My Contrary Mary

by Cynthia Hand

  Mary added in a postscript: I apologize for the untidy penmanship, but I am writing hastily, so that you may receive this joyous news as soon as possible. M. She rolled the letter into a tight tube, sealed it with red wax, and joined Bea at the window.

  “It’s midday, and I’m still in my dressing gown,” Mary lamented, noticing the height of the sun.

  “No one will judge you for it,” Bea replied. “We had a late night. The other Marys are all still sleeping, especially Flem. She may have drunk more than was wise and suggested to the Duke of Brie that he consider proposing to her.”

  “I hope he didn’t, seeing as he already has a wife,” Mary said. She had partaken of too much wine herself during all the excessive toasting. Her head felt achy and the light too bright for her eyes.

  Bea lifted her arms over her head, stretching. “I’ll return in a day or two, depending upon the weather and how long your mother takes to pen a reply. Definitely before the wedding. Until then, be well, Your Majesty.”

  “Be careful, Bea,” Mary warned. “The guards are on high alert for E∂ians.” Francis had told her of the seagull E∂ian who’d been caught with the terrible pamphlet from John Knox. She wondered what had become of the woman. She was probably rotting in a cell somewhere.

  “I’m always careful,” answered Bea.

  There was a flash of light and a rustle of feathers. The dressing gown dropped to the floor as a large, glossy-black raven fluttered to the wooden perch that had been installed on Mary’s window casement for just this purpose.

  Mary hurriedly bound her letter to the raven’s leg. “Safe travels.”

  “Caw,” quoth the raven, and was gone in a clapping of wings.

  Mary rubbed at her temples. She should send for the rest of her ladies so they could help her dress and set about preparing for the wedding, now only four days away. There were—in spite of the king’s attempt to organize everything—what seemed like a thousand tasks before her.

  But Mary was still thinking about her mother. She felt a dart of jealousy that Bea would get to see Mary de Guise in person, when Mary herself hadn’t seen her mother in seven years—the last time the elder Mary had come to French court for a visit. What was her mother doing now? Was she safe, or had this John Knox rebellion already arrived at her door? What could Mary do about it if it had?

  The thought made all the fuss over wedding preparations seem frivolous.

  She went to the door. “Please summon my ladies,” she told the guards.

  Within a few moments there was a tentative knock, and Ari shuffled into the room.

  “You sent for me, Your Majesty?” she said.

  Mary frowned. The moment that Queen Catherine had announced Ari as Mary’s new lady-in-waiting, Mary had suspected that she’d chosen the girl to spy upon her. It was to be expected, she supposed. Queen Catherine was meddlesome and relentlessly cunning. So Mary had resolved to tread carefully around Ari. Still, Mary found that she quite liked this strange and quirky daughter of Nostradamus. There was just something so endearingly eager about the girl. But she definitely could not be trusted.

  “I sent for all my ladies,” Mary said.

  Ari’s mouth twisted. “I’m the only one who’s not hungover.”

  “Then we shall have to make do with what we have. Help me dress.”

  But Ari hadn’t the least idea how to corset or cinch, let alone what parts of Mary’s gowns were supposed to go where. “I’m sorry,” Ari stammered. “I can try to wake another one of the Marys, if you’d prefer. But earlier Flem tried to bite me, so I ran away.”

  “Don’t bother,” Mary said, pulling on her simplest dress. “We can manage together. Do you think you could arrange my hair?”

  Ari nodded. Mary sat on her chair before the fire, and Ari, with painstakingly care, slowly combed through the queen’s long auburn tresses.

  “How are you finding your new position as a lady-in-waiting?” Mary asked.

  “There’s a lot to learn,” replied Ari. “But I enjoy the company.”

  “My ladies are indeed good company,” Mary agreed. “Liv especially.”

  In the mirror she watched as Ari’s face pinkened. “Lady Livingston has been so helpful in explaining my duties. I am grateful for her . . . kindness.”

  “Yes. She seems quite taken with you,” Mary said.

  They were quiet for a minute as Ari struggled to style Mary’s hair. (She invented the messy bun right on the spot.)

