My Contrary Mary

by Cynthia Hand

  “A raven?” Francis asked. “If a raven’s come from up north, that means it’s possible to get through the skirmishes. Perhaps I can send a message to my wife.”

  The servant was breathing hard. “It’s the first one we’ve received in weeks. E∂ian birds are being shot out of the skies. They’re scared to fly.”

  Queen Elizabeth stood up. “What is the message?”

  The servant unraveled a rumpled piece of parchment.

  “It is news from Edinburgh. Mary, Queen of Scots, is engaged to be married to Henry Stuart, Lord of Darnley.”

  FORTY-TWO

  Francis

  The words echoed in the room. Mary was engaged. To some man named Darnley.

  “That’s not possible,” Francis said. “She wouldn’t.”

  Ari touched his shoulder. “Francis—”

  “No.” Francis jerked away. “She wouldn’t get married again. Not yet. I’ve been dead five minutes. My corpse isn’t even cold.”

  “Um,” said the servant. “Should I be writing this down?”

  “Please don’t,” said Elizabeth, settling into her chair again.

  “I mean,” Francis went on, “I know she didn’t love me romantically, and I accept that. Really.”

  “We all believe you,” said Ari.

  Elizabeth was shaking her head in a way that suggested she didn’t believe him.

  “But we did love each other, in our way, and how could she get over me that quickly?” Francis threw his hands into the air. “I would never marry again, if she’d been the one to not actually die.”

  “I doubt she has much of a choice,” Elizabeth said. “She is a queen. We are constantly being pressured to marry. For the good of the kingdom.” She threw a sharp glance at Cecil.

  Francis closed his eyes. That was true. It was why he and Mary had been engaged at such young ages. It was why Elizabeth had been presented with suitor after suitor. The goal was to produce an heir and preserve the family’s power.

  His breath caught. Heirs.

  Mary was probably doing this because she felt she didn’t have a choice but to wed again and produce an heir as soon as possible. To secure her throne.

  The thought made Francis sick. Everything that he and Mary had put aside because they weren’t ready, all that jumping on the bed and laughing, all their joking that they had forever before they had to worry about the heir part of marriage . . . He’d been so foolish. He should have told her right then how much he cared for her. How much he loved her.

  His stomach turned as he imagined Mary sleeping, her long auburn hair fanned out, her breath soft and even—and she was lying next to another man.

  This Lord Darnley.

  “No.” The word came out a deep growl. “I cannot permit this to happen. Mary is my wife. She belongs with me.” And he belonged with her. He had always belonged with her, and nothing—not even death—would change that.

  Elizabeth looked up from her conversation with the servant; they’d been talking while Francis was having what probably counted as a complete meltdown.

  “You are dismissed,” the queen told the servant. Then, after the man had bowed and left the room, Elizabeth turned to Francis and said, “Sit. We must discuss this new development.”

  “What is there to discuss? I have to put a stop to this. Please. You have to let us leave for Scotland immediately.”

  Elizabeth just waited.

  “This is outrageous!” Francis’s stomach knotted. “I’m still alive. We’re still married.”

  “She doesn’t know that,” Ari said gently. “She’s only trying to do what is best for Scotland.”

  What if Mary went through with it? What if she actually married someone else and Francis never told her how he felt? What if he never got to apologize for the way they’d parted back in the Château de Blois? He would never forgive himself if he didn’t make things right with her.

  And if she still wanted to marry Darnley?

  If she wanted an annulment, now that Catherine and Charles IX were ruling France?

  The thought made him light-headed, and he staggered into the nearest chair.

  “How can we stop this?” Francis said. “We must send a message immediately to let her know that I’m still alive.”

  “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible,” Elizabeth said. “You heard my servant. E∂ian ravens won’t fly. Knox’s rebellions are growing more and more violent. We cannot risk another E∂ian being captured, especially with sensitive information.”

