My Contrary Mary Read online

  Anyway, Mary didn’t imagine them with a baby.

  Not yet, anyway.

  She took another sip of the potion. Liv had said one drink, no more than two. So this was two.

  “I’d be worried,” Flem said. “I know the men do most of the work, and you’re supposed to simply lie there and think of England until it’s over, but still . . .”

  “This from the girl who can’t wait to be married,” Liv pointed out.

  Flem sighed. “I know. But who knows? Maybe it would be fun.”

  “Flem!” Hush chastised in an uncharacteristically loud voice, which would have been a normal volume for anyone else. “Please do stop talking.”

  Unbidden, the oddly specific image of Francis on the bearskin rug sprang to Mary’s mind, lying back, his head pillowed by the crook of his elbow, gazing up at her with warm blue eyes, a strand of his golden hair curling charmingly over his forehead. He was wearing a simple white nightshirt, open at the throat. His lips curved into that fleeting smile she knew so well.

  She blinked a few times, coughed, then examined the vial that she was still clutching in her hand. That was a good potion. She tucked the vial into the pocket of her dress and rose to her feet. “I’m off to my uncles,” she announced.

  The Marys all jumped up as well, except Liv, who had already been standing.

  “Shall we come with you?” Hush asked.

  “No, I’ll be fine seeing myself there,” Mary said. “Sit,” she said to Flem. “Stay.”

  She was almost to her uncles’ chambers when she came upon Francis, who was clearly headed the same place from another direction. He smiled when he saw her, as usual, but his eyes were guarded. Still worried. She was tempted to offer him a bit of her Worries Be Gone potion. But instead she took his arm wordlessly, and they stood together as the guard announced them.

  “Mary, my girl!” Uncle Charles boomed the instant he saw her. He grabbed her hands and drew her to him so that he could kiss both of her cheeks, his beard tickling her face. “You are a glowing bride, already.”

  “Thank you, Uncle,” she said, blushing, but she wasn’t sure if this was because of the potion or the compliment. “I am glad to see you.” She shifted to kiss Uncle Francis (but not her Francis) and then took Francis (her Francis) by the arm as he stepped in between them.

  “You’re a lucky man, my boy,” Uncle Charles said to Francis, clapping him on the shoulder.

  “I know,” Francis replied.

  Aw, thought Mary. Wasn’t that a nice thing for him to say?

  The duke gestured to chairs near the fire, and the four of them sat. For several long minutes they made small talk, which for her uncles always meant gossiping about the queen of England.

  “We’ve heard that she’s appointed an equal number of E∂ians as Verities to her Privy Council. And she’s called for a new Parliament to reflect an equal split, as well,” said Uncle Francis.

  Uncle Charles snorted. “It’s heresy. She should be burned at the stake.”

  “She’s probably an E∂ian herself,” Uncle Francis mused, as Mary had heard him do many times. “Her mother—that heretic Anne Boleyn—certainly was. They say she could transform herself into a cat.”

  “Could she?” Mary shivered. She’d never been fond of cats. For obvious reasons.

  “It’s bad enough that there’s a woman on the throne of England—no offense, my dear,” said Uncle Charles, “but for the usurper to be an E∂ian as well, it’s simply unbearable.”

  “Intolerable,” agreed Uncle Francis.

  “Outrageous,” said Francis (Mary’s Francis, this time) with a faint smile. He met Mary’s gaze. “A woman and an E∂ian. The most horrifying combination of all.”

  “Indeed.” She glanced away before she could smile. He was so funny. So clever.

  “However . . .” Francis paused for effect. “We had a hand in putting this ‘usurper’ onto the English throne, did we not?”

  Uncle Charles’s face reddened. “It was the king who made that blunder—no offense, Your Highness,” he said to Francis.

  “None taken,” Fiancé Francis replied coolly.

