As we step down from the carriage, he speaks softly into my ear. "Don't fret so much about being back at Court." His breath tickles my neck. "I have planned some surprises for you."
The idea catches me off my guard. For nearly two months, he has been the perfect husband as we have travelled throughout France in celebration of our marriage. While still uneasy about returning to where so many threats to our union originated, I find myself curious about whatever it is he has managed to hide from me for so many weeks. It is not as if he has had much time alone.
Before I can ask questions, we walk into the castle and are greeted by my ladies and Catherine. We speak of our happiness, of suitors I have hand-picked for Lola and Greer. We embrace. Catherine kisses my cheeks, indicating that we have reached a peaceful state once more – no longer at war as we have been for so long.
Immediately, there seems to be a need for us to separate. Francis follows after his mother, who requests to have a word with him. Though we have only just arrived, there already appear to be needs of state that must be attended to at once.
I sigh, reluctantly letting go of Francis' hand as my ladies lead me away. The loss of his warmth at my side saddens me. Unlike his hand, however, I cannot let go of my curiosity concerning his "surprises."
Though I was often apart from them before my return to Court, I realize just how much I have missed my friends these last weeks. They provide light to my days and I cannot begin to express my gratitude for their friendship and service. I present them with their gifts, hoping they might know even a small part of my love for them.
And then Greer asks the question I know every woman will ask me until I find myself with child. No, I am not pregnant. And two months isn't very long. I have to remind myself of that, attempting to forget that our hope for a child began before the wedding. Nothing within me wants to revisit the agony I experienced the first time I realized I wasn't pregnant, when Francis had gone into self-exile and Bash stood at my side. My courses flowed, as if proving I carried nothing of Francis with me – almost as if what was between us never was. But I knew better. There might not have been any proof within my womb that he once loved me, but my heart's reluctance in opening to Bash and the constant darkness in my life testified differently. The promise of a child – even in Francis' absence – would have been a welcome light in that darkness.
But I shake my head and pass around the marzipan, thankful for what has happened and that Francis and I still have the opportunity to make our hope of children a reality.
Greer's cheery countenance will have to be sufficient for the others today, I suppose. Lola seems unusually sullen and Kenna unusually subdued. In time, I hope they will enlighten me as to what has transpired in the time since the wedding.
We spend the remainder of the morning finding new homes for the wedding gifts. The girls share tidbits of castle gossip. I tell stories of our stays in Paris and Anet. But we do not speak of our hopes and fears. No – I do not express my concerns that we have returned to Court and that, in spite of our constant attempts, I am not yet pregnant.
When they leave after a light luncheon, I sit at my dressing table and remove my earrings. The day has already been long and tiring, so I intend to lay down and rest for a spell before I am needed again. I open the lowest compartment of the jewelry box I have traveled with, settled anew upon the table, to place the small studs inside. My eye spies a small piece of paper neatly folded in half. Puzzling, since I don't remember it being in the box before we left the inn this morning – before I passed it off to Francis to be stowed with the rest of our belongings.
Opening it, a simple and thin golden ring falls out and clatters against the wooden tabletop. I ignore it for now, turning my attention instead to the familiar scrawl on the page:
For my dear wife – I will be hiding five more of these throughout our rooms once we return. Find them all and I have another surprise for you.
I assume he means five more rings. Perhaps I will ask him if I get the chance, just to be certain. I pick up the ring and examine it closely. From the outside, it is simple and beautiful, thin and plain enough to be worn with other, more ornamented baubles. As I turn the circlet over in my hand, I laugh, wondering what I will do with six of them – and I catch sight of something slightly different about the inside.
Squinting, I make out the enameled words inscribed in French, Mon cœur est avec vous. A bemused smile breaks out upon my lips, my cheeks pinching with the sudden uplifting. It's a poésie ring!
Making my way to the bed, I draw back the covers and climb in. I find rest and take joy in knowing, after everything that happened before our wedding, the truth of the ring's inscription:
My heart is with you.
I rush out of Catherine's rooms, grateful for Henry's interruption. The pressure to be pregnant already overwhelms me in ways I never expected. My mother-in-law offering me pills and spouting off about how babies are of the utmost importance, providing balms and serums and offering advice would be laughable if it weren't so entirely intrusive. As if I'm not aware of the importance of providing my own line or that of France with heirs!
The corridor echoes with the strikes of my heels. I can barely contain my frustration and only hope that Francis will be in our chambers when I get there. Maybe he will be able to curb his mother's fertility lessons and prevent others from asking me why I remain so 'svelte'.
