Being a History nerd, I love history, and yet I love these historical inaccuracies, one of which is Frary (I doubt that their real relationship was as sexual and romantic). However, as my passion for both history and Frary often contradicts, I have decided to give you this.
I do not own REIGN and all that, CW does that for me, and Laurie McCarthy.
"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name; Thy Kingdom come; Thy will be on Earth as it is in Heaven. . ." the aged and weary Catholic Scottish had stopped her silent invocation in the middle of the prayer when the doors to her cell, the one behind her, had slowly creaked open and footsteps soon followed suit, filling the room's once silent atmosphere with the clanking and tweaks of metal, the image of a guard reporting her every move to the Protestants who took over her country and life.
Queen Mary of Scotland didn't bother to turn around to greet her new companion, instead, continuing her prayer in solemn silence.
"You're about to die and yet all you do is pray?" she ignored the dry remark of the man behind her and continued to finger the yellowed-pages of the Bible she held in her hands.
"Praying, my dear, is something of the essence and would be considered an equal to the affairs of the state," there was a low chuckle from the guard, who had locked the cell and pulled up a chair to join this pious Queen nearing her death. "It is the most help we can get, us mere mortals, from the Divine—and most effective, mind you." The Queen then continued with her life, writing on blank sheets of paper, pondering as she stared outside the window for inspiration.
"Well, I've heard that prayer isn't exactly the most efficient of ways, either," although she was facing away from the guard who kept her company, she could hear the smile on his face, the look on his face when he would register that she, the prisoner he is with, is old as a fossil. "Prayers take time, and after seeing the courtyard being prepared for a chopping, a public beheading, I wouldn't exactly place my life in the hands of prayers," then, in his tone, was a curious one, "Queen Mary, if I may say so boldly, you should have wrote letters, asking your powerful nephews and relatives, the famous family of De Guise, to save you," she simply laughed it off, shaking her head softly as she watched the sky's color dip into an orange hue.
"I've accepted this fate—my death—and I've no qualms with it. . ." she trailed off, sighing into the distance as she continued to hold the Bible in her hand. "Although there are things I would like to change, some particular events I would alter to experience life differently, if you'll allow this honesty from me, guard; some sort of what-if situation playing in my mind, over and over again." This raised a curious brow from the guard and fixed his eyes on the Queen, wondering what it was.
"Would you be so kind as to tell me, Majesty?"
She sighed and kissed the Bible feverishly. "Well, it's about my son, James, you see," she opened the last portion of it and saw a small picture, a locket-sized picture of her beloved James.
"Please," he edged near her bed and placed a hand on her shoulder, urging her to continue. "Tell me of your son," her pressed, gently encouraging her with kind words, but expecting adamantly for an answer. "Tell me of your beloved James, your family and your life with him," he wanted to grab her shoulder and see her face, this Queen of Scots, and see for himself the lady to be executed, and see how she has affected everyone near her despite her position and status.
"James. . ." she trailed off, as if reminiscing great deals of memories and events spent with him, "I remember the birthing, for it had stretched on for hours and hours long, and I also remember his coming as a source of great relief, his gender and existence, for he would cause a steady and peaceful succession to the throne." He nodded, watching the Queen carefully, admiring her. "I remember that I was glad, Elizabeth was not married and had no children—no one would fight him for the throne should he reach out for it," she gave out a shaky laugh.
Images flooded through her mind, reminding her of the time she spent with her babe.
"His dark brown hair, signature Stuart hair, had been forming a small turf atop his little head, last I saw him, my baby boy, James Stuart," she remember the wailing and the crying that had filled the room after the exhausted screaming, the persistent urging of the midwives inside the infirmary. She remembered how weak she was, how sweat had glistened on her forehead and yet how rejuvenated she was, how at peace she felt when the midwives placed the baby on her arms.
"How is he now?" it was curt and direct. There was no beating around the bush with his question, it was simply straight to the point, his question directed towards the back of a weeping Queen.