  Then Mary stood. “Come, let’s away.”

  “Away to where?” asked Ari.

  “I need to speak with Queen Catherine.”

  “Queen Catherine?” squeaked Ari. “Speak? Now?”

  Oh yes, thought Mary. Ari was definitely a spy for the queen. “No time like the present,” she affirmed, and swept out the door.

  Ari’s face became paler and paler the closer they drew to the French queen’s chambers. Mary actually felt bad for her.

  “Is this regarding the wedding?” Ari asked.

  “No,” said Mary lightly. They had reached the queen’s door. “Wait out here for me,” she directed Ari. “I’ll be back.”

  Ari startled. “I had a vision this morning of someone saying that very thing!”

  “Someone?” Mary asked. “Who?”

  “A large and frightening man,” Ari said. “Wearing a black and shiny doublet, with darkness over his eyes. He said he was a friend of Sarah Connor’s.”

  “Who’s Sarah Connor?”

  Ari shrugged.

  Mary shook her head and told the guards she wished to speak to the queen of France. She was immediately granted entrance.

  “Mary. What an unexpected surprise,” said Catherine upon seeing her. “I was afraid you were unwell, as you missed the official engagement breakfast in your honor.”

  Droppings.

  “I’m sure it was lovely,” Mary said. “I’ve just been so busy with plans for the wedding. You understand.”

  “All you have to do is show up, dear,” the queen said. “But you’re excited for Thursday, I assume?”

  Mary smiled and nodded. “I could not be more excited.”

  “Good,” said the queen. “All I desire in this life is Francis’s happiness. And yours, of course, my dear. You know I’ve always thought of you as one of my own daughters.”

  “And you have been a good mother to me,” Mary said. “In the absence of my own.”

  This was true. In some ways, Queen Catherine and even Diane de Poitiers had been more maternal to Mary than Mary de Guise.

  “So you’re happy?” the queen asked.

  “Yes.” Mary twisted her amethyst ring. “Deliriously happy.”

  Another white lie.

  I should be deliriously happy, she chided herself silently. She had more than most people could ever dream of—jewels and gowns and all kinds of finery, and she was lucky, truly lucky, she knew, to be marrying Francis. It is the best possible outcome.

  But she didn’t feel the kind of euphoric happiness that she supposed a girl should feel when thinking about her wedding day.

  Be happy, she told herself sternly. Or at least content. Now.

  But her heart would not abide.

  “Are you all right, dear?” asked Queen Catherine. “You seem troubled.”

  “I’m fine.” Mary checked herself immediately. “I’m ecstatic to be marrying your son,” she assured Catherine. “There is much on my mind, is all.”

  “I understand,” said the queen, so kindly it made Mary rather suspicious. “It’s a lot to carry on your shoulders, the weight of two countries. And a wedding is stressful for any bride. I was a mess of nerves before my own wedding.”

  “You were?” Mary had a hard time imagining Catherine being anything but exquisitely composed. “And what did you do?”

  “I’m a Medici. I drank some wine and pulled myself together.”

  Mary nodded, twisting her ring.

  “That’s a lovely ring,” Catherine observed.

  �
�The stone is said to have magical properties,” Mary said. “To calm the mind and ease any troubles.”

  “Does it now?” said Catherine wryly.

  Mary felt that their entire conversation had gone a bit off course. “I’ve actually come to speak with you about something unrelated to the wedding.”

  “Oh? Do tell,” said Catherine.

  “Francis said there was an E∂ian woman taken captive at dinner a few days ago.”

  Catherine scowled. “Indeed. A seagull. Pitiful wretched thing.”

  “Do you know what became of her?”

  “Your uncles took custody of her,” Catherine said with a sniff. “I imagine that they interrogated her.” At that she sounded wistful, like she was missing out on some fun she would have liked to have. “And then put her to death, as befitting any E∂ian, of course, but most especially any E∂ian who has proven a threat to you.”

  Mary’s chest was tight from a mixture of fear and sadness for the woman. “But was she? A threat to me, I mean?”

