Page 67 of A Column of Fire

Mary understood. ‘And if that happens, I will never be queen of France.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But I don’t know if Francis can manage it!’ Mary looked distraught.

‘Nobody knows,’ Alison said. ‘So, whatever happens tonight, you’re going topretendhe’s done it.’

Mary nodded, and her face took on the determined expression that was one of the reasons Alison loved her. She said: ‘All right, but will people believe me?’

‘Yes, if you follow the advice of Queen Caterina.’

‘Is this why she summoned you yesterday?’

‘Yes. She says you must make sure Francis lies on top of you and at least pretends to fuck you.’

‘I can do that, but it may not be enough to convince the witnesses.’

Alison put a hand into her gown and withdrew what she had been carrying there. ‘The queen gave me this for you,’ she said. ‘There’s a pocket for it in your nightdress.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘Blood.’

‘Whose?’

‘I don’t know,’ Alison said, although she could guess. ‘Never mind where it comes from, the important thing is where it goes – onto the sheets of the bridal bed.’ She showed Mary the end of the thread that sealed the neck. ‘One pull on this will untie the knot.’

‘So they will all think I’ve lost my maidenhead.’

‘But no one must see the bag – so stuff it up inside yourself immediately, and leave it there until later.’

Mary looked horrified and disgusted, but only for a moment; and her brave spirit took over. ‘All right,’ she said, and Alison wanted to cry.

There was a knock at the door, and a woman’s voice called: ‘Prince Francis is ready for you, Queen Mary.’

‘One more thing,’ said Alison in a low voice. ‘If Francis fails, you must never tell anyone the truth – not your mother, not your confessor, not even me. You will always smile shyly and say that Francis did what a bridegroom should do, and he did it perfectly.’

Mary nodded slowly. ‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You’re right. The only sure way to keep a secret is eternal silence.’

Alison hugged Mary, then said: ‘Don’t worry. Francis will do anything you say. He adores you.’

Mary composed herself. ‘Let us go.’

Surrounded by ladies-in-waiting, Mary walked slowly down the staircase to the principal floor. She had to pass through the large guardroom of the Swiss mercenaries, then the king’s antechamber, stared at by everyone she passed, until she came to the royal bedchamber.

In the middle of the room was a four-poster bed covered only with fine white sheets. At each corner were heavy brocade and lace curtains, tied back to the posts. Francis stood waiting, dressed in a gorgeous gown over a cambric nightshirt, looking boyish in a nightcap too big for his head.

Standing and sitting around the bed were fifteen or so men and a handful of women. Mary’s uncles, Duke François and Cardinal Charles, were there, with the king and queen and a selection of important courtiers and senior priests.

Alison had not realized there would be so many.

They were talking in low voices, but fell silent when they saw Mary.

She stopped and said: ‘Are they going to draw the drapes?’

Alison shook her head. ‘Just the lace curtains,’ she said. ‘The act must be witnessed.’

Mary swallowed, then bravely moved forward. She took Francis’s hand and smiled encouragingly. He looked scared.