Reign: The Prophecy

by Lily Blake

  “Really?” Greer said, standing to face her. “That’s what you’re concerned about right now?”

  “I’m fine, Catherine,” Mary said. “Thank you for asking. The doctors say my ribs will heal and the wound is only superficial. I do appreciate your great concern, though.”

  Catherine let out a deep breath, then softened. “Mary… you’re the queen now. See that nothing like that happens again. Ever.”

  “It won’t,” Mary said. She put on her brightest, boldest fake smile. She hated to admit it, but there was a strange comfort in knowing Catherine never changed. She would always be critical, always be defensive of the throne.

  Catherine took a step closer to the bed. She dropped her hands to her sides, and when she spoke, her voice was softer than before. “Despite what you think of me, I was relieved to hear that you weren’t seriously hurt.”

  “The prophecy didn’t come true,” Greer added. “Mary’s alive. Thank goodness.”

  “Yes, she’s alive,” Catherine said, her expression thoughtful. “But that was undoubtedly what Nostradamus was referring to. In some ways, the prophecy did come to pass.”

  Mary thought back to the night in the banquet hall. How Nostradamus had reached out and touched her neck. He’d seen it—an arrow flying toward her, piercing her skin. Then there were those terrible words. The planned death will be carried out… orders given… the elected, created, and publicly received one is undone.…

  “You’re right,” Mary said slowly. “It would appear that they did. I was the one who gave the order that anyone trying to get into the palace should be shot. When the guard was shooting at me, it was because I had ordered him to… I had ordered all the guards. The planned death… it was my plan.”

  “But I thought Nostradamus had said something about your neck, about being shot with an arrow,” Greer said.

  “And I was shot with an arrow,” Mary said, lifting her bandaged arm. “It just wasn’t a fatal wound. I put my arm up to block it as it came at me. Had I not… it would have pierced my throat. I would have died.”

  As she spoke the words, relief flooded through her. To know definitively what the prophecy meant… to know that it was over now… She could finally breathe again. No one was trying to kill her. Whatever she’d seen in the tunnels, it wasn’t connected to Nostradamus’s vision.

  “It all fits,” Mary said, thinking of the rest of his words. “The part of the prophecy about the publicly received one being undone… I was mistaken for a commoner. For those hours, in those clothes, I was no longer the queen.”

  “I should say so,” Catherine sniffed. “It seems that this time, Nostradamus was right. He predicted accurately, as he sometimes does. I had hoped he was wrong, for your sake and for Francis’s.”

  “We never doubted his words,” Greer said. “Mary was frightened. So was I.”

  “He saw what could have happened. What might have been,” Mary said. “He certainly has the gift of sight. But maybe next time I won’t take it as literally.”

  “I’ve gotten a lot of questions about having him at court, but sometimes he does serve a purpose. Had he not warned you, you might not have raised your arm to protect yourself, am I right?”

  Mary nodded, finally understanding. “No, I probably wouldn’t have.”

  “Why would I keep on a seer who doesn’t know what he’s talking about?” Catherine asked, looking offended. She glanced at Greer, then back to Mary. “I’m sure your lady is very talented at the waltz and needlepoint, but shouldn’t you have someone else looking after you? Someone with a uniform and a little more… experience? Do you need water?” She turned to Greer. “Have you brought her anything to eat?”

  “Actually,” Greer said, looking Catherine in the eye, “I already ordered a tray for Mary. It should be along any moment now.”

  “And you clearly don’t know Greer. She’s terrible at needlepoint,” Mary chimed in, laughing. “Good at the waltz, though.”

  “Well… good,” Catherine said. “I’m glad you’re well taken care of.” She started toward the door but turned back at the last moment. “I am relieved you’re all right,” she said, her voice soft. “I checked with the doctors.… I was glad to hear it isn’t as serious as it could have been. We were lucky.”