  “She was bearing a pamphlet that called for your removal from the throne, illustrated with a charming drawing of you being beheaded,” Catherine said.

  Mary nodded. She knew all of this. “Do you know what became of the pamphlet?”

  Catherine looked confused. “Why would that concern you?”

  “I should like to study it,” Mary said.

  “Whatever for?”

  “Because I wish to understand the argument that is being made against me. Then I might be some help to my mother in attempting to combat this vile propaganda against us both.”

  Catherine tilted her head, as if she was deciding whether Mary’s desire was foolish or admirable. Then she crossed over to her desk and opened a drawer, from which she drew the offensive pamphlet. She held it out to Mary.

  “I don’t see what good this will be to you, though, my dear,” she said as Mary took the folded parchment. “After all, you’re far from Scotland.”

  Mary’s jaw tightened. “Even so, I am Scotland’s queen. I want to do my part in seeing to the welfare of my country.”

  “The best thing you can do for your country is to marry Francis and pop out a long succession of fine baby boys,” Catherine said in a no-nonsense tone.

  Heat rose in Mary’s face. “I understand that duty, I assure you. But if I am to be Scotland’s true queen, I should—”

  “You shall never be Scotland’s true queen,” Catherine said sharply.

  Mary drew in a startled breath. “What did you say?”

  “You’re unlikely, my dear, to ever set foot on Scottish soil again. Someone else will always rule in your name. First your mother, of course, and then Francis.”

  Mary felt as though she’d been splashed by cold water. But Francis wasn’t like that. He was not some stranger who knew her only by reputation, who’d treat Mary as his property and everything she possessed as his, as well. Francis would be her partner. Her equal. He’d support her, and she him, as they always had. They would be there for one another, side by side until death parted them.

  But Catherine had a point. Mary would stay in France. A woman’s place, after all, was beside her husband. Francis would be her anchor. But an anchor was also, by its very definition, a heavy weight that kept you from going anywhere.

  No. She would not be held down by anyone. Mary drew herself up to her full height, which was several inches taller than that of Queen Catherine. “I am afraid that you are mistaking my position for your own.”

  Catherine’s sharp eyes narrowed. “How’s that?”

  “Francis is not my lord and master, nor will he ever be. He will not rule Scotland the way Henry rules France. I am a queen in more than just my name.”

  Unlike you. The words were unspoken between them.

  Anger flashed in Queen Catherine’s eyes. Mary had the good sense to be frightened. She decided to backpedal (although she wouldn’t have understood the term backpedal, as bicycles hadn’t been invented yet). She cleared her throat. “What I mean to say is . . .” Merde, what did she mean to say? “I don’t believe any of this nonsense about a woman being incapable of ruling a country.” She held up the pamphlet. “A woman is just as capable. Perhaps more capable. And it is you, Your Highness, who has truly taught me that. Your strength has taught me that I can be strong.”

  The corner of Catherine’s mouth turned up in the ghost of a smile. “I am glad that you are to marry my son,” she said at last. “He will benefit from your fire.”

  “I, too, am glad,” Mary agreed. “And I hope that you and I can work together for the benefit of both our countries.”

  (This is a deft move that has been used by young women across the centuries. It’s called the schmoozing of the mother-in-law.)

  “Indeed,” said Queen Catherine, and drew Mary to her and kissed her cheeks.

  Mary made an excuse (again: so many things to do before the wedding, what was a bride to do?) and excused herself from the queen’s presence.

  “Can you send the Nostradamus girl to see me?” Queen Catherine requested as Mary was about to flee. “Whenever you get a chance.”

  “Of course. She is right outside the door, in fact,” Mary said.

  She went to fetch Ari. The poor girl’s expression grew tense when Mary informed her that Queen Catherine wished to speak with her.

  “Speak? Me? Now? Why would Queen Catherine want to speak with me? I have no idea. I don’t often work for Queen Catherine. I hardly even see her.”

  She did protest too much, Mary thought.

