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Post by Shades on Mar 23, 2006 11:48:54 GMT -5
quite a long while back I used to be a legendary Harry potter fan fiction writer, after I stopped updating the fan fiction, I got emails, saying ppl would come and kick my knee in so i had nothing beter to do then write, I also had ppl offer me money to continue writing it, but alas I stopped that and this story is from those days that I found on a website i posted it.
Chapter 1
“William, move away from the window.”
Her brother didn’t hear her, or ignored her more likely, as he leaned out the carriage window looking in wide-eyed wonder at the busy streets of Paris they were passing through. People scattered before the soldiers riding ahead of the carriage and through William’s open window she could hear the call of French voices over the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves on the cobble-stoned street. Dust and the smells of the city assaulted them but William didn’t seem to mind.
“There’s a market Meg, I can see the stalls down that narrow lane, do you think we can stop and see it?”
She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back from the window, shutting it firmly so that he could only peer through the wooden slats.
“Don’t be foolish, you’ve seen markets before, and do you really think Douglas will let us stop?”
He sat back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest, sulking, but a moment later was animated again. “Do you think he’s a very great soldier, our Uncle? Perhaps he’ll give me a sword! Perhaps he’ll teach me to fight and I won’t do any more boring lessons!”
“You’ll have lessons. An Earl must be educated. Your Latin is appalling, you can’t read Greek. A great soldier must be able to understand the writings of Greek and Roman soldiers to learn about warfare, mustn’t he?”
She finally got a moment of silence from his chatter as he considered this, and she was glad. She loved her little brother, and he made cheerful company, but she felt like he had not stopped talking since they’d left Blair Castle. She couldn’t believe it had been only two weeks since they’d left their home and sailed from Edinburgh to France. That meant it had been only a month since Mother and Father had died and they had been sent for by their Aunt in France. Margaret just barely remembered her Aunt Martha before she had left Scotland with the child Queen and subsequently married a French Count, and now the foreign Aunt was their only relation and the only protection for William, who at only eight had just become the Earl of Atholl. Margaret could look after herself, she was seventeen after all, but she couldn’t protect William from ambitious men who wanted to control him, and more importantly control his inheritance. A distant Aunt seemed a better choice than the ambitious local nobles her father had warned her about.
Her father had left her with a taste for adventure and a desire for travel as well and so she had decided as soon as a letter came from Aunt Martha that they should set out for France. Her initial excitement had waned slightly on the passage to France, when she had been stricken with seasickness, and when they arrived in Paris she still felt unwell, and tired and dirty from the journey. She could not summon William’s enthusiasm for their first glimpses of Paris; she merely wanted to arrive at their Aunt’s house.
“Charlemagne!” William cried suddenly, triumphantly. “He did not know how to read, you know. Father told me that. And he was a great soldier! Very great!”
Margaret closed her eyes as another wave of sickness rolled over her. “You’ll have lessons, there’s no use arguing. Please, just be quiet.” The home of the Marechale and Madame de Sabatie was large, but looked solid and sensible and comfortingly Scottish as they descended from the carriage. A few people passing by paused to look curiously at the carriage and the Atholl banners waving lazily in the occasional breeze, as a uniformed servant met them at the door.
“Lord Atholl, Lady Blair. The Marechale deSabatie will see you when you arrive.”
Margaret wanted to protest that they had only just arrived and were tired and filthy, and she felt weak and shaky.Her head throbbed with a headache, she had been too sick to eat the last time they had stopped. But she knew arguments and rudeness would not endear her to this new Uncle, who her mother had described as hardened.
The house was comfortable, though not as grand as their own had been, it still reminded her suddenly and painfully of home. Even William was silent and cast a slightly apprehensive look her way, and she reached out a squeezed his shoulder comfortingly.
The servant, meanwhile, was shooting them disapproving looks. “My master is a very busy man,” he said suddenly. “He is one of the chief military advisors to the King.” His meaning was clear; their Uncle did not have time for children. Still looking at them as if they were nothing more than a nuisance, the servant knocked on a closed door and a cultured French voice responded “Enter.”
Two men were leaning over a table covered littered with papers, maps and documents from where Margaret stood, and they both stood when she and William entered, straightening up so that they both had a straight military bearing. One of them, perhaps forty years old with a lined face that spoke of hard living, she knew must be their Uncle Alain. The other was a younger man, also a soldier by his looks, but only perhaps twenty-five. In the glare of afternoon light coming through the western window behind them, Margaret could not see him clearly until he moved toward the door. He had the bluest eyes Margaret had ever seen.
“Your wife’s relations, Marechale?” he asked amiably when he saw them. “I will take my leave of you then. I may call again tomorrow if there is word from His Majesty.” He bowed deeply to her. “Mademoiselle.” And then he winked at William as he left the room, making her brother grin and flush with pride at being noticed by a real soldier.
Her Uncle spoke briskly, and she tried to ignore the slight unsteadiness of her legs, putting a hand on William’s shoulder for support as she stepped forward at his command. “Lady Margaret Blair? And William Blair, Earl of Atholl? Well, don’t stand in the hall then. Come here where I can see you.” He gave her an appraising look. “You have the look of your mother. That’s good.”
“Yes, Sir.” She had not known that he had ever seen her mother, but she knew she did look very much like her.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen years old, Sir.”
“And the boy?”
“He is eight years, Sir.”
He paused in his impatient pacing and sighed. “I will be honest with you Lady Blair. I have no wish to have children in my home. It was my wife’s desire to have you and the boy here and it is generally my way to indulge her. You may stay as long as you do not interfere with the running of this household. Do not cause me any trouble. Is that understood?”
Over the rush of blood in her ears, and the sudden black around the edges of her vision, she couldn’t even manage to be angry at his dismissal. She knew that she ought to defend the both of them. They were not coming to him because they could were without means. William was an Earl and she was not without her own resources, her mother had left her her own fortune in jewels and property. She felt dizzy and weak and couldn’t find the words, so she only murmured “Yes, Sir.”
He turned his critical gaze on William. “And you, boy? Can you speak or does your sister always answer for you?”
Quavering under her hand, William answered “Yes, Sir…I mean, No, Sir…I mean, I understand, Sir.”
“Good. You may go.” He nodded in the direction of the servant. “This is Philipe. He will show you to your rooms.”
He turned away, back to the documents, effectively dismissing them. She gave a shrug in response to William’s questioning look and they followed Philipe from the room. As they made their way down the hall the darkness wavering around the edges of her vision crept in to obscure what she was seeing, and she just heard William say “Perhaps lessons will not be so bad…” before she collapsed into darkness.
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Post by Shades on Mar 23, 2006 11:49:21 GMT -5
Chapter 2
Margaret awoke to a worried face hovering over her, and for a moment she thought it was Mama and everything had been strange and vivid dream, but then she registered that this woman had a slightly longer nose and her eyes were more brown than green, and she realized it must be her Aunt Martha.
“Philippe said she just fainted Madame, just dropped like that-“ a young woman, probably a maid, was wringing her hands nervously nearby.
“It’s all right Renee, she seems to be waking. I should wonder they are as healthy as they are, having undertaken the long journey so soon after recovering from the fever.” She pressed a cool hand against Margaret’s forehead. “There now dear, how do you feel? Fetch some water Renee.”
The maid disappeared as she struggled to sit up. She found herself in a bed in a richly decorated room with plaster moldings around the ceiling and windows that reached almost that high, though now heavy velvet curtains were drawn over them and small lamps burned.
“What time is it?” It had been mid-afternoon when they had arrived, and now no light came through the cracks in the curtains.
“It is nearly nine, you have slept most of the day, which is for the best I should think” her Aunt replied, moving back slightly now that she was certain Margaret was lucid. “I must apologize for not being here when you arrived. We heard that the sea was rough over the Channel and did not expect you until the end of the week. Your brother said you were ill during the journey. You must be very tired.
Past her Aunt, she saw William sitting in a chair in the corner, his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them. His face was pale and his eyes wide.
“I thought you had the fever again, like Mother and Father,” he said softly. She felt a pang of sympathy for him. He had so recently lost the parents he adored and he was very young. The idea of being alone in a strange country must have been terrifying to him.
“Don’t be silly, I was only tired from traveling, and from seasickness. I shall be quite well by the morning. And isn’t it well past the time you were asleep?”
The familiarity of this reprimand assured him that she really was quite well and he grinned. Now that he was sure she wasn’t going to die, he was nearly dragging from exhaustion after the excitement and newness of the long day. He obediently went off with another servant with the unlikely name of Cesaire to prepare for bed.
“It would be as well for you to have a good night’s rest as well, my Dear. This will be your room, if you find it quite comfortable?”
“Yes Madame, it is lovely, thank you.”
Her Aunt shook her head gently. “You have good manners, but there is no need for formality between us. You must just call me Martha. It is long enough since anyone uses my name. You look so like my sister when she was young, it’s really very striking.” She paused, then went on. “I am pleased to have young people in the house. My husband is very preoccupied with military matters at the present, he is worried, and I can only imagine the welcome you received from him. I wanted you to know you are welcome here, and we are glad to have you. You were right to come.” She stepped back as Renee returned. “Renee will provide anything you need, you need only ask. I will leave you to sleep. Rest well, as there will be an audience with her Majesty tomorrow.”
Margaret had never seen the young Queen, even when she had lived at Stirling Castle, which was not so far from their lands. Father had seen her once on a journey there and described the then four-year-old Queen as “a pretty child.” In Scotland, it was said that the Queen at twelve was charming, spoiled, imperious, decidedly clever, and as lively as her likely fiancé, the Dauphin, was sickly and weak. It was also said that she had become nearly entirely French in her childhood there. That was not surprising and perhaps what her mother, Marie de Guise, had intended in sending her there. That family was known for ambition, and having a daughter who was the Queen of Scotland was not nearly enough- she would be the Queen of France, and England too, Margaret thought, if the adults around her had their way. Although politics were not the place of a young girl, Margaret had learned a great deal from listening to the talk of her Father and his comrades. She was interested to meet Queen Mary and see if she was her own mistress, or if she was just a pawn in the hands of her powerful de Guise uncles.
She was also nervous, for it seemed strange to her that the Queen would have the time or desire to see her. The Blair family was old and noble and for the most part highly thought of in Scotland, but they did not often involve themselves in royal life. Her parents had preferred their castle in Lothian to the ruling circles of Edinburgh and Holyrood Palace, and though he had been successful and even decorated in battle, her father had never had ambitions beyond ensuring his family’s well-being and protecting William’s inheritance. In short, she could not see why the Queen should ever be aware of her presence in France. She had assumed she might eventually catch a glimpse of the Monarch in the reportedly decadent social life of the French court, but she had not been expecting to be immediately called into her Majesty’s presence, and she couldn’t imagine the reason for it, and why she should with to see only her when it was William who held the title Earl of Atholl.
She dressed carefully, glad that she had brought her mother’s finest dresses and jewelry, for all that Douglas had complained how that had multiplied their luggage. She dressed in a deep green silk that not only brought out the color of her eyes, but also reminded her of Scotland, and thus attired set out from the Marechale’s house with her Aunt and Douglas as an escort. It seemed that he was to remain her personal escort and bodyguard and would not allow himself to be under the control of the Marechale’s household. She was glad of this since Douglas had served her father since she could remember, and she knew that she could trust him completely.
Although she was no stranger to castles and palaces, she could not help but admire the Louvre Palace and its vast, perfectly kept gardens on the Seine.
“Isn’t it lovely?” she said aloud to Douglas, but he remained unimpressed. He had been wary of coming to France at all.
“Yes my Lady, it’s a fine palace, to be sure,” he said with a shrug. “Not so lovely as Lothian to me.”
In an anteroom they were met by a girl no older than twelve with glossy brown hair and a quiet manner, but she was not without presence. She introduced herself as Mary Seton, a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. Margaret had heard of these four girls, all called Mary, who had served the Queen all their lives. Mary Seton then ushered them into the presence of the Queen.
“Lady Blair, Madame la Marechale,” a clear French voice greeted them.
Mary of Scotland was indeed, as her father had said, a pretty child. She sat haughtily still in a chair, her chin held at an angle that could only be described as royal. Shining auburn hair fell over her shoulders, and intelligent hazel eyes regarded them with mild interest.
Margaret curtsied deeply, glad of her education that allowed her to answer in flawless French “It is a great honor, your Majesty.”
This appeared to please the Queen, and she shifted slightly to look directly at Margaret. “We were most saddened to hear of the death of your parents. The Queen-Regent our mother speaks highly of your family and their service to Scotland.”
“Your Majesty is too kind.”
“Our Uncle has mentioned your coming, and that of your brother, Earl of Atholl, to us, and so we wished to meet you, as he is merely a child. You were also acquainted with Lady Fleming, I believe,” the young Queen went on.
Margaret thought it might be unwise to point out that the boy she dismissed as a child was only four years younger than her Majesty, and then realized with a jolt what she had said. Her Uncle? She was most certainly speaking of either the Duke of Guise or the Cardinal of Lorraine who were advisors and teachers to her. Margaret could not imagine why one of those powerful and ambitious men should even know of William, much less give him enough thought to make mention of it to the Queen, but it frightened her for some reason she could not really identify. She had lived in the country, in a place that was quiet and sedate, and had no experience with the plots and intrigues of the court. It had sounded exciting as gossip when the maids at home would tell her stories they heard from travelers who came to Blair Castle, but standing in the presence of Queen Mary seemed very far from the nursery gossip. She could not shake the feeling that she was here on some sort of pretense that they would not tell her about.
It would not be appropriate to ask the Queen to clarify how the Earl of Atholl had come into the conversation, and in any case the she had moved on. “How do you find France?”
“The countryside is lovely, your Majesty, and I find Paris to be very interesting.”
“We understand you are from Lothian. Is it very lovely there?”
“Yes, your Majesty, it is beautiful country.”
It seemed odd to be telling the Queen of Scotland about the state of her own country, but she realized that Mary had been only a child when she left the country and she had been in France for nearly eight years, she clearly remembered little of Scotland.
“You will tell us of it sometimes,” the girl decided imperiously. “Our soldiers will tell us only of what places are defensible and where the hunting is good, and our ladies talk only of the court circles and the nobles. We wish to know more of the land and the people.”
“I am at your Grace’s service.”
“We hope to see you at court now that you are staying with Madame la Marechale, as she is often in attendance. Madame la Marchale may go, but there is someone in the anteroom who would speak with you Lady Blair. Fleming will show you. Madame Le Marechale, you will go with Seton.”
Margaret felt rising panic at being separated from her Aunt and ordered to meet a strange person by a child who seemed so unnaturally old for her age. The entire experience since they had entered the palace felt surreal, and she wondered dizzily and somewhat vaguely if she was going to faint again. She was not, as a general rule, given to fainting, but it seemed since she had arrived in Paris she was inclined to it.
She followed Mary Fleming into the next chamber, where the young woman said nothing, but merely withdrew and closed the door silently behind her, leaving Margaret very much alone with the fair man who had risen from a chair when she entered, and was now standing so that the sunlight from the window silhouetted him like some sort of divine grace.
“Good morning Lady Blair,” he said, in a rich, refined voice. “I am Charles de Guise, Cardinal of Lorraine.”
Margaret had thought herself well-versed in protocol, but she realized wildly that she had no idea what she was supposed to do when meeting a Cardinal. Was there not some sort of ring she was supposed to kiss? Or was that only when meeting the Pope? What was she supposed to call him? Your Grace? Your Holiness? While her mind raced through all these possibilities, she realized that she was standing there with her mouth open and stalled for time by curtsying deeply and inclining her head so that she could school her expression into something other than complete panic.
“I am sure you must be very tired after your long journey from Scotland, I will not detain you for very long. You have met your Queen, is she not charming?”
The Queen was indeed charming in her own way, but it was simply not done to give one’s assessment of a monarch, and so she elected merely to remain silent and hope the question had been rhetorical. Apparently it had been since he went on a moment later, nonplussed by her silence.
“My sister the Queen-Regent informed her Majesty of your intention to bring the Earl of Atholl to France to live with your Aunt. It would seem then, that you realize some of the dangers of his remaining in Scotland?”
“Dangers, your Grace?” she took a chance on what to call him and he did not correct her, so she guessed it was appropriate.
“Rebellions and plots are always afoot Lady Blair. And if the only protection for an eight-year-old Earl is a seventeen-year-old lady, do you not think that puts him in a precarious position? It is my sister’s wish, and therefore the wish of your Queen, that France undertake the protection of Lord Atholl, and that he be educated with the Princes.”
“Your Grace, her Majesty is far too kind, but myself and my Lord Atholl have always lived quietly in the country. I am certain there are no plots or-“
“Are you a good Catholic, Lady Blair?” he interrupted her.
“Of course, your Grace,” she responded quickly, wondering what else he expected her to say in the presence of a Cardinal.
“There are those in Scotland who are not. Those who would see the Queen overthrown and a Protestant monarch installed. Those who might try to influence a vulnerable child to their cause.”
“Do you think, Your Grace, that the Marechal and Madame de Sabatie are not sufficient protection?”
She could not believe she had the nerve to be impertinent, but he merely smiled.
“You are neither as naïve or as retiring as you would have people believe,” he said with an air of amusement. “That will serve you well at court.”
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Post by Shades on Mar 23, 2006 11:50:08 GMT -5
Chapter 3
Margaret paced in her room. She really did have a headache, the excuse she had given to retire in the middle of the day, but it was brought on by her own distress. Between her fainting and headaches, her Aunt would surely think her health was delicate, but in reality she needed to be alone to think. One day in France, and she was already in over her head. She had half a mind to grab William and leave immediately, back to the countryside and their quiet life there, but instead she tried to puzzle out the events of the day.
The audience with Queen Mary had been perfunctory; she was willing to bet that the Queen had not called her to inquire about the weather in Scotland. So had she been summoned only to be closeted with the Cardinal of Lorraine so that he might inform her summarily that her brother would be removed from her care? But the Queen had also made no mention of an intention to have them at Court or to have William under the protection of France. She had to assume that the Cardinal was working, if not without Mary’s consent, at least without her knowledge of the details of his plans. There had been no conclusion, she had been dismissed, and so she had to assume the man would make his decisions regardless of her feelings on the matter.
But had not her very reason for coming to France been to ensure William’s safety? She ought to have been pleased that the Queen and her French allies were offering to do that very thing, and with far more impressive resources than she herself could ever hope to muster, but she was wary. She had brought William here to protect him from ambitious nobles. Though her family were good Catholics, she had never given a moment’s thought or worry to Protestant plots.
So the reason she was reluctant to accept their offer to protect William was that she was absolutely certain she was not getting the real story. The pieces of the puzzle she had simply did not fit together. And it was not as though she had much of a choice in the matter, unless she meant to defy a Queen and a Cardinal.
There was a soft knock on the door and she dove for the bed to keep up the pretense that she was resting to recover from a headache. It was only Renee, the young maid who moved soundlessly into the room, and then spoke timidly when she saw that Margaret was awake.
“Madame sent me to see if you needed anything Lady?”
“No thank you Renee. I’m fine.”
The maid inclined her head slightly, but lingered for a moment, as though she wanted to say something else. After a moment she asked tremulously “Did you really meet the Cardinal of Lorraine?”
The pounding in her head increased slightly. “Yes, I spoke to him.”
Renee’s eyes went even wider. “I have never seen him closely, only from a distance when he goes to the Palace. Is he as handsome as they say?”
Margaret was confused for a moment. She had been so shocked and intimidated by the man’s presence she hadn’t given any thought to whether or not he was handsome, and even then he had been backlit by the window most of the time, she could not even say for sure what he looked like besides that he had been very fair. She shook her head slightly.
“I’m very tired Renee…”
“Of course. I’m sorry Lady.” She withdrew quickly, guessing she had overstepped, and leaving Margaret alone again with her tangled thoughts.
Was he handsome? “Lady Margaret, the Marechal de Sabatie wishes to see you,” Phillipe said rather reluctantly from the doorway of the room where she was playing chess with William. In the few days they had been there he had warmed to William, and no longer seemed to mind her presence either. Now, he announced this as though he was sentencing her to execution.
“What have you done Meg?” William asked in a cautious voice.
“I don’t know,” she admitted softly, though she had an idea, andfollowed Phillipe from the room, feeling like she was in fact going to her execution. The Marechal had not spoken to her or William since the afternoon they had arrived, and she had been so wrapped up in her thoughts of the court and her meeting with the Queen and the Cardinal she had hardly spared a thought for the man whose house she was staying in.
He was waiting for her in the same room where he had greeted them the day they had arrived, though today the table was cleared of papers and documents and he did not seem distracted. Quite the opposite, she had his full attention. Phillipe looked sorry for her as he closed the door behind her.
“The Cardinal of Lorraine spoke to you? In private?” He spoke quietly, but she correctly assumed the low quality of his voice was tightly controlled anger, rather than calm.
“Yes, Sir.” It seemed pointless to lie about it, it was obviously common knowledge. That should have taught her something about how gossip spread through Paris.
“And you did not see fit to inform me?”
“It did not seem necessary, Sir,” she replied calmly. Her voice sounded perfectly respectful, but she was surprised herself that she was baiting him.
“A Cardinal, a Prince of the Blood, the Uncle of a Queen, and a man of one of the most powerful families in France has a private conversation with you and you didn’t think it necessary to inform me?”
“We discussed matters relating to William’s safety, and you were very clear Sir, that you had no interest in the matter as long as we did not interfere with the running of your household.”
He moved toward her and she thought for a second he would strike her, but he only stopped inches from her, with a look of intense hatred.
“Tomorrow, you and Lord Atholl will move to the Palace, as per the wishes of his Grace the Cardinal.”
She did not respond, mostly because it was useless to argue. Clearly, the Marechal was not going to allow them to remain in his house, so where else were they to go besides to accept the invitation to join the Court? Margaret knew when she had been outmaneuvered, and now she was determined to find out what was really going on.
Well, I did think I wanted excitement… “Keep your heels down Wills,” she commanded as they rode through the beautiful and well-kept park outside the palace. They were both accomplished riders, having grown up on an estate where riding and hunting took up much of the time. The Royal stable had beautiful horses, and William was rejoicing in the relative freedom he had until he would have to join the young French princes and princesses in the schoolroom. Margaret found herself unoccupied as well, although it was understood that she would be joining the Queen’s household, as yet no one had sent for her. The only person in the Louvre palace who seemed aware of their presence was the Cardinal himself, who had sent her a note that he was pleased she had made a wise choice. Choice indeed.
Their Aunt Martha had been remarkably circumspect on the subject of their leaving her house so soon after arriving, and all in all Margaret could not help but feel that she was waiting for the disaster…waiting for the other shoe to drop.
As they rode she admired the view of the skyline of Paris- the rooftops and the soaring façade of Notre Dame and the white towers of Saint-Denis. As she brought her eyes down, she caught the warm afternoon sun picking out another rider, glinting off the jeweled hilt of his sword and the impossible gold of his hair. She recognized him as the man who had been at the Marechal’s house the first day they had arrived, with the remarkable blue eyes.
“Look, that’s the man who was at our Uncle’s house,” she pointed him out to William as he dismounted easily and handed his horse over to a groom.
“He’s the Comte de Lille,” her brother said matter-of-factly, then in her response to her questioning look, added “Cesaire told me. He’s a soldier, and he’s very close to the King and the Marechal, he’s distinguished himself in battle they say, he’s a brilliant strategist, and he’s not yet thirty.” William lowered his voice confidentially. “I heard the head cook speaking to the girl who brings the eggs, and they say he’s a bastard.”
“You don’t even know what that means.”
“I do so, it means he hasn’t got a Father,” he retorted.
She shrugged, figuring that was close enough, and she certainly was not going to elaborate on the subject. William would not be put off the subject of his new hero, it seemed. “He hadn’t any titles, but the King made him Comte de Lille after he led a force in a battle in Bayonne, and awarded him land and a chateau. It’s very rich land, Cesaire said.”
“Well, isn’t Cesaire just full of information,” she replied a little acidly, bored on the subject of the Comte de Lille.
Suddenly, William spurred his horse and leapt ahead “Race you to the end of the lane!” “Meg, it’s such a nice day, couldn’t we-“
“Read,” she commanded, not looking up from her sewing.
He sighed and gave one more longing gaze to the path where riders would occasionally pass as they sat in the shade of a large tree in the park.
“Read,” she said again and he cast his eyes down at the book in his lap and sighed.
“Ita mali salvam ac…s-sospitem rem …sistere in sua sede liceat atque… eius rei fructum…. Per…per…um….?”
“Percipere,” she supplied.
