I started this fic before the midseason finale, as will be obvious with the first paragraph. I'm just now getting around to finishing it, but I haven't changed it to fit with anything after 1x07.
Inspired by the Mists of Avalon, in which Arthur invites Lancelot into his bed with Guinevere in an attempt to conceive an heir.
"Does it not bother you? Truly?" Aylee asked under her breath while she waited for Mary to make her play.
Mary sucked her lower lip between her teeth and skipped her eyes over the pieces on the board. She nearly decided on moving her king, but chose her knight in the end. "What are you talking about again?" She lifted her eyes to meet Aylee's, but her lady-in-waiting was staring across the gardens, watching Francis and Geneviève stroll along the pathway with linked arms. Francis leaned in close and whispered something in Geneviève's ear, causing her to toss her head back and laugh. "Oh, no, it bothers me, Aylee, but not like you think."
With a heavy frown, Aylee slid a bishop across the board to steal a pawn, and Mary parried by sliding her castle into place to capture Aylee's bishop in case Aylee decided to take Mary's other knight. "But surely, if you asked Francis, he would at least move her to Paris and away from you."
"Kings have mistresses, Aylee. It's just the way things are. Henry had Diane and Kenna and even Olivia and Joanne by the time he was done with it all. Mistresses have nothing to do with politics or affairs of State or the Church. It must be a welcome respite for kings." Mary sipped her wine and let it linger on her tongue, avoiding Aylee's searching gaze.
"So, how does it bother you then, exactly?" Aylee asked, drawing out the "o," but not in a way that pushed Mary into an answer. God be great, but Mary loved Aylee. The years had not sharpened her tongue or dulled her spirit, and she remained the same sweet, careful soul that Mary had kept close to her side in her youth at Henry's court. She'd been the last of Mary's ladies to be married, only four years past, to a French lord from Aquitaine who worshipped the ground that she walked on. A single lady at twenty years of age, she'd been considered "past-ripe" by the other ladies of the court, but her radiance on her wedding day had sparked comments of an entirely different nature. And now, her doting husband and the rest of the court eagerly watched her belly swell for the second time in three years. Being a mother may have even increased Aylee's compassion and understanding, and Mary was ever-thankful for her constant companion.
"Francis and I love each other," Mary said, letting her words out slowly and carefully, considering each one before she allowed them to leave her mouth. "And Geneviève doesn't change that, just like Olivia didn't change it. What I struggle with is that love isn't like a pie that you cut up and divide amongst people – his care for Geneviève does not mean that he loves me any less. And in a way, I suppose I'm jealous. Their … companionship is based solely on their mutual affection towards each other. I think that if I were a King, I'm sure I would have mistresses as well."
Any response Aylee might have given was stopped in its tracks as Catherine de' Medici, imposing as ever, stalked past the gazebo under which Mary and Aylee sat. She cut a magnificent figure today, all draped in her red and black silks and gray-tinged hair pulled back with bejeweled golden pins. Her eyes passed over Mary in a single cold, disinterested sweep, as though Mary were any other girl sitting in the royal gardens.
Henry might be long dead now, but all of Europe knew that two queens lived at King Francis' court.
The two ladies-in-waiting flanking Catherine let their eyes linger on Mary longer than was proper, though, and when they finally caught up to their mistress, they whispered and giggled between each other. Mary took a deep, calming breath and returned her focus to her game with Aylee, who had moved her king out of the path of Mary's castle.
Aylee chose this move because Mary's king was blocking the path of Mary's queen, but she had forgotten about Mary's knight. With a triumphant smile, Mary picked up the little black horse and stamped it down into position. "Checkmate," she declared with a triumphant grin, and Aylee groaned, letting her chin come to rest on her fist.
"I used to always beat you," she sighed, and Mary reached across the table to take her friend's hand and run her finger across the band on her ring finger.
"I had a very wonderful teacher. And you haven't played as much since Marie was born. I'll come play with you every day during your confinement if you wish it. Do you want to play again?"
Aylee waved her hand and shook her head. "Oh, no," she said, peering out across the gardens. "Let's just sit and watch for a little bit." She twisted in her seat, and the hand not holding Mary's came to rest on her swollen belly. Mary stared at it, watched Aylee brush it over her tummy again and again, as though she were petting the baby inside. It made Mary's chest tight and her eyes burn. Aylee chose that moment to say: "You are a queen, though." Mary stared at Aylee, not comprehending, and Aylee seemed to steel herself for what she was about to say. "You'd said that if you were a king, you'd take a mistress. And I'm saying that you're a queen."
