by Cynthia Hand
Her eyebrows drew closer together as she nodded.
“Has something happened?” he asked.
She touched the amethyst ring. “I just found out that someone I trusted—someone I consider family—hasn’t been honest with me.”
His eyebrows lifted. She must be talking about her uncles. He felt a flash of relief. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I was angry at first.” (To which your narrators would say, um, UNDERSTATEMENT much?) “But now I just feel sad. What would you do?”
Francis thought for a minute. “If I still cared about them, I’d find a kind way to remove them from my presence.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. I shall think on that.” She smiled. “I’m glad we talked about this. This situation has made me realize how much I value your honesty and forthrightness. Growing up as a queen, I’ve always had to be suspicious of those around me, but with you—we are equal. We are meant to be together.”
Francis’s heart thundered. “I think so, too.”
“In some ways, everything will be different after tomorrow.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “But you and I will be the same, won’t we? The way we feel about each other?”
“That’s right.” A spot of pink appeared on each of her cheeks. “Unrelated to the wedding—do you still have that bearskin rug? The one that we used to sleep on in front of the fire?”
Francis blinked. Where had that come from? “Yes,” he said slowly, remembering the night years ago that he’d awakened in his room to find Mary there, sitting on the rug and looking into the fire. He’d climbed out of bed to sit with her, letting her talk until she curled up and fell asleep. She’d come to his room regularly after that, and they’d play cards or trade gossip, but after a while she’d had to stop; her uncles had said she was too old to go sneaking into his room, but Francis had left the rug there like a relic of their childhood he could not bear to disturb. “I still have it.”
A smile touched her lips. “That’s good.”
Francis skipped breakfast. Instead, he informed his father that he was riding out for the day and wouldn’t be available for any of the wedding minutiae.
There was something far more important that Francis needed to find.
The ride was relaxing, and Francis, for all his shortcomings as the future king, was a good rider. He enjoyed the sun on his face, the breeze tangling through his hair, and the sense of the ground flying beneath him. He went on like that for a while, down the roads and away from Paris, reveling in the feel of not being judged—not being found so lacking—until he came to a stretch of wildflowers growing along the roadside.
Then, breathing heavily from the exercise, he reined in his horse and dismounted.
It wasn’t hard to find what he wanted: they were white flowers with a bright yellow center, a kind of primrose. Francis produced a length of wet fabric (to keep the flowers fresh), and a sharp knife. He thought about the light in Mary’s eyes when she’d said they were meant to be together. And by this time tomorrow, they would be. They’d be together forever.
Francis knelt in the grass and cut the first cowslip for Mary.
SIXTEEN
Mary
Mary gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Her gown was undeniably gorgeous, a shimmering white, embroidered with silver thread and sparkling with diamonds, topped with a train of bluish-gray velvet. Her long auburn hair fell in waves down her back. From her throat dangled a large jewel-encrusted pendant bearing a blue diamond the size of a walnut—a gift from her soon-to-be father-in-law, engraved with his initials: HV.
Mary lifted her hand to touch the diamond. The girl in the mirror felt like a stranger to her, an impostor.
“Here are your mother’s earrings,” Hush said, holding out her hand, where, nestled into her palm, was a pair of drop earrings fashioned from Scottish pearls. Mary de Guise had received these earrings from her then soon-to-be husband, James V, on the day of their wedding, and she’d sent them along with her daughter when Mary traveled to France, so certain Mary de Guise had been that Mary would marry Francis someday.
And now someday was today. Her wedding day.
But her mother wouldn’t be here to see it.
“Let me do that,” Hush said. Mary turned her head so Hush might fasten the pearl earrings onto her ears. Normally it was Liv who handled her jewels, but Mary had sent her on an errand, just to get her out of sight. It had been four days since Mary had discovered Liv’s treachery, and the pain of it had not eased. But she had taken Francis’s advice and now had a plan for how she would deal with Liv, a course of action that she hoped would be the best for both of them.
