The Wild Queen by Carolyn Meyer

appeared—oranges from the Holy Land, preserved figs, apricots in syrup—but no frittered pears. I was disappointed but said nothing. Later, after the banquet had ended, my mother, pale and shaken, explained the reason.
    â€œSomeone wished to do you harm and poisoned your frittered pears,” she said, still tearful. “The plot was discovered in time, thanks be to a merciful God. The chief conspirator has fled, and his fellow conspirator is in irons. But for your safety you will remain deprived of your favorite dish until the villain has been caught and punished.”
Someone wished to poison me?
I was shocked. Why would someone try to murder me? I was only eight years old. I had many questions, but my mother offered only vague answers. “It really had nothing to do with you,” she said, trying to ease my fear. “Someone with a bitter grudge against the royal family of Scotland believed that the best way to harm us all was to harm you. He changed his name, joined the Scots Guard, and came to France. Then he befriended one of the cooks, who knew your favorite dishes.”
    â€œNot Chef Matteo!” I gasped. “Matteo would never try to harm me!”
    â€œNo, not Monsieur Panterelli. It was someone else in the kitchens. Monsieur Panterelli somehow uncovered the plot and accused him.”
    I thought of Matteo’s assistant, the dour-faced Lucas. I would not soon forget the way he glared at me. “Where are they now?” I asked. “The cook and the guardsman?”
    â€œThe man in the kitchens has been caught, and the guardsman who escaped will soon be caught as well,” she assured me.
    â€œWhat will happen to them?” I asked, not wishing to be put off. I was not worried, but I was indeed curious.
    â€œThey will be punished,” she said. “There is no further danger. You must not worry.” She would say no more.
    Later I learned that the guardsman had been seized as he fled to Scotland; he was brought back to France, where he was tortured, hanged, and quartered. Lucas may have suffered a similar fate, for I did not see him again in the kitchens. I could not easily put the incident out of mind. Would there be others who wished to harm me? But those worries did not hinder me from begging Matteo for frittered pears.
    ***
    When the court departed from Amboise late in the spring and moved to Fontainebleau, I found out why I had not seen Lady Fleming since before Easter.
    â€œThe king sent her away,” La Flamin told me between sobs. “Everyone knows she is expecting a child. The king is the father, and he made her leave.”
    I scarcely knew what to say. Everyone at court was talking about Lady Fleming. Queen Catherine and Madame de Poitiers had banded together and insisted that the Scottish woman not continue to embarrass the court. I took La Flamin’s hand and told her sympathetically, “It will be difficult for you to be without your mother. But you must console yourself that when this is over, she will be back with you and all will be well again.”
    Marie Fleming looked at me, her lip trembling. “All will not be well again, Madame Marie. My mother humiliates me.”
    Now I truly did not know what to say. I shook my head and ran off to find Sinclair, my source of all court gossip.
    â€œLady Fleming likes to put on airs,” my nurse reported smugly. “And she has not the sense of a cat. Went about boasting that it’s the king’s child swelling her belly, and her a grandmother herself! You knew that, didn’t you? That she has grown sons back in Scotland who’ve presented her with children of their own?”
    I nodded as though I knew all about it. Maybe I had at one time, but I had been gone from my old home for so long that I had forgotten much of whatever I had once known.
    Sinclair prattled on about Lady Fleming. “With my own two good ears I heard her say, plain as I’m telling it to you now,