((Author's Note: Hi all! Just wanted to leave a quick note to say that I'm soooo grateful for the response to this, I really wasn't expecting much interest if I'm honest. All your reviews are very encouraging and I appreciate them tonnes! Here's my next chapter. As a pre-warning it might seem a little slow paced, but I promise you it's a pivotal moment for the characters featured. I imagine I'll be getting another chapter in before Christmas, but on the chance I don't, have a wonderful Christmas guys!))
THE ENEMY
Chapter Four
"'Sail to me, sail to me;
Let me enfold you.'
Here I am, here I am waiting to hold you."
The news of Greer's potential demise had shocked Lola into giving up what little she knew. The lady-in-waiting had looked uncomfortable and nervous, throwing furtive glances over her shoulder as if she were waiting to be struck down by some invisible foe. When confronted about her obvious anxieties Lola had baulked. Wide eyed like a rabbit running from a predator, Lola had merely informed Mary that she'll not betray those she had said she'd keep promises and secrets for.
For several hours, only two things were running through Mary's mind: Narcisse and a nanny. Her obsessive thinking had made her appear distant, perhaps even a slightly slow-witted when it came to sitting alongside Francis in the throne room and hearing reports from the nobles. She had been silent, trapped within her own fervent thoughts. When questions had been explicitly directed to her, Mary had blinked rapidly as if surfacing from a long sleep. Often, she had to ask questions to be repeated. Eventually, when she could no longer endure the sidelong glances from her husband and the narrow-eyed scrutiny of the nobles, Mary did not say a word but upped and left.
Alone in the chambers she shares with Francis, Mary has nothing to distract her from trying to piece together how Francis' choice to disclude Mary from any of his troubles and important choices regarding the ruling of France fits in with Narcisse and the termination of Lola's favourite Nurse for their son. Apparently, Francis had not given Lola a feasible reason. Mary herself remembers how Francis had appeared in their room that same evening, pallid and shaken as if he had seen some kind of apparition. He'd even complained of nausea.
With a heavy sigh, Mary falls into the straight backed chair in front of her mirror. She herself notices similarities between her own countenance and Francis': they are both becoming weary, fatigued with emotional exhaustion as they battle not only nobles who are wild with demands, but each other too.
Nobles wild with demands... The thought nudges her, echoing through her skull. Then, Mary is sitting bolt upright, no longer slumped and tired but alert with a new kind of energy. It hadn't been long after the nanny was removed from her position that Narcisse had began to spit out his requests. Francis had barely put up a fight to most but bent to the noble's will almost instantaneously. Could it be that there was a link between Narcisse and the nursery maid?
Mary's small moment of victory when she managed to align the two in some way is short-lived. Again, she finds herself exhaling heavily. "A nanny," Mary says aloud, frowning at herself in the mirror. "A nanny."
She is not sure how many times she utters the word. It's as if some small, childish segment of her hopes that in some way repetition will bring enlightenment but instead it just leaves her hollow and frustrated. If Narcisse had been threatening Francis' baby, the termination of the nanny would have fixed the issue. Furthermore Francis' would have been able to put Narcisse to death. Vexation has her hands sliding into her dark hair. Engrossed in thought, Mary twists a lump of the thick dark strands around her fingers. A searing pain begins at the base of the hair, but she ignores it. Heat building in her scalp, Mary continues to twine the hair tighter around her fingers. There is a moment of excruciating pain followed by a throbbing sensation at the nape of her neck.
She looks at her hand. There is a messy lock of thick raven dark hair clutched in her fist.
"Why didn't you come to dinner?" Francis voice is loud and strong as he bustles through the double doors. It combats the dazed confusion that the sight of her own tousled hair in her in fist had encapsulated her in. Hastily, Mary drops the hair onto the flagstones, using her foot to kick them beneath the dresser, out of sight.
"I had a filling lunch," Mary stands to greet him. "I wasn't hungry."
Although she is only half-lying to him, it is an untruth all the same. Her guilt