Chapter 1
On December 6, 1560, France was destined to be shrouded in a gloomy and desolate atmosphere.
In the Louvre Palace, with King Francis II of France falling seriously ill, all sorts of bizarre entertainment activities that were usually held up in the past few months had ceased without prior agreement, so as not to offend Queen Mother Catherine de' Medici and Queen Marie Stuart, who were worried about the king.
The nobles who used to love luxury gave up hunting, gambling and flirting; artists stopped painting and making music and stopped writing sonnets with beautiful words; even the court ladies who loved to dress up began to speak cautiously and in hushed tones.
At this moment, with the arrival of the news of the king's true death, the nobles, who had been prepared in advance, changed into black clothes that were only worn at funerals, their eyes filled with sorrow, wiping away the tears from their red and swollen eyes with handkerchiefs.
They gathered together, facing the king's bedroom, and paid their respects in sorrow, calling it a great misfortune that had befallen France.
As for how much of that sorrow is genuine, only an all-knowing God can know.
After all, Francis II had always been in poor health.
A blood disease inherited from his ancestors left him pale, weak, and in great pain from childhood, making it difficult for him to even maintain his daily life, let alone fulfill the powers and responsibilities of a monarch.
When the king was young, doctors predicted that he would die young. The fact that he lived to the age of sixteen was beyond the expectations of many people, including his mother.
Queen Mother Catherine de' Medici took on the responsibility of presiding over the funeral of her son, the King.
The Queen Mother, from a merchant family, had little time to grieve. After kissing her son's forehead one last time, she stepped out of the room and began to methodically instruct everyone in the court to get moving. With the care of the priest, Francis II's coffin was placed in the church cemetery.
At the same time, she also began preparations for the celebrations when her other son, Prince Charles, ascended the throne.
No matter how many people feigned grief at the funeral, there was one person whose sorrow was undeniably genuine.
That was the pain of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots and Queen of France.
No one doubts the deep affection between this young queen, who arrived in France at the age of six on a large ship and spent more than a decade with Francis II as his fiancée.
So when she fainted at the king's funeral and had a high fever for several days afterward, everyone thought it was understandable. Some sentimental court ladies even began to pray for the queen, hoping she would soon recover from the grief of losing her husband.
...
All the bedroom windows were covered with black velvet, with only a single, flickering light illuminating them for a moment, making the whole room look like an icebox, or like being in the cold fifth level of hell.
Even with the fireplace blazing brightly, it couldn't warm the hearts of the young women in the room.
The four ladies-in-waiting that the Queen of France had brought from her Scottish homeland gathered together and wept bitterly, lamenting their mistress's and their unfortunate fate.
Look, their mistress was originally the First Lady of France, one of the monarchs of the court who was undoubtedly on par with the King... Whether it was Catherine de' Medici or the powerful Duchess of Guise, whoever she was, she had to take a step back when facing their mistress to show her respect and humility.
Now, with the death of the King of France, all of that has vanished.
With the ascension of a new French king, their mistresses would soon be stripped of their magnificent queenly crowns, which would then be placed on the shoulders of another unfamiliar noblewoman, forcing her to bow and yield to another person, respectfully expressing her humility.
And these women, whose fates were intertwined with those of their mistress, lost their former glory and honor in this magnificent French court.
The glorious past has faded away, and the future remains shrouded in mist and unknown.
Thinking of this, the maids became even more sorrowful.
Mary closed her eyes, then opened them again, and the world before her remained unchanged.
In a dimly lit room, four young women dressed in black gathered together, heads bowed and weeping. They were all dressed in the attire of medieval noblewomen, the black color a testament to a funeral that had just ended.
For the past few days, she has had a persistent headache due to two intertwined yet vastly different memories of her life as a woman.
One of them is Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, who lived in the ancient 16th century and whose life was full of helplessness, like a tragic fate.
The other woman, however, was born in the technologically advanced and open society of the 21st century, and lives as a successful older woman.
Mary thought that her current situation could be simply summarized by the three words: time travel, rebirth, and soul fusion.
“Fleming…” Mary sat up, rubbing her forehead, and called out the surname of one of the maids, “…bring me the dressing mirror.”
Because of Western naming customs, there are always a large number of people with the same name.
These four maids, who had grown up with her since childhood, all shared the same name as her, Mary. To distinguish them, she usually addressed them by their surnames.
Upon seeing Her Majesty the Queen awaken, the other maids immediately gathered around her eagerly.
Some of them handed over towels filled with hot water, some thoughtfully brought honey water, and others immediately placed a thick, soft goose feather pillow behind the Queen's back.
Soon, Fleming carefully brought over a mercury mirror the size of a Bible.
This mirror may seem insignificant to people in later generations, but it is worth a fortune in this day and age.
The method for making such clear and transparent mirrors is still firmly in the hands of the Venetians. With this secret technology that is never passed on to outsiders, they have made money from European nobles for decades. Countless noble ladies who love to compete are willing to exchange gold of the same size or even more for a mercury mirror.
Even Marie Stuart, who was once Queen of France, owned only a handful of mercury mirrors, and the largest of them was no larger than her head.
Mary took a few sips of warm honey water from the maid's hand to moisten her throat, and after forcing herself to perk up, she looked at herself in the mirror.
In front of the bright mirror, a young version of myself is reflected.
She was young and beautiful, pale and tear-streaked from her husband's death, yet still radiating boundless vitality and youth.
How absurd, Mary thought coldly.
She is eighteen again.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
