My Contrary Mary Page 6

  Prize? Francis was really going to be sick.

  “But in a normal marriage,” Henry said to Francis, “sometimes the man and the woman realize they despise each other more than anything else in the world. Sometimes the woman cuts off the biscuit supply for no reason. Sometimes she’s just mean. Therefore, a man with needs must find satisfaction elsewhere. Or are you worried that you won’t know what to do?” Henry mused, stroking his beard as he shot Francis a challenging look. “Should I send a girl to instruct you?”

  Francis blanched, then reddened, then blanched again. “No, no! I know what to do!” At least, he was reasonably sure he knew what to do, because as a sixteen-year-old boy, he thought about it approximately 432 times a day.

  The king smiled slowly, menacingly. “Good. But let me know if you change your mind.”

  Francis would not change his mind. He had no intention of becoming his father.

  “The announcement will take place this evening, followed by a feast.” Henry stood and brushed the bread crumbs out of his beard. “It should go without saying that you’re expected to attend.”

  “Of course,” Francis mumbled, hating everything. “Does Mary know about this yet?”

  “Oh, goodness, no. Why should she concern herself with the details?” Duke Francis shook his head, like there was nothing wrong with the idea of four men holding a meeting about a woman and her reproductive future.

  “I see.” It would fall to Francis to tell her, then. Otherwise, she would find out tonight in the worst possible way.

  “Congratulations, Your Highness,” said Duke Francis. “I’m so pleased that I’ll soon be able to call you nephew.”

  Cardinal Charles smiled widely and shook Francis’s hand.

  “Son, you are dismissed to prepare for the feast.” Henry waved him out the door. “If you see Catherine out there, send her in.”

  “Mother?” Francis tilted his head. Were they meeting because of the upcoming—gulp—wedding?

  The king scoffed. “What would I want with her? No, I mean Catherine with the amazing”—he leered a little—“brooch.”

  Francis barely escaped the king’s chambers with his dignity intact. Brooch Catherine wasn’t in the hall, thank goodness. He didn’t think he could stomach facing another woman Henry would soon grow bored with.

  Francis would marry Mary, and no matter what kind of relationship they had, he would never do to her what Henry did to Catherine every day. Francis would give her the respect she deserved.

  Starting by telling her that Henry had set a wedding date.

  With a sigh, Francis trudged toward Mary’s rooms.

  Five. Days.

  He needed to figure out how to tell her.

  “Mary, I regret to inform you . . .” No, that sounded like he was delivering news about a dead relative.

  “Mary, you know how we’re supposed to get married?” No, too awkward.

  “Mary, my father plans to watch us on our wedding night.” Gah. Worse.

  He was still mulling it over when he arrived at Mary’s door. The usual guards were outside, and they gave him stiff, formal nods in greeting. Which meant if he didn’t want the guards to stare at him while he loitered out here, he needed to knock. But if he knocked, then he’d need to tell her about their upcoming nuptials.

  Mary was his best friend. She would understand why he was so conflicted.

  Francis knocked.

  “Who is it?” he heard from the other side of the door.

  “It’s me,” he said, and then realized that wasn’t terribly helpful. “I mean, it’s Francis.”

  The door swung open, revealing a Mary. Not Mary, Queen of Scots, his impending wife, but one of her ladies-in-waiting.

  “Good day, Your Grace,” Liv said cheerfully. “Please come in.”

  Inside he found Mary—his Mary—seated at her vanity, with Hush arranging her long hair into an elaborate updo of twisting braids.

  “Hello, friend.” Mary smiled at him through the mirror, making his heart skip.

  Francis tried not to think about it, because Mary was his friend first and his future wife second, but she was really, really beautiful. Probably the most beautiful person he’d ever seen in his life. And when she smiled just for him . . .

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Mary was saying. “There’s to be a party tonight, have you heard? I’m not sure what we’re meant to be celebrating, but I’ve been told it’s a grand affair.”

