My Contrary Mary

by Cynthia Hand

  The room stayed silent a moment longer, then returned to a normal volume as everyone hurried to discuss what had transpired. Like Francis wasn’t even there.

  Even so, it felt good, standing up for himself. This was the best he’d felt in weeks. Unfortunately, it also felt like a terrible mistake.

  Catherine didn’t speak to him for days, which made ruling the kingdom . . . tricky, to say the least, with both of them acting like the other wasn’t there.

  She’d proclaim one thing. He’d contradict her a moment later.

  He’d declare something. She’d undermine him with her next breath.

  The nobles complained about the public bickering, how no one knew what to do anymore, the chaos this was causing throughout the kingdom, but Francis couldn’t bring himself to stop. If he stopped, Catherine won.

  One evening, about a month after they’d returned to Paris, Francis was writing a letter to Mary. He wouldn’t send it—that would be too dangerous for her—but it helped him feel better, imagining he was talking with her, getting her advice on how to handle the situation he found himself in now.

  A knock sounded on the door, and without waiting for his reply, Catherine entered.

  Francis quickly flipped his paper over. “What do you want?”

  “To make amends, my dear.” Catherine motioned for a maid to set a tray on the table. A pot of tea and plate of biscuits rested there, making the room smell heavenly. “I’ve brought a peace offering.”

  “Why?” he asked suspiciously.

  “I’ve been thinking about our argument the other day,” Catherine said. “And I’ve been thinking about what’s best for France. Our infighting is not good for the kingdom.”

  On that, Francis could agree.

  “So I thought I might come here and discuss the issues,” she went on. “Perhaps we can find some common ground. No more fighting about apple farmers.”

  A knot in Francis’s chest loosened. “All right.” He turned his chair to face her. “Have a seat.”

  The maid poured two cups of tea, then left the room. Catherine pushed one toward him. “Let’s start big. What’s important to you? Where do you see France in five years?”

  Well, for one, he saw France with both monarchs present, perhaps with an heir on the way. But he didn’t say that. Not to Catherine. “I can start sooner than that,” he said. “I want Montgomery punished.”

  Catherine nodded. “I can agree with that. He’s in our dungeon now, awaiting trial. We will ensure he is brought to justice.”

  “And anyone else who’s responsible for Father’s death.” He wanted to tell her that Mary’s uncles had been behind the murder, because Catherine would make them pay—and then some. But telling her the truth might put Mary at risk. Catherine already knew that Mary was an E∂ian; if she knew that Duke Francis and Cardinal Charles had assassinated Henry to prematurely put Mary on the French throne . . . No, Catherine would not let that slide.

  “Yes,” said Catherine. “Those responsible for Henry’s death must be held accountable.”

  Francis fought off a faint smile. Maybe his mother wasn’t so bad. They could get along—when she wasn’t being unreasonable and power hungry.

  (Which was, dear reader, all the time. But okay, Francis.)

  “What else, dear? Think big. Think beyond our family. Think like a king.”

  Francis swallowed hard. “Well, I have had something else on my mind. . . .”

  Catherine nodded encouragingly.

  “Criminal justice reform—for E∂ians.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “What do you mean?”

  “I think it’s time that we decriminalize being an E∂ian. They’re just people, like Verities.” And it didn’t hurt that accepting E∂ians would keep Mary out of danger . . . if she ever returned to Paris.

  Catherine looked pensive. “That would be an enormous overhaul of our system,” she said at last. “It would take time. Years, perhaps.”

  “You did ask for a five-year plan,” Francis reminded her.

  “Yes.” Catherine’s smile was strained. “I’m not sure this is something that we could reasonably expect to do in five years, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying. It may take longer, but we could make incremental changes to prepare the kingdom.”

  “I don’t like waiting,” Francis murmured.

  “One of the benefits of being old,” Catherine said with a wry smile, “is accepting that things worth doing take time.”

  “So you think my idea is worth pursuing?”

