When everything else has been packed, she retrieves one last item from the armoire against the wall. The white linen folds of the shirt pool softly between her fingers as she carries it to her only remaining trunk and places it just inside the lid.
His scent lingers on the fabric's fibers and it nearly undoes her – but instead she chooses to stave off emotion as she lets the lid drop and latch in the empty rooms.
She walks to the window, in amazement and disbelief at both how quickly the weeks have passed since her husband's death and at how each hour has dragged on cruelly in his absence. Stoic and silent, the chateau walls seem to press in on her, invading her mind and reflecting the closing of her heart. This spring morning, bright and cheery, has already seen the coronation of her young brother-in-law and of his mother as regent until he comes of age – but it no longer holds the bright promise of the world as she once knew it.
Not long ago, she had knelt in that same sacred space and received her own crown. She had been entrusted with the rule of France – with Francis beside her. King and queen.
But it no longer matters. Francis is gone and their reign finished.
You cannot linger here, my dear. You have buried your husband. I have buried my son. As soon as Charles is crowned, you will not be safe near Court. You must prepare yourself to return to Scotland.
The recollection of her mother-in-law's words sounds in her head as she steps through the doorway of her rooms and signals that the rest of her belongings are ready to be loaded into the waiting wagons. The corridors echo the click of her heels against the stones, taking her away from this place that has held so many of the years and treasured seasons of her life.
Reaching the courtyard, Bash helps her into the carriage. Kenna slips in beside her. The curtains are already drawn as a gesture of respect for the newly widowed queen. She does not open them, even to have one last glimpse back at the chateau or to wave at the people gathered to see her departure.
The time has come to leave. Nothing remains for her here.
The journey to the Mont takes several days, the travellers slowed by extra members of the party. To offer discreet protection, Catherine disguised a dozen guards as holy men on pilgrimage. While she and Kenna find the road bumpy from their carriage seats, Mary suspects the men's diligent feet have a less tumultuous path.
They arrive at the Mont when the tides are low, allowing them to traverse the natural bridge into the guardianship that the sacred and fortified isle can provide them. Here, she will remain out of the way while Charles begins his reign with Catherine at his side. Here, she will finish her mourning before she returns to Scotland. Here, she will wrestle with what it means to be a queen without a king.
Here, she will lose count of the days and seek solace in the relics and in the silence.
Here, she will finally know his complete and total absence.
The carriage halts and Kenna parts the curtains, revealing the narrow cobbled streets and their tiny shops and homes. "Mary?" her only remaining lady speaks softly so as not to startle her. The queen has not spoken since Nostradamus took her husband's body from her side, its silent warmth finally beginning to seep into coldness.
Bash ducks his head inside and beckons the two women to exit, assisting each of them as they descend. Then, placing his hand at the small in his wife's back, he steers the two of them into a narrow alleyway that steadily climbs upward to the abbey.
She notices the small intimacy between her friends and her heart clenches against the pain that threatens to reveal itself before she can find herself alone. She has never known such jealousy in her heart, particularly toward those whom she loves – but she cannot feel otherwise.
Shifting her gaze from her friends, she sets her feet determinedly to the path before her, head held high and shoulders stiffly back.
Upward they walk through the walls of stone, winding their way to where Catherine hopes she might find rest. Rest from her duties, rest in her mourning, and the reality of the rest of her days.
You will be safe at the Mont, Mary. Take time to grieve properly before returning to Scotland. Trust your mother and brother to do what must be done. The depth of feeling between you and Francis was unusual – be the woman who has lost her beloved husband and not the queen who has lost her king. Do not fret over a single thing. I will take care of the arrangements.
At the top of the climb, the monks provide an austere welcome. One shows her to the quarters where she will stay for the next six months, the monk shuffling serenely through the abbey's corridors and around its enclosed courtyards. Sunlight streams into these small open spaces, filtered by leaves and the salty scent of the surrounding sea.
Catherine wanted her to take six months to grieve. Six months to regain some sense of life.
But as she closes the door to her quarters behind her, she acknowledges it would have been much simpler to return to Scotland immediately and soldier onward, putting her energy into affairs of state and forgetting that France ever lay behind her.
For she knows that as the days blur and proceed, the truth of her new life will settle upon her – that truth which she has feared since she was summoned to Francis' side as he returned from that fatal hunting trip with Bash.
She is now alone.
Author's Notes: Thanks so much to everyone for reading along and also to all who left some feedback on the prologue. I'm sure you've picked up on the reality (as warned) that this is a very slow-to-come story, but thank you for being willing to wait for the rest as it comes. As always, special props to Heather and Robin for taking an early look at this and letting me know when my sentences were awkward and when my brain forgot letters in words – you two are beautiful!
