Sebastian

You shall not covet your neighbour's wife. The bible is resoundingly clear on that one; there is not a lot of room for interpretation. I wonder if coveting your brother's wife might be a considered something of a loophole in the rule, though for some reason I doubt it. Being the bastard son of a King, with three legitimate brothers to contend with, you would think that I would be used to the feeling of jealousy. But I'm not. In the past I have never cultivated the habit of envying Francis, not of his power, of his future as King of France, of his last name. I would certainly have done away with that poisonous word, bastard, and all the spite that comes with it if I could, but I have always known that Francis has his own troubles, and that he does the job of carrying them a great deal better than I ever could. But that was before the Queen of Scotland returned to Chateau de Fontainebleau. Everything has changed now.

Watching them now, watching her, I know I should never have stayed at court. I've been anticipating their return the whole two months of their honeymoon, half convinced that the torment of my imagination's obsession with what they might be doing at any given moment must be far greater than the torment of actually seeing them. But now I am seeing them, and I know the belief that this would be any easier was just a desperate hope, as false as the line I chant in my head every night as I try to sleep. I feel nothing for her, I feel nothing for her, I feel nothing for her.

Candlelight dances on her skin and in her hair, making her eyes shine as the side of her mouth quirks in a half-smile. Her hair is pinned up, and she tilts her head to one side as she listens to a nobleman speaking, her long neck curving gently in a way that begs to be touched by lips. I would give anything to respond to that request, to move up behind her and kiss her lovely neck, to graze my lips against her shoulder, and continue moving down…

'I didn't expect to see you here.' A voice interrupts my dangerous line of thought, and I turn to see Lola watching me with an expression that should be reserved for the crippled and the dying.

'I hope you haven't come to offer me pity, because I don't want it,' I say, with more malice than she deserves, and her cheeks flush.

'No, I just came to suggest that perhaps you should be somewhere else. Reminding Francis of your existence on his first night home might try his mercy a little too soon.'

'Francis can also keep his mercy. I'd rather face his fury, but I doubt he considers me enough of a threat to warrant it.' I glance over at my half-brother where he is in conversation only a few steps away from Mary. Dressed in all the red velvet finery and gold trimmings that would befit a future king, he radiates confidence. His stance is wide and his listeners hang on his every word, and he seems happy and at ease. Which probably means that he ahsn't seen me yet.

'Alright then, how about your mercy? Could you offer Mary that?' There is an edge to Lola's tone and her eyebrows are drawn together, creating little ripples in the skin of her forehead.

'What do you mean?' I ask, surprised enough give her my full attention.

'Do you have to be here right now? This is supposed to be a happy homecoming for Mary; seeing you will give it a bitter flavour.'

I drop my eyes. 'I doubt I'd make that much of an impact.'

'You know you would, Bash. She cared for you, and she took no joy in breaking your heart.' Her voice softens, and she touches my arm, that horrible look back on her face, like she's watching a starving kitten. I shrug off her hand and take a step back.

'Alright, I'll go. I just wanted to see her.'

I move away from Lola quickly, melting into the crowd of well-wishers from which I am starkly excluded, ashamed and anxious to slip away. Is that really why I came? To haunt her like a troubled ghost that refuses to move on, reaching into her world to taint her future with the past? To torment her, like she has tormented me? I hope I am a better man than that. I hope I will have the strength to stay away and leave her to her happiness, to her life with the man that she chose.

I can hear the whispers I incite as I pass, hidden between the rustles of brightly-coloured fabric and the normal buzz of polite conversation. People cringe away from me even as their eyes follow my path through the crowd, and I reach the door with relief. Quiet shadows beckon me down long hallways that will end with the embrace of an anonymous night, and I pause for a moment on the threshold, seeking Mary in the crowd, just for one last glance. Perhaps the air trembles with the strength of my longing, perhaps my anguish causes the hairs on her beautiful neck to stand on end, for at the same moment as my eyes find her she suddenly catches sight of me. I hold her gaze. Time begins to slow, the seconds pass languidly and the voices of the hall seem to become muted. I can feel the danger of this moment like ice freezing my blood, and yet I am helpless to end it. I can see everything in her face, the whole future that I lost, cold mornings and long summer afternoons, picnics in the gardens and swimming in the lake, battles and triumphs, arguments and intimacies, a little girl with my eyes and her smile, a lifetime of loving the fiercest, most vibrant woman I have ever known. Someone approaches her and she finally looks away, the colour high in her cheeks, and I am free to drag myself from the room. At first I walk slowly, but then my pace quickens and I begin to run, blindly, my eyes burning and my heart screaming, my feet pounding against the stone, thinking only that I need air. I should have left two months ago, but there is no reason I can't remedy that mistake now.

Mary

I had not wanted to create a fuss with our arrival home. I wanted to slip in through a back door, sneak through the secret passages and into my chamber before anyone realised we had set foot on the grounds. In fact, I begged Francis not to send word ahead of our return. But Francis isn't particularly partial to begging, and he certainly didn't see any reason for sneaking back into the castle like a pair of children who have stayed out past their bedtime. So there is a feast, a celebration, the eyes of the court to endure, the congratulations and well wishes of all the people who have plotted and schemed and whispered. They are all pretending they don't remember that a scarce two months ago I had been set to marry a different man. No one says a word of it to me, but I know that they are whispering in the corners of the room.