It was a strange and rare occurrence, for the both of them, the Queen and the guard, to witness how she is so speechless, so tongue-tied, unable to give an answer to a subject, no matter the religion for she had no qualms about this religion. "I haven't seen him since he was a year-old." It seemed so automatic, so rehearsed when the words played in her mind, but when it came out of her mouth, it seemed so real like the hurt had been fresh and an open wound. "He was only a year-old when the English and the Protestants had barged in the nursery room—I knew, of course, that they had come for me, after all these years—ripping him apart from my arms, not even given a chance to say goodbye or to see him once again, or even updated of his growth and life," the man had sucked a sharp breath of air in.
It was a revelation to heard and reflected upon by hundreds of philosophers, should they write about her execution or not, it something worth thinking over. It is worth much intellectual capacity for they see a Queen only, unable to see a girl and a mother who had been robbed of her chance to be the woman her son needed.
History books would be filled of her details as a Queen, she would be loved for her life as a Queen, as a claimant to the English throne, as an usurper for the English, not as a girl who dreamed or as a mother who loved her child endlessly, or they would have let her be.
There was an awkward silence between the two, a silence so deafening. "I suppose that it would be best that I leave," the man stood up and bowed his head low, in respect to a Queen, soon to be killed, when her head shook gently, still refusing to see the guard by the face.
"Don't leave me just yet, guard—I happen to enjoy your company and would very much prefer that you accompany me, during my last hours," she placed the Bible down and let out a weary sigh, her hand holding something on her chest, probably a locket. "Would you stay for an old woman and be entertained with her stories?" there was creaking again, from the metal armor, and the bed sank considerably from a side, causing the Queen to smile fondly.
"Alright then, Majesty, tell me of your husband," it was a daring question ad they both knew it. Especially the guard, who sat there sharply. It was an intelligent picture, how he had imagined the Queen and her husband, Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley. A true marriage of convenience to strengthen Scotland's claim for the English throne by having the Queen marry another descendant of Henry VII, a Tudor King, the first of the six Tudor monarchs.
"Of which? The one that fathered my heir? The man who forced my hand into an unwilling marriage, and most ironically, the longest of my three marriages? Or the man who had been my friend?"
"Tell me of your son's father, the Lord Darnley, Henry Stuart," he, as well, stared at the gentle meeting of the night-sky and of the orange as he thought of a marriage so shrewdly made, a negotiation so proper and fit for their respective stations, a marriage to strengthen their claim for the English throne, as they are both grandchildren of Margaret Tudor.
There was a pregnant pause as the awkward and out-of-place creaking of metal armor filled the room's tensed atmosphere. The Scottish Queen let out a breath of air she had not realized that she was holding in. "It had been 5 years since my first husband's death when the Council had been pestering me endlessly to marry a man to provide for an heir," she laughed bitterly, "Queen Mary in mourning, forced to marry for an alliance for the sake of the English throne, a burden I've never yearned for," this caused the guard to suck a breath of air in sharply.
"When did you first meet?"
"It was a year after his death, when I first met Henry, due to his parents, the Earl and Countess of Lennox, had sent him to French Court to send their most humble of condolences, but their secret and true agenda was to marry me off, and even though I had to admit that it was an advantageous union, I am not so shallow as to fall madly in love because of one's superior height, contrary to those rumors set off by the English Court and Elizabeth's spies among the Scottish Court." There was understanding and sympathy in the eyes of the guard, the sympathy of understanding how pitiful her position and situation was, no matter how blessed her station was in life.
"How about James Hepburn? The Earl of Bothwell?" there was obvious distaste in her face the moment he had mentioned the man, James, who happened to be her third and final husband in life. "I take it that the forced marriage was not received well?" this earned a soft chuckle, a real laugh from the sad sovereign.
"It's a forced marriage, boy," she chuckled heartly, but there was darkness and a grim aura around her figure. "And the way he had forced it upon me was both legally and physically—if you want to secure a marriage to a Queen, or a death wish, you should consider reading his journals and studying him!" it was meant to be humorous, it truly should, but it was more of a desperate cry for help, like a confession, the much needed rejuvenation for the weary.