She gazed again into the mirror. Her mother’s earrings were the perfect accent. But she would have rather had her mother than the earrings.
“No one has heard from Bea?” she asked.
Hush and Flem shook their heads mournfully.
“I’m sure she was simply delayed,” Hush murmured.
Mary nodded. Of course, this was what she would like to believe. She hoped Bea hadn’t been intercepted. If the uncles knew that Bea was an E∂ian, who else might know? Mary clenched her fists for a moment, thinking about how Liv must have told the uncles. She’d put Bea in danger. And perhaps all of them.
“She’s probably flapping wildly back to us as we speak, bearing a congratulatory letter from your mother,” Flem said. “But if she were here, she’d tell you not to worry about her and enjoy yourself today.”
A knock came at the outer door. Flem went to answer it and returned with the two younger Valois princes: Henry III and Charles IX.
“You look so pretty, Mary,” Henry III said, gaping up at her.
She smiled and ruffled his golden hair.
“You should marry me instead of Francis,” Charles IX said.
She laughed and bent to kiss his cheek. “Now I shall get to be your sister, won’t I?”
“We have enough sisters,” grumbled Charles IX.
“Francis sent us to give you this.” Henry III drew a bouquet from behind his back and thrust it at Mary. It was a simple gathering of white flowers: cowslips.
Mary’s breath caught. Francis had been listening when she’d rambled on and on about what she’d wanted her bouquet to be.
“He spent all day yesterday picking stupid flowers,” Charles IX said.
And he’d picked them himself.
Mary had a bouquet already, made from marigolds—because the marigold was what she’d randomly chosen to be the emblem of her royal crest when she was eight years old and thought yellow flowers were very elegant. But of course she would set the marigolds aside now, and use Francis’s bouquet.
She handed the flowers carefully to Hush, who went to put them in some water to keep them fresh until the wedding. Then she crossed to the armoire and retrieved something from the top drawer: the silk handkerchief she’d embroidered.
She knelt to give it to Henry III. “Tell Francis that the flowers please me greatly, and give this to him as my token in return.”
You and no other, it read. She hoped he’d understand how much she meant it.
She kissed the princes again and sent them back to the groom.
A moment later Liv and Ari burst into the room, both dressed in silk gowns, blue like all of Mary’s maids of honor.
Mary’s jaw clenched at the sight of Liv. But she reminded herself that she had a plan.
“Oh dear,” said Hush. “Let’s do something with that hair.”
Ari nodded, breathless, but first she pulled two vials out of her cleavage. She’d been skittish lately, nervous around Mary and the ladies. Mary couldn’t imagine why.
Ari glanced between the potions, reading the labels. “This one reads Worries Be Gone, doesn’t it?” she asked Liv blearily.
“Yes.”
Ari held the vial out to the queen. “I made you a new batch,” she panted. “Much milder than the first. And remember, you only need a drop.”
�
��Thank you,” Mary said, and took the vial, but she didn’t intend to partake of any mysterious potions today. That had gotten her in enough trouble last time.
“What’s the other potion for?” Liv asked.
Ari’s face went red. “Something else. Totally unrelated to the wedding.” She quickly stuffed it back in her cleavage.
Flem’s head tilted to one side the way it did when she heard someone in the hallway. “They’re coming to fetch us now!” She squealed excitedly. She would have been wagging her tail if she’d had it available. “Are we ready to go to the church?”
Mary took a deep breath and let it out slowly, which was difficult, what with her corset laced extra tight to ensure that her figure would be impeccable.
“Let’s not forget the final touch,” Liv said, and went to retrieve Mary’s crown—crafted especially for today. It was pure gold and studded with diamonds, pearls, rubies, and emeralds. The huge sapphire at its center flashed in the light as Liv placed it gently on Mary’s head.
Her ladies all drew in an awed gasp.