But it is not Francis who waits for me as I open the door and step inside.
Sebastian.
And before I can truly even begin to process that he obviously is not in Spain, I'm also grappling with his accusations that Francis had his men attack him as they escorted him away from the castle the night of our wedding. I fight my emotions to stay calm, to not let his words affect me – or at the least to not let him know that they do as the unease settles into my bones.
Because the reality is that seeing him when I never expected to again – and the guilt I feel over the possibility that someone tried to kill him for his attempts to be legitimized at my request – is too much. I wanted him to be happy, to forget the whole sordid ordeal and how it ended with my choosing his brother to be my husband; to forget his being forced to watch.
But, instead, he's here – once more in the castle and suspicious of Francis. Reminding me that I let him think there was more between us than there truly was, that he believed he could truly take Francis' place in my heart when my every action was to prevent his certain death.
My blood begins to churn, the result of my shortened breaths in reaction to his continued charges of wrongdoing. He threatens my husband's life and I cannot allow it. His anger spawns rash words – it always has. He has no proof to his accusations. I know Francis, I tell myself, and killing a brother whom he loves would not even cross his mind. No matter how angry he might be with Bash, he would never put into motion something so irreversible. I must choose to trust him.
Bash mentions our first kiss and the memory pains me, bringing to mind my first true fight with Francis. He does not understand that I still hold that moment with the deepest of regrets. As he leaves through the door, I grab hold of my shawl to venture out and speak with Francis' guards. If I can but confirm his instructions without involving him in any way, I can tell Bash and hopefully force him to leave without Francis knowing he was ever here. As I tie the shawl across my chest, I feel the weight of something other than the wool. A second ring is knotted on the shawl's end. I untie it and strain to make out the inner engraving in the fading light: Cert à mon gré.
The words leave me more determined than ever to rectify the situation before it worsens. I slip the ring on my finger as a reminder. Francis is certainly my choice, as well.
I uncover the third ring while searching for my brush at the end of the day. Francis hid it in a small drawer of my dressing table. Waiting for him, I sift the bristles through my hair and acknowledge with a sigh that he will likely know I have questioned his guards. I make up my mind to tell all when he joins me. As much as I would like to send Bash on his way without a contest of wills between the two, my main concern is protecting our current state of newlywed joy. I do not want to keep anything hidden from Francis. It is too early in our marriage to think of having anything but good secrets between us anyway.
Ubi amor ibi fides.
The Latin phrase steels my resolve to repair the breach between my husband and his brother. The fault rests with me, doesn't it? He won't be happy with me for the information I've sought from his guards, but I am grateful for the proof I now have for Bash – so he can leave, so he can be happy. So we can be happy.
Francis enters behind me. I quip about his mother but he already knows of my inquiries. We argue, gently at first but with more fervor as the exchange continues. I expected disagreement for how I handled things, but what bewilders me is his inability to see the intention behind my actions. My lips speak with full disclosure, full honesty, and yet it does nothing to soothe his vexation. My head spins in confusion, not understanding. He has made the assumption that I don't trust him, that seeking proof means I don't trust him.
I just want us to have a chance to be happy, which will never happen if Bash lurks in the shadows. Why can't he see that? I reach for him as he speaks of how he could falsify evidence if he wanted to, of how I need to take him at his word or there will be no real trust between us. And then he leaves, still angry. Since our wedding night, we have been nearly inseparable and his departure rattles me. Our first night back at Court and he chooses not to stay with me in my rooms – in our rooms. What have I done?
Feeling empty, as though I am missing half of myself, I return to finish my toilette and wonder whether Bash is the root source of Francis' frustration. He has made no secret of his current enmity toward his brother. If true, I want Bash gone – and quickly.
I turn to the window and set a candle in it, remembering Bash's words from earlier. The sooner he knows the truth, the sooner he leaves.
And the sooner my husband can know I agree with what is written on this third ring, the better.
Where there is love, there is faith.
I hurry in to change for riding, Kenna at my heels. Not much time can be wasted if what Kenna suspects is true. I shake my head, trying to dispel the indicators that I missed these past few days. Lola's dress was 'snug'; she appeared as if she might vomit when I urged her to eat the marzipan; always tired, never really herself in demeanor.
I have too many questions and no answers, at least not from Kenna. Who is the father? When did this happen? Did she do anything in particular that resulted in this pregnancy?
