Tale of the Necromancer by Kathryn Ann Kingsley

2

January 1559

Palace of Fontainebleau, France

“But I hate him!”

Marguerite watched as the young Henri threw himself back dramatically on her bed, one arm flung out at his side and the other draped over his head.

She smiled and shook her head, amused at his antics. She would forever be amused by the foppish child. “Henri, love, you hate most everyone.”

“No, I do not.” He pondered the thought for a moment. “All right, perhaps I do, but not you, Marguerite. You, I can tolerate.”

“I appreciate that.” She chuckled as she turned back to her writing table. “And you do not hate Francis. You are just annoyed by him. It is very different.”

“He keeps calling me Henrietta. But if I go to strike him, I am scolded for hitting someone with ‘such a weak constitution.’” He mocked their nurse, doing a fairly adept imitation of the older woman. “It is not fair!”

“Well, you should not let his name-calling trouble you so. He only likes to needle you because you are the queen’s favorite, and she has no qualms about making that known.” She set down her quill. There would be no writing done with Henri in the room.

The young boy jumped from the bed. “I suppose.” He headed to her wardrobe and, throwing open the doors, began to play with a few of Marguerite’s scarves, tying them around his head and posing in the mirror.

There were many in the palace who would have likely wished to slap the boy silly for such effeminate behavior. Marguerite allowed it for several reasons. First and most importantly, it was not her place to judge who the boy was or how he would wish to live his life. She was eighteen and had met many a young man in the court who acted quite like her younger half-brother. Many of those men had sought her hand in marriage, recognizing in her behavior an acceptance for their proclivities. As it was generally those men who preferred the company of each other over those of women.

She might not suffer the same condition, but she, too, found herself in the strange world of being both accepted and yet distinctly “other.”

“He thinks just because he got married, he can boss me around.” Henri huffed, now having moved on to her modest jewelry collection to play with.

“I suppose it is a rite that makes one an adult in the eyes of most.”

“Can you imagine it? Being married to Francis?” He let out a loud and dramatic sound of disgust.

She made a face. “No, gladly, I cannot imagine it.”

“Why aren’t you married yet, Marguerite?” Henri swirled in front of the mirror. “You’re awfully old. Is it because you’re ugly?”

She barked a laugh. “Well, excuse me, my prince!” Shaking her head, she smiled at him. There was a fiendishness to him that she could not deny she enjoyed. “Yes, that must be why. And here I had been taking my father’s word on the matter this whole time. Yet no one had the strength of character to tell me I was entirely hideous. Thank you for your honesty.”

Henri grinned from ear to ear. He loved these kinds of games, and she was one of the few who had come to not only tolerate but encourage them. “Oh? What has father told you?”

“I do not think I am now able to say. I am too overwrought with grief, finally knowing the truth of my revolting appearance.” She put the back of her hand to her forehead and draped back against her desk, feigning sorrow.

“Oh, come on!” He ran up to her, ditching his costume on the floor wherever it lay, and nearly threw himself at her, climbing into her lap. “You must tell me.”

“Must I?” She sat back up and hugged the boy. Picking up one of her hairbrushes, she began to comb some of the snarls out of his hair. For someone seemingly obsessed with his appearance, he was still a young boy. “I do not know as I must do anything.”

“But I am a prince.”

“Yes, but you are not the prince, are you? Francis will be king when our father is taken by God. I do not believe you outrank me.” Oh, he did. But she was not about to tell him that.

“But—but—” He pouted. “I want to know.”

“It is a secret.”

“Now I want to know even more.” He whined comically and slumped against her. “Margueriiiiite!”

“Say please.”

“No. I am a prince. I don’t have to say please.”

“We shall see about that.” She tickled his sides.

He shrieked and squirmed, laughing loudly. “Stop, stop! I surrender!” When she refused to relent, he finally gave up. “Please!”

“All right.” Wrapping her arms around him, she hugged him close and leaned her head against his. He snuggled into her, smiling. “I have not been married as father has said he wishes me to marry for love. I believe he is waiting for me to tell him who I have chosen. It seems he has enough children to marry off for political gain that I do not warrant much notice.” She chuckled. “So, I find myself waiting for a suitor toward whom I feel such adoration.”

“But what if you never find one?” Henri frowned. “You could wait forever.”

“I suppose. Then I would finally relent and pick whoever would marry an old crone like me.”

