by Cynthia Hand
“Not yet,” Ari answered, “but if you have an unsightly blemish, Your Majesty—not that you would ever have such a thing—”
Nostradamus thrust his cane forward. “Your Majesty, as I was saying, there is more to my vision.”
“More than biscuits?” she said, turning back toward Nostradamus.
“Indeed. My vision came in separate parts. They were not clear revelations, which I believe is due to the current position of the asterisms in conjunction to the moon—”
“Bother the moon,” the queen interrupted. “Get on with the vision.”
Nostradamus took a dramatic pause as he sank down on the queen’s chaise lounge. He held his cane with both hands as if it were a sorcerer’s staff. “There’s something about Mary,” he said.
“Mary?” the queen asked. “You mean Francis’s future wife?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Mary,” the queen repeated. “Queen of Scots.”
“Yes.”
The queen glanced at her desk. Upon it, Ari saw a folded pamphlet. Something about the evils of E∂ians.
“And you’ve had no visions about Francis?” The queen was always asking about Francis’s future. She seemed paranoid that some terrible fate was about to befall him.
“Not lately. Francis will be perfectly fine.”
The queen pursed her lips, unconvinced. “All right. What is this vision about Mary?”
Nostradamus leaned closer. “I have seen a trap, laid open and baited, and it is set for the queen. And it is deadly.”
“A trap?” the queen asked.
“It might not be a physical trap,” Ari explained. “It could be a metaphorical trap.”
“Yes, Aristotle and I have not come to any conclusions as to the meaning of the trap,” Nostradamus said.
The queen looked again at the pamphlet. “But who has laid this trap? The heathen John Knox?”
Nostradamus shook his head. “Someone allied with the court. But the face is unclear. I have also seen a betrayal.”
“Against Mary?”
“By someone close to her.”
“There have always been threats to Mary’s life,” the queen said. “But those close to her, particularly her ladies, seem loyal. And the French court reveres her.”
“This is why we think the vision is urgent,” Ari said.
Queen Catherine sat down next to Ari’s father. “Who, wise Nostradamus? Who will betray her?”
“I do not know,” Nostradamus said. “Those near her must be watched.”
The queen frowned and nodded. “Can you tell me anything else?”
“I cannot,” Nostradamus said. “Not at this moment.”
“Thank you, my dear friend.” She held out a hand.
Nostradamus gripped it tightly. “And do not forget about the biscuits. There is death in those crumbs.”
Ari winced, but the queen ate it up, so to speak. She always took his advice. Ever since Nostradamus had predicted the untimely death of a cousin of Catherine’s, he’d been in her employ and under her protection as a trusted adviser. He’d predicted many other events that had kept his job safe. Ari hoped this would continue to be the case.
The queen snapped her fingers. “Jane!”
Her lady-in-waiting came to attention.
“Please go to the kitchen and try a biscuit, and then return here so that we may monitor your condition.”
“Your Majesty?” Jane said, her voice shaking.
“Or you can eat the one on the floor.” She gestured to the biscuit the mouse had been nibbling on, as if she were doing the lady a favor by not making her go all the way to the kitchen to eat a deadly biscuit.
“But, Your Majesty?” Jane’s words were a plea.
“Oh, all right,” Queen Catherine said. “Go and inform the kitchen that for the next month, biscuits are to be banned.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“But if there is a biscuit revolt, I’m blaming you.”
Jane gave a curtsy. Oh, to be a lady-in-waiting to Queen Catherine de Medici. It was like being in a fun house full of trick mirrors and daggers. And clowns.
“Should we ban baguettes as well?” the queen asked Nostradamus.
“No, Your Majesty. That would be madness.”
Oh, to be French.
“Very well. Also, Jane . . .” She turned toward the dessert tray. “Have the servants put out some mousetraps.” The queen then waved away Jane, who bowed and scurried out of the chambers.