“… quem peto, ut optimi status auctor dicer… et moriens ut-“
“Have you gotten to “Veni, vidi, vici” yet?” asked a deep voice from above them.
“It’s Augustus,” William said, squinting up at the man. “Meg’s making me study, but he’s not very interesting.”
“He’s not,” agreed the man, moving into the shade of the tree, and she saw it was the Comte de Lille. “But a soldier needs a strong mind as well as a strong arm. You must obey your sister.”
William scowled, and the Comte went on “There’s a very famous quote “Learn to obey before you command”, do you know who said it?”
“No Sir.”
“Well, you should. It’s a famous military commander. Next time I see you, you should be able to tell me, and tell me how to say it in the original Greek.”
William closed his book and looked at her hopefully. “May I go look for it Meg?”
She nodded, “You may.” When he had run off back toward the palace she nodded to the Comte. “Thank you, it will be easier to make him study now. Usually he thinks of nothing but fighting.”
“Young wood makes a hot fire,” he replied with a shrug. “Boys always want to be soldiers.”
“Soldiers die young.”
“Not good ones,” he replied amiably, glancing in the direction William had taken. “Perhaps you would prefer him to become a man of the cloth? Like the Cardinal who has taken such an interest in you?” He laughed softly at her expression. “Don’t look so surprised. Gossip is the main form of court entertainment.”
“What nonsense! The man has spoken to me once!”
“Ah?” His tone was one of polite inquiry, and yet managed to convey he didn’t believe a word of that. “Well, watch yourself. He is a cunning man.”
“He’s a man of God!”
“The Cardinal is a man of many things Lady, but God is not one of them. The only one in Paris more Machiavellian and more ambitious is the Queen of France herself, and they are on opposite sides of a game in which the young Reine de l'Ecosse is a pawn.” As he had the first time she had seen him, he made a deep, courtly bow. “You make dangerous friends, and dangerous enemies, Lady Margaret.” “I want to wear the blue gown!” complained Mary of Scotland petulantly, and while her nurse and ladies seemed exasperated, Margaret found it strangely comforting to see the young Queen acting like the child she was.
“You tore it riding with his highness the Dauphin last week, your Majesty,” Janet Sinclair replied patiently.
“Then mend it!” she commanded angrily.
“I shall today, your Majesty, but you would not keep your Uncle the Duke waiting?”
They all watched the internal battle of Mary wanting to please her Uncle versus Mary wanting to have her way.
“We shall wear the green,” she finally said regally, as though bestowing a favor. Mary Seton sighed, visibly, but stoically went to get the green gown.
Seton, as the Queen called her, was by far the most circumspect, and Margaret suspected the most observant, of the girls universally known as the Queen’s “four Maries.” She was unusually quiet in comparison to her mercurial young mistress and the flamboyant Mary Fleming, who they called “La Flamina” for her outrageous personality. She had served the Queen, as an attendant, a playmate, and a confidante literally since infancy, but did not resent it. Quite the opposite, she loved the Queen and the other Maries like sisters.
It was Seton that Margaret asked about the long-standing feud between the Queen of Scotland and the Queen of France, as soon as Mary had been whisked off by the Duke de Guise, who seemed the more sinister of her Uncles. The feud with Catherinede Medici seemed to be common knowledge in the palace, but when she timidly brought it up Seton looked around the small room and then suggested a walk in the gardens. Margaret understood, such things were not discussed in the palace where anyone might be listening around a corner or behind a door. She reflected yet again that she had a lot to learn about palace life.
It had been ongoing, Seton explained as they walked through the neatly kept gardens, since the first time Mary had met Queen Catherine, and had, quite by accident, been rather cheeky. Margaret, despite not having seen all that much of Queen Mary, did not find that hard to believe, but still didn't see why the Queen of France should take lasting offense to a five-year-old child.
"We were playing; it was in the royal nursery at Carrieres, the four of us, and her Majesty, and Francois...I mean his highness the Dauphin, and her highness Princess Elisabeth. Queen Catherine came in without being announced, and she looked quite plain, she wasn't wearing any insignia, or even a very pretty gown...and she just stood there watching us play. So my Mistress marched up to her, bold as you like, and asked if she knew she was in the presence of the Queen of Scotland. And so Queen Catherine asked if she knew she was in the presence of the Queen of France, and my Mistress was so surprised she just said no."
Margaret stifled a giggle, and even Seton smiled a bit.
"But that hardly seems enough to-"
"Well, then there was the business with Lady Fleming," continued the girl solemnly. "La Flamina's mother, you know. She came here with us, as her Majesty's nurse. And she..." Seton paused delicately. "Well, she had an affair with the King. Which is acceptable if it were not spoken of, but Lady Fleming found herself carrying Henri's bastard, and....well, she bragged about it. Queen Catherine and Madame de Poitiers insisted that she return to Scotland. It's probably the only thing they ever agreed upon. But her Majesty missed her terribly, and detests the replacement the Queen appointed."
Margaret didn’t even have a chance to register shock that the Queen’s governess would behave so indiscreetly with a King, because Seton went on listing even more indignities inflicted on her Mistress.
"And my Mistress never has such nice things as the French princesses, Queen Catherine sees to that, that her household is never as large and her apartments are never as fine. She never has furnishings as lavish or dresses as pretty as theirs, even though she is a Queen and they are only princesses. You wait and see if it's not true, now that you have joined her Majesty's household, Elisabeth and Claude will have to have new attendants as well."
She spoke mildly but there was an underlying sense of outrage on Mary's behalf, and Margaret decided that Queen Catherine was a not a woman she wanted to offend.
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Post by Shades on Mar 23, 2006 11:50:58 GMT -5
Chapter 4
Margaret was very much used to being alone, having spent a rather solitary childhood until William was old enough to be an occasional companion, and that was why it seemed so remarkable to her how much attention the Queen seemed to require. Mary, though imperious, was not helpless and very often did not need anything done for her, but rather required someone around simply because she wanted companionship. It was not as though she lacked other children to play with. She and the Dauphin Francois had taken an instant liking to each other, and the King, it was rumored, had been delighted with her effect on the timid and sickly heir to the throne. Within weeks of Mary’s arrival, Francois was already healthier and less cautious, the result of his new playmate’s love of riding and the outdoors. She seemed also friendly with the Princess Elisabeth, aged ten, who did not seem overly influenced by her mother’s dislike of the Scottish Queen. Or perhaps it was the greater influence of the King’s Mistress, who was very fond of Mary.
Despite that it was rare that Margaret, or any of then Queen’s ladies, had a moment alone. When she did, she left the stifling palace and went to the gardens to read or sew. At first, William often accompanied her, but eventually he found himself busy with lessons and with the other children in the royal schoolroom. He had little interest in the nine-year-old Princess Claude or the four-year-old Prince Charles, but he had found a likely friend in the son of the Duc D’Anjou, Louis. And while she was pleased by this, she was used to his companionship, and she almost…missed him?
She was not the only one who enjoyed the gardens in the summer, and she was reading one afternoon when a musical voice behind her said “You’re the new Scottish girl, aren’t you? I’ve seen you about. What are you reading?”
She turned and found a girl about her own age who she had seen about the gardens before. The girl introduced herself as Genevieve and without waiting for any response promptly joined her on the stone bench. Genevieve, it seemed,liked to talk, and so in short order Margaret learned a great deal about her. Her father was the Duc de Neve, and she was the youngest of five children and the only girl. Her father, having four healthy sons, felt that a daughter was unnecessary and expensive, and unable to find any eligible men in the vicinity of their own lands, had secured Genevieve a place in the household of the Princess Claude. He assumed that since his daughter was lively and pretty, she would catch the eye of some likely young man, get married, and cease to be his responsibility. The flaw in his plan was that Genevieve was ideally suited to court life, and enjoying herself so much that she declared she would never marry, for fear that her husband would send her off to “some boring old stuffy country house.”
By the time Margaret had received all this information, it was easily time for her to be back in the Queen’s apartments, but she was pleased to have finally met someone her own age. For all the Queen and her companions made interesting company and were unusually mature for their years, she often felt rather old around them, while she was still too young to feel completely comfortable with the older, married women in the Queen’s entourage.
Besides, she had a feeling Genevieve de Neve was an inexhaustible source of gossip…. She was returning from the stables with Seton and Livingston the following day when she heard a boy’s shout that sounded like William from one of the walled courtyards around the palace. She had been intending to speak to him since the Latin master had complained to her that he and Louis would not stop teasing the young Comtesse de Saint Andre. Coming into the courtyard, she was greeted by the harsh sound of clashing metal, and a man’s voice.
“Steady now…now thrust! Good lad! Block! Protect your left side…don’t twist away…”
It was indeed William, clutching a sword almost as tall as he was, attacking the Cardinal of Lorraine with a great deal of enthusiasm but very little skill. The Cardinal, for his part, was blocking William’s thrusts delicately and effortlessly while delivering instruction. There didn’t appear to be much danger to either of them, but it still gave her a shock because William still looked so small and young to her.
“William! Na dean sin!”
In his shock, he whipped around and dropped the sword.
“Meg! I…I was just…” he trailed off, thinking he was going to be scolded at the very least. She didn’t want to embarrass him, as much as she didn’t like the idea of him fighting, even mock fighting. She decided she would speak to him later.
“You’re late for your lessons. Master Montelucio will be looking for you,” she said mildly, and when he continued to stare at her, mouth open, she added, “go on then.”
Before she could change her mind, he said quickly to the Cardinal, “Thank you for the lesson, Your Grace,” and turned and ran from the courtyard. The Cardinal picked up the sword William had dropped and handed it to a servant lurking nearby, saying quietly “Go on Thomas, I’ll be only a moment.” He sheathed his own sword before turning back to her. She was surprised that he was so armed, and wondered if he always carried a weapon.
“A lesson, your Grace?” she inquired as politely as she could, trying to keep the annoyance from her voice.
“In my youth, before God had revealed the path he had chosen for me, I received military training. And the boy complained that he thought his lessons were not nearly as useful as learning to fight would be.” He gave a quintessentially French shrug. “On a whim, I gave him a few instructions.”
“Are men of God not supposed to be peaceful?” She could not imagine what made her so bold, except that he had not seemed offended when she had spoken freely before.
“On the contrary, Lady Margaret. Men of God must often ride into war to protect the true Church. Have we not had warrior Popes? What of the Crusades? What are knights if not soldiers of God?”
She considered this, but she had never known any knights personally, and those she’d heard of by reputation were anything but holy. As she did, he went on, starting toward the palace. “Walk with me. To participate in statecraft is the duty of the Church, to protect all Christendom. Monarchs direct their armies, and the Church advises the monarch.”
“And if there are two churches?”
“Blasphemy, Lady Margaret,” he said, with the merest note of warning is his voice. “There is but one True Church.”
She realized, to her horror, that she was not only being rude and presumptuous, but voicing thoughts that should not be spoken aloud at all.
“Of course, your Grace, I’m sorry” she said quickly.
“I must take my leave of you, I have come to meet with the King,” he said, not seeming to be offended by her questions and dismissing her apology with a wave of his hand. She curtsied, determined to not forget herself again and remain polite, but as she straightened up her caught her eye and said quietly. “I would not have allowed him to be hurt.”
“He is only a boy.”
“He is, but he will be a man before you want him to be, and I expect he will have to fight to protect what is his,” he replied. “Good afternoon, Lady Margaret.” “A party?” Margaret repeated, as it was the only thing she had managed to understand from Genevieve’s rapid-fire chatter.
“Yes! Yes!” Genevieve was so excited she was nearly jumping up and down. “In honor of my mother and father and my brother Christian coming to Paris! My great uncle the Viscomte is giving a banquet! You will come, won’t you? You haven’t been to any since you came to court.”
“But I’m not invited…”
“I’m inviting you, aren’t I? You know my brother Christian is not married, and he’s quite handsome…” she trailed off, giving Margaret a thoughtful look.
“Don’t even think of it,” she said warningly.
Genevieve shrugged. “It will be nice to see them anyway, though I know they are not coming to see me.”
She said this carelessly, and Margaret wondered again if it hurt her that her family seemed to see her as little more than an annoyance. Her own parents had never treated her, even before William had been born, as though they wished she had been anyone other than who she was. Still, she had, in those nine years she had been an only child, heard other people often say what a pity it was that the only surviving Atholl child was a girl. She wondered, if William had been born first, would she have been considered as expendable as Genevieve’s family seemed to think her?
They were walking along one of the graveled paths in the park, and Genevieve seized her arm suddenly and pulled her away from the path to allow a carriage to pass, a fine one bearing arms she did not immediately recognize.
“Queen Catherine,” Genevieve said in an undertone as it passed. “I try not to be noticed by her. She’s a witch, you know.”
“She’s not! You mustn’t say such things.”
“It’s true!” Genevieve insisted stubbornly. “You haven’t heard yet perhaps, but everyone knows it. She killed the king’s brother, you know. And when she came here first, she was barren. For ten years she bore King Henri no children! There was talk of having the marriage annulled! And now she’s given his majesty male heirs and princesses with which to secure alliances! How do you explain that other than by the powers of the occult?”
Margaret didn’t, but she couldn’t help secretly thinking that in the same position she might turn to sorcery as well. A Queen who could not produce heirs would find her future very uncertain indeed. “The Comte de Lille keeps looking at Margaret,” murmured Fleming, her words audible only to the rest of the Queen’s little entourage, along with the note of amusement in her voice. To the others in Notre Dame who could not hear her, they were all kneeling with their heads bowed and hands clasped, models of Christian piety.
“Nonsense,” she hissed in response to Fleming’s comment.
“Perhaps he has developed a fondness for you. He is unmarried, you know,” Fleming continued, teasingly. “And handsome too.”
“’Tis odd, he is nearly thirty. Most men are married at least once by then. Sometimes more than once,” remarked Livingston, also in a whisper.
“His name was paired with that of the Comtesse de Chagny a few months past,” Seton contributed.
“What? But she must be nearly forty-five!”
“But very rich,” said Fleming logically.
The Queen glanced sideways at them, and wrinkled her perfect nose slightly. “Shh!”
“Perhaps,” continued Fleming, the only of them who would openly ignore Mary’s rebuke, “Perhaps the charms of ladies do not interest him.”
“Shush now!” exclaimed Beaton, scandalized but still whispering. “Such things should not be talked of in church!”
Fleming was silent again, and so Margaret turned her attention back to the mass. It was being performed by the Cardinal himself, and he seemed a very different man standing behind the altar of Notre Dame than the man who had been in the courtyard teaching William to fight.
As hard as she tried, she finally could not resist turning her head slightly to see the Comte de Lille, kneeling several rows behind, to see of he was indeed looking at her, as Fleming said. She had seen him when they entered, purely by accident, he was hard to miss with his bright hair. As she turned, his eyes were respectfully forward, but he seemed to feel her gaze, for a second later his startling blue eyes met hers. She bit her lip and turned quickly back to the front of the church.
In doing so, she looked up at the Cardinal, and was surprised to find his eyes focused on her as well. The look in his eyes, also blue, was like nothing she had ever experienced before. It seemed to burn into her, right through her. Not sure what else to do, she quickly dropped he gaze again, closing her eyes in an expression of prayer, while a hot blush spread through her face. When she opened her eyes again, she felt the curious stare of the girl next to her. She glanced up and found Fleming looking at her.
“Like that, is it?” murmured the girl, with twelve-year-old prescience. At that time, Margaret did not know what she meant. “I can’t possibly wear this,” Margaret insisted, glancing down and feeling uncomfortably exposed.
“You must wear it!” cried Fleming rather passionately, of the green dress Margaret was shocked by as she stood in front of the mirror.
“It’s not at all respectable!” she insisted, pulling at the neckline.
“Of course it is, it was made by the palace dressmaker!” insisted Beaton. “He must know what all the ladies are wearing!”
“Yes, but…” she tugged at the silk, until Fleming stilled her hands.
“You are lovely. You must wear gowns like this while you are young and pretty!” the girl said. “It makes your eyes look so green.”
All of the Maries were gathered around, their jealously obvious but without malice. Though the Queen had no shortage of royal appearances and social engagements, she and her ladies were considered too young (and perhaps too innocent) to attend what Fleming called “the interesting parties.” The Queen, for her part, might have shared their jealously, but to show it would not be royal, so she was seated at a desk at the end of the room, writing a letter to “our mother, the Queen-regent” while the others helped Margaret prepare.
Margaret could not help but be rather impressed by her appearance in the Queen’s mirror. The green dress, prepared by the royal dressmaker at her command, revealed a bit more than any dress she had worn, but then she had never really gone to a court party before. Certainly at Blair Castle she had required no such dress, but her mother had had such lovely dresses from her long past days at court. Though she never wore them, Margaret had seen them in the trunk she kept old mementos in. However, she did not think they had revealed quite such décolletage.
With the dress, she wore Mama’s jewelry, which had been left to her. It would be useless to William until he had a wife, and she knew Mama had not wanted her to be without means no matter what should happen to William. Father had been fond of giving gifts, and Margaret knew it to be worth a small fortune, should she need it. Tonight though, she wore the emeralds and diamonds, and she thought, for the first time, that she might be pretty. She had always thought herself rather plain.
“You will turn all their heads tonight,” Fleming said enviously, giving a final tweak to a curl in her hair. The carriage pulled up in front of a grand Parisian house bright with torches despite the moonless sky. As Douglas took her hand to help her from the carriage she felt he did not want to release it.
“This is not the sort of party for a well-bred young Lady,” he insisted softly.
“It is given for the Duc and Duchesse de Neve,” she told him. “It is perfectly respectable.” At his skeptical look, she asked, “Douglas, have you ever known me to misbehave?”
“No indeed, my Lady. Which is why it should be a shame of you started now.”
Stung, she jerked her hand away. “I shall do as I please.”
“Of course, my Lady.” He released her and stepped away respectfully, his head bowed. She felt sorry instantly and wanted to grasp his hand again and apologize for being so sharp, but asking forgiveness of a servant on the doorstep of a Viscomte was not befitting of a Lady, and so she merely stepped forward into her first party of the Paris court.
The banquet dazzled her senses- candles and a vast chandelier illuminated a sea of people, the colored gowns and jewels of the ladies competed with the splendid military dress of the majority of the men. The air was heavy with perfume, food, and expensive wine. Somewhere tucked away in a corner musicians played, but they were barely audible over the voices of the guests.
Genevieve was at her side almost immediately, and presented her to her parents. The Duchesse greeted her warmly and pronounced her “a pretty child”, but had a distracting way of looking around as she spoke to you, as though afraid she might miss something more interesting. The Duc barely gave her a glance and murmured something vague and polite.
“This is lovely,” she told Genevieve, looking around the room they were in, decorated with paintings in sharp jewel tones, with flickering lamps lit along the walls.
“Mhmm, my great-uncle has a great deal of money but no taste, so I can’t imagine whose doing this is,” she agreed as they made their way to a side table. Margaret was at first somewhat hesitant to join in thecheerful banter ofthe people sitting around them, but everyone was so cheerful and friendly that she quickly fell into easy conversations.
“Will you try the wine, Lady Margaret? It is of the best quality I’ve had,” offered Christian, Genevieve’s brother. He was, as she had said, a very handsome, if rather diffident young man, but Margaret noted immediately that he could not tear his eyes away from a young woman across the room, and guessed he was spoken for. “This is a Russian liquor, it is very strong though,” he added in amusement as Genevieve choked visibly and the Comte de Moret on her other side patted her on the back.
There was entertainment after the meal, and she was feeling quite pleasantly dazed by the music and the wine (and a bit of the Russian liquor), when she was startled by a hand placed on the back of her chair.
“You can be only the daughter of the Countess of Atholl” said an unmistakably Scottish voice behind her. She turned, but she did not know the man who had spoken. Christian seemed to however, for he was instantly out of his chair and shaking the man’s hand with enthusiasm.
“I had not heard that you had returned to Paris, Sir.”
“Nor have I,” the man replied affably, his eyes still on Margaret. “I am merely here to deliver my nephew Peter to L’Ecole Militaire.”
“How do you know Margaret?” Genevieve asked him curiously.
“I do not, I only remember her mother when she was young and at Court in Edinburgh. I was merely a child, she would not have known me but there were a good many broken hearts when she ran off with Lord Atholl.”
Margaret smiled. Her parents had always been affectionate, but they had never spoken of their courtship. “Ran off?”
“Oh, I mean no disrespect Mademoiselle,” he said quickly. “All was done correctly, her behavior was above reproach. I only mean that she knew her own mind well enough, and knew who she wanted to marry.”
“I still do not know who you are, Sir.”
He was about to answer when a sudden flash of candlelight on metal caught her eye and was gone just as quickly, but a second later there was a sudden cry of pain and the scream of a woman. They all turned in time to see a man near the middle of the room, Margaret remembered only that he was a Comte, stagger a few steps before sinking to his knees, and then chaos broke out. The sounds of ladies screaming and swords being drawn filled the room, and when she rose up on her toes to see over the heads of the confused crowd, she saw that the man was lying face down bleeding on the finely inlaid floor, clearly dead, with a knife in his back...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ”Na dean sin”: Basically “Don’t do that!”….a reprimand. It’s Scots Gaelic.
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Post by Shades on Mar 23, 2006 11:52:06 GMT -5
Oh yeah i think this is the story where my teacher said add a little romance so i did I think there is a fair bit of sex in this story but i can't quiet remember.
Chapter 5
Margaret awoke early to the quiet sounds of servants moving around the palace; nobody else was awake. She turned over and stared up at the canopy over her bed, considering the events of the previous night. Perhaps for the best, her reactions the night before had been muted by shock.
It had all happened so fast that she had barely realized what had happened before Christian was pulling urgently on her elbow. She turned and saw Genevieve, white-faced, clinging to his arm.
“Is he…dead?” she whispered.
“Yes,” replied Christian grimly. “Come, we must get you ladies out safely. Have you a carriage Lady Margaret?”
“I…yes…but who is he?”
“The Comte de Arles, but that hardly matters,” he answered, pushing them toward the doors amid the confusion. “He’s a nonentity, I don’t expect it was intended for him.”
Genevieve stopped, staring at him. “But, then who…?”
“Come along Genevieve,” he said sharply. “I don’t know, but it came far too close to us for my comfort, and I would sooner you were back at the Louvre, come. Please.”
It was not until they were in her carriage that she realized the Scotsman who had talked about her mother had disappeared. She would have asked Christian who he was, but that it seemed suddenly rather irrelevant.
“Why would someone murder the Comte de Arles?” Genevieve pressed, her voice wavering, as they bounced over the street. Doulgas was driving the horses almost dangerously fast, anxious to get her back to the relative safety of the palace.
“Someone threw that dagger, from an alcove, it came from behind us,” Christian leaned forward, peering out the window nervously. “Some thirty feet, at least. That’s a trained assassin, they’ll not find who did it. Whether it was intended for the Comte de Arles, for someone else, or simply as a warning I don’t know.”
Even the next morning, she couldn’t shake the image of the man who had been killed, lying on the floor with a dark stain slowly spreading over the back of his jacket. She had seen her parents die of a fever, but she had never seen someone murdered before.
The door flew open, and three still night-gowned figures burst into the room. Fleming and Beaton jumped on her bed without any warning, while Queen Mary moved somewhat more sedately.
“How was the banquet? It’s not true someone was murdered, is it?” gasped out Fleming, not even bothering to ask of they’d woken her up.
“Who told you that?”
“Elise, the maid who builds the fires. She said she heard it in the kitchen, but I thought she was telling tales. It’s true then?”
She nodded gravely. “Someone threw a dagger and it hit a man in the back. Christian said he was the Comte de Arles.”
“How dreadful! But who killed him?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t see anyone. Christian expects it was an assassin who was aiming for someone else.”
“Were they aiming for you?”
“Don’t be silly. No one has any reason to kill me.”
She saw, out of the corner of her eye, a strange look exchanged between Fleming and Beaton, but before she could ask them about it, Mary spoke.
“It is worrying, that such things should happen among civilized people,” she sighed, and finished with a refrain that would become very familiar to Margaret in the years she spent with Queen Mary, “we will ask our uncles about it.” Margaret hated embroidery, and had since the first day her mother had started to teach her. It was unfortunate that an activity she so loathed was one of not very many considered proper for a lady. Close work, as well as reading, made her head ache when she tried to do it in the evenings by the light from lamps and the fire, so she worked on embroidery during the day, generally sitting in the window seat in Mary’s apartments, where the light was good. It was there that Seton and Fleming found her.