The hall is warm, stifling almost, filled with candles and people and the heat of wine-flushed cheeks and the hot air of gossiping mouths. I dressed extra carefully for the occasion, threading gold ribbon through my hair and pinning it up in a delicate coiffure, choosing a dress of a colour blue that stirs my memories like dead leaves in the wind. I've been telling myself all afternoon that my vanity is due to a need to impress the court, to make Francis proud to have me standing by his side. But I'm glancing around the room now, looking for dark hair and blue eyes at the same time as I'm dreading to find them here, and I know I'm lying to myself.

Francis is talking to a woman now, a little nymph-like creature with wide eyes and a low-cut dress. Her voice is soft, she has a laugh like crystal wine glasses clinking together, and she is obviously finding him highly amusing. Women always find Francis highly amusing. There is no reason they shouldn't, either. He is charming and handsome, his blonde hair gleaming gold and an easy smile on his lips. He is radiant, possessed of a surety that comes with his birth right, that the world is at his feet and he may take from it what he will. Just one look at him and you can tell that he is going to be a king.

'Don't scowl like that, Mary,' he says, his voice low as he catches sight of me staring at him. 'We're newlyweds; you're supposed to be happy.'

I take a deep breath, making a conscious effort to unscrew my face. 'Of course. I'm sorry. I am happy.'

He reaches out and squeezes my hand briefly. 'Good. Relax and try to enjoy yourself.'

The affection in his eyes summons memories of the long, lazy mornings of the first few weeks of our honeymoon, of tender caresses with a backdrop of a turquoise Mediterranean Sea, of his eyes always on me. I smile at him, suddenly wanting to pull him away from the prying eyes and confess everything, to lay my heart at his feet and beg him to help me fix it. Maybe we could close the distance I feel from him, warm this strange cold that has seeped in between us. Maybe all it might take is a moment alone. I begin to lean towards him, intending to ask him to come somewhere with me a moment, but he moves away before I have the chance, his attention already for someone else, his marriage and his wife always just a peripheral concern. He is a good man, generous, fair and dedicated to his country, bound by his duty to his people. A good man, and he will be a great king. But do the same things that make a good king make a good husband?

With a sigh, I resign myself to the fact that I, too, must do my duty to my people and celebrate at my husband's side, presenting a strong, united front. The fluttering feeling that has inhabited my stomach for the rest of the evening is beginning to ebb now that it seems the confrontation I have dreaded may not come to pass after all. Though my relief is tainted with a hint of disappointment, I might actually be able to do as Francis bid and enjoy myself if I can just contain my worries. Even so, I glance towards the door with one last thought of escape.

And all my tentative hopes of an uncomplicated homecoming evaporate. Gravity loses its hold on me and for a moment I feel like I am falling, like I am caught in the brief, sickening moment of weightlessness as the ground rushes to meet me in a collision that will break my every bone. Eyes so blue they are almost sharp have sliced the room in half to rest on my face. I hadn't known how those eyes would linger in my mind. I had thought that, when securely married to Francis, they would fade away, that they would pale in comparison to the purity of our union, the trueness of our love.

I had first begun to realise that it wasn't quite that simple during the consummation ceremony, of all the terrible moments for such a realisation to surface. Francis had been sweet and considerate, his kisses turning my stomach upside down and his caresses making me tremble as he strove to help me forget the room full of witnesses. I tried to pretend it was just the two of us and ignore the watching eyes of the others in the room, but occasionally my concentration would waver and I would glance at them, blushing furiously.

I had heard the door open as more people quietly entered the room and I couldn't help myself. I opened my eyes to see who it was. Imagine my horror to find Sebastian, the man I had been engaged to only heartbeats ago, by the bed, his eyes tight shut as King Henry held him captive, forcing his head in my direction. What could I do? I couldn't reveal to Francis how upset it made me, and the king was obviously punishing him. I closed my eyes.

But then suddenly it wasn't Francis above me anymore. It was Bash. It was his face in my mind, his skin against mine, his panting breath in my ear. I pushed the thoughts away, but they returned again and again. The whole situation was so horrible, so convoluted, I had to keep quickly brushing away my tears before anyone could see them. When it was over I opened my eyes, seeking out Bash, wanting to convey with my expression how horrible I felt that he was there, how sorry I was for all the things I had put him through that had culminated in that moment, but it was too late. He was already gone.

And now I'm seeing him again for the first time since that night and all I can think about is how I wished for him. Holding his gaze makes me burn, but I can't look away. My face, neck and chest are feverishly hot and I can hardly breathe.

'Mary? Are you alright?' Lola's voice breaks the moment, and it shatters like china dropped onto a cold stone floor. I drag my eyes away.

'Yes, of course. Quite alright,' I say hastily, glancing back at the door, but once again, Bash is gone

'You look quite hot. Come, sit down for a while and I'll bring you something to drink.'

'Yes, a drink. Thankyou.' I do as she suggests, dropping into a chair with relief. Two months ago I stood in this room and was ordered to make a choice. Two men, two different lives, two hearts on the line. I had to pick just one.

I chose wrong.