With the last question, I become well-aware that I am a terrible friend. In her misery, I somehow expect her to tell me how to become pregnant!
Kenna retrieves a pair of riding boots and I sit down as she assists me in lacing them.
"What's this?" she asks, holding up a ring strung through one of the laces. "It appears to have something written inside!"
I stretch out my palm and she places the band onto the surface of my skin. Sighing, I appreciate my husband's good intentions and regret that I am en route to meet his brother against his wishes – if only to broker peace between them and hopefully get to Lola before she does what cannot be undone. Like the ring in my hand, I too conceal something.
"Francis has hidden these throughout the rooms," I explain, feeling suddenly defeated. "Poésie rings, like what we girls exchanged as tokens of friendship when we were children. If I find all six, he says he has another surprise for me."
She appears taken aback by Francis' gesture. Undoubtedly, it is unusual for a man to woo his wife after they are wed. The blessed truth of his love for me lightens my heart if only for a moment. "Do you want me to look for the others while you're away?" she asks. I know she wants to help, but I don't want her to. I want to jealously guard his affection for me by finding that which he intended for me alone to discover.
"No," I tell her, covering her hand with mine. "I want to find them on my own. There are only two left anyway."
She hands me my cloak and exits through the door ahead of me. I glimpse the letters etched in the gold as I hasten toward the stables: Nemo nisi mors.
Latin. How I hope the sentiment is true when I return tonight, that he still believes no one but death can part us. Until then, I have one thought and one only.
Lola.
We should have never returned to Court.
That's the only thought that reverberates in my mind, time and again, as I piece together that Lola is carrying my husband's child and as I speak to Bash a second time. Her shame evident, it appears that he has none. No evidence will convince him of Francis' innocence.
And, apparently, the reason I am not yet pregnant has little to do with my husband and everything to do with me. My insides churn with the incoming weather, chilling as the wind begins to blow. My lungs tighten within my chest, constricted by both the cold and the dawning realization of just how helpless I am. But I must finish what I set out to accomplish. I must – or my failure to follow Francis' wishes will be for naught.
The snow falls around me as I tell Bash he cannot feel anything for me, that if he must hate anyone, he should hate me. I am the reason for his pain, for having led him to believe what was never meant to be. Self-hatred sharply slices its way into my soul for the bitter man who stands before me.
Yet somehow the sting of my conversation with Bash is little when compared to that with Lola. She hid this from me, her news an unexpected discovery of yet another pretty thing with something hidden inside. Her words make me question both our friendship and my marriage. Does she not understand what hiding this from my husband will cost me?
One question nags at me, though I know we have an unspoken agreement not to speak of such things – and for good reason. The same curiosity that spurred my excitement to find Francis' surprises now hungers to know what hides in the months we were apart. What else has Francis not shared with me of that time?
I wonder how long I can hide this from Francis, in turn. How dare she require such a thing of me? I am her queen! She knew I loved him still! How dare she threaten our happiness, now that we have been given another chance to find it together? The months since our marriage have been so sweet, full of bliss in the absence of anything that could threaten it. The reality of which I voiced my fear in the carriage as we returned to the castle might have already destroyed any possibility of happiness for us, no matter how hard we might fight against it. Can I break Lola's confidence, though? Can I intentionally keep this from him, breaching his trust?
Can I admit to him that the reason we do not yet expect a child is because of me?
Walking into my rooms – ours, I hope, should Francis decide to share them tonight – I am relieved to find him absent. The tears that I have kept at bay between here and the stables begin to spill down my cheeks, hot and wet against my chilled skin. For a while, I let them fall unchecked. For once, it is nice to just let myself feel.
I don't know what to do about Lola or Bash – though I hope I have finally seen his retreating form for the last time. When I see Francis, I will tell him that Bash has left and will not return, but I will not speak to him of the remainder of my afternoon. In the absence of certainty whether I should tell him or withhold the news, the safest route is not to tell him. For now.
If Francis finds out about the child from anyone else and then knows that I knew and said nothing, I can't imagine how long it will take to restore his faith in me. He so desperately wants to be a father. Even a child born from an unfortunate regret would be welcome and he would feel responsible. Lola fears being forced to remain at Court and I certainly don't want my new husband to take a mistress, even if only in name. It might be a very long time before he would forgive me for my silence – but I have to accept its risks and pray it never comes to that.
It cannot come to that.
My breathing returns to normal and I use a handkerchief to mop up the residual moisture from my face and nose. I pick up my diary from the side table, feeling inclined to write but unsure of what to commit to paper when my thoughts are all secrets. Things hidden from my husband.