She'd leaned her voice into the word "queen," dropped her voice an octave, and Mary finally realized what her friend was saying. She sucked in a sharp breath. "Aylee—any child would be an heir to the throne—"
"To which throne? France or Scotland?"
Mary glanced around, now hyper-aware of the people milling in the gardens today. She'd been Queen of France since she was sixteen years old and Queen of Scotland since she was six days old, but the long shadow of Catherine de' Medici and Nostradamus still loomed over her. "God has chosen Francis as my husband. It is His will that the line of Stuart and Valois merge to bring forth the future defenders of the Holy Catholic Church."
Aylee pressed her lips together. She always did this when Mary started talking about God and Elizabeth and England, but this was the first time Aylee seemed outright nervous about what she was going to say to Mary about her marriage. Mary's first instinct was to yank her hand from Aylee's and leave before words of treason passed between the two of them. She even started doing that: she turned her face away and put her hand on the armrest of her chair to push herself up and out.
And then she saw Francis and Geneviève at the edge of the lake, and she froze. She'd know that blonde crop anywhere, especially when matched with Geneviève's long platinum locks. He's always chosen the blondes, she thought, before she could catch herself. And there it was again – the twinge of jealousy that she shouldn't have, the fleeting wonder as to why he looked outside their otherwise happy marriage. They were embracing, and even from so far away, Mary knew that they were kissing.
So, that was why she was still sitting when Aylee spoke. "You've been engaged to Francis since you were so long – a marriage your mother arranged."
"After long hours of prayer," Mary replied, her voice sounding distant even to her own ears as she watched Francis and Geneviève.
"Of course. But you could have married any number of other princes, and one thing would have remained the same: your children won't rule Scotland because of whomever you marry. They will be the next King or Queen of Scotland because they have your blood running through their veins. You could have married a stable boy, and that stable boy's son would have been King of Scotland. And Mary…Mary, if you do not have a child with Francis, Elizabeth will take Scotland by force before Charles can claim it."
Mary pressed her fingertips to her lips. "I would be cuckolding Francis." She couldn't believe she was even speaking the words. It was treason, surely. Wasn't it? I am the Queen of Scotland, she told herself. I have been a queen regnant my entire life—marrying Francis never changed that.
Aylee's hand darted across the small table to take Mary's, knocking a few pawns over in the process. "If God intended to unite the bloodlines of Valois and Stuart, then you can still fulfill His will, Mary."
Bash, Mary thought, but she dared not speak the name out loud. Instead, she turns her palm up under Aylee's and clasps her dearest friend's fingers tight in her own.
Unlike the Kings and Queens of France that came before them, Mary and Francis shared a bed until morning most nights. For all of his arms-length protestations before their marriage, Francis was quite the cuddler after sex. That was just fine with Mary, since she'd always loved to be touched and held. On the nights Francis spent with Genviève, one of Mary's ladies-in-waiting served as her bedmate, and even they would always wake up tangled together like two little girls.
Francis was with Mary tonight, though, and the two of them sat together in front of the fireplace, reading and sipping wine. It was a rich Bourgogne, heavy and fruity on her tongue.
"Why do you think you cannot create children, Francis?" Mary thanked God for the wine, because it had loosened her tongue and given her courage. Her voice didn't shake in the slightest, and she met his eyes squarely when he raised them, ever so slowly, from his books.
"You speak as if it's impossible," Francis replied.
"Isn't it?"
Francis closed his book with a snap and set it on the table beside him. It was evening, and the light low, but the flames in the grate were strong enough that Mary could see his forehead furrow and his mouth pull down at the corners. "I don't like to think so, Mary. I think that we must simply be patient, and try harder."
Mary bit her lip to keep from letting out a bitter laugh. After all, she remembered when she blamed herself for her lack of conception, before a bevy of doctors examined her and found nothing out of sorts. Still, the pointed glares and hisses about the lack of a dauphin hit home more often than not. "Harder, Francis? With as often as we lie together, we should be overrun with children. It would be one thing if I had conceived and lost the child, but I've not yet once missed my courses. And nor have Olivia or Kenna or Genviève."
Francis' sharp eyes darted to meet hers. Mary arched a brow at him. Francis might have been the king, but she was the queen, and she kept tabs on her husband's mistresses.