  Francis closed his eyes. “There must be another way. If your wife were getting married to some strange foreign lord, you’d try to stop her, too. You know you would.”

  “That’s fair,” Ari admitted. “I would. I mean, I have.”

  “Unfortunately,” Elizabeth said, “Henry Stuart isn’t just some foreign lord. He is my cousin. Mary’s cousin. He’s in line for both the English and the Scottish thrones.”

  “Oh.” Francis could hardly breathe.

  Cecil jumped into the conversation again. “We must consider that she is making a play for Elizabeth’s crown.”

  “But given recent events,” Elizabeth said, “it seems just as likely that Darnley is her uncle’s scheme, planted there to give them more control. She may yet come for my throne, but it will be the Duke of Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine pulling her strings.”

  “Mary is no one’s puppet!” Francis said—because he would always try to defend her, but he realized Elizabeth was probably right. It made sense that the uncles would be behind this.

  “I know this Lord Darnley,” Elizabeth continued, as though Francis hadn’t said anything.

  Francis looked up at her and leaned forward. “Tell me about him. Please. I have to know who I’m up against.”

  A faint, sad smile twisted Elizabeth’s mouth. “I’m afraid that Darnley was one of my many suitors, some time ago.”

  “He sure gets around,” Ari murmured.

  “Why didn’t you marry him?” Francis asked. If only Elizabeth had married that scoundrel, then he wouldn’t be after Mary’s hand right now.

  “Because I never want to get married to anyone,” Elizabeth said matter-of-factly. “But even if I were to marry, it wouldn’t be to him. He presents himself as a good man, a kind and charming person who can both listen and speak, whichever the occasion calls for. He’s charismatic, and I suspect there’s a trail of broken hearts following in his wake. However . . .”

  Francis leaned forward. “Yes?”

  “Well, he liked to explain things.”

  Ari gasped. “No.”

  Elizabeth nodded solemnly. “Indeed. He once decided I needed to hear the entire history of my own family, as though I were not already aware of my ancestors’ lives. I might have forgiven him as simply an interested party, but he misrepresented several key details.” She sighed and waved that aside. “But more pressingly, he desires to raise his station. As I said, he is my cousin, and Mary’s cousin, as well. Thus, he is in line to inherit both thrones. If he were to marry Mary, it would give him—and Mary—a claim to my throne. I cannot allow it. If she marries Darnley, I will have no choice but to respond accordingly. I will have to send soldiers north.”

  “Then we want the same thing: to stop this wedding.” Francis was coming to admire Elizabeth. She was a strong monarch, one he would like to emulate, if he ever got his throne back. But most of all, she seemed like a reasonable human being, one who wanted to stop fighting and start mending relationships.

  “It will be dangerous,” Elizabeth said. “You could die.”

  But Francis stood, a strange calm coming over him. “Prepare whatever soldiers you want to send. We will leave immediately.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Mary

  The second wedding day of Mary, Queen of Scots, began much as the first one had. Mary went about getting ready with a sense that everything would be changed after today. She felt strangely calm, considering. When she’d married Francis she’d been a tangle of nerve
s, worried about how well she’d represent herself (and Scotland) in front of all those people in the grand cathedral of Notre Dame, worried about how Francis would do under the pressure, and worried about the wedding night and what she and Francis would do together.

  That former Mary (of only a few months ago, we should point out) seemed hopelessly naive to her now. She’d thought of her wedding as an ending to all of the waiting and promises she’d been given since she was a child. But today’s Mary saw her wedding as a beginning, one in which she would take control of her destiny, wrest her future out of her uncles’ hands, and make new alliances to secure her throne.

  Speaking of the uncles:

  “They wish to have an audience with you,” said Liv tightly as Mary took her breakfast in her private quarters. “Before the wedding.”

  Of course they did. They still disapproved of her marrying Darnley, which only made Mary want to marry Darnley more.

  “Bring them in now,” Mary directed. “Let’s get their dramatics over with.”

