Author's Note: I'm an avid Mash shipper, but I also run with what the writer's give me. Please enjoy this Monde/Francis-angst fic. As always, I don't own Reign, but the story is my own. I really don't own history either, so this should be considered definitely AU.
Glancing out the window, Francis could see a crowd already gathering on the green. He had less than four hours to make the final decision to issue the royal pardon. But how could he? If events actually played out, a part of him would die as well, but to issue a pardon would be to admit weakness, show his political enemies that he was not a true King.
"But do not true Kings show mercy?" Lola had asked gently that morning, gently rocking their son to sleep.
Francis sighed, eying Lola wearily. Yes, it was his duty as King to be merciful, but a great wrong had been committed against him. There was a difference in being merciful and being weak.
"I am being merciful, Lola," Francis paused, the words forming on his lips but halting on his tongue, "I have paid for the best executioner in France."
Lola looked away, hiding the tears in her eyes. Francis hated causing her further pain, but it was inevitable. In the time he had known Lola, all they had known was pain and torment.
"Has he asked you to marry him?" Francis asked quickly, not wanting to recognize the anguish in his own voice.
"Do not change the subject, Francis, you are trying to distract me," humphed Lola, the stern look she tried to give him eliciting a small chuckle from his lips, "and yes," she whispered, "he has."
"Will you accept?" There was a touch of sadness in the way Francis asked the question, but neither party wanted to acknowledge the implication. He would miss her company, much as he had enjoyed it during these last few bleak months.
"I think I will. He promised to take me away from court after all this ghastly business is over. I do not think I could stay here afterwards," her words trailed off to a whisper, and she became suddenly interested in an unruly lock of her son's hair.
"I understand you do not want anything to do with me, and I am sorry."
Lola stood, gently rearranging their son in her arms as she smoothed the wrinkles from her skirts. They watched each other for a moment, unspoken words breaching the silence.
"I will beg your permission to not be present this afternoon," Lola paused, gathering her courage to speak the request on her mind, "and as the mother of your son, I will beg you for one more thing."
"What will you beg of me then?" Francis sighed, sadness seeping from him.
"Leave the castle gate open, Francis. I have prayed every moment for a rescue. Do you not think he will come?"
His eyes darted to hers, bloodshot as they were and highlighted by the darkened sleepless skin around them, and yet they held her gaze firmly. "He is risking his life if he does. And if he were to come with an army, he is risking war as well." His words sounded final, but Lola could hear the indecision between the phrases, the words spoken more out of duty than from personal conviction.
She placed a gentle hand calmly on his shoulder, her fingers applying the gentlest of pressure. "But would you stop him if he did?"
It was an honest question. Lola watched the haunted figure before her, having seemingly aged decades in a matter of months. She hoped to see an emotional change in her former lover, and though his words left doubt in her mind, his face remained the ever stoic King. At least, in her opinion, he did not immediately say no. It was still a triumph, albeit small. Francis had remembered thinking the same thing during the trial, after the rumors of a possible rescue surfaced. Would he stop Louis?
"I thought not," Lola whispered, leaving Francis to ponder the dreadful task ahead of him.
The trial had been arduous, though it only lasted a week. Francis had listened in anguish as account after account of their treacherous transgressions had been told aloud. First by servants, maids and guards, and then even by a few nobles.
Her expression did not change throughout the trial, even when listening to the accusations. Francis did not know how he expected her to act, but he hoped to see some remorse written across her pretty face, though the prettiness was now damaged by months of lying and deceit. Instead, the warmth he remembered in her eyes was gone, along with the warmth in her heart. She remained cold, her emotions hidden away behind many impenetrable walls, walls Francis had become increasingly accustomed to over these many months. If he had been honest with himself, she had retreated within, shutting him out even before she had been so brutally violated. The crushing weight of what she had been through wracked Francis to the core, especially knowing she blamed him for everything. It was the final proverbial nail in the coffin of their relationship. And yet, her feelings towards others close to her did not seem to experience the same downward spiral.
Most of the evidence had been circumstantial, and Francis was not so sure his mother had not paid for some of it's fabrication. But it had been Leith's testimony, along with several illicit letters found in their respective chambers, that had led to her conviction. Francis had remembered her resoluteness throughout the trial, unyielding to the accusations and words thrown at her from her once adoring French subjects.
"Mary, Queen of Scotland and France, you hereby stand accused of treason against our most sovereign King Francis, and against France," the registrar paused, letting his words echo in the great hall, "You stand accused of treason, having committed adultery with Louis I de Bourbon, Prince of Condé."
Though rumors had spread quickly through the castle, there were still some who did not know of what Mary had been accused, and with whom. The murmurings around the room gained strength, like the growing rumble of thunder from an afternoon storm. Francis had convened an ecclesiastical court to try Mary, and the robed Bishops and Cardinals had judged her mercilessly, even before the evidence had been brought forth.
"Queen Mary, how do you answer the charges brought before you today?"
"I will one day answer for my actions before God, as I am a Queen in my own right, divinely appointed to guide my people in this world. I will not answer to any other than Him."
