The queen’s baby of course never came. Things were very different here in the French court. There were babies and children all over the palaces. Nine children in all, ranging from toddlers to teenagers. Queen Catherine, wife of King Henri, seemed to pop out a baby every two years or so. She was not much fun, Queen Catherine—a dour, rather squat woman—but her husband was just the opposite. And the Little Queen, Mary Stuart, with her best friends—all named Mary—provided enough gaiety for everyone. Mary Stuart had been sent to France when she was barely five years old. It had shocked Rose when she found out that at that age Mary Stuart had become engaged to the French king and queen’s son Francis, the dauphin—an odd word for “heir to the throne” that the French used. The two had become best friends. It was very hard to imagine them as husband and wife, which they now were.
Rose occupied an odd place somewhere between servant and friend. The Little Queen confided often in Rose, more so, Rose felt, than she did with the Marys, her closest friends. The court had recently moved to Chenonceau Palace, a beautiful chateau on the river Cher. Rose loved her tiny room tucked up in a turret overlooking the river that, now glazed with ice, looked like a pale gray satin ribbon.
She was in her room, repairing a small tear in a gown, when there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Rose called out. The Little Queen entered. She was actually not that little, but instead, like Rose, quite tall for her age. Rose immediately popped up and then sank into a deep curtsy.
“Up! Up! I need to talk to you and you must swear to tell no one of this conversation.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Mary’s face pulled into a tight grimace. “I am a majesty of Scotland, of France, and someday England.” There was something in her voice that seemed to suggest a question more than a fact. “You believe this, don’t you, Rose?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” The queen suddenly looked quite vulnerable.
“I worry sometimes, you know. I . . . I mean . . . well . . .” She began wringing her hands. There was something she wanted to say but couldn’t quite bring herself to. “I mean, I know that Queen Mary Tudor of England is not very pretty.”
“Not very.”
“And she’s old.”
“Yes.”
“But what about Princess Elizabeth? Is she prettier than me? Now tell the truth. Is she?”
Rose thought a long time before answering. “She’s older than you.”
“Nine years older,” Mary said.
“She’s a different kind of pretty. You have a softer look. She looks a bit harsher.”
“She’s supposed to be very smart.”
“Yes, I think she is.”
“I think I’m smart, but I’m never sure . . . uh . . . how should I put this?” Rose was uncertain where this conversation was going. She didn’t know what to say. Within seconds, tears were streaming from the Little Queen’s eyes. “I shouldn’t be talking this way.” She suddenly grasped Rose’s hands. “But Rose, I feel I can say these things to you. You once told me how your mother had died and you weren’t sure what had happened to your father. That he is not . . . not around. So you see, I think—well, of course you’re not royal—but we do share some things.” Like what? Rose thought. “I mean. My mother is not dead. But I have not seen her since I was four years old. She is alive somewhere—well, in Scotland. But she might as well be on the moon. But if I become queen, no one can keep me from her ever again!”
It suddenly dawned on Rose that indeed they did share something: an unavailable parent. In Rose’s case, a father she was deprived of acknowledging or seeing in this world. And for Mary Stuart, a mother from whom politics had separated her. They were both orphans of sorts.
“I mean, Francis is nice. He’s my husband, after all. But it’s not the same as having a mother.”
Duh! Rose thought. This was precisely why kids her age shouldn’t get married. But it was the sixteenth century and sex ed and all that stuff hadn’t been invented.
“Uh . . . Your Majesty,” Rose began hesitantly.
“Oh, don’t call me that.”
“Ma’am.”
“I suppose that’s all right, but here in the privacy of your own room you could call me just Mary.”
“Mary, maybe you will become queen of England, and then you can see your mother all you want.”
“Exactly. It won’t be dangerous then. You see, they have to keep us apart. Politics. Stupid politics.” Rose was unsure who “they” were. “But if I become queen, everything will work out. I’m sure.” She paused and looked into Rose’s eyes. “Aren’t you sure, Rose?”