“A hideous old maid!” He cackled.

“Why, you—” She joined him in the laughter, especially after she began tickling him again. He ran from her to escape and flew out into the hallway. She chased after him, racing down the corridors of their home, weaving around startled-looking servants as she did.

Family. There were worse things one could be saddled with in life.

* * *

Marguerite liftedthe front of her skirts a few inches to walk through the grass as she headed down to the small clearing in the woods just past the line of the palace gardens. She and Leopold had taken to being a bit more out of sight as they grew older, and their practice weapons moved from sticks to wooden swords to metal.

She was still abjectly terrible. Leopold teased her for being all vigor no finesse, and that was true. Honestly, she had long since given up on the hope of wielding a weapon with any modicum of skill. She made her way out to the woods for their training once or twice a fortnight for the excuse of his company.

Her breath was mist in the cold winter air. They trained year-round, if the weather was good enough. At least there was no snow on the ground. She hated stumbling about in a dress in the snow.

As she approached the clearing, she frowned. There was an odd sound coming from the row of trees. Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk. Like someone chopping wood. It echoed through the trees. As she drew closer, she furrowed her brow.

Yes, Leopold was indeed chopping wood. In a manner of speaking. Her dear friend was standing in the clearing, a broadsword in his hands, hacking at a large oak with so much fury that his shirt was soaked through with sweat.

Thunk, thunk, thunk.

Bits of wood and bark sprayed off in all directions as he hacked away with the blade. She moved farther into the clearing and sat down on a fallen log that ran along one side, watching him as he worked out…whatever it was he was working out.

She tried to interrupt him in between swings. “Leopol—”

Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk.

“Leop—”

Thunk, thunk, thunk.

Finally, she gave up and simply shouted. “Leo!”

He dropped the sword, his shoulders going limp as the blade fell into the grass at his feet. He leaned his forearm against the battered, chipped-at tree, and braced his forehead against it. “Leave me be, Marguerite.”

“I see you have found yourself a more suitable sparring partner. I am not sure how I feel about being replaced with a tree, but I think perhaps it does have better form than I. Therefore, I will concede the matter.” She smirked, trying to cheer him up. If even just a little. It was rare that Leopold had fits of temper, and when he did, they were always temporary.

When he turned to look at her, her smile instantly faded. His eyes were red, and tears streaked his cheeks. He opened his mouth as if to speak again, perhaps to send her away or scold her for her teasing, but he seemingly lost the will or could not find the words.

“Oh, Leo…” She reached her arms out to him, calling him over. “Whatever is the matter?”

Tiredly, he shook his head. For a moment, he hesitated, before crossing the clearing toward her. He slumped down onto the ground at her feet and laid his back against her legs. Instantly, she wrapped her arms around him and held him, resting her chin on his shoulder.

For a long time—minutes, perhaps—they sat in silence. Him, quietly crying, occasionally wiping his face with his sleeve, and her, simply holding him and waiting for him to be ready to speak.

When he did, his voice was strained. “Father is forcing me to marry.”

“Well, you have been avoiding it, rushing off to every war and skirmish in the known world.” She kissed his cheek. It tasted of salt. “It is hardly subtle how little you wish to be wed.”

“I—I cannot marry. I simply cannot.” He grimaced.

“Pah. At least you have worth outside your matrimonial value. You may carry a sword, become a soldier, or an artist, or a scholar. The very best I can hope for is a husband who does not beat me when I wish to pick up paper and charcoal. Or one who philanders.” She paused. “Correction—one who philanders too much. I am beginning to think some dalliance is inevitable, if court life is anything to judge.”

“You do not understand.” Leo shut his eyes and let out a long, beleaguered sigh. “You simply do not.”

“Then explain it to me, my darling.”

“I—” He hesitated. His expression became unsure and pained, the lines of his face drawing thin. What was so terrible that he could not tell her? His oldest friend?

She tightened her hold on him, tucking her head closer to his. “I love you more than my own brothers, Leopold. There is nothing you could say—nothing you could do—that could change that. You cannot escape my friendship, no matter how hard you try.”

“Are you so certain?”

“I am a very stubborn creature when tasked.”

That made him chuckle weakly. Finally, he sighed again, and she felt his muscles go slack as he surrendered to whatever he felt was so inevitable. “I have no passion for women.”

