A/N: Some things you should know before delving into this fic: This is, in fact, a Mash story. That isn't to say that I don't love Francis – I do! I just… love Bash more. ;) But don't worry, I will take good care of Francis. He will frequent this fic, and he is not going to be villainized.
Also, this story begins right around season one, episode two. I will draw certain dialogues from the show -through all of the first season- some of which you may recognize.
Chapter One : What I Desire
I had the week that came from hell
And yes, I know that you could tell
But you're like the net under the ledge
When I go flying off the edge
You go flying off as well
You got something I need
Yeah, in this world full of people there's one killing me
And if we only die once, I wanna die with you
-Something I Need,
One Republic
Catherine de' Medici, Queen of France, found herself in a very dangerous and difficult position.
She watched with mounting trepidation as her trusted seer, Nostradamus, entered into her private chambers, passing her line of servants and guards as if they were invisible.
As the tall prophet made his way over to the writing desk where the queen sat, with her hands clasped tightly within her lap, her guards looked to her for orders. Catherine nodded to them discretely, waving a dismissive hand through the air, and waited in silence until the armor-clad men and lower-class attendants had completely vacated the room. Then, hesitantly, she granted the French court's renowned prophet her full and undivided attention.
The look that she found within the seer's eyes, however, caused the queen's stomach to immediately coil and drop.
"Do not give me that look." She warned, leaning back against her seat. She was dressed richly in an evening gown, colored in royal reds, and her hair and fingers were adorned with beautiful, glittering jewelry. The crown atop her golden hair sat perfectly still as she stared up at Nostradamus, watching his face, wondering what thoughts hid behind his deep brown eyes.
"What have you done?" Asked Nostradamus slowly, in his familiar yet raspy voice.
Catherine's brows quirked upward in response, momentarily, and she challenged him to continue with pursed lips. It was universally understood throughout the kingdom that, out of all the subjects at Catherine's disposal, Nostradamus was the closest thing that the French queen had to a friend; which made him a singular exception, when it came to confrontation.
Nostradamus shifted uncomfortably beneath the brown fabrics of his tunic, and he lowered his voice to the tone of a whisper. "You blackmailed a boy into taking Mary's virtue by force."
"I did what I had to, to protect myself and you." Catherine said while lifting her chin higher. She watched as her trusted seer's jawline tensed and released, knowing that her words struck him at his core. "If only that stupid Scottish boy had actually succeeded in poisoning her…"
"That boy is now dead."
Catherine deadpanned. She ought to have known that Nostradamus would express his distaste for the outcome of her most recent ploy; but she couldn't be bothered with his sentimental aversions. She had work to do. She had plans that needed to be set into motion. She had a son who needed her help.
"A necessary death." She defended.
Nostradamus' mouth grew tight and hard.
It was a delicate problem they faced to be sure, but something had to be done. Their knowledge of the future -kept in secret between only them- put both the queen and her trusted seer in a wonderful yet terrible position. They knew the outcome of her son's horrible fate, but not the cause – entirely. And Catherine understood, without doubt, that her headstrong son would not take kindly to her interference; especially if he were to discover her involvement in recent -unfortunate- events.
"How do I tell my son you see his death? That his union with Mary will be the cause?" Asked Catherine. She placed her elbow atop her desk and rested her chin at the tip of her thumb, then began running her index finger back and forth along her lower lip. She glanced around her private chambers, as if searching for an answer among her belongings; her gaze bouncing from the red and gold tapestries along the windows, to the posh pillows above the bed, and lastly onto the wood-carved mantel piece atop the crackling fireplace.
Nostradamus was silent for a moment, considering her dilemma, before drawing in a harsh breath. "Francis doesn't believe in prophecies. You cannot tell him."
"I must draw Francis' attention elsewhere, indefinitely. And somehow force Mary to withdraw herself from the arrangement…" Catherine mused, drawing her gaze downward and onto the writing desk before her.
Of course, she thought to herself, staring at a blank piece of parchment paper as her plan began to formulate within her mind.
With haste, she reached across the writing desk for her feathered quill. She dipped the sharp end of the tool aggressively into the ink bottle to her right, then inched the blank parchment closer to her breast. After a moment's consideration, she began to write out the foundation for her brilliant plan. As her hand flew across the paper, carving words of betrayal across each line, she could feel Nostradamus' eyes pressing into the side of her face.
Catherine paused, flicking her attention back up and onto the tall seer.
"I trust your visions, and your council," her tone was softer, kinder, and more determined than before, "but until your visions are altered I will stop at nothing to end the alliance, and break this engagement apart."
