by Lily Blake
A few of the other tables were half-empty—a reminder of what was happening outside the palace walls. With the plague spreading, the crowd was smaller than originally intended, the lords and ladies not daring to travel, in fear of catching the disease on the road. Lord Fiefe, a gray-haired man in red robes, was one of the few who had made it to the gates before they were lowered. More than once Mary stopped herself from asking him about the plague’s progress. Had he seen anything in his travels? Which villages were infected? Had he come from the southern route or the northern one? Francis was more likely to go to the north, then move west to the village where Lola was.…
She hated imagining her friend alone and in pain. So much had transpired between them in these past months, but Mary and Lola had grown closer because of it, keeping each other’s secrets, working together to ensure that Lola would be taken care of when the baby came. Mary had been so relieved when Lord Julien had stepped forward, willing to marry her just in time. No one knew the baby was Francis’s; no one would know. That was how Lola had wanted it, and it would undoubtedly be better for the child. Would that change now if Lola was sick? What would happen if she didn’t survive? It was too horrible to think about, but Mary hoped Francis would bring the child back to court, that he would be raised here, with them. Lola would’ve wanted him to be taken care of.
Mary combed back her hair, trying to fix her expression to something calm… something pleasant. Only Nostradamus seemed as distracted as she was. He sat at the table across from her, hunched over his empty plate, his fingers pressed to his temples. He was the court seer. Despite his close affiliation with Catherine, he seemed like a kind person with a good heart, which made him something of a minority at the French court. But ever since he’d had the vision of Mary causing Francis’s death, she’d tried to keep her distance from him. That kind of power… that kind of knowledge of the future… it frightened her.
“Mary?” Mary turned her head to see Greer staring at her. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Forgive me. I must’ve missed it. What was that?” Mary asked.
Greer was biting her lip the way she always did when she was nervous. “Lord Castleroy,” she said, nodding briefly at the besotted man who sat across from her, “was speaking of the news about the plague. One of the guards said the crowd outside the gates is growing.”
“The plague,” Mary repeated, nodding. “Yes… it’s… horrible.” She looked around for something, anything, to distract her. A group by the fireplace was dancing. A redheaded woman threw back her head, laughing.
“It’s going to mean chaos,” the man sitting next to Castleroy said loudly, shaking his head. “I remember the last time the plague swept through. It—”
“You weren’t old enough to remember anything,” one of the elder courtiers interrupted from the end of the table. He was a gray-haired man with a long, curled mustache. “Let me tell you all what it was like.…”
“Not a good time to be without a king,” the lord sitting next to Greer mumbled, and Mary felt herself stiffen.
“We have a king,” Catherine snapped from the other end of the table. She was sitting there, her scarlet hair pinned to the top of her head, the velvet collar of her gown turned up, framing her face. A hush immediately fell over the banquet hall. “My son Francis. In case you’d forgotten.”
“No, Your Grace. I haven’t,” the lord muttered. He turned bright red, matching the collar of his tunic. He stared down at his plate, and Mary had the distinct feeling that it would be quite some time before he offered an opinion at court again.
“But you raise an excellent point. In an idiotic, roundabout way…” Catherine went on, with her usual blunt manner. “Where is my son, our king, tonight?” She fixed her gaze on Mary.
Those cold gray eyes. Though Catherine and Mary had shared interests in the past weeks, Mary hated being the object of Catherine’s attention. The former queen was calculating and manipulative. When she was kind, Mary wondered if she was plotting something. When she was furious, Mary was tense, waiting for her fury to be directed at someone. Though Catherine knew Francis had left the palace following Mary’s counsel, there was no way for her to know why—Lola’s condition was a secret shared only by a few people in her confidence. She doesn’t know, Mary reminded herself. There’s no way she could’ve found out.
But now, with Catherine’s gaze fixed on her, Mary wasn’t as certain. She thought of the door to the tunnels in her bedroom, how it was slightly open. Mary had burned Lola’s letter as soon as she had read it, but she worried now that the fireplace hadn’t been cleaned out this morning. There was a chance a portion of it had survived. Had Catherine come into her room? Had she found the burnt letter, some of the words still legible? The queen had tried to kill her before, once in cold blood. Was she trying to do it again?
Mary looked down at her plate. The settings tonight were some of the very finest pieces. The porcelain was so thin you could almost see through it, and the edges were scalloped with delicate gold. Mary studied the pattern in front of her, trying to ignore Catherine’s prying eyes. But she kept coming back to her suspicions, to the truth of it, her thoughts racing to the same inevitable conclusion. Catherine was one of the few people in the palace who knew about the tunnels. Everyone else was in Mary’s confidence—Kenna, Greer, and Bash—they would never use the tunnels and lie about it. But Catherine? She knew all the details of where those secret passageways led—including the entrance to Mary’s room.
Mary was no longer an interloper without any real power. She had, just the day before, displaced Catherine as queen. If only for that, there would be consequences. But there was also the reality of what Mary had done in an attempt to send troops to her mother in Scotland, how she’d extorted ransom money from Catherine. Had Catherine discovered Mary’s role in the kidnapping? Did she know Mary was the one responsible for the death of her cousin Cortenza?
