His old life felt like a lifetime ago.
How was it possible, he thought, to be so lonely when he was surrounded by so many people? There was a throng of admirers about him, many of them women who had no doubt paid attention when the king had advised Edward to find himself a bride toute suite, but when they spoke to him, he found himself nodding blandly and not listening to their words, just staring into his goblet of wine.
A wife, he kept thinking. Such an intimidating word.
Bollocks.
But he’d be the king again, and he could decide for himself who and when he would marry. There was that to comfort him. No one could force his hand.
“Your Majesty,” came a high, sweet voice at his side. “I was wondering if you might honor me with a dance.”
He looked up.
It was Mary Queen of Scots. Of course he would have recognized her anywhere, with those eyes so dark they were almost black, those eyes that had haunted him from her portrait for all those years. But she looked different from the girl who’d stamped on his foot. Older, of course. She’d been eight then. She must be close to thirteen now. She wore a red satin gown and her black hair was braided and pinned in a complex pattern that must have taken hours. There was even a spot of rouge on her cheeks.
She looked quite grown-up.
“Your Majesty?” she queried.
“Your Majesty,” he answered, and bowed stiffly. “Of course I will dance with you.”
They moved to the center of the floor. The dance was long and complicated and held little opportunity for talking, a series of seemingly endless turns and whirls that left him breathless. Mary was light on her feet, an experienced dancer. She smiled at him often, which Edward didn’t know what to do with. Did she have a dagger meant for him tucked in the folds of her dress somewhere? Part of him expected to feel it pierce his side at any moment.
The dance ended. He thanked her. He turned to flee.
“Will you walk with me?” she asked, before he could. She held out a small hand.
He nodded and tucked her hand into his arm.
“I spent the afternoon with your lady, Grace,” Mary informed him as they strolled along the outer edge of the room. “I found her stories quite amusing.”
God’s teeth, what had Gracie told her? “Yes, she’s an amusing woman,” he said.
“Quite. It made me miss Scotland, to hear her brogue.” Mary herself had no Scottish accent that Edward could discern. Too many years away from home.
They walked in awkward silence. Edward found himself tongue-tied. He could feel the gaze of others on them, keen and speculative, especially that of the French queen and her dour-looking daughter, Elisabeth.
“You’re taller than I remember,” Mary Queen of Scots said at last.
“Yes, I find you changed as well.”
She flushed. “Forgive me, regarding your foot last time.”
He smiled. “Forgiven,” he said. “I hope we can put all that past ugliness behind us and be friends.”
“Yes. Friends. It’s just, I didn’t like to be told what to do, or to whom I should be married,” she said, her voice lifting a little. “It made me cross to look at you.”
“Believe me, I understand.”
She stopped and pulled her hand from his arm. Her dark eyes were earnest when she gazed up at him, but not naive. “I still don’t like to be told.” He followed her gaze when she peered out into the center of the room, where Edward spotted a sulky-faced blond boy in splendid clothing.
Ah, the dauphin, he assumed. Prince Francis.
“He seems all right,” Edward observed as they watched the boy grab a handful of sweets from a passing tray and stuff them into his mouth. Then the crown prince picked his nose, and ate that, too. “Oh. That’s unfortunate.”
Mary Queen of Scots pursed her lips unhappily. “Sometimes he pulls my hair or calls me names.”
“He’ll grow out of that, I think,” Edward said. And hopefully the nose picking, as well.
The little queen turned to regard Edward with a carefully blank expression that made him feel sad for them both, that they would have learned to wear such masks at their young age. “I think I would like England better than France, don’t you?” she said quietly.
He lowered his voice to match hers. “Definitely. Apart from the food.”
“Oh yes,” Mary agreed. “The food here is good. But the king is quite mad sometimes. And the queen is horrid to me, she hates me, and . . . and this is not a friendly place for people like us.”
Edward was intrigued. Gracie had done her work well on Mary, obviously. She wanted to confide in him. To trust him. “Like us?” he repeated.
She pulled on his shoulder to make him lean toward her, so she could whisper in his ear. “I hear you’re a kestrel.”
His heart beat faster in spite of himself. This was a country still in the hands of the Verities. It was dangerous, even for him, to admit to being an E?ian here.
But this journey was about taking risks.