Francis gave a defeated shrug. "I don't know what to do, Mary. The doctors can find no abnormalities. There's no surgery to be had because there's nothing wrong. I've taken the concoctions that the doctors give me, yet—still, nothing." He turned his face to peer into the flames. "When I die, the throne will pass to little Charles. We'd best come to terms with that reality and…hope for God's grace to intervene."
Mary took a large swallow of wine. "I want Scotland to pass to someone with Stuart blood, for the sake of my people. You have another brother with Henry's blood in his veins, Francis."
A long moment passed before comprehension dawned on Francis' face. He shoved himself out of his chair and crossed to the fireplace, gripping the mantle with both hands. "No," he said, voice low and gravel-filled. When he turned back around, Mary could see the tears filling his eyes. "No, Mary."
Her chin quivered at the sight of his stricken face, and she rushed across the room to wrap her arms around his waist. "I'm sorry, Francis, I'm so sorry," she whispered. Francis' chest shuddered under her cheek and she clenched him tight to her. "Forget I ever mentioned it."
They made love slowly and sweetly, pressed together with Mary's legs hitched high around Francis' waist. He lavished her skin with whispers and kisses, and Mary said nothing when she felt tears drip onto her neck and shoulders. After all, her own cheeks were wet, and not with sweat.
Bash had three bastards, a boy and two girls, with as many women. One of the mothers, Jeanne, was a lady-in-waiting of Mary's, and Mary had known little Jean-Luc his whole life. He was a lively little boy with his mother's auburn hair and his father's sharp green eyes, and as he entered his fourth year of life, Mary saw Bash's sneaky humor developing in his son. Even now, Jeanne spoke sternly to her little boy, who had tugged on Mary's hair from his spot in her lap.
"It's fine," Mary reassured Jeanne. "He wants down, and I'm selfishly trying to keep him close." Jean-Luc grinned up at Mary, who made a face at him in response. "Go on, then."
As soon as his little feet hit the ground, Jean-Luc broke into a swift run. His arms swung wildly as he made a beeline towards his father, who was standing with Francis by the rosebushes. Francis hadn't said anything else about Mary's proposal nearly a week earlier, and she didn't quite know what to do. Surely Francis knew that her need for an heir did not stem from a lack of love towards him, but instead from her duty to her country. He should know what that was like, after all.
Jean-Luc slammed into Bash's leg, and Bash crowed down at his son before picking him up under his arms and swinging him around in a wide circle.
"He's never happier than when one of his babes is in his arms," Jeanne said with a sigh. She smiled at the sight of her former lover and his son running circles around Francis, who was getting into the fun by trying to cut off all of Jean-Luc's escape routes from his father's tickling fingers.
Eventually, the little boy tired and his father and uncle tackled him to the ground, poking and prodding at his sides until he let out shrill giggles. Mary and Jeanne laughed at the sight of the three of them rolling in the grass, legs kicking and hair flying. Finally, Francis hauled himself to his feet and made his way over to the two women. Jeanne rose to her feet and curtsied to her king.
"Please, Jeanne." Francis waved his hand and Jeanne sat back down on her settee. Her and Mary's card game was at an end, so she shuffled the cards together with quick fingers. Francis gave Mary a warm smile and picked up her goblet of wine. Bringing the rim to his lips, he tilted his head back and took a healthy swallow, and Mary took the moment to unabashedly admire her husband's figure. They were each twenty-five now but Francis hadn't lost the fineness of his cheekbones, nor the bright spun gold of his hair.
He hummed and licked his lips and passed the goblet back to Mary. "Oak-y. I like it."
"It's from the Loire," Mary told him. "From your mother's own vineyards, I believe."
Francis laughed. "Of course. Reminding all of us of her benefaction, I'm sure. I've got that audience with the ambassador from Monaco now. I'll see you at luncheon?"
"Of course." Mary presented Francis with her cheek, and he leaned down to press a kiss to her cheekbone.
"Bash has agreed," he murmured into her ear as he pulled back. Mary's hand darted up and cupped the back of his neck, and Francis didn't resist against her. He smiled at her and set his thumb to her chin. "I'll see you at luncheon, Mary," he said softly. Still, Mary's fingers flexed and she tugged him forward, catching his lips with hers.
When Francis left her, Mary raised her eyes and met Bash's across the garden. Even from her seat, she could see the clench of his jaw, and he gave her a decisive nod.
She should feel ashamed, or run after Francis and tell him to forget about it all. But instead, she felt a warm knot start up low in her belly and her heart began to beat faster. After all, she'd never forgotten about Bash's lips on hers all those years ago, nor the lingering, salty kiss he'd left at the corner of her mouth right before her and Francis' bedding on their wedding night.
