Reign: The Prophecy

Book 1: Reign

by Lily Blake

Genres: YA Romance; Media Tie-In; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

An original novel based on the hit television series, Reign.

Since Mary, Queen of Scotland was a child, the English have wanted her country and her crown. She is sent to France to wed its next king – to save herself and her people. It's a bond that should protect her, but there are forces that conspire...forces of darkness, forces of the heart. Mary's rule, and her life, has never been safe.

Find out what happens to Mary, Francis, Bash, and the rest of the French court after the season one finale.

Long may she reign.

A Hachette Audio production.

Release date: September 23, 2014

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 240

Sample

I’ve laid out your dresses, my queen.” Kirsten, the youngest of Mary’s maids, gestured to the two gowns hanging by the window. One was red satin with rabbit fur around the collar. The other was embroidered green velvet. “I wasn’t sure what color you’d like.…”

Mary stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her other maid, Lissy, brushed Mary’s dark brown hair away from her face, pulling the front piece into a side braid. As she worked, her fingers threading the strands, Mary had to blink back tears. Even from within the stone walls of the palace, she could just make out the sound of people crying out beyond the gates.

“It feels wrong, doesn’t it? Having a feast tonight?”

Lissy and Kirsten didn’t answer. Lissy had kept her gaze down the entire time she laced up Mary’s corset. She wouldn’t look Mary in the eye as she smoothed the rouge on her cheeks or pinned the curls at the nape of her neck.

“I’m not one to say, my queen,” Kirsten replied.

“Even if the feast is in memory of the king… It’s just that with the plague, and everything else that’s going on…”

Mary didn’t say more. Show no weakness. Never let them pity you. It was advice Catherine once gave her, and the words were in her head now, whether she liked it or not.

She couldn’t explain it to her maids. How awful it felt knowing Francis was somewhere beyond the palace gates. That he could be stuck somewhere. He could contract the plague and die alone, in some hovel, and she would never know.

He had been so foolish. Did he believe he was being brave? What was he trying to prove as he mounted his horse, as he ignored his wife’s wishes? She’d begged him. She’d pleaded with him not to go to Lola, no matter how much she hated thinking of her friend alone, in childbirth, in pain, amid the horrors of the plague.

Now he was out there… and even if he did manage to get to Lola, even if they were both alive, there would be complications with that too. What would it mean when Lola had their child? Who would the child be when he returned to court? Another Bash, casting about the palace, while everyone gossiped about the king and his mistress, the king and his bastard son?

His son… Mary had somehow already assumed it would be a boy. Every month she’d waited, hoping, praying to get pregnant. The months had come and gone. Francis had told her not to worry, that it would all be all right, but how was she supposed to believe that now? If she couldn’t bear him a child—an heir—and Lola could… what did that mean for her? For their marriage?

Mary stared at her reflection in the mirror, watching her eyes swell. She forced herself to turn away, thinking again of the feast. “I guess I’ll wear the green one. Thank you, Kirsten.”

As Lissy finished tying her hair back, Kirsten pulled the gown off the hanger. She was fourteen, maybe a little younger, with huge gray eyes. Her nose turned up a bit at the end. She carried the gown carefully, arranging the skirt on the floor for Mary to step into.

“May I be excused, my queen?” Lissy asked, her gaze turning away. Her fair skin was red and splotchy. She wrung her hands together, squeezing the blood from her fingers.

“I suppose so,” Mary said. “Everything all right?”

Lissy just nodded. Then she curtsied and slipped out the giant oak doors.

Kirsten helped Mary’s arms into the stiff sleeves of the gown. Then she tied the back with a green satin ribbon. “I shouldn’t tell you this, my queen…” she said, pausing for a few breaths. “But it’s Lissy’s brother. She heard this afternoon that he was sick. That it could be the plague.”

“How awful…”

Kirsten knotted the back, then went to the basin to change Mary’s wash water. “She was going to go to him, but then the gates came down. She’s stuck here now.”

“It will be safer for her,” Mary said. But she knew it was much more complicated than that. Living… surviving. What did it matter if you couldn’t be with the people you loved?