  Mary kept her gaze on Catherine, noticing that she was holding her hands in front of her waist, squeezing them the way she always did when she was nervous. For just a moment, she didn’t seem like the former queen. She wasn’t the woman Mary had suspected was trying to kill her, the woman she’d fought so hard against these past months. Here she was just another mother-in-law, trying to disguise her worry.

  Before Mary could respond, Catherine had swept out the door, closing it behind her. “The snow queen melts,” Greer whispered, both her eyebrows raised.

  “I know,” Mary said, shaking her head. “I should fall off ledges more often.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Greer said, laughing.

  Mary pushed herself further upright and tried to prop herself up against the pillows. She noticed the tattered letter on her nightstand. Her name was scribbled across it, the handwriting unmistakable. “A letter from Francis? Why didn’t you tell me?” She tried to reach for it, but a pain shot down her side. “Can you pass it to me?”

  “It came while you were sleeping. He must’ve paid the messenger a small fortune—the man bribed one of the guards to bring it in through the back gate,” Greer said, handing it to her. “I didn’t want to open it.… I thought you should.”

  Mary held the folded parchment, running her finger over her name. He was still alive. He’d written to her. That alone was good news. But what had happened to Lola? Had he found her in that house? Had the baby come?

  As long as she didn’t know the truth, she could protect that small part of her that believed everything was all right. She took a breath as she slipped her thumb beneath the wax seal, opening it, unfolding it, reading the first few lines.

  She lowered her head, her eyes filled with tears.

  My darling Mary,

  I must tell you first: I am well and so is your dear friend Lola. The plague has not touched us, we are in good health. And Lola is the mother to a healthy baby boy. We have not been so fortunate as to have an easy journey, but I am hopeful that the worst of it is behind us now.

  We are on our way back to the palace, riding as fast as we can. I hope to be there soon; maybe by the time you receive this, I will only be a few hours away. Know that until I see you again, you are (as always, as ever) in my thoughts.

  With all my love,

  Francis

  “What does it say?” Greer asked. She sat down on the edge of Mary’s bed, her brow furrowed. “What’s happening? Is Lola all right? The baby…?”

  Mary wiped the tears from her cheek. “Everyone’s all right. They’re on their way back. I can’t even believe it,” she said, reading the letter once more, making sure she hadn’t imagined it. “It’s true. Francis is healthy and Lola is fine.… She’s the mother of a baby boy.”

  “That’s wonderful… the best news!” When Greer smiled, Mary could see the tears shining in her eyes. “There will be a little boy toddling about!”

  “I know.…” Mary folded the letter again, pressing it in her hands. It was wonderful news. She was so thankful that they were alive. She didn’t want to think of what it would mean for the three of them now. She’d been right about Lola having a boy. Francis’s firstborn son was not from his marriage, and they’d live out the consequences of that, knowing there were ways to get him legitimized—it would always be an option. And what if they needed to? What if Mary was unable to conceive? How long would they wait before they decided to tell the rest of the palace about their secret? How would it be dealt with?

  Mary brought her fingers to her eyes, blotting away the tears. It’s good news, it’s great news, Mary reminded herself. But her nervousness was growing. She tried to push it out of her head, tried only to think of their safe return.

>   “They’ll be here soon,” Greer said, grabbing Mary’s hand. “Soon we’ll all be together again.”

  “I know,” Mary said, smiling. “It puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?”

  There was a knock on the door. A moment later a maid entered with a tray. Cecily, Mary’s taster, was only a few paces behind. “Some food, my lady,” the maid said as she placed the tray on a nearby table. Then she bobbed a curtsy and left the room.

  “Hello, Cecily.” Mary gave the girl a smile, hoping that maybe today—this day of such good news—would be the day she’d get one in return. But the girl just curtsied, keeping her eyes on the woven rug.

  Cecily began her routine, taking small bites of all the dishes as Greer turned back to Mary. “What do you mean, ‘it puts things in perspective’?”