A strange shadow flashed across Nostradamus' face before he spoke, with a pernicious tone, "I will not assist you in harming any more innocent people."
The queen acknowledged his sentiments -just for a moment- before returning to her writing. A thick anticipation hung in the air between Catherine and Nostradamus as she worked, scribbling across the parchment as if she were punishing it. The letter had to be perfect; and, desperate as it was, it had to be convincing.
Once she was completely satisfied with the final product, having read it over several times, the French queen rounded her shoulders with pride and wet her lips, once again leaning back into the cushions of her chair. It was perfect. The plan, the letter – all of it.
"Do not worry," Catherine said coolly, dropping her quill into its home of ink while rising confidently from her seat. The legs of her chair scraped loudly across the tile floors as the queen reached her hand forward to cup Nostradamus' bearded chin, in a strange show of affection. "I have thought of another way."
Nostradamus looked to her with uncertainty, but remained as silent as stone.
He watched in confusion as the queen proceeded to fold the letter into three separate sections and stamped it with a red seal labeled from French Court. She then glided to the doorway with clicking heels and thrust the large door open with an air of importance to reveal a sea of guards and servants waiting dutifully across the threshold.
Catherine glanced over her subjects for a moment -searching for a specific face- before handing the letter to a short servant girl that she recognized as being truly loyal. The girl silently received the letter and looked to the queen with obvious apprehension.
Catherine's lips stretched back to reveal a pompous smile. "See that this gets to Lady Olivia D'Amencourt of Italy. And be discreet."
Sebastian de Poitiers, bastard son of King Henry II, stood at the top of the stairs as Queen Mary of Scotland entered into the hallway below; and he caught himself staring.
There were times -not many, but a few- when Sebastian preferred the safety of the French Court to that of the constant call of the wild forest; but, ever since Queen Mary's arrival, he seemed to desire the confining walls of the castle above all else. There was a lightness that Her Grace's presence had brought to the royal estate; though, he couldn't quite place his finger on how.
Sebastian leaned into the railing along the castle's upper level, steadying himself against the wooden posts as his hands hung freely over the edge. Servants and guards moved noisily behind him, shuffling hurriedly by as they tended to their afternoon duties, but his attentions were captured elsewhere.
His eyes haltingly trailed after the Scottish queen below him, who was enveloped by sunlight as she sauntered past the tall and radiant windows with her loyal dog in tow. Her long dark hair hung in rich ringlets down the back of her white gown, which was form-fitting to her graceful curves, and her hand ran softly over the nape of her dog's neck with affection. As usual, everything about her appeared elegant and -somewhat- ethereal; from the way that she moved, down to the smaller, more intimate details, like the twin braids that framed the sides of her narrow face.
From the moment that Sebastian had laid eyes upon Mary, when she had exited her carriage only a few days prior, his entire chest had caved inward as if he'd been squarely struck by a fast-moving stag. The king's bastard had heard rumors of the Queen of Scot's beauty, prior to their meeting, but words had not justly prepared him for her charm or -of what he had later discovered- her wit. And, true to his nature, Sebastian was easily drawn to these enticing traits, no matter the woman.
Even if, he subconsciously scolded himself, that woman so happened to be his little brother's fiancée...
"Take care, my brave son, or you will bleed for a girl who will never be yours." Sebastian's jaw tightened as he considered his mother's warning from a few days before.
He had been all-too quick to lend a hand when Mary's dog went jaunting into the forest, and he had been equally eager to assist in the capture of the escaped boy, Colin, who'd attempted to ruin her virtue. For some reason, unbeknownst to him, Sebastian had tackled each of Mary's problems as if they personally affected him; though, he insisted that these heroic actions were due to his undevout loyalties to his little brother Francis.
But what must Francis think of Sebastian's recent involvement in the Scottish Queen's wellbeing? The king's bastard could hardly make sense of it, himself...
Sebastian gnawed absentmindedly on the inside of his cheek as a dangerous thought struck him. Ah, but you know damned well why you're involved …
"Mary!" A voice called out to the young queen from the end of the lower hall, causing Sebastian's eyes to shift. He knew to whom the voice belonged, long before he saw her, and it was no surprise when Queen Catherine traveled into view.
The Queen of France crossed the hallway in tight strides, holding herself tall in what could only be an attempt at intimidation. Two guards, whose chainmail clinked softly with each step, shadowed closely at her heels.