Mary struggled to keep her head up. The crown weighed (according to our exhaustive research) an approximate butt-ton, and it made Mary’s neck ache immediately. Droppings. She was going to have to wear this crown all day.
But it was fine. She was the queen, after all.
“You look radiant,” murmured Hush.
“You are . . .” Ari seemed at a loss for words. Or perhaps she was still out of breath.
“Splendiferous,” Flem supplied for her.
“You look like you’re ready to take on the world,” Liv said.
Mary closed her eyes and tried to think of Francis.
“I’m ready,” she said.
I’m not ready! Mary thought about an hour later. The journey to Notre Dame had gone by in a bumpy, jumbled blur as they’d ridden in a carriage through Paris, every street and alleyway and window filled with onlookers, all craning to see the queen on the way to her wedding. At the cathedral there’d been even more people crowded into the square, shouting at her, cheering, calling her name. And now she was standing at the end of a very, very long aisle in the cathedral with its high walls and vaulted ceilings and stained glass windows everywhere. She was clutching the arm of King Henry, who was to walk her down the aisle. And she was silently freaking out.
“You look ethereal, my dear,” the king was blathering on obliviously. “Even if you didn’t bring a country with you, my son would be lucky to win such a prize. Why, if I were a younger man, I myself might . . .”
Mon Dieu. She was going to barf.
Or she was going to slap the king of France.
Or she was going to faint, because she couldn’t breathe. Because corset.
“Won’t you smile for us, my dear?” Henry said, glancing at her ashen face.
But her lips felt like they were made of wax. All at once she knew with absolute certainty that this was the moment that would seal her fate forever. The aisle represented a path that she was embarking on, a series of steps, starting now, leading to the end of her life.
The music started, and the crowd rose to its feet, all turning to gaze at her in awe.
Mary tried to look past them, down the aisle, to Francis. But she couldn’t see him. He was too far away. She found she was trembling.
“Walk, girl,” the king said into her ear. “I have no wish to drag you.”
Her pride flared. “Mind that you don’t forget, Your Majesty, that I am also a queen. I will not be rushed, even by you.”
He grinned almost boyishly. “That’s my girl.”
She straightened and moved decisively forward. Behind her, Liv and Flem tried to match her sudden strides, holding the corners of the velvet train.
“Look at her crown!” she heard a courtier exclaim.
“I’ve heard the sapphire alone is worth half a million francs!”
Step.
Step.
“What a regal bearing she has.”
Step.
“She’s a hundred times more beautiful than a goddess of heaven!”
Step.
“How perfect she is!”
“How divine!”
Step.
“Her person alone is worth a kingdom.”
The crowd stared at her raptly, hungrily, as if they might suddenly rush forward and devour her, but Mary kept her gaze focused straight ahead. She could finally see Francis, flanked on one side by his brothers and on the other by her uncles.
At his expression, she almost laughed out loud.
He looked miserable. His face was pale and drawn, his arms clasped tightly behind him, a sheen of sweat shining on his brow beneath his simpler (probably lighter—ha!) crown. He must have been boiling under the mountain of layers he wore: the white undershirt with its stiff ruffled collar, topped by an ornately embroidered golden doublet, topped by an ermine-trimmed coat of heavy blue velvet. He was also wearing silver-threaded, puffed trousers (what we, your narrators, would describe as “pumpkin pants”) and fine white tights. But the pièce de résistance was the shoes, which were heeled so that he would appear to be as tall as Mary as they stood at the altar.
(Your narrators here again. It turns out that men were the first to wear high heels, which proves our theory that all torturous contraptions worn now for the sake of beauty were first invented and then discarded by men. But, let’s be honest, those heels made Francis’s calves look amazing.)
Francis swayed slightly. Mary caught and held his gaze as she continued toward him, step by step. Eyes up, she mouthed, and found her smile again, and hurled it at her fiancé like he was drowning, and she was throwing him a life preserver (even though life preservers hadn’t been invented yet). She even managed to arch an eyebrow at him playfully, like this entire charade could be simply a game to them.
