My Contrary Mary

by Cynthia Hand

  The door of Francis’s chambers closed behind them. His shoulders sagged in relief. He was concerned about his father’s sudden and completely unexpected blindness, but surely it would wear off soon. Just not too soon.

  Beside him, Mary gave a small sigh that meant she was thinking the same thing. Francis smiled at her tremulously. Finally, they were (gulp) alone.

  “Oh good, you’re here.”

  They spun around to find the Cardinal of Lorraine sprinkling water on the bed.

  “What are you doing?” Mary asked in alarm.

  “Anointing your bed with holy water so that the consummation of your marriage will be pure.” He said it like this should be obvious. “Unfortunately, King Henry will not be here to observe, and he has forbidden anyone else from observing in his stead. However, I—and a few others from the house of Guise—will be just outside the door. The kingdom must be assured that an heir is on the way, you understand.”

  Francis and Mary exchanged glances. “Of course,” she said, before Francis could protest.

  “I’ll be right outside,” the cardinal said. “Shout if you need anything. I will hear.” Then he was gone, and Francis and Mary were alone.

  Mary shuddered. “What a barbaric practice. Also, he wet the bed. Who’d want to lie in the bed when it’s damp?”

  Francis glanced at the door. “What are we going to do? He’s going to camp out there all night if he thinks we haven’t—you know.” Not that Francis didn’t want to sleep with Mary. That is to say, he did—sometimes desperately. But definitely not with an audience, even if that audience was only listening. He didn’t even think it would be possible for him to do such a thing when he knew someone was judging and measuring his worth as a husband and, by extension, a king.

  “You’re right,” Mary said. “We need a plan. How can we play cards if someone’s waiting for”—her cheeks flushed—“you know.”

  Francis knew.

  “Maybe we should have eloped,” he mused.

  “Maybe you should never say that again, because that wedding was spectacular. Have you seen my gown?” She gestured down at herself.

  Francis had seen it. “Didn’t you feel self-conscious at all, with everyone looking at you?”

  “Of course not. I was perfectly calm the entire time.” Mary tilted her head. “Did you feel self-conscious?”

  “Pretty much always,” he said, “but to be honest, I got the feeling that no one noticed I was there. You were the star. You were the one everyone wanted to look at.” Francis studiously avoided looking at the bed. And thinking about the bed. It was wet, anyway, he reminded himself. (Reader, it wasn’t that wet.)

  Mary’s cheeks glowed with a blush. “You thought I was the star?”

  “I’ve always thought so.” And then he wondered if he’d had too much wine at the banquet, because that was something he definitely should not have said out loud. “What I mean to say is, you’ve always been the queen of Scotland, but today you were a bride, too, and the bride is always the star of the wedding, isn’t she?”

  Mary smiled again, her fingers grazing the massive jewel at her chest. “We do have one problem.”

  Francis’s heart plunged downward. “What is that?”

  “It took all of my ladies to dress me. I certainly can’t get out of this by myself, and no matter what we do tonight, I need to be wearing something that’s not my wedding gown.”

  For a moment, Francis envisioned helping her out of her dress. He imagined the scent of her skin, the softness of her hair, the draw of her breath. He was supposed to help her, wasn’t he? That was why they’d been left here together: so they could not wear clothes.

  But no matter how much he might enjoy helping her remove the layers and layers of her wedding gown, that would signal . . . something. And they’d agreed that they would play cards tonight.

  “You’re right,” he said. “The dress looks like a lot of work. I’ll have your ladies summoned.”

  An odd look crossed Mary’s face, like she’d expected him to say something else. “If you ask my uncle to send one of my ladies, will they think we’re not . . . you know?”

  Francis still knew.

  “I’ll tell him that I don’t want to fumble and accidentally ruin the dress. It’s too precious to risk me tearing out a button by accident. Anyone would believe that.” Even Francis, although he knew that he would have been as careful and gentle as humanly possible.

