by Cynthia Hand
“Stop!” Francis lurched forward as all the gazes in the chapel swung toward him. “I object!”
“It’s too late,” someone said. “We already did that part.”
“Who is that?” someone else asked.
“What does he think he’s doing?” another asked.
The old Francis—the Francis from a few months ago—would have withered under their curious and judging stares, but now, he just raised his voice. “I am Francis Valois, king of France. Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, is my wife.”
The words echoed for a moment as Francis focused completely on Mary. Their gazes locked, and Francis’s heart nearly stopped under the force of her attention. But the grief in her eyes turned to recognition, then shock, then wide-eyed understanding that he was alive, and he’d come for her.
“Francis.” Her voice was soft, barely a whisper, but he felt it deep in his chest. The beginnings of a smile touched the corners of her mouth.
For Francis, the whole world could have stopped spinning right there. Nothing else mattered, nothing except crossing the chapel to take Mary into his arms. His Mary. His wife. His queen.
He didn’t notice the commotion of the crowd, all the people asking, “What is going on?” and “That’s the king of France? I thought he’d be taller.” He didn’t notice the shuffling of various groups, the hiss of swords sliding out of sheaths, or the whispered instructions from various nobles to their men.
Tension hummed throughout the chapel, but Francis had eyes only for Mary.
She took one halting step toward him. “Francis. You’re—”
“Alive!” Duke Francis peeled away from the congregation. “My boy, you’re alive.”
“I’m aware,” Francis said, still staring at Mary. He didn’t know what to do now. His entire plan had been focused on getting to the wedding before Mary said “I do.” And now he’d done that.
“This is indeed the best news we’ve had all day.” Cardinal Charles pushed forward, along with his brother. “We’re overjoyed! We thought you were dead.”
Francis tilted his head. “You’re overjoyed?”
That was a bad sign.
“Yes!” Duke Francis was practically beaming.
Surely—But oh, if Mary was still married to him, and he was king of France, then Mary was still queen consort of France, and that gave them power. Of course they were happy. Removing Francis from the throne had been Catherine’s play—one that had forced the uncles out of French court.
“No!” cried Darnley. “You said I could marry her.”
“That was before we knew Francis was alive,” Cardinal Charles said. “It’s nothing personal, my boy. It’s just that he’s a king and you’re, well, not.”
“I knew it!” shouted Mary. “I knew you two were behind this. Well, I suspected it since this morning, anyway.”
Duke Francis shrugged. “You’d be disappointed in us if we didn’t try.”
“I’m disappointed in you because you’re terrible, murdering schemers.” Mary’s lip curled. “And you tried to trick me into marrying someone who could benefit you.”
“I could be king of England,” Darnley said to the uncles, as though Mary hadn’t spoken at all. “One day.”
“Ah,” said Duke Francis. “That one day is the difference. Francis is king of France now, and frankly, France is more important to us.”
“Technically,” said the man with the awful beard who’d been performing the wedding ceremony, “Charles the Ninth is the king of France. That Verity scum.”
“Illegally!” Francis countered. “I was kidnapped so that my own mother could put another son on the throne.”
“I said I was sorry,” Ari said behind him. “Geez.”
“And I forgive you,” Francis said quietly. “This is mostly for dramatic effect.”
“Oh, that’s fine, then,” Ari said. “Carry on.”
Meanwhile, Darnley—who’d never moved past the fact that he wouldn’t be marrying Mary today—seemed to come to a decision. “If I can’t have her,” Darnley said darkly, “no man shall.” A knife appeared in his hand (who goes to his own wedding with a knife?!), and before Francis could shout a warning, the blade was at Mary’s throat. The steel gleamed against her pale skin.
Everything unraveled from there.
“Men, to arms!” called Duke Francis, and all of his men raised their weapons. At the same time, the English soldiers who’d accompanied Francis and Ari rushed into the chapel, their swords drawn.
“Defend the queen!” came another voice, one the reader might know as James’s, but Francis hadn’t yet met Mary’s brother. Swords and bows lifted.