  Liv frowned (even the very sight of the uncles filled Liv with dread), but she did as she was asked.

  “My dear,” said Uncle Francis jovially as the two men swept into the room in a flurry of fine silks and velvets. “You look radiant. Congratulations on your happy, happy day. We are so pleased for you.”

  Uh-oh, thought Mary. The uncles did, indeed, seem pleased. They were smiling, in fact. As if everything was going according to their plans.

  “Thank you,” Mary said slowly. “I know this isn’t the match you wished for me, but I believe . . .”

  “Oh, we like Darnley now,” said Uncle Charles. “He’ll do, in a pinch.”

  “But . . .”

  “Like you said, he is of royal blood,” added Uncle Francis. “Together you’ll have a much stronger claim of the thrones of both Scotland and England. And your son will be the undisputed ruler of the entire realm. Darnley is a wise choice. You’re developing quite a sharp and discerning political mind, aren’t you? Good for you. Smart girl.”

  Alarm bells were sounding in Mary’s head. Her plan had been to defy her uncles and send them packing back to France. She didn’t know what to do with them if they were going to claim to be on her side.

  “I . . . uh, why, thank you,” she said.

  “We will, of course, have to move up our plans for dealing with Elizabeth,” said Uncle Francis.

  “How so?” Mary had her own plans. All week she’d been composing a long letter to Queen Elizabeth putting forth a new idea: that the two of them be allies. Mary had decided that she had no true desire to rule England, no matter what her uncles said. Scotland was enough for her. So it made sense to align herself with Elizabeth, who was, after all, another woman simply trying to keep a tenuous hold on her crown. They could be sister queens, is how Mary had phrased it in the letter. Perhaps even, in time, friends.

  “We’ve had word that a contingent of English soldiers crossed the border in Scotland yesterday, heading fast for Edinburgh,” said Uncle Francis.

  Mary stared at him. “English soldiers? But why?”

  He shrugged. “To stop the wedding, of course. Elizabeth will see your marrying Darnley as an act of war, a move to take the throne of England. Which of course it is. She’d do anything to keep that from happening.”

  “But I’m not trying to . . . I don’t intend . . .”

  “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, my dear,” said Uncle Francis, patting her hand. “Elizabeth’s men are too far away. They won’t reach here in time to stop the wedding. And even if they do, we’ve rallied an army of our own to defend you. Plus we have triple the usual men guarding the castle, and the captain of the guard has the only key to the castle gate, and we’re told he has the heart of a lion. You will marry Darnley in peace, I swear it.”

  Droppings, thought Mary. But her uncles being for her marrying Darnley (and Elizabeth apparently being against it) didn’t mean that Mary still shouldn’t marry him. Did it?

  She needed to think. Unfortunately there wasn’t much time for that.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must prepare myself.”

  “Of course,” said the uncles in unison, and bowed, and saw themselves out.

  “Well, they were entirely too pleased with themselves,” said Liv, her brow furrowed.

  “I know,” murmured Mary. “I know.”

  Flem came bustling in then, bearing a huge bouquet of red roses. “From Darnley,” she said, beaming, but then sobered. “For you, I guess.”

  Mary took the bouquet. She’d never cared for roses. Red roses were meant to represent love. She’d told Darnley not to expect love. So what was he doing?

  “There’s also a note,” said Flem, and handed a piece of parchment to Mary.

  For my red queen, it read. To symbolize my utter devotion to you, if not my love.

  All right, then, Mary thought. Darnley would do in a pinch, as her uncle had put it. She must take things one step at a time.

  Speaking of steps, a bent-over old woman had inexplicably appeared in Mary’s chamber now—how had she gotten in?—and for some reason was thrusting a pair of shoes at Mary.

  “Blue shoes for your blue gown,” the woman croaked.

  “Thank you, but who are you, madam?” Mary asked.

  “I was a maidservant to your mother,” the old lady answered. “I know she would want you to have these today.”