“Cousin Marie and Francois are going riding, do you want to come?” Fleming asked. Margaret did not know when the transition from calling Mary and Francois by their Christian names to calling them by their titles had come, but she guessed it must have been recent, for Fleming when she got excited often called the Queen “cousin Marie”. Mary had never reprimanded her for this, though other adults sometimes did.
Margaret did very much want to go, not only to exchange the embroidery for riding, which she enjoyed, but also because she had not yet met the dauphin Francois and was curious about him.
When they joined the riding party, she made a note to herself to ask Fleming to be more complete in her information, for if she had known the other members of the party, she would have worn a nicer gown. Waiting with Mary and Francois, she found King Henri himself, he was rumored to be a keen sportsman, and a woman she did not know, until she gave Seton a questioning look and the girl murmured “Madame de Poitiers.”
Diane de Poitiers, Duchesse de Valentinois and the King’s mistress for over twenty years, was still beautiful and obviously in good health despite being well into her fifties. It was hardly unusual for kings to take a mistress, Margaret was not so naïve that that was a surprise to her, but she was a little shocked at how openly it was acknowledged here.
King Henri took no notice of her, clearly assuming she was another of Mary’s retinue, he conversed mostly with Francois about his recent return from the south, how things were in the countryside, and the political situation with Spain. Francois seemed a little wary of this sudden parental attention and looked frequently to Mary, riding on his other side, for guidance before making his responses.
“They will make a good marriage,” she remarked to Seton, as they were riding some distance behind the trio and would not be heard. Mary seemed genuinely fond of the Dauphin, and anxious that he should be happy. It was clear he adored her.
“They are fond of each other…” Seton began doubtfully.
“That is not generally an obstacle to a successful marriage,” Margaret said, wondering why the girl sounded so uncertain.
“They are fond of each other as a brother and sister are though. I have always thought, and Lady Fleming used to say, that it might be better if they had not been raised so, as if they were a brother and sister, because that is no way for a husband and wife to feel toward each other.”
She was right in a way, but Margaret felt that they were a bit young still to feel any other way, and that perhaps there were worse things for a Queen than a marriage to a kind, thoughtful man who she loved, even if that love was platonic. She only shrugged and sped up slightly in response to Fleming’s waving to her.
Evidently Madame de Poitiers had maintained friendly relations with Jenny Fleming’s daughter even as she sent the mother back to Scotland, and apparently that daughter bore no ill will over her mother’s banishment, for they seemed to be conversing quite cheerfully when Margaret caught up.
“You have recently joined Marie?” the woman asked, her voice deep for a woman, but musical and refined. “She is very fond of you, I am told. Welcome to France, and how are you finding it?”
“I like Paris very much, though I have seen very little of it beyond the grounds of the palace.”
Now that she was riding next to the woman, Margaret could see fine lines of age around her eyes and mouth, but there was no question that she wore her age well.
“You are seventeen, are you not? My daughter, she is the Duchess d'Angoulême, is your age. She is to be married soon.”
Margaret realized that a seventeen-year-old daughter could only be an illegitimate daughter by King Henri, and was not even sure what to say in response to that. Finally she managed something polite about her best wishes for the marriage. Madame de Poitiers laughed softly.
“Next time she comes to Paris you should meet my Diane. Don’t worry dear, coming to court is always a shock at first, you’ll soon get used to the way things are done here.”
The King and Francois put spurs to their horses and took off at a fast pace, and there was no more leisure for conversation as the rest of the party followed suit. “Lady Margaret?”
A voice behind her startled her out of a reverie, staring into the fire in the Queen’s sitting room. Mary had been feeling unwell with a cold, and had been in bed for two days, and had finally, blessedly, fallen asleep. Janet Sinclair sat at her bedside, but had insisted another of the ladies stay nearby in case something was needed. Margaret had volunteered as she was feeling tired and sick herself, and the others had been only too glad to let her stay and escape outdoors. She was actually enjoying the quiet and solitude.
She turned and saw the Cardinal of Lorraine standing in the doorway, and she flushed immediately. She had not seen him since that day in Notre Dame when he had looked at her like…well she couldn’t even define it, but it had made her uncomfortable. She felt heat spread through her face, and could only hope he would think it was from sitting near the fire. She forced herself to rise normally and incline her head politely.
“Her Majesty is asleep, your Grace. She has been ill. The King’s physician has seen her and says she simply requires rest,” she explained, with her eyes directed at the hearth rug.
“I know,” he replied briskly. “I did not come to see Marie, but you.”
She was certain there must be some polite way to respond to this, but for the life of her she could not think of it. Instead, all that came was “Why?”
“Sit, please, Lady Margaret, there is no need for you to stand.”
She did so, not knowing what else to do.
“The other day, in the courtyard when you spoke to your brother, you said something like “na jay shin”, did you not?”
She was confused for a moment, and then remembered. “I only told him to stop, your Grace. For him to take up arms against a man like yourself, it seemed improper.”
“But the language you spoke?” he pressed.
She frowned. Was he going to scold her for speaking the language of common people rather than French? Her French was, as a rule, excellent and she saw no reason he should care in what language she spoke to her brother.
“It’s the old language of the Scots, your Grace. We learned it from our nurse and from the other children around our estate,” she replied, knowing she sounded defensive.
“I hoped as much,” he said, surprising her. Now she felt entirely lost. He withdrew a slightly crumpled piece of paper, and she could see a broken wax seal on it. He held it up meditatively. “We have intercepted a messenger who we believe to be carrying messages to Spain from a spy in Scotland. They seem to be written in the old Scottish language. It is a clever code since few who speak it are educated enough to write. Can you translate it?”
“It is not traditionally a written language, your Grace, but I can try,” she replied hesitantly. She had never seen the Gaelic written, the nurse they had learned it from had not been literate.
“If a Scottish spy is communicating with Spain, you must understand it is in the best interest of Queen Mary to uncover the reason.”
“I said I will try, your Grace,” she repeated, annoyed that he was trying to play on her loyalty to Mary. He took a step nearer to her chair, close enough that he was brushing her gown, and for a moment seemed to tower over her. He held out the letter to her and she took it, her hand completely steady. As soon as he moved away, she stood up restlessly, suddenly feeling that Mary’s sitting room, which was actually fairly large, was too small.
“There is no need to do it now, I will call tomorrow,” he said, and though it seemed he had said what he had come for, made no move to go. “You were at the banquet given for the Duc and Duchesse de Neve?”
It seemed such a non-sequitur she was confused for a moment. “Yes, your Grace, I was invited by Genevieve de Neve, she is a lady-in-waiting to Princess Claude.”
“I know, I spoke to Christian de Neve. You were very near to that murder, Lady Margaret.”
There was a note in his voice that alarmed her. “You think it was meant for me as well?”
“No, no, not really,” he said honestly. “I expect it was intended for the Earl of Ross. Young Christian told me he was speaking to you at the time.”
“I did not know his name,” she answered, remembering the Scot who had spoken of her mother.
“He is a Scot like yourself, but has had a long and well-publicized career, and is considered a mercenary of sorts, I suppose. He inherited the title several years ago after the…mysterious…death of his brother,” he managed to place just the right amount of suspicion on that. “He is, by all accounts, an excellent soldier, but he has many enemies who are not above anonymous assassination,” he finished, and then gave a slight shrug and went on. “The point is that it only illustrated how easily you might be in danger.” He withdrew something from his pocket and held it up, so that it caught the firelight and sparkled. “I would advise you to arm yourself.”
Withdrawn from the gold-embroidered scabbard, it was a small but lethal dagger. He did not hand it to her, but rather set in on the small table that was littered with the books and sewing of the Queen and her ladies. She approached slowly, and finally picked up the weapon, small as it was it seemed heavy in her hand, and the cold metal gleamed. She looked up at him.
“Why do you think I need to be armed? Why do you think there is a danger to me at all? You’ve been maneuvering me since I arrived in France, and I think I deserve to know what’s really going on. You said yourself, I am not naïve. Our interests should be the same, so why will no one tell me the truth?”
He looked at her for a long moment, his expression thoughtful rather than offended by her outburst. “I rarely underestimate people, Marguerite, but it would seem I have done so. Very well. We are concerned for you and for young William. The land that your brother controls includes much of West Lothian and Kinross-shire, bordered on more than one side by the Firth of Forth. Surely you can understand the strategic importance of these lands?” He began to pace as he spoke. “Your brother is, as you say, but a child. A child is easily eliminated, in which case you would become the Countess of Atholl. A young lady is easily forced into marriage.” He paused next to the table he had laid the dagger on. “You are correct when you say I maneuvered you. It was my sister the Queen-regent who first became worried for William’s safety, it was I who suggested to your Aunt that she send for you.” He nodded to the letter still clutched in her hand. “We see your family’s holdings mentioned in many of the messages we intercept. Imagine the result, were you forced to marry, for example, a powerful Englishman?”
She walked past him, staring into the fire, trying to understand all the information he had just given her. The worst case scenario that he presented so calmly…William dead, “eliminated” as he euphemistically put it, and herself, forced into marriage.
“We never should have left Scotland…” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
“Don’t be foolish, you were right to come.”
“We were safe in Scotland.”
“Do not confuse ignorance with safety Lady Margaret,” he said quietly, standing very close behind her.
"And what's your interest in all of this?" She turned around suddenly, not realizing how near he was standing, and stumbled directly into him, feeling the scratch of the rough wool of his cloak against her cheek. He caught her by the arm and around the waist and steadied her, but when she tried to step away he didn't release her arm. His hand tightened, enough that she knew there would be bruises where his fingers dug in.
"My interest is whatever is in the Queen's best interest. And it is in the Queen's best interest to keep West Lothian and Kinross-shire in the hands of those who are her friends.” He finally released her. “Don’t you trust me, Lady Margaret?”
“No.”
He smiled. “Good, you should trust no one.”
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Post by Shades on Mar 23, 2006 11:52:59 GMT -5
Chapter 6
“A Dhun Eideann…an t-Sultainn…” Margaret sighed and rubbed her face, leaving a smear of ink across her cheek. She was doing her best at translating the Gaelic in the letter the Cardinal had given her, and although she could tell most of the words, the sentences were nothing but nonsense.
“What are you muttering about?” Fleming finally asked her. It had surprised Margaret slightly when Fleming had announced an intention to join her on her usual time in the gardens in the afternoon. Normally, the girl seemed content in the company of her other Maries, but she and Genevieve had taken an instant liking to each other. Fleming seemed the oldest of the girls, though they were actually quite near in age, excepting perhaps Mary herself. But while the Queen had to act properly, it was Fleming who spoke of improper things, made crude jokes, and cheeked the governesses and tutors. She was afraid of no one, and took orders from no one but her mistress, who it was easy to see she adored. Now she snatched the letter that lay on the grass beside Margaret.
“What language is it?” she asked after studying it for a moment.
“The old Scottish language.”
“You should tell her Majesty that you know it, she is interested in such things.” Fleming passed the letter back. “Why are you in such a hurry to translate it?”
She took it back and shrugged, and then wondered why she was so reluctant to tell them. She was, after all, doing it as a favor to the Queen’s uncle, and there was nothing the least bit questionable. Instead, she asked a general question of both of them.
“What do you think of the Cardinal of Lorraine?”
She had the complete attention of the both of them then. It was Fleming who spoke first.
“Cousin Marie trusts him above all other advisors, and is very fond of him as well. To her…he is larger than life. He is very clever, and very charming. I want to believe he cares only about her and the Queen-regent, but I think he is an ambitious man. It is the nature of the family. All the de Guises are ambitious and desire power.”
“They say…” Genevieve paused and looked uncertainly at Fleming, wondering if she would be offended. But then she went on, perhaps considering that knowing who the girl’s mother was, she was not unfamiliar with the scandals of the court. “They say he is popular among the ladies.”
“But…” Margaret was about to protest, yet again, that he was a priest, a cardinal in fact, but then subsided before the words left her mouth. She found she wasn’t surprised. Perhaps, as Madame de Poitiers had said, she was getting used to the way things were done in the French Court. He called that day, as he had said he would, and when she came back from the gardens Queen Mary was closeted in her chambers with both of her uncles. Mostly to get away from Fleming’s penetrating gaze, she took up her sewing in the window seat. She did not realize she was alone until he said her name from the doorway. She looked up in surprise.
“Where is her Majesty?”
“She has gone to tell the Dauphin of the news I gave her about a friend’s visit,” he replied, smiling tolerantly, as Mary was sometimes still very much a child. “May I have a word?”
She left her sewing and followed him into Mary’s audience chamber, where she found another man, seated, who rose politely when she entered. He was not as fair as the Cardinal, but there was an unmistakable family resemblance between them.
“My brother, Francis, Duc de Guise,” said the Cardinal, somewhat dismissively.
“My Lord,” she said politely, curtsying. Francis de Guise, who she had only seen from a distance, was quite as handsome as his brother, but seemed to her darker and more sinister.
“Lady Margaret, Her Majesty speaks warmly of you. Your company has become invaluable to her. I thank you for that.”
“It’s an honor to serve her, My Lord,” she did, despite her frequent impertinence with the Cardinal, know how to speak correctly, and she could tell even in the few moments in his presence, that the Duke of Guise would not find her impertinence as amusing as his brother did. She stole a glance at him and he gave her an almost imperceptible nod. She felt color rush to her cheeks at the feeling of complicity between them.
“You have the letter I gave you?” was all he said, briskly.
She withdrew the letter from her pocket, as well as another sheet she had written her translation on, for what it was worth.
“Yes Sir, but none of it makes any sense,” she admitted, nervous under the critical gaze of the Duke.
The Cardinal took it from her and she watched his face as he read, his eyebrows drawing together in a slight frown of confusion. Wordlessly, he handed it to his brother. The Duke glanced over it as well, looking annoyed, and handed it back.
“Her translation must be wrong.”
She was about to protest, but the Cardinal stopped her with a sharp look. She closed her mouth quickly, guessing that the Duke was not a man who would take well to being contradicted by a woman.
“No, I don’t think it’s incorrect,” he replied tiredly. “It’s written in code as well as the foreign language. There are enough significant points to suggest it relates to what we discussed- Edinburgh, September…” he picked it up and glanced at it again. “We merely have to figure out what the code refers to.” He tossed it down again. “Her translation is fine. In any case, we need to return the original to-“
“Charles!”
The Duke spoke his name sharply, cutting him off, and she realized he had almost said the name of the person they had taken the letter from. She hadn’t realized they knew, she had assumed it had been taken from an anonymous messenger. He picked up the original letter written in Gaelic and a candle, and for a moment she thought he meant to burn it, but then he tipped the candle so that the wax fell onto the paper, and sealed it again with a ring he took from his pocket. She tried to get a look at the ring or the arms on the wax seal, but the Duke saw her looking.
“Lady Margaret…you are certain of what this says?”
“Yes, my Lord. I have spoken the Gaelic all my life. I know it well, though it is not usually written, all these things were spelled out phonetically. There were a few words I did not know, but what I’ve written there I’m certain of.”
He nodded shortly at her. “Your assistance has been a great help Lady. I must insist that you do not speak of this to her Majesty. Is that understood?”
“Of course, my Lord.”
He nodded again. “Good. We must be going. Good day to you Mademoiselle.”
The Duc de Guise swept from the room, but his brother remained for a moment, his eyes on her.
“Well done, Lady Margaret, you’ve been a great help.”
“Why do you keep this secret from Queen Mary?”
He sighed. “My niece is still very young. Clever and charming, I know, but young. I keep from her that which she does not need to know because I do not wish to worry her more than necessary. There is a great weight on her young shoulders already.”
Margaret could not argue with this, so she only nodded. He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms.
“It is easy to forget how young she is. At Court, one is forced to grow up quickly. You, Lady Margaret, cannot yet be eighteen.”
“Nearly, Sir. I will be eighteen in the fall.”
He nodded slightly. “You do not think of being married?”
She shrugged. “I suppose I will marry eventually. I do not think my parents had thought of it before they were taken ill.”
He pushed away from the desk, and came nearer to her, “You would be better off married, away from all this.”
“There are worse places I could be.”
“Indeed, you’re taking to all the intrigue quite easily. I don’t doubt you can keep a secret.” He paused, at the edge of the window, with only the length of it between them. His face was unreadable to her, but she could hear in her mind Genevieve’s hesitant comment “they say he is popular among the ladies”, and she would not be just another lady seduced by a handsome man.
“There is something I would ask of you,” he said, a bit haltingly. He took a step closer to her, putting a hand on her arm, and she wondered how she had never noticed before how tall he was, how imposing. At that moment, she would have done whatever he asked of her, but that a young, high voice was calling her name urgently, seemingly from a great distance.
“Lady Margaret! Lady Margaret!”
The Cardinal drew away from her, releasing her just in time before the door flew open at the hand of ten-year-old Louis D’Anjou. Young as he was, he did not notice the tension in the room, or that the Lady Margaret sank against the window sill as her knees gave out on her.
“It’s Will!” he cried, in relief at having found her. “He’s been taken ill! They sent me to find you! They sent for the King’s physician and the Priest!”
She ran. Following young Louis through the maze of the palace hallways, forgetting everything but his words and the urgency in his voice. Court intrigues were the farthest thing from her mind as she realized what the boy has said. William had been taken ill and they had sent for the priest. Then sent for a priest for only one reason, to give the last rites. They sent for a priest when death was imminent. Her little brother had been taken ill and they thought he was going to die.
She could hear his cries as they neared the nursery, and in his room she brushed past the concerned courtiers, the palace physicians, and the black-robed priest to kneel at his bedside. Her little brother twisted and writhed with pain, and she leaned close and smoothed back the damp hair stuck to his forehead.
“Shhh, a ghráidh, it’s all right, I’m here.”
He heard her, for he stilled slightly for a moment but then moaned “A Mhairead, it hurts..”
“Tha fios agam…” She murmured soothingly.
He only whimpered, and she turned to look at the palace physician in his fine velvet cloak, standing by and doing nothing.
“Why aren’t you doing anything?”
“Mademoiselle, I have never seen one taken ill so quickly. There is nothing that can be done before his fever is lowered. I have sent for Monsieur Le Breve, he is more experienced with these illnesses that set in the blood.”
She swallowed around the obstruction in her throat. “Will he die?”
The physician, she decided then she would have him dismissed for knowing nothing, only shook his head. “I do not know Mademoiselle, it depends upon the illness. Perhaps bleeding him will stop the illness.”
William suddenly clutched at hand, crushing it, and gave another small cry as he curled up in a little ball of pain.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I'm gunna post all 20 chapters, and i don't think i finished this story either, but i'll only post ten today.
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Post by Shades on Mar 23, 2006 11:53:40 GMT -5
Chapter 7
She would later remember it as the longest night she had ever spent. Others came and went, but she was unaware of them. She sat by William’s side, and while she was no longer sure what she believed, she been raised Catholic and so that was what she fell back on in desperation. When she was not trying to still William’s tossing and turning or trying to cool his fever with cool clothes and ice, she was saying the rosary over and over.
“Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra…”
William drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes seeming lucid and knowing her, and sometimes calling her Mama, which tore at her heart.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui…”
The priest and the physicians came and went uselessly. The King came and conversed briefly in the doorway with his physician. Queen Mary and the Dauphin and Genevieve and the Maries came and said quiet prayers before withdrawing without disturbing her. The Cardinal came and briefly made the sign of the cross over William and laid his hand on her bowed head for a moment before leaving silently.
“Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum.”
Monsieur Le Breve, a highly regarded physician to wealthy Parisians, arrived sometime during the night, richly dressed as though he had been pulled from a party. He did not even speak to her, but spoke to the governess of the Royal nursery and the schoolmaster and the servants who had come through the day, asking them about William’s health and what he had eaten. They all agreed that he had seemed in normal good health and spirits until he had collapsed in the schoolroom. Still acting as though she wasn’t there, Monsieur Le Breve spoke quietly to the King’s physician in the corner, and only a few words of their conversation pierced through her distraction: “poisoned,” and “will most certainly die.” That had been in the back of her mind all along, but she heard it confirmed- poison.
“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.”
She felt numb and helpless as she sat there, holding his hand and occasionally smoothing his hair back from his forehead. Too exhausted to even cry out, he would sometimes whimper softly and twist weakly, only to lie still again as though the small effort had defeated him. She did not know when her prayers dropped into the familiar Gaelic.
“Fàilte dhut a Mhoire, tha thu lan de na gràsan; Tha an Tighearna maille riut. Is beannaichte thu am measg nam mnà, agus is beannaichte toradh do bhronn, Iosa.”
A hand fell on her shoulder, and she looked up in startled surprise. Aside from her whispered words, the room was silent. The governess who had been keeping vigil with her had fallen asleep in the corner, the doctors had gone to consult their texts, and in the extreme darkness of nearly morning, the concerned and curious had retired. She looked up to find a short, ruddy man with a grey beard who she was certain she had never seen before. He was dressed simply in black and she would have thought him unimportant and not worth her attention in these desperate moments, but for the intelligence in the grey eyes she met.
“This will do more for him than all your prayers, heartfelt as they may be, Lady. Give it to him, and it will take only an hour or so to work”
A small glass vial was pressed into her hand, and the man left the room as quickly and silently as he had appeared. She looked down at the tiny bottle she held, which appeared to hold some sort of murky brown liquid. A strange man, strange instructions, and no explanation, and he expected her to give it to William? She looked at him, light brown hair sticking damply to his forehead, his lips dry, his chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths, his eyelashes fluttering slightly as dreams, or perhaps nightmares, passed behind his closed eyes. She heard Le Breve’s voice in her mind again, in booming stentorian tones “he will most certainly die.”
“Forgive me Will, I have to try…” she pulled the stopper from the small bottle. She jerked suddenly out of a light sleep, sitting upright at William’s bedside, looking around wildly and furious at herself for dropping off. The governess still snored softly in the corner, but now the pink early morning light was coming through the window that faced east, and she quickly rubbed her eyes and looked down at William, whose limp hand was still clutched in hers.
For a horrible, heart-stopping moment she thought he was dead, he lay so still and peaceful. She laid a hand on his chest and felt the steady beat of his heart and the easy rise and fall of his breathing, and then laid her hand on his forehead, which was cool and damp, with no trace of the earlier fever. She gave him a gentle shake.
“Will! Wills, can you hear me?”
His eyes fluttered open, clear and lucid. “Oh Meg, it’s gone,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and weak.
“What is?”
“The pains in my stomach, it’s gone.”
The relief that flooded through her was so powerful it almost made her weak, but she leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Yes a ghráidh, that’s because you’re well. But you must sleep so you can get strong again.”
“Yes, I don’t like being ill…” he murmured vaguely, before his eyes fell closed again.
All the danger seemed to be over. The priest declared it a miracle, and Le Breve declared he had known all along the illness would not affect a healthy young boy for more than twenty-four hours. She did not tell them about the man who had come and given her whatever strange potion had cured him, because she did not know what she could tell them. She did not even know who he was, and he had come and gone so silently and mysteriously, like a ghost. As it were, they did not ask her anyway, they were still not even aware she was there.
William woke up long enough to drink some water, and it was only after he fell asleep again she realized how tired she was. The governess, a kind woman, sent her back to Mary’s apartments and promised to call her if William took a turn for the worse, though that seemed unlikely now. She was so exhausted she barely dragged herself back.
Mary and her ladies had risen for the day, though they insisted they had not slept a moment for worry over William. To her credit, Mary did have circles under her eyes that spoke to a sleepless night. They were all pleased to hear that he was well and that the danger seemed to have passed, though Seton did give her a curious look and mention that it was a very fortunate thing that he had improved so suddenly. She did not really care for the moment about Mary Seton’s suspicions. Worn out as she was with the breathless tension of the night and the relief that morning brought, she only wanted to collapse, and she fell into her bed and slept most of the day. Her bedroom was tiny, barely large enough for the canopied bed, and located off of Mary’s sitting room, from which there was a door to the Queen’s bedroom. She could always hear when there was someone in the sitting room, and as she awoke it appeared to be late afternoon, almost twilight and dark with clouds, and she could here the young, high voices of the Queen and her ladies talking, though she could not hear exactly what they said. She lay there feeling pleasantly drowsy and not particularly inclined to get up and join them, she felt that she’d rather be alone. She heard the girls move away, out of the sitting room and through the audience chamber. As their voices died away, she realized it was quite cold in her room, so she got up and pulled a dressing gown over her shoulders. She thought she would sit by the fire for awhile and ask a maid to bring her something from the kitchen, and then dress and go see William.
She came into the sitting room with her dressing gown hanging loosely from her shoulders, and she thought she was alone as she sank onto the low stool in front of the fire.