Francis chose the night; Mary told Bash to use the secret corridors that wound through the castle. By the time her brother-in-law slipped from through the paneling in the wall, Mary had slipped into a plain linen shift and two goblets of wine. Bash was barefoot and clothed in a tunic and breeches, and he approached the two of them on the couch with a twist of a smile on his lips.
Francis tilted his own goblet of wine up, up, up, his throat bobbing as he chugged it to the dregs. Bash tilted his head. "Come now, brother, this isn't the first time we've shared a woman."
"It's the first time it's my wife," Francis replied, pressing his lips together.
Mary shot to her feet and crossed the room to the decanter of wine. "A goblet, Bash?"
"I don't need any wine tonight," Bash replied. Before she could turn back around and cast about for another subject to talk about, she felt one of Bash's hands settle on her waist and the other sweep her loose hair over her shoulder. "Thank you, though, Mary." His lips were warm and dry on her neck, making the contrast with his wet tongue sharp and primal. Mary gasped, her hand flying out to grip the arm of a nearby chair. "You're going to be fine, I promise," he murmured, low enough that Francis wouldn't be able to hear. "Let me make love to you. Please, Mary."
She nodded and turned in his arms. Bash peered down at her, face sober, and she cupped his cheeks. Her heart clenched when his eyelashes fluttered at her touch. Oh, Bash, she thought, and rose on her toes to press her mouth to his. He exhaled through his nose so quickly it felt like a sigh, and Mary didn't miss how his hands clenched into fists at the small of her back, catching the fabric of her shift between her fingers. His mouth was as hot as his kiss to her neck had belied, his lips as soft. He slid his tongue alongside hers, lapped at her lower lip, nipped at it gently with his teeth.
Mary's hands were clutching at his shoulders and neck by the time he pulled back and looked back over his shoulder. Francis stood a few feet behind his brother, and Mary pulled her fingers from Bash's silky hair to reach for him. He came willingly, kissing her lips and jaw, the spot behind her ear that made her knees go weak every time, and Bash's arm tightened around her waist to hold her up against his body.
Her blood pounded in her ears and her skin already felt tight and alive, so she twisted out of their reach and pushed her hair behind her ear. "You barred the door?" she asked, not surprised in the slightest at how high and breathy her voice sounded. Bash followed her, stalking her like a cat as she stepped backwards, hooded eyes dropping below her neck. She looked down and realized that the fireplace behind her had cast her body in silhouette through her shift. Both Bash and Francis could see the slender curve of her waist, the envy of the women at court, the flare of her hips, the swing of her breasts.
"It's barred," Francis confirmed. Mary reached out for each of them, and they took her hands. Her bed seemed both close and far away, and she felt her nerves and the swirling coil of heat in her belly increase with each step. Francis' thumb rubbed over the back of her hand; Bash twined his fingers through hers and brought her fingertips to his lips.
The plush mattress and heavy blankets sank beneath her knees, and Bash and Francis caught her elbows to help her up without falling. They climbed up behind her almost in unison, hands and knees moving in tandem. Francis and Mary had agreed that Francis needed to be there—it was their marriage bed that had been blessed by the archbishop. Maybe Francis couldn't create their heir, but he would be created with him.
Bash lay down alongside Mary and sank his fingers into her loose hair, pulling her mouth to his. The sensations were so strange to her, so surreal, to be kissing Bash and feeling Francis' lips and tongue moving along her neck and collarbones. One of them cupped her breast and strummed her nipple through the linen—Bash, given that he chuckled against her lips when he found it already peaked under his touch. So it was Francis, then, who was tugging her shift up over her legs with smooth movements.
The groan that Bash let out when she pulled her shift over her head made her chest swell with something like pride and something like want. He kissed her shoulder and ran his hand over her belly. "Lovely," he said, circling a nipple with his fingertip.
"Bash," Mary moaned, turning her head to the side and tilting her face up until he acquiesced and met her open mouth with his own. Francis' lips closed over her other nipple, lashing at it with his tongue. Mary shuddered and fisted Francis' curls between her fingers.
Then, Bash's hand slid back down her belly, creeping towards the apex of her thighs. "Do you like to be touched, Mary?" Mary's eyes could barely focus between the trail of fire that his fingers left behind and Francis' tongue and teeth worrying the delicate skin of her neck. His green eyes flickered nearly golden in the firelight, though, and he smiled slowly at her, nudging her nose with his own.