“As for the rest of your warnings . . .” The queen paused for a moment, thoughtful. “Queen Mary is very private and very loyal, especially to her ladies. It may prove difficult to keep an eye on those close to her. But she is the future of a secure France. We need a live Mary. A dead one would do us no good. At the expense of everything else, she must marry Francis.” Then she smiled a wicked smile, and Ari knew she was up to something, well, wicked. “We need to find someone who can get close, someone who can keep an eye on her. To ward off any evil intentions, of course.”
Ari didn’t take time to think, or to reason, or to waffle. “Your Majesty!” she blurted.
“Yes?”
“I would like to volunteer to keep an eye on Mary.”
The queen pressed her lips together. “How?”
“Someday, I shall be the adviser to the king of France.” Whenever she and Francis were in the same room together, there was a definite “next king of France” and “next Nostradamus” vibe, which weighed visibly on them both. “So for now, put me in as a lady-in-waiting to Queen Mary.” She lowered her eyes. “If you please,” she added. That was what a lady-in-waiting would say, wasn’t it?
Ari offered this solution for three reasons. One: she really could watch out for a trap and a betrayal because she knew it was coming. Two: she would further solidify her usefulness to the future king and queen. And three: well, if her arm were twisted, and she had to tell you, all right, fine, she wanted to be closer to Liv.
Queen Catherine looked skeptical.
“I promise it will work,” Ari said, having absolutely no idea if it would work. “I can keep an eye on her while at the same time I can listen to”—Ari pointed to the heavens—“divine things. If I see anything coming, I can warn you.” Yes, she’d just pulled the “divine information” card. She just hoped she wouldn’t actually be asked to see the future. . . .
Queen Catherine raised a dubious eyebrow. “Turn to the side, child.”
Ari faced one direction and then the other.
The queen took in Ari’s attire, her plain dress, and her well-worn shoes. Her stockings used to be white, but they had gathered a bit of dirt on her walk back from town. And her hair was a bit frizzy. She wasn’t filthy, by any means. But she wasn’t ladylike, either.
Queen Catherine scrutinized her with narrowed eyes and then held a finger to her lips. “Hmmmmm.”
Ari nodded as if it were a question.
“You will watch Mary,” the queen said.
“Yes,” Ari agreed.
“Every move.”
“Yes,” Ari said with only a hint of hesitation.
“You will know where she is at all times and what she is doing at all times, and whom she is doing it with at all times.”
Ari swallowed. “Yes.”
“And you will do all of this knowing that your future in this court depends on it,” the queen said.
Ari gulped. She had not intended to gamble with her future. But at this point what could she do? Queen Catherine was not someone to be trifled with.
Yet here Ari was, doing all sorts of trifling. “Yes.” Those three little letters weighed as much as an elephant on Ari’s shoulders.
The queen clapped her hands. “You will visit the court seamstress at once. Tell her I sent you. Tell her you need a dress befitting a lady.” Her gaze focused on the mop of messy brown hair on Ari’s head. “And do you not own a hairbrush?”
“It’s very steamy work, making potions,” Ari protested. “O
h! By the way, I have your lady’s cough remedy here.” She handed the queen a small vial. “And I will get a hairbrush at once.”
“Now, we cannot alarm Mary, or the rest of the court, about any prophecy regarding her well-being. She is a strong-willed, contrary girl. She would not take well to any interference in her life. Besides, there are threats everywhere. Earlier tonight, a pamphlet was discovered, one derogatory to all Verities, especially Queen Mary.”
“Oh no,” Ari said.
The queen continued. “Everything will be fine once Mary and Francis are safely married, but who knows how long that will take. And if everything’s not fine, I suppose I’ll know who to blame.”
Ari took a deep breath. “I swear it will be done.”
SIX
Francis
“Am I not king of my own kitchen?” King Henry shouted. “Why does that woman insist on tormenting me?”
