Dear True Love
When they were children, they loved each other as playmates.
Francis was her very best friend, her confidant. Now, that wasn't to say they didn't bicker, as children do. Francis was quite fond of pitching apples at her from over the wall while she played in the trees, and Mary herself was guilty of thumping him over the head with a Bible when he irked her. They fought on long carriage rides and quarreled until Henry, Catherine, and even their tutors would have quite liked to strangle the two of them.
But the two of them were inseparable. It was a rare sight indeed to see one of them without the other trailing just behind them, to see them playing alone. Francis fought his father tooth and nail when the young Scottish queen was shipped off to the convent for her safety, even if his efforts were futile. Mary ached for him while she was away, for the only true friend she had ever really known.
When Mary came back to French court a young woman, the love was veiled, but it was still there.
Francis was matured by then, a capable young prince with a fierce sense of duty toward his country. It was dangerous to love her, even with their engagement, but he couldn't stop himself. You're beautiful, and clever, and unpredictable, he had told her, and the words rang absolutely true despite all his protests. It took all his strength to push her away with both hands, and in the end it still wasn't enough.
Why did you come back? It was one man against ten, they would have killed you! Why would you do something so stupid?
Because I love you! Have you not heard a word that I've said? I love you.
Their love was blinded by pain after Mary's assault, but it persisted.
Mary didn't want to love him anymore. He didn't want to love her. Mary blamed him for her attack. He blamed her for the countless betrayals to their marriage and to their country.
I can't do that! I love you. And you love me.
And look where that love has brought us.
Mary had hurt him beyond words. He had been part of the cause of her assault. They had both been responsible for the pain that had followed.
She stabbed her lover in the gut to save him. She came back to him. He forgave her and forgot.
All we can do is love each other.
Mary continued to love Francis after he died, and she loved him until the day she lost her head.
Sometimes, in the wee hours of the morning or late in the evening, she thought she could see him. He sat upon her couch. He visited her dreams. He lingered in the shadows. As long as she loved him, he would never truly leave her.
Until the day she died, Mary carried his letters on her person - she had received so few, for they only rarely been apart, but those that she had were priceless to her. Francis had been a beautifully eloquent writer, and if she couldn't hear his voice, seek his counsel, she at least had these written words.
She saw him in the crowd the morning of her execution. Perhaps it was a trick of her mind as it had always been, but his presence was a welcome one, and it soothed any fears she may have had. She was ready.
The executioner wept, apologizing to her and begging her forgiveness.
Mary turned and smiled. "I forgive you with all my heart, for now, I hope you shall make an end to all my troubles."
I thank you for such welcome news. You will do me great good in withdrawing me from this world, out of which I am very glad to go.
The queen knelt and laid her head upon the block. The axe fell, and she went to him.
Mary was the queen of Scotland, once the queen of France, and the rightful heir to the throne of England. She could have been the ruler of three countries once, but all she had ever wanted to be was Francis's wife. He was all that mattered to her.
She was reunited with her beloved, and all was right in her world.
Love like that doesn't just disappear. There is always an ember remaining.