by Cynthia Hand
“We thank you.” Elizabeth’s voice was strong, somewhat monotonous in her royal speech. “We will delight in this gift.”
“In spite of all the upheavals in France,” the man said, “our friendship with England is unshakable. The House of Guise wishes nothing but the best for England, and for you, its rightful queen.”
Finally, Francis and Edward pushed into the fore of the crowd, just in time to see a golden, bejeweled box pass into Elizabeth’s hands. And before her stood a man in de Guise livery. He was a messenger, possibly the son of some lesser member of the house.
“Stop!” cried Francis, forgetting to switch to English as he darted toward the queen.
“Guards!” Elizabeth’s eyes went wide.
“Bess, wait!” Edward shouted, but it was too late. Three guards materialized from the background and grabbed Francis.
“Release him!” ordered Edward. “Bess, tell them to let him go.”
“Who is this?” Elizabeth asked, and then looked at Francis. “Wait. You are familiar.”
“Francis Valois.” Francis tried to wrestle away from the guards, but they were stronger than him. He settled for standing up as straight as he could. And speaking in English. “The rightful king of France.”
“You’re supposed to be dead.” The messenger glanced from Francis to the box that rested on Elizabeth’s lap. “What are you doing here?”
“Stopping you from assassinating the queen of England.”
Gasps rippled through the audience.
“What do you mean?” asked Elizabeth, then turned to the young man. “My lord Claude, explain yourself.”
“There is nothing to explain,” said Claude. “I’ve come simply to reestablish our friendship—”
“Lies!” Francis shouted. “You lie!”
“Release Francis,” Edward told the guards. “He’s on our side.”
Francis wouldn’t have gone that far, but it would do for now.
When the queen nodded, the guards let go.
Francis approached the queen. “Your Majesty, if I may examine this so-called gift?”
Queen Elizabeth handed it over. She still looked the part of a queen, but Francis didn’t miss the slight tremor in her hands, the faint worry in her eyes as she exchanged looks with Edward.
Francis’s hands were shaking, too, as he took the box. His trembling was more visible. Even so, he looked straight at Claude and said, “I won’t let your family murder another monarch.” Then he threw the golden puzzle box to the marble floor. The wood cracked open, and a snake—a viper—slithered out.
Alarm spread through the audience as everyone backed away. The viper was an E∂ian, certainly, because it whipped around Claude protectively.
“Guards, seize them both!” Elizabeth commanded, and they moved immediately toward the young man and the snake. One held a basket, ready to trap the creature.
As the assassins were captured and taken from the throne room, a sense of relief washed over Francis. He’d done it. He’d saved the queen of England. The viper E∂ian wouldn’t be able to lie in wait and bite her while she slept tonight.
“Well,” said Elizabeth. “This was certainly exciting. Now, let’s discuss who is trying to kill us, and why.”
FORTY
Mary
“How are you?” Darnley asked as he and Mary strolled through the orchard. It was a nice day, one of the few Mary had seen since arriving in Scotland. The sun was shining, birds were singing in the trees, and there was only the faintest smell of smoke from when the castle had burned earlier. “You look better than when I last saw you.”
“I’m as well as can be expected, I suppose,” Mary said. She did look better, much better, in fact. She’d bathed and eaten and slept a bit. But she’d been oddly numb for the past few days. No more tears for Francis. No moments of anguish at the thought of him. No painful, unbidden memories. She had been going about her day on what she would have called autopilot, if autopilot had been invented yet. Or autos. Or pilots.
“I can only imagine how you’re suffering,” said Darnley. “I was in love, once. It ended badly, and it was years before I fully recovered.”
“Oh, it wasn’t like that with Francis,” Mary said quickly, but saying this felt false, like a bald-faced lie, in fact. She touched the ring on her hand. “I mean, I’d known I was going to marry him for as long as I can remember, and I loved him dearly, but it wasn’t what the poets write about. It wasn’t love love.”
“I see,” said Darnley. “Have you ever been in love love?”
“No,” she said stiffly after a moment, but again, this felt wrong to her.
“We’re not supposed to find that kind of love, you and I,” Darnley remarked. “We’re supposed to do as we’re told, and marry whom we’re told, and behave how we’re told. Love is a luxury we can’t afford.”
She nodded. “Indeed.” It felt odd for him to be talking about the improbability of love when at any moment she expected him to ask about marrying one of her ladies-in-waiting. She was planning to put forward Flem, if he asked. Seeing as how apparently Flem had fallen in love with this man at first sniff.
“I’ve led a charmed life,” he continued. “I know I am fortunate to have the wealth and privilege I’ve enjoyed. But just once I’d like to simply be who I am without all the pressure to be so—I don’t know—perfect. You know?”
She did know. All too well. “Oh, so you’re perfect, are you?” she challenged, trying to lighten the mood. “And modest too, I see.”
He smiled. “I am. Perfectly modest. And people also tell me I’m pretty.”
She laughed, which surprised her. She didn’t think she should be capable of laughing. So then she frowned. “One of my ladies certainly thinks so,” she said, to move the conversation over to her ladies.