Francis sighed. All morning he’d been trying to slip away to see Mary, but the king had summoned him to the royal chambers to share lunch. And to add to Francis’s torment, the king had invited Mary’s uncles, too. Francis had been forced to sit there while servants set the table with trays of fine cheeses, breads, and decanters of wine. Then the king had asked about biscuits and been informed that Queen Catherine had taken biscuits off the menu for a month.
“The queen is a woman,” murmured Duke Francis from his seat beside the king. “Women live to torment men.”
“Indeed,” agreed Cardinal Charles. “If they are not tormenting, they are tempting. We men face challenges like no one else, I’m afraid.”
Well, that doesn’t make any sense at all, Francis thought. Anyway, they were just biscuits. That was to say, Francis wouldn’t have minded a biscuit right now, but he’d never have shouted at the staff in order to get them.
Finally, when lunch was set and the servants had retreated to the safety of the far side of the room, the king looked at Francis and said grandly, “My son, I’ve had a vision.”
The uncles both clapped politely. “Well done, Sire,” said the duke cheerily.
“You have the most glorious visions,” agreed the cardinal.
Francis stifled a groan. This again. The king was always having “visions,” which were different from Nostradamus’s. The kings visions usually led to parties, banquets, and other exciting ways to drain the royal treasury.
“It hasn’t been a full day since your last vision,” Francis said, thinking of the banquet last night. The vision before that had been only two weeks ago. There’d been a surprise festival—one to celebrate the beauty of the moon, or maybe it had been the trees? Either way, Francis was still recovering from the small talk with people feigning admiration while they fished for favors.
“Visions don’t come on a schedule, son.” King Henry took a long drink of wine. “Aren’t you curious as to what I’ve seen?”
Francis knew that the king would tell him even if Francis leapt to his feet and fled the room. “Of course, Father.”
A smile curved the corners of the king’s mouth. “I see gowns,” Henry proclaimed, motioning with his goblet. “I see feasts and merriment and beautiful ladies. I see wedding bells.”
“You see wedding bells?” Francis asked.
“I hear them, too.” Henry took another long pull from his goblet, then held it still as a servant rushed to refill it.
Francis frowned. His sister Elizabeth had recently been married to King Philip II of Spain, a fact that she reminded everyone of in every letter she wrote. My husband, the king of Spain . . . As if anyone could forget that her wedding had allied France with the most powerful kingdom in the world. She’d been married by proxy at Notre Dame, with the Duke of Alba standing in for the king, and then traveled to Guadalajara for another ceremony with the man himself. Like anyone needed two weddings. But Elizabeth had always insisted on the finest dresses, the most elaborate hairstyles, and the gaudiest jewelry. Two weddings was on brand for her, even if France would be paying for the first one for another three years.
And now there would be another wedding. Hopefully the crown wasn’t paying for it, too.
Francis knew he shouldn’t ask, because Henry liked to imagine himself a matchmaker, usually because he needed to politely remove a mistress from his company. Three out of his four most recent unofficial mistresses had been acquired—and then disposed of—at weddings. But if this was happening, Francis should probably know what kind of gifts he should bring. “Who’s getting married?”
Henry used his teeth to tear off a bite of baguette and grinned. “You, son! You’re getting married.” He waved his arm to encompass all of Francis, as if every body part was getting married. “It’s time for you to marry Mary.”
Francis went totally still, hardly daring to breathe. “Marry Mary?” he repeated. “But . . . why now?”
“To secure the alliance, of course.” Henry said it as though Francis were a complete fool. “We must unite France and Scotland for eternity.”
From the corner of his eye, Francis could see the uncles nodding agreeably. Eagerly, in fact.
“We’ve been thinking about this for some time.” Duke Francis sipped his wine. “Especially after we saw that terrible pamphlet from John Knox last night.”
“Indeed.” Cardinal Charles’s mouth curled in distaste. “It is, unfortunately, a common problem. Those barbaric E∂ians in Scotland are always threatening our dear niece.”
“They are vile creatures,” the king agreed.