  “It just makes everything else seem so foolish,” Mary said as she smoothed down her bedcovers. “My fight with Francis, especially. After the prophecy, the plague, this…” she said, nodding to her injured arm. “It’s like I can see things more clearly now.”

  “I’m sorry all of this had to happen for you to get that perspective,” Greer said with a smile. “But I’m glad you have it all the same.”

  “I just need to see Francis,” Mary said. “He said he’ll be here soon, but—”

  There was a clatter. Mary and Greer looked over to see Cecily bent beside the table, her chair toppled on the floor. “Cecily?” Greer asked, running to the girl. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”

  Cecily turned to face them. Her eyes were wide and terrified, and she was clawing at her throat. She clutched the edge of the vanity, trying to hold herself up.

  “Cecily!” Greer yelled, running to the hallway. “Please, someone! The girl is sick!”

  Mary sat there, helpless, as Cecily collapsed on the ground. The girl drew in a long, shuddering breath as she clutched her neck, wincing at a pain there. Her whole face was turning a mottled blue. She struggled to move, dragging herself a few inches before she lay still.

  Greer knelt down beside her, cradling Cecily in her arms. “She’s not breathing,” she said, her voice shaking. Cecily’s hand was still on her throat.

  “No… please, no,” Mary said, a chill ripping through her.

  Just then two guards pushed into the room. Mary pointed at the girl on the floor. “My taster just collapsed,” she said. “I don’t know if…”

  Greer stepped out of the way, letting the guards examine Cecily’s face. One held his fingers to her wrist for a long while, trying to feel her pulse. “I’m sorry, my lady,” he finally said. “She’s passed.”

  The other guard stood, examining the tray of minced meat and vegetables. He pushed the fork into a pile of potatoes. “The food must have been tainted. Some kind of poison…”

  Greer looked up, her face drained of all color. “We were wrong. She was clutching her neck before she died—maybe that’s what Nostradamus meant when he said someone would kill you, that it would be like an arrow to the throat. Maybe the prophecy isn’t over.…”

  “Someone is still out there,” Mary said, her hands shaking. “Someone is trying to kill me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Lola galloped through the woods, steering the horse expertly around the trees. She was riding faster than she’d ever ridden, maneuvering over uneven ground at breakneck speed, swerving to avoid low-hanging branches as they came at them. She needed to keep going. She had to keep on, putting as many miles as she could between them and the pagans.

  “Lola… it’s all right, we’re all right.” Francis leaned forward, whispering in her ear. He held the baby in one arm; his other was wrapped around her waist, holding her tight. “I think we’re clear of them.”

  “Are you sure?” She didn’t turn, didn’t stop to glance over her shoulder. She could still hear them coming through the trees, could still hear that awful chanting.…

  “I’m sure.” Francis turned back, staring into the woods. They’d been riding for almost a half hour. The other men didn’t have horses. There was no way they’d be able to find them now.

  Lola pulled on the reins, slowing Champion to a trot, then a walk. When the horse came to a stop, Francis slid off his back, then turned to help her, using his free hand to ease her down. She clutched it in hers. As soon as her feet touched solid ground, she could feel how unsteady her legs were, how uncertain it felt to take even one step.

  Francis pulled her to him, holding her up. Now that they were out of harm’s way, she allowed herself to feel it—to recognize just how afraid she had been. The knife blade had been so close to Francis’s throat. His face was still swollen and red from where the man struck him. The skin was turning a horrible purplish blue.

  She looked down at her son; he was asleep, his eyes squeezed shut. She kissed him on his sweet, soft forehead, then took him from Francis’s arms and pressed him close to her chest. “I was just so scared,” she said as she drew in a shuddering breath. “Francis… I thought I was going to lose you. That we were going to lose you.”

  Francis looked into her eyes. As she wiped away the tears, he noticed her hands were still shaking. She tried to slow her breaths, but he could tell she was still frightened, her cheeks pale. He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, cradling her head with his hands.

