Prologue
Running, always running, but he never catches her. The clack of hooves racing down the avenue of trees sounds further and further into the distance. He sinks to his knees, blinded by the pain. "Mary!" he screams one last time, but she is gone.
He bolts upright in bed, a cold sweat sticking to his frame and the bedcovers twisted near his feet. Every time he falls asleep, he wakes to the same dream and the realization washes over him anew that she is gone.
Rolling over, he catches the smell of her. Fragrant. Lovely. Wild. He trails his hand over the pillow next to him. Gone.
The night still lies dark around him, greeting him, welcoming him into its folds. It would be easy to wallow here, to be lost in the anger and the sorrow that trade off places with one another. But he can't help hearing her voice echo off the walls of the room, one of those last things she had spoken before they had found Aylee.
I want you to know, whatever happens, that I love you.
He wonders if he can trust that and recalls both the earnestness and fear in her eyes.
She wanted to make sure I knew because she was afraid – but of what?
None of it makes sense and his anger begins to swell. She was supposed to be here tonight, with him. Husband and wife.
Every word and every moment race before his eyes, each more maddening than the last – those of the last few days the most vivid, the most sharp to his heart.
Her anger with him for returning for her when he wasn't supposed to do so. The pressure of her hands firmly pushing against his chest.
"Never" escaping her lips – finally granting him the chance to make her his own.
Her shrieks at the feel of his teasing fingers.
The smooth ivory of her skin.
The quiet moments stolen over days and in between his bedcovers.
"I want you," she had said, completely trusting him with her future.
The dizzy way he felt as he spun her around, rejoicing in her "yes."
And that last morning – her mood sullen, as if she were haunted by something. So much talk about fate, about gods and having too much already when she ought to have been overjoyed about the wedding. She made a point to assure him it wasn't politics, so what was it?
Whatever happens …
Francis curses, forcing himself to get out of bed though it is still dark. To lie there without her is too painful. Dressing, he makes his way to the kitchens, hoping to find something to eat. He discovers one of the kitchen hands beginning the day's loaves. The hand bows, acknowledging the other's presence.
"May I help you, your highness?"
Francis sighs, realizing that likely no one can truly help him.
"Unless you have answers for me that I can live with, I could use some water and something small to eat."
"Certainly, your highness."
The hand moves about the kitchen, procuring the items and setting them on the table.
"Sit and eat. Tell me your troubles while I knead loaves."
Francis arches an eyebrow, taken aback by the young man's forthrightness. "I don't even know your name and I'd rather not speak of my troubles."
He sits anyway, enjoying the solid nature of the stool beneath him. He refuses to be coddled, neither by a seat nor by anyone else.
"Leith, your highness. My name is Leith."
"Well, Leith, thank you for the water and the food. I am sure that you have heard all about my troubles, however."
Leith's countenance grows dim.
"Yes, I have. Someone I love also lost a dear friend in the Lady Aylee. Between that and the Queen Mary's departure, she has been entirely inconsolable."
Francis finds his curiosity heightened. Who would this young man know so well as to be affected by the same death? His gaze fixes on the window, searching the horizon for the first signs of sunrise but there are none. Everything is still black.
Sensing that the crown prince is, as expected, not wanting to chatter, Leith decides to continue filling the silence and speak freely of the details.
"I've been spending time with Greer of Kinross, you see, your highness."
The pieces begin to fall in place for Francis. Greer, untitled, had become involved with a kitchen hand. Perhaps this Leith knew more …
"Greer, you say? You've seen her since … " His words falter. He is uncertain of how to address the events of the last day. Leith nods, moving onto his next set of loaves and spreading new flour to coat the worktable.
"Yes, I've seen her." Leith's eyes grow sad, remembering Greer's convulsive sobbing when he had ventured to her door the night before. "She is so terribly sad. When her grief subsides, she starts mumbling something about a prophecy and rambling over how Mary didn't want anyone to know. And then she cries some more." He pats a loaf and sighs.