“Is your brother out of danger?” a voice behind her asked softly.
She jumped up, and turned to see the Cardinal in the doorway to Mary’s audience chamber. She tugged ineffectively for her dressing gown, painfully aware she was in her nightgown in front of one of the most powerful men in France.
“Yes, your Grace,” she replied to his question. “He seemed to be quite well this morning.”
“I’m glad,” he replied honestly, looking at her carefully. It was only then that it came back to her suddenly in a wild moment, their strange conversation. She didn’t know what to say to him, but he did not speak of it. Instead, he asked her again about William.
“Did they discover the source of his illness?”
He sounded like he was asking a question that he already knew the answer to, like he was baiting her, and anger flooded through her, erasing the childish flutter of nervousness in her stomach. She looked him directly in the eye.
“Was he poisoned?” she asked him bluntly.
He rubbed his forehead tiredly. “I do not know Marguerite. I expect so. It is not unheard of in the court. It is said the Medici woman poisoned the heir to the throne, the King’s brother.”
Had she been less distracted, she would have recognized the danger of someone overhearing his reference to the Queen as “the Medici woman” but as it was it passed unnoticed as she considered the suspicion he had put into her head.
“Queen Catherine…?”
“No!” he said quickly and firmly. “No, if Queen Catherine wanted to poison your brother she would have done it properly. The woman is well versed in her poisons. He would be dead had it been her intention. It was someone else.”
She turned back to the fire, away from him. “There was a man,” she said softly.
“What?”
“There was a man,” she repeated, still not turning back to him. “He came to William’s room last night, when everyone was asleep, and gave me a bottle. It must have been an antidote to the poison. He did not speak, except to tell me to give it to William. I did, because Le Breve had said he was sure to die and I had no other idea of what to do. It cured him, I’m sure it did. He was well by the first light. And I do not know who the man was.”
She turned back to look at him, perhaps hoping he would tell her who it had been, but his expression was blank.
“Well Marguerite, it seems you have a guardian angel,” he said easily.
She noticed it then. “You call me Marguerite?”
He looked surprised, as though he was truly doing it without knowing.
“My apologies, Lady Margaret. It is natural to me to give your name the French pronunciation. I did not mean to disrespect you. I will not do it again.”
“I did not mean that I mind,” she protested a little halfheartedly, wondering why she was doing so. Would it not be wiser to be offended? To admit that she liked the familiarity, that she liked the sound of her name with that French flair spoken by his deep voice, would be only foolishness. He spoke suddenly, surprising her.
“I leave for Rome at the end of this week. His Holiness has summoned me.”
Her eyes went wide. “The Pope?”
He gave her a vaguely annoyed look as he cleared some papers from a table in the audience chamber.
No, I refer to my shoemaker as “His Holiness.” Of course the Pope.”
“My apologies, your Grace. It has not been often in my past that acquaintances of mine have been summoned by The Holy Father,” she said quietly. He paused in his tidying.
“I do not mean to snap at you. I am sorry,” He nodded to her. “Her Majesty has gone to visit your brother, the nursery maid sent word he was already bored of being abed and would like company. I’m sure they are slipping him sweets. You should go, I am sure he would be glad to see you.”
“Yes, I best go see him” she said, still feeling that the conversation was unfinished. William was sitting up and complaining to the governess as she came in, and she thought she had never been so glad to hear him complain. He had no shortage of visitors, as she found not only the Queen and her Maries, but also Louis D’Anjou and The Dauphin, all seeming very friendly and inclined to stay for the evening.
“I hate this, it’s boring, I’ve been in bed all day,” William told her as she came in, looking put out.
“And so you’ll stay until you’re told otherwise. You were very sick, it’s no good to be foolish and not wait to get your strength back.”
He sulked, but Louis said bracingly, “Never mind then Will, we’ll all come and keep you company, won’t we?”
“Tell us a story Meg,” he requested, after sulking a moment longer for effect.
“What sort?” she had often told him stories during the long dark days of winter in Scotland, and with the rain falling against the windows and the fire cracking merrily, it felt very much like those days.
“Tell us a story about knights and battles!”
“No, tell us a story about beautiful princesses who fall in love!” exclaimed Livingston.
“Ugh, no!” exclaimed Louis.
“I will tell you a story of both then,” she tried to remember the stories her father told when she was small. He had been well read, and had a wonderful voice to listen to; she had snuck out of bed sometimes when they had guests staying at Blair Castle who stayed up late with stories and music. “I’ll tell you, my heroes, a story of a time long past…”
“How long past?” interrupted Francois.
“Before they even knew to count the years,” she replied, knowing it would not do to chastise the Dauphin for interrupting. “There was a beautiful lady called Igraine, and she was Countess of Cornwall, married to the Duke called Gerlois. They had no sons, but three daughters, Morgause, Elaine, and Morgaine-“
“Morgaine of the fairies?”
“The same, yes. Their castle was called Tintagel, and was in a place wild and remote, where they might have lived happily, but that the Duke and his lovely wife traveled to London for the crowning of the High King of all Britain, Uther Pendragon-“
“And the high king fell in love with her!”
“Who’s telling the story? Shush!”
As they subsided, Margaret went on, “Yes, he fell in love with her. But she was not free, and so he summoned to him a great magician, the greatest in all the Britain, beloved of the Lady of the Lake-“
She happened to glance up at the door as she spoke, and beyond it, standing at an angle so that he was mostly hidden from view, was the short, bearded man in black who had come into William’s room so mysteriously the night before. As soon as he saw her notice his presence, he turned to go, and she jumped up from her seat with “I’ll be back in a moment, there is someone I must speak to…” and left her confused audience staring after her.
“Sir? Wait a moment! Excuse me, Sir!”
Perhaps guessing he wasn’t going to outrun her, he paused several paces along the hallway and allowed her to catch up.
“Who…who are you?” she asked bluntly.
“I am Master Michael Nostradamus, Lady.” He gave a short bow.
She stared at him, for a moment taken aback. He was a physician, and he served the Queen, but there was an air of mystery about him, she had heard that he casted horoscopes and made prophecies.
“How…how did you know…I mean, my brother…” she glanced over her shoulder at the room where she had left the children.
“Lady Margaret, with all due respect such things should not be discussed in hallways.”
He started to turn away, but she grabbed his sleeve urgently. “I have to know…he’s very important to me, and he’s fine now and I need to know how you-“
He shook his head. “He is not fine, he is safe for the moment but his heart will always be weak now.”
“How did you know?”
“I have seen that poison before. Surely it comes as no surprise to you that it was poison, and I have an…acquaintance who deals in such things, and in their antidotes.”
“But…the doctors did not know.”
“Perhaps they have not the same experiences, and acquaintances, as I have.”
“Why?”
“Why did I help him? Because it was asked of me.”
“By who?”
“The Cardinal of Lorraine.”
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Post by Shades on Mar 23, 2006 11:54:12 GMT -5
Chapter 8
If Margaret didn’t know better, she would say Queen Mary was nervous. It was not unusual that visiting Scots should come and pay their respects to the Queen, and so Margaret thought little of the fact that some Earl or another had an audience with her, except that Mary had insisted on wearing her favorite gown even though it was just a normal day, and taken great care in fixing her hair so that it was held back with a thin gold band and brushed to a silky shine over her shoulders. As they went through the normal routines of the day, she kept rising and going to look out the window. Margaret knew she was not the only one who noticed this, but none of them commented on it.
“How long do you think it has been since the Earl of Ross has seen us?” she suddenly asked restlessly, of the room in general. Although Margaret did not necessarily understand the question, she now guessed that the man coming was the Earl of Ross.
“It was the last time your mother the Queen-regent visited, your Majesty, so four years past.”
“We were eight then,” said Mary pensively. “One changes a great deal in four years, don’t you think?”
“Indeed,” agreed Fleming, with a small smile at the rest of them. She leaned close to Margaret and whispered “Cousin Marie had a fancy for the Earl of Ross when she was little.”
Margaret hid her own smile, since knowing that the Queen’s nervousness was the result of a childhood infatuation was more than a little amusing. She had never heard anything of the man beyond their brief conversation at the party and what the Cardinal had told her of him, but the fact that he inspired Mary’s admiration made him at the very least interesting, and the Queen’s unease was amusing to see, she was not a girl who lost her composure very often. It surprised Margaret that he was being received at Court, since he had been described to her as a disreputable mercenary who may or may not have killed his brother for a title.
A knock came at the door from a palace guard, and Mary dashed back to her low chair before the fire and quickly arranged herself in her favorite regal pose, sitting with her shoulders straight and chin slightly raised so that she might look down at her subjects when they knelt before her. Then she gave a slight nod to Fleming, who went to open the door. They heard him greet the girl in the anteroom, although they couldn’t understand his muffled words it sounded like a question, and Fleming answer with something inaudible. A moment later the man came into the room and knelt politely at her side moving with the athletic grace of a long-time soldier and sportsman. He remained kneeling until the Queen bade him to rise. He did not seem to Margaret like the cheerful man who had spoken of her mother at a party. Judging by Queen Mary’s carefully controlled expression, she did not remember him this way from their meeting four years ago.
“We had expected you in Paris last spring, Lord Ross, but we have heard of your military successes farther abroad. We must congratulate you for that.”
“Thank you, your Majesty. Is there some way I may be of service to you?” he spoke quietly, and politely, but with a slight edge of impatience to his voice. The Queen heard it as well, for Margaret saw her shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. Margaret wondered if the man was smart enough to know when he should watch his step.
“Is there something more important you should be doing Sir?” Mary asked icily. Janet Sinclair glanced up quickly from her sewing as they all saw the flash of a monarch from the young girl they knew.
“Nothing is as important to me as serving the Queen, your Majesty,” he replied correctly, perhaps seeing that his tone had been noted.
“We have had news from Scotland,” Mary continued, some of the chill gone from her voice, but still with a note of warning there. “The Queen-Regent speaks of English raids on the borders, and an English attack on the border town of Jedburgh. My advisors think that it is Spain who encourages this, to distract the attention of France from the current political situation. They know of the close bond between the nations of France and Scotland.”
This speech had been clearly rehearsed, and was duly delivered, but they all felt as thought they were waiting, along with the Earl, for Mary to arrive at her point.
“While we must be absent from Scotland, we require the services of brave men to lead our armies. Our mother the Queen-Regent would be glad of your service in leading our armies against the English who are making such vicious and unwarranted attacks on Scottish soil.”
“I am most flattered, your Majesty, that you and her Highness the Queen-Regent think so highly of my abilities but at the moment my present duties will require that I remain in France.”
“What duties?”
“To the King of France, your Majesty. He has recently granted me a knighthood, on the condition that I should take up the task of preparing the French army for a war with Spain, should it come to that.”
The Queen, whose expression had been mostly impassive to this point, scowled at this new revelation, which obviously took her much by surprise.
“We had heard nothing of this,” she said disdainfully.
“My apologies for not informing your Majesty of every detail of my life and career.”
His sarcasm was clear, and Mary drew herself up. “You are impertinent, Sir.”
Perhaps he had expected to find her still a compliant little girl, but he seemed visibly taken aback by her anger.
“I beg your Majesty’s pardon. Had I known that my services would be required in Scotland I would have indeed considered that before accepting the King’s offer, but as I did not and I am a man of my word, I must remain in France. I would be pleased to be of service to your Majesty in any way possible while I remain in France.”
It was becoming clear to the others in the room, now shamelessly watching in open-mouthed fascination, that neither one of them would give an inch, and the interview was probably going to end in a stalemate.
“I see,” Mary finally said, her voice deceptively sweet and agreeable. “Well, then it seems we shall have to content ourselves with your presence in Paris.” She offered him her hand again. “You may go. Seton will conduct you out.”
Once the door had closed behind him, she rose in irritation and started to pace, clearly too annoyed to be still. For a few moments nobody said anything, for fear of sparking her temper, there was nothing Mary hated more than not having her way. Finally she spoke to Beaton, who was simply the unfortunate first person her eyes fell on.
“Beaton, you will take a message to our Uncle.”
That made the situation a good deal clearer to Margaret. Mary’s insistence on the Earl of Ross leaving France was not her own, but for some reason, the agenda of one of the de Guise men. “Check!” William said triumphantly, smacking down his bishop with unnecessary force on the polished chessboard.
“Gently,” she said mildly, pursing her lips and moving her queen out of danger. She had been surprised when he sought her out to play chess, rather than one of his friends, but had obliged. She watched him now, as he drew his eyebrows together in a frown of concentration. It had been two weeks since his ordeal, and he seemed to her as healthy as ever, with no signs of a weak heart as Master Nostradamus had warned her of.
It had been two weeks since he had been sick, and two weeks since she had seen Charles de Guise. She had not spoken to him since she had learned he was the one who had asked the man to help William, he had not returned to the palace before leaving for Rome. She knew, from the Queen and from the ever-present palace gossip that he was still there. It made sense, of course, that he had to be there. France would be wise to keep the favor of the Church considering the delicate political situation with Spain. Nobody knew when he would return to France, and she didn’t know what she would say to him when he did. Should she thank him? Something as small and insignificant as saying thank you seemed so insufficient as to be ridiculous. Should she say nothing and pretend she did not know it had been him? But the truth was she wanted to know why- why he had done it, and why he had not told her, even when she had spoken of it to him.
William, deciding he could not get her in check again yet, advanced his rook in the direction of her king. While she was considering her next move, he spoke suddenly.
“Meg, does someone want to kill me?”
She froze, a knight in her hand, and then set it down again slowly.
“Why do you say that?” she began hesitantly, playing for time.
“When I was sick, Claude says, it was because someone gave me poison.”
“Claude doesn’t know that,” she replied, furious at the young princess. “The doctors said they didn’t know why you got ill.”
Claude might only be repeating nursery gossip, but she did know and she wondered now if she should tell him the truth. Would he be safer, knowing what they were up against? Or would it only be frightening him for no reason? He was still so young, maybe too young to understand the kind of blind ambition that would allow someone to try to kill a child. She wasn’t sure she understood it herself.
He was still looking at her expectantly, and she made him a promise she knew she might not be able to keep.
“No one is going to kill you. No one is going to hurt you. I won’t let them.”
He looked as though he believed her completely, and she felt a tug of guilt for lying to him, but even more she was glad he could keep that naiveté and belief that she could protect him for a little longer.
“Margaret! Margaret!”
She recognized the voices of Fleming and Livingston, and sure enough a moment later they burst into the room, pink with repressed excitement. They were grinning, and exchanging looks with each other, and then her.
“What?” she finally asked as this expectant silence was becoming ridiculous.
“Fleming has had an idea,” Livingston said, in a voice that suggested she wanted it to be known that it was not her idea.
Fleming began talking very fast, in the same way William always had to their mother and father when he was trying to explain why some transgression did not merit a spanking. Finally, she held up a hand.
“Slower.”
“There’s a banquet tonight that the Earl of Ross is giving at the Hotel d’Hercule for the Lord Sutherland, who is visiting Scotland. They are longtime friends, you see, because their lands border on each other.”
Margaret, who in fact already knew this, was not terribly impressed. “And you are giving me this lesson in Scots geography…why?”
“I’m not, I’m only telling you why he would be giving a banquet for him at all!” she insisted.
“Mhm,” Margaret nodded for her to go on, sounding skeptical.
“Well, it’s going to be mostly Scots there, and even Seton’s step-brother is going to be there. And…we want to go!”
“You’re not invited.”
“But we are you see!” cried Fleming, waving a small rolled up piece of paper under her nose. “He said it was a grievous oversight that we were not invited and the Queen should come and be among her countrymen!”
Given what she had seen of the Earl of Ross and his previous reaction to the Queen, she found this a little unexpected, and something to be wary of.
“It would never be allowed anyway, they would not hear of it,” she said, glad to fall back on the supreme authority of “them” which she meant to encompass the palace staff, the nurses and governesses, the Queen’s uncles who served as her primary guardians, and King Henri himself, should he be aware of any such thing.
“That,” said Fleming, with a wicked glint in her eyes, “is why we are not going to tell them.” Margaret wondered if they hanged people who kidnapped the Queen, or beheaded them. Then she wondered in her case of they would take into account the fact that the Queen in question had actually ordered Margaret to kidnap her. It really was not a kidnapping at all, since she had neither originated nor masterminded the little plot, that was one Mary Fleming, but she was by far the oldest, and therefore responsible by default.
She had flatly refused to go along with the original plan that had featured Mary sneaking out of the palace with absolutely no protection whatsoever. They might have grown up within the shelter of a Royal household, but Margaret knew the dangers to young girls in the streets of Paris alone, and would not be responsible for that sort of risk to any of them. Finally, two of the younger members of Mary’s personal Scots guard were included. For having fought enemy armies, they were apparently helpless in the face of five pre-adolescent girls. Margaret could understand how they felt.
Dark cloaks and a coach bearing no arms or banners were about the extent of the subterfuge they could manage, but it was effective enough in delivering them off of the palace grounds and as far as the Hotel on the Rue des Augustins.
There was a man at the door who was accepting invitations and announcing people as they arrived, although the dinner was already well in progress and there were few people left to arrive. He seemed disinclined to admit them without invitations until the Queen of Scotland stepped forward, handed him her cloak and informed him succinctly that his job was not to argue with people, and that they did not wish to be announced because they would pay their respects to the host presently.
The Grand ballroom was a great sight, hung with tapestries and paintings depicting the many glorious victories of France in the course of her history over other errant nations, interspersed with the fleur-de-lis of French royalty and the thistle of Scotland, all blazing under the light from a vast chandelier.
She spotted the Earl of Ross at the far side of the room, unaware of their presence until a companion tapped him on the shoulder and nodded in their direction. His face registered shock for a moment, and then a kind of bemused interest as he made his way over. Several people, seeing the host pass, looked to see who he was going to and realized the Queen was among them, and some of the lively conversation softened slightly.
“Your Majesty,” he made a formal, courtly bow. “Your presence, as always, is an honor.”
“Your invitation is much appreciated, if belated, Lord Ross.”
“It had not occurred to me that your majesty would be interested in this humble gathering, until I realized that it is rare that your majesty has an opportunity to preside over your subjects.”
The Queen seemed gratified by this as he led them to a table. The guests were clearly in high spirits as the conversation rose again. Seats were quickly arranged for all of them and while Mary took a place of honor next to the host, Margaret and Seton found themselves seated between two men they did not know. To her left, a huge, dark man who, despite his fine clothes, seemed out of place here, among the fine bones and light skin of the Scots and French present. He introduced himself as Leone Strozzi, of the Noble Order of Knights Hospitaller of St. John, and Commander of the King’s Mediterranean Fleet. After he had gotten through all of this, she waited a moment to make sure he was finished giving all his titles, and then introduced herself. He smiled at her, a gold tooth flashing. The man on Seton’s other side, who she seemed quite taken with, was the Duke of Montgomery.
Though larger than the party she had been to for the Duc and Duchesse de Neve, this party, perhaps due to the close quarters or perhaps due to the guests sharing a connection to Scotland, felt more intimate. She kept a close eye on the Queen, who seemed to be enjoying herself, and intercepted a cup when it seemed as though Seton had had enough wine, but despite it she was enjoying herself. Leone Strozzi had traveled a good deal, and had seen everywhere from her own home of Lothian to the Holy Land, and kept her entertained through the evening with stories of it.
At some point after the music had started he left the table to go to speak to someone, and immediately the seat was occupied by someone. She turned in surprise to see the Comte de Lille, dressed in elegant blue with the black sash of the Order of St. Michel cutting across it.
“I have never known the Queen and her ladies to slip out of the palace in secret before. Is this your escapade then?” he asked, amusement in his eyes.
“It was Fleming’s idea,” Seton put in, rather boldly for her, and Margaret had decided the girl had indeed had quite enough wine.
“You heard her,” she answered him. “It was Fleming’s idea.”
He laughed, “True to form for Jenny Fleming’s daughter.”
“And what are you doing here? I thought it was for Scots.”
“I consider myself a friend of Scotland, Mademoiselle.”
“And the Earl of Ross?” She did not know why she asked, except that he seemed so different every time she had encountered him she could not figure him out, and the Comte had not been shy about telling her what he thought of the Cardinal of Lorraine and Queen Catherine.
“He does put on a fine banquet,” he replied amiably, glancing past her to see that Seton was sufficiently occupied with the Duke of Montgomery again, he added, “but he is no friend of mine. And you would be wise to remember he is no friend of the Queen of Scotland.”
“Why do you say that? He has seemed very kind and respectful of her tonight. And I do not see any danger to her at this banquet. After all, that would be rather obvious.”
“More than rather obvious Lady, and he is no fool. No, I did not mean your dear Queen is in any immediate danger tonight, but only that she should remember who she is and that by virtue of being a Queen she has many enemies she may not have sought, and may not even know.”
“Do you think, if you really tried, you could be a little more cryptic?”
He laughed out loud at that.
“I mean only that the man has questionable loyalties…one hears things among soldiers, certainly not fit for the ears of a lady, that suggest that the Earl’s loyalty lies with someone other than Queen and Country.”
“That explains a great deal,” she replied quietly.
He arched an eyebrow impressively. “You manage cryptic very well yourself Mademoiselle.”
It did go to explaining why the Queen-Regent and Mary’s uncles were so anxious to see the man returned to Scotland leading an army on border raids rather than always present in the ruling circles of Paris, and so close to the Queen.
“Just what is going on here?” They turned to see Strozzi had returned and was giving him mock threatening look. “I leave the lady for a moment and when I return she is being harassed by the likes of you, boy?”
“Ah, but how could I possibly help myself! Certainly I meant no offense to you Sir. No doubt the lady shall be safe now with one of the finest fighters in Christendom protecting her honor.”
“And remember it well boy…any more stunts by you and I’ll run you clean through!” the Italian said firmly, putting a threatening hand on his sword before taking back his seat next to her that the Comte had vacated. Margaret reflected that some things, like men swaggering and posturing, were the same throughout the world.
As the music began, the Italian added in an undertone, “Of course perhaps you need no protection…I wonder, has anyone actually taught you to use that dagger you’re concealing?”
She turned to stare at him, horrified, but before she could speak he nodded toward the front of the hall. “The singers are beginning, don’t you want to listen?”
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Post by Shades on Mar 23, 2006 11:55:04 GMT -5
Chapter 9
“Of all of the foolish, irresponsible, dangerous, ridiculous ideas! I would have thought you, at least, being of an age, would have known better than to encourage the Queen to risk her safety with this wild escapade, aside from the fact that there were persons at that banquet who were not appropriate company for Her Majesty…”
And so it went on, and Margaret kept her eyes cast down and tried to look properly contrite at Madame de Paroys’ scolding. The French governess was pacing back and forth, lecturing, while Margaret stood in front of her, not surprised that she was the one being held responsible when word of the previous evening’s activities had gotten out. No matter that she had delivered them all back to the palace safely, and even relatively early. She wasn’t terribly worried. Aside from a good tongue lashing, first from Janet Sinclair and now from Madame de Paroys, there did not seem to be any punishment in store for her, since Queen Mary had thoughtfully made it direct order that she should escort them to the party, she could fall back on the argument that she had been merely obeying the direct order of her Queen. While they knew she was getting off on a technicality, there was little they could do to her besides scold, and so they were taking full advantage of that, at least.
“Do you not think, Madame de Paroys, that Lady Margaret is a bit old to be scolded like a child?” said a soft, familiar voice from the doorway. Her head snapped up, and despite herself her heart leapt embarrassingly. Standing in the doorway, looking weary and disheveled from travel, the Cardinal of Lorraine had returned. If he noticed her badly concealed pleasure at his appearance, he gave no indication of it. He said nothing more to her, but left them to speak to Mary. Madame de Paroys went back to her lecture, but Margaret was paying even less attention to it now, lost in a number of surprising thoughts.
She was no stranger to infatuation. There had been boys in Scotland who had captured her interest, who might have even returned it had she ever had the inclination to encourage them. She never had, because the drama of it all…the excitement of a smile exchanged, the plotting to arrive in town or at church at the right time to see them, the daydreams and sighs and even tears…had been the part of it that was so much fun. She knew deep down the objects of her affections were probably not nearly as interesting as she imagined them to be.
With those boys in Scotland though, she had always been the one in control of it, of how much she felt, and how much it hurt. This was new, and spiraling out of her control.
Madame de Paroys finally got tired of repeating herself about Margaret’s general lack of forethought and responsibility and left her alone. She was so lost in her own thoughts she barely noticed the woman go, and did not know how long it was before Mary came into the room.
