by Lily Blake
He tried not to make any noise, aware of every creak in the floor as he stepped along it. But the blond lady, Greer, didn’t seem to be aware of the room around her. He slipped behind the lion tapestry and felt the cold stone under his fingers. It was here… it had to be.…
“I cannot lose her,” Greer said to the gray-haired man. “It’s too much to bear. She’s my closest friend here, and now, after hearing Nostradamus… how can I let her out of my sight for even one moment?”
“You won’t,” the man said. “Be strong for her, watch over her. You’re one of the bravest people I know, Greer.”
Pascal felt the catch and pushed. That section of the wall swung open, and he felt himself relax for the first time since he’d woken up from his nightmare. Back when he’d lived in the village with his parents, he’d been scared of the dark. But he could barely remember that now. After his time with The Darkness, it was the light that sometimes scared him. He’d gotten comfortable in the dark. In the dark, you could keep your eyes open. You never had to see things you didn’t want to.
As he walked down the stairs, Bash and Kenna felt farther and farther away. The light from the room, filtering through the woven tapestry, faded with every step he took. He moved quickly, steadily, descending into the dark.
The stone was damp underneath his fingers. He could hear dripping somewhere in the distance. It smelled musty, and he was pretty sure a few rats scurried along the wall beside him. But Pascal wasn’t scared. This felt more familiar to him than the too-soft bed he’d been sleeping in in the palace, or the heavy oak chairs that he had to sit up straight in. He felt himself smile as he reached a landing and looked around. There were three more stone corridors in front of him. There were so many places to hide… so many things to explore.…
He ran forward, letting his shoes slide on the damp stones. He slipped and nearly fell, but it felt good, freeing, to be alone like this. When he glanced up, he thought he saw someone in the shadows, far away in the corridor to his right. He stopped and squinted, trying to see them more clearly.
The figure struck a match, lighting the candle in her hand. At least, it looked like it was a girl, but he couldn’t be certain. The person was wearing a soiled dress, but their face was covered with a burlap sack, holes cut out for the eyes. He was about to scream when she knelt down. She rolled something to him, out across the floor.
Pascal felt something strike his foot. When he looked down, there was a perfect blue marble there. He picked it up, turning it between his fingers.
“Come,” the figure said. Pascal could tell now that it was a girl, her voice higher and softer than a man’s. He tilted his head to the side, studying her. If she was down here too, maybe she knew some secrets, some hidden spots he wouldn’t be able to find on his own.
“Come play with me,” the girl said. Then she started down the corridor, the light from the candle leading the way.
Pascal grasped the marble tightly in his hand and followed, breaking into a run.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mary paced the length of the room, twisting her hands together. Her chambers had been prepared for the night by her maids. All but two of the candles were out, and the fires in the fireplaces had been burned down to embers. Her hair had been brushed. Kirsten and Cecily had helped her into her simple white nightdress, and Lissy had turned down the bed, arranging the pillows just the way Mary liked. Everything had been arranged to allow a night of pleasant rest, but Mary had never felt further from it.
She couldn’t seem to settle her thoughts, and every time she sat down for more than a minute, she was back on her feet again, feeling too nervous to stay still. She’d checked and double-checked the secret entrance to her chambers, making sure it was locked. She’d even moved a chair in front of the balcony doors to make sure no one could get in.
“Mary,” Greer said, curling up on the bed, “please don’t do this to yourself. You’ll go mad wondering if the prophecy was real. You have to sleep.… You need rest.”
“How can I, though?” Mary asked, crossing the room toward Greer. She forced herself to sit down on the red velvet settee. In happier times, she’d loved to lie there and look out the window at the grounds. She’d imagine her life with Francis, the children they would have together, their future safe and secure. It was beginning to seem like a foolish daydream.
“Would you be able to rest if you’d just been told news of your imminent demise?” Mary’s voice broke on the last word.
Mary took a breath, but in the stillness of the room she could hear them—the villagers outside the gates. They wouldn’t stop. Some of them screamed for mercy. Others demanded supplies. She moved to the window, looking down at the palace walls. By the light of the torches they carried, she could see their faces, contorted and strange. She understood it all now. To sense death approaching, to be powerless to stop it… it was an excruciating feeling.
“Whoever is trying to hurt you, they will not succeed,” Greer said. “I won’t let them. I’m staying with you in here tonight. There are the finest palace guards outside your door. I promise, we’re going to make sure that nothing happens to you.”
“But what about Aylee?” Mary said. “You remember what Nostradamus predicted, you heard—”
“I can’t lose you,” Greer said. “I won’t.”
Mary could hear the conviction in her voice. Greer was the strongest of all her friends, and the most practical. Just listening to her words eased Mary’s worry, if only the tiniest bit. She crossed from the window to her bed and settled down beside her.
