killed in a jousting . . . accident.” But it hadn’t been an accident—this much was crystal clear now, if her uncle had known it was about to happen. It was true, then. Her uncles had murdered the king. “What didn’t he want me to know?”
“Your mother,” Bea rasped.
Mary’s heart became a chunk of ice. She couldn’t breathe. “What about my mother?”
Bea’s dark eyes filled with tears. “When I got to Scotland, I couldn’t find her. She wasn’t at the castle at Edinburgh, or anywhere. She’s gone.”
TWENTY-SIX
Ari
“Oh, Ari. I am glad you’re here.” Queen Mary breathed a sigh of relief
at the sight of her. The queen’s eyebrows were furrowed, and her normally pretty brown eyes were red and puffy.
“What’s happening?” Ari asked. “What do you need?”
Queen Mary gestured toward her bed, where a girl with long black hair was resting under a blanket. It took a minute for Ari to realize that it was Mary Beaton, Queen Mary’s missing lady.
Bea looked emaciated and weak. Liv was sitting beside her, holding her hand.
“What happened to her?” Ari asked.
“We’re not exactly sure.” Liv exchanged glances with Queen Mary.
“Do you mind?” Ari pulled back the blanket to get a better sense of the condition of the patient. Bea had been starved—that much was immediately clear. Her skin was so pale it was almost gray. Her heartbeat was steady, but faint, and there was a worrisome wheeze to her breathing. But most concerning of all were the bruises up and down her arms, some new, some fading to yellow.
“Who did this to her?” Ari asked, aghast.
“My uncles,” Mary answered grimly. “Do you think one of your potions could help her?”
Ari felt a dart of pain when she thought about her fully stocked laboratory back in Paris, and her father, who was there, too, and who might have better known what to do. But she nodded, still staring at Bea, who was asleep, although her eyes fluttered.
“Yes. I’ll find something.” Ari hoped there were the right herbs in the kitchens.
“Good.” Mary tenderly smoothed a strand of Bea’s hair from her face. “Please be quick.”
Ari hurried to the kitchen to gather ingredients for a health and wellness tincture. The kitchen staff were bustling about preparing for a feast in Francis’s honor. Ari spotted the cook who appeared to be in charge.
“What do you want?” the cook asked.
“I need radish, bishopwort, garlic, wormwood, helenium, and cropleek.” Ari was out of breath.
“Who died and made you queen?”
“The order comes from the queen,” Ari said, mustering as much authority in her voice as she could.
The cook waved her ladle. “Which queen?”
“The queen of France!” Ari exclaimed. “I am the queen’s lady, and the queen demands it at once!”