"She loves it," Francis told his brother. He reached down and hooked a palm around Mary's thigh, pulling it open and revealing her slick flesh. "Look at how wet she is." Bash raised up on an elbow to peek, and when he looked back at Mary, he was grinning.
The first touch of his fingers sent Mary's neck into an arch and her hips up into Bash's hand. His fingers were calloused from the hilt of his sword, and the rough edges caught deliciously on her sensitive skin. "Firmer," she ordered.
Bash pressed his forehead against her temple and followed her instruction, sliding the length of his finger along the side of her nub. "Like this, love?" Mary had closed her eyes to cherish the sensations and she could feel him nuzzling the hinge of her jaw, an almost perfect mirror image of what Francis was doing on the other side of her face. Bash's fingers danced along her slit, pressing upwards before slip-sliding around the top of it again. Her lips parted on a moan and she sank her nails into the flesh of his arm and Bash hummed in answer. "There's a girl. God, Mary, you're softer than I ever dreamed. Is she as sweet as she looks, Francis?"
On her other side, Francis smirked at Bash. "Sweeter." His hand swept over Mary's breast, her belly, and joined his brother's at her center. Mary stared down her body and watched Francis' hand disappear behind Bash's, and she accepted his kiss, though she moaned into her husband's mouth when he slid two fingers into her and twisted them. They came back shiny, and Francis popped them into his mouth to suck them clean. "I could spend a whole night between her legs and still hunger for dessert."
Bash nipped at Mary's earlobe. "Let me, Mary," he murmured. "Let me put my mouth on you and taste you. I'll make you come and feel your thighs at my ears. I bet you look magnificent when you come. I want to feel you peak around my tongue, Mary."
"Yes, Bash, yes," Mary panted, her chest heaving in time with the quick movements of his fingers around her button of sensitive flesh. His mouth covered hers for a quick and sloppy kiss, and then he was moving down the bed and stretching out between her legs, hitching them over his shoulders.
His breath was hot, but he wasted no time in setting his mouth over her, lapping and sucking and mouthing at her with ardor. Mary twisted and writhed on the blankets under him, wrapping a hand around the forearm he braced over her hips. Francis stripped off his own shirt and covered Mary's upper body with his own, taking her moans and groans into his mouth, plucking at her nipples, and stroking her ribs and tummy until Mary's eyes were rolling backwards behind her eyelids. While she was still lucid, she tugged at the drawstring of Francis' breeches until his cock fell into her hand, hard and hot and heavy. Trapped in one place as she was, she still turned and jerked her wrist in all the ways she knew Francis liked, until he was grunting and groaning as much as she.
Eventually, though, she felt her body coiling and tightening and she turned away from Francis to clench her hands in the blankets. "Fingers, fingers, fingers," she panted, and Bash hastened to slide two, no, three fingers into her. "Lick me faster, Bash, I need it faster, faster, please." She sounded plaintive and needy, but Bash hummed and flattened his tongue at the top of her center, swirling and lapping and shaking his head until Mary felt her release bubble in her belly, her chest, come out of her throat in a strangled moan, roll through her limbs and feet and toes like a wave.
Bash kissed his way up her body and bracketed her head with his forearms. She could feel his hard cock under his breeches, and she wrapped a leg around his thigh. "You arch backwards when you come," he mutters against her lips, "your tits ride high, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
Mary couldn't help it—she shivered and bucked her hips under Bash's. He groaned and ground down against her, sucking her lower lip into his mouth. He was deliciously heavy over her, stocky where Francis was lean, letting himself bear down onto her and slide his arms under her shoulders. Mary nipped at the line of his jaw and ran her hands up and down his sides until his shirt rode up enough that she could grab the bottom edge with greedy fingers.
"Yes, love," Bash cooed, helping her pull it over his head. For having just come, Mary felt empty and hot again, and she knew that she wouldn't be sated 'till she'd been fucked. While he worked his breeches down his legs, Mary caught sight of Francis, naked now and reclining on the pillows and gripping his own prick with a loose fist.
She reached a hand up the blankets and gave him a smile. When he returned it and it reached his eyes, the knot in her chest loosened. He rolled forward, ran the back of his hand over her cheek, and kissed her long, slow, and deep. "You're beautiful, Mary," he whispered, running his nose along the rise of her cheekbone, and on the other side, Bash pressed a line of kisses.