“His Grace our Uncle would speak to you,” the Queen said, a little hesitantly and lacking her usual haughtiness. Margaret realized she felt bad that someone else was being scolded for an idea that had been mostly hers and Fleming’s, but their royal blood excused them from responsibility.
“It does not matter,” she said comfortingly to Mary. “There is nothing they will do but scold. I don’t mind it really.”
She stood in the doorway for a moment before he acknowledged her, then he looked up and indicated she should come in.
“Did you enjoy the banquet, Lady Margaret?”
She was not sure, but she thought she sensed a touch of amusement in his voice. “You would scold me as well?”
“No, I was not planning to, unless you would wish it.”
Her surprise must have been obvious on her face, because he rose then, with a look that was both amusement and appreciation.
“The burden of the crown is a heavy one. It would be a cruel world if Marie were not allowed to have her bit of fun, her adventures. Your judgment is sound; you would not have joined her household otherwise. You thought to take guards. There was no harm done. And you might remember that I have arranged that Marie is never without protection.”
She was glad for a moment only that he was not angry, but then it dawned on her what he had just said. “You have her followed?”
“You speak as though they mean her harm. It is for her own protection.”
“I have never seen them,” she admitted.
“That means they are doing their job properly.”
“Why did you want to speak to me then?” she asked curiously.
“Ah. The situation in Rome was…difficult. The King of Spain is at odds with the Vatican, as you may know, but his Holiness shows no inclination to show favor to King Henri. He is concerned that His Majesty is not doing more to control the Huguenots and their heresy, especially as the King of Spain and his English Queen are daily burning Protestants.”
“They say Sir, that the Queen of England is not well, and the King of Spain will not stay long with her.”
“Who says this?” he asked with interest. Margaret wished she had not spoken, because she could say nothing with any certainty.
“It is only gossip, your Grace.”
“Tell me what they say.”
“They say that the English Queen was to bear a child, but the time for it has passed and the child was not born. They cannot explain it, but that there was never a child at all, and the Queen desired it so strongly that she made it seem so.”
“She lied?”
“No, she believed it herself so deeply that it seemed so. Now that no child is born, she makes herself ill with sorrow. She does not leave her chambers, does not eat or sleep, she merely wastes away from sadness.” Though her loyalty was to Scotland and her hatred of the English born and bred in her, Margaret could not help but feel bad for the woman.
“And the King of Spain?”
“He will leave her soon; he believes she will bear no child. And they say…” she hesitated.
“Go on,” he commanded quietly.
“The Queen’s sister, the Princess Elizabeth, is the one he desires. He would marry her, if he were free. She is young, and might yet bear children.” It seemed rather embarrassing to be speaking to him of desire and childbearing, but he did not seem to share her discomfort.
“I see,” he said pensively. “If Mary Tudor does not survive the disappointment, she has not yet denied the Princess Elizabeth as her heir. Perhaps there is affection between the sisters still. Were she a good Catholic as she calls herself, she would name another heir. The Princess Elizabeth is a Protestant and a heretic,” he was speaking almost more to himself than to her, but then he seemed to remember her presence, and turned his gaze back to her. “This has been enlightening. I do not hear of such things.”
“Perhaps people do not think they can speak freely before you Sir. As I say, it is nothing but gossip.”
He nodded in agreement with this assessment, and then crossed the room nearer to her, near enough that she had to move her gaze up to look him in the eye. She remembered then what she had learned from Master Nostradamus. He had saved William, and now while she looked up at him, she wanted suddenly to tell him that she knew. The words had almost come when he spoke himself.
“I would like you to tell me, Lady Margaret, what things you hear among the Court. I do not ask you to betray confidences, but often the Court rumors are correct. Will you do that?”
It was in that moment that she realized there was nothing she would refuse him. She nodded slowly.
“Good girl,” he murmured softly. “Tell me something, what did you think of the Earl of Ross? Now that you have made his acquaintance again.”
“I do not know what to think of him, your Grace, he seems a different man every time I see him.”
He nodded slightly. “Astute of you, that is his gift, to change his color as suits him. Young Christian says that he knew your mother.”
“He spoke of her nostalgically your Grace. He was a boy in Edinburgh when she was at court. He said she broke many hearts.”
“And they say you are her image.”
She felt blood rush to her cheeks, a hot blush spreading across her face. “Some do, yes.”
“If Lord Ross speaks to you again, you must tell me. I suspect he may.”
She nodded again. “Margaret, do you miss your mother?”
She looked up in surprise from her embroidery. They were sitting in the park in the shade of a tree. The Queen was reading, and Margaret had brought the hated embroidery. Beaton and Fleming were with them, but had seen the Duc de Saint Gervais riding toward the stables and had hurried off to speak to him. He was sixteen and the object of fantasies for many young girls in the Court. To Margaret he seemed no more than a child, though he was only a year younger than her.
She was surprised by the Queen’s question, she felt like Mary had been waiting a long time for the two of them to be alone to ask it.
“I beg your pardon Majesty?”
“Your mother,” The Queen repeated, her voice strangely uncertain and her hazel eyes intent. “She died of a fever, did she not? Do you miss her?”
“Yes,” she admitted honestly. “After she died we left very quickly to come to France. I barely had time to think of it. But yes, sometimes I miss her very much.”
It was strange that the Queen should ask it now, as she had been thinking of it often lately. She knew her parents would be proud of her, they had raised her to be independent and to look after herself despite being a woman in a man’s world, and yet sometimes she wanted more than anything to curl up in the shelter of her mother’s arms, as she had done as a little girl. She would have liked to have Mama brush her hair, as she had often done, and to ask her, shyly and haltingly, about the things in her life she didn’t quite yet understand.
Mary received this quietly, her eyes quickly diverted to her book. After a few moments she spoke.
“Our mother came once to visit us, when we were eight. We know she is busy in Scotland, protecting our Kingdom.”
She understood then, Mary was asking the question as a young girl who missed her mother.
“It is not wrong to miss her, your Majesty, as important as her work may be.”
“We just would like to see her. We would ask her things.”
“I would answer any questions your Majesty might have, as well as I could.”
Mary looked at her, her expression a little sad but still grateful. “It is nice to know someone a little older Lady Margaret.”
The intimacy of the moment was broken by Beaton and Fleming returning, accompanied by the Dauphin, who lost no opportunity to see his Marie.
“It’s a boring sort of day,” Beaton said, in a languid, late summer sort of mood. The others seemed to agree, as Fleming leaned back on her elbows and turned her face up to the sun, and Margaret tossed aside her embroidery, not wanting the aggravation.
“Lady Margaret shall tell us a story,” Francois said. It was something the Dauphin had often requested since that day she had indulged William’s desire and told them a much abbreviated legend of King Arthur. He was only eleven, still enough a boy to find happiness in stories.
What sort of story?” she asked lazily.
“A story of Scotland,” the Queen said unexpectedly.
Margaret thought. “I will tell you of the fairy flag of Dunvegan then…” she said, bringing to mind the story of the MacLeod’s, another often told story in Scotland. Although she might protest, she enjoyed the storytelling, her mother had always said it was her father’s gift, and maybe she had gotten it from him.
“Dunvegan Castle, of the MacLeod’s, stands on some of the most beautiful land in Scotland, on the Isle of Skye…”
“Have you been there?” asked Mary breathlessly.
“No your Majesty, but my father had been and said there was no prettier place on earth. And on the coast of the Isle of Skye stood Dunvegan Castle. Many years before us, so long ago we cannot know exactly the day, but a time when the wee folk still roamed freely of Scotland, there was a laird there who wandered into a fairy hill…”
“Francois!” said a sharp voice, and the spell of her tale on the lazy summer afternoon was broken as Francois and Beaton and Fleming, and even reluctantly Queen Mary struggled to their feet. The woman who had spoken had startled them all, and it struck Margaret speechless for a moment when she realized who the small, dark woman who had interrupted them was. She had seen Catherine de Medici only from a distance, and now the Queen of France was glaring at her.
“Maman, we were only-“ Francois began, in defense of his Marie, but she silenced him with a dismissive wave of her hand, her eyes wandered over Beaton and Fleming and finally rested on Margaret, with an expression that suggested Mary’s entourage did not impress her, and having them there was a constant trial to her.
“Who are you?”
“Lady Margaret joined my household some six weeks ago, Your Highness,” Mary spoke up. Though her words were perfectly respectful, there was a disdainful tone to her voice.
“Ah, Lady Margaret Blair.” Queen Catherine nodded, almost to herself. “I have heard your name. You did not stay long with your Aunt and Uncle.”
“No, your Highness, regrettably we did not, but I could not refuse the honor of serving my Queen.”
“Is that who you think you were brought to serve?” she smirked, and then gestured to Francois. “Come Francois, stories of magic are not for good Christians.”
“But Maman-“
“Come.”
“Good Christians indeed!” exclaimed Beaton as soon as they were out of earshot. “After what we’ve heard about her.”
“Shh,” murmured Fleming with unusual gravity. “Best not to speak of things that will end you up with poison in your cup.” “Queen Catherine spoke to you? What did she say?” Genevieve asked as they rode along the gravel path several days later, quite early before anyone was about. She had been very busy as Princess Claude had taken a cough and wanted everyone else in her household to be as miserable as she.
“Not very much sense,” admitted Margaret. “But she definitely didn’t like me.”
“Well, that’s no surprise. She hates Queen Mary.”
Margaret was about to answer when she was interrupted by another rider, racing down the path at full speed. Her new horse Cailleach, who she had been riding only a few weeks, was still nervous and shied slightly as the other rider drew up with them and slowed and she saw it was the Earl of Ross. He removed his hat politely, nodding to both of them.
“Ladies, good morning.”
Margaret inclined her head politely. “My Lord Ross.”
“This is fortunate, for it is you I was looking for Lady Margaret. I ride to Vemars on an errand for the King. It is only a few hours ride and through pretty country. I know your Aunt, Madame Le Marechale, is there staying with friends, and I thought you might like to come along and visit her. If your Queen permits, of course.”
“That is very kind, my Lord.”
“Mademoiselle De Neve is welcome to come as well, of course,” he added, with a nod to Genevieve.
Although it was a perfectly thoughtful offer, she could not help but be surprised that he seemed know a good deal about her. Indeed, she had had no idea that her Aunt was not in Paris.
“Of course, my Lord, I should like to see my Aunt. I will ask the Queen if she can spare my presence for the day.”
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Post by Shades on Mar 23, 2006 11:55:37 GMT -5
Chapter 10
Mary agreed readily enough that she might go, looking mildly curious that it was the Earl of Ross who had extended the invitation. Margaret had to admit a certain surprise at that herself, although perhaps it had only occurred to him because she had relations staying in that area. She still did not know exactly what she thought of him, and so she thought perhaps a long ride in his company would give her a better idea, though she still didn’t trust him for a second. Genevieve would be along as well as one of the King’s men, so it couldn’t be at all dangerous or improper.
Truly, she was glad to get out of Paris for a day as well. As lovely as the palace and the grounds were, she was used to open space and there was little of it to be found in Paris. A long ride through open country would do her good.
Her motives were not entirely selfish either, she had been feeling rather guilty that she had not seen her Aunt since they had left their house. Partly out of a desire to not see her Uncle, and partly just because she had been so busy and immediately swept up into palace life.
She didn’t have to come up with anything to say as they rode out of Paris, since Genevieve had perfected the art of inane small talk during her time at court, and kept up a steady chatter.
“I understand your banquet for Lord Sutherland was a great success.”
“Well, with such sparkling company, how could it fail to be?” It was a compliment, whether directly to her or indirectly to the Queen she did not know, but she smiled in polite appreciation anyway. He continued. “Indeed, Lady Margaret charmed two of the guests I had hoped to impress with the evening. I daresay Mr. Strozzi lost his heart completely.”
Genevieve, for all her acting it when it suited her, was no feel, and Margaret felt a sharp gaze on her now, but when her friend spoke she sounded perfectly normal and light-hearted “Oh, aren’t knights romantic!”
“I hope there was no trouble for you Lady Margaret, since you were by far the oldest of the party who came to the banquet. It was my intention to amuse Queen Mary after my difficult behavior with her regarding returning to Scotland. Truthfully, I did not think the palace staff would consider letting her attend, but it never entered my mind they would take it in their heads to sneak out.”
“Aside from a sound scolding from Madame de Paroys there was no trouble for me, and it was more than worth that.”
“Good then, I did worry the de Guises might be angry with you.”
“There was no need for worry,” Genevieve put in. “The Cardinal of Lorraine would not do anything to Margaret.” She paused a moment before adding under her breath. “Unless she asked him to.”
Margaret wished she were close enough to kick Genevieve, but the remark passed without any further comment and she hoped the Earl had not heard it.
They were beyond he edges of Paris, riding through country with the occasional neat little farm. It was pretty country, and over a smooth road that made it an easy ride, and it was only perhaps two hours before they arrived in Vemars, a charming small village of white washed, half-timbered buildings.
“Your Aunt is staying at the Chateau of the Duc and Duchesse De Vemars,” he pointed to the chateau on a slight rise looking over the town. “I have business in the town, but I will see you both to the chateau first.”
They were expected at the chateau, as stable hands quickly took their horses and a servant appeared at the door to direct them. The house was as beautifully and richly furnished as any house she had seen in Paris. The servant opened a door and-
“Margaret!” She was immediately pulled into her Aunt’s embrace, and then held at arms length while her Aunt looked at her critically. “Well, you look different!” She finally pronounced. “But then the last time I saw you, you had recently been ill. You look much better. Are you well?”
“Yes Aunt, it’s good to see you,” she said, before remembering her manners and introducing Genevieve, and the Earl although he was already known to them. She was introduced to their host and hostess…the Duc de Vemars said hello briskly and then suggested they be going about their business in the town. The Duchesse seemed beyond herself with joy at having so many guests and immediately set her servants about making sure they were comfortable.
“Are you well, really? How is it serving the Queen?” Her Aunt pressed as they sat in a sunny drawing room.
Margaret was surprised to realize that she was quite happy serving the Queen. Mary, for all of her airs and superiority, was also very charming, very clever, and Margaret realized with some shock that she had actually come to care about the Queen.
“She is very easy to serve, and very charming.”
The conversation turned to mutual acquaintances in Paris, and since name-dropping was Genevieve’s specialty, she remained mostly quiet, occasionally putting in comments of people she had seen at parties or who had an audience with Queen Mary. The Duchesse de Neve seemed impressed, but her Aunt Martha remained rather quiet, and several times Margaret felt her Aunt’s eyes on her searchingly. Finally she spoke.
“Margaret, the Duchesse has the loveliest gardens, you really must see them. Come along, I’ll show you.”
Margaret had no particular interest in gardens, and she was willing to bet her Aunt did not either. It was an excuse, if a rather transparent one, to get her alone and away from the house.
“A sudden interest in gardening, Aunt?” she asked slyly as they walked through the kitchen and into the gardens.
“A bit obvious perhaps, but not all of us learn subterfuge from the best,” the retort, though good natured, took Margaret slightly off-guard.
“Oh…”
“Oh indeed. How is William? I heard he was taken ill.”
“Yes, I would have sent for you, but it was all over so quickly. He is fine now, as healthy as he has ever been.”
“Was it poison? That was the rumor.”
“Yes.”
There was a long moment of silence.
“You say it so matter-of-factly.”
Margaret shrugged. “Hiding from the truth will not protect William.”
“You are right, of course. How you’ve grown up in only a few weeks. I suppose that should not be surprising to me considering the company you keep.” She caught Margaret’s sideways glance and nodded. “I hear many things, you must know now that there are no secrets at Court, though that does not seem to keep people from trying to have them.” She was silent for a moment and then shook her head. “I would not think it my place to say anything, but in your mother’s absence I don’t know who else might. I worry that you are getting in over your head.”
“I worry about that myself sometimes,” she admitted. “There is so much double talk, so much choosing sides, while everyone pretends to be polite to each other. I do not always know who is a friend. But I am beginning to learn how to act. And you don’t need to worry that I will take up with the wrong sort. I know there are those at court who live a wild lifestyle, but Mary keeps us with her almost constantly. I would have no time to misbehave even if I were inclined to it.”
“I didn’t think you would, you were raised correctly. I only wanted to say…if ever you are in over your head, if ever you need anything, you must not hesitate to come to me. No matter what it is you require, even to return to Scotland. I know Alain does not seem it, but family is important to both of us, and we would always help you.”
“Thank you, it will be good to bear that in mind, but really, I am not unhappy at court. Queen Mary is an easy mistress to serve most of the time.”
“And the Cardinal of Lorraine?”
Margaret chose her words carefully. “He has been a friend to us…to William and I. He has taken an interest in William’s safety, for which I am very grateful to him.”
Her Aunt’s expression suggested she didn’t believe that for a second, but she said nothing about it, but rather changed the subject. “As pleased as I am to see you, I was surprised to hear you were accompanying the Earl of Ross.”
“I had met him a few times. He remembered Mama from Edinburgh, and he thought I looked like her, that is the only reason he took any notice of me.”
“His reputation is not good, I would only advise you not to be alone with him. You were wise to bring Genevieve along with you today.”
She would say no more about it, and so Margaret did not press. If she had hoped for a relaxing visit, it had been anything but. They left in good time to be back in Paris before nightfall, with promises from her Aunt to visit as soon as she returned to Paris.
She had no idea what kind of business the Earl had had in Vemars, but she couldn’t help but notice that he seemed very much on edge, and rode several lengths ahead of them, on alert for something, although he did not bother to tell them what. Since she was riding alongside Genevieve, and he was outside hearing a normal voice, she asked what had been on her mind.
“Are there rumors about me? You said earlier…”
“You mean the Cardinal of Lorraine?”
She had expected Genevieve to deny it, so her prompt reply was a bit surprising.
“What…what do they say?”
Genevieve shrugged. “They don’t really say anything, you know how rumors are, they just imply…it’s mostly servants anyway, Mary’s girls wouldn’t talk about you.”
“Well isn’t that nice of them,” she replied sarcastically.
“It is you know, a lot of the women in the royal household are catty even to each other.”
“What do they say?” she pressed.
“The servants only say that you are often alone with him. It would not be anything except that there have always been rumors about him with ladies. It makes for good gossip, because it seems so wicked.”
“You don’t think I’m…”
“No, but I do think you should be more careful of how things look. Or you should do something to make the rumors worthwhile.”
“Genevieve!”
“Well, you must admit he is handsome.”
“I don’t believe I’m even going to speak to you for the rest of the ride.” It was dusk when they arrived back in Paris, and the streets seemed unusually quiet for early evening in the summer. They were riding along a main boulevard when Margaret attention was distracted by what seemed to be a disturbance down a side street.
“What’s-“
“Ride on, I want to get back to the palace,” the Earl said quickly.
As the sky darkened, ahead of them on the same boulevard, a flickering sort of light began to throw strange shadows around the street, and as they got closer, she saw flames licking up into the sky. Cailleach shied away and danced to the side slightly as they came to a stop, and the Earl glanced around, and then directed them down a side street.
“This way, we’ll go around.”
“What’s going on?”
He didn’t answer as they cut down a side street, but she couldn’t help but be distracted by the sounds of fighting that seemed to be only one street over as the sounds of clashing metal and a woman’s scream reached them. Finally the Earl reined his horse down a narrow alleyway away from the direction of the fire, and they followed him into a small courtyard. A servant stared at them, but he said urgently “close the gate, quickly.”
“What are we doing?” asked Genevieve, looking around and feeling quite as confused as she felt.
“This is the house of an old friend of mine, it’s safe, we’ll wait here until it’s over.”
“Until what’s over? What’s going on out there?” Margaret demanded as he held out a hand to help her down from her horse.
“Raids. They’re arresting Protestants for heresy. No doubt on the orders of your Cardinal, Mademoiselle.”
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Post by Shades on Mar 23, 2006 11:57:17 GMT -5
Okay so i lied I'll post 15 chapters I don't have anything better to do right now being sick and all.
A random factoid that may or may not matter: I was assuming Charles de Guise to be in his late thirties or even forties, but a quick google search has revealed that he was in fact only twenty-eight in 1555 (Random fact: he became an Archbishop at 14 and a Cardinal at 20.) While his age really has no bearing on the story, I am wondering if the fact he is “now” quite young will subconsciously make me write him differently. We shall see, I suppose.
Chapter 11
Margaret paced, while Genevieve watched her nervously. The Earl’s old friend was a military man by the name of Jaffre, obviously a bachelor given the state of his house, and not expecting guests. Nonetheless he had risen to the occasion by welcoming them and insisting that they must stay until the trouble in the streets had passed. However, he did seem to think the raids, if that is indeed what they were, were beyond the feeble understanding of two females, and so Margaret and Genevieve were abandoned in a dusty front parlor with his kitchen girl while the men discussed “political matters that wouldn’t be of interest to women.”
“I’m sure William is safe,” Genevieve said hesitantly, and Margaret paused in her path across the room. She hadn’t actually been worried about William, but she was now. She told herself firmly that that was nothing to worry about…he was certainly safe within the palace, he would have no cause to leave it. She looked out the front window at the street below them, which appeared deceptively quiet and sedate as a cart rolled by innocently.
“What do they do to people who are found to be heretics?” she asked of Genevieve, who shrugged.
“Burn them, I suppose,” she replied, as though this was the obvious answer.
Margaret shuddered. There had been Protestants in Scotland who had practiced discreetly, she knew from her parents’ talk, even people near their estate, people she knew. They had seemed like good Christian people, no different than she was really. Certainly they were not people who deserved to be burned.
“How do they know for certain if someone is a Protestant?” she said, almost to herself.
“There are always those willing to inform on their friends,” said Genevieve, in a voice that sounded surprisingly disgusted, then joined her at the window. “Do you think it’s all over? I wish we could go; there is no danger to us. They will know we are good Catholics if we are in the Royal household.”
“I do not think it was danger of our being arrested, but rather of being caught in the middle of it.”
“Is he a Protestant?” Genevieve whispered, her eyes darting to the door, and Margaret knew she meant the Earl of Ross.
“Surely not! He is serving the King of France now.”
“Yes, I suppose, but one never really knows.” Nothing more was said, over the following days, about the arrest of suspected Protestants or their subsequent fate, and Margaret found that rather odd. She guessed the Queen Mary knew nothing of it, few in the palace did, and she herself would not have known had she not been out in the city at that particular time. She wisely did not speak of it, but it was often on her mind. She was certainly not privy to the truth about who had ordered raids, whether it had been the Cardinal of Lorraine or King Henri.
Mary and her girls were aware of her distraction, and seemed to think it might be the result of delicate health, for they took to often encouraging her outdoors to get fresh air. She took to spending an hour or two in the gardens in the afternoons again on fine days, reading. It was on a sultry, humid afternoon that she slowly became aware, as she read, that she was being watched. She turned, and was surprised to find it was not Mary or Genevieve, but someone she had met only once, Diane de Poitiers, the King’s mistress. Margaret had heard a great deal about her- she was intelligent and politically astute, comfortable in knowing she had the King’s favor, carefully balanced herself between the court factions locked in ongoing power struggles.
The first time they had met, Margaret had been shy and embarrassed, not sure what to say to a woman whose fortune and security was based on her seduction of a sixteen-year-old King so many years before, a King who was now married to another. It did not occur to Margaret now how correct the woman had been that she would quickly grow used to the ways of the court, for she didn’t really feel any trace of her previous embarrassment. She rose quickly from her seat.
“Madame-“
She waved a hand easily. “Do not rise, there is no need. I was merely looking for Queen Mary, she is not in her apartments.”
“I’m sorry Madame, I don’t know. She had no duties this afternoon, she may be anywhere.”
“Ah well, it matters not. Would you be so kind as to tell her I was hoping to speak to her?”
“Of course,” she replied, she had gathered that Mary and the King’s mistress were friends, perhaps united by Queen Catherine’s hatred of them.
“Thank you. And are you adjusting well to the court?”
It surprised Margaret that the woman remembered her, and it must have showed on her face, for the woman chuckled softly.
“You remind me of my daughter, and your name is not entirely unheard of among the court. Are you all right?”
Margaret realized her mouth was open somewhat unattractively… had rumors really gone so far as to have reached the King’s mistress? She quickly regained her composure.
“Yes Madame, thank you, I am fine. It’s merely…nothing, it’s complicated. I shall tell her Majesty as soon as I see her that you wished to speak to her.”
Madame de Poitiers gave her a sympathetic look. “It’s not that complicated, my dear. On a besoin d'amour... n'importe où on le trouve.” “I don’t know William, I don’t think it’s wise…”
“It’s not fair if I can’t Meg, you get to go places all the time! You get to go where ever you like and I don’t!”