  “Not that I truly blame him. It was Edward Tudor who came to ask for Henry’s aid in deposing his sister Mary. You have to admire the sheer cheek of the boy, to petition the king of France to be an ally to England. And how was Henry to know that once they’d prevailed at the battle, King Edward would give up his throne? Who could have seen that coming?” Uncle Charles scowled. “Only a coward would forsake his God-given appointment to the monarchy and abandon his throne in such a way.”

  Beside her, Mary heard Francis suppress a sigh. She knew what he meant. All this talk of E∂ians and England was tiresome. And the subject never failed to get her uncles worked into an ireful state.

  She manufactured a smile. “I believe that Elizabeth has proven herself to be a shrewd political mind. It seems like she has a plan for everything. It’s been four years since Edward abdicated, and her position on the English throne is stronger than ever. Or at least that’s what I hear.”

  At Mary’s instruction, Bea had been collecting information concerning Elizabeth during her travels. Mary found herself wildly curious concerning this other queen across the channel. She was impressed, in spite of herself, sometimes, by all that Elizabeth had been able to accomplish.

  Sigh. Elizabeth wasn’t a mere figurehead. She had real power.

  “Bah,” said Uncle Charles, waving his jeweled hand dismissively. “It’s you who should be sitting on the throne of England, Mary. You have a much stronger claim than some E∂ian bastard. You’re the rightful ruler.”

  “Perhaps,” Mary said lightly. “But I am also a woman, am I not?” And an E∂ian, she added silently.

  The corner of Francis’s lip twitched in what she knew was a smile.

  “Yes, of course, my dear.” Uncle Francis patted her hand affectionately. “But you are the perfect woman, with impeccable breeding, and a natural queen. Mark me, but someday”—he smiled, as if the thought gave him great joy—“someday soon, I hope, you will find yourself Queen of All of It: Scotland, England, France, and Ireland. And after that, who knows? You could be the beginning of a great dynasty that will encompass all of Europe.”

  Something like irritation flashed in Francis’s eyes. Mary agreed. It did seem a bit far-fetched, if you asked her—QUEEN OF ALL OF IT—but she had to admit that she didn’t hate the idea.

  The uncles exchanged a meaningful glance and then stood. “Which brings us to why we sent for you,” Uncle Francis said. “I summoned you both here to go over some quick paperwork regarding your wedding. It’s a rare thing, you know, a sovereign of one country marrying the future sovereign of another, and we want to make sure there is no confusion about the way things will be after you’re wed.”

  The sense of unease promptly returned to Mary’s stomach. “Yes, that makes good sense, Uncle,” she said softly. “We should all be on the same page about the way things will be.”

  He ushered her to sit at a long table, and then Francis (her Francis) to sit beside her. Uncle Francis spread several pieces of parchment on the shining wood in front of her and then pointed to the bottom of the last page.

  “Sign right here, my dear,” he said.

  She could feel Francis tense beside her. She blinked up at her uncle. “I should like to read it first.”

  “Of course.”

  She peered at the document. Droppings, the words were written so small. She rather felt that she should ask for a magnifying glass. “Goodness!” she exclaimed. “This is very fine print.”

  “It’s a standard prenuptial agreement among monarchs,” said Uncle Francis. (Even though he’d previously told her it was rare. Which is it, Uncle Francis?)

  Uncle Charles started to sharpen the quill and ready the bottle of ink. Mary reached into her pocket and slid out the vial of Worries Be Gone. She uncorked it and took a deep drink, then returned it to her pocket. Three drinks would probably be all right. Wa
s it three? Maybe it was only two. . . .

  Francis touched the back of her hand. “What was that?” he whispered.

  “Nothing to worry about,” she whispered back. (See what she did there?)

  She felt dizzy again, then warm. Almost on its own volition her body leaned toward Francis (sigh, her Francis) until her face nearly brushed his. “Your eyes are so wonderfully blue,” she said softly. “It’s my favorite color.”

  He drew in a sharp breath. “Mary . . .”

  “So are you ready to sign?” boomed Uncle Francis.

  Fiancé Francis’s eyes dropped to the page on the table again. He coughed and pointed at a particular passage. “Here,” he murmured. “Read this part. It says—”

  “It says Scotland will be under France’s protection, forever,” filled in Uncle Charles.