“Does she?”
“Yes, she—”
“And what do you think?” he asked.
She blinked a few times. “Well. I find you pleasant to look upon, I suppose.”
“Thank you,” he said, as if her complement had been her own idea. “I happen to think you’re stunning.”
Oh dear. She was starting to understand that maybe it wasn’t Mary’s ladies he was interested in. Or maybe he was like this with all women. James had said he was a ladies’ man.
“Actually, you’re the perfect one,” Darnley continued. “Everyone says so.”
“Yes, well, everyone doesn’t know me very well,” she answered.
Darnley stopped beneath an apple tree and reached up to pick an apple. “They do say that you have one flaw. But it’s a small one. Easy to overlook.”
She gazed at him quizzically. “And what flaw is that?”
“You’re contrary,” he answered.
“I am not,” she said instantly, then blushed.
“There’s even been a poem written about it,” he added, and then cringed, as if he had not meant to tell her about it.
“What poem?” she gasped. “By whom?”
“It’s nothing much.” He took a bite from the apple, revealing a flash of strong white teeth. “I don’t know. Everyone in Scotland’s been reciting it for weeks.”
That didn’t sound especially good. “How does it go?”
“Are you sure you want to hear it?”
“Is it . . . unflattering?”
“That depends on your interpretation, I suppose.”
“Tell me,” she demanded.
“All right.” He tossed the apple aside and stood up straight, clasping his hands behind him and clearing his throat as though he were on a stage, in front of an audience, about to give a grand performance. “‘Mistress Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? With silver bells, and cockle shells, and pretty maids all in a row.’”
Her eyebrows squeezed together. “But I don’t even have a garden.”
“I think the garden is supposed to represent your reign over the realm.”
She immediately felt foolish. “Oh. And the silver bells
are—”
“The bells of the Verity Church, of course. And the pretty maids are your four ladies. As for the cockle shells, I don’t know. I asked one fellow who seemed to think it meant that you’d left your husband for another man, which would have made Francis a cuckold, you see, but I’ve also heard that it refers to your expensive tastes, like for exotic food such as cockles.”
(Your narrators here. Yikes, this harmless-sounding poem is actually so mean! In our research, we have found that the poem—or nursery rhyme, as it would become—possibly did refer to Mary, Queen of Scots. Cockles, for your information, are small mollusks—like clams. Which Mary was apparently quite fond of. Which, in some people’s eyes, made her a snob.)
Mary tossed her hair over her shoulder irritably. “Oh, so everyone in the kingdom is saying that I’m a contrary Verity with an uncertain reign who’s either a faithless cheater or an excessive spender completely out of touch with the Scottish people? That’s a bit more than one small flaw, don’t you think?”
His smile faded. “I apologize, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to rile you.”
“I bet it was Knox who wrote that poem!” Mary railed. “He’d happily see me run out of the country.”
“But you haven’t been run out of the country,” Darnley said.
She gestured to the charred tower. “Not yet.”
“You have friends in Scotland still. Allies.”
She glanced around at the empty orchard. “Like who?”
“Like me,” he answered simply. “I will be your ally, Mary. If you’ll allow me to be.”
She gazed at him appraisingly. “And what do you wish, in return?” She was starting to get some idea. “Have you set your sights on one of my pretty maids?” she asked, because she was still hoping this was about the Marys, any of the Marys but her. “Do you want me to line them up in a row for you? Because I can.”
He shook his head. “No. I’m not after your ladies.”
Droppings. “What, then?”
He didn’t speak, but the way he looked at her, his eyes imploring, yearning, even, answered the question.
“No,” Mary blurted out. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“I realize that we’ve only just met,” he said gently. “I do not wish to rush you, or impose myself upon you during this time of great upheaval in your life. But you need protection—now, today—and I can offer you that. We could be ourselves with each other, at the very least, and in time perhaps you’d come to feel for me something like what you did for Francis. Not love, but comradery. Companionship. Friendship. Trust.”
His offer wasn’t unreasonable, she realized dazedly. Darnley was being generous, in fact. It turned out that he and Mary had much in common (like, cough, grandparents). He was fair company, pretty, as he’d humblebragged, but sharp-witted enough to keep up with her. He’d made her laugh. But the thing was: Mary was not ready to laugh yet. She was not ready to notice a man for his prettiness. She didn’t want to—it felt disloyal. To Francis.
“I’m sorry. I can’t,” she whispered, and turned and fled back to the castle, leaving Darnley staring forlornly after her.
She hadn’t been back in her chambers for more than a minute or two when she was summoned to the throne room again.
“No,” she barked to the messenger. “Tell my brother that I am not to be ordered about like a common chambermaid. If I want to talk to anyone, I shall summon you.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” mumbled the messenger, and slunk away.
“Are you all right?” Liv asked softly.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Mary said, and sat down in a huff. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“How did it go with Lord Darnley?” Flem asked, even as Bea hissed out a warning for her to hold her tongue. “Did he ask for one of our hands in marriage? What was he wearing? Was he as clever and rich and handsome as he was before?”
“If you like him so much, you marry him!” Mary exclaimed.
