Free The Wild Queen by Carolyn Meyer Page A

She and my uncles decided that I should be declared fully of age at eleven plus one day, four years earlier than the usual age of fifteen. “Then I will serve as queen regent,” my mother said, “and Arran will be
out!”
    Such matters were far beyond my comprehension, but I liked the idea of being declared of age when I was eleven—even if I did not know just what that involved. I turned and left quietly.
    On another occasion, when the discussion seemed more interesting, I did not leave. My mother and her brothers were discussing what should be done about Lady Fleming. I hid myself behind a heavy drapery and listened.
    â€œLady Fleming is creating a scandal,” said my uncle Charles. “She is having an affair with the king, and she is not even discreet about it! Madame de Poitiers is furious.”
    â€œQueen Catherine is angry as well, but not nearly so angry as the duchess,” Uncle François remarked. “I think she rather enjoys Diane’s humiliation. The queen has had to sit by quietly all these years while the king openly acknowledged Madame de Poitiers as his mistress. Now they have a common enemy—Lady Fleming.”
    â€œThere is more to the story,” my mother told her brothers. “I have learned from Sinclair, who has an unerring ear for court gossip as it is being discussed among the servants, that Lady Fleming is expecting a child.”
    Expecting a child?
I strained to hear better, nearly falling out of my hiding place.
Does La Flamin know?
    â€œHow very interesting!” my uncle François exclaimed, and I could imagine him stroking his silky beard as he spoke. “King Henri himself confided to me just days ago that the queen his wife is also with child.”
    A chair scraped across the floor. Someone might leave the reading room at any moment and find me there. Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, I scurried away—and nearly collided with La Flamin, who had come looking for me.
    â€œLet us ask the cooks to make us some sweets!” she proposed.
    I was happy to agree.
Poor girl,
I thought as we ran off together, hand in hand, to the kitchens.
She probably has no notion of the trouble her mother is in.

Chapter 11
Frittered Pears

    A S M ARIE F LEMING and I hurried away from my mother’s rooms, the other Maries caught up with us. We were soon joined by the dauphin, François, and Princesse Élisabeth, and our little group made its way, laughing and talking noisily, down the elegant staircase. All of us loved to spend time in the royal kitchens, where we no doubt made nuisances of ourselves but were tolerated by the cooks. Matteo Panterelli, the Italian pastry chef brought to the French court by Queen Catherine, always welcomed us. Even when he was busy preparing for a banquet, he never turned us away. Chef Matteo said we reminded him of his grandchildren back in Florence—he called it Firenze—where he hoped to return someday. I was fond of Matteo, but not of his assistant, Lucas, a dour man who said little but was clearly annoyed by our presence.
    Chef Matteo wiped his hands on an apron covering most of a great belly and led us to the table he kept set up for us, out of the way of the other cooks and their apprentices and helpers. “What shall we make today, my lady Queen Marie? My lord the dauphin? Gracious ladies?” Matteo asked jovially. His round head was wreathed in a halo of fluffy white hair. “Are you yearning for frittered pears?”
    My favorite dish was frittered pears, and Matteo often helped us make them. Afraid we might harm ourselves using knives, Matteo peeled the fruit and cut out the core and the seeds. I sliced the pears, and Beaton dipped each slice in a batter mixed by La Flamin under Matteo’s watchful eye. Seton and I presided over the skillet of melted butter in which the battered pieces were fried to a golden brown.
    But on the day that I heard my mother and my uncles discussing