"But wasn't your first marriage against your will as well?" it was an innocent question that raised much feelings from the secluded and remote past.
She took a deep breath of air, her lips trembling and shaky. "I knew little of the arrangement, and as a child, I knew well to obey rather than be naughty and lose the favor of my mother, who I rarely saw," this earned her a chuckle from the guard, and there was sympathy. "It was for the best of my country, an alliance with a Catholic country, a friendship cemented with marriage." There was a fond tone towards the end of her statement and the guard smiled knowingly, a sad smile played on his lips when he realized what it had meant, her terminology.
"It was more than a friendship, wasn't it? It had developed into something more, if I may inquire?" then, the guard's eyes fell on the expensive-looking, well-cared Bible.
"I grew up with Francis at Saint-Pol-de-Léon, where I grew up with his siblings—I remember that Elisabeth and I happen to be the best of friends," she took, however, the Bible in her hands and breathed in the scent of the familiar yellowed book before leaving a chaste kiss on its cover. "His family, although they were there for me politically and legally, had received me well. . .all except for his mother, the Italian-born Queen of France, Queen Catherine de Medici."
The guard let out a knowing sigh, as if wanting to be spared the details to a story so repeated throughout the years.
"I heard you were a favourite amongst the entire French Court, loved by everyone except her—why is that?"
"There was a prophecy, you see, regarding my husband, her son's death," she fingered the yellowed pages of the Bible again, "Catherine believed that I would seal his fate by marriage, and he died after a year of marriage, actually," there was a bitter laugh, so unlike the image the Queen had seemingly portrayed earlier. "I was banished from Court while mourning, they paraded suitors, and women their husbands, around me as if to mock me for being a widow, all while my I and my beloved country remained in peril from the English," there was a small smile playing at the guard's lips.
"But your country never did matter that much during those dark times?" she shook her head slowly.
She took a deep breath of air. "No, retribution was in my mind—how could I lose someone so dear to me while Elizabeth gains so much of an advantage on me?" she grabbed a small handkerchief and wiped her tears. "And this Bible," she set it down before the man's eyes, whose hands itched to touch it, "it is something I took from French Court, a gift from Charles before he was banned from seeing me by Catherine, the only token I have to remember French Court by other than my blood relation to that country." The guard stepped forward and tried to reach for the Bible.
"This particular Bible is quite well-done, may I read it, Majesty—" before he could take it in his arms, the not-so weary Queen grabbed it and pressed it against her chest, her head shaking fervently. "I'll take that gesture as a no, Majesty," he took a step back and retreated into his spot behind her.
"This Bible is dangerous, mind you, poisoned by the Bourbon leader, King Antoine I de Bourbon, so that my father-in-law, Henry II would go mad—the poison used was so strong that by touching it alone, it will poison you and your mind," the man leaned to the side, his brow raised curiously as he carefully watched the Queen.
"And why are you using the poisoned Bible if it is, in fact, poisoned?"
"Because it diverts reality, which, in turn, lets me see you, Francis," she finally turned around, her tear-stricken face met the blue eyes, such color that rivaled the purest of skies, of the deceased son of Henry II, King of France and of the wealthy Catherine de Medici. "Because I'd go mad if I couldn't see you, the pain would be unbearable then, Francis," the apparition of what seemed to be the former King of France sat down on the bed and watched his former wife tenderly.
"But you are mad," he said softly, meaning no harm, offence, nor disrespect. "You have gone mad, you're seeing me, Mary, and that is not normal," there was sympathy etched so publicly on his face. "How can you say that you will go mad when you already are?" he rested his hand on her shoulder, as she embraced him tightly as if tomorrow was no longer a possibility for the both of them, which is quite a factor because her beheading is a sight prepared by the most high of officials.
"Because," she said slowly, caressing his face into her small and calloused hands, "Francis, being apart from you is a madness of its own, a madness I could not manage nor suffer for long—I can handle insanity, but never your absence, Francis, never your absence."