Sebastian watched with growing anticipation as Mary paused and turned from the window, shifting her torso to face towards the fast approaching French Queen. He felt himself draw in a sharp breath through tightly clenched teeth, knowing how likely it was that the interaction below would spark confrontation. He was unfortunately aware -arguably, better than anyone- of how pitiless Catherine de Medici could be.
Catherine had never been kind to Sebastian; even when he had been a young child. At best, her blatant disregard for his existence was the kindest thing that she had ever given to him – which, on most days, was gladly received. In contrast, Catherine initially had been pleased to welcome the young Queen of Scotland into French Court. But, as days passed and the nights grew colder, a darkness had shifted into the French Queen's heart, and she had developed a sudden cruelty when matters concerned Mary. The cause of this abrupt deviation in Catherine's demeanor had remained a mystery to Sebastian – but it had not gone unnoticed.
"Yes?" Mary responded, rolling the end of one of her dark braids between the tips of her fingers. She, too, seemed to anticipate the worst.
Catherine came to a halt at Mary's side and squared her shoulders beneath the loose garments of her flame-colored silks. Per her usual character, she was quick to the point, "it is good of you to be so understanding to Francis and his needs."
Mary's dog, Stirling, let out a low whine as if he were reacting to a shift in his master's disposition.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Mary said coolly, clasping her hands at her front.
Sebastian straightened as one of the castle's hefty guards paused momentarily at his side. They exchanged an awkward glance, wherein the king's bastard was forced to realize that his current position appeared to be spying rather than casual observing. He forced a smile and nodded to the guard, taking a step backwards to distance himself from the railing. Regardless, Catherine's next words did not evade his keen ears...
"I am referring to my son's lovers."
Sebastian's eyes snapped back down onto the conversing queen's below -guard be damned- and he tensed. Mary's chest began to rise and fall with heavy breaths as Catherine's eyes grew ablaze with satisfaction.
"They never last long," Catherine continued with a smirk, "you learn the signs after a while – which girl is serious and which is not."
Mary's lips twitched, as if she were holding back the desire to snap. Somehow, despite it, her voice came out even and clear, "you must be mistaken."
"He is no different than his father, in that way. Henry had known Diane first, and after our marriage I found out she was there, in his heart, all along. And then that bastard son of theirs was born, who is nothing more than a complication of Henry's lust. A mistake that I must constantly endure …"
Sebastian's hands found their way back onto the railing and he gripped it with a tension that whitened his knuckles. It wasn't the mention of him -or his mother- that pricked at his emotions, but rather the delivery in which Catherine spoke of it. Sebastian knew that Francis was a great deal of things -passionate, ambitious, and sometimes foolish- but to compare him to their father was simply unfathomable.
Mary fixed Catherine with a hard stare, her eyes glinting with a hint of sunlight. "I do not believe that Francis is anything like his father."
A surge of unwavering pride shot throughout Sebastian's veins and stretched up onto his lips in the form of a smirk. Mary was nothing if not bold.
"Sweet girl," Catherine said with an amused smile, "you are nothing more than a contract to Francis. You will give him heirs and mother his children - but he will always seek out other company."
"Even though we are contracted into marriage, there is still hope for love and faithfulness!" Mary defended, though her voice sounded heavy with doubt.
Catherine quirked a brow and her eyes hardened as she drank in the blatant sadness on the younger queen's face. "Do not let your foolish and naïve fairytale dreams cloud your mind, Mary. No one will love you here."
Mary said nothing, though Sebastian could see her jaw tighten sharply for a brief moment as tears welled within her eyes; and his heart sank into the pit of his stomach.
Catherine inhaled a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cool air of the hallway. She then flicked her narrowed eyes past Mary and continued on her way, moving as if she had never paused in her journey at all.
Mary watched after Catherine with silent grief. She waited until the French Queen had completely disappeared before stooping to catch hold of Stirling's leash. She then straightened and moved towards the castle exit, blotting the back of her hand gently against the reddening flush of her cheeks as she escaped through the large, wooden doors.
With urgency, Sebastian pushed away from the railing and made his way down the tall flight of stairs; consciously aware that the heartbreak he had just witnessed within Mary's eyes had awoken something deep within his soul.
Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, wrapped her hands tightly around her elbows, cradling herself as she stared out at the vast ocean before her. She watched as the salty waves lapped against the shore in a gentle rhythm, allowing the sound of the rolling tide to calm the wild drum of her heart.