She and her ladies had often curled up in her bed like this, especially when they were all new to court, and all so hopeful about their futures in France. They had been girls, who had giggled and imagined their first kisses, wondering about the sons of the nobles who sometimes came to palace feasts. Now they were talking of murder plots and prophecies.…
“He just seemed so sure,” Mary murmured, thinking of the look on Nostradamus’s face. She had heard whispers at court from those who dismissed him as a charlatan, one of Catherine’s many puppets. But Mary had learned to read liars. She could tell when someone was faking, pretending a conviction they didn’t have, but she’d seen none of that in the seer. Nostradamus had meant what he had said—he’d believed it—every single word.
“Is this my last night?” she asked Greer, her voice barely above a whisper. “I only wish I didn’t…”
“You wish what?” Greer asked gently.
“Do you think it’s better to know when you’re going to die? What does it matter? It’s not like you can go back, like you can do things differently… it just makes me think of all the things I should’ve done. The things I wish I’d said but didn’t.”
Greer looked down, swiping her cheek with her fingers. Mary had noticed her face when she’d walked in, how her eyes were puffy and pink, her skin splotchy. Greer had insisted things were fine, even if Mary knew they weren’t.
“Regret is a poison,” Greer finally said. “If you can do something to keep yourself from living in regret, you have to. You must.”
Mary looked down at her hands. “I just can’t stop thinking about Francis. Where he is tonight. If he’s safe. What if I die before he returns… what if I never get to speak to him again?”
Greer shook her head, but Mary could feel herself getting more upset. She was no longer worried that the guards or anyone passing in the corridors might hear her. She no longer cared. “What if we never get to fix things between us? I wish that we could have one more conversation. Just one. I wish we were allowed to say all the things that we want to.”
Greer looked at Mary, then nodded. “You can, Mary.”
“How?” Mary asked with a bitter laugh. “Do you want me to go riding into the woods after my husband? They wouldn’t let me out, even if I begged them to.”
Greer crossed to Mary’s desk and removed paper and a quill, laying them down on top of the inlaid wood. She returned to the bed and nodded toward the
writing instruments. “Just because you can’t speak with him doesn’t mean you can’t have a conversation. Whatever you want to say to him, write it down. We can still get word to him. There are riders outside the gates. We can find one of the guards, bribe him to pass the letter through. We know where Lola is in Vannes, and Francis should be there soon. It’s not too late.”
“When did you get so wise?” Mary asked, giving her a small smile.
“I promise you’ll feel better when you’ve written it all in a letter,” she said. “And I’ll be right here if you need me.”
Mary nodded, then drew a deep breath and crossed to the desk. She stared at the blank page, blinking back the tears that were already coming. She tried to push the dark thoughts away… the fact that these might be the last words she’d write… that they might be the last words Francis would read.
She dipped the quill in the ink, then pressed it down on the parchment and started to write.
My darling Francis,
I am in our bedroom, preparing to go to sleep without you next to me for the first time in months. The last time we were apart, it was when you were off fighting the battle of Calais. And I can’t help but think that now we are fighting another war, but one without such clearly drawn sides.
I’m not going to burden you with why—as I know you have stated repeatedly that you don’t believe in prophecies—but I spend this long and sleepless night thinking about choices, and regrets, and things said and unsaid… and wondering if I’ve forever missed my chance to say them.
I regret keeping the secret of Lola’s child from you. She had asked me to keep her confidence, but you are my husband, and I never should have placed her trust above yours. I suppose I was upset at you… upset that you had been with Lola, jealous that she could provide you with a child when I could not. Maybe withholding the information from you was a form of punishment. Whatever the reason, I wish I could take it back. I wish I could change what I did.
I can’t help thinking how things would have been different if you had known. Perhaps Lola would have been delivering here, in the presence of nurses and midwives. Perhaps there would be a healthy baby joining the palace nursery. And maybe you would be here by my side, and I would not be so overcome with the feeling that things are going inexorably wrong. I could just reach across our bed and touch you, and not be consumed by the fear that I will never see your face again.
But please know that I regret my actions. I don’t know if I will be able to forgive myself, should anything happen to you. We are king and queen, but we are also husband and wife, and should you return—as I am praying that you will—we will find our way back together.
I love you with all my heart, and am praying for your safe return to me.
Your love,
Mary
Mary signed her name at the bottom. The tears burned in her eyes. She pushed the paper away before they could fall, smearing the ink.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Francis pulled back on the reins, slowing the horse as they approached the village of Vannes. He adjusted the hood so it covered the sides of his face. Everything in him hurt. It had been a long day, full of worry and missteps. He had taken a wrong turn out of Marcel’s village and lost several hours trying to find his way back to the right road. It didn’t help that news of the plague had spread. Even in villages where the disease had not yet struck, most townspeople locked themselves in their homes, refusing to open their door for fear of getting infected. He had to find his way alone.
And now the sun was setting. Night would be upon him within the hour. The pagans would be out hunting for innocent blood again. He needed to get to Lola—to find the small cottage that Lola had described in the letter, a red house with a thatched roof and a barn behind it. Francis had the sinking feeling that if he didn’t get there until morning, it would be too late. He knew how serious her condition was.… He knew that she could die. The baby—their baby—might be sick, or perish with her.