Mary’s stomach tensed, a sick feeling taking hold. Was she crazy even to think this way? Or was she just being practical, trying to see her enemies before they came at her? Had being at the French court changed her forever? For just a moment, Mary wished she could go back to being the girl she was when she first arrived at the palace. Sixteen, just in from the convent, scared and worried but no, not cynical—not yet. The girl who didn’t see plot and counterplot in every movement, who didn’t question everyone’s motives. But those days were gone. Now, would she always be suspicious, always be waiting for her inevitable end? Was there nobody she could trust?
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me?” Catherine went on, in the sweet tone that meant a sharp blow was sure to follow. “I hope our new queen isn’t growing hard of hearing. I was merely inquiring as to the whereabouts of your husband. Our king. My son.”
Mary sensed Greer watching her. She knew that with the tiniest of motions, she could get her lady to jump in, change the subject, or even engage Catherine herself. And Mary knew without a doubt that Greer would do it for her. But she made herself look right back at Catherine. The banquet table had quieted now, even the musicians in the corner having fallen silent. Mary sat up straighter, hoping that nobody would be able to tell her hands were shaking. “I’m as curious about Francis as you are,” she started. “I know only that he had business outside the palace walls. He left without telling me where he was going.”
“That doesn’t sound like Francis. You two have always been so close, sharing everything… all your secrets.”
Did she put an emphasis on secrets? Had Mary imagined it? What was she getting at now?
“Yes, it’s rather odd,” Mary said, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Well, in this time of uncertainty at least we have each other,” Catherine continued. “It’s so good to have family, isn’t it? People you can rely on? People you can trust?”
“Yes,” Mary said. “It is.…”
Catherine was about to say something, but a parade of servants came out of the kitchen, all carrying steaming platters of
food. The attention of the table was diverted, and Mary let out a long, thin breath. She had been spared… for the moment.
Soon the banquet hall was filled with the tantalizing smell of suckling pig. Given all that had transpired, Mary hadn’t had much of an appetite the last few days, but as she looked at the roasted pheasant and the grilled prawns, she felt it return again. The other guests were busy eating, and conversation had swung away from her, which was a relief. She only hoped it would stay that way for the rest of the evening.
“Your Grace.” Mary turned to see Cecily, her taster, curtsying behind her.
“Good evening, Cecily,” Mary said, giving the girl what felt like her first real smile in ages. Cecily had sought the position of taster, which Mary had always thought brave… especially considering what had happened to her taster at the convent. She had died when she’d eaten the porridge meant for Mary—the porridge poisoned by the English.
Cecily couldn’t have been older than fifteen, with a grave face that Mary was constantly trying to coax into a smile. She sat down on a small stool just behind Mary, almost completely out of sight. Another servant passed her Mary’s plate. She took bites of all Mary’s food, then waited, her dark eyes solemn.
This was routine. This was what happened every morning and evening, at every meal. And yet now… tonight… it felt different. Mary sat on her hands as she waited, watching Cecily’s face. There was the flash of the girl at the convent, blood spilling from her nose and mouth. Her head had fallen onto the table with a horrible thud. The whites of her eyes had turned yellow.
Catherine was famous for her skill with poisons. She’s killed a dozen people that way, though no one could ever prove it was her. Was this how she planned to remove Mary from power? How had she gotten around tasters in the past? Had she paid Cecily to not swallow the food?
“It’s fine, Your Grace,” Cecily said, setting the plate in front of Mary. “You may eat.”
Cecily curtsied again and disappeared into the kitchen. Even when she was gone, Mary didn’t feel any better. She pushed the stewed green beans around the plate with her fork, hoping no one would notice she wasn’t eating.
“So, Lord Castleroy,” Mary said, casting about for a subject that would take them through the rest of the banquet—a subject that had nothing to do with plague, or death, or Francis’s absence. “How are things in the world of pepper?”
An hour later, the feast was winding down. Mary glanced around at the half-eaten plates of cake and cookies, wondering if she could finally sneak out without being noticed. Castleroy was still going on about his favorite spice, and Greer had kicked Mary—queen or not—at least three times over the course of the feast. When the servants came to clear the dessert plates, Mary nodded at Greer, the sign that she was ready to leave.
She glanced down the table at Catherine, who was in conversation with the same gray-haired lord she’d chastised earlier. Though Mary was still starving, she had gotten through the meal without incident. Whatever Catherine was plotting had been thwarted, if only for the night.
“Gentlemen…” Mary stood, causing all the men at the table to push back their chairs. They sprang to their feet.
“Leaving so soon?” Catherine asked from the end of the table. She took her time to stand, making a huge show of pushing back her chair and adjusting her gown.
“It’s been a long day for all of us,” Mary said. She linked her arm through Greer’s and turned her back to Catherine. They walked toward the two enormous wooden doors that led to the north wing of the palace. Noticing her pass, the guests at the other tables stood up. She nodded at Nostradamus as she walked by. He nodded back, smiling, but then, all at once, his expression changed. His eyes rolled back in his head. He grabbed the chair behind him, steadying himself.
“What’s wrong with him?” Greer asked, squeezing Mary’s hand.
