Chapter One
Mary, Queen of Scots let her eyes travel around the throne room, intelligently taking in and assessing all of the intricately unfolding drama that surrounded her, today as always. The King was cavorting absurdly with Penelope whilst Catherine schemed with some informants in a corner. Greer sat tapping one foot absentmindedly as she doubtless internally struggled with Leith's troubles, caught between love and the pressures of expectations, and smothered by perhaps unfair guilt - all feelings with which Mary could not only sympathize. In fact, she quite understood them on an intimate, near constant level.
Lola strolled with her new fiancé, content at last. Mary wished she could share in that sense of resolution to the entire situation of Lola's pregnancy, but she feared she never would. Every day that Lola's stomach and the babe within grew, there would come fresh reminders of her own failure to become pregnant with Francis' child. Worse still, Mary felt pummeled by the realization that Francis had never been, and perhaps never could be, entirely her own. He'd fallen into comfortable lust with so many others. No, his trysts may not have always been love affairs, but they were numerous and intimidating specters that, in her mind, stood between herself and her husband.
Olivia was back at court now, albeit under the watchful eye of Nostradamus, and in Mary's perception, quickly attached to the heart of the court prophet as well. She was hardly a threat to Mary's marriage, and Lola had moved on. Yet Mary didn't care to watch Francis whenever he lightly conversed with these two. Delicate, courtly, and romantically devoted as he was in all interactions with her, Mary knew there was another side to Francis, one less gentle and more animalistic. It was the part of him that Lola and Olivia, due to their non-royal statuses, had possessed and enjoyed, the same passion of which her marriage bed was bereft. He simply compartmentalized Mary by idealizing her, and all of these factors were combining to wear on her nerves exceedingly.
But compared to what she saw next and how it hit her heart, how it stung her to her very soul... Francis and his dichotomous nature...his...women? They meant little or nothing at all to her. Mary's warm, earnest brown eyes had caught upon the sight of Bash entering the room and sitting immediately beside Kenna, who had been trying to soothe Greer's woes. The air of solicitude which Bash had lately been wont to show Kenna, the kind attitude of friendship and support, bothered Mary when they truly should not.
What is wrong with me? Mary could not understand her feelings on the matter. But that was because she did not want to.
Didn't she want her two friends (though Bash had once been much more, and their attempt to remain friends was shaky at best) to find happiness in their enforced marriage? Of course she wished to see them both as comfortable and established in shared felicity as was possible. So why couldn't she stop staring at Bash as he laughed over a book he and Kenna were examining? His fine figure and endlessly handsome face, with those long eyelashes and that kissable mouth...why did they so relentlessly fill her mind's eye these days even in his absence? Before his marriage to Kenna, Mary had been able to shrug off the memories of those blissful days spent engaged to Bash, in Francis' imposed absence. She had dismissed them as remnants of a relationship which was not meant to be and could not be.
She had convinced herself that her love for Francis outweighed her feelings for Bash. After all, she had seen Francis as her destiny from her childhood, and they were surely soul-mates...were they not? She was made to rule, and Francis had been fashioned by God Himself to rule by her side.
All of these considerations, and her relief at the prophecy's being overturned, had helped Mary to embrace marriage with Francis and sink back into her previous infatuation with him. Now, however, she fought day and night to drown her terrified suspicions that she'd allowed preconceived notions and a girlish love, along with her powerful sense of duty to her country, to draw her into this marriage with Francis.
She knew in her heart of hearts that when she had fallen in love with Bash, she had matured into a woman, and that their earthly, honest connection, unfettered by the artificial constructs of this world, was true. It would not have melted into a mess of confusion with the lightest touch of trouble, as she feared could happen with Francis. It would have held strong. But that only could have happened if Mary and Bash had not been themselves. Oh, heavens. Whatever was she to do?
Bash glanced up then and noticed Mary's intent gaze on him. She let her eyes rest on him a moment longer, yearning to know his feelings. But polite though his features remained, she saw the flash of bitter resolve to love her no more that seemed to characterize his attitude towards her of late. And it hurt her inexpressibly.
That evening, she lay beside Francis after a tepid encounter. He slept soundly enough, oblivious to her confused and distracted state. Unable to bear the unceasing barrage of questions that filled her mind, Mary quietly threw off the lavish, heavy bedcovers and slid from their repose.
She wandered the palace halls listlessly, taking some comfort at least in the hollowed-out silence that filled the air. Then the low sound of a footfall caught her ear, almost making Mary jump with its suddenness. She prayed it wasn't the mad King...or Francis for that matter, given her mood. When she saw Bash come around the corner in his nightclothes and robe, a candle in one hand, Mary's breath caught and her heart leaped. Out of everyone who might have been her fellow wanderer this night, it was Bash.
"Mary," he said, startled. "What are you doing here?" Seeing her look of dismay at his reaction, he added, "Forgive me. I don't mean to imply it's an unpleasant surprise."
"Isn't it?" She asked, her eyes brimming with unspoken words. "What have I done that you should feel otherwise?" She broke off their eye contact and went into an adjacent sitting room, aware that he followed her.
"Mary," Bash said in a heartfelt tone, "what's become of my life is not your fault. It's entirely my father's doing."
"Is it?" Mary inquired, placing her own candle on a table and sitting down, her white nightgown flouncing out around her. "It was I who went back on my promise to wed you."
"Yes," Bash allowed gently, "but you had to follow your heart first and foremost. I understand that. No, it was not you who forced me to watch...the consummation -" here his voice broke, and Mary was seized by grief and regret. He resumed, "and it was not you who tried to have me killed and then made me marry a woman I barely knew. That was all Henry."
"You don't seem as unhappy of late," Mary suggested. "Life with Kenna seems to suit you."
Could he hear the jealousy in her voice? A new light seemed to blaze in his eyes as he took her in.
"We're fast friends," Bash said, "which has been a help. But am I happy? Certainly not. Only one woman could have made me happy, and she is out of my reach forever."
Mary felt her face flame up and tears spring into her eyes as she stood to take Bash's hand, staring at him imploringly. "Not forever, Bash...please, don't say that."
"Mary," Bash whispered as shock registered in his face. "Do you love me still?"
"What would you do if I said yes?" Mary asked, breathing new life as his hand gripped hers warmly.
"What wouldn't I do?" Bash answered unhesitatingly.
The emotional proximity between them was overwhelming, and Mary lost her nerve all at once. "I must go," she resolved, prying her hand loose and running full-force from the room.
If only it were as easy to run from her true feelings.
Now that Bash understood them, Mary feared what would transpire even as she longed for their next encounter.