  Her lips parted, like she had something to say about that, but then she nodded. “Have them send for Liv—” Her expression darkened, as if she’d just remembered something unpleasant. “No, Hush. It’ll have to be Hush.”

  “What happened with Liv?” He studied her face, worry crowding his heart.

  “I don’t want to talk about it tonight. This is our night.” She pressed her lips into a line as she checked the curtains and the lock on the door. “You know what? Don’t send for anyone. I can escape this myself. I will need a change of clothes, though.”

  Francis tilted his head in confusion while Mary climbed onto the bed, shoes and all, and then disappeared in a flash of light. A small mouse darted out from the yards of fabric before they touched the bed, and Francis lunged to whisk her to safety as the jewelry and heavy crown followed.

  “You could have given me some warning,” he said as he placed her on the footboard. “We can’t have you getting crushed to death by your own crown.”

  Mary squeaked.

  “That’s true. You have indeed”—gulp—“undressed without help.”

  Before she could see how red his face was turning, he hurried to his wardrobe and looked through it for something that might fit Mary. He didn’t have any dresses, which left pants as the only option. He held up a few of the clothes she’d admired before—the blue doublet and so on—but she gave annoyed squeaks and shook her head. (Which looked very silly coming from a mouse, and not very queenly, not that he would ever say such a thing to her.)

  “Then all I have is a nightshirt.”

  Mary-the-mouse nodded.

  “Good point,” he said. “We will be going to sleep eventually.” He dug through his armoire and produced two nightshirts, then laid one out on the bed for her. “I’ll be in the other room.”

  When Mary-the-mouse scurried over to the clothes, Francis retreated into the next room and hurriedly changed out of his wedding attire, careful to fold the handkerchief she’d embroidered for him. You and no other. The words made his heart pound. Did she mean it? Did she see him that way?

  Tracing his fingertips over the neat stitches, he tried not to think about Mary on the other side of the door, turning back into a human and donning the shirt he’d left her.

  His. Shirt.

  On her.

  He swallowed hard and splashed cool water on his face. Then he waited for Mary to call him back. And waited some more. And waited. He rinsed his face again. What was taking so long?

  “Francis?” Mary’s voice was muffled by the door, but fortunately he’d been paying very close attention. He stepped back into the bedroom to find Mary human again and relocating the wedding gown and all the accompanying jewels. The white fabric of his shirt hung loose over her shoulders, giving him a glimpse of her smooth skin, and because she was taller than he, the hem fell to her knees rather than the middle of her calves, so whether Francis wanted it or not (reader, he did), he had a heart-stopping view of the graceful curves of her legs and delicate ankle bones, all the way down to her perfect toes.

  It was getting really hard to breathe.

  “Help me move everything off the bed. I have an idea.”

  Francis was having ideas, too.

  “All right,” he managed to say, scooping jewelry into his hands. “What’s this plan of yours?”

  “Uncle Charles is going to stay outside that door until he’s satisfied we’ve—”

  “I know,” Francis said, suddenly feeling far less excited now that he remembered that a person was just outside. “What do you propos
e to do about it?”

  “We’ll get on the bed,” Mary said, which made Francis instantly revert to his previous state, “and jump and yell.”

  Francis paused. “Like when we were children?”

  “Not quite like when we were children.” She finished arranging the dress on a chair. “We’ll have to make it sound convincing.”

  “Oh.” Francis deposited the jewelry and turned to face Mary. “Do you think that will make him go away?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” She took his hands and dragged him to the bed. “On you go.”

  Francis climbed up, uncomfortably aware of how little they were wearing as he offered a hand to her. He tried (and failed) to avoid noticing the view down her shirt.

  Francis grabbed a pillow.

  “What’s that for?” Mary asked, adjusting her balance as the mattress shifted beneath them.

  “Protection,” Francis said quickly. “In case we fall.”

