Francis could only stare at his mother, Catherine, who clung insistently unto his arm. His mind refusing to digest the words of such weight and gravity because of its insanity, its ridiculousness. The very thought of those words would have sent him laughing, a laughter that could be heard by the alps of his nation, weren't for his mother's serious and desperate tone and her expression, an expression that tore through his soul by piercing through his eyes.
"A glowing tree? Droplets of blood on flowers?" the image made out fuzzy in his mind, a funny and rather strange image of vague and fantastical range not fitting for the tone of the conversation. And whose blood? Was it his? "What does any of this mean?" Francis could only shake his head at his Mother's faith in Nostradamus' talents in foreseeing the future and her paranoia for her children, and although he could not blame her for such measures given the circumstances that she had, only recently, nearly lost him to death—God knows that her love for family is truly her one redeeming quality—she couldn't keep him in her grasps in fear of a future so unlikely to happen, so unclear as to what will happen and to whom.
Catherine faltered and looked unsure for a moment. "I'm not sure, but I thought you should know at once," Catherine's voice held so much vulnerability that Francis, for a moment, could not believe that it is his mother speaking in front of him. The Catherine he knew, the Medici Queen he knew by heart and soul is not so foolish as to reveal to the people, even her son, her weakness and vulnerability.
Francis gave out a confused look and a nervous chuckle. "Know what, exactly?" Catherine shook her head and stared at her son's blue eyes, trying to find and let him see reason, reason that danger lurks near him, danger that could pose as a fatal threat to his life, a life that has been once threatened to a point where the people around him saw salvation as a point long past and gone.
"The specifics don't matter, you're in danger," she insisted continuously, grabbing unto his arms, fingers that shook lightly from the fear that ran through her body, fear of losing her son—permanently, however, this time.
Francis felt his throat grow dry as he find himself repeating the very core of his words, his questions stated just earlier. "How does this foretell my death? Does he see me in this vision?" he wanted to believe, Francis wanted to see for himself the danger so that he could avert it, so that he could avoid it but he couldn't. His existence meant Nostradamus' inaccuracy—he is supposed to be in a wake, his death from a fever of the brain, an abscess of the ear, and yet here he is, standing in front of a grieving mother who has not lost a son.
Then he saw it, the look on his mother's face. Even Catherine, the sturdy Queen Dowager of France, was convincing herself of the words leaving her lips. "It's not always black and white," she paced around for a moment. "Some prophecies he sees clearly, others are more symbolic," she recounted, as if everything had fit perfectly and made sense. "There's something ominous in your future," her nervous body seemed so shaken at the realization, at the entertaining of possibilities and theories. "Your fever of the brain, it's only recently subsided—your health is not yet fully restored," Catherine turned to urge her son who could only look with such disbelief.
Francis let out a sigh of exasperation. How could his mother entertain the thought of him dying when he is good and well? Yes, he does feel his head grow heavy and would sometimes feel his head throb in pain that could, at worst, leave him wanting shut-eye. But that is all, there is nothing to fear with his health—he is the very picture, the very epitome, and dare he say it, the personification of health itself.
Catherine did not come to terms with Francis' reaction. In fact, she felt a bit offended, realizing that her son deems her too distant to not realize that he is in pain, no matter how minor, he is still suffering. Her golden boy is suffering. "I'm your mother, you think I can't tell?" again, she gripped her son's arm and caressed his cheek with the other available hand. "Francis, I urge you to be safe," there was an underlying tone to her message and Francis caught on quickly.
She urged him to be safe, not just for himself, but for his siblings, for Claude and Charles, for Mary, for her.
"How?" it was a question of the wise. How does one shield all danger when all his life, Francis thinks, he's been in danger for being born as the person he is. He had been born as a fils de France, raised to become the Dauphin and King of France, the heir to a throne where many lays claim, a King who has survived a coup, a Catholic husband to a Catholic wife who has a blood claim on a Protestant throne. When has he been safe? How does one define safety for the people of his class, for the royals who gambles not only the fortune of nations but also their lives for the course of nations?
"Surround yourself with guards," Catherine quickly answered, superior speed trying to hide the quivering of her lips. "Don't leave the castle," she answered in rapid succession, her eyes avoiding Francis' longing eyes, his blue eyes that were longing for her to see his side, to understand his reason for wanting to leave the castle—for wanting to defy and ignore every possible suggestion she's given the past minute or so, despite every vivid warning she's given him.