“Uh . . . yes. I’m sure,” Rose lied. She lied because she knew the end of the story. But what could she do? Tell her that her head would be cut off? Not right away. Not for another thirty years or so. Small comfort!
They would never speak of it again, but a week later, on a very cold winter evening, Rose was once more in her room, having just finished a new gown for the Christmas holidays, specifically for St. Stephen’s Day, which was the merriest of the twelve days of Christmas in the court. She took out her diary, just rolled-up pieces of paper. Too bad they didn’t have staplers here, she thought. Her first diary entry in France was from eight months before.
Dear Diary,
I was right when I told Princess Elizabeth that white could become very popular in the future for weddings. When Mary, Queen of Scots, married Francis yesterday, she wore a pure white gown. Well, actually sort of white on white, or cream on white. It caused great controversy, as white is considered the color of mourning here in France. I worked on the dress along with six other seamstresses. She was married at the Cathedral of Notre-Dame in Paris. Now, here is the interesting part. During the many days of the wedding festivities, the court stayed in the palace of the Louvre, and it was there that I met a very strange man—a favorite of Queen Catherine. His name is Nostradamus. He is an astrologer, or some call him a seer, as it is said that he can look into the future. He often gives his predictions in short puzzling rhymes. On the day the dress was finished, he came up to me when I was least expecting it and stood right in front of me. He began to speak to me, but it was as if he were in a trance of some sort. Here is exactly what he said:
“You saw the white in a distant light.
The bride does not mourn, but some do scorn.
A new life begins,
a new fashion wins.”
I was shocked. I didn’t know what to say. Does this seer know my secret—my secret double life? For that is how I now think of my strange experience. It is as if I am living two lives in the space of one.
Rose closed the diary. There was a soft knock on her door.
“Who’s there?”
“C’est moi, chère Rose.” It was Princess Claude of France, the seventh-born of Queen Catherine and King Henri’s children. She was a delightful girl of about eleven years old. The same age as Princess Elizabeth had been when Rose first arrived at Hatfield.
“What can I do for you, Princess Claude?”
“The queen wants you to come out and skate with us. The ice is perfect.”
“Which queen?” Rose asked, and smiled.
Princess Claude giggled. “Not the reine mère.”
“Ah, your belle-soeur.” Rose’s French had improved greatly. Belle-soeur was the word for “sister-in-law.”
“Oui, Rose, Mary the Queen of Scots.” Then a mischievous look gleamed in her eyes. “Maman est trop grosse pour patiner.”
“Your mother is too fat to skate, but she dances beautifully.” Catherine de Medici was an exquisite dancer.
“C’est vrai,” Princess Claude said.
“All right. I’ll come down in a few minutes.”
“Merci!” Princess Claude said gleefully, and skipped out the door.
Rose could not help thinking how different life was here from that of the royal court in England. Perhaps it was that there were so many children, and she and Franny were often called upon to
join in their games and amusements. And ice skating was one of the favorite games here at Chenonceau. The cold had come early this year, and the river had frozen solid by mid-November.
Rose bundled herself in her warmest cloak and put on extra stockings in addition to a muffler made of fur. The fur of a white fox. It had been a cast off by one of the many little princesses. On her head she wore what was called a patch hat. Such a hat was patched together from the fur of at least four different animals. No one in this century had ever heard of animal cruelty or organizations like PETA—People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. I am a PETA nightmare, Rose realized as she waddled out of her small bedroom swathed in fur. But hey, parkas had not been invented yet. The last thing she wanted to do was freeze her butt off.
The ice was perfect. There were at least two dozen people, children and adults, gliding across the glistening surface of the river. There was lots of laughter and talking and even music. Yes, some of the court’s favorite musicians were bundled up and playing lutes and violins at the edge of the ice on this starry night. Mary Stuart was skating arm in arm with Francis. She was, in fact, practically holding him up. At least a head taller than the frail little dauphin and almost two years older, she was definitely the athlete in the couple, Rose thought. Francis was not yet fifteen and Mary was sixteen. It was ridiculous that they were even married, in Rose’s mind. What was even more ridiculous was that originally they were supposed to have been married when Francis was eleven and Mary Stuart was thirteen!