  “I’m not afraid of falling.” Mary shifted from side to side for a moment, and then she jumped, forcing Francis to jump, too, or risk actually falling. A moment later, they were both jumping and laughing, making as much noise as they could possibly make. With each bounce, Francis felt his worries lift away. It was his wedding night, after all, and even if they weren’t going to . . . you know . . . they were together and having fun.

  Panting, Mary asked, “How long do you think we need to keep this up?”

  “I’m not sure.” According to his father, the event took hours. Francis assumed that was an exaggeration, and Mary already looked tired. She was breathing heavily and her eyes were weary from the long day. “Are you ready to stop?”

  “Keep going!” she yelled. Then, softer: “Say something encouraging.”

  “This is the most fun I’ve ever had in my life!”

  Mary laughed and kept jumping. “That’s not really what I meant.” Then she raised her voice again. “Incredible!”

  “Fantastic!”

  “Sensational!”

  “Marvelous!”

  “Outstanding!”

  “Superb!”

  “Magnificent!”

  “Splendid!”

  By then, they were both laughing too hard to keep going, and they collapsed onto the bed in a fit of giggles.

  Francis struggled to catch his breath and turned to look at Mary.

  She was gazing up at the ceiling, her skin flushed and her eyes bright, a smile illuminating her whole face. “That was fun,” she said, turning to look at him, too. “I’d forgotten what it felt like, just having fun with you.”

  Their hands were so close together. All he had to do was move his fingers a small bit, and they would be touching. He could take her hand, like they used to do all the time, but now, in this context, it might mean something else, and he didn’t want her to think he expected anything. One day they’d need to do this for real, because kings and queens had to produce heirs, but tonight . . .

  He tried not to notice the way his nightshirt slid down her shoulder. He failed. So then he tried not to notice the way the fabric laid over the curves of her chest. He failed again. At that point, he had little choice but to find the pillow and hold it over himself once more.

  “What are you thinking?” Mary whispered.

  “About how fun that was,” he lied. And then he felt bad for lying. “About the day we’ll do this for real.”

  Her eyebrows raised. “Oh?” Then, embarrassingly, she noted the pillow and seemed to recognize what it was for. “Oh.”

  He sat up and hugged his pillow, staring at the armoire. “Kings and queens don’t usually sleep in the same room.” Catherine and Henry actually slept on opposite sides of the palace now, and at this point, no one expected the king to even visit his wife. “It would be understandable if you wanted to return to your quarters now that we’ve—”

  “I know.” She climbed off the bed and padded barefoot to the door. She slid the bolt free and peeked out, but whatever she said, he couldn’t hear. A moment later, Mary returned and touched his chin. “Eyes up, Francis.”

  He looked at her to find her with her arms stretched toward him. With her hair loose and wild from all their jumping, she looked like some kind of goddess of the sky.

  “Come with me,” she said. “Bring your pillow, if you want.”

  “What are we doing?” He followed her to the bearskin rug in front of the fire, the same one she’d asked about yesterday.

  “You promised me a game of cards.” She settled onto the rug, her legs tucked neatly to the side. Firelight glowed across her skin. “And I don’t intend to let you back out of that.”

  A smile tugged at Francis’s lips as he found the deck he’d left on the mantel ages ago. “As you wish, my queen-dauphine. What game would you like to play?”

  “Whichever game I will win at.”

  “Ah, yes,” Francis said, and smiled. “That would be all of them.”

  NINETEEN

  Mary

  Mary woke on the bearskin rug. It was dim inside Francis’s chambers, as the drapes were still drawn, but there was a thin beam of light cutting across the floor now, and she could hear birds singing outside. It was morning. She stretched out her hand and gazed at the shining gold ring on her finger.

  So. She was married.

  The wedding had been an undeniable success. All in all, it had been as wonderful a wedding day as Mary could have imagined for herself.