As my thumb and forefinger find the ribbon toward the back of the book's pages, I realize that I will soon have need of a new volume in which to memorialize my thoughts. This volume in particular holds the year since my return to Court, with all of its hopes, dreams, failures and heartaches. I spread the pages apart and find yet another ring in those that follow my last entry.
On the page, I see his writing: I particularly like this one because I am still yours, truly.
I pick up the ring and look for the poésie. French again.
Vous et nul autre.
With what has happened today and yesterday, I am not so sure anymore that it is even possible. You and no other? What about Bash? What about Lola?
If he knew about Lola and the child, would he still choose me and no one else? Would his heart still be with me? Would he still have faith in me – in my ability to bear him children?
He knocks at the door after supper, opening it cautiously and peering around it to see if I am in the room. I motion him in, still unsure even in this moment whether I should break Lola's confidence and tell what I know. But I have missed him today. Aside from supper, this is the first I've seen of him. My heart tells me to make peace rather than add to the chaos of our homecoming. My body tells me it longs for the touch of his fingers, the impress of his lips.
Perhaps he can sense my exhaustion, my confusion. Any attempts to sift the truth from falsehood have proven fruitless in the hours since my return. Only questions remain. Questions, and a deeply unsettling ache that the man before me – the man who has always been honest with me, even at the risk of causing me great pain – has kept things from me.
"I'm sorry," I breathe out, ignoring the gnaw of my thoughts. "Bash left this afternoon," I disclose quietly. My eyes rake over him, gauging his response. I try to be honest in what I can divulge, hoping it will be enough to restore his broken faith in me from yesterday – even though it might do little when his faith in me shatters tomorrow.
He nods and walks toward me slowly, resolve still written into his expression but a softening beginning its work there too. "I believe that you ordered your guards to escort him to the ship bound for Spain. You wouldn't do your brother harm. I never doubted that," I attempt to reassure him. "I am sorry for the loss of your trusted guardsmen. If I hadn't been so fearful," I begin, emotion welling up within me. "If I hadn't given way to superstition and encouraged Bash to seek legitimization … " Francis steps within the reach of my arms, trying to keep me from entering into conversations that we have not had.
To keep him from unnecessary distress, I have not told him of my betrothal to Bash. He does not know of my attempts to open my heart to his brother; he does not know of Isobel or the baby or how I cowered in a tent while pagans chanted around us; he does not know of what transpired at Isobel's graveside; he does not know that Bash pulled me, naked, from a poisoned bathtub – Catherine alongside, sprawled on the floor; he knows not the death, the darkness, the despair.
And he, in turn, has not spoken of his time in exile with only a few exceptions. I know of his travels, how he heard of his mother's impending execution while in Paris. When we were in Paris, he said bonjour to a gentleman to whom he lost money at a gambling house. I now know of Lola. But were there others, before Lola? Was he as he was with Olivia, when he tried to forget me? Did he drown his pain in wine?
I certainly never forgot him. Not for a moment.
He gently places his hands on my shoulders and I decide to stop talking before I ruin any chance of a pleasant evening with my husband. "I just want you to know that I'm sorry and that I do trust you. I should have come to you first." I rest my hand at the side of his neck. "Please forgive me," I implore.
He offers a weak smile as an "Of course" rolls from his lips. "But no more secrets, all right? Secrets will destroy us, Mary. We have to trust one another."
I tense, acknowledging that I cannot reveal what I know, but I nod in agreement to his statement. There is nothing false in it. Secrets will destroy us. As I bring my head down, I notice a thin gold chain peeking out of his doublet at his neck. It provides a distraction from the growing awareness that we both have secrets and that we will inevitably be tainted if not destroyed by them. "What's this?" I inquire, tugging lightly at the chain and attempting to remove it from under the garment. His hand works to bat mine away.
"That depends," he speaks – a bit impishly, if I gauge his now-changed mood correctly. I smile, allowing my mood its own shift to follow suit. "How many of my surprises have you found?"
"Five," I relay, holding up a finger to show him my latest discovery and then pointing across the room. "The other four are in the tray on my dressing table."
"Then it seems you have discovered the last," he colors slightly. "I couldn't decide on a last hiding place, so I held onto it until I could." He pulls the chain and its ornament out from under his clothing and brings the chain over his head, holding it out to me.
My eyes find the inscription. This time, the words Spanish.
No tengo más que darte.