Flem looked confused. “That’s what I was talking about! I’d be happy to marry him, as I said. He’s dreamy.”
Mary clenched her teeth to hold in a scream.
“Look, dear, there’s that troublesome squirrel stealing seeds from our bird feeder,” murmured Hush. “Can you please go take care of that?”
“Oh, yes, I do detest that squirrel!” Flem cried, and darted off to spend the rest of the afternoon barking up a tree. For once, Mary was relieved to see her go.
Liv closed the door. “What happened? Did Darnley behave improperly toward you? Because if he did I’ll . . .”
“No,” Mary said quickly. “He was perfectly well behaved, which is rather the problem.”
“Was your brother correct?” asked Hush tremulously. “Does he wish to wed one of us?”
“No.” Mary sighed. “It’s me he wishes to marry.”
The three remaining Marys drew in a shocked collective breath.
“He proposed?” Liv gasped.
“Not in so many words,” Mary admitted. “But he made his intentions clear enough.”
Bea made a sound like an outraged croak. “But Francis just—”
“I know.”
“You’ve only had a few days to process what’s happened,” Hush said softly.
“I know.”
“You’re expected to be in mourning for at least a year before it’s appropriate to see suitors,” Liv pointed out.
“I know!” Mary exclaimed, standing up and starting to pace. “Darnley knows that, too. He just . . .” She bit her lip. “He believes that I’m in danger now, and it would be safer for both me and for Scotland if I were to marry again, as soon as possible. He was quite nice about it, actually.”
“How gallant of him,” Liv said dryly.
“And how did you answer him?” asked Hush.
Mary rubbed her eyes. “I said no, of course.”
“Of course,” agreed Bea. “Because it’s ludicrous, the idea that you would marry again so soon after—”
“I know,” Mary said.
There was a knock on the door. The messenger, again. He looked sufficiently miserable about it. “Your brother says you really must come. It’s a matter of national importance.”
Mary snorted.
“I’m sure he wishes me to pick the royal china pattern, is all.” There’d been a lot of that kind of thing since she’d arrived in Scotland and taken over for her mother. Insignificant busy work.
“There are some men who wish to see you.”
Mary exchanged glances with her ladies. “Men? More men?”
“More suitors?” Hush whispered.
“How is that even possible?” scoffed Liv.
Mary straightened. “Fine. Let’s go see. Fetch me my crown.”
The men who wished to see Mary were not suitors, as it turned out. They were Mary’s uncles.
Mary would rather have faced suitors.
“Mary!” beamed Uncle Charles. “Thank heavens you’re safe. We’ve been sick with worry since you mysteriously vanished from our château in the middle of such a pleasant visit.”
Uncle Francis (not her Francis, Mary thought bitterly) rushed forward and cupped her cheeks in his hands. “Whyever did you leave like that, child, without telling us where you were going? You know we could have helped you with anything you felt you needed.” He glanced for a long moment at Bea, who was standing with the other Marys in the background. Bea’s chin lifted, but Mary could tell she was terrified. All of her ladies (save Flem, who was still outside) looked frightened. Which was completely reasonable.
Mary stepped back from her uncles. Rage filled her, but her first instinct was to play along with them, to act as though she didn’t know anything, to make small talk and be nice. She could behave, as she always had. It was the safest course of action. But the ruse was up. She was obviously the one who had freed Bea from their dungeon. And Liv, too, was still at Mary’s side. Her uncles knew that she knew all about their treachery.
(Your narrato
rs here: well. Not all of their treachery.)
“All my life, I trusted you,” she began in a low voice. “I was such a fool.”
James rose, looking worriedly at the other courtiers in the room. It was clear that Mary was about to make a scene.
“Perhaps this is a conversation that the queen wishes to have with her uncles in private?” he suggested, and the lords and ladies reluctantly left the great hall, murmuring to themselves. James glanced at Mary. She tilted her head to indicate that he and the other Marys should retreat, as well.
“You are upset, my dear,” Uncle Charles remarked once everyone had gone. “Which is understandable. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal.”
“Any ordeals I’ve been through have been at your hand,” Mary said. “If my life has been a tragic story, then the two of you have authored it.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” tsked Uncle Francis. “You’re fine, aren’t you? Ruling Scotland directly, as you always wanted to. Your mother would be so proud.”
“Don’t you dare talk about my mother!” Mary fumed. Then: “What happened to my mother? What did you do to her?”
“Our sister died of ‘the Affliction,’” Uncle Charles said somberly. “We were as saddened as you to hear it.”
“No.” Mary shook her head so violently her crown tumbled to the floor. “I won’t believe it. She learned of your plans, and she wouldn’t go along with them, so you got rid of her somehow. And then you killed the king of France! You set all of this in motion! I always knew that you were ruthless men, but now I know you to be treasonous, as well.”
Her uncles regarded her calmly. “Anything we did, we did for you, my dear. For your throne. For your well-being. As we have always done. Because we love you,” Uncle Charles said.
“Did you kill Francis, as well?” Mary stormed. “I’ll—I’ll kill you if you killed him.”