  “Maybe she wishes you to give her a vision,” Mary said. “You should tell her the one about Sarah Connor and the man with the dark eyes. Perhaps she will know what to make of it.”

  At this, Ari went from white to a pale green. “Right,” she said, and then screwed up her courage and knocked upon Queen Catherine’s door.

  Mary dashed (or rather strode quickly, as queens do not run) back to her room, still clutching the fateful pamphlet to her chest. She went immediately to her desk and read it over thoroughly, trying to ignore the way the hair on the back of her neck prickled when she looked at the drawing of her own beheading.

  Scotland should no longer suffer under these deficient rulers, she read. We E∂ians must rise up and seize our natural place as the true leaders of our country. We will take on the hollow Verity queen. We will chase out the Verity regent. We will make a monarchy of our own, with strong E∂ian men who will deliver strong E∂ian sons.

  A sense of dread descended into her stomach. She pressed her hand there. Indeed she felt hollow.

  But she was not truly a Verity.

  And she was not a deficient ruler. And somehow she must prove it, if she was going to keep her country.

  Starting, she supposed, with marrying Francis.

  Mary crossed to the window and leaned out into the fresh air, and in that moment, she tried to simply breathe in and out and think of nothing else.

  Breathe, she thought. Just breathe.

  ELEVEN

  Ari

  “So, girl, tell me what you’ve learned of Queen Mary,” Queen Catherine demanded.

  Ari gulped and glanced around nervously, but there was no one to help her. It was just Ari and the queen of France. “Your Majesty, I am still working on ingratiating myself to Queen Mary, to gain her trust.”

  The queen frowned. “Well, what of Nostradamus’s prophecy? Have you happened upon any news of a trap? A betrayal? Any new faces? Has anyone tried to sneak her nefarious biscuits?”

  “No, Your Majesty. But I assure you I am ever vigilant, and I’m confident I will discover something soon.”

  “Very well. And have you, Aristotle, had any visions?”

  Ari fidgeted. There was no way she was going to tell the queen about the vision with the boy and the girl on the door. Or the one from this morning. Neither of those would impress Queen Catherine, Ari was sure. “I am still waiting for the right inspiration.”

  “Aristotle de Nostradame, I ha
ve not made you one of Mary’s ladies-in-waiting to form some sleepover pillow-fighting, hair-braiding girl-clan. You remember our condition?”

  The condition. The one where Ari found useful information for Queen Catherine or she would be exiled from the court to live a life of poverty and singledom.

  “I remember,” Ari said. “I will find something.”

  “Good. Now, there’s one more thing. I need you to make two potions.”

  Ari perked up. Now that she could do. “What kind of potions, Your Majesty?”

  “The first will be for Mary. The young queen is, as you might imagine, somewhat anxious about her upcoming nuptials. You will make something to ease her worries so that she may enjoy her wedding.”

  Ari nodded. She had just the thing in mind. The Worries Be Gone potion was quite effective, and she could make it with her eyes closed. “Of course, Your Majesty. I’ll have it ready this afternoon. What else?”

  “The other is regarding a more sensitive issue. I expect your utmost discretion.”

  “Always, Your Majesty.”

  “My husband”—the queen curled her lip—“King Henry, wishes to witness, personally, the consummation on Mary and Francis’s wedding night.”

  A flush spread up Ari’s whole body. How terrible for them!

  “My son”—the queen smiled now—“Francis, has informed me he would rather this not happen. And as we both know, when given the opportunity to thwart my husband, I will take it.”

  “Did you have anything in particular in mind?” Ari asked.

  “I leave that to you. Just come up with something that will make the king . . . not there.”

  “I will, Your Majesty,” Ari said, having no idea how.

  “Excellent.” The queen put a finger to her chin thoughtfully. “If only there were a way to make him not anywhere.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “Nothing. Go on, now. The wedding takes place in four days’ time. I expect results.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Ari curtsied and hurried down to her lab.

  It was strange, she thought, hearing that Queen Mary was anxious about anything. Ari had always observed Queen Mary to be confident, secure. Fearless. One didn’t have to be in her inner circle to see that.