  “Yes, of course.” She plucked a biscuit from the plate and took a small bite. “You are the king, after all. It’s difficult for me to pass the reins of the kingdom to someone else, but you were right when you said that you must learn. I just hope that you’ll allow me to help.”

  “And by help you mean help, not take control of everything?” he asked.

  It looked like it pained her, but at last, Catherine gave a single, decisive nod.

  Finally. She was listening to him. Maybe he’d be able to pull off this king business after all.

  “Here.” Catherine nudged his teacup. “Before it gets cold.”

  Hesitantly, Francis picked himself up and went to the table to sit across from her. “Thank you, Mother. You don’t know what this means to me.”

  “You’re my son. I want you to succeed.” She sipped her tea.

  Francis sipped his. It smelled odd, like coriander mixed with chamomile, but tasted all right. He took another sip, and then reached for a biscuit. He wished Mary were here. Mary loved biscuits. He would eat an extra one for her.

  Francis sighed. “I hope Mary’s all right.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Catherine said. “Now, tell me more about your five-year plan.”

  “I want to build a university with the largest library on the continent, where everyone can study no matter their station.” Francis had no idea where that had come from, but it sounded like a fine plan.

  “Well, that certainly is ambitious. But what will we do if the peasants learn to read?”

  “I think we’d be better off—

  FLASH.

  White light enveloped him, and then everything went dark. From somewhere far, far away, he heard Catherine say, “I’m sorry, darling, but I’m afraid you left me with no other choice.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Mary

  At the exact moment of Francis’s lights-out (as he would later call it), Mary, Queen of Scots, was approximately 679 miles away from Paris. She and her ladies had arrived in Edinburgh, Scotland. They had not gone straight to the palace, however, but stopped at an inn on the outskirts of town, much as you do before you’re about to see someone you want to impress—you stop at the restroom first to fix your hair. Or, in Mary’s case, have your lady-in-waiting fix your hair.

  Everyone was a bit on edge. Ever since they’d crossed into Scotland the journey had been rough, to say the least. There’d been groups of disgruntled Scots on the roads, accosting anyone they suspected as a Verity. “Show us your animal,” they’d insist to the people they stopped, which was uncomfortable, but of course, doable, for our group of Marys. Even now, in what Mary had assumed would be the safety of Edinburgh, there were rumblings of discontent. People with pitchforks were standing around in clusters that very distinctly resembled mobs.

  “I’m sure everything will be fine,” Mary said as Hush combed out her tangled and somewhat frizzy auburn tresses—it’d been a while since she’d had access to shampoo. “My mother has probably been found by now, and she’s working to get my kingdom in order again, and this whole trip will have been for nothing.”

  The other Marys exchanged glances and murmured unintelligible things like, “Of course, you’re right, whatever you say, Your Majesty, et cetera.”

  “Then we’ll have a nice visit.” Mary sighed. “I haven’t seen my mother in so long. I wonder if she’ll even recognize me.”

  Hush set down the brush and started to plait Mary’s hair.

>   Bea paced nervously near the window. She’d fully recovered by now and had spent most of the days flying out ahead of them, scouting, or talking with other bird-type E∂ians, and at no time had she heard anything, one way or another, as to the whereabouts of Mary de Guise.

  Below, in the street, someone bellowed, “Down with the queen!” not because they knew that the queen was anywhere nearby, but because that seemed to be the sentiment of the general population.

  Yes, reader. Largely thanks to the smear campaign that John Knox had been waging against Mary all year, things were pretty bad. And Mary only knew the half of it. The pamphlet had been just the beginning. . . .

  “Of course she’ll recognize you,” said Flem, always the optimist. “But she will also be amazed at what a beautiful, graceful woman you’ve become.”

  “On that note, let’s get you dressed and looking like a queen again,” said Liv.

  “Or maybe not the queen,” Bea said quickly. “But a woman—yes.”