A chilled breeze brushed over the trail of fresh tears that ran down Mary's cheeks, and she wiped at them with blatant ire and frustration. What a fool she must have looked in allowing Catherine, Queen of France, to rile her in such a manor! Yet, it hadn't been Catherine's words that stoked the fire of Mary's emotions; rather, it had been the honesty in what she spoke. She was not loved here, and Francis did not carry the same affections for her that she had hoped he would. Not yet, at least.
And, though matters of the heart should not have concerned or troubled a young ruler such as Mary… they did.
The thought of her loneliness made her feel terribly distraught.
Still, what was even worse, was the reality that these tears had not been the first shed since her arrival in French Court. In fact, Mary had experienced far more grief than joy within her first week at the royal castle; and her sorrows were increasingly more often, for reasons she could not fathom. She was constantly battling, internally, with some form of grief; if it wasn't the French Queen toying with her emotions on a daily basis, then it was the constant linger of danger weighing heavily upon Mary's narrow shoulders.
Of course, the young Queen of Scotland was no stranger to threats.
Since the age of six, she had lived with a metaphorical target on her back; and her enemies seemed to stretch increasingly far and wide the closer she came to ruling. Once, not along ago, she had found promise in knowing that when she took her position at the Dauphin of France's side she would be free from the constant attempts on her life…
Yet, here she stood, trapped within the French Court that had once assured her safety, being silently hunted by an enemy that may or may not have been housed under the same royal roof.
Mary shuddered as she recollected on an earlier warning given by Colin, who, incidentally, was the same boy who had attempted to rob Mary of her virtue. He had warned of a higher power, looming among the shadows of the castle. A higher power that had pressured him into committing the near-violation. A higher power who -though unidentified- had the ability to ruin the boy's life if he hadn't complied with their demands. Which, in the end, did not matter; for he had been found strung-up and dead within the woods several days later.
Mary had her suspicions of who the higher power may -in fact- be, but she did not give them voice. After all, who could she trust within the French Court?
Stirling snorted gruffly, jarring Mary free from her dismal thoughts. She snapped her eyes down onto the Deer Hound's gray face and studied his calm demeanor, feeling ridiculously envious of his simple and carefree life.
"Is there no one that I can trust here other than you?" She asked, hoarsely.
There was a sudden crash of pebbles beneath the sound of traveling boots, and Mary's stomach twisted with dread. Had Catherine followed her out onto the grounds, hoping to tear her down with more heartless facts? Had Francis come to inquire on his mother's behalf? Had one of her ladies-in-waiting witnessed her crude encounter with the French Queen and come to lend a sweet -but unwelcomed- ear? With expanding fear Mary twisted about on her heel so quickly that, for a fleeing moment, she thought she might lose her balance.
A rush of relief flooded throughout the Scottish Queen's chest as she examined Sebastian, the king's bastard, who was dressed in his recurrent attire; a long leather coat, loose-fitting breeches, and a pair of knee-high riding boots. Mary had discovered, over her first week at court, that Sebastian's usual choice in clothing made his frequent departures all the more effortless; he was dressed for escape, at any given moment.
As he approached, Sebastian regarded Mary thoughtfully with his cool silvery eyes. Once he was within arm's reach, he knelt forward to run his fingers across Stirling's long back, causing the dog's tail to wag in contented welcome.
"Her bark is worse than her bight, I assure you." Sebastian spoke, with a tender tone.
Mary studied Sebastian warily as he continued to pet her dog, considering his kind assurance.
"You overheard my conversation with the Queen." Said Mary. It was not a question.
Sebastian was silent for a span, moving his hand to the space below Stirling's chin and scratching until the dog's hind leg began to comically twitch. The king's bastard then gave Mary a crooked smile and flicked his eyes up to meet hers. "You and I have that in common; Queen Catherine's animosity knows no bounds when concerning us."
A feeling of disquiet washed over Mary as his words struck a chord.
"I do not understand what I have done to earn her distaste," she said plainly, "I can understand why she dislikes you."
Sebastian quirked an eyebrow, and a ghost of amusement flashed across his face.
Immediately horrified and embarrassed by her own thoughtless outburst, Mary's jaw dropped open as she frantically began to retract her poisonous words. "I apologize – that was cruel. I did not mean it as judgement. I simply understand that you pose a threat to her, and are a constant reminder of the King's disloyalties – not that your mother isn't pleasant, or you -"
Sebastian chuckled and rose to his feet, casually silencing Mary with his unexpected behavior. He then clasped his hands tightly behind his back and inclined his head with a dimpled smile, "you can always be honest with me, Your Grace."