  Francis’s protection. Forever. That sounded nice.

  “No.” Francis’s jaw tightened. “It says that this treaty will be forever binding, no matter what agreement you make with the Scottish parliament or any other leaders of Scotland, either before or after the wedding. This treaty will nullify and supersede any other treaty you could make.”

  Nullify and supersede were very complex words. Mary was sure she knew their meaning, but she found that at the moment she didn’t remotely care. Francis was obviously worried—his brow was rumpled adorably—but Mary couldn’t bring herself to worry, too. He really could use some of the Worries Be Gone.

  “That section is only a formality,” Uncle Francis clarified. “Of course Scotland would never have any reason to suggest a treaty that would conflict with this one. The Scottish parliament desires France’s protection, too.”

  Her Francis pointed to another place on the parchment. “What about here, where it says that if Mary doesn’t produce an heir, Scotland must pay France a million—”

  “But of course I’ll produce an heir!” Mary sat up. “I’ll produce many heirs. Fine heirs. You’ll see.” She fanned herself. She was so hot. “Won’t we, Francis?” She gazed imploringly at Francis. Mon Dieu. Francis was so hot, too. Her insides gave a strange quiver. “You want to, right?” she asked. “Make heirs? With me?”

  Francis’s wonderfully blue eyes were now very wide. “Yes,” he rasped.

  Mary was becoming vaguely aware that she was not behaving properly. Perhaps she’d taken too much of the Worries Be Gone. (Reader, she’d definitely taken too much. Ari had said one drop. Two at most.)

  She cleared her throat daintily. “So we don’t need to worry about the part about heirs.” She grasped the quill Uncle Charles handed her, eager to complete this assignment and flee to her chambers before she embarrassed herself further. “Where do I sign?”

  Uncle Francis pointed to three separate places on the parchment, and Mary quickly but carefully inscribed her official signature (Mary the Queen), mindful of her penmanship.

  “Excellent,” said Uncle Charles. “The dauphin should also sign. At the bottom. Here.” He pointed.

  Francis (her Francis) looked torn. Confused. And still wildly attractive.

  “Mary, are you sure?” he murmured.

  “France will protect Scotland,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’ll protect me, won’t you, Francis?”

  “I’m trying to.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes,” he said at last. “France will always protect Scotland.”

  Then he took the quill from her and signed his name.

  It was hours later, after the potion had nearly worn off, that Mary realized what she’d done.

  She’d signed something without even reading it.

  (Yes, dear reader. Your narrators are here to tell you that by signing that prenuptial agreement, Mary, Queen of Scots, had made a grave error. She hadn’t actually read the terms. It was the sixteenth-century equivalent of hastily checking the agree box so you can just use the app right away. But we shouldn’t be too hard on Mary. The Worries Be Gone potion Ari had mixed for her was awfully strong. And Mary had taken much more than the recommended dose. It was just a mistake—a huge, and we mean colossal, mistake. Now back to Mary.)

  Alone again in her room, the last warm fuzzy of the potion ebbed from Mary’s system. She pressed a hand to her head. “I may have just made a huge mistake,” she said.

  But what could she do about it now?

  She bit her lip. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Perhaps she could return to her uncles’ chambers and read over the treaty again. She’d read the fine print this time. And pay extra-special attention to the parts Francis had pointed at.

  She closed her eyes and groaned, remembering how she’d been fawning over Francis and thinking about heirs, and the producing of, instead of actually listening to what he was trying to say.

  She was a fool.

  Her shoulders straightened. She must go back and read the treaty straightaway. And if Francis was right to be suspicious of its contents (and she had the niggling feeling that he was right), she’d destroy it.

  She didn’t wait a moment longer. The light flashed, and she scrambled free of the heavy folds of her gown before they could even fall to the floor. Then she scurried straight into the hole in the back wall.

