Full Summary: Catherine knew from the start that Mary and Francis' reign over their countries would be trying and tumultous. She predicted it when they were children, and since then she had been right. Oneshot.
I'll potentially be turning this into a drabble series - so if you're interested and have any requests of scenario's you'd like to see, give me a shout, keep checking back and I will see what I can do.
THE FORETELLING
The dark haired girl and the blonde boy play together by the lake. Their childish laughter is infectious; the entire castle hums with their exuberance and life.
She has found it quite wonderful to watch the transformation of her son. It's true that he had been startlingly frail, sickly even, for many years of his life... but when she, Mary, the young Scottish Queen had arrived in France just several weeks ago, it's as if Francis were born again. He has a new lease of life, a spring his step that Catherine Meddicci is envious of - for it was not she, his beloved mother, that gave him the driving force to get better, but small child with big pretty eyes and long dark hair.
Every night when she tucks Francis into bed, she is forced to listen to him recount tales of how exciting Mary is, of how positively adventurous her games are, how she had argued with Sebastian and pushed him out of the tree and made him cry, even though he was much bigger than she. Every night, Francis also tells his mother with serious, earnest eyes that he is going to marry that girl one day, whether he has his parents blessing or not.
Catherine just laughed and ruffled his curls, planting an affectionate kiss on his forehead before she swept from the room. But she did not leave the wing of the castle reserved for the children immediately. She paused outside Mary's room, oddly nervous though she would only be facing a door was open, just a thin tendril of light filtering through the crack. Slowly, Catherine approached, peering into the room that was still aglow with the bright yellow of the gas lamps that the girl had apparently lit herself. Catherine couldn't help but smile. The girl, even at her young age had proven to be resourceful many times.
Catherine straightened, a stern expression set stonily on her graceful features as she bustled through the doors. Mary's head lifted from her dolls, but she was not startled, nor was she concerned. It seemed, amazingly, that if anything she were only mildly irritated. Catherine felt a stirring of admiration in her heart. Brave, courageous, clever and resourceful... what a Queen she would make.
"It's pleasant, isn't it?" Her husband's voice lures her back to the present. Catherine does not even spare him a glance but remains quiet. He loves the sound of his voice far too much to not elaborate, even though there was no prompt. "Seeing them, playing together. Francis on his feet, exploring."
"Yes." Catherine says stiffly but honestly. "It is."
"I do believe," Henry continues, shuffling closer to Catherine. "That this Scottish Queen has inspired our son to try and get better himself."
For all his arrogance and overwhelming lack of modesty, Henry is still as insightful and observant as ever. Catherine gives him a sideways glance, watching as his perceptive eyes digest the scene of the children playing. "Apparently she pushed Bash out of tree two days ago."
A prickle of annoyance bristles Catherine. It is no secret that Henry favours his bastard son and the mistress he beds every night - he's even been kind enough to grant the boy, a child born out of wedlock of all the things, a nickname. Catherine wants to spit on the ground at the very mention of the child, but instead remains calmly aloof. "Oh really? What a shame."
"Catherine," Henry's voice is now sharp. He takes hold of her shoulders, twisting her so she is forced to look into his eyes, eyes that had once made her stomach flip and a blush flow woozily across her cheeks. Now, all she can give him his a frosty reception. "He is just a boy. You cannot blame him for my actions."
When she does not say a word, the King sighs and releases her shoulders. A moment of silent thought passes: Catherine, engrossed in images much more pleasant than the bastard child suriving the fall from the tree; Heny, dreaming of his Diane and her seductive feline eyes that await in a chalet to the east. Though Catherine and Henry's bed has been cold for many a year, it is undeniable that they are a formidable team when it comes to the day-to-day running of France. In fact, the country thrives under their rule.
"Do you think they will make good monarchs?" Henry asks suddenly, breaking the silence.
Catherine cocks her head to one side, carefully considering the question. "Already, Francis has strong sense of reason and he knows what is good for other people. The girl is strong-willed and determined, courageous and fearless. She knows what is right and what is wrong."
"So what is your verdict?" Henry presses, genuinely interested by Catherine's evaluation of the betrothed children.
"I'm going to marry her one day, whether I have your blessing or not."
"Do you love my son, Mary?"
The girl looked up at Catherine with inquisitve, calm eyes. "Not yet, but I know that one day I will."
"No," Catherine says eventually, her lips pursing grimly. "No I don't."
"Why not? You've just given bountiful reasons for precisely why they would be fit to take the throne." Henry responds, surprised by Catherine's verdict. "Surely they are only going to grow to be wiser."
"I know my son, Henry. I think I know enough of the girl as well to be sure that their hearts will grow also..." Catherine hesitates. A waterfall laughter swathes the grounds, childish and melodic. "They will fall in love, Henry. It will damage them. It will damage us. It will damage France. It will damage Scotland."
"They will have to be kept apart." Henry agrees.
Catherine looks away from his face and back towards the lake in time to see both the children running into the shallows. Water droplets encapsulate them as excitedly, they both begin to send mall tidal waves in each others directions.
It pains her to say it. She wants there to be hope for young love in such a perilous world.
Royals are entitled to a great many luxuries... but love is never one of them.
"Yes. She needs to go back to Scotland."