  Mary held up her arms, and Liv pulled a dress over her head. It felt strange. They’d spent the few weeks dressed as boys—the only way to travel safely from one country to another in the sixteenth century—and the feeling of skirts swishing around her ankles seemed foreign and suddenly stifling.

  “Don’t be nervous,” Liv said.

  “Oh, I’m not nervous,” Mary said. “I’m simply eager to find out what’s happened. I’m sure all will be perfectly well.”

  “And at least we’re not in England anymore,” Flem piped up.

  Yes, there was that.

  England, too, hadn’t been what Mary expected. First off, nobody in England seemed to be able to understand what she was saying, although Mary had been assured by all of her previous tutors that her English was quite excellent. Secondly, there seemed to be a strange disagreement among the people in England over whether Britain was actually a part of Europe. This became apparent on Mary’s first day in England, when, as they disembarked the boat at Dover, they were accosted by a man who insisted that they pay him.

  “You’ve come from France, have you?” the man had asked. (At least that’s what Mary thought he’d said, as she couldn’t understand him very well, either.)

  “Not that it’s any business of yours, sir, but yes,” she’d replied.

  The man had nodded. “There’s a tax,” he’d informed her. “Anybody leaving Europe has got to pay it.”

  “But England is a part of Europe, is it not?” Mary had argued.

  The man had shaken his head. “Not anymore, it’s not. We voted to exit from Europe five years ago.”

  Mary had never heard of this, but it sounded like a terrible idea.

  “So pay up,” the man had said.

  “Maybe we can make a deal,” Mary had suggested.

  But no deal had been struck, because Mary had decided that this man was a simple highwayman, and given Liv the signal to kick him and run away.

  It had all been quite confusing. Mary had decided that she didn’t really care for England, as a country.

  Too much rain.

  Entirely too much tea. Biscuits that weren’t actually biscuits, like what the cook at the Louvre made, but cookies. And not nearly enough wine.

  And what were these chips that people were constantly offering her?

  Mary had been most eager to get out of England. And now here they were. Arrived. In Scotland. A place she still thought of as “home,” even though she hadn’t set foot on Scottish ground in many years.

  But when she thought about the word home, the image of Francis also floated up in her mind.

  She twisted her ring around her finger. She wished he were with her. He’d be nervous about this, too (and yes, she was nervous, no matter what she claimed), but then her role would be to help Francis feel more confident. She’d say, “Eyes up,” to him, and then she’d remember to hold her head high, herself.

  She wondered what he was doing now. (Gosh—if only she knew.)

  “We’ll find her,” Liv said, assuming that Mary’s pensive silence concerned her mother.

  “I know,” Mary replied. “That’s what we’ve come to do. And so we will.”

  “I demand to be taken at once to Mary de Guise,” said Mary an hour later, at the entrance to Holyrood Palace.

  The guard squinted at her. “Oh, you demand it, do you? And who are you?”

  “I’m her daughter. She’ll wish to see me immediately.”

  The guard scoffed. “Her daughter. Mary de Guise has no daughter but the one who lives in France, and you’re not—”

  “I am the Queen of Scotland, England, and France,” said Mary, straightening to her full height. (Never mind that Elizabeth was currently queen of England, where she claimed to be the reigning monarch of England, Scotland, and France.) “I am your queen, in fact. Now announce me to my mother, before you irritate me further.”

  If you have to say you’re the king, she remembered from her fight with Francis, cringing inwardly, then you really aren’t one.

  Sigh. She even missed Francis’s mad face. He’d been so very angry at her the last time she’d seen him, and with good cause, she supposed. It seemed like so long ago, she could hardly remember what they’d quarreled over. Oh, right. Her leaving to search for her mother. Which she was still doing, right now.

  She supposed he was even angrier with her now that she’d abandoned him. He’d do that funny little hop he did whenever he was truly angry. The one that always made her want to smile.

  “Wait here,” said the guard.

