Not every act of mercy deserves to be rewarded.

 

You enter the throne room with only the eyes of the King’s guards following you. Each man stands armed with a sword and an oath to lay down his life for yours, though lately you have found little comfort in either.

 

Morning light pours through the high castle windows and settles upon the throne at the far end of the chamber. Your throne. Soon enough, at least. All that remains is for you to satisfy the union arranged on your behalf and secure the Catholic alliance France so desperately requires against Protestant England. Scotland is in dire need of troops following the Battle of Pinkie, and marriage promises them exactly that. Scotland receives soldiers. France receives an alliance. Your mother receives the satisfaction of having once again manoeuvred Europe to her liking.

 

And you receive a wife.

 

You stop at the foot of the dais and stare at the throne. You have spent your entire life being prepared to sit upon it, yet nobody has ever adequately explained why a man should desire a seat that makes him considerably easier to kill.

 

 

A crown makes a fine target.

 

You kneel at the steps beneath the thrones and clasp your hands together. There will be blood in Scotland. You know this as surely as you know the prayers leaving your lips will do nothing to prevent it. Men who have never seen your face will die because you are marrying a woman you have never met. Their wives will become widows for an alliance discussed over wine by men wearing silk.

 

You pray, therefore, not for victory but for mercy. Let the fighting be brief. Let your men die quickly if die they must. Let God forgive you for sending them.

 

‘Mon fils, why must you hide from me?’

 

You rise immediately.

 

Queen Clarice de Poitiers enters the throne room with the measured certainty of a woman who has never once questioned whether a room belonged to her. Emeralds decorate her throat and ears, bringing an unexpected light to eyes otherwise dark as coal. Her back is perfectly straight, her expression perfectly composed.

 

Your mother has always frightened you most when she is pleased.

 

Today, she looks delighted.

 

She is also not alone.

 

A young woman walks beside her, exceptionally tall and carrying herself with such effortless poise that for one absurd moment you wonder whether Clarice has brought another queen into the room simply to make you feel inadequate.

 

Her face is small and oval, held upright by a neck of almost swanlike elegance. Auburn hair blazes against her pale complexion, framing hazel-brown eyes that settle upon you with unnerving directness. You have known beautiful women before. Some intimately.

 

This woman is different.

 

She does not look at you as though you are a king.

 

She looks at you as though she is deciding whether you deserve to be one.

 

‘One’s bride should never have to seek the attention of her betrothed,’ Clarice says.

 

You look from your mother to the woman beside her. ‘My bride?’

 

Something almost resembling amusement passes through the young woman's eyes.

 

‘C’est un honneur d’être en votre présence. Je suis Anastacia, Queen of Scots.’

 

She curtsies.

 

You bow in return, suddenly conscious of every rumour concerning your reluctance to marry and hoping none has crossed the Channel before her.

 

‘It is an honour to have you in my home and, if God wills it, as my Queen.’

 

‘If God wills it,’ Anastacia repeats.

 

There is something peculiar about the way she says it, though before you can decide what, Clarice gives you the faintest warning glance.

 

You take Anastacia's hand and raise it to your lips.

 

Her skin is cold.

 

Your mother keeps the two of you close for the remainder of the afternoon. She calls it preparation. You recognise surveillance when you see it.

 

Rumours concerning your late-night rendezvous with Nicole, one of the kitchen maids, have apparently travelled farther through the palace than you realised. Clarice has not mentioned the girl directly, which is considerably worse than if she had. Your mother prefers to let knowledge sit between you until guilt does the work for her.

 

Nothing more can come of Nicole. You know that. You are King of France and will soon become King Consort of Scotland. Kings may take lovers, certainly, but they are first expected to produce heirs with politically advantageous women.

 

Still, you think of Nicole more often than you should.

 

‘There is the matter of your wedding attire,’ Clarice says as the three of you enter the banquet hall.

 

Anastacia glances towards her. ‘Yes?’

 

‘Might I be so bold as to prevail upon you to take my advice? Do not wear white. There are other colours better suited to such an occasion.’

 

‘I assure you, no slender consideration hath been given to choosing my attire.’

 

Anastacia's gaze travels deliberately over Clarice's own white satin gown, its full sleeves accompanied by a green French hood and black veil.

 

‘And white appears rather well on me.’

 

You cough to disguise a laugh.

 

Clarice's eyes flick towards you.

 

Anastacia walks away before your mother can answer and stops beside an arrangement of flowers resting upon one of the banquet tables. You follow, perhaps unwisely.