Mary walked to the window, looking down at the gates below. Villagers huddled outside the perimeter wall. There were thirty or forty of them demanding to be let in. Some clutched the wrought-iron bars. Others threw things—pieces of firewood, broken pots.

There was a knock on the door, the sound so sudden Mary flinched. Kirsten opened it, revealing two of the palace guards. They knelt on one knee as soon as they saw Mary.

“Your Majesty,” the tall, redheaded one said. “We await your orders in regards to the palace gate. The villagers are requesting food and medicine.”

Your Majesty. It was strange to hear those words directed at her. The king had only been dead for one day, and Mary was used to seeing the servants bow before Catherine when she entered a room. Catherine was Your Majesty, the one they feared. This—their sudden drop to their knees, their heads down—was not something she was yet used to.

Mary waited a moment before responding. She could feel Kirsten watching her from across the room. She steeled herself against it… those bright, innocent eyes. She was queen now. She must not waver in what she said. Even if Francis was beyond the gates. Even if there were people dying out there.

“Stand guard along the perimeter of the palace, far enough away from the gates that there’s no chance of contracting the plague if any of the villagers are sick. I don’t want to take any chances. All night, all day—there should be men at every entrance and exit.”

“Right, Your Majesty. Of course.” The redheaded guard nodded.

The other guard, a thin man with a graying beard, locked eyes with Mary. “Your Majesty… the people… they’re sick and desperate. Some have tried to climb over the gate. What should we do if they try to breach the wall?”

Mary took a deep breath, trying to separate it all. How awful she had felt when she saw Francis riding beyond the gates.… What would it feel like if he was one of the desperate people outside, calling to be let in? How could she possibly turn him away?

“No, we…” she said softly, under her breath.

“Pardon, Your Majesty?”

She straightened up, looking him directly in the eye. “We cannot let anyone in.”

“And if they get past the gate…?” the man asked.

“They must be killed. The plague cannot enter the palace.”

The two men nodded. They knelt down one last time before they stepped out into the hall.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that, Kirsten.”

The young girl was staring out the window, down at the crowd below. “You have to protect our kingdom. I know that. I just… I can’t stop thinking of Lissy. My parents are out there too, in a village outside of Loudun. I have two sisters younger than me.” She glanced down at her hands, working at the hem on the front of her apron.

“Let us go,” Mary said. “They’ll be expecting me at the feast.”

Kirsten picked up the pail of wash water, waiting for Mary to exit before her. Mary turned, looking at her reflection in the vanity mirror one last time before leaving. It was getting harder to meet her own gaze. She was losing herself; she could feel it happening, could feel herself growing more callous. It had begun during King Henry’s madness. She’d plotted with Catherine to murder him, hoping to end his tyrannical reign. The plot had been stopped, but then she’d needed money to fund soldiers in Scotland. She’d hired someone to kidnap Catherine and demand a ransom. It had resulted in Catherine’s cousin Cortenza being executed, and though Cortenza hadn’t been wholly innocent, Mary had harbored guilt. She hated that she was constantly questioning motives, that she constantly worried about her own safety. Was that what this was now? Did she really need to be so extreme in defending the palace walls?

When she looked up at her reflection again, she noticed the wall behind her. She turned back. The hidden door to the palace tunnels was open ever so slightly. The pink tapestry was off. She hadn’t used that door since the attempt on Catherine’s life… it had been closed just yesterday, she was certain.

“Did you see anyone in my room today while I was out?” Mary asked. “Anyone at all?”

Kirsten shook her head. “Just me and Lissy, Your Majesty. That’s it. Why?”

“Oh… Kenna mentioned she had something for me,” Mary lied. “Go ahead, Kirsten. Go on in front of me. I’ll be down shortly.”

It wasn’t until the girl left, closing the door behind her, that Mary went to the tapestry. She was right—the hidden door to the tunnels was open. She could feel the damp draft coming through. There were only a few people alive who knew about the secret tunnels that led outside. Mary and her ladies, Francis, Bash. The man Mary had hired to kill Catherine. And one other person—Catherine herself.