  “Yes,” he said. “About that—”

  “Do you know what you’re going to wear? I’ve been thinking about my cream gown with gold trim, you know the one.” She tilted her head to clip a pearl earring onto her earlobe.

  He nodded. “That one’s nice. But—”

  “And you could wear your blue velvet doublet that sets off the blue of your eyes. That way we wouldn’t match, but we’d complement each other nicely, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll wear the blue doublet. But . . .” His voice trailed off. Now was the time. He had to tell her.

  She stopped as she was putting on the other earring and turned to look at him, her forehead rumpling. “What’s wrong?”

  He took a deep breath. “Nothing’s wrong, exactly.”

  “I know you hate these parties, and I agree, they’re wasteful and extravagant, but I promise, we’ll find a way to have some fun.”

  He smiled faintly. She always did try to make things more bearable for him at social events. Last time she’d made up a game where they had a sip of their wine every time Henry drunkenly called someone by the wrong name. By the end they’d been quite tipsy themselves.

  An idea came to him. “Oh, I know! What if we silently added the phrase ‘in my pants’ after everything my father says?”

  Mary’s dark eyes twinkled with mischief. “That could keep us properly entertained for hours!”

  She laughed. The Four Marys laughed with her. Francis laughed, too. It was a funny idea, but—Droppings. He’d come here for a reason.

  “Oh,” Mary said, scrutinizing his face again. “You’ve come to tell me something serious.” She glanced at her ladies. “Can you leave us alone for a moment?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The Marys all curtsied and exited promptly.

  Mary gestured for Francis to take a seat on a chair near hers. He did.

  “Is everything all right?” Mary asked. “Are you unwell?” She looked genuinely worried.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m perfectly well.” His heart was pounding. He had to say it now, or he’d never be able to say it at all. “Mary, we’re getting married.”

  SEVEN

  Mary

  Mary gazed at Francis blankly. “I know that.” She’d known for what seemed like forever that she was destined to marry Francis. She remembered well the evening when the king had announced their engagement. She had been five years old, just arrived in France. Henry made her stand before a huge assembly of courtiers, and he gave a long, grand speech, most of which Mary hadn’t understood, because she didn’t yet know French. But at the end of the speech he’d said, “I present to you my daughter, the queen of Scotland.”

  His daughter, he’d called her. As if the wedding were already over and done.

  Francis rubbed the back of his neck. “He announced our engagement years ago. But tonight he’s announcing our wedding. Which is set to take place on the twenty-fourth.”

  She blinked a few times. “Of this month?”

  He nodded.

  “Of this year?”

  “That’s what he told me,” Francis sighed.

  “But that’s . . . Thursday.”

  “Yes,” he said weakly. “Thursday.”

  Her mouth was hanging open. She shut it. “But that’s in five days.”

  Something in Francis’s throat jerked as he swallowed. “Yes.”

  “Who gets married on a Thursday?” she cried.

  “Us, apparently.”

  A myriad of emotions rushed her. Fear. Excitement
. Nervousness. Elation. Trepidation. Resignation. And then back to fear. But Francis was watching her face carefully, his eyes full of a worried hopefulness, so she produced a smile.

  “All right. Well. That’s wonderful news,” she said finally.

  “Yes,” he said. He was saying yes a lot.

  She stood up and began to pace back and forth across the room. “That’s very little time to prepare. I will need to have a dress made, and pick the colors, and arrange for the flowers and decide on the menu, the venue, and the seating, and hire a good traveling minstrel. . . . There’s not nearly enough time.” She stamped her foot indignantly, without so much as a thought about the appropriateness of a queen stamping in front of her fiancé. “How can I be expected to do all of that in five days?”

  “Not to worry. I think my father has made all the arrangements,” Francis said. “Not that I know any of the details, except that the wedding will be held at Notre Dame.”

  She knew Francis probably meant to reassure her, but she scowled and stamped her foot again. “But I’m supposed to make the arrangements! It’s my wedding, after all!”

  “Our wedding,” Francis corrected her.