The scene on the frozen river before her now made Rose think of that evening on Lake Marian, the bonfire, the sight of Brianna skimming across the ice—sealed in a kind of unfathomable loneliness. She could not help but wonder if Brianna was still alive. The terrifying image of her in the intensive care unit hooked up to those machines and monitors began to haunt Rose. Was Brianna still breathing? Was her heart still beating? It was almost as if she could hear the gasping sounds, or was it the pumping of the ventilator that was breathing for Brianna? Suddenly she noticed a hush had fallen over the frozen river. And then there was a collective gasp as people caught sight of a figure who seemed to have emerged from nowhere.
Brianna!
The figure leaped into the air, twirled about, then landed. Everyone else had stopped skating. They watched mesmerized as the girl skated backward at great speed. She did spins and spirals and waltzing steps and toe loop jumps.
“What’s that she just did?” little Princess Claude came up to Rose and whispered.
“A lutz, I think they call it. When you take off from one skate, then twirl up into the air and land on the opposite skate. . . .”
“But who is she?”
“Oh . . .” Rose did not know what to say.
“Who is she, Rose?” Princess Claude tugged on her hand.
“Her name is Brianna and she comes from far, far away.” In time and place, Rose thought. But was she alive, or was she a ghost from Rose’s other life? Rose didn’t know, but suddenly the skater dissolved into the night.
“Where did she go?” someone asked.
“Where did she come from?” asked another.
A week had passed since the mysterious events on the frozen river.
“I really like this one, Francis. What do you think for a spring ball gown?” Mary asked the dauphin.
“Everything becomes you, my dear.” Francis looked toward his father, King Henri, as if to confirm that he had said the right thing.
Rose always nearly giggled when Francis, who was the size of a fifth grader, called his wife “my dear.” It was as if they were both playacting at being married. Rose was in the presence chamber of Mary, Queen of Scots, showing her some new fabrics that had arrived from the silk weavers in Tours. A guard entered.
“Your Majesty,” he said, addressing King Henri. “An envoy from England has arrived with an urgent message.” The king’s and Mary’s faces brightened as if they were anticipating something wonderful. The air seemed to shiver.
Rose had to clap her hand over her mouth to stifle a yelp as her father entered the room.
Nicholas Oliver made a deep bow and avoided even glancing at Rose.
“Your Majesty, I bear news. Queen Mary Tudor of England has died. The princess . . .” There was a sharp inhalation of breath at the word “princess.” It was as if the entire room had gasped and all the air had been sucked out. “Elizabeth is declared queen. God save Queen Elizabeth!” A silence as heavy as lead descended on the room.
King Henri looked stricken. Mary, Queen of Scots, collapsed in a faint. “Smelling salts!” someone cried out. Her husband, little Francis, turned white and covered his mouth as if he were about to vomit—which he did a few seconds later, on the fabric for the spring ball gown.
A servant appeared and knelt by the collapsed Little Queen. She opened her eyes. “Vous voulez dire que je ne suis pas reine d’Angleterre.” Rose’s French was good enough to understand: You mean I am not queen of England? She looked toward Rose as if somehow Rose could solve this probem.
“This is not finished!” King Henri’s voice cut the air like a scythe. “Non, jamais. Never. My daughter-in-law is queen of England and my son Francis is king.”
Within a short time a queen had died, a father had returned to his daughter, and a king was about to start trouble.
A whole mess of trouble, Rose thought. And then an expression that her mom had sometimes used streamed through Rose’s mind. Time to get out of Dodge!