“Oh. Well.” She paused. “That does not seem to be much of a barrier for many of the fops in—”

“No.” He cut her off, his tone frustrated. “I do not desire men, either. I desire no one.” Now that some manner of dam had burst, it all rushed forward in a flood. “All my life, Marguerite, I have seen how people gaze at each other. Desire, need, wanting—stolen kisses in the shadows. I care not for a single speck of it. There has not been a single creature of any gender that has ever caught my eye.”

She would have made a comment about taking that quite personally, but now did not seem the time to jest. She merely held him as he kept speaking.

“I am—I am unwell. I do not feel lust. At all. I wished to join the priesthood—where I could hide my disorder behind the veil of God, but Father would not have it. Therefore, I did precisely as you said. I hid behind the sword and shield. I ran off to the hills at every opportunity whenever the subject arose. But now, he will suffer it no longer. He is to force me to marry. I—I cannot—if I were wed to some poor unsuspecting woman, what would become of me? Rumors would spread, how I could not consummate the marriage, and I would be shamed. My family would be shamed.” He choked on the last few words, struggling to keep his composure. Tears flowed renewed down his cheeks. “I am a bastard. I have precious little distance to go before familial bonds shatter. Without the position granted to me by my father, I am nothing. It his by his grace that I am not disowned and left to rot. You know this more than anyone.”

Yes. She did understand. Her heart broke for him, and she held him tight. She did not argue with him—ask him details about his condition. She understood his dilemma. What was a man if he could not perform as a man? Just as worthless a woman who could not conceive, she supposed.

How horrible that all humanity is measured by others on what lay between their legs.

Then, she knew what must need be done. She smiled. “What if the young lady were not unsuspecting?”

“Huh?” He twisted to look at her, confused. “What are you—”

She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Will you marry me, Leopold?”

He whirled about, kneeling now at her feet, looking up at her in shock and confusion. “Why would you do this? You would be trapped in a loveless marriage.”

“No. Not loveless.” She put her palm against his cheek and smiled. “Sexless, perhaps. But there are ways around that.” She chuckled. “Mind me not for my lovers, and I will find one who resembles you well enough that we can claim a child or two as yours. It is all very pragmatic, when you think over it. Your honor will be defended, and we may still raise a family together, if you wish.”

He hesitated, his gaze flicking between her eyes as if searching for something. “Why would you do this for me? Why?”

Gathering up his hands in hers, she held them in her lap. “You are my closest companion, Leopold. I cannot imagine my world without you at my side. I think I would find myself immensely jealous of any woman who would have you, if not I. The past few years, I wondered if you were utterly dense, how you seemingly were ignorant of my wish that you might court me.”

His cheeks went a little pink. “Not entirely dense. Simply…unable.” He looked down at the ground between them.

“Now I am no longer offended.” She chuckled. “Oh, Leopold. I wish you had told me sooner. But I know why you did not.” Picking up his hands, she kissed his fingers before setting them back down in her lap. “I believe my own father’s temperance wears thin on my unmarried status as well. No one will doubt us that we had been secreting off as lovers for years. We are inseparable.” She looked over to the battered-up tree that had borne the brunt of Leopold’s angst. “I think my nurse would prefer that manner of sparring partner than the more literal option, besides.”

He laughed at that. “I—I do not know how to thank you for this. To sacrifice your life, to…to protect me.”

“Sacrifice my life? Please.” She grinned. “How ostentatious a thought. No. With you as my husband, I can pursue all that I desire. The arts, literature, science—to see the world. You are the kindest man I could possibly think of. Who better to have at my side than my dearest and closest friend?”

A tear slipped down his cheek again, but this time she knew it was not one of anger, grief, or fear. Wordlessly, he gathered her into his arms and pulled her down to sit on his lap, and simply held her against his chest as though she were a stuffed doll. She did not mind in the slightest.

“I will speak to my father this evening.” His voice was now a quiet murmur.

“It will not take me much to convince my father. I believe he has been waiting for you to announce your intentions with me for years. He will be overjoyed.”

“I do not know what I could do to repay this favor, Marguerite.”

“Buy me a nice home. Perhaps one that overlooks a pond. Oh, could we raise ducks? I love ducks.”

He laughed again quietly, holding her tight. “Your wish is my command, my lady.”

She tucked her head against his neck. She felt safe with him—she always had. Her protector and her friend.

And now soon to be her husband.

She smiled.