"I can't make head nor tail of it at all."
Francis' head snaps up at the mention of both a prophecy and Mary's name. Leith notices, placing the last loaf to rise under a cloth.
"Your highness?"
"Take me to Greer's rooms." His determined expression surprises Leith.
"Your highness, I don't think ... It's not even light yet."
Francis rises and forcefully repeats his words.
"Yes, your highness." Leith bows and wipes his fingers on a nearby towel before heading toward the door. "This way."
The two walk in silence, the halls eerie in the early hours. Leith eventually slows his gait and motions to a door. Without hesitation, Francis throws himself at it, his beatings upon its panels reverberating through the empty corridor.
"Greer! Greer!" his voice cries, cracking from emotion and exhaustion, hoping to rouse the girl from her sleep. It feels good to hit something, flesh fighting wood, the grain stinging his hand.
Footfalls eventually come toward the door. It swings open to reveal Greer in her nightclothes, wrapped in a dressing robe. Her eyes wide, frightened but still swollen. Her frame trembles. She looks to the side, astonished to find Leith the prince's companion.
Leith crosses to her, catching her elbow and leaning in to whisper.
"He just wants to talk to you about something. Don't worry," he kisses her temple. "Nothing new has happened." His voice soothes, calming her anxious thoughts.
"Very well, then," she speaks. The words catch in her throat a bit. She motions them inside, to sit by the fireplace, which is the only remaining light in the room.
"What happened, Greer?"
He wastes no time, wanting to get to the bottom of this insidious well of unknowing. She freezes, wondering why he would come to her. Silence. Vast uneasy silence.
"What happened, Greer?" He nearly shouts the question with its second asking. "Why did Mary leave?"
Afraid, Greer begins to shake. She tries to play it off, mumbling some nonsense about England. Leith grabs for her hand, hoping to steady her.
"I don't believe you." Francis' voice turns cold. "She said it wasn't politics." He looks to Greer, registering for the first time her fearful state. His anger drains, his sorrow returning as he looks at the girl before him. "Greer," he pleads. "Please tell me why she left."
She looks to Leith and he nods gently. Francis sees her breathe in and exhale in preparation for whatever she has to say. He finds himself holding onto his last breath.
"She didn't want us to say anything."
Pause. Greer's eyes beg to be able to stop, but she continues. He deserves to know.
"Nostradamus shared with her some things. Terrible things. She tried to put it out of her mind, but she couldn't. Not after Aylee was found. He knew one of us would die yesterday, Francis. Nostradamus knew. So she chose to believe him about the rest."
"The rest of what, Greer? What did Nostradamus tell her?"
Fear invades every point of her eyes, tears pooling and preparing to spill.
"He told her your union would cost you your life."
Spent, Greer's face collapses into tears. Tears for Aylee. Tears for Mary. Tears for Francis, sitting before her trying to make sense of it all.
Anger returns. Superstition? She threw this all away on superstition?
But then he remembers the fear in Mary's eyes, the way she refused to let him comfort her after they found Aylee.
Mother.
The three remain there, nothing else passing among them. The sunlight begins to pour though the window, illuminating the room and its shadows.
Francis stands, offering Greer his hand.
"Thank you, Greer. I think it is time we left you." Determined to assure her, he adds emphatically. "I won't let her go so easily. I will bring her back to us. Please let me know if I can do anything to bring you comfort." He turns to Leith. "I suspect it is time for you to be back in the kitchens?"
Leith nods, reluctant to leave Greer alone, but he follows Francis to the door and they set off for the kitchens.
"Are you going to rest, your highness?" Leith ventures, noticing the steely look upon Francis' face.
"No, I am not," Francis replies firmly. "I am going to find Nostradamus, my mother and then my father – in that order."
Because someone was going to pay for Mary leaving, and it wasn't going to be him.
Author's Note: Thanks for reading. Review to let me know what you think and whether you'd like me to continue. It might be an interesting way to move forward through the hiatus. :)