Epilogue
A favorable wind carried Rose, her father, and Franny across the Channel. It was bitterly cold. Franny and Rose were leaning against the shrouds near the foremast. “You dragged us up here from below for what, Rose Ashley?”
“A selfie.”
“What in the world is a selfie?”
“A picture of ourselves.” Rose took her iPhone out from a pocket.
Franny gasped. “Oh . . . I mean, OMG. This is one of those OMG moments, isn’t it?”
“Yes it is, Franny.”
“You’re going to make a photogone of us. Like the ones in the locket.”
“Photograph. Not photogone. Kind of the reverse. You won’t be gone from me.” Rose’s voice dropped.
“You mean when you go away. So you are going?”
“Uh . . . it depends.”
“On your father, right?”
Rose nodded. She looked toward the stern of the ship, where her father stood, looking down at the wake. She wouldn’t take a picture of him. He wasn’t going to be gone. She’d bring him back with her. If not this time . . . sometime in these tangles of time. She would, she swore.
Nicholas Oliver looked at the wake curling out from the stern of the ship. My daughter won’t give up, he thought. She was too much like her mum. Her mum hadn’t given up trying to get him to go back until . . . until her life was taken. He felt his eyes filling with tears. Am I crazy not to go? . . . But what would I do there? He felt an arm thread through his as he leaned against the rail.
“Love your daughter.” He looked shocked. He must have spoken these words out loud.
Nicholas put his arm around her shoulders and they turned to watch as the coastline of England came into sight, just a scratchy line at first, but as they watched, gradually the green hills melted out of the mist. “So green!” Rose exclaimed.
“Indeed,” her father said. He began to speak in a low, musical voice.
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England
.
Rose was mesmerized by the words. “Dad, what is that?”
“Shakespeare, King Richard II, act two, scene one.”
“But Dad, Shakespeare hasn’t been born yet.”
“Right you are! Not for another six years—1564, to be exact.”
“So how did you know this?”
“Your mum, of course.”
“Mom!”
“She was an English literature major. University of Michigan. Graduated with honors.”
Rose’s face broke into a huge smile. “See, Dad, I told you you’d catch up. You’re at least six years ahead of yourself!”
And then within two more days they were back at Hatfield. Together she, Franny, and her father walked up the winding road to the redbrick palace.
“Ah, welcome back!” Mrs. Dobkins, the head housekeeper, greeted them in the kitchen entryway. “And Franny, Cook has missed you so much. I think now you are officially out of the scullery and into the pastry department. And you, my dear, well, you must go directly to the queen. She wants to discuss her coronation gown.”
Rose went upstairs. Once more she walked through the presence chamber. Not much had changed. An usher told her to go right through to meet with the queen in her private chamber. There were three or four councillors standing near the queen.
One councillor with a trim black beard flecked with gray was speaking. “Your Majesty, now that the Church of England has been restored, in terms of the practicing Catholics would you not consider making them now practice Protestantism?”
“No! There shall be no persecution of any man or woman for their beliefs. I would not open windows into men’s souls.”
She turned around abruptly. “Ah, my little seamstress is back. Just in time for my coronation.”
Rose lowered herself into a deep curtsy. When she lifted herself up again, she saw the locket glowing at Elizabeth’s throat. She might be a queen, thought Rose, but she’s a thief as well. My locket! Mine!
About the Author
Author photo by Jean Fogelberg & Fran Forman
KATHRYN LASKY is a New York Times bestselling author of many acclaimed children’s and young adult books, which include her latest historical fiction novel, Night Witches, and the Scholastic series Bears of the Ice. Her picture book Sugaring Time was awarded a Newbery Honor. She has twice won the National Jewish Book Award, for her novel The Night Journey and her picture book Marven of the Great North Woods. Her book Elizabeth I: Red Rose of the House of Tudor was the most popular book in Scholastic’s bestselling Royal Diaries series. Her bestselling series Guardians of Ga’Hoole was made into the Warner Bros. movie Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga’Hoole. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, with her husband.
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