 

‘I too enjoy white,’ you murmur.

 

The beginnings of a smile tug at Anastacia's lips. ‘Then perhaps France shall survive me after all.’

 

You look at her properly.

 

Perhaps this marriage will not be quite the sentence you imagined.

 

The days pass like clouds.

 

Soon you find yourself on bended knee before the Cardinal Archbishop of Rouen at Notre-Dame, exchanging vows before God, France and enough European nobility to populate a small country. The wedding is one of the grandest displays of spectacle and pageantry the kingdom has seen in years. Royal blood mingles with cardinals and noblemen beneath vaulted ceilings while gold, silk and jewels glitter beneath candlelight.

 

Anastacia wears white.

 

Of course she does.

 

Following the nuptials, a procession carries you through streets crowded with cheering commoners towards an extravagant banquet. Wine flows freely. Musicians play until their fingers must surely ache. By evening you abandon restraint altogether and dance with your new wife until the room becomes pleasantly blurred around its edges.

 

Anastacia laughs when you nearly stumble.

 

It is the first time you have heard her do so.

 

You decide you like the sound.

 

For several days after the wedding, there is peace.

 

Then Lord Darnley enters the throne room.

 

‘Your Majesties, Protestant radicals have seized the Benedictine monastery in Angers.’

 

Anastacia leans forward upon her throne. ‘Why must this concern us?’

 

‘My Queen, they are holding the children of noblemen. Lord Renaude and Lord Savoy’s children are among them.’

 

You open your mouth to speak, but Anastacia is quicker.

 

‘How many?’

 

‘Nineteen hostages. Five of noble birth.’

 

‘And the others?’

 

Darnley hesitates.

 

You notice it.

 

So does Anastacia.

 

‘Children from the surrounding villages, Your Majesty.’

 

Something in your wife's expression changes. It is slight enough that Darnley probably misses it, but you have spent the last several days learning Anastacia's face. The tightening of her jaw. The sudden stillness of her hands.

 

Fear, perhaps.

 

Lord Darnley retrieves several folded letters from inside his coat. ‘Their parents have written requesting an audience. They beg Your Majesties to arrange the safe return of their children.’

 

You motion for him to bring the letters forward, but Anastacia speaks before he can move.

 

‘The King and I shall discuss the matter and make our decision by day’s end.’

 

‘But, Your Majesty, I—’

 

‘Will await our decision.’

 

The words are quiet.

 

Darnley bows.

 

You wait until the great doors have closed behind him before turning to your wife.

 

‘Why did you dismiss him?’

 

Anastacia doesn't answer immediately. Her attention remains fixed upon the doors.

 

‘Nineteen children are being held by armed men,’ you continue.

 

‘I heard him.’

 

‘Then why do you hesitate?’

 

She finally turns towards you. ‘Though their parents profess the Catholic faith, there has been talk throughout the kingdom concerning some of those children.’

 

‘What kind of talk?’

 

Anastacia studies you for several seconds before answering.

 

‘The kind sensible men dismiss until they have reason not to.’

 

‘Anastacia.’

 

Her expression remains perfectly serious. ‘There are families in the villages surrounding Angers who will not allow those children into their homes. Livestock have been found opened from throat to belly without evidence of an animal attack. A priest claims to have discovered symbols carved beneath the altar of his church. Another refuses to speak of what he saw at all.’

 

You stare at her.

 

‘And what precisely are you suggesting?’

 

‘I am telling you what has been reported.’

 

‘By frightened peasants.’

 

‘Do frightened peasants become incapable of telling the truth?’

 

‘No. But frightened men are remarkably good at inventing monsters.’

 

Something flickers across Anastacia's face.

 

‘That they practise unholy acts against God,’ she says.

 

For a moment, you simply stare at her. ‘They are children.’

 

‘Children are not incapable of wickedness.’

 

The certainty in her voice disturbs you more than the accusation itself.

 

‘Their parents have done us humble service. Lord Renaude and Lord Savoy have supplied grain to much of the kingdom. If we abandon their families now—’

 

‘Do not speak as though I lack understanding.’

 

There is something in Anastacia's voice that irritates you. Something authoritative.

 

More authoritative, perhaps, than your own.

 

‘Je suis le Roi!’

 

Your palm strikes the arm of the throne. The sound cracks through the chamber.

 

Anastacia goes very still.

 

The anger feels good for approximately half a second.

 

Then you see her face.

 

Not frightened.

 

Never frightened.

 

She simply looks at you.