Mary bit down onto her lip as heat began to rise from the center of her chest, traveling up into the tops of her cheeks. Sebastian had called her by her name on several occasions, most notably when he had caught her on her way out into the woods a week prior – though, he had used it sparingly ever since. She had been addressed as 'Your Grace' by countless individuals throughout her time in French Court, but she couldn't stand the way that it sounded when rolling off of Sebastian's tongue.
"We are friends, are we not?" Inquired Mary, with what may have been the first true smile she had given all afternoon.
Sebastian lifted his chin and caught her eyes. "I would like for us to be."
Mary's smile widened as she elaborated, "then you should know; I insist that my friends call me Mary."
Sebastian unclasped his hands and relaxed, as if an invisible weight had been lifted from between Mary and himself, and he rounded his shoulders with an air of confidence.
"Alright. If I may be so bold, Mary," he said, averting his eyes out onto the ocean, "I do not believe that Catherine's cruelty is all that bothers you on this day."
Mary wet her lips and sighed, turning her own face out toward the crashing waves. His observation -though not incorrect- was disheartening. If the king's bastard son -who truly couldn't be bothered with Mary's sorrows and internal plights- was able to sense that she was upset, then surely she wasn't portraying herself as a future queen very effectively.
Still, a voice cried out somewhere in the back of her mind, it couldn't hurt to confide in someone…
Before she could overanalyze the sudden desire to share her secrets with him, Mary blurted out, "it's Francis. He is not like I remembered."
Mary could feel, rather than see, Sebastian's eyes flicking back onto her face as he examined her silently.
"You mean to tell me that he is no longer a child?" Sebastian asked, after a span, and she did not miss his teasing tone.
Mary turned to face Sebastian once again and narrowed her eyes, unsurprised to discover that he was, in fact, staring. "On the contrary, he is acting quite childish."
Sebastian chuckled, once, and offered her a sincere smile. "Give it time. This is difficult for him as well."
Mary stared at Sebastian curiously, overwhelmed by his genuine kindness.
The young queen had known very little of King Henry's bastard son before arriving in French Court. It had been her dear friend, Kenna, who had informed Mary of Sebastian, and all of his rumored history; and Mary had sorted out the facts from the fiction, over the past week. Sebastian was favored by the King, above all other royal children – which was -sometimes awkwardly- apparent. He was the son of Diane de Poitiers, the king's alarmingly beautiful mistress. He was allowed free rein of the castle -inside and out- and was regarded as a 'lord' by most of the servants, despite his situation.
And he was, like his brother Francis, strikingly handsome… though, their paradoxical looks could not be more drastic.
It was a matter that greatly perplexed Mary, upon first meeting the brothers. Where Francis had fine, blonde locks of wavy hair, Sebastian had straight dark hair that hung loosely around his face. Francis' eyes were blue and bright, whereas Sebastian's eyes were unusually pale – almost seeming colorless, at times. Francis stood tall-ish (taller than Mary, of course) and thin with a narrowed face, yet Sebastian stood higher than his younger brother with an oval-shaped face.
Despite their physical differences, there were other obvious contrasts that Mary had discovered between Francis and Sebastian. Francis was quick-tempered when Sebastian remained calm and even. Francis put his country before anything and everything else, whereas Sebastian seemed to put his heart first. Francis was a prince, and acted accordingly… and Sebastian was…
Wild and free, Mary had decided.
Sebastian cleared his throat and asked her, "Mary? What are you thinking about?"
Mary blinked back into reality, pushing aside her silly thoughts of comparing brothers.
"Nothing," she vowed quickly, awkwardly fingering the white fabrics of her dress.
"I swore I'd lost you for a moment there," Sebastian said with a lightness, referring to her silent span of deep thought.
Perhaps it was his pressing stare that drove her into confession, or perhaps it was his cheeky smile, but before she could stop herself -again- Mary found herself spilling her minds contents like a broken dam. "I was only thinking of how you and your brother are not alike… at all, really."
Sebastian considered this for a moment and shrugged. "We are only half-brothers."
His words catapulted Mary back onto her first day at French Court, when she had spoken with Francis within the privacy of her childhood quarters. He, too, had expressed that they were only half-brothers, yet, he had admitted to being envious of the freedom that his older sibling possessed. "He has said the same of you."
"Habit, I suppose," Sebastian started, momentarily glancing down onto the sandy ground at his feet. Mary swore she could see a hint of sadness as it shadowed his handsome features. "We are reminded of it constantly."
A home-sick longing began to creep up into Mary's senses as she thought of her own half-brother, James, who resided in Scotland with her mother, Marie. There was a likeness within their situations that tugged lightly at her heartstrings, urging her to be delicate with the matter.