Francis lowered his head as he urged the horse into the village. The main street was empty. The wind whipped through the trees, rattling the branches, making the deserted road seem even more eerie. Though Francis could see the smoke rising from the chimneys, and smell the comforting scent of hearth fires burning, every door was closed and locked. Every curtain was drawn.
As he reached the outskirts of the village, he scanned the shadowy buildings between the trees. Mary had said Lola was in a house by the mill. He spotted the tall stone tower in the distance. It rose up out of a wheat field, its giant wooden cross moving slowly in the wind. Francis set Champion running toward it at full speed. He could see, as he got closer, the small, modest house tucked just to the side—a red structure with a barn behind it.
When he reached the cottage, he dismounted from the horse and tied the reins to a nearby tree branch. As he worked at the leather straps, knotting them around the branch, he noticed his hands were shaking. He kept worrying about what he’d find inside. Lola pale and bleeding, crying out in pain. Lola already gone, her skin a ghostly white. Lola with a beautiful, newborn baby. His baby.
Francis started toward the steps, taking a breath before he knocked on the door. A few minutes passed. He knocked again, but no one answered. It wasn’t a surprise, after what he’d seen in the main stretch of the town. Still, he didn’t come this far to be turned away.
“I’m here to see Lola,” he yelled, banging three times, hard, with his fist. “Please let me in. She sent for me.”
When there was still no response, he took a breath and stepped back. He glanced at the windows in the front of the house—the shutters were closed and locked. He banged on the door again, trying to judge the thickness of the wood. He took a breath, preparing himself to throw all his weight into it, when the thing swung open a crack. A middle-aged woman peered out at him. Her dark hair was pulled back, her forehead lined with worry.
“Is Lola here?” Francis asked, pushing the door open. He stepped inside, moving around the startled woman.
“Who do you think—” she started. Then he turned and she saw his face in the firelight. The woman looked horrified. She immediately dropped into a curtsy. “I beg your pardon. I apologize, Your Majesty.…”
“Never mind that. It’s fine,” Francis said as he walked into the living room, looking for any sign of Lola. “Is she here? Is she all right?”
Just then a woman’s scream tore through the house—it was coming from a back bedroom. Francis hurried toward it. It was a small comfort, a reason to hope. It meant Lola was still alive.
The woman maneuvered around him, stopping at the bedroom door. “Your Majesty… you should prepare yourself.” She looked up at him, her eyes filled with concern. “She’s not doing well. She’s lost a lot of blood already. I tried to help, but…”
Francis felt his throat tighten. “I just want to see her. I need to.”
The woman pushed through to the tiny bedroom. The sick smell of blood filled the air. Francis followed her inside and saw Lola on the bed. She was deathly pale, her skin taking on a strange greenish hue. He knelt down beside her, his hand taking hers.
“Lola, you’re alive.…” He ran his other hand over her forehead, pushing the damp curls away from her face. “I’m here. It’s Francis.”
Her dark eyes fluttered open. She looked at Francis, her brows drawn together in confusion. “Francis? But how did you…?”
“Don’t worry about how,” Francis said as he pulled off his cloak and set it on the floor. “I’m here. That’s all that matters.”
He looked down at the foot of the bed. The woman was kneeling by Lola’s legs, peering under the bloody sheet that covered her bottom half. She met Francis’s gaze, then looked away, pressing her fingers to her temple. “I think you’ve come just in time.”
Francis turned back to Lola, squeezing her hand in both of his. “You can do this, Lola. You’ll be all right, you just have to keep going.”
He spoke with a confidence he didn’t feel. It had
been the same way at Calais, when he’d been trapped with his men behind enemy lines. He’d been terrified, overmatched, and doubtful of their chances. But he knew that the second he let his men know that, all would be lost. Instead he’d acted like he had a solid plan, like he had years more experience than he actually did. He’d spoken with such confidence that his men had followed him into battle—and, miraculously, had won. He would do the same thing for Lola now. He’d be her calm, her steadiness as she moved through this peril.
“You’re doing well,” he said, smoothing back her hair. “Everything is going beautifully.” He could feel the woman’s eyes on him, but he just looked right at Lola, letting her know that he had no doubts about the delivery. “And you’re almost there. Can you stay with me, Lola? Can you fight?”
Lola looked back at him, her eyes glistening. She took a shuddering breath, then nodded. Her hand squeezed his. “I can try,” she said, her voice shaking.
“We’re in this together,” Francis said, kissing the back of her palm. “We’re going to be all right.”
The baby’s cry broke the silence in the bedroom. Francis let out a deep breath, the tears blooming in the corner of his eyes. He had never heard so beautiful a sound. He had been by Lola’s side through another two hours of labor. Francis had tried to keep her spirits up as the woman acted as a midwife, coaxing the baby out. At one point Lola had been crying. Her grip on his hand had grown weak, her skin clammy and pale. He had feared she wouldn’t make it through. But she had found some hidden reserve of strength, drawing long sips of air into her lungs, pushing a few final times.