 

You hear your next words before wisdom has the opportunity to stop them. ‘And a King must be obeyed by his Queen. I have decided to send for General Knox.’

 

Anastacia's mouth parts. ‘But Knox is—’

 

‘Leading our troops in Scotland? This I am aware of. But General Knox is the only commander trained for such a mission. I will hear no more on the matter.’

 

Silence.

 

Anastacia stares at you through narrowed eyes, and there is a fiery rage behind them. Yet beneath the rage lies something else.

 

Pity.

 

For reasons you cannot explain, you suddenly feel smaller beneath her gaze.

 

You clear your throat and square your shoulders, determined not to look away first.

 

Anastacia does it for you.

 

‘Then I pray your mercy does not become another man's punishment.’

 

She turns and walks from the room.

 

Only once she is gone do you slump into the throne.

 

You spend several nights with General Knox in the drawing room devising a plan of action. Your envoys report that the radicals have no intention of negotiating the children's release. More troubling still, they appear to have no demands.

 

You offer gold. They refuse it. You offer safe passage and land beyond the kingdom. They refuse that too. Eventually, you threaten every man inside the monastery with the gallows.

 

Nothing.

 

They appear perfectly prepared to die.

 

It makes no sense.

 

‘Men willing to die generally wish to die for something,’ you say.

 

General Knox bends over the map spread across the table. ‘Perhaps keeping those children inside is enough.’

 

You think of Anastacia.

 

‘Superstition.’

 

Knox glances at you but says nothing.

 

‘We shall move at night’s end,’ he says eventually. ‘We believe they have gunpowder at the ready, so a distraction will be necessary.’

 

The plan is straightforward enough. Knox and several men will approach the monastery under the pretence of one final negotiation. While the radicals are occupied, you will lead a smaller group through a rear entrance and into the cellar where the children are believed to be held. Once they are safely outside, the attack will begin.

 

You look down at the monastery drawn upon the map.

 

Nineteen children.

 

Children are not incapable of wickedness.

 

You push the thought away.

The Protestant radicals are none the wiser.

 

You enter through the rear of the monastery beneath the cover of darkness and descend into the cellar with six men. The smell reaches you before the children do: damp stone, sweat, smoke and something metallic beneath it all.

 

Blood, you think.

 

Of course there would be blood. They are hostages.

 

Your guards force open the final door.

 

Nineteen faces turn towards you.

 

Some of the children begin crying immediately. Others make no sound at all. Their faces are smeared with dirt, their clothing filthy, traces of gunpowder caught in their hair. One boy watches you with such complete stillness that you briefly wonder whether he understands you have come to rescue him.

 

Then a little girl throws herself towards you.

 

You catch her.

 

She clings to your neck so tightly that you struggle to breathe.

 

‘Please,’ she whispers.

 

Something inside you hardens.

 

Whatever madness has driven the men upstairs, whatever rumours have spread through frightened villages, this is what you see before you.

 

Children.

 

You carry the girl from the cellar yourself.

 

One by one, your guards move the others through the rear entrance and into waiting carriages behind the monastery. Several cry for their mothers. One asks whether the bad men are going to follow them. A boy named Sebastian refuses to leave without his sister Elizabeth and only climbs into the carriage once she takes his hand.

 

Elizabeth looks at you before she follows him.

 

She is perhaps twelve.

 

Her eyes are very dark.

 

‘You came for us,’ she says.

 

‘Of course.’

 

Her gaze remains on yours for a moment longer than it should.

 

Then she smiles.

 

‘How merciful.’

 

Before you can answer, she disappears inside the carriage.

 

A chill travels along your arms.

 

You blame the night air.

 

Once the cellar is empty, you signal the archers concealed among the trees.

 

Arrows rain upon the radicals.

 

Men scream. Gunpowder ignites somewhere inside the monastery and the night erupts with light. You mount your horse as Knox's soldiers advance, determined to place as much distance as possible between the children and the violence behind them.

 

You do not stay to count the dead.

 

The palace welcomes you as a hero.

 

Lord Renaude weeps openly when Elizabeth and Sebastian are returned to him. Lord Savoy drops to his knees and kisses your hand. Mothers cling to children they believed they might never see again. Fathers praise your courage. Priests speak of providence.

 

You search the crowd for Anastacia.

 

She stands near the rear of the hall.

 

She does not applaud.

 

When your eyes meet, she looks towards Elizabeth.

 

Then back at you.

 

That night, sleep refuses to come peacefully.