  “Yes. Of course. Our wedding. But I’m the bride, and the bride is generally expected to play a large part in the planning of her wedding! I’ve basically been planning since I got here. I had it all thought out. I’d wear a white dress—I know that’s not a typical color for a wedding, but I’ve always looked good in white, and I would wear my hair down and simple, and I’d carry a bouquet of white cowslips, and there would be doves, and a lovely pair of swans for supper, and my mother would . . .” She sank to the chair. “Oh. My mother won’t be there.” Even if Mary sent a letter right away, it would take weeks for her mother to make the journey from Scotland.

  Her mother would not get to see her wedding.

  “I’m sorry,” Francis said. “I could ask my father to postpone. Would that help?”

  She shook her head. “No. My mother would tell me to go ahead. If the king wants us to marry so soon, it must be for a reason. It’s a good sign,” she said more to herself than to Francis. “He’s finally honoring his promise, after all this time. Our countries will be united. France and Scotland will be partners. Like we are partners, you and I.”

  Francis nodded. “Partners. Right.”

  “What is it?” she asked. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes still troubled. “The reason my father is in such a rush for us to be wed is because your life is in danger.”

  He told her about the pamphlet, the drawing of her being beheaded.

  “So someone wants me dead. What else is new?” she said, trying to make light of it in spite of the fear that prickled her. “Does your father really suppose that my being married is going to change that?”

  Francis was quiet for a minute. “I don’t know. I just know that he said our marriage would protect you. And Scotland.”

  “All right. We all know that what the king wants, the king gets. So Thursday.” She bit her lip, which she knew was a dreadful habit, but she couldn’t seem to help it. “I’m not busy Thursday. It is awfully soon, but I suppose we will just have to make it work.”

  She met his eyes. I would be content to look at those eyes, that nose, that shapely mouth, for the rest of my life, she thought, which startled her.

  He was leaning toward her now, his knees nearly brushing hers. “You don’t have to marry me,” he said softly, “if you don’t want to.”

  She straightened. Her heart was beating strangely. She’d never been fond of surprises, least of all surprise weddings, least of all her own. But it sounded just now like Francis was questioning her commitment to him. “Of course I want to. Do you want to marry me?” she shot back.

  “I suppose so,” he said, like she’d just asked him if he’d like to sample a new type of French pastry, and he wasn’t sure he’d like it, but at least he’d give it a try.

  He was attempting to be funny, she thought. But still she glared at him. “You suppose so.”

  “I know so,” he admitted. He pulled at the collar to his doublet. “As a matter of fact, as arranged marriages go, I’d say we’re lucky. We know exactly what we’re getting into. And we like each other, at least we do most days. We’re friends.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “Yes. We’re lucky.”

  They smiled at each other. Then Francis seemed to have a sobering thought. “But back to Thursday. When we’re married . . .”

  “Things will go on quite the same, I think,” she said. “Henry is so young and strong. We won’t be king and queen of France for a long time to come.”

  He nodded, then winced. There was still something, she realized, that he hadn’t told her. “That’s true,” he said. “But right after we’re married . . .”

  She gasped and sat back in her chair, her hand flying to her mouth. “On Thursday night! Yes! We’ll be expected to . . .”

  “Yes,” he said. “And my father wishes to . . .”

  Her nose wrinkled. “You don’t suppose that he will insist upon . . .”

  “He intends to,” Francis said grimly. “He told me so himself.”

  “That’s barbaric! Surely we’ve progressed beyond such vulgarities. This is the sixteenth century, after all!” Mary’s face flushed, her cheeks heating to the point where she felt feverish, like that one time she’d had smallpox. She was well aware that marrying Francis would mean bearing children to be the heirs to the thrones of both Scotland and France, and she’d imagined, in a few lonely, secret moments, what that might involve, but she’d never considered that it would all be presided over by her father-in-law.

  She shook her head firmly. “No. Just . . . no. That is not acceptable, Francis. We must find some way to keep your father out of the wedding night . . . activities.”