Francis pulled back to make room for Bash. Mary reached down between them to take him in her fist. "Wait—I want to look at you," she told him, placing a hand on his chest when he began to move himself into place between her thighs.
She expected him to laugh jovially, not fix her with a searing gaze and an even more searing, breathless kiss. Bash rocked back onto his heels between her knees, tugging her with him. His cock jutted upwards in a slight curve from the black thatch of hair. The shaft of it was thicker than Francis', the head of it not quite as pink. Mary touched his slit, swirled the pad of her finger in the pearl of liquid there and dragging it down the underside of him. Bash's breath left him in a shuddering exhale, and Mary flattened her other hand on his stomach to feel his firm muscles contract under her palm.
Bash carded his fingers through her hair and leaned forward to press his lips to her forehead, resting them there while she explored him with light touches. "Mary, Mary, Mary," he repeated in a mantra. He shifted to the ear facing away from Francis and whispered, "I've wanted you since I first saw you, Mary. Let me make love to you. Let me give you a son."
Her heart in her throat, Mary cupped his cheek and nodded. She lay back on the blankets again, pulling Bash over her with hands on his arms. She expected Bash to groan when he entered her, but he only tucked his lips by her ear and sighed. It was a lovely stretch, new and familiar all at once. He started to move, to roll his hips into her, and it wrenched a moan from deep in her chest. Of the two brothers, Bash actively trained with the sword and horse, and muscle corded every inch of his body.
Mary's world narrowed to the heave and haul of Bash's body against hers, the contractions of his sides against the insides of her thighs, the press of his chest against her breasts, the heat of his breath against her ear, and the silky coolness of his hair between her fingers. He murmured against her ear that she was his lovely, beautiful girl with the softest tits he'd ever held, that he wanted to suck at her skin, make it bloom, that he could spend days in her cunt, keeping himself back to last just a little longer. And it made Mary shake and cry out, dig her nails into his back and bite at his shoulder. He grunted at the nip of her teeth and reached down to snag her knee and press it back and slide deeper.
The one time Mary pulled herself away from Bash's kisses and touches and rolled her eyes sideways, she saw Francis watching them with color high in his cheeks. His hand worked over his cock with quick, decisive movements, and Mary knew that he would bring himself off that way. Then Bash nibbled up the length of her neck and she was gone, back in the world dominated by his strange green eyes and woodsy scent that lingered on the back of her tongue when she mouthed at his throat and shoulders.
With the gap created by his hold on her knee, Mary slid a hand between their bodies and set a finger to the top of her center, swirling quickly. Her peak washed over her almost immediately, encouraged along by Bash's tongue in her mouth and his free hand putting the most mouth-watering traction on her hair. It wasn't as strong as her first, but she shuddered and moaned and sighed and clung to Bash like a starfish.
Bash came just a few moments later, hips snapping into hers, shaking against her, and pulsing inside her. He panted against her neck and Mary murmured quietly to him, running her hands over his shoulders and back. While he recovered, Mary turned and found Francis breathing deeply, his belly and chest sticky with his release.
"My favorite boys," she said, pressing a kiss to Bash's temple. "My favorites."
A few hours later, Bash sipped on wine by the fireplace while Mary straddled Francis' lap, riding him fast and hard with her hair tossed back and hands gripped fast to the back of the sofa. And the next night, Francis knelt behind Mary while she did the same for Bash in her bed, rutted against the swell of her buttocks, strummed the top of her cunt till she came thrice around Bash. By the time her blood stopped flowing, Mary couldn't count the number of positions into which Francis and Bash had been able to wrangle her.
Margaret was born on a crisp, late autumn afternoon, after a night and a day of laboring. She had beautiful black hair and rosy lips and Francis wept with joy when they placed her in his arms. "The next one will be a boy," Mary promised, sweaty and exhausted, and Francis shook his head and kissed her brow.
"I'm so proud of you," Francis told her, meaning every word. "You rest now. I'll take Margaret to meet her Uncle Bash."
They smiled a secret smile between each other, and no one thought to question why the first person the young babe should meet was the King's bastard brother.
Henry followed Margaret, and James arrived a few years later—all happy, healthy babes who loved nothing more than to run about the gardens and race horses, much to the chagrin of their grandmère Catherine. And Mary couldn't have been happier with her three children, wishing that she could shrink them all back down so that they could all fit in her lap together. But there was one place she was happiest, even more than reading with her children and teaching them their prayers, and that was late at night, pressed between Francis and Sebastian and falling asleep to the warm strokes of their fingers.
fin.
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