"He envies you, you know? Your freedom." Said Mary, wishing to chase away the forlorn look that had begun to establish itself upon Sebastian's face.
"Yes, well," Sebastian started, glancing over his shoulder to inspect the distant courtyard, "we both possess things and have opportunities that the other desires."
Mary followed his gaze with curiosity, internally battling on whether or not she should continue to take advantage of Sebastian's sharing mood. He seemed to care deeply for Francis. And, perhaps, in caring for Francis, he also cared for Francis' future marriage…
"Sebastian…"
"We are friends, are we not?" He interrupted, snapping his attention back onto her face and mocking her with a wink.
Gladdened by the absence of his formerly dreary countenance, Mary indulged in his jesting. "I would like for us to be."
"Then you should know; I insist that my friends call me Bash." He said with a small tone of irony, sharing in their newly private joke.
"Bash," Mary started again with mock daintiness, before quickly shifting into a much more serious tone, "may I ask you something, and trust that you will be honest with me?"
Sensing her need for gravity, Bash evened his brow and nodded lightly. "Of course."
Mary pressed her lips together in an even line and avoided Bash's eyes by glancing down onto Stirling, who sat stilly at her side while lightly panting. "Did Francis love someone before I arrived?"
Bash shifted his weight from one foot onto the other, unmistakably troubled by her inquiry. When he spoke, his voice came out raw and uncertain, "physically?"
Mary already knew the answer to that. Francis was very likely physically with a woman, even now. What she needed to know was if Francis had given himself -body and soul- to another woman.
Drawing in a sharp breath of air, the Queen of Scots began to reconsider her question. Perhaps some things were best left unknown…
As if reading her thoughts, Bash spoke.
"Ah. I cannot speak for his heart," he whispered softly, before stammering on, "I - I believe he did, yes. But she is long gone, and you are his betrothed. He understands that he has a duty to his country, and to his people."
So then, it was true; Francis had given his heart to another woman, which would explain his lack of trying when Mary attempted to form a bond. Meanwhile, she had spent the last ten years of her life pining away for a boy who would never love her in return. And, as is custom with rulers and future kings and queens, Mary and Francis would be forced into a marriage that they never wanted or agreed to.
Mary tensed and glanced to Bash with a telling frown, unable to conceal her obvious dismay.
"It is all so romantic, isn't it?" She inquired sarcastically, despite her better judgement.
Bash's brow furrowed. He looked as though he made to laugh, but his voice eventually broke past his amused smirk smoothly, "it is romance that you desire?"
No.
Yes.
Perhaps?
Mary's jaw did a series of pushups as she flattened her hands against her dress, oddly fidgety beneath Sebastian's pressing stare. "What I desire…"
Her voice trailed as she considered her words carefully.
There was a mountain of pressure upon Mary's shoulders, at all times. She was the ruler of a country. She was the protector of her people. She was a queen. And queen's, as an unwritten rule, did not have the liberty of putting themselves first.
Bash watched her patiently – looking almost contented to do so. The look within his eyes -gentle, kind, and eager to listen- scooped Mary up into another momentary bought of grief. If only Francis would look at her in such a way!
Decidedly sick of feeling sorry for herself, Mary shook her hair back and forth and glanced upwards towards the brightening sky. A songbird flitted through the air, singing to the duo in greeting, and Mary watched as the small creature dipped and soared in playful merriment. How nice it must be, she considered, to be a songbird…
"What I desire right now is to laugh and have fun. I have been lacking in both since I arrived in French Court." She stated earnestly, observing the small bird until it was lost among the trees.
Bash moved at her side, crouching down to the ground and sifting loudly through the pebbles and small rocks that scattered along the rough sand. Mary glanced to him, confused.
When he straightened, Bash shrugged his shoulders up into his neck and said simply, "then I will make it my personal duty to see to it that you laugh and have fun, every day."
Bash then twisted his hips towards the water's edge and chucked a flat stone out into the rolling tide. Mary watched as the rock soared out onto the ocean's waves and landed -once, twice, three times- along the water's surface, skipping across the top of the sea.
Mary's eyes widened and she gasped, intrigued, "how did you…"
"First, you must find a flat stone." Bash smiled, bending back down and fingering through an assortment of pebbles. He paused to glance up at her, inviting her to join him in his search.
Mary hesitated. There were times, back at the convent, when she had stomped through mud barefoot and rolled in thick piles of hay; but adults -rather, queens- did not act in such ways, and digging through stones and sifting through beach sand did not seem appropriate.