“E∂ians, attack!” That was John Knox. (Although Francis didn’t know his name, just that he was the minister and the call to violence didn’t seem very man-of-God-like to Francis, if you asked him. No one had, though.)
Suddenly, James’s men were shouting. And Knox’s E∂ians were shouting. And the uncles’ soldiers were shouting. And the English were scowling in a most put-out sort of way. All at once, swords clashed and the battle was on, although who was fighting whom, Francis could hardly understand. Everyone was moving this way and that, and with half of the combatants dressed in wedding finery, it was difficult to tell who was on what side.
“Get to Mary,” Ari said. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Francis scanned the room for Mary, but she was still under the stained glass window with Darnley’s blade at her throat.
“Help Mary!” he called to the English soldiers, but the noise of violence swallowed his voice. Then he lost sight of her.
Blades flashed, moving lightning fast as Francis ducked around to the outside of the room. If he could just get to Mary, everything would be well again. He had to believe that.
“The British are coming!” cried one of James’s men.
“They will never take our freedom!” another man shouted, just an instant before he was engulfed in a flash of white light and emerged as an angry boar.
“Remember the Alamo!” yelled someone else, even though the Alamo hadn’t been invented yet.
Francis slipped around the side of the room, weaving in and out of the battle. Everyone was fighting everyone, or so it seemed. It was honestly one of the most confusing moments in history, but here’s what our research provides:
James’s men were fighting the uncles’, who were fighting Knox’s, who were fighting the English, who were fighting Darnley’s. And then there were some men who just wanted to watch the world burn. They were lighting more candles.
“Mary!” Francis called. “Mary, hang on!”
As he made his way around the chapel, he caught the movement of her blue dress, flashes of light as two of her ladies changed form, and the panicked cry of one ex-almost-husband. By the time Francis pushed through the battle, Mary had taken Darnley’s knife, and now she had the tip of the blade pointed directly at his Adam’s apple. In her other hand, she held the bouquet of red roses, which was smashed from her using it as a club.
“Don’t even breathe,” Mary said.
“Grrr,” said Flem, who was in her dog form, her jaw clamped around the man’s right hand.
“Squawk,” said Bea, who was perched on Darnley’s head, her talons inches from his eyes.
“Well done, Mary!” said Duke Francis. “We always knew you had it in you.”
“You!” Francis (our Francis) drew his own sword and lunged toward the uncles. “You killed my father. Prepare to—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Cardinal Charles. “We don’t kill anyone. We have people to do that for us.” Both of Mary’s uncles laughed.
“I know all about Montgomery.” Francis’s sword arm trembled a little. He’d never been good at violence. The idea of harming another person was abhorrent. But these men had caused so much damage.
“What are you going to do?” Duke Francis asked. “Tell us to prepare to die? You wouldn’t. You’ve always been weak.”
Red flared around the
edges of Francis’s vision, but he didn’t move. He didn’t have to. Ari had stuck by his side this whole time, as she’d promised, and now she was creeping up behind Duke Francis and Cardinal Charles, unstoppering a glass vial.
“Now!” Francis said, and Ari didn’t hesitate. She splashed the liquid onto Duke Francis, and he vanished into a burst of white light.
“What did you do?” Cardinal Charles screamed. “What did you do to him?”
“Oh, nothing,” Ari said. “I’ve just helped him embrace his inner E∂ian.” With that, she whipped away the pile of clothes to reveal a large, hairy spider. In one smooth motion, she turned the vial over and trapped Francis-the-spider inside. “He’ll go back to normal in three, maybe four days.”
“Now,” said Francis, “call off your men.”
“But we’re on your side,” Cardinal Charles said, unable to take his eyes off his brother, whose legs were sliding off the glass as Ari turned it over and stoppered it once more. “We want you to stay married to Mary.”
“You’re a murderer,” said Francis. “Whether or not you held the lance, you were the hand that directed it.”