  Two lefts and a right and a thousand tiny mouse steps, and Mary emerged into her uncles’ receiving room on a bit of molding near the ceiling—a space just wide enough for Mary-the-mouse to fit upon and gaze down at the room below.

  What good luck! she thought. The room was empty.

  Droppings! she thought two seconds later. The table was empty, too.

  No treaty. She didn’t see it anywhere.

  She’d have to go down and become human and search for it. She couldn’t exactly rifle through a bunch of papers as a mouse.

  She hesitated. She had one unbreakable rule when it came to being the mouse: she never, ever, changed back and forth into her E∂ian form anywhere but inside her own room, with the curtains tightly drawn and the door locked.

  That was how she had stayed undiscovered for so long.

  That was how she’d stayed alive.

  Turds, she thought.

  This was clearly an emergency, and it called for emergency rules. Mary sensed—deep down—that it was vitally important for her to find that treaty.

  Fine. Emergency rules. Which she was making up at this very moment.

  She started to edge her way down the molding, but she hadn’t taken two mouse steps when the door of the chamber opened and Uncle Francis strode in, followed by another person.

  And the other person was . . . Liv.

  “Go on, then, my dear,” her uncle said. “I don’t have much time for you.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Liv answered, more meekly than Mary had ever seen her. “The queen was in a somber mood today.”

  “Is she upset about the wedding?” her uncle asked. “Does she wish to avoid marrying the dauphin?”

  “No,” Liv said firmly. “She loves Francis. I found that pamphlet written by John Knox in her desk. Perhaps she is worried about Scotland and her mother.”

  If Mary had been human, she would have flushed hot to think of Liv rifling through her desk, but as she was a mouse, she only gave a tiny, inaudible squeak of outrage and then kept listening.

  “She also sent a letter to her mother today. With Mary Beaton as the carrier.”

  Mon Dieu, Mary thought dazedly. She has told him that Bea is an E∂ian. Perhaps he knows about us all.

  Uncle Francis sighed. “I disapprove of my niece having any contact with E∂ians—as you well know—but even I cannot deny that the bird-girl is useful, for now. I occasionally employ members of that filthy race, myself. They make excellent messengers.” He smiled knowingly at Liv. “And spies.”

  “May I go now, Your Grace?” Liv asked in a flat voice.

  “Oh, don’t be so sour-faced. I only ask this of you because I must know how the queen is doing at all times. She must be protected. Sometimes even from herself.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Liv straightened. “May I go?”r />
  Her uncle’s eyes narrowed. “There’s nothing else I should know about? I would hate to discover new information from another source and find that you kept something from me.”

  He said it kindly, but Liv stiffened like he’d threatened her. She shifted from one foot to the other. “Mary has been assigned a new lady-in-waiting, sent by Queen Catherine. She is undoubtedly a spy.” There was no trace of Liv’s affection for Ari in her voice now. “Today the new lady gave Queen Mary a potion, and Mary drank it.”

  Mary’s breast burned with shame. She was a fool.

  Uncle Francis was frowning. “I did notice that she had a vial of something earlier. What does the potion do?”

  “It eases her worries,” Liv said. “It seems harmless enough.”

  “Ah,” said Uncle Francis, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Well. That’s all probably nonsense, and could possibly be some form of heretical witchcraft, but it doesn’t matter. It seemed to make Mary complacent enough. Encourage her to keep taking it. Is that all?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. That’s all.” Liv shuffled toward the door.

  “What is the girl’s name?” Uncle Francis called after her.

  “Your Grace?”

  “The new lady-in-waiting?”

  “Oh.” Liv’s lips pressed together. Then she blew out a sigh. “Aristotle de Nostradame, Your Grace.”

  “An offspring of Nostradamus,” mused Uncle Francis. “Definitely a heretic, then. Thank you, my dear. I will see you next week. Keep up the good work.”

  Mary’s tiny jaw clenched. She knew she shouldn’t be surprised. People had been betraying her all her life. It was part of the queen gig. But she’d never in a million years have dreamed that Liv would betray her. Liv, her oldest friend. Her confidante. Her sister, in so many ways.