Though, it wasn't as if anyone were watching her now… aside from Bash, who certainly wouldn't criticize the action.
Mary stooped quickly to pick up a lopsided stone and examined it critically. "Will this do?"
Bash pressed his hands into his breeches, unbending at the knee, and stared down at Mary's rock with a lopsided smile. Without a word, he reached forward and snatched the stone from her palm before tossing it over his shoulder in a discarding motion. He then placed a new stone within her palm -one that was much more round and smooth- while holding a separate one within his own hand.
"Grasp it with your thumb and middle finger, then firmly hook your index finger along the edge." He instructed, leaning towards Mary while displaying the correct action with his rock. "Your thumb goes on the top of the stone, not around the edge. That's it! Now, stand with your side to the ocean and toss it with an arch."
Feeling confident, Mary threw the rock out towards the ocean with her best effort… and watched as the stone hit the beach, bounced once into the air, and then careened down into the water before sinking to the bottom of the tide.
Mary pressed her hand against her lips as a giggle began to erupt. She glanced to Bash, feeling embarrassed, and was amused to find that he, too, had his mouth slammed together in an effort to contain the rising amusement. Unable to curb herself, Mary dropped her hand and began to burst with rolling laughter, followed shortly after by Bash, who drooped his shoulders low and tossed his head back.
They laughed together for a while, captured within a moment of pure joy, and Mary felt a sudden lightness beginning to take hold of her chest.
Bash glanced to her as his steady chuckles began to fade, and he smiled softy. Mary returned the smile tentatively.
"Try again," Bash said, handing her the other stone while nodding with encouragement.
Mary held out her palm, obediently. This time, instead of dropping the stone like he had before, Bash gently took her hand within his own and adjusted her fingers to properly grip the rock. As he moved her fingers around the stone, Mary's senses were overwhelmed by the scents of pine and cinnamon that mingled within Bash's tousled mess of hair. She breathed him in as he moved his hands up to her shoulders, guiding her body to flank the ocean, and she felt herself beginning to lightly flush.
Having grown up being surrounded by nuns, Mary hadn't been handled by a boy -or, rather, man- in her entire life, and it disconcerted her greatly.
"There," said Bash, at length, stepping back and taking his alluring scent with him, "toss it."
With little hesitation, Mary drew her hand back, inhaled deeply, and chucked the stone. It skipped four times, delicately curving up and down with the waves, then settled into the abyss of the ocean.
Mary clasped her hands, releasing a loud clap, and beamed. "That is fun."
"You're a natural." Bash said, stepping forward and nudging her good naturedly with his shoulder. She gave him a smile in turn, catching the playful look within his eye and the small grin that began to tug at his lips. Mary appreciated Bash's carefree mien, and his ability to treat her -even if just for a moment- like she wasn't the Queen of Scotland. She felt rather normal for a brief, fleeting amount of time...
The sound of conversating voices, somewhere far beyond them, broke the trance.
Bash crinkled his nose as he took a guarded step back, distancing himself from her. "I'll… leave you to it."
Mary watched as the king's bastard then bowed forward, displaying his genteel knowledge for anyone who may have been silently observing them, then turned to leave. She held back a wince as she watched him depart before turning back to face the loneliness of the ocean once again.
It wasn't until much later, when Mary had retired back into the castle herself, that she allowed Bash's pledge to fully sink in.
… then I will make it my personal duty to see to it that you laugh and have fun, every day...
Mary ran the tips of her fingers along the stone castle walls as she strolled the hallways in silence. Her lips stretched up into a smile as she thought of Bash; the only person within the royal family to offer her kindness since her arrival – bastard, or not.
The sound of a slamming door jarred Mary from her thoughts, causing her to pause in her travel. She was shocked to discover Kenna, her childhood friend and lady-in-waiting, emerging from around the corner. Her sand-colored hair was a disorderly mess, her dress was wrinkled and uneven, and her lips were uncharacteristically plump.
Despite her appearance, however, Kenna seemed enthusiastically giddy.
"Where have you been?" Mary demanded, airily. Her question echoed down the quiet hallway.
Kenna stopped short, gasping as she viewed Mary at the opposite end of the hallway.
"I-I've been looking for you," the girl stammered, but recovered quickly as she trotted towards Mary, "don't you look happy? What has placed such a smile on your face?"