“Not to mention, you tried to assassinate Queen Elizabeth.” Ari held up the spider. “I believe the king of France gave you an order.”
“Very well,” said Cardinal Charles. “I relent.” He signaled to his men to stand down.
“Now you.” Mary’s voice was low and deadly as she looked from Darnley to John Knox. “And you. Both of you, call off your men, and you’ll live out the rest of your days in my dungeon.”
“Don’t you mean or?” Darnley asked. “Call off our men or we’ll live out our days in your dungeon?”
Mary arched an eyebrow.
“Oh.” Darnley gulped. “All right. I’ll call them off.”
“And you?” Mary asked Knox.
“Why should I do what you say?” he asked. “You’re not my queen.”
“Are you Scottish?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I am your queen. Tell your men to lay down their swords. As I told you earlier, I will be fair to E∂ians and Verities alike. All have a place in my kingdom. But if you insist on demeaning me for no reason other than that I am a woman, you will not.”
Francis couldn’t help but smile as John Knox backed down, and within moments, the English and Scottish forces (James’s men) had Cardinal Charles, Francis-the-spider, Lord Darnley, and John Knox all under arrest—for murder, attempted murder, more attempted murder, and general unlikability. Knox would probably be released because being an unlikable jerk wasn’t a crime, but for the moment, it was satisfying to see him frog-marched out of the chapel. (Although not like Francis would march as a frog. Obviously.)
But now that all the official stop-the-wedding business was over, Mary’s attention was on Francis again. His heart jumped to his throat. He’d crossed two countries to reach her, battled (sort of) everyone imaginable to stand here, but now that he was before her, he hardly knew what to say.
She moved toward him, her gaze never leaving his. The knife and the tattered bouquet of red roses she’d used to beat her fiancé about the head dropped from her hands. “Francis,” she said softly.
He even loved the way she said his name. Like he was her Francis.
“Hello, Mary,” he whispered.
FORTY-SIX
Mary
Mary couldn’t breathe. Francis (her Francis!) was alive and apparently well, and he was standing a mere ten paces away from her. Staring at her.
Everyone was staring at her. As usual. Every courtier who hadn’t yet fled the room, and even some who had returned out of curiosity as soon as the fighting had ceased. Every soldier. Every commoner. Every castle servant and lady-in-waiting. They were all staring, waiting to see what Mary would do.
She swallowed, her heart galloping.
What would her mother tell her to do now? Mary knew exactly what she’d say:
Be calm and composed.
Be a queen.
This was going to be a tall order, indeed, as her dress was torn after her struggle with Darnley, one sleeve completely missing. Entire sections of her hair had come undone and were sticking out at odd angles. Her crown was askew. She looked (as they would have said back then) a fright. But it didn’t matter.
Francis was alive. He was looking at her with eyes that said that he’d missed her. That he had come all this way for her, to be with her. That he forgave her, for leaving him before, and for believing that he was dead, and for agreeing to marry someone else so quickly. That he was still her husband.
“I love you,” she said loudly. She didn’t care that so many people were listening, and that it might not be the most appropriate time for this revelation. She’d run out of time, before, to tell him that she loved him. She was not going to make the same mistake again.
His eyes widened. “I love you, too.”
“No, I mean, I love love you,” she said. “As the poets write about. As the bards sing in their romantic ballads. That is how I love you, Francis Valois. And I always will.”
His eyes were shining. He smiled. “I love love you, too. I always have.”
She ran to him, tears streaming down her face, and flung herself into his arms. They hugged each other for what should have been an awkwardly long time, but somehow wasn’t awkward at all. For Mary it was wonderful, the solidness of Francis’s body as it pressed against hers, so warm and good and right. He even seemed a bit taller. His chin fit perfectly into the curve of her shoulder, his breath against her neck. He was saying something, but it was muffled by her hair and she didn’t understand—something about a frog? Why was he talking about frogs at a time like this?
Why was he talking at all?
She pulled back a few inches so that she could kiss him.
