The Wild Queen by Carolyn Meyer Page B

when I am gone.”
    This was not what I wanted to hear. For a moment I wondered if I might not order my mother to stay. I was the queen, was I not? I took precedence over her, did I not? But in the end I understood, and I stopped pleading and tried to do as she asked.
    In September, as summer drew to a close and the long days grew shorter, I accompanied my mother to Amiens, where my brother lived in the château he had inherited from his father, the first duke of Longueville. My mother had lived there during her first marriage, and François had been born there. Her visit to her old home and to François was to be my mother’s last before she boarded a galley in Rouen for the voyage back to Scotland.
    François was not yet sixteen, but he welcomed us with great style. There were banquets at which my mother’s Scottish courtiers were served the simple fare they preferred, meat and fish without the delicate sauces favored by Queen Catherine. No strange vegetables made an appearance.
    We passed the evenings with music. My mother danced exquisitely. She played the lute and sang the songs she had sung to each of us when we were small children. François was kind and affectionate to me, exclaiming that I was growing fast and would no doubt someday be as tall as my mother. “And surely as beautiful,” he added, making me blush. When the weather was fine, the three of us rode out into the countryside to enjoy a picnic served in a pretty grove of trees near the River Somme. It was as though we three had lived together all our lives.
    One day, as we dined by the river, the weather changed suddenly and dramatically. Dark clouds swept in and covered the sun like a blanket, the air turned cool, and a cold rain began to fall. Our servants scrambled to gather up the remains of our meal, and we rushed back to the château, but not before we were all thoroughly drenched and chilled.
    My mother and I changed quickly from our wet garments into dry clothes and were soon cozily warming ourselves by a fire. While we waited for François to join us, I showed my mother the needlepoint I had begun working as a gift for him under Queen Catherine’s attentive gaze. I pointed out his coat of arms, a yellow shield with a red chevron and a blue fish, traced onto a piece of canvas for me by the king’s official embroiderer.
    â€œI hope to finish it for his birthday,” I confided.
    â€œFrançois’s birthday is the thirtieth of October,” Maman reminded me. “And you still have a great part of it to do.”
    â€œI know,” I said. “I work on it as often as I can.” I hurried to put it away before my brother arrived and spoiled my surprise.
    But an hour passed, and part of another, and still François did not join us. Puzzled, my mother sent a servant to inquire. The servant returned and reported, “Monsieur the duke is unwell, madame,” he said. “He has taken to his bed with a fever.”
    â€œUnwell?” My mother was on her feet in a moment and hurrying out of the chamber. When I rose to follow her, she said sharply, “Wait here, Marie, I beg you.”
    I obeyed, but my mother did not return. I sat alone, working on my brother’s gift without fear of discovery. It grew late. Servants lit candles and drew the draperies. At last my brother’s steward came to tell me that I was to have my supper with several members of the Scottish court.
    â€œWhere is my lady mother?” I asked, unhappy at being deserted. “And my brother?”
    â€œYour mother is with the duke your brother,” he said.
    â€œIs my brother ill?”
    The steward hesitated.
“Oui,
Madame Marie, he is ill. Very ill. His physician is attending him.”
    â€œI wish to see him,” I said.
    â€œYour lady mother has given express instructions that you may not see him. She fears that you might then fall ill, as he has.”
    I nodded, pretending to agree, and