  She was about to tell him that queens did not wait, unless they wanted to, but he had already shut the door. She glanced around at her ladies, who all looked nervous for a different reason. Bea, most of all.

  After a moment the door opened again, and James Stuart, the Earl of Moray, stepped out.

  “Mary!” he gasped in amazement, and then looked around to see who had noticed them and ushered Mary quickly inside. “What are you doing here?”

  “Is that any way to greet your sister?” she said, leaning to kiss his cheek.

  Half sister, technically. James was her older half brother, the bastard son of her father, but Mary considered him a whole part of her family. When she was a small girl she’d called him “horsey” and rode around on his back while he’d whinnied and bucked (but not in an E∂ian way, of course) to make her squeal with laughter.

  Now she found him a rather dour-faced man with a weak chin and an even weaker smile.

  “I’m surprised to see you, is all,” he said. “I didn’t know you were planning a visit. And . . . why?”

  “I need to see Mother,” she said. “Is she here?”

  A strange expression crossed his face, guilt, perhaps, and sorrow.

  “So it’s true, then,” Mary said softly. “She’s gone missing.”

  “Not just missing,” said James. “Your mother is dead.”

  Afterward (Mary couldn’t have said how long, as time got fuzzy for a while) Mary got through it all by doing what so many people do: she threw herself into work.

  “I’d like to take a tour,” she told James. “Now, please.”

  “Of the palace?” he asked.

  “Yes. And then of the city.”

  “You’ve been traveling so long,” he said. “Surely you should take a few days to rest.”

  “And after that, I’d like to travel the country,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. Rest sounded like the last thing she needed. “The people should know that I am here, quite well in both body and spirit and capable of serving as their queen after my mother’s . . .”

  She still couldn’t say out loud that her mother was dead. James had shown her the grave of Mary de Guise, and told her about how the sudden onslaught of “the Affliction” (a kind of catch-all illness of the time, like dropsy or consumption) had spirited her mother away in the span of a few days, so quickly that the doctors had hardly been called before she passed. But it seemed to Mary that this must all be a great misundersta
nding. Her mother could simply not be dead. She was only still missing. She would return. She would be found. But until then . . .

  Mary cleared her throat. “The people will want to meet their queen, and I wish to meet them, as well.”

  “The people aren’t in a very good mood,” James said.

  “Yes, I noticed,” said Mary. “We shall have to remedy that.”

  “I don’t know if that’s something you can remedy,” James said.

  “Well, I can certainly try. I refuse to cower in the castle, if that’s what you’re suggesting I do. No, thank you. A queen must be bold and decisive.”

  James’s expression became resigned. “Very well. I will make the arrangements. But I do not believe it to be a good idea, in truth. You have enemies here, Mary. It’s not safe to parade about the country unguarded.”

  “So guard me,” Mary said, her brow rumpling. “I’m aware of what’s being said about me. I’ve even seen the pamphlet. But why should these people really be my enemies? What have I done but give my body and soul over to the interests of my country?”

  “We’re in the middle of an E∂ian rebellion,” James reminded her.

  “Yes, but why?”

  “You are a Verity monarch,” James said plainly.

  Well. That was a matter of opinion.

  “And you may be of Scottish blood, but you’ve lived your entire life in France, which causes many to see you as a foreigner.”

  “I am a Scot!” Mary protested hotly. “It’s right in my name.”

  “You even speak Scottish with a French accent,” James pointed out.

  “I do not!” She glanced at her ladies, who were standing beside her looking very uncomfortable about this conversation. “Do I?”

  “No, Your Majesty,” they murmured in unison, but they didn’t meet her eyes.

  Oh. Droppings.

  “And to top it off, you’re a woman, which many people—but not me, I assure you—believe are not fit to be the rulers of countries,” James said softly. “So, to sum up, you’re a female, Verity, foreigner—the embodiment of all that the people dislike and distrust.”

  This felt like a very unfair assessment.