“Well, when you’re nearly eighteen you can too, but you’re eight and I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“That’s not fair! Louis is…”
“I don’t care what Louis is doing! I don’t know this man and I don’t want you going off with him,” she snapped, her voice rising despite herself.
A soldier who he had apparently latched onto had offered to take him, along with young Louis D’Anjou, to a tournament being held on a field on the outskirts of Paris, which was meant to include archery and jousting as well as swordplay. Such things were often held at the palace in the course of celebrations, but there had been no celebrations since they had arrived, and William was desperate to see “real knights” in action. While the whole thing sounded harmless enough, she did not like the idea of sending him off for the day with a stranger, especially considering that a month ago there had been at least one attempt on his life. But since she had told him there was no danger, her refusal seemed unreasonable from his point if view.
“Meg, please? I promise I’ll be ever so good, I really will, and-“ he broke off, his eyes focusing beyond her shoulder. “Good afternoon, your Grace.”
She rose and turned quickly in a swirl of skirts to find the “your Grace” he was referring to was indeed the Cardinal of Lorraine, as she had expected. It seemed a very long time since she had seen him, and though she had tried very hard to convince herself that she had not noticed, she had actually been quite aware of every day, and had wondered more than once why he did not come…to see Mary, of course.
“Lord Atholl, Lady Margaret,” he nodded to both of them. “What’s all this? I could hear you both from the hallway.”
She opened her mouth the reply “nothing” but William spoke before her.
“Captain Bernard wants to take Louis and I to the tournament in Le Bourget, and she won’t let me go.”
“William! Be silent!” she stopped him, horrified. “His Grace does not have time for such things.”
He did not look the least bit put out by the trivial matter. “Phillipe Bernard?” he asked, and William, glancing at her and assessing the danger of retribution, nodded quickly. “Well, he is a reliable man, and a fine soldier. Though it will be mostly lower members of the nobility participating, you will nonetheless see some decent fighting. Surely there would be no harm in it.”
William turned his most appealing face to her, and she sighed audibly. She could almost never say no to him when he turned that look on her. “Oh all right fine. You may go. But I want to speak to this Captain Bernard first.”
“Oh thank you Margaret! Thank you!” He threw his arms around her waist, and she placed a hand on his silky hair for a moment before disentangling herself gently. “May I go tell Louis?”
“Yes, go, before I change my mind.”
He took that seriously and literally bolted from the room. She was left facing Charles de Guise, and feeling more than a little annoyed with him. He was apparently clever enough to realize this, or had been faced with enough angry women that he recognized the signs.
“If it is his safety you are concerned for,” he began pre-emptively, “I was being sincere in saying that Bernard is reliable. It is not as thought they will ride out bearing the Atholl arms. He will pass unnoticed among many other boys there to see the fighting. There is a fine line between protecting him and smothering him.”
Smothering him? Was he not the same one who had been stressing for so many months that William was in need of protection?
“You have no-“ she stopped herself just in time. She had been about to say that he had no right to undermine her authority where William was concerned, but then she realized he did. He had the right to undermine her in whatever he wished, by virtue of being male, by virtue of being more than ten years her senior, and by virtue of his position. “I wish you had not done that,” she said through clenched teeth, but choosing her words more carefully. “He will think there is no need to obey me.”
He shook his head gently. “Marguerite, do you not see how he adores you? You will always have influence with him. He is fond of fighting, and that will serve him well, and is to be encouraged. Were it that our future king showed more of an interest in such things.”
“This isn’t about Francois.”
He crossed his arms. “No, and I don’t really think it’s about William either. So what’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I suggested there was no harm in letting the boy go to a tournament. That’s hardly a mortal sin and you seem very angry about it. So what is it?”
“Did you order the arrest of Protestants?”
For the first time, she actually had the satisfaction of seeing him surprised.
“I don’t give orders to the military, you should know that.”
“Did you tell the King to?”
“I don’t tell the King to do anything, that is one of the benefits of being the King.”
“Monarchs direct their armies, and the Church advises the monarch. You told me that. So did you advise the King to arrest Protestants?”
His darkening expression should have warned her that she had overstepped, but it was too late to go back.
“As a representative of the Church, my advice to the King is always that he arrest heretics, not just Protestants, for the good of their own souls and for the good of the state. To answer your accusation, which is entirely inappropriate by the way, I had no part in these most recent arrests. Which is not to say I don’t agree with them.”
“How do you know if someone is really a heretic?” she demanded.
“The fact that they attend Protestant services is usually a pretty simple method of identifying them,” he snapped back sarcastically.
“How do you ever know what someone really believes?”
“Hell Marguerite, I don’t. But someone has to keep order. Someone has to give people a standard by which to live. The Church does that, and if we don’t protect the true Church then what is to stop the proliferation of self-proclaimed churches?”
“It’s about power?”
“It’s about order.” He rubbed his forehead and looked rather tired, but glad that her anger seemed to have passed. “Has this been distressing you?” he did not seem to be laughing at her, but genuinely concerned.
“I-“ she started to speak, but was stopped by the door of Mary’s sitting room opening, and the clear voice of the Queen.
“Uncle! We’ve been down at the stables where they keep the birds. The King has given Francois a new falcon they’re training. What are you doing here?”
“A letter from your mother, my dear,” he said, with one last lingering glance to Margaret as he turned to his niece. The next day she had a note from Genevieve to meet her in the gardens when she could get away, and she arrived to find not only Genevieve, but Christian and a young woman who she thought was among the ladies who took care of the infant Princess Margot. Genevieve introduced her as Annabelle de Levesque, and then announced that they had an adventure planned.
“We are going to have our horoscopes told! But we have to go late at night, for the lady only does it when the moon is high. Can you get away when the Queen is asleep?”
“Of course, but…what?”
“The schoolmaster, Montelucio, his wife casts horoscopes and has visions! They’re gypsies, you know.”
“That’s ridiculous, Montelucio is from Padua, he’s no gypsy.”
“Well, his wife is then. But lots of the ladies have been going to her, she can tell the future! Like if they’ll be married, and how many children they’ll have!”
“Do you really think that while they’re arresting heretics is the best time to be having trade with fortune tellers and soothsayers?” she asked, but Genevieve gave her an annoyed look that she knew meant she was being no fun.
“That’s no matter, it’s not wicked, even Master Nostradamus casts horoscopes, and he serves the Queen.”
“Then have Master Nostradamus do yours, but why do we have to sneak out in the middle of the night to some strange woman?”
“Because it’s an adventure!”
“There’s no harm in it Margaret, it’s just a court fad,” Christian said, taking up his role as the voice of logic. He was right of course, but she still didn’t like the sound of the idea.
“Don’t you want to know your future?”
“Sometimes I think it’s better not to know.” In the end, she gave in, and so found herself slipping out of the Queen’s apartments past a snoring Janet Sinclair that night. While the Royal apartments were never unguarded, the guards outside Mary’s apartments knew her well and pretended not to notice when she slipped out, probably imagining she was heading for some sort of tryst. The hallways were darkened, lamps extinguished and with only candles left burning in the spaced alcoves, which gave barely enough weak light to keep one from running into the walls. She knew the palace well enough now to move silently, and she was too meet Genevieve and Christian in the courtyard, dressed in a dark cloak that was becoming rather useful with all the sneaking out she did lately.
She was passing the hall that led to the other wing of the palace where the King and Queen Catherine had apartments, when she collided suddenly and unexpectedly in the darkwithsomeonewho opened a door.
All her breath was knocked out of her and she stumbled forward, only to have the dark figure catch her around the waist, which certainly kept her from falling, but also left her trapped in a dark hallway by a man she could not see. Before she could get her breath back enough to scream, a hand clamped over her mouth. She tried to struggle, her mind racing wildly and wondering where the nearest guard was, when a familiar voice spoke close to her ear, low and dark.
“Marguerite, it’s me. I’m going to take my hand away now. Don’t scream.”
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Post by Shades on Mar 23, 2006 11:58:06 GMT -5
Chapter 12
“Marguerite, it’s me. I’m going to take my hand away now. Don’t scream.”
Slowly, he released the hand over her mouth, and she didn’t scream, just took a deep breath to steady herself. He still had her imprisoned with a strong arm around her waist, and the one he’d had over her mouth fell to her shoulder. She was still, trying to catch her breath after the scare he had given her, but she was also incredibly aware of how close he was.
“Your Grace? Could you…let me go?”
“Of course.” He did, and she turned to face him in the semi-darkness, the only light in that part of the hallway coming from the door he had just emerged from. “Whatever are you doing wandering the halls in the middle of the night?”
“I might ask you the same thing.”
“Madame Mallejac summoned me. Apparently in the midst of a sort of crisis of faith.”
Margaret raised an eyebrow. Madame Mallejac was a noblewoman in her thirties whose husband spent most of his time away from Paris on business. She seemed to have no objections to this arrangement, so long as he pretended not to notice that when he was gone she entertained the attentions of whatever men at the Court took her fancy. It seemed unlikely, considering the long list of married and unmarried men she entertained, that she was particularly worried about the state of her soul. He read her skeptical expression with some amusement.
“You doubt me?”
“How you choose to do the Lord’s work is surely no concern of mine, your Grace,” she said demurely.
He chuckled. “Well said. But you have not answered my question Marguerite. What are you doing wandering the halls at night?”
“I was…going for a walk. I couldn’t sleep.” She wondered vaguely if that excuse sounded as ridiculous to him as it did to her. Judging by his expression, it did.
“Really? Do you really want to go with that excuse Marguerite, and more to the point, do you expect me to? You’re meeting someone? A man? Hm?”
“No! No, I’m not, I’m…”
“It’s all right, I should be surprised if you did not. I shall say nothing.”
“But I’m not!”
“Are you going to stand here and argue? No doubt someone is waiting for you.”
“But-“ She started to protest again, but he placed his fingertips over her mouth, and she was surprised into silence.
“Now enough, you need to go. If someone were to come along, do you how people would talk? Go on, I’ll forget I saw you, I suggest you do the same.”
She nodded, knowing he was right. The idea that she might be meeting some young man was so commonplace as to be hardly worth mentioning, but a servant coming across one of Queen Mary’s ladies with her Uncle in a dark corridor would certainly spread through the palace like wildfire.
He gave her a slight bow and then turned away with a little whirl of his cloak, and she went the opposite way out into the courtyard, where they were still waiting for her in a shadowy alcove.
“We thought you wouldn’t come…Oh Margaret, you look like you’ve seen a ghost! What’s wrong?”
“I…nothing. It’s nothing. Let’s go.” It was not only Genevieve and Christian who made up the little party, but also Annabelle de Levesque, her sister Jacqueline, and a young man named Ambroise, who seemed at a loss as to which one of them he was more in love with.
They found their way to a small, tidy, two story house on the outskirts of the fashionable part of Paris. It looked like the home of a schoolmaster, and not the sort of place where the mysteries of the occult might be revealed, but Genevieve was caught up in the excitement and clutched at her arm with a little squeal.
The ground-floor room they entered from a back door was darkened, lit only by flickering candles and, and though very small, it was given the appearance of being infinite by the mirrors on all the walls. Incense burned somewhere, stinging her eyes. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw tables along the walls lined with strange objects- scales and little vials of powder, a handful of smooth, flat stones with strange symbols carved on them, an astrolabe, discarded sheets of paper covered with strange symbols and columns of numbers, and what looked alarmingly like-
“Is that a human skull?” whispered Genevieve.
“I think it might be,” Margaret admitted.
Madame Montelucio did not look particularly magical, she looked just like a schoolmaster’s wife, although dressed in all black, until she looked up at them and Margaret involuntarily backed into Genevieve with a little gasp. She had two different colored eyes, one blue and one brown, and the effect was startling.
“Come forward, then,” she said, her voice normal if slightly accented. Margaret hung back hoping one of the others would be braver, but the woman was looking at her directly and Genevieve gave her a push. She stepped forward and took the seat across a linen covered table from the woman.
“The date of your birth?” she asked.
“Oh, er…twenty-fifth October, 1538.”
“And the hour?”
“Oh, I don’t know exactly. It was just before dawn.”
The woman nodded and she assumed that was enough. She was drawing lines through a piece of paper on which were written lines and columns of numbers. Margaret watched with a mixture of interest and skepticism. In Scotland she had heard of women who lived in the remote parts of the country, the servants at Blair Castle went to them sometimes, who claimed to be descended from the fairies and druids and claimed to have the sight. Mostly they dispensed remedies and sold love potions and other potions that were only spoken of in whispers, but they also told the future. She didn’t really believe in fortune-telling and prophecy, and she guessed women like this who were fashionable as magicians among the court were only after making an extra bit of money, and who could blame them, she guessed a schoolmaster did not make a very good salary. No doubt Madame Montelucio could look at people and tell them what they wanted to hear, and the young people of the court who would come to her wanted the same things. Power, status, comfort, and if they were young and romantic, love. It would not take a clear view of the future to tell Genevieve that she would marry a handsome and wealthy young man who adored her, and have beautiful children and continue in the decadent social life of the court, for that was exactly what she wanted from life. Margaret wasn’t really sure what she wanted from life, and so she doubted this woman would be able to tell her.
“Your hand?” the woman requested, and Margaret held it out somewhat reluctantly, and the dark head bent over her palm.
“Two marriages…” the woman said audibly but faintly. “Yes, there will be two marriages. One for duty, and one for love.”
Genevieve had forgotten her nervousness and was practically leaning over her shoulder now.
“Children…” the woman went on. “Perhaps, perhaps not…it is too obscure to say, but it would not be for many, many years. Though there will soon be….” She trailed off and stopped, looked up suddenly at Margaret with a surprised look her strange eyes. Then she quickly dropped her gaze and went on as though she had not paused. “There is one already who you feel you must protect as your own.”
She felt a chill despite herself, she had said nothing about William. Perhaps the woman had been about the palace, had seen them together.
“There are many powerful people around you…” she continued, and Margaret barely kept back a smirk. She was daily in the presence of a Queen, it didn’t take any second sight to figure that out. “But there is one who controls you more than you realize.”
“What?” she was shocked into responding.
“You know of it, you allow him to, but you don’t know how far it will go,” she went on, not stopping when Margaret interrupted.
“You don’t…” she tried to pull her hand back but the woman held on it.
“You must stop it…now, before it starts. There will be danger if you do everything he asks of you. Secrets do not stay…”
Margaret felt nothing but a rising panic. There were too many people there and she was afraid the woman was getting too close to saying something that she had not yet even admitted to herself. Genevieve was standing behind her and Margaret could feel her holding her breath, wondering what the woman would say next.
“Oh,” the woman said softly. “You-“
Margaret pulled her arm back and jumped up so quickly she would have knocked the chair over had she not run into Genevieve.
“I have to go…the incense, it’s making me faint. Some air…” she gasped out, pulling her arm away from Genevieve’s helpful hold on her arm and hurrying outside. The night was cool and she took several deep breaths to steady herself. She had no idea what the woman had been going to say, but she had been too close. She reminded herself again that she didn’t believe in fortune-telling. The woman had been trying to give them some drama, she thought that was what they wanted, but she had come too close to saying something she was afraid to hear. She woke up the next morning feeling tired and with a terrible headache, feeling as though she’d had too much wine. They had arrived back at the palace without her absence being noticed, and the others had been too interested in their own futures to worry about her sudden exit, apparently believing her excuse about the incense making her faint, except for Genevieve, who only looked at her curiously but said nothing.
By the time she had dragged herself out of her bed and dressed, she came out to find Mary in an unbearable temper, raging at a young maid who was staring determinedly at the ground with a trembling chin.
“It’s too hot in here anyway, why are you building the fire up so? Haven’t you even got the sense to-“
“Your Majesty,” she broke in gently, knowing she didn’t want to put herself in the line of fire, but here was no one else in the room and she suspected Mary’s anger was about more than the room being too warm and there was no reason the young maid should suffer for it. “We’ll open a window if the room is too hot.”
“We can’t, because it’s raining!” she snapped, gesturing toward the window where there was a light rain falling through a heavy mist. “And it’s too warm in here and the fire, and-“ She threw herself down on a small chaise with a scowl. “I’m so hot.”
Margaret looked at the young maid, still looking between them with a look of indecision.
“Go on, the fire doesn’t need any attention.” Margaret said firmly, and the girl took her chance and hurried out.
“Where is everyone?” she asked Mary, as soon as the girl was gone. She got only a sulky shrug in response.
“Gardens, I think. I sent them out. They were bothering me. Fleming is angry with me.”
“Imagine that,” Margaret muttered under her breath, going over to the fireplace and trying to force down the fire, although she did not think it too hot in the room at all. Mary and her girls went though the same fights and moods as any young girls, but they were prevented saying anything because she was their Queen, so instead had perfected a kind of chilling respect when they were upset with her. It annoyed Mary even more than their outright anger would have.
“Seton said that Princess Claude said that her Maman said that I would not marry Francois,” Mary mumbled, staring into the too-large fire. Margaret paused in trying to force it down and laid down the poker carefully.
“It was decided many years ago that you would, your Majesty. It was the reason you came here. I am sure the wedding will take place when you are old enough. Princess Claude does not know these things.”
“She always knows things. She is Queen Catherine’s favorite.”
Margaret knew as well as anyone else that the young Henri was the Queen’s favorite of her children, but that seemed unlikely to draw the Queen out of her sulking. On the one hand Margaret understood her frustration, nobody had more to lose than Mary of the wedding to the future king of France did not take place. On the other hand, such rumors were not uncommon and there was rarely any truth in them, she could not understand why the Queen had suddenly decided to pay attention and care about what was being whispered among the households of the little princesses.
“I’m hot,” she sighed again, irritably, and Margaret reflected privately she was starting to see how the others might have reached the limits of their patience with this. But then a glance at the Queen made her wonder if she did not look unusually flushed. She went over to where Mary was lying listlessly, and not at all royally, on the chaise and laid her hand on the girl’s cheek, and then her forehead, while Mary did not so much as blink in reaction. Her skin under Margaret’s hand was burning.
“Your Majesty, I think you’re feverish, it’s no wonder you’re hot. Do you feel unwell?”
“I feel tired, and hot,” she murmured, closing her eyes briefly.
“To bed with you, now. You should have said something. I’m going to send for the doctor.”
It was a mark of how sick she must have felt that she didn’t even protest. Mary worsened quickly, so that by the time the palace physician had arrived her fever had gone higher and she was nearly delirious, opening her eyes only rarely and looking at them all as though she did not remember who or where she was, and muttering in a combination of Scots and French that she was too hot. Seton and Fleming were beside themselves with guilt, certain that it had been their gossip and fight with their mistress that had brought on her illness, and would not be convinced otherwise.
“We killed her! We killed cousin Marie…” Fleming cried, when they had been sent from the Queen’s bedroom and were in the sitting room, Seton pacing nervously and Fleming wringing her hands. There was nothing they could do but wait, feeling particularly helpless.
It felt like they sat in relative silence for hours, picking up a bit of sewing or a book and then discarding it immediately, unable to summon the concentration. The physician came and went without saying anything to them, and they were startled nearly to death when both of Mary’s uncles burst into the room rather suddenly.
“Her Majesty is ill?” Francis de Guise shot at her, and she was hard pressed to not draw back, she didn’t like the man and he frightened her a little.
“Yes Sir. She was taken with a fever this morning.” Both of them in the room at once seemed a bit overwhelming just due to their sheer force of personality, but they both brushed past her without another word into Mary’s room. It was a few moments before the Cardinal of Lorraine emerged, looking slightly worried, but he quickly gave Seton and Fleming a charming smile. “Lady Mary, and Lady Mary,” a small bow to each of them, and they blushed prettily. “Would you be so kind to go down to the kitchens and have them find some ice? We may as well make Marie as comfortable as we can until her fever breaks.”
They seemed glad of something to do, but also left Margaret alone with him, and given some of her recent realizations, that was the last thing she wanted.
“Why did we hear about this in a note from the royal physician?” he asked, holding up a small piece of paper that she assumed was the note in question. “You should have sent for me immediately.”
“I felt perhaps it would be best to send for the physician first,” she returned as calmly as possible.
“When there is something wrong with Marie, you should contact me immediately, and you should know that.”
“With all due respect Sir, I don’t serve you, I serve the Queen.”
He stared at her for a moment, and she knew she had gone too far. He grabbed her by the arm and drew her away from the sitting room and into the next room, which was the room Beaton and Fleming slept in.
“When you serve Queen Mary, you also serve me Marguerite, it is the same thing, and I would strongly suggest you reconsider the way you’re speaking to me.”
She said nothing, instead just stared very hard at the rain splattering against the window.
“There is nothing you could have done for her even if I had sent for you sooner,” she finally said, thinking it better to only respond to the more immediate cause of his anger, even if she thought there was probably more behind it.
“No, but I need to know, everything that happens to her. I do not like her to be alone when she is ill. I am worried, as you are.”
“Is it very bad?”
He shrugged. “Who can know? Her fever is high, but she has always been strong. It is not as worrying as if it were Francois. It is to be hoped it will pass quickly. Next time, send for me immediately.”
“She was worried about Francois,” she said quickly, wondering if it was even worth mentioning. He had turned to leave, and now he turned back to her so suddenly she stepped back, and in the small room almost tripped over a low stool. He grabbed her arm to steady her.
“What?”
“Her Majesty, she was in a mood and complaining there was gossip from Claude’s household that the wedding to Francois would never happen. It was said Claude got the idea from Queen Catherine. I told her it was nonsense, but...she was worried over it.”
She recognized the darkening of her expression, but knew it wasn’t directed at her now. “Damn Catherine de Medici,” he muttered, his hand tightening on her arm perhaps unconsciously. He stared past her shoulder out the window for a moment, and then looked back down at her. “As always you are full of information. Marie does not often confide in people. Thank you.”
“How am I to know the difference, your Grace?”
He gave her a confused look.
“You tell me to speak freely because I hear things, because people confide in me, and then you scold me like a child and tell me I should reconsider how I speak to you. How am I to know in a given moment which it is?”
He stared at her, and she was terrified for a moment that she had finally gone too far, pushed him beyond what he would allow. She had been too bold to ask that, he was not a man who would accept a mere seventeen-year-old girl to be openly rude, and somehow she had been drawn into the feeling that she might speak to him comfortably. She braced herself for something, some terrible reaction, but he only continued to stare at her as though he had never seen her before. She began to feel light-headed, as though all the air was being sucked out of the tiny room as the silence stretched on, feeling an eternity although it was probably only a few seconds.
“Marguerite, breathe,” he said softly, and she realized she was holding her breath. He smiled slightly and she relaxed a little, since it did not seem she was about to be slapped for her impertinence, or summarily sent back to Scotland, for that matter. His hand still around her upper arm, he turned so that she was backed into a chest of drawers. It was in that moment she realized what was going to happen. Perhaps she could have said something, she could have turned away, but in that moment she didn’t react, she didn’t really want to. “You may always speak freely to me,” he said quietly, just before he kissed her.
It was not her first kiss, but it was impossible to remember what it could have been like before. She was only aware of the shock, and the overwhelming physical sense of losing control, and then too quickly he drew back from her as the voices of Fleming and Seton could be heard from the sitting room. With one more look at her, but without saying another word, he walked out.
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Post by Shades on Mar 23, 2006 11:58:59 GMT -5
This chapter is long…or maybe it just seemed long when I was writing it. Anyway, no, they are not going to end up together, the vows, although he does not take them too seriously, will get in the way of any happily ever after. Actually, when I began the story I did not intend Charles de Guise to be a main character, he just kind of took over. Go figure. I love all the Machiavellian machinations surrounding him.
Chapter 13
Her Royal Majesty the Queen of Scotland was not happy.
While this was not good for anyone, it was particularly bad for Margaret, who had been elected to sit with Mary for the afternoon. Mary's fever had passed, and she was well out of danger but not yet well enough to be up. While she would have been more than willing to disregard the orders of the palace doctors on the matter, she would not disobey her Uncle, and the Duke of Guise had ordered her not to move from bed. The situation was made rather worse by the fact that Francois and the Princesses had been taken ill shortly after her, and not as strong, were taking longer to recover. It meant that Mary was uncomfortable, worried, and bored all at the same time, and Margaret was closed in a room with her.
Summer had faded into fall, but even as September wore on Paris still baked under a strange late heat wave that showed no sign of letting up. There was no relief from the heavy, humid weather anywhere and everyone in the palace, and indeed all of Paris, was miserable.
It didn't help that Margaret was more than a bit distracted by her own thoughts. Thoughts that she certainly was not about to share with the Queen.