His blue eyes softened. The corner of his mouth twitched.
That’s when Mary knew that they really were going to be fine. Everyone else in the room faded away for her, every face, every voice but that of her uncle Charles, the cardinal, murmuring, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together . . . to join this man and this woman . . . ,” and even then, she was only half paying attention.
And then they got to the part with the vows:
“I take you to be my wife.”
“. . . to be my husband.”
“. . . and pledge to you that I will be faithful and loyal . . .”
“. . . forsaking all others.”
“. . . keeping faith and truth in all matters between us . . .”
“In sickness and in health.”
“Until death us do part.”
“With this ring, I thee wed,” she said at the end, taking his clammy hand and sliding the ring onto his finger. “With my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
Her uncle declared them man and wife, unable to resist gleefully adding that Mary would someday be queen of both Scotland and France. And then he said, “You may kiss the bride.”
She’d completely forgotten that they were supposed to kiss.
The last time she’d kissed Francis had been after they’d danced, when she was five years old. And that, as it happened, had been the first and last time she’d ever been kissed on the lips.
He turned toward her, a silent question in his eyes.
She gave a slight nod. Yes. Of course. It was expected.
He tipped her chin up (in the shoes, he was as tall as she was now) and paused in just a moment’s hesitation before he touched his lips to hers. It was meant to be brief and perfunctory (a church kiss), but his mouth lingered on hers. His hand stayed at her face, his thumb still brushing her chin gently, his fingers coming to rest beneath the dangling pearl earring. Her own hand rose, of its own accord, it seemed, and buried itself in the golden curls at the back of his neck.
After a time she became aware of a noise. A roaring. She suddenly realized that it was the crowd.
She stepped back almost drunkenly
, bringing her fingers to touch her tingling lips, fighting the urge to grab her husband—yes, her husband, now—and pull him close again.
So that was kissing.
Francis glanced down, face flushed, the corner of his mouth turning up in a slight, half-embarrassed smile. Her uncle led them from the altar, Francis and Mary holding hands for just an instant before they were pulled apart again, swept off to make their separate ways back to the palace, and the party that awaited them there. And the wedding night.
SEVENTEEN
Ari
Ari was exhausted. All day yesterday she’d been perfecting the Not There potion that Queen Catherine had ordered for the king. Then she’d been up half the night working on the Not There antidote, and testing variations of both on poor, poor Greer. (She’d given Greer the day off today, and promised to bring her some wedding cake.) Then this morning she’d tried to deliver the Not There potion to Queen Catherine, who, to Ari’s dismay, insisted that she wanted nothing to do with “poisoning my dear husband” and informed Ari that it was her job to somehow slip said potion into the king’s drink at the opportune moment.
To which Ari thought, merde. What to do? What she wouldn’t give for a vision telling her how to accomplish this herculean task.
Then she’d had to put on a terribly uncomfortable dress and run straight to Mary and the rest of the ladies and off they’d headed to the church, where she’d walked ahead of the queen, sprinkling rose petals and struggled to keep her eyes open during the vows.
(This was before coffee, dear readers. Although our research did reveal that in the ninth century, an Ethiopian goatherd named Kaldi noticed how excited his goats became after eating the beans from a coffee plant. So, really, it was before coffee was available in France, which we think is inhumane. Anyway, back to the wedding.)
Finally, finally, the ceremony was over. But Ari still had hours to go before she could rest. After the big to-do at the cathedral, the wedding party (with King Henry and the dauphin on horseback, Queens Mary and Catherine following after in a golden litter, and Ari and the other ladies-in-waiting in a series of coaches behind them) toured the streets of Paris. It wasn’t a long journey from Notre Dame to the Louvre, but the Duke of Guise had changed the route, making it longer, to maximize the exposure of Mary to the crowds of adoring subjects.