  With cowslips. She smiled and turned onto her side, and there was Francis, lying on his back with one arm cast over his head, his eyes closed, his dark gold lashes fanned against his cheeks. She shifted closer to him and propped herself onto her elbow to watch the rise and fall of his breath as he slept. Her chest felt tight, looking at his dear face, as familiar to her as her own, but it seemed different now—a man’s face, perhaps, instead of a boy’s.

  He was her husband. She would make him happy, she resolved right then and there.

  She couldn’t stop staring at his slightly parted lips, remembering the way they’d felt against hers. She could lean over now, so easily, and kiss him again. It would be as natural a thing in the world to do: a wife kissing her husband. She wanted to so badly that her entire being seemed to ache.

  But if she kissed him, he would surely wake, and then what would he do? In her mind she saw him as she had when she’d taken Ari’s potion, smiling up at her, his blue eyes warm and inviting. She suspected there could be a lot of kissing, after that.

  Then things between them would change, forever.

  They were friends now, dear friends, best friends. They would become more.

  But more meant heirs to her throne, and his.

  She didn’t know if she was ready for more.

  His eyes fluttered open, pinning her.

  “Hello,” she said almost shyly.

  “Hello,” he murmured. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes.” Her back was a bit stiff from the hardness of the floor, but she’d slept more deeply last night than she had in weeks. “And you?”

  “Quite well.” He sat up slowly and stretched. “Although perhaps next time we should try the bed.” He froze. “I didn’t mean . . . I mean . . .”

  “Of course,” she said, stifling a smile. “We will naturally be expected to . . .”

  “Visit one another,” he finished for her. “At night.”

  “For the sake of appearances,” she said.

  “But last night didn’t go so badly, did it? We survived.”

  “Thanks to you,” she admitted. “It was fun.”

  He nodded. “So would you like to . . .”

  “. . . visit you again?”

  “Just to keep up appearances,” he said lightly.

  “Yes, of course. To keep up appearances. Perhaps tonight, even?”

  “Excellent. Hopefully this time there won’t be anyone listening at the door.” Almost absent-mindedly he lifted his hand to tuck an errant strand of her hair behind her ear, his fingers
brushing her cheek.

  Mary was suddenly aware that all she was wearing was a nightshirt. His nightshirt. “I should . . . return to my chambers soon. I have many things to attend to today.”

  His hand dropped. “What things?”

  “I must see if my lady Bea has returned, with news from my mother.” She rose quickly, went to the door, and peered out. At her feet she discovered her purple robe, neatly folded. And beside that, a curled-up spaniel.

  “Good morning, dear,” Mary said.

  “Bark!” said Flem. In an instant she had scampered into Francis’s room and was jumping and shimmying around him, yipping excitedly.

  Mary snatched up her robe and retreated back into the room, closing the door. When she turned around again, now sufficiently covered, she found Flem enthusiastically licking Francis’s face.

  “Well, this is a bit awkward,” he said, trying to politely keep the dog (who he knew quite well was actually a girl) off his lap.

  “Down, girl!” Mary said, mortified. “Come.”

  Flem ignored her. Possibly because Francis had begun to scratch behind one of her ears. Which made one of her legs beat at her side just so.

  “I’m sorry. In that form it’s hard for her to show proper restraint,” Mary explained. “And she likes you.”

  “Bark!” said Flem approvingly.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Francis said.

  Then the dog/girl proceeded to sniff at his crotch.

  “FLEM!” Mary’s face flamed. “Come here at once!”

  Flem reluctantly returned to Mary’s side, tail wagging.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mary said.

  Francis rubbed at the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. “It’s all right.”

  “I should . . .”

  “Yes. But I’ll see you later?”

  “Of course.” She was struck by the urge to cross the room and hug him, to thank him, just for being himself, but with Flem there it felt like too public a display. So Mary simply smiled. “Good day to you, husband,” she said.

  He gave a formal bow, which looked quite silly and adorable with him only wearing his nightshirt.

  “Good day to you. Wife.”

  “You should really exhibit better manners,” Mary chided as the queen and her dog walked back to Mary’s chambers. “That was embarrassing.”