“We take all threats against our niece seriously, of course,” Duke Francis went on, “and this only invigorates our desire to see sweet Mary married and with child. Only when she is a wife and a mother will she truly be safe.”
Francis frowned.
Duke Francis turned to him. “And how fortunate, my boy, that you’re already such good friends.”
Well, that was true.
“You are both of age,” the cardinal said.
They were sixteen and seventeen.
“Plenty old enough to begin making a brood of sons who can inherit both thrones,” Duke Francis finished cheerily.
Thrones. It always came back to thrones. How much of this was about Mary’s safety, and how much was about securing the inheritance of more kingdoms?
“I’ve decided on a date.” The king leaned forward, delight shining in his eyes. “The twenty-fourth.”
Francis blinked. “Of this month?”
“Of this month.”
“Of this year?”
“Of this year.”
But . . . that was only five days away.
Francis’s eye twitched. Marry Mary. Make heirs. Secure the royal line of succession.
“The twenty-fourth?” he asked, like triple-checking would change anything. He’d never before been so aware of how short a time five days was. If he’d realized he was approaching his last hours as an unmarried man . . . well, he wouldn’t have made different decisions because none of his decisions were his own, but maybe he’d have appreciated the relative lack of expectations more. Because in five days, he’d be expected to produce heirs.
With Mary.
Gulp.
“The twenty-fourth,” Henry confirmed. “We’ll hold the ceremony at Notre Dame. I’ve already got everything picked out. I adore weddings. And you’re going to love it, too.”
Francis didn’t have anything else scheduled for the twenty-fourth, but this wedding seemed pretty last minute. “Father, I’m not sure this is the best time . . .”
“Don’t be foolish, son. If you don’t marry Mary soon, some other suitor is sure to make her an offer. We need to keep Scotland dependent on us, and Scotland needs France. They are overrun by E∂ians! That Knox fellow is only one example of the danger they face. Which means that you’ll marry Mary and seal the deal. And when you are wed, you will apply a gentle but firm pressure to bring that kingdom back to its Verity roots. Mary is a Verity. You are a Verity. Your children will be Verities. The kingdom must follow.”
&nb
sp; “I want to do what is best by France, of course.” Francis squirmed with discomfort. “I’m just worried about”—he lowered his voice so the servants couldn’t overhear—“the wedding night. We’ve been friends forever, but she’s never given me an indication that she sees me as anything other than a friend.” Francis tried very hard not to look at Mary’s uncles.
“Bah!” Henry waved away that concern. “Mary will do her duty. She needs an heir even more than you do. She will obey. I will see to it.”
Mary and obey could not usually be used in the same sentence. Wait—“What do you mean you’ll see to it?”
“I’ll be there, of course.”
Francis blinked. “You’ll be there?”
“Of course,” Cardinal Charles said. “There’s nothing unusual about a father-in-law observing the consummation of a long-awaited wedding.”
Francis begged to differ.
The king nodded. “My father observed your mother and me. Unfortunately it didn’t take right away, but you came along eventually.”
Francis’s throat went tight. “Did he, um, observe every time after?”
“Of course not. He had a kingdom to run, and believe it or not, there was a time your mother and I did not hate each other. We were quite energetic in those days, if you know what I mean.”
Francis did not want to think about what Henry meant, and he certainly did not want to think about his grandfather, ahem, observing. He decided to move on to the point of the conversation. “I’m just not sure I want to—”
“Oh, you will,” Henry assured him. “Mary is a beautiful girl, and you should enjoy her.” He said it as though she were a new toy he was offering Francis.
In his head, Francis gagged a little. (Your narrators are gagging, too.)
“And once you’ve made an heir,” Henry went on, “if you get tired of her, then you’ll be able to take a mistress.”
“Well, now.” Cardinal Charles frowned. “That’s not a thing to speak of in front of Mary’s uncles, is it?”
The king smiled innocently at the uncles. “Not that anyone could ever tire of Mary. She’s quite the prize.”