Forgiveness
Francis had been in the throne room by himself for some time after his argument with Mary, trying to think of the best course of action for their current situation with Condé. He wasn't sure he had ever been so angry with Mary in their entire marriage. She had put his country through so much in recent months, and she continued to do so - she was so blindly selfish now, making such foolish decisions with her heart and not with her head.
You have done what a queen must never do. You have put the personal above the political - his safety above the nation's!
Oh yes, he was still furious. Anger had settled deep within his bones and refused to be pushed away. Mary was no longer the girl he had fallen in love with, and while the initial transformation had been through no fault of her own, this had to stop.
The doors swung open, interrupting his thoughts, and Mary stepped in. She moved toward his throne and he had to resist the urge to order the guards to remove her from his presence as she stopped before him, folding her hands.
"Francis," she said, her words strong and confident. "I know that I have hurt you."
Hurt him? She had betrayed him in unimaginable ways. It was beyond hurt by now. She was still in the midst of an affair with his cousin, someone who was now trying to kill him and steal his country, his crown. She had been ready to flee France with the man and abandon him, leaving him looking weak and foolish, their alliance destroyed, yet their marriage still legally intact. She had planned to take his army while he had been ill and comatose.
She was still speaking.
"But there is something I have learned, and that is that we must move past this. We are king and queen, bound together as surely as prisoners in a dungeon, and if we are not to suffer as prisoners do we must make peace with each other."
He could only stare at her this time as the weight of her words sunk in. She couldn't be serious. Was this supposed to be an apology?
"Do you think you could ever forgive me?" When he didn't speak, she raised her voice. "Please, if you are angry, say something!"
Could he?
Some part of him, the part that was still so deeply in love with her, wanted to say yes. Wanted to kiss her, to cradle her to him and be as happy as they had once been. To move on and forget this had ever happened.
But he couldn't trust her. She had done too much to him, put his country at risk so many times, proved her disloyalty. Mary was no longer someone he recognized when he looked into her eyes. Perhaps in time, he could come to forgive her and trust her again, if she changed for the better, but this Mary was not someone that he wanted anything to do with. Even upon learning of the coup, she had cared only for herself and her lover.
Mary, the old Mary, had once told him that she would always choose Scotland first.
He had to do the same for France. She did not have France's best interest at heart now, as she spoke to him. She was only thinking of herself and her own suffering.
So, the answer was no.
When Francis spoke, he intended it to be in a scathing tone, but he just sounded weary. Tired to the bone, and twice his age.
"Oh, you ask for forgiveness," he said with a humorless laugh. "But how can I even consider it when Condé is still out there, most likely with agents of Elizabeth?"
She opened her mouth to speak, but he swept on before she could.
"France has been through so much. Most of this country is just like dry tinder waiting for a spark." Couldn't she see what she had done, what her lover was doing even now? "All that is needed is a face. A claim. A bloodline. And someone who is willing to die for the cause."