  He laid his hand over hers. “I will. I’ll figure out a way for us to be alone when . . .”

  “When we . . .” she murmured. “You know . . .”

  “I know.” He squeezed her hand gently. “We don’t have to, though. I mean, eventually—yes, but not right away. Like you said, my father’s going to live for ages yet. And we’re still . . .”

  “So young,” she agreed, relieved. “We have plenty of time to produce heirs.”

  “Yes,” he said. “And because that’s the only reason we would ever . . .”

  “Right,” she said. “I’m glad that’s settled.”

  They sat for a moment in awkward silence, Mary lost in thought over the smaller details of the wedding she might still have time to work out, and Francis thinking about . . . whatever boys thought about when it came to their own weddings.

  After a time, Francis cleared his throat and said, “So have you enjoyed any recent adventures as la petite poucette?” The word poucette literally meant “thumb,” as in “thumb-sized,” and it was their secret code for Mary as a mouse.

  Mary had told Francis about the mouse thing when she was seven (and he was six) years old. It had been one of those rainy days when they’d had to stay indoors and their tutor had been indisposed with a terrible cold, so Francis and Mary had been playing cards all day and were wildly bored. So Mary thought she’d pass the time by telling the dauphin her deepest, darkest secret: that sometimes, when she especially wanted to hide, she could transform herself into a mouse and sneak around wherever she pleased.

  “I even have whiskers,” she’d confessed.

  Francis’s wide blue eyes had grown even wider. He glanced around to be sure they were truly alone, then leaned forward to whisper, “Does that mean you’re an . . . E∂ian?”

  Mary nodded. “I suppose so. My mama says I’m never to tell anyone, ever.” But she’d told Francis, because, even then, she’d trusted him. And he had kept her secret faithfully all these years. In fact, one of the best things about being a mouse was creeping about, gleaning all the best gossip of the kingdom, and then returning to Francis to tell him about it,
the two of them giggling and speculating and taking turns acting shocked by the nefarious secrets and scandals that Mary uncovered around the palace.

  She turned to him now eagerly, hands clasped together. “I learned that your father has a new conquest.”

  Francis cringed and squeezed his eyes shut. “As always. But I already know this one. It’s Catherine. Brooch Catherine. You know, with the . . . brooch.”

  “Oh.” Mary deflated a bit. But then she remembered a much more amusing bit of intrigue. “Did you know that Diane thinks that she’s outgrown all of her gowns?”

  Francis’s lips pursed. “Outgrown them? How could she outgrow them?”

  Mary puffed out her cheeks, and Francis laughed. “But she hasn’t really outgrown them,” Mary explained. “She only thinks she has.”

  “I see,” Francis said, like he was being serious. “And why would poor Lady Diane”—he stopped to smirk, as he was never inclined to pity Diane de Poitiers—“think that she had outgrown her gowns?”

  “Because your mother had the seamstress take in the seams overnight,” Mary said. She lifted her eyebrows expectantly. Then they both burst out laughing.

  “I saw her at dinner last night. She looked most uncomfortable,” Francis said when they could speak again.

  “And now you know why.” She was tempted to tell him about the unfortunate incident with Nostradamus and the “deadly biscuit,” but she still felt too foolish about it.

  “That proves it,” Francis sighed. “My mother really is evil.”

  Mary nodded. “Let’s resolve to stay on her good side.” (If only, dear reader, she’d be able to keep her own advice. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.)

  “Yes, let’s,” Francis agreed.

  There was an impatient bark from outside the door, which signaled the return of the Four Marys. Francis rose reluctantly from his chair. “I should go. I’ve lots to do. I’m getting married at the end of the week, you know.”

  “I’ve heard,” Mary said. “Congratulations.”

  He arched an eyebrow at her. “Thank you.”

  She reached out to touch his arm—well, his sleeve, anyway. “And I wish to thank you, Francis. I am glad it was you who told me about the wedding. And I’m glad that we’re finally . . .”