Mary blinked in consideration of the complexity of her answer. What could Kenna possibly mean by such a smile? Had Mary's misery been so apparent that even the slightest hint of joy brought forth waves of suspicion? Or, was her friend suggesting that the smile -in itself- seemed to be hiding a much different feeling? Without further hesitation, Mary gestured her hand towards the hallway's tall windows and commented, "the gorgeous weather, of course."
Kenna quirked a brow, steeling a glance towards the windows with apparent disbelief, then smiled, "of course."
Bash burst into his younger brother's private quarters, after convincing the guard outside that he did not need announcing, and held the door open as a short, brunette-haired girl shifted her way past him; exiting the room with apparent embarrassment. He watched after her thoughtfully as the girl fled down the stairs, feeling a pang of guilt beginning to rise, then flicked his eyes back into the prince's quarters to shoot his young brother a calculating look.
Francis, the Dauphin of France, sat merrily beneath the protection of white sheets, with his arms folded neatly behind his blonde head of hair. He was resting, bare chested, against the grand wooden headboard of his bed; looking plainly amused as he stared back at Bash. This was, oddly, a situation in which the brothers found themselves trapped within quite often. Whenever Francis went 'missing', it was Bash's responsibility to locate the Prince of France and bring him forth to whatever event or meeting or party that was missing his young attendance.
This time, however, Bash sought out his younger brother for his own selfish reasons.
"You look puzzled, Brother." Francis said, rather smug.
Bash closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a span, running his tongue across the front of his teeth. "I spoke with Mary."
Francis barked out a humorless laugh. "Oh?"
Bash narrowed his eyes upon the young prince while taking a few tentative steps towards the center of the room. It was cool and clean within Francis' quarters -save for the piles of clothes strewn lazily across the floor from his apparently rapid undressing- yet Bash could feel a heat beginning to travel, slowly, up the back of his neck. "Francis, what are you doing?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary." Francis replied quickly, wiggling his eyebrows up and down. When Bash showed no sign of amusement, Francis continued on, "would you like details?"
Bash folded his arms at his chest, watching as Francis proceeded to fling his legs over the side of the bed while stretching his naked back in an arch.
"You're going to continue to act like this? Even now that Mary is around?"
Francis groaned and rolled his eyes. "I am the future King of France, and I will do as I please."
"At what cost?" Bash hissed, feeling oddly torn.
There were few times when Bash did not support Francis' in his endeavors, much like how Francis was often more-than-willing to aid Bash in his foolish ploys. They had grown together, looked after one another, played together, laughed together, and helped shape each other into the men that they had become.
It was unusual for Bash to stand before Francis -as he did now- and question him.
Francis tilted his head to the side, blinking back at his older brother with rising confusion. "Why does it concern you so?"
Bash ran his hand across his face, rubbing his thumb and index finger deep into the sockets of his eyes. He was beginning to wonder the same thing, really...
Then an image of Mary flashed across his mind, and realization dawned.
He dropped his hand and sighed, flicking his gaze back onto his younger brother. "Can you not see that it hurts Mary?"
His brother snorted. "Our arrangement is strictly business."
Francis knelt forward and grabbed his discarded breeches from the floor, then performed a few awkward hops as he pulled them up and onto his legs. As he began to tie the string at his waist into a tight loop, he looked back up towards Bash and continued. "She is a queen. She understands. Besides, we could be married off to other people tomorrow, if it were necessary."
Bash sighed -again- and stooped down to collect Francis' shirt from the floor. He held the garment out to his brother at arm's length while inquiring, gruffly, "do you aspire to be like our father in every way?"
Francis rounded the bed and approached Bash with a wide smile. He then snatched the shirt from Bash and began the process of pulling his arms through the sleeves, one at a time, while muttering, "only in the best ways."
Bash's heart fell, somewhere in the vicinity of his boots. He didn't want Catherine's words to be true about Francis; and he refused to stand idly by while his younger brother turned into the mirror image of their father -or worse- while Mary ended up in the same situation as his mother.
"Little Brother," Bash started, catching Francis by the arm as the prince headed for the door.
Francis turned, eyes ablaze with a look full of warning. "I am finished with your inputs, for the day."
Bash's jaw tightened, and he swallowed a thickness that had suddenly gathered within his throat. Without an utterance, he released Francis' arm and watched as the Prince of France stormed out into the hallway, vanishing into the shadows beyond his quarters.
A/N: Ah, there it is!
I have an entire outline written up for this fic, and am pretty excited to dig into it… I just hope that there are some brave souls who are willing to take this journey with me. :) Let me know if you enjoyed it by following, adding to your favorites, or commenting!
Love.