"Francis, I – " He cuts me off with a kiss, leaving so much unsaid – so much unresolved.
"Don't," he requests, pulling back and holding a finger to my lips. "What is past is past. It needn't be spoken of because it cannot be changed. Things are different now." I remember his words from our carriage ride to the castle: We are wed. He looks to me for my assent and I indicate it, even if hesitantly.
But can we truly keep the past behind us?
Can we bury my rampant fear of the prophecy there? The manner in which it mercilessly stripped him of everything he ever held dear? The guilt I've harbored in the months since that still refuses to leave my heart? Can we forget the danger Bash's legitimization posed to his mother, to his brothers? Or how his father sided with me and the promise of England over his own flesh and blood?
Can things truly be different when I spent weeks in Bash's arms rather than in his? When I kept hoping that, someday, I might be able to offer Bash some semblance of the love I held for him? Does he ever think of others – of Olivia, of Lola – when he is with me? Can I ignore such a thought when I am with him, now that I know? That he once knew Lola intimately, her body pressed against his with the same fervor he seeks intimacy with me? Can I close my eyes without imagining it? Will I ever be enough for him if I fail to produce heirs?
"You have my heart, Mary," his voice stirs me from my internal deliberation, urging me to understand. "There is nothing else of meaning that I can give you."
"Is that the final surprise, then – your heart?" I query. He chuckles, his hands preoccupied with the folds of my nightdress.
"No, it isn't," he tells me. "But would you mind terribly if I didn't give it to you tonight? I've missed you so." His gaze raises to meet my eyes and I see the weariness of the last few days within it. Fingers reach up to cradle my cheek and I cast my fears and questions aside, if only for this moment with my husband. "I love you, Mary," he reassures me, pulling me into his arms. I squeeze my eyes shut, letting myself breathe in his scent, his presence.
"I love you, too," I whisper, the words catching in my throat. If I never had to leave his arms, if we never had to engage with the world outside our door – maybe then I could fully dispel my fears.
But, for now, the man before me offers his heart. I would be a fool not to accept it, knowing that all I have to offer in return is my own.
His lips capture mine and we move across the floor, to where he shows me his love in a way I have always understood – but this time, he does so in our room and on our bed.
And, as I lay awake and he drifts off to sleep, I hope he doesn't ever have need to seek out what has been hidden from him. I can't help but feel the distance between us. When his arm brushes against my side and he shifts to find a more comfortable position, it doesn't provide me with the pleasurable shiver it usually does. Instead, it magnifies my fear. Too much remains unknown and unspoken.
Most people choose to hide secrets for good reasons – and so might we – but that doesn't mean they won't still destroy us when found.
Only one good secret remains. One last surprise.
Author's Notes
1) Poésie rings were popular gifts, beginning in Medieval Europe and continuing into the Renaissance. Typically simple on the outside, they were engraved on the inside and most often coated with enamel to ensure the readability of the words. The inscription, often a verse or 'poésie', was hidden to all but the wearer and the gifter. Such rings were exchanged by lovers and as signs of friendship.
2) The real Mary spoke six languages: Old Scot (close to English, which she formally learned later in life), French, Latin, Greek, Spanish and Italian. I chose traditional poésie phrases from these languages. They should be understandable from their context within the story, but here are their direct and understood meanings:
Mon cœur est avec vous (My heart is with you; French)
Cert à mon gré (Certainly my choice; French, or at least I assumed it was French – the source I used didn't offer the originating language, so I guessed!)
Ubi amor ibi fides (Where there is love, there is faith; Latin)
Nemo nisi mors (Nobody except death; Latin)
Vous et nul autre (You and no other; French)
No tengo más que darte (I have nothing more to give you but my heart; Spanish)
3) Special thanks to Laura for her assistance as a beta for this one, particularly in her reminding me that there are no shortcuts in writing. I knew there was something not quite right and she was invaluable in deciphering what. Sometimes, you just need to write more!
4) This was written for our F/M thread challenge, which attempts to keep us busy during hiatuses; however, this story is an extremely late submission, as I resolved not to write for prompts until finished with Harbor and then went back and forth over the execution of this piece for several days. We normally get 48 hours, but I took much longer. The prompt was "hide and seek," which I interpreted loosely.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. This story is woven between the scenes of 114, "Dirty Laundry". The episode, plot, characters and everything about Reign belongs to the CW/CBS and Laurie McCarthy. Only the creative derivation from the show (plot, inner dialogue and the writing of this piece itself) belongs to me.