  “I don’t know how I can even tell you how grateful I am,” Francis said. He smoothed a dark curl away from her forehead. He had thought it was all over. When his hands were held back, when the knife was coming at his throat…

  It was strange, in that moment he’d had only one persistent thought. Let them get away. Please, God, be merciful. Give Lola the strength to leave me here. He’d been terrified that the pagans would do something to them. He’d feared that after he was gone, Lola and the baby would be easy targets.

  He shook his head, almost laughing at it now—the idea of Lola as an easy target. As a victim, an easy kill. She had certainly disproved that notion. She’d ridden toward them with a look of determination on her face, her head up, as brave as any of the men he’d fought with at Calais. She’d risked her life to save him.

  “You were incredible,” he said, looking down into her face, still a little amazed by it all. “You saved all of us. I’ve never seen such strength.”

  “I couldn’t bear it,” Lola said. She knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t stop touching his face, running her hands through his blond curls—anything to reassure herself that he was here, that he was alive, that she had kept him safe. “They were going to kill you right there in front of me. I couldn’t have lived with myself if I didn’t stop it. I couldn’t just stand there and let that happen.”

  Francis shook his head. “What would I have done without you?”

  “I should be asking you that question.”

  Francis frowned, a bit confused. “What do you mean?”

  Lola looked down at their son, adjusting the shawl so he was swaddled against her chest. “When I was giving birth,” she said, “I knew you were there. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered. I was in so much pain and everything was getting so hard. I could feel it… how easy it would be to just let go… how much I wanted to do that.”

  “But you didn’t,” Francis said, running his thumb over her cheek.

  “I didn’t,” Lola repeated. “But I was close. I could feel myself slipping away. You were telling me to be strong. You were telling me that I could do it, even when that felt so far from the truth. I thought I might die there, I was losing so much blood. Then I opened my eyes and saw your face.” Lola took a breath, and the words rushed out. “I knew it was what I needed to live for. Our baby needs a mother and a father. And you… you helped me find that strength.”

  Francis looked down at Lola’s huge green eyes, her plump, heart-shaped lips. The tiny, perfect beauty mark just above her mouth. His hands were still in her hair, his fingers twining through her dark curls. He knew he probably shouldn’t. It would be better if he kept quiet, if he said no more.


  “Maybe we saved each other…” he added, his voice soft.

  Lola stared into his eyes, her heart pounding. She knew that she should take a step back, that she should stop this moment as she had the night before. Don’t say anything else, she thought. Don’t look at him too long. Just go… just turn away.…

  Their faces were so close, just inches apart, only a breath separating them. Francis knew there were a hundred reasons why he should stop this. But he couldn’t call them up now, no matter how hard he tried. There was so much feeling between them… everything they’d been through in the last few days… everything that they had survived.

  He gave in to it, leaning in, pressing his lips to hers. Francis’s hand got lost in her hair, twisting and tangling in her curls. He let his other move down to the small of her back, feeling the curve of her spine, bringing her closer to him.

  Lola held on to his shirt, letting her head fall back as they kissed. It all returned to her then. As his tongue found hers, she remembered, with aching clarity, that night they’d had together in Paris. Their unmistakable connection. It suddenly seemed like all that time they’d gone without kissing each other was an unbearable loss.

  His hand moved to her cheek, holding her as he kissed her harder, with greater passion. She held on to him, her breaths hot on his skin. After a long while she pulled back, staring up at him, her skin flushed.

  Francis kissed her one last time—slow, lingering there, his lips on hers. He broke away, finally letting go. He took a step back, then another, knowing that if he was too close he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from kissing her again.

  “We need to stop,” Francis said, his voice quiet.

  “I know,” she whispered. “We can’t do this.”

  She smoothed her hair down, taking a long, deep breath. She wasn’t thinking clearly. She couldn’t make this same mistake, with this same person. She couldn’t do that to her friend again.