“He’s having one of his visions,” Catherine called from across the room. “Give him space. Don’t crowd him.”
Nostradamus struggled to catch his breath. When he came to, he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He kept looking at the floor, then back at Mary.
“What is it?” Mary asked. “What did you see?” Her mind spun with possibilities, each more frightening than the last. Francis, sick from the plague. Lola, dying alone in a stranger’s house, the sheets covered with thick, clotted blood.
“You,” Nostradamus gasped, his voice hoarse, as though the words were being pulled from him unwillingly. “I saw… you.”
Mary held tight to Greer, feeling unsteady. “Tell me,” she demanded.
Nostradamus hesitated. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and almost incomprehensible, as if he were chanting some strange incantation. “The planned death will be carried out… orders given and a voyage of death… the elected, created, and publicly received one is undone… via remorse, innocent blood is placed before faith.”
Mary looked to Greer, who appeared just as baffled as she was. “What does it mean?” she asked.
Nostradamus reached up and touched her neck, as though he were still in a dream. Mary felt herself shiver, though she could not have said why. Nostradamus turned his head away, but before he did, Mary could see tears in his eyes. He was crying.
“I saw…” he said, struggling to finish the sentence. “I saw it. An arrow pierced Mary’s neck.” When he looked up at Mary, his eyes were full of terror. “It is going to happen, and soon. Someone is plotting to kill you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Francis tried to scream through the gag in his mouth. He twisted and pulled, struggling against the rope that bound his wrists together. As the couple dragged him through the woods, he kicked and fought, reaching for tree trunks and low branches—anything in his path that might help him regain his freedom. It was no use.
He could hear chanting in the distance. Pagans were coming. The back of Francis’s legs hit rough wooden steps. He turned his head and looked up. He was being dragged into a small rustic house. There was a thin trail of smoke rising up from the chimney, a thatched roof, a few windows that were covered with wooden shutters. Francis hooked his foot on the doorframe, but the man grabbed it, pushing it off. He pulled the door closed behind them. Francis’s stomach turned. The gag was tight, his throat dry. He felt like he was suffocating. Why were they bringing him inside? Were the pagans coming for him? What were they planning to do?
He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that the couple wasn’t going to sacrifice him. He tried to tell himself that the pagans usually made their blood sacrifices in the woods, that they didn’t bring people inside their homes. But it was hard to be certain of anything anymore. The pagans had grown bolder this last year, as a new blood cult had sprung up. Suddenly, the trees in the woods just outside the palace were hung with bodies—sacrifices—their throats cut, their blood dripping onto the ground. Bash had said it was to appease the gods they worshipped.
The couple let him go for just a moment as they moved around the house, latching the shutters on the windows. As soon as he was free Francis lunged for the door, even though he was off-balance without the use of his arms. He rammed his shoulder against the wood, trying to break it. He screamed against the gag until he was hoarse. As he was taking a breath the man grabbed his arm. He placed a finger to his lips, then pointed outside toward the woods.
Francis turned his head to listen, and heard the chanting getting closer. Within minutes there was the unmistakable sound of footsteps crunching over dry leaves and twigs. People were coming—a whole group of them. A moment later, above the footsteps, their words became clear. Blood will be taken, Blood must be given. He looked up at the couple, who were crouched by the window, staring through the slats in the shutters. “They’re looking for innocents,” the man whispered. “The pagans…”
Francis nodded, showing he finally understood. They weren’t pagans themselves… they were trying to save him. The man leaned down and untied his hands, then slowly removed the gag from his mouth. Francis looked to the
table beside the door. “Here, help me move this,” he whispered.
Francis took one end of the table and the man took the other, sliding it against the wood door. The chanting grew louder as they moved around the tiny house one final time. The woman doused the coals in the fireplace with water, making sure every single one was out. Francis grabbed an iron poker from the mantel and handed it to the man, taking a heavy shovel for himself.
Blood will be taken, Blood must be given. The footsteps outside were coming closer. Their voices grew louder. Light streamed in through the closed shutters, and it took Francis a moment to realize what it was—they were all carrying torches, the light leading their way.
The man pulled his wife to the far corner of the room, putting himself between her and the door. Francis positioned himself beside the entrance, raising the end of the shovel so he was ready to strike.
The chanting from outside grew louder. Francis could tell from the light shining through the shutters that they were circling the house. He and the couple stood there, frozen, letting out long, slow breaths. Francis didn’t dare take even one step. He pressed his back against the wall, careful to stay out of the light that streamed in from the windows. They were close enough now to look inside.
“I swore I saw smoke from the chimney,” one of the pagans said, his voice low and hoarse. “There must be someone in there.…”
The chanting stopped. The woods were silent. There were murmurings among the group, and then, in an instant, the pagans charged toward the house. They banged against the shutters, trying to open the windows. Francis watched the metal lock on the door bend out of shape. The wood door opened an inch, then another, stopped only by the table, which was wedged into the space between the wall and a wooden post that ran from ceiling to floor.
Someone yelled in frustration, banging again on the door. “It’s stuck,” he said. “Goddamn it, I can’t get it to open.”