Who would want to enter Mary’s room unnoticed? Who would want to find her here alone, and evade the guards stationed outside? Who could be planning an assassination attempt? Mary pushed the door closed, but she didn’t feel any better.

There was only one answer to all of those questions, one person Mary kept coming back to. Catherine. She knew what Mary had done… and now she wanted her dead.

Francis tore through the woods, riding fast. He tried to concentrate on the sound of his horse’s hooves striking the ground, the endless rhythm of it. He tried to push away his dark thoughts, but they kept coming back to him, with every mile, with every village he passed. Mary’s face as she watched him through the gate. The way her hand rested on the portcullis, her cheeks that deep pink they always turned when she was about to cry. He’d only glanced back once… but once was too much.

He bent low, ducking beneath a branch, the woods darker now as the sun set through the trees. It was all too much to take in… it had all happened so quickly. His father had died the night before. He and Mary had been in their chambers, and he had been urging her to be open with him about her secrets, her feelings, so that there would be nothing between them in their marriage. And then she’d revealed the biggest secret of all. A letter had arrived, bearing the news he was still struggling to grasp. This whole time Lola had been carrying a child… it was his child. And Mary had known about it. She had kept it a secret from him for months. And only now that Lola and the child were in danger, when Mary’s hand was forced, did she finally tell him the truth. How could she lie for so long? How could she do that to him? Every morning and evening, she’d walk the grounds with Lola, their arms threaded together, whispering.… Now he wondered how many times they’d been speaking of him, the baby, the secrets Mary kept. She’d made him the fool. All the while she had known, she had known and not said a word.…

He’d had Champion saddled and was preparing to ride off to find Lola, when Mary had rushed up and told him not to go. The plague was making its way through the nearby towns. She told him it would be too dangerous for him, that he was the King of France now, that he couldn’t risk his life on a whim. She’d begged him to stay, to not go to Lola and the baby, no matter how perilous their situation. Still, Francis hadn’t hesitated. He’d mounted Champion and headed toward the gates. Mary had called after him that he needed to think like a king, but he knew what he felt in his heart—he didn’t want to be the type of king who would leave his son to die.

As he had ridden off, he’d turned back just once, and had seen that Mary was ordering the gates to be closed behind him. He understood why she did it. But in that moment, he couldn’t do what she’d asked—he couldn’t think like a king. He had to think like a father.

“A father…” he whispered under his breath. It was difficult to imagine.… Even all the times he’d lain in bed with Mary, his hand on her stomach, wondering what it would be like when they had children… even then he could never quite conjure a face, a voice, a laugh. He’d never been able to picture what his own son or daughter would look like. And lately he didn’t want to. Family had started to seem like an ugly thing. That word—father—called up not thoughts of having a child of his own, but thoughts of Henry.

The king, in all his painful contradictions. Growing up, Francis had revered the man. Back then, Henry had seemed the bravest, the strongest, the wisest. But these last few months had all but eradicated the memory of the person he’d known. The king’s actions had been unforgivable. He had murdered innocents in cold blood, in front of the whole court—no longer caring who saw, believing it was his divine right. He had tried to get Francis’s mother, his own queen, executed on charges of adultery. He had forced Bash into marriage with Kenna. He’d murdered soldiers, Francis’s own men, during what was supposed to be a celebration of naval might… but the king had planned it so that the celebration turned deadly, for nothing more than the spectacle of it.

Francis knew all of this. It should have made him feel better, justified in killing his father, but it didn’t. He kept thinking back to that moment. He’d done it at the joust. He’d stolen armor from a soldier, then pulled the metal visor down low over his face so he wouldn’t be recognized. His father was dangerous, unstable, and only going to cause countless more deaths. The only other option was a military coup, and that was fraught with danger and uncertainty. Francis had to do it, didn’t he? Who else would have? Hadn’t it felt like the only way?

The king had gone mad. He’d needed to be stopped. But Francis could still see his father lying there, in his bed, just minutes from death. The bandage over his face. Francis could still feel the lance in his hand, the weight of it as he barreled forward, about to strike. The sound it made as it buried itself in King Henry’s left ey. . .