  “These were my mother’s shoes?” Mary shouldn’t have been surprised. Most of what she’d been wearing since she’d arrived in Edinburgh had once belonged to her mother. But this felt different. As if, through this old woman, her mother was reaching across the chasm to give her a gift.

  Blue suede shoes.

  Which could count as something old and something blue.

  “Yes. She was most grieved that she could not be there on the day of your first wedding,” rasped the old woman.

  “I felt her absence keenly that day,” replied Mary, although looking back on it now, it seemed to her that it really had been the happiest day of her life. Things had been going markedly downhill for Mary since then.

  The old woman grasped Mary’s hand, her grip surprisingly smooth and strong. “Your mother is with you, my dear. Whether or not you can see her, she’s always with you.”

  Mary nodded. “Yes, yes, in my heart. I know.”

  The woman gave a brittle laugh. “And she is proud of you.”

  Would she really be proud, though? Mary didn’t know the answer to that question. Certainly Mary de Guise knew what it was like to marry a second time for an entirely political reason. Like mother, like daughter, Mary thought.

  “Excuse me, but your other guest—the one you had me send for—has just arrived,” Flem interrupted. She paused and cocked her head at the sight of the old woman, her nostrils flaring. Then she shook her head as if to clear it. “He kept calling me you, girl. He’s a disagreeable fellow, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Mary said, taking the blue suede shoes from the old woman and giving her a gold coin for her trouble. She straightened her shoulders. “Please send him in.”

  “Why have you called me here?” John Knox said loudly, glancing around as if he was expecting to be attacked.

  Mary, who had been standing at the window gazing down into the garden, turned to look at him. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  He scoffed. “A favor? Why would I do you a favor? Why just days ago—”

  “You were trying to burn down my castle and run me out of the country, I know, I know,” she interrupted. “I was hoping we could get past that. I’m getting married today, you see.”

  He scratched underneath his beard, which was still the most terrible beard in existence. “I know. It’s outrageous, if you ask me. Why, your last husband is hardly cold in the ground and here you are throwing yourself into the arms of another man.”

  Mary’s hands clenched into fists, but she forced herself to relax. “My marriage is entirely
political, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”

  “I’m sure I can’t,” he said. “So what is the favor you would ask of me?”

  She really disliked John Knox, but he wasn’t one to beat around the bush, which she found refreshing.

  “I’d like you to marry me,” she said.

  His mouth dropped open. A fly fluttered out of his horrible beard and almost into his throat, but then he closed his mouth again just in time. “You want to marry me?” he sputtered. “I am already married, and you . . . you are . . .” All at once he took in her attire. She was still wearing her dressing gown, without jewels or finery, her hair loose about her shoulders. “Is there no end to your depravity?”

  With great effort, she produced a smile. “You misunderstand me, sir. I don’t want to marry you. I wish you to marry me. As a man of God. Today. To Lord Darnley.”

  “Oh.” Knox scowled. “Of course I would never do that. I am an E∂ian, as you know, and you are a treacherous Verity of the worst sort. If I were to marry you it would seem as though I supported you and your reign. Which of course I do not.”

  “Oh, come now,” Mary said. “We are not so different, you and I.”

  “We are completely different,” he argued.

  Behind him, Liv closed the door and locked it.

  Knox startled in alarm. “What is the meaning of this? You think to take me prisoner? The people of Scotland will not stand for that, you know. Why, right now they—”

  “Are you sure?” Liv asked Mary softly.

  Mary nodded.

  “Release me at once!” screamed Knox.

  “Oh, do shut up,” said Mary. “Just watch.”

  She looked him in the eye and changed. Light flashed, and she was a mouse. She moved easily from the folds of her dressing gown to stand, tiny but proud, before the gaping E∂ian minister.

  Liv bent and scooped her up. She held out her hand to Knox, with Mary sitting calmly in her palm.

  “Her Majesty wishes you to know her true nature,” Liv said. “So that you will realize what the two of you have in common.”