Now, we as your narrators could describe this kiss—the way their lips parted as they tried to get even closer to one another, the exact angle of their faces, Mary’s fingers on the back of Francis’s neck, his hands on her waist, pulling her to him, how the kiss contained everything that they were both feeling at the moment, which was a lot. It was passionate, to say the least. But we can’t really do it justice with words. You’re just going to have to believe when we say that it was an epic kiss. If you take into account that the two of them were fairly inexperienced when it came to kissing, having done it just the one time before (in the last decade), it was pretty freaking amazing. By the end Mary wasn’t wearing her crown anymore, and Francis’s hands were buried in her tangled auburn hair, freeing it from the rest of its pins and trappings, and Mary’s hands were—well—they were under Francis’s shirt.
Which was when someone approached the couple and began to clear her throat loudly. “Excuse me. If I may have a moment.”
At last Francis pulled back. He smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind Mary’s ear. Mary blinked at him dazedly. Then she started to lean in, because she’d forgotten why they’d stopped kissing. She wanted to keep kissing Francis. Possibly forever.
But the throat cleared again.
It was an insistent throat.
Reluctantly Mary turned her head to see who would dare to do such a thing. It was the old woman who had come to her room earlier, who’d given Mary the blue suede shoes. Only the woman wasn’t actually old, Mary realized with a start. She was . . .
“Mother?” Mary gasped.
“What?” said Francis. “This is . . . ?”
“My mother,” murmured Mary. “That’s my mother.”
“My clever girl,” her mother said.
“But you’re . . . dead,” Mary said breathlessly. “James told me you were dead. My uncles killed you. Or you died of ‘the Affliction.’ Or something.”
“James told you what I wanted him to tell you, and nothing more. James has been a trooper, hasn’t he, helping me fake my own death and all, helping you become the ruler of Scotland in more than just name. Thank you, James,” Mary de Guise called over her shoulder.
“You’re welcome,” he called back.
Mary de Guise turned back to Mary, Queen of Scots. “Now, you see? I didn’t actually die.” She waved at the crowd around them. “I’m still alive, everyone. Surprise!”
“That’s been happening a lot lately,” piped up Ari wryly.
“Ari!” Mary exclaimed, turning toward the seer’s voice. “You’re here, too!”
“Yes. I couldn’t seem to help it.” Ari was standing beside Liv, holding Liv’s hand. Mary’s heart squeezed for them.
Mary de Guise cleared her throat again. “So, yes, I’m not as dead as it first seemed.”
“But why fake your own death?” asked Mary.
“I was feeling trapped. My messengers were being intercepted. My enemies were growing bolder every day, and I could sense that your uncles were up to no good. Catherine de Medici was not to be trusted with you, either. No offense, Your Grace,” Mary’s mother said to Francis.
“None taken,” he said with a shrug.
“I thought if I were to ‘die,’ then you would return to Scotland and be out from under the influence of those who would try to control you.” She smiled triumphantly. “I was so right, wasn’t I?”
“But why didn’t you reveal yourself sooner?” Mary sputtered. “Like—I don’t know—yesterday?”
“I wanted to see how you’d handle the responsibility,” her mother said lightly, as though this made perfect sense. “It was time for me to let you spread your wings and see if you would fly. And you did, my darling. You did beautifully. You kept your wits about you even when you were physically in danger. You learned to compromise and negotiate. You made sacrifices for the good of your country. You ruled, my dear. I am so proud of you.”
“But I would have married Darnley today,” Mary said. “I nearly did!”
Her mother nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, and that would have been a grave mistake that would undoubtedly have cost you your crown, and maybe even your life. Darnley would have tried to be king himself. And he probably would have made even more enemies for you, and perhaps done something dumb like getting himself murdered, and then you might have been framed for it, which would have turned out to be the ultimate downfall of your reign. Who knows? But perhaps you would also have borne him an heir who ended up ruling England and Scotland someday. It is difficult to know these things in advance. You did your best, my dear.”