"I will not be confined—" it was a firm statement with no preamble. It was fit of a King with an iron resolution, but Catherine had cut her son off.
"Only until he learns more!" she offered hopefully, insisting what has been insisted before and has been denied.
But this only drove Francis to yearn more for the world outside the protected castle walls. The feeling of being restricted, of being denied only gave him the motivation to insist on what he wants, on what he needs to see—the world outside. "Mother," his voice soft and tender, gentle and fitting for a son convincing a mother to let go, "I will not hide here waiting for a dream of my death! I am not being reckless; I'm living my life," it was a soft point made clear and a gentle smile graced Francis' lips and he held his mother's hands in his own. He looked around, taking a deep breath of air before smiling widely at his mother, beaming at her to urge her to understand his newly given perspective. "And if you could see what I see—the colors—they're so much brighter than before, and every moment, every emotion!" Catherine still shook her head gently.
"Your illness, all you've been through—it's changed you," Francis gave out a laugh at her words, smiling tenderly at the mother who only wished to protect him.
"Well, I don't know, perhaps, but I do know that I want to spend every day sailing with Mary until the snow comes, and I want to visit the Matterhorn and the Verdon Gorge—and yes, I will take precaution if only for the sake of the people I love. . .including you," Francis felt himself smile more brightly as he felt himself being a step closer towards bringing Mary to the places they should have already been to. He felt a step closer to dancing under the stars of his favorite constellation, the Hunter, outside the palace of the Louvre. He saw himself happily dancing the night away with Mary before stealing her away to show her his love for her.
To show Mary the magic that happens between them, the magic that occurs every time when they kiss, touch, look into each other's eyes, hear each other's heart beat, feel the breathing of each other, and making love to one another.
To show Mary, his beautiful Queen Mary Stuart of Scotland, the effect she alone can bestow upon him, an effect that could make him, a King of his own right and nation, bow down to her in pure respect and of love and of adoration. To pour his heart's purest emotion, to show his every feeling as there are no secrets in their union, not in their marriage—not with a love like their's.
"I know that you mean well," Catherine continued to caress his son's cheeks, closely and fervently, as if there was a tragedy to behold somewhere in the near future. "Your actions have always been motivated by your devotion towards me—to all your children," it was a teasing tone, something Catherine caught unto and laughed nervously before staring at her son lovingly and cherished his presence, his very existence and life, his role in her life.
"To you, most of all," a sheepish smile graced Catherine's lips as she memorized the beauty of her son. "I shouldn't have favorites—but you, my golden child, I can't lose you, I won't lose you," she whispered determinedly, her eyes once again begging his not to go.
"But you cannot keep me in a cage—even one built with love," Francis shook his head softly.
"Then, if not for me, then stay until your brothers Henry and Herculé, and your sister, Marguerite, return," Francis had a look of shock written all over his face, and soon, so did Catherine. "Did the servants not tell you?" it was truly a surprise for Catherine, and for the servants, she considered, a feat had been achieved. Now, Catherine thought, if only they had achieved this feat long ago, she thought wistfully. "They didn't even gossip about their return to court?" Francis shook his head at his mother's question.
His younger siblings. When had he last set his eyes on them or heard their laughter? When was the last time he had considered life to be simple?
"I thought that you would want to see your younger siblings before you die—it would break my heart to see to it that they would never remember a brother who has always protected them, a brother who has always cared for them, I would simply die of a broken heart," it was pure exaggeration, Francis was sure of that, but he also felt guilt reside in his stomach. Should Charles fail as a King and Louis lay claim on their throne, how would they, children too young and innocent, fare out in the word without protection?
With a heavy heart and a deep breath of air, Francis nodded his head and gave in to his mother's wishes. "Alright, but after a week of their return, Mary and I shall set out to Paris," it was flaw, some will say, the King's love for his brothers and his love for Mary. But in Francis' eyes, it was all different.
It made better, and in doing so, it made stronger.
"I shall stay and wait for my siblings to arrive, and after that, Mother, with every available precaution possible for a French King, Mary and I—we will dance under the stars, inside the halls of the Louvre," Catherine smiled. She had bought her son some time, perhaps even his continuous survival!
"And so you shall!"