The Wild Queen by Carolyn Meyer Page A

mind, Marie?”
    â€œOf course not,” I assured her, though I had no idea what he would think.
    â€œWe would need armor,” Livingston reminded us. “And lances.”
    We never put our scheme into action. But we did spend many hours discussing it and promising one another that someday we would actually find a way to do it.
    ***
    The weekas and months slipped by in an untroubled stream, each day much like the one before it. I studied diligently with my tutors. My stitchery improved to the satisfaction of Queen Catherine. I enjoyed my life as part of the royal family, paid regular visits to my Guise relatives, spent as much time as possible with the Four Maries, and accepted the dauphin’s unflagging devotion.
    In the summer of 1549 King Henri decided to go to war against England with the aim of winning back the town of Boulogne, a French town that had been in English hands for many years. Accompanied by my uncle François, the king rode off at the head of an army to do battle against his old enemy while the rest of the court retired to the hunting lodge at Compiègne. Then in October the royal family experienced a great loss: eight-month-old Louis suddenly sickened and died. The queen was overcome with grief. The king rushed back from his battles to mourn with her. He appeared even more melancholy than usual. A heavy cloud of sadness hung over the court.
    â€œMaman and Papa pray for another son,” Princesse Élisabeth whispered.
    Having only one son was a serious problem for the royal family. What if something happened to François? By French law, neither of the princesses could inherit the throne. A few weeks later their prayers were at least partly answered when the queen learned she was again expecting a child. But what if it was another daughter? Would King Henri grieve as my father did and lose his will to live?
    I was the cause of my father’s death.
That knowledge had begun to haunt me. By Scottish law, a woman could inherit the throne and rule Scotland, but that did not mean she should. At least my father did not believe so.
    ***
    The court moved to Blois in the Loire Valley, and everyone’s spirits lifted. The Four Maries were particularly enchanted by the spiral staircase in this beautiful château, and La Flamin devised challenges of hopping up and down the stone steps until Madame de Poitiers ordered us to stop. In December I observed my seventh birthday Christmas came and went, and when gifts were exchanged on the sixth of January, the Feast of the Epiphany and the Day of the Three Kings, I presented elaborately embroidered handkerchiefs as gifts and received much praise for my skill. The next occasion for celebration was the sixth birthday of the dauphin. When spring came we moved again to Fontainebleau, where Élisabeth turned five and had to be prevented from eating herself sick at the banquet in her honor.
    One day, after I had completed my morning lessons, Madame de Poitiers came to my quarters. This was unusual. She took both of my hands in hers—that, too, was unusual. “Madame Marie,” she said solemnly, “I bring you most unhappy news. Your grandfather died just three days ago.”
    My dear
grand-père,
dead? I threw myself weeping into the duchess’s arms.
    â€œYou are too young to attend the funeral, Marie,” she told me. “It is your grandmother’s wish that you be represented by a friend of your uncle’s.”
    Who had decided I was too young? Surely not my mother. The news would not yet have reached Scotland. Realizing that she did not yet know of her father’s death made me sob all the harder. I longed to share my grief with my grandmother, my uncles, my brother François. The royal family offered their condolences. Their kindness did little to console me. I put on a black mourning gown. But still I was not allowed to attend the funeral.
    Maybe it had nothing to do with my age. I overheard talk among the