 

You dream of the monastery first. Of men standing behind its windows while flames consume the walls. Only this time they are not trying to keep you out.

 

They are begging you not to open the cellar.

 

The dream changes.

 

You see yourself bound to a stake with Anastacia beside you. Flames climb towards your feet while nineteen children stand in a circle around you, their faces untouched by heat.

 

A punishment befitting those who practise witchcraft.

 

You shoot upright.

 

Your nightshirt clings to your skin and your heart beats unevenly against your ribs. For several seconds you survey the darkness of your bedchamber, waiting for the dream to finish dissolving.

 

Empty.

 

You exhale and reach for the water beside your bed.

 

Then you hear it.

 

A child's giggle.

 

You freeze.

 

It comes again, faintly, somewhere beyond the door.

 

You climb from the bed.

 

A shadow passes beneath the narrow gap.

 

Then another.

 

You tell yourself it is a servant carrying a candle. A guard changing his post. The remnants of wine and nightmare conspiring against a tired mind.

 

Another giggle drifts through the corridor.

 

You open the door.

 

Nothing.

 

The corridor stretches into darkness, punctuated by pools of candlelight. You step outside and listen.

 

There.

 

The sound comes from the far end of the hallway.

 

You follow it.

 

With every step, the palace seems to become quieter. No servants. No guards. Even the wind outside appears to have died. Eventually you reach a room whose door has been left slightly ajar.

 

Light flickers within.

 

You move closer.

 

At first, you cannot understand what you are seeing.

 

One of your guards is sitting in a chair.

 

Both of his hands are bound to its arms. A cloth has been forced into his mouth. His face shines with sweat and when his eyes find yours, they widen with such desperate terror that instinct tells you to enter.

 

Then you see Elizabeth.

 

Lord Renaude's daughter stands before him.

 

She holds his sword.

 

The tip drags slowly across the stone floor as she walks, producing a metallic scrape that makes your teeth ache. Around her stand the other children you rescued from the monastery.

 

They are chanting.

 

The words are unlike any prayer you have heard.

 

Sebastian kneels beside the guard holding a silver bowl beneath his arm. Elizabeth places the edge of the blade against the man's wrist.

 

You should move.

 

Call for the guards.

 

Shout.

 

Do something.

 

Elizabeth draws the blade across his skin.

 

Blood pours into the bowl.

 

The guard screams into the cloth while the children continue chanting, utterly indifferent to the sound. Sebastian watches the bowl fill with the solemn concentration of an altar boy receiving Communion.

 

Your stomach turns.

 

The pieces begin arranging themselves in your mind.

 

Livestock opened from throat to belly.

 

Symbols beneath an altar.

 

A priest who refused to say what he had seen.

 

Men who demanded neither gold nor land nor freedom.

 

Men prepared to die rather than release nineteen children.

 

Elizabeth raises the sword again.

 

One clean strike.

 

The guard's hand falls to the floor.

 

A gasp escapes you.

 

Elizabeth stops.

 

The chanting dies with her.

 

For several terrible seconds there is no sound except the guard's muffled sobbing and the soft patter of blood against stone.

 

Then Elizabeth turns her head towards the door.

 

Towards you.

 

The other children follow.

 

Nineteen faces.

 

Nineteen pairs of eyes.

 

Elizabeth smiles.

 

The same sweet smile she gave you outside the monastery.

 

‘You came for us.’

 

You stumble backwards.

 

Behind you, a floorboard creaks.

 

You turn.

 

Anastacia stands at the other end of the corridor in her nightdress, a candle held before her. She looks from you to the thin line of light spilling through the doorway.

 

She does not ask what you saw.

 

Perhaps your face has already told her.

 

Perhaps she knew what you would find long before you did.

 

You hear your own voice emerge as little more than a whisper.

 

‘Why did they take them?’

 

Anastacia's expression changes.

 

‘Perhaps,’ she says quietly, ‘they did not.’

 

You stare at her.

 

Inside the room, the chanting begins again.

 

And suddenly you understand.

 

The radicals had not seized the monastery and taken nineteen children hostage.

 

They had imprisoned them there.

 

You ordered their captors killed.

 

You brought the children into your palace.

 

You returned them to noble houses throughout your kingdom.

 

And because you had been so determined to prove yourself a merciful king, you had delivered them safely beyond the only walls that had contained them.

 

Anastacia's warning returns to you.

 

Children are not incapable of wickedness.

 

From somewhere inside the room comes another giggle.

 

Your crown has never felt heavier.

 

‘What have I done?’