While essentially a healthy child, Mary was still the only heir to a throne that would pass to the Queen of England should she meet an untimely death, and while her illness had been brief, there had been a few tense days, which Margaret remembered as long hours with no difference between day and night, never leaving Mary's apartments, and with Fleming's nearly constant crying. There hadn't been a single free moment for her to actually think about anything, and perhaps that had been a blessing. By the time she actually had a moment to herself without worry abut Mary overshadowing her thoughts, she felt sufficiently removed from that afternoon to consider everything rationally.
At least as much as one could rationally think about a kiss from a powerful man who held her fate, and William’s, in his hands. A man with a reputation for seducing women despite his vows, and a man with a history of leaving those women without a second thought. She did not think of herself as particularly naïve despite her sheltered childhood, she had learned a great deal since she had come to France and rarely did what she learned shock her anymore, but she truly had not seen that coming.
What did he mean by it? Had it been a momentary whim, forgotten as soon as he left the room? She had seen him since then of course, but always with Mary or the girls present. He had given no indication that anything between them had changed, treating her with the same polite, friendly detachment that he had always used in the presence of others, the same manner he used with Mary’s girls. Perhaps, in his view, nothing had changed. Perhaps such things were so commonplace to him that he’d not really given it another thought. She took her cues from him, and so she had behaved the same as she always had.
Still, while a part of her wished she could erase the whole thing from her mind and go on normally, another part of her kept going back to the memory with a little thrill. It had been so brief, so light, and yet, she blushed as she realized it, there was something to be said for experience and skill.
“Margaret, are you listening to me?” Mary suddenly broke into her thoughts, and she realized she had not been listening to the Queen at all. She rubbed her forehead tiredly.
“I’m sorry, your Majesty, I was distracted.”
Mary shrugged, pushing aside several sheets of paper irritably and reaching for a book. “It matters not.”
“You mustn’t worry yourself, your Majesty, it’s not good for you when you’ve been ill,” she remarked, reaching to take the documents and worried by the crease in Mary’s brow.
“Our mother writes of her problems with the Earls of Argyll and Morton, and Erskine of Dun. What will people think of a Queen who cannot control her nobles?” She asked, crushing one of the sheets of paper into a ball in frustration.
“I think people will understand that Scots are not men to be easily controlled, Majesty.” She drew a small smile from Mary at that, but it quickly faded. “Your Mother is a capable woman. She will protect Scotland.”
Margaret knew that she sounded more confident than she actually felt about the future of Scotland. Mary had been a Queen since infancy, crowned at nine months, and though at twelve she was older than her years, it was always difficult for a country whose ruler was a child. The adults who held the power to influence not only the young life, but also the course of a nation through a child who ruled with divine right inevitably fought amongst themselves. Mary’s mother clung to power doggedly, relying on the threat of French troops and the influence of the Vatican to keep Scotland a Catholic nation, and yet it seemed every time a Protestant plot was revealed and squashed, another one sprang up.
She said nothing of all these thoughts to the passionate, frustrated, and scowling girl sitting up rigidly in her bed next to her, instead, she played her trump card guaranteed to get the Queen to at least try to rest.
“Of course, when your Majesty is unwell, the people of Scotland must consider what their lives would be under the rule of the English,” she said. It had not yet failed, and indeed Mary put down the book, fluffed her own pillows, and laid back.
“Naturally, we will be well soon,” she said scathingly, and Margaret knew just to nod agreeably. Mary shut her eyes determinedly, as though she could will herself to sleep and therefore to good health. A few moments later she opened them with a sigh.
“Tell us a story Margaret?” she asked, almost shyly. “No one else ever thinks to tell us stories, even when we were little. Tell us a story your parents told you.”
“Very well,” she laid aside the papers and her sewing and sat on the edge of Mary’s bed, smoothing back the auburn hair from the girl’s forehead. Often Mary, accustomed to the isolation of royalty, shied away from people touching her, but now she closed her eyes and relaxed. “Shall I tell you the story my Mother used to tell me about The Laird of Balmachie’s Wife?”
“Yes, do,” agreed Mary, without opening her eyes. “Tell us a Scottish story.”
“Yes, your Majesty. As the story goes, many hundreds of years ago, the Laird of Balmachie rode to Dundee…” Someone was shaking her gently. She opened her eyes and had a moment of confusion as to where she was. The light was fading, and she was in Mary’s room, still sitting on the edge of the Queen’s bed, and she realized she must have fallen asleep along with Mary while she’d been telling her a story. Mary’s head was resting on her shoulder and she had a strange crick in her neck from sleeping at a wrong angle, and Charles de Guise was looking down on them with amusement on his face.
“Oh, I must have…” she started to explain.
“Shh, it’s all right. Try not to wake her though,” he said softly. She gently extricated herself from Mary and followed him silently from the room, still too sleepy to realize that she ought to be nervous, as aside from the sleeping girl the Queen’s apartments were silent and empty.
“She is feeling better then?” he asked, and she appreciated this innocuous start to the conversation, although she suspected he knew exactly how Mary was feeling. It gave her a moment to wake up entirely.
“She’s bored and restless, so that means she’s feeling better,” she agreed. “She is worried by letters from the Queen-Regent,” she added, more to have something intelligent to say than anything, since he was standing with his back to the fire and looking at her pensively, not giving her much to go on.
“I wanted to speak to you about something that I would prefer Mary not know about.”
“You don’t say…” she muttered a little sarcastically.
He smiled faintly. “Yes, well, that is not exactly what I meant, but…yes, I suppose we must address that.” For the first time since she had met him, he seemed as though words did not come easily. “Marguerite, I did not…I should not have made you uncomfortable. You have been very much on my mind lately,” her heart leapt slightly at that until he qualified it. “You and William of course, and the political situation surrounding you both. You have been helpful to Marie, a great help to me. I have come to realize I can trust you with matters that are sensitive, and even dangerous. Perhaps I allowed myself to forget how young you are, and to become too familiar with you.”
She had no idea what to say. She had expected him to go on ignoring it, but she had not expected this almost-apology. And she realized, with such a shock that it made her almost sick, that an apology from him was not what she really wanted. So what did she want? He seemed to sense that question, but he didn’t press her for a response immediately.
“I assure you Marguerite, it will not happen again…”
Perhaps it was entirely in her own mind, but the unspoken “unless you want it to” seemed to hang in the air between them. She did not know what to say to him, so she glanced down at the rug and took a deep breath before she spoke.
“There was something else you wanted?” she finally said when the silence had drawn on too long. She finally looked up and found him watching her with a slight smile, but that question seemed to rouse him from some private thought.
“Yes, there was actually. You rode out to Vemars a few weeks ago with the Earl of Ross?”
It took her a moment, she could not change her mind over as quickly as he did, but then she nodded. “Yes, my Aunt was staying with the Duchesse. Not alone, naturally.”
“No, of course not, that is not what I meant. It would seem that I was correct though, that he is taking an interest in you.”
“I wouldn’t say so really. He merely thought I’d like to see my Aunt. It was very thoughtful, I had not seen her since we’d come to Paris.”
“My dear, there is no reason that the Earl of Ross should even know who your Aunt is unless he has been inquiring about you. He’s making a point of knowing who your family is, and where they are. That suggests more than a passing notice.”
“Do you think he’s interested in me because of William?”
“I wouldn’t make that jump just yet. He may have not even considered who William is. There is no mention in his letters of the Earl of Atholl or Lothian.”
“His letters? What do you…” she trailed off as she put all the pieces together. “You’ve been stealing his letters! That’s who you think is a spy! The letter you made me translate, it was his?”
“Don’t think of it as stealing, we always give them back.”
“But…how? No, I don’t want to know!”
“He is writing letters in code, there would be no reason for that unless he had something to hide.”
“Or unless he thought someone might steal and read them.”
He paused, and gave her an ironic smile. “Touché. But there have been very few times we have been able to get anything off of him. He is very clever, very careful, and as you mentioned, capable of adjusting to every situation. But clearly, he has taken an interest in you. I expect he is trying to figure out where your loyalties lie. Perhaps because you influence William, or perhaps because you are close to Marie, or perhaps simply because he thinks you may be an important…forgive me Marguerite, but an important pawn.”
It was all beginning to feel like a huge game of chess, and she had to admit his metaphor was apt. She waved off the apology.
“Is there any question where my loyalties lie?” she asked, gesturing to the fact that the closed door to Mary’s bedroom was only feet away.
“Not to me, but it is not unheard of for people to lie and pretend to get close to power. Know thine enemy is not a new idea. But while he is interested in you, you could get closer to him than Francis or I ever could. He would not be the first to underestimate you.”
She stared at him for a long moment, wondering if he had actually just asked what she thought. “Are you asking me to spy on him for you?”
He answered her simply, without any prevarication or hedging. “Yes.”
“I can’t do that!”
“Why not? I am not asking you to do anything Margaret, only to let him keep guessing about your allegiances.”
“To keep his interest, you mean.”
“If you like. We can phrase it however you like. My aim is to know what he is doing because we have reason to believe he is plotting against the Queen of Scotland. He has long been suspected of having English sympathies.”
“What could he do even if he does have English sympathies while he remains in France?”
“What could he do? Marguerite, he’s commanding the French Army. The threat of the French Army is all that keeps the English from overrunning Scotland. I would not ask you if I did not think it important.”
“Your Grace, I don’t…”
“I’m not demanding an answer now. Will you consider it?”
Finally, not willing to say yes but unable to say no, she nodded.
“Good.” He reached out and, hesitantly to see if she would pull away, brushed his fingertips along her cheekbone. She had no idea what might have happened had Mary’s high voice not called her name from the bedroom. It broke the spell of quiet in the room, and she stepped back abruptly, out of his reach. If he could make her heart race like that with just a light brush of fingertips along her cheek, she was afraid of losing herself completely in any other touch. She turned to go to Mary, but he stopped her at the doorway.
“Oh Marguerite?”
She turned back.
“It does seem rather ridiculous for you to still be addressing me as “your grace”, doesn’t it? My name is Charles.”
He turned and left then, and she would have gone on standing there indefinitely had Mary’s voice not shaken her again with “Margaret, aren’t you here?”
“Yes, your Majesty.” Charles. Up until that point she had not thought of him as anything but “the Cardinal of Lorraine”, it would not have been proper. Even Queen Mary did not address him by his Christian name, she was given to referring to him in company as “Monseigneur my Uncle”, the same address she used for Francis de Guise. In fact, the Duke of Guise was the only person who she had ever heard use his given name.
Of course she must not get into the habit of addressing him by his name, since for anyone else to hear would be terrible, and for Queen Mary to hear her address him with such familiarity…she didn’t even want to think about that. She could not help but think that the kind of thoughts she was entertaining, and frankly more often than she ought to be, were somehow disloyal to Mary, who viewed him as a guardian, a teacher, and a confidante- perhaps the closest thing to a father the girl had ever had.
“Meg, Meg, you’ll never guess, ever!” cried William, running up to where she was sitting with Genevieve and Seton. It was still unseasonably warm for fall, but Genevieve assured her soon it would be all rain and cold wind and snow and they ought to enjoy the outdoors while it was still pleasant. She was rather looking forward to the winter, the crushing heat of a Paris summer had been strange for her, while cold and wind and rain were nothing new to someone who had grown up in Scotland.
“Never guess what?” she asked, looking up and thinking that he had gotten taller. He was nearly nine, she realized with a shock, his birthday not long after hers in November, and he was already taller than Louis D’Anjou, who was a year older. It wasn’t surprising, she supposed, their father had been quite tall and William looked more like him the older he got. While she was considering this, he was shifting impatiently from one foot to the other.
“Never guess what Master Montelucio told us today!”
“You’re right, I probably won’t guess, so say you just tell me.”
He rolled his eyes briefly to indicate she was taking all the fun out of his game, but became animated again.
“Louis’s father thought that he really ought to be having military training, b’cause his brother’s the Duc, b’cuase he’s older, you know? So Louis will have be a soldier because he hasn’t any chateaus or anything. That doesn’t seem very fair,” he added thoughtfully, but before she could contribute anything on the intrinsic fairness or unfairness of the laws of primogeniture, he had moved on. “Anyway, Louis is to have military training on Monday and Wednesday and Friday afternoons, instead of Greek and arithmetic and all that, and so am I! With Francois!” He had said all this without taking a breath, and so now was forced to stop and do so. “I’m so glad, I wonder if we’ll do jousting!” He was now jumping around, fighting an imaginary opponent.
“Yes, I imagine you will,” she remarked, considerably less enthused by the prospect than he was. She knew that as Earl of Atholl he would probably have to fight for Scotland, there had never been a time during her life when there had been peace with England, it was always border skirmishes or outright war. It was unheard of that a boy born into the nobility would not learn how to fight, and she knew it would be not only foolish, but dangerous to try to prevent him from it. In truth, she ought to be glad that he would be trained with the Dauphin, as every precaution would be taken to protect Francois, there could be no safer way to learn. She just wished it could be put off longer, but in only seven years or so he would be considered old enough to be a soldier, and while she might rather have him at University, or better yet tucked away in a monastery, she knew that that wasn’t what he wanted. He would be a soldier, and probably a very good one. “Well, mind you don’t completely give up the Greek and arithmetic, a bheil thu a’thuigsinn?”
“Tha, tha mi gad thuigsinn…” he replied, not really listening to her or paying any attention, too occupied with an imaginary swordfight. So occupied, in fact, that he ran full tilt into someone coming across the grass toward them. Margaret desperately wanted to run away when she saw it was Charles de Guise. She hoped she did not blush too terribly, or if she did she could blame it on the heat. Unfortunately, though warm for September, it was not quite that hot.
“Oh, I’m very sorry Sir!” William gasped, stepping back. “You see, I was showing the ladies about sword fighting,” he explained importantly, sounding so pleased with himself that she nearly laughed.
“Of course,” agreed Charles, without a trace of amusement, as though this is the most natural thing in the world. “You know, Lord Atholl, you must make the acquaintance of my brother Francis. He also happens to be the Grand Prior in France of the Order of the Knights Hospitaller of St. John.”
“A real knight?” breathed William.
“Indeed, a knight of the Eight-Pointed Cross. Of course, he is at present in Malta.”
“Naturally,” agreed William, as thought this was obvious to him.
“Naturally, but when he returns I am certain he will call at the palace.” William looked dazzled by the prospect as Charles turned to them. “Lady Mary, your Mistress requires your assistance, something involving a russet gown, I did not inquire further. But more importantly, I was wondering if you had anything you wished to deliver to Scotland. My messenger rides tonight for Calais and then on to Edinburgh with correspondence for the Queen-Regent. There would be no difficulty to deliver anything you might need sent as well.”
“Oh yes, your Grace, I have letters for my mother and for my brother,” Seton said immediately. “I will walk back you and get them. No, do not get up Margaret, if you have something to send I will get it.”
“Thank you; there are two letters in the wooden box by my bed to go to Lothian.”
“Who’re you writing to?” demanded William suspiciously.
“To Colum, silly. And to Peter.”
Colum MacDonald was the caretaker of the Blair estates, just as his father had been before him, and his grandfather, and going back more generations than anyone bothered to count. Margaret did not doubt for a second his loyalty or competency but she still liked to be in touch with him as often as the distance allowed. Technically, William was responsible for all the land and tenants that fell under their control, and so it was only sensible to know everything that was going on. Peter Morrison was the magistrate in the nearest town, who dispensed legal advice and sometimes judgments when local Lairds could not settle disputes.
“And who are Colum and Peter?” asked Charles, with a trace of annoyance in his voice.
“Colum is the caretaker of William’s estate and Blair Castle. Sir Peter Morrison is the local magistrate.”
“I see. Well, my messenger will see to it that they are delivered.”
“Thank you, your Grace.”
He started back toward the palace with Seton at his side, asking him if he had heard any news of her family. Genevieve was looking after the two of them with a curious look, and as they disappeared into one of the walled courtyards, she turned to Margaret.
“He sounded almost…jealous?”
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Post by Shades on Mar 23, 2006 11:59:43 GMT -5
I throw a lot at you in this chapter and I know that. These are all plot points that will come together (I hope, if it actually works on paper as it does in my head). As for our heroine, her indecision is starting to annoy me, so he’s going to throw down an ultimatum.
Chapter 14
“No! No, get it away from me!” Margaret put several steps between herself and Christian. Or more specifically, the snake Christian was holding. They were not far outside of Paris, the shapes of its tallest churches and soaring palaces could still be seen in the distance on a clear day. Le Raincy was a royal estate, land cared for by a tenant, but owned by the King, to use at his pleasure and convenience. Covered by a dense forest and lush green hills, the land had been appropriated by King Francis because of the excellent hunting it provided. Royal hunting parties, often including the King himself, came to hunt the foxes, deer, and boar that roamed the woods, or brought out their hawks and falcons to hunt rabbits and smaller birds.
It also played home to the Royal menagerie, which included not only the snake Christian was trying for force her to hold, but any number of exotic beasts- a tiger from the far East, a lion from the farthest reaches of Africa, monkeys and strange colorful birds, Francois’s favorite trained bear, and even an elephant. The menagerie had once been housed in Paris, but the rumor was the one of the great cats had escaped and eaten a little girl. Margaret suspected this was nothing more than a rumor, since no one could say exactly how or when it had happened, or who they had heard it from, but the animals had been moved away from the city, and it was Annabelle de Levesque who had invited them to go and see it, for her cousin was the Master of the Horse at the royal estate.
She had been going about a great deal with Christian and Genevieve, and more often with Annabelle and Jacqueline. They were pretty and entertaining and undemanding. They seemed to know a good many attractive young men. Students at the University if Paris mostly, who never seemed to do much studying, but always had time to escort pretty and wealthy young ladies of the court to whatever entertainment might amuse them. They spent their days at leisure, it seemed, and their evenings gambling and drinking and pretentiously discussing philosophy and politics. In the hours she was not with Mary, Margaret spent with these new acquaintances. They were, at the very least, safe, and they provided her with entertainment and with distraction. She did not, at the moment, care to analyze what it was she wanted to be distracted from.
“Christian, don’t tease!” Genevieve scolded, putting a protective arm around her shoulders. “Margaret doesn’t like snakes, and nor do I, something for the way they move. Stop being such a little boy and put it back in the cage!”
He did rather reluctantly, reminding her forcefully of William, and making her reflect that sometimes there did not seem much difference between men and little boys. Her little brother would be terribly put out when he realized she’d been to see the menagerie and he’d been left behind, but he was so busy with new lessons he wouldn’t have noticed her gone.
It wasn’t late in the day, but Margaret and Genevieve knew they could never be too long away from the palace, and so they started back before the rest of them, with Christian and a young man named Pierre Valais escorting them. Pierre was a harmless young University student who was very taken with her, and while she found him funny, she did hope his fascination would pass as quickly as it had come on, because he was following her like a lost puppy. Even Genevieve and Christian agreed he was becoming tiresome.
They were about halfway on the road back to Paris, and riding through a particularly lovely and well-kept estate when two dogs came barreling out of the trees at the side of the road. Though not particularly large, they were barking wildly and getting under their hooves with enthusiasm, spooking all the horses. Cailleach shied away against her hand, and Genevieve’s horse Boutondor reared up and nearly threw her. Margaret struggled to control her huge horse while the dogs nipped at their heels, probably in a manner they meant to be playful, but Cailleach snorted and danced in a circle. Finally two figures emerged from the trees the dogs had come from.
“Call off your dogs!” Christian called to them, and the taller of the two took only a moment to take in the situation before reacting.
“Angus! Cailean! Heel! Down, heel!”
One of dogs went to him obediently, the other was too excited by Boutondor’s obvious distress. He jumped up and nipped the horse’s foreleg, and Boutondor kicked him off with a squeal, in the process rearing up and throwing Genevieve. Margaret heard Christian yell, and the two men on foot dodged forward even under the feet of the nervous horses. A hard smack and “Cailean, down!” and the second dog slunk away, and they all breathed a sigh of relief as Genevieve sat up, rubbing her head, but seemingly all right, if shaken.
“I’ll go after the horse,” Pierre said, turning to go after Boutondor, who had bolted. Christian dismounted and dropped to his knees next to her.
“I’m all right, I’m all right…” Genevieve said dazedly. “Just a little jarred.”
Christian turned a furious look to the men with the dogs, though Margaret saw only one was a man, tall and athletic with dark brown hair, and the other a boy of thirteen or fourteen, tall and lanky, who looked like his brother.
“Mademoiselle, are you injured?” He inquired solicitously, leaning down as well.
“No…no, I think I’m all right” she said again.
“My deepest apologies Mademoiselle, I would not have lets the dogs run off if I had known there was a road here. I do not know this countryside well. Can you stand?”
With both of their assistance she stood, covered in dust from the road and with a tear in her dress, but otherwise intact.
“The house is not far from here, perhaps you should sit for a spell?” he suggested.
Christian looked doubtful, but Margaret pointed out the obvious.
“We cannot ride on until Pierre comes back with Boutondor, and after that fall she should not sit out in the sun.” Genevieve still looked rather pale and dazed.
Christian finally agreed reluctantly, and Genevieve swung up on his horse for the ride to the house, leaving the younger boy to wait for Pierre. It was really only about five hundred feet away through the trees, a large country manor house.
A heavyset woman in the rough shapeless dress of a common country woman came out of the house as they approached, looking rather taken aback by them all.
“The young lady-“ their host gestured to Genevieve, “took a spill from her horse.”
“Oh dear, oh dear, poor thing!” cried the woman, although her French did not seem very good, she had a kind face. “Come with me dear, we’ll get you cleaned right up, or poor thing, you look in shock. You go on to the study with his Lordship, you two, I’ll see to the young lady,” she insisted, while Christian started to protest, Genevieve waved him off, and so they went reluctantly with their host into a well-appointed living room.
“How do you not know there is a road on your land?” Christian said angrily, and Margaret could understand why he was upset- Genevieve could have been badly hurt.
“It is not my land, I am merely a guest in this house,” he replied pleasantly. Margaret thought it rather obvious, for his accent was clearly English.
“Whose estate is this?” Christian demanded.
“The Comte de Roissy, Monsieur.”
“And is the Comte here?”
“Regrettably, he is not. He was called to Paris on business.”
Christian seemed frustrated by this. The man was being excessively polite, but there was an underlying sense that he was rather amused.
“You’re English?” Margaret said to him. It came out sounding like an accusation rather than a question.
“Yes,” he said, still sounding polite and amiable. “And you, despite your excellent French, are Scottish, I believe. But where are my manners? My name is Thomas Westin, Earl of Ashington.” He gave a brief bow.
“Lady Margaret Blair,” she replied, nodding politely. He raised an eyebrow slightly but said nothing in response to this, only turning away as Genevieve returned, considerably less dusty and ruffled, and apparently unharmed.
Their host was hard to figure out. He was certainly solicitous of Genevieve’s well-being, and almost too polite to Christian and Margaret, but he offered no information about himself or the man whose house he was staying in. It was a strange, awkward situation, no one wanting to say that he was English and therefore they were clearly suspicious of him, but on his mercy until Genevieve’s horse was returned.
It took only a few minutes longer before they heard the shouts of Pierre and the boy in the front of the house. Boutondor was docile once again, recovered from his shock, and Margaret was glad to be on their way again.
“How odd he was!” Genevieve said as soon as they were a safe distance from the estate. “What do you think he’s doing there?”
“Visiting a friend, as he said I’d guess,” Christian replied. “Sure you’re all right, Gen?”
“I told you I am, don’t fuss. Didn’t you think he was odd Margaret?”
“A bit, yes.” “Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, factorem coeli et terrae, visibilium omnium, et invisibilium. Et in unum Dominum Jesum Christum, Filium Dei unigenitum. Et ex Patre natum ante omnia saecula….”
The familiar words of the mass were second nature to Margaret, and indeed to everyone in the church. She went through the motions without having to devote too much concentration to it, and she wondered if the others did the same. The Queen too her religion very seriously, but Margaret noticed her eyes were wandering and all of them were just a little more restless than usual.
It was an exquisite fall day, drenched in sunlight with a soft breeze ruffling the brightly colored leaves. It was the kind of day when they wanted nothing more than to be outside, to enjoy the very end of the Indian summer that hung over Paris, but it was also Sunday. For the most Christian Queen of Scotland, there could be no skipping mass for a pretty day.
The Cardinal of Lorraine was not performing the mass, which was fine with Margaret as her mind was wandering enough as it was. He had been traveling for a week, again to Rome, and that was almost a relief for her. Being in a room with him, even with Mary and the others, always left her feeling as though there was not quite enough air. She had been making a point of avoiding him though, since their last meeting. But if she was honest, she knew he was well-aware of what she was doing, and he was being patient, but she couldn’t avoid him forever.
The mass ended and there seemed to be a sigh of relief among all the worshippers, even the most pious. Mary’s carriage was directly outside and as they were getting in Seton glanced past Margaret’s shoulder and frowned.
“That’s the Earl of Ross, isn’t it?”
Margaret followed her gaze and saw him getting into a carriage as well. She nodded. “Yes, it’s him.”
“Look at the arms on his carriage, that’s not Ross….why is he bearing a new banner?”
“The King of France gave him knighthood to stay in Paris and train their armies, remember?” Fleming said, getting in the carriage after them. “He said so when he had that audience.”
“What knighthood did the King give him?” Margaret asked, suddenly wondering about something.
“Comte de Roissy,” said the Queen unexpectedly. “I thought that was funny because it looks a bit like Ross.”
“Yes…funny,” she agreed vaguely. But what she found even more curious was why he might have a mysterious English guest staying at his country house. "It's very cold," remarked the Queen, wrapping her arms around herself as they waited for the groom to bring her horse. "I do wish I'd brought my cloak." This seemingly offhand comment was accompanied by a beseeching look at Margaret. Mary could be subtle when she wanted to be, but apparently this was not one of those times.
"Fine, I'll go back and get it," Margaret sighed, turning back toward the palace. She actually didn't mind as she wanted her own cloak as well. In just few days, it had turned cold quickly, and although the sun was shining today, there was a biting chill in the wind.
"The green velvet one!" Mary called after her. "With the silk lining."
The Queen did not have a study, but while guests were received in an audience chamber, her sitting room was generally considered private to anyone besides her immediate household. There was a small polished table near the fire where they were accustomed to leaving letters or books or papers, whatever they might be amusing themselves with in the evenings. There was nothing of any note there, important papers would be locked in a cabinet, but they all assumed that the room was sacrosanct, so Margaret was more surprised than anything when she came back in to find a woman rifling through the papers on the table. It hardly mattered that she would find nothing there but Seton's letter from her brother and Fleming's very bad poetry attempts, it was the invasion of privacy that angered her.
"What are you doing?"
The woman spun around. She was not any older than Margaret herself, dressed in simple but clean clothes.
"Oh Ma'am! I was just...I wasn't..."
"Who are you?"
"I'm the maid, Milady." She made an awkward curtsy, as though not accustomed to it.
"You're not the usual maid. Where is Elise?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Lady."
Margaret shook her head. "It doesn't matter, you shouldn't be looking through the Queen's papers. I shall tell Madame LeClerc."
Madame LeClerc was the head housekeeper, who ruled over the vast staff of maids with an iron fist. The maid's eyes widened at the mention of her name. Margaret turned to tell one of the hall guards to go and fetch her, but the girl behind her moved quickly, and before she could turn back, something struck her hard on the back of her head, and her vision went black. "Marguerite?"
Her head hurt, badly. And she wished whoever was speaking would stop. Something sharp stung her nose, and she tried to turn away. That was a mistake as it made the blinding pain in her head even worse.
"There you go, not dead yet," persisted the voice.
Finally she opened her eyes, and the bright light in the room brought a wave of nausea.
"Oh, do close the curtains, it's hurting her eyes," the voice continued. It was a woman, although her vision was still to blurry to see who, and she didn't care terribly. The curtains were duly closed and she could see a little better, but it still took her a few moments to place the woman leaning over her- Diane de Poitiers, her high brow furrowed with concern. Aside from the pain, that was also a sign something was wrong.
"What-"
"I thought you'd fainted but for that nasty bump on your head. No, no, don't move, I sent a guard for the physician."
"Where's the maid?"
"Maid?"
"Someone hit me...she said, she was a maid..."
"If she attacked you, maid or not, I think it is safe to say she is gone now, if she's got any sense," the woman replied. "Where are the others?"
"Riding, I came back for Queen Mary's cloak."
"Marguerite, tell us again what happened?" She started because she had not even realized Charles de Guise was in the room, and now that she squinted she saw him standing in front of the closed curtains.
"Charles!" Madame de Poitiers protested. "Can't you see it's hurting her to talk?"
"No it's all right, the worst of it is going off," she mumbled.
"Well, don't try to sit up until the physician comes, you've a knot on your head the size of my fist," she said worriedly, moving aside slightly as he leaned over her.
"I came back to get the Queen's cloak," she began slowly, her mind clearing some. "There was a girl in here, going through the papers on the table. I asked what she was doing, and she said she was the maid, and I wondered where Elise was, it seemed odd. I said I was going to call Madame LeClerc, because she was going through the Queen's things and because the Queen likes Elise in particular, but when I turned to go get the guard she must have hit me with...something."
"Well, I think we can assume she was not really a maid."
"How insightful," she muttered.
"I will let that go as you have just sustained a blow to the head," he responded, though not without a bit of amusement. "What did she look like?"
"Er..she wore common clothes, like a maid. She was young-"
The questioning was interrupted by the arrival of the physician, who took one look at her and began grumbling that she and her brother alone had enough injuries between them to keep him busy, never mind the rest of the Palace. The physician said that she might expect to have a headache for a few days, but that she was not in any real danger and ought to rest. In any case, a powder he gave her to ease her headache immediately made her drowsy. She had been only vaguely aware of Mary returning, complaining of a terribly cold ride without any cloak, only to be guilt-stricken when she heard what happened. Naturally guards were summoned and told of the story, but they all assumed that the "maid" would not be found in the palace. A careful check revealed that nothing seemed to have been taken, but they assumed that was only because Margaret had surprised the girl.
She slept through the rest of the morning, and most of the afternoon. By the time she rose she was thankful for the silence in Mary’s apartments. She still felt dizzy and did not really care to have people fussing over her, even if they meant well.
“You do have a talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time," she heard his voice as soon as she stepped out of her room.
Like right now? She hesitated in the doorway, but he was not even looking at her, but seemed totally intent on something he was writing.
"Where is everyone?"
"Lessons."
She frowned. "The Queen doesn't have lessons."
"Not formally anymore, as she was well beyond Francois and the Princesses, which Queen Catherine could not tolerate. But Francois has engaged an astronomer for the time being, as he's taken a fancy to the stars, and Marie was inclined to be interested today." He finally laid down his pen. "Does your head still ache?"
She nodded. It had faded to a dull throbbing, but was still noticeable. He came closer and put his hand on the back of her hair, not roughly, but almost as though to smooth it down, and she gave a hiss of pain.
"You're lucky Diane happened by. First William, and now you. Although I do not think this was intended for you, merely unlucky. I do wonder what they hoped to find."
"Love poems by Mary Fleming, perhaps?" she suggested, to lighten the mood. He actually laughed, but it was followed by a strange and awkward silence in which neither of them seemed to be able to find anything to say. When she started think she couldn’t possibly take the silence any longer, he sighed, and said, “Oh God help me,” so softly that she barely heard him, followed by “Enough of this, I must go.”
Not entirely understanding what had happened, she stepped forward as he moved for the door. “Why? Why must you go?”
He stopped, not because of what she said but because she had stepped in front of him, and did not meet her eyes. For a moment, they stood at an impasse, she waiting for him to speak and he was staring at the hand she had placed on his arm to stop him.
So quickly that she didn’t know what was happening, he caught her around the waist and kissed her. It was not like the time before; it was not hesitant, wondering how she would react. It was demanding, and intrusive, and almost violent, directly taking her to a sharp edge between pleasure and pain. If she had not been dizzy already, she would have been when he released her.
“Now you know my intentions,” he said quietly, but almost dangerously. “The choice is yours Marguerite.”
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Post by Shades on Mar 23, 2006 12:03:37 GMT -5
Chapter 15
“Now you know my intentions.”
Did she? He wanted her, that much was clear. She did not know very much about such things, but she knew what she had felt in that kiss.
She knew how the meeting should have ended- She should have been offended. She should have slapped him, if not for that kiss then for the intention behind it. The logical part of her mind told her that, and yet the logical part of her mind was the same part that seemed to disappear every time he looked at her.
What did he really want? She knew what the court in Paris was like; she knew that he could have any number of women…prettier than her, more powerful than her…certainly more experienced than her. Was it just a diversion for him? Just an attraction? Was it that simple?
Once when Margaret had been about six, they had gone to visit her mother’s cousin, who was married to a man who had a castle by the sea. It was the farthest she had ever been from home, and the first time she had seen the sea. In her excitement, she ran out into the waves, delighted by the salty water that sprayed up into her face until her heavy dress tangled around her legs and she could go no further. It was not deep there, but while she stood in the water staring out at the overwhelming vastness, an undertow caught her wet gown and began to drag her ruthlessly and inexorably out to sea. Gasping, she struggled helplessly and uselessly against the current, unable to keep her head above water. Her father had been nearby, and he’d caught her up in strong arms and carried her back to the sand, saying “Aye, that’s the thing to remember about the sea Meggie, she has no mercy for anyone, even little girls.”
Her father was no longer here to save her, and she felt much the same as she had then- that she was being pulled toward something dangerous and unknown that she could not escape. And yet underneath the fear, because there was fear there, she felt curiosity, even a need, to see where this would take her.
She knew that even thinking that way was dangerous. She knew what it could cost her if anyone found out, and Margaret was logical enough to know that people always seemed to find out. Much of her soul-searching was devoted to what it would do to Queen Mary, and what could happen to William. She knew it was selfish, but then put that out of her mind. Since the day William had been born she had thought of his well-being first, and truly she had never resented it, because she adored him. This had nothing to do with him, it was her choice alone.
She knew thinking about it was a great sin. Strangely, it was not the vows that bothered her. She thought that she might, in a way, understand what had driven him to the Church. With or without that issue between them, the fact remained that they were not married, would never be married, and there was no way around what the Church said about that. Even knowing that, not knowing how it would end, she was willing to take a chance.
The realization came as a shock to her, because she had always been a good, Christian, well-behaved, and well-mannered girl. The kind of girl whose parents were proud of her, who was educated and refined and married well and made someone a model wife and a wonderful mother. She was not the kind of girl who became a spy and the lover of a man who flaunted his Church position with the implied freedom of a Prince of the Blood.
What would her mother think? That thought lurked at the back of her mind, as like most young women, she had always wanted to be like her mother. But then Mama had not been without a streak of romance, hadn’t Margaret been told she’d run off from court in Edinburgh to marry father?
No, there was no use for it, she decided in a long afternoon of distracting, confused thoughts. As much as she was drawn to the idea of romance, something she had so little experience with, there was no way it could end well for her. While she was a little afraid she might get hurt, that was less significant than the other people she could hurt, not less her brother and her Queen. With any man there was a chance she could get hurt, but with a man as powerful as he was there was every reason to think it could be a thousand times worse.
I should have slapped him.
Yet all of her tangled thoughts did not mean that life stopped, and if those around her thought she was a little pre-occupied in the days that followed, they did not think all that much of it. Fall was a busy time at court, it seemed. Margaret’s eighteenth birthday passed with a great deal of celebration, at least in the privacy of Mary apartments, and shortly after that William turned nine. There was a great deal of preparation for the fanfare surrounding the thirteenth birthday of Queen Mary on December 8th.
Despite the suddenly cold weather, it was a busy social season, and Margaret found herself turning down invitations when Mary began to complain that she was spending too many evenings away from the palace. One invitation she could not refuse came through her Aunt, and was to a party given by the Duc de Rodez at which both the King and Queen Catherine were expected to be present. It was, ostensibly, to celebrate some glorious military victory, but since she had not heard of any glorious military victories for awhile, she had to assume it was just an excuse to have a party.
She was happy to have an excuse to see her Aunt, though less thrilled to see her Uncle Alain, who apparently still did not know her name since he vaguely called her Madeleine, and then left them as soon as they arrived at the party to join several substantial looking gentlemen in a serious conversation over to the side of the room. He seemed to be in his element in military matters, certainly not in social situations. Margaret wondered again how they had ended up together, she couldn’t picture Alain actually deciding he wanted to marry a woman and then actually being nice enough to convince her to agree.
“You’ve met Queen Catherine, haven’t you?” her Aunt asked. The party was in full swing as they arrived, but there was a faint, expectant feeling among the guests as the royal party had not yet arrived.
“Yes, but only briefly,” she replied, leaving out that the meeting had not been exactly friendly, at least on Queen Catherine’s part. “And I met the King once with a riding party,” she added. “But he didn’t speak to me. It’s only Queen Mary and the Dauphin I see often.”
The party guests were mostly an older group than most of the banquets she attended, and so she thought it perhaps best, and more becoming her age to just listen to the conversations around her among her Aunt and her friends.
“…wearing a dress like that? A lady of her age? Honestly…”
“…the young chap with the mustache, he’s Italian they say, a poet…”
“…the chateau at Amiens, but it was just in disarray, and you know it’s so hard to find good help…”
“…oh, Etienne has been gone at least a month now…”
It was the easy conversation of married women, and Margaret slowly began to relax from the constant mental anguish of the past few weeks. Perhaps it was the wine, or the finely decorated room or the soft music, but slowly she began to enjoy the party and the easy company of the older women who all admired her and pronounced her lovely. It was very different from attending a party with Genevieve or Annabelle, or even different from the few banquets she had attended with Queen Mary.
A hush fell over the room and all the guests rose to their feet as the King and Queen Catherine entered. They spoke to the host and his wife, and to a few other high-ranking guests, and then casually took places at a table raised slightly on a dais under a canopy with the royal seal with their intertwined initials.
She watched the King and Queen with some interest, as she had never seen them together before. They didn’t speak to each other once in the time she was watching, but instead carried on separate conversations on opposite sides. They were so detached from each other she found it surprising they had managed to conceive six children. Margaret found the contrast between Queen Catherine and Diane de Poitiers, the two main women in the King’s life, quite startling. In many ways Diane had the female qualities that the Queen did not- beauty and good breeding and the King’s heart. But Queen Catherine, when came down to it, was the most powerful of the two- she was clever, no question about that, and she had a powerful family behind her and in the end, she had all the legal rights. She was the mother of the King’s legitimate children, the mother of the man who she would someday see King of France if she lived that long, and Margaret could see no greater power than that. But for those who did not have the power of the Medicis behind them, for those who could not marry a King to gain the upper hand, there was no question Madame de Poitiers was among the most powerful women in France. Power, Margaret had decided, was not inherently a bad thing, but something that very few women were lucky enough to have. For the time, as he was young, she had power in her influence over William, but what would happen when he was old enough to be master of his own life? That day was not so far off.
While she was lost in these thoughts, she was watching the high table idly, and she nearly dropped her goblet when Charles de Guise stepped into her field of vision, speaking easily to the King in the manner of old friends, though still with the respect due royalty. She had never imagined that he attended parties, although she knew the purpose of the evening was political.
She knew, through Queen Mary, that he had been traveling. First to Saint-Quentin to meet with a Spanish envoy, and then to Rome once again. She was irrationally annoyed that he seemed to have a habit of shocking her, and then disappearing for weeks and leaving her twisted up over it.
“Margaret, are you all right? You’ve gone quite pale,” her Aunt’s voice spoke from what seemed like a great distance, and she forced her eyes away from the conversation at the high table.
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” her own voice sounded uncertain.
Her Aunt looked unconvinced, and glanced at the glasses before them, perhaps wondering if she’d had too much wine.
“I’m fine, really,” she repeated, sounding a little more sure.
“If you want to leave…” her Aunt began, but Margaret knew that she didn’t want to leave yet, it was still quite early, and she shook her head quickly.
“No, no, I’m fine, I’m having a good time.”
But as her Aunt patted her arm lightly and turned to answer a question from a woman on the other side, Margaret made the mistake of looking back to the King’s table and found his eyes on her. His expression revealed nothing, but when she met his eyes she felt a blush spreading through her face. She had not had time to have a gown made, and so she had borrowed one from Annabelle in a deep sapphire blue. While not the sort of gown she might usually wear, Mary and her girls had agreed it suited her. She knew she looked nice, and she saw approval in his eyes as well, that was what made her blush.
If her Aunt noticed that she had suddenly gone from pale to red, she refrained from commenting, but she could not help but follow the direction of her gaze. For nearly an hour, she seemed to be struggling with saying something, beginning to speak and then stopping herself and coming up with a seemingly pointless comment. It was finally as conversations around them made it unlikely anyone would hear, she said casually, almost carelessly, “they say all the Princes of Lorraine are brilliant, but he is the most clever, and by far the most dangerous.”
Margaret swallowed, and turned back to face her Aunt, perhaps given their conversation it struck her more than usual how like Mama she looked. “I’m not afraid of him.”
“That’s what worries me. I would be lying if I said I approved, but even aside from that you have not been very long at court, and I think you may be getting in too deep.”
“It’s not, I wasn’t…“
“I don’t ask for an explanation,” he Aunt cut her off quickly. “I see no way it could end well for you, and I want to know you’ve thought it through.” The woman sighed. “I never would have sent for you if I thought I was bringing you for this.”
“I would have come anyway.”
“Yes, I’m beginning to see that.”
There was no anger in the comment, not even disappointment, just a sort of quiet worry. Margaret didn’t know what to say to make it any better. Her Aunt had lived in Paris for many years, and before that at the court in Edinburgh, and was certainly not unfamiliar with the liberties that the rich and powerful allowed themselves, but Margaret hated to think she might have disappointed her Aunt. She wanted to explain the conclusion she had come to, but there seemed no way to do so vaguely enough that those around them wouldn’t overhear the conversation.
It was growing late, and she sensed her Aunt was preparing to go by the way she was glancing around for her husband. Unfortunately, he took that moment to leave the room unobtrusively with several men, apparently to take their military discussions to a more suitable location. Her Aunt sighed in irritation, “Well now they will be closeted in all night.”
Margaret felt suddenly drained and exhausted, and felt a headache coming on from the wine. The room suddenly seemed too hot and too bright, and the music more distracting than pleasant. Suddenly, her Aunt laid a hand on her arm, and Margaret looked at her with a faint feeling of worry. This time it was her Aunt who had gone dangerously pale, her eyes strangely unfocused.
“I’m not…feeling very well,” she said a little uncertainly.
“Do you want me to get you something? Or let’s go in the other room, it’s very close and hot in here,” she suggested.
“No…no Dear, if you would just got get Alain, I’d like to go home.”
“Of course.” She left her Aunt in the hands of the worried Madame Royer and hurried into the hallway, where a pageboy told her that the men had gone to the library.
The house had a vast library, dark-paneled with beautifully inlaid floors and bookshelves reaching to the ceiling. A fire was burning, but apparently only for the light as the windows were open letting in the cold night air. Covered lamps along the walls cast a soft light over the whole room. Her Uncle was there, leaning over a table with two other men conversing in low voices, and at the end of the table, sitting and leaning his head against one hand with an air of boredom and general irritation was the very man causing all of her problems at the moment. Not expecting him, she forgot for a second why she had come until her Uncle said irritably “Yes, Madeleine?”
“My Aunt is suddenly feeling ill, Sir. She wishes to go home.”
He paused, but one of the other men waved a hand dismissively, “Go on Alain and see to your wife, we’re quite finished here.”
“Yes, I think we are finished here gentlemen,” agreed Charles, rising from the chair with an attitude of dismissing them. “I’ll speak to Francis of what we’ve discussed here.”
The two other men left, while her Uncle folded up several sheets of paper laid out across the table. “Come, Madeleine,“ he said briskly, with a nod to the other man.
“Alain, why don’t I see her home, the palace is a good distance out of your way with your wife feeling unwell,” he said suddenly, as though it had only just occurred to him, and not giving her time to protest.
“Oh I couldn’t have you take the trouble…”
“Nonsense, as I am going there anyway it is no trouble. Look after your wife.”
“Thank you.”
He gave a sort of regal nod, as though doing a great favor, and her uncle disappeared. She glared at his back, thinking again how little she liked him. It must have shown on her face, because now that they were alone he smiled.
“The King favors him for military skill, not social graces…Madeleine. Your Aunt, she’s unwell?”
“She looked faint.”
“Hm,” he looked thoughtful, and then shrugged. “Perhaps just the heat in there,” he decided.
“Were you really planning to go back to the Palace tonight?” she asked, the question escaping her although she guessed she might rather not know.
“Yes, I had intended to,” he replied. “Unless you would prefer to go with the Marechale.”
She knew that would just make her look silly and childish. Apparently circumstances had conspired to give her an opportunity to settle the entire matter, and she found it rather more difficult than she had imagined.
“Of course not,” she replied, aware that her voice was cool and distant. “I didn’t expect you to be here tonight.”
“Nor did I, I arrived from Rome only this morning. And although judging by your tone you will have no sympathy, I am quite exhausted.”
“You’re right, I’m not feeling particularly sympathetic.”
“You’re angry,” he sighed, closing a book on the table and laying his hand on the cover. “You have a right to be, I suppose. For what it’s worth, nothing I said was meant as an insult.”
She sighed. “What do you want from me?”
“I’ve made no secret of that.”
“Then why me? Why me and not Madame Mallejac or Louise de Rhone or Antoinette Montagne or the Comtesse de Germaine?”
She was only guessing at the names based on things she had heard, but she must have been correct with a few, for he almost recoiled as she brought up his past.
“You were not even in Paris yet…that’s not a weapon for you Marguerite.”
“I don’t seem to have any others.”
“Why should you need them?”
“You can’t do this, you can’t play with me. Serving the Queen or not I am not just here for your amusement.”
“I suppose I deserve that, but believe me when I say I have not merely been amusing myself.” He paused, and shook his head quickly. “This is not the time for this, for either of us. We’re both tired, you’ve had too much wine and I can think of nothing to say at the moment to help things. It’s late, and we should go.”
She was angry for a moment at what felt like a dismissal, but he was right, she was exhausted and however vaguely they were ending things, her point had been made, she would not be his toy.
“Yes, all right.”
"I sent the carriage ahead," he said briskly as they left the library, and she stopped dead, staring at him.
"How will we get home?"
He turned and gave her a bemused look. "It is not far. Some fresh air will be good for you. It will clear your head."
"My head doesn't need clearing. Why did you send the carriage on empty?"
"I though it wise," he said vaguely, and while she waited for him to elaborate, he didn't, merely continuing through the now darkened house. The lamps in the halls had been dimmed and although they could still hear the sounds of music and lingering guests, for some would stay until the small hours of the morning, the majority of people had gone already. He seemed to know the house well and instead of the formal entrance on the Rue de Celestins they came to a door that led out into the kitchen courtyard. Wordlessly, he handed her a heavy, hooded cloak.
"It's not that cold-" she began. She had also come with a cloak of her own, though it seemed she might have to wake a servant to locate it.
"Your gown is rather...noticeable, and you're wearing a small fortune in jewelry. I think we've had enough drama for tonight without a citizen of Paris trying to relieve you of it."
Finding she couldn't argue with that logic, she put it on, guessing it was his as it dragged several inches on the ground. A fog had settled over Paris, obscuring everything that was more than a few paces away on all sides, and turning the night from inky black to steel gray. It felt as though they were the only people out and moving in the entire city, and though she wasn't cold, something about the silence and stillness made her shiver.
She should have been more suspicious of his strange behavior, but her mind felt dulled by exhaustion and emotion and wine, and it was all she could do to negotiate the cobblestones in the delicate slippers that had seemed so charming earlier in the evening. Several times she stumbled and found his hand under her elbow, but other than that he did not touch her. Suddenly he stopped, and then silently drew her back into the shadows of a doorway. The air around them still seemed silent and unmoving to her, but he seemed to think there was something there.
"Wait here a moment," he whispered, and stepped out of the shadows, his shoes making no sound in the street, but the ghostly light that barely broke through the fog from a light some way down the street caught the gleam of a blade in the darkness. She thought it wasn't the best idea to be left behind in the dark while he prowled around armed to the teeth, and so she stepped quickly after him. This earned her an annoyed look, followed by resignation.
She couldn't see whatever he did in the dark, but after a few steps he threw out an arm to stop her, and indeed a few moments later she heard running feet, and a shadowy figure very nearly collided with them in the fog. There was a brief scuffle before he had the assailant by the collar, and she saw it was a boy who could not be any older than thirteen or fourteen, filthy and looking like he'd never seen a decent meal. He twisted and kicked violently, only to be dragged quickly away from the street and into the courtyard of a shop, shuttered tight for the night.
"Why are you following us?"
The boy swore viciously in response to the pleasantly asked question, before he saw the flash of the sword.
"There's a lady here. If no one's bothered to teach you manners before then I shall now. Who sent you following us?"
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