Francis, sitting on his throne in the center of the hall, refused to look away from Mary. He was amazed at her brazenness. Gone was the timid, loving Queen he once knew. The world had corrupted her, Louis had corrupted her, and now she thought her actions were above earthly reproach. Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the back of his throne, the warm wood radiating strength through him. He felt the power of the position, and he would need to exert that power now. He could not be seen as a weak King, unable to punish his Queen for her actions. He knew it was unfair, a King's right to a mistress when a Queen held no such right, but his opinion did not matter. In the eyes of the rest of his court, and the eyes of monarchs throughout Europe, he had been wronged, and drastically so.
His own musings had dampened the outraged whispers that shot across the hall with Mary's answer. He cleared his throat ominously, all head in the room turning toward him. All heads except one. Mary refused to meet his gaze, eying instead the crown on his head.
"Registrar, you may dispense with the evidence." Francis commanded. The short stubby fellow nodded, turning back towards the court.
"The court will now hear the evidence against Queen Mary. Will Brigitte, serving maid to Queen Mary please come forward."
As the testimony began, Francis closed his eyes and let the words wash over him. He thought killing his father to protect his wife would be the hardest thing he would ever do in his life. But this? Nothing could compare to knowing the wife you loved, the wife you sacrificed for, had not been content with your love. She had loved him, yes, but it had not been enough. It was never enough.
Someone had asked him once, if he had feared losing Mary's love. Honestly, he had. He had told her France would always come first. And yet it was not his love for France, nor his duty to France, that cost him Mary's love. No, it was his own love for her, that fierce sense of protection, that pushed her ultimately away. Looking back on it, Francis realized he should have told her everything from the beginning. Would it have prevented Lord Narcisse's blackmail? He was not sure, but it would have kept them together. Or at least he hoped it would have.
In the back of his mind, Francis always assumed that if he lost Mary's love, it would be to his brother, Sebastian. He had promised to give Mary the world, asking very little besides her love in return. Francis could see how that adoration was tempting, for who would not want to be loved for their person and not their kingdom. And then along came Louis, Prince of Condé. The young, handsome noble had immediately won Mary's friendship, though Protestant sympathizer he was. He was very much like Bash in his love, honesty, loyalty, and adoration. He would even risk the axe to be with Mary.
It was slightly discomforting for Francis that Louis was not standing beside Mary, facing the same trial for their treason. Leith had caught them in their romantic tryst, but he had been all alone, unable to apprehend both Mary and Louis. She had urged him to run, save himself. He had, but not before promising to rescue her, even if it meant war. Leith had conveyed all that transpired to Francis, and as he still listened to evidence, he mentally wondered if Louis would hold good to his word and rescue Mary. And if Louis did, would he stop him?
Mary grew tired of the accusations, many of which she knew were falsified. One stable-hand had confessed to seeing them rutting in the straw like animals, at which Mary outwardly laughed. The Bishops scowled at her, which made her laugh even harder. She may have been with Louis on more than one occasion, but never in the stables, so openly visible to possible trespassers. She sensed Catherine's hand in the testimony, and that of several others, and it pleased her to know she had ruffled the Dowager Queen's feathers.
But then Leith was called forward, and Mary cringed. She knew him, and of his love for Greer. He knew he was a kind-hearted soul, and would honestly tell the truth. And she knew Francis would believe every word he said.
"I took it upon myself that day to scout the eastern portions of the castle grounds, for their had been rumors of vagrants and thieves causing trouble for those passing on the roads. I came upon the old gamekeeper's cabin, the one that has been unused for years, and noticed smoke coming from the chimney. I thought I had caught the scoundrels I was looking for, but then I saw them..."
Mary closed her eyes as Leith continued, easily remembering that blissful day she had spent in that run-down cabin.
"Are we pushing our luck, my love?" Mary whispered, a hand trailing down Louis' chest, slipping beneath the covers of the worn down, but useful bed. His eyes closed, groaning against her touch. He stilled her motions quickly, rolling their bodies naturally so he pressed against her, hovering gently over her and admiring the way her hair spilled about the roughened pillow in a darkened halo. He steadied himself, lowering his head so their lips could meet, dancing a waltz they were both now so accustomed too. She relished the feeling of his body against hers, their arms and legs entangled.
"If you mean are we being reckless, I think we both know the answer. But luck? I am lucky to have the love of such an amazing woman," his words ghosted over her face as he kissed her cheeks, her brow, and her chin, finally capturing her lips again with his.
"You flatter me so," Mary whispered, reaching a hand to trace the edge of his face, "and I hope you know I do not take your love for granted, for I love you so."
"And I you, my dearest, sweetest Mary," he sighed, joining their bodies and not just their lips. It was wonted for Mary to be with Louis, and she now longed for the feeling of his body against hers, moving both inside her and above her. She had once thought she would never enjoy such an experience again, but he made her feel safe, loved, and wanted. She pulled him as close as she could, closing what little distance was left between them. Being removed from the castle, they felt uninhibited, their voices raising together in pleasure and enjoyment of their coupling.
Through all this, they had never heard Leith enter, so shocked he had been at the scene that he said nothing at first. Mary whimpered in pleasure, her head rolling to the side before briefly opening her eyes, a panicked scream escaping her lips when she saw Leith.
Louis was clothed and in front of Mary in the blink of an eye. Mary whispered in his ear to run before it was too late. His eyes never leaving Leith's, he adamantly refused, but Mary was confident.
"You must go now," she whispered, "we are now doomed. But whatever happens, I want you away from here."
"If I leave now, you will be unprotected. Francis would try you for treason," argued Louis. Mary had managed to slip a robe around her shoulders, readying herself to distract Leith.
"If you love me, then protect me away from the castle. Go." She urged.
"I will be back for you, my love, an army at my back if needed. Do not worry." With his words, Mary had lunged the opposite direction from Louis, and Leith jerked towards her. Louis easily escaped through the open doorway.
Mary drifted back from thoughts, her cheeks flushed with remembrance. The court had gone quiet after Leith's testimony, and she knew she would be found guilty.
The court took less than an hour to announce Mary was guilty of treason, condemned to execution barring the King's pardon. Mary knew Francis well enough to know a pardon was out of the question. In that moment, she dared to meet his gaze, which she had felt on her person through the long week of her trial. Written clearly across his features was disappointment, anger, pain, and even loss. They weaved a tangled web, and that web they could never escape.
She said a quick prayer as the guards escorted her from the great hall, hoping that if she were to meet her creator on the executioner's block, He would judge her with mercy.
Francis remained at his stop near the window every since Lola had left him that morning. They were minutes from the execution, Mary was already in position near the block, but Francis could not bring himself to order the axe to swing. Then, the thunder of approaching horses echoed inside the castle grounds, and all those on the green became restless. It was not the sound of one horse, but multiple horses that brought Francis to his feet. He stood at his window, overlooking the scene and within eyesight of the executioner, who had ultimately been waiting for his signal. Francis motioned to him, telling the executioner to hold his hand.
Mary had raised her head, her expression hopeful as she lifted her head from the ominous wooden block. She looked much like a novice, dressed in dark grey with her hair in a bun, waiting to take her vows, such a stark contrast to the reality of facing an execution, devoid of all finery after her guilty verdict.
The nobles around the square had begun to disperse, sensing the impending unrest amplified by the clattering of horses hooves. Guards moved to protect the castle, their commander glancing up towards Francis' window perch. Again, he made a motion for them to stay their arms, wanting to see if the invading army would make the first move. He saw him then, riding gallantly through the middle of his troops, and red and gold colors of Navarre streaming around him. He stood apart from his men, his exotic coloring and dark hair different than most others, but than so was he. He was different.
He was bold, and daring, and cunning. He was not as reckless as his brother who rode beside him, and yet the fact they were riding side by side, armed for battle, just proved their heedlessness.
Mary screamed for him, reaching blindly towards her lover. Mass chaos then ensued as Louis himself let out a war cry, brandishing his saber as he forced his way over to Mary. The castle guards were slow to respond to the threat, so taken by surprise they were by the advancing legion.
With ease, Louis advanced on Mary, both the executioner and the ladies who accompanied her vanishing in the throng of scattering people. Francis watched as he cut her bound hands, sheathing his sword in a rapid blur. His hands grasped her freed arms, hauling her easily onto the horse in front of him. Arms around her waist, Louis grabbed the reins, turning the horse quickly and urging it onward.
With a clattering of hooves, Louis and Mary were gone. King Antoine had stayed a ways back from the fight, calling back their men once Louis had rescued Mary. The castle grounds were strewn with injured guards, though Francis noted none were killed. The Price of Condé had been deliberate in his attack, aiming to strictly rescue Mary, and hurt as few people as possible.
"So you let him rescue her?" Catherine muttered from the doorway behind Francis. He swiveled towards his mother, noting her demeanor was not one of disapproval, but more of amusement.
"Is it so wrong to wish her alive?" Francis responded weakly.
"Considering how she treated you, her husband, I am a bit surprised, but I do not think it is wrong," she conceded, watching her son with a calculating eye, "though many a King would have severed her head for much less than adultery."
"Yes, well, I am not them, am I?"
"Do you at least feel free now to court the mother of your son?" Catherine never felt the need to be subtle, for beating around the bush was not her style. She valued being direct and to the point.
"Lola is engaged to Lord Narcisse, I am afraid. I have lost my chance with her for good."
"Nothing is ever truly lost, my son, except maybe Mary. She has lost not only you, but most likely she has lost her way in this world."
"They are both lost to me, mother. I will have to being anew."
"The Lord gives us these trials and tribulations to test our soul. God had blessed France with a strong King, and He will continue to do so."
Francis nodded weakly, not feeling like a strong King. He would have to be, though, to move France forward. He would forget about Mary and his treaty to back Scotland. He would forget about the Prince of Condé, and any positive relations he had with Navarre. He would forge France forward in a new direction, away from the darkness that had shadowed the country, ever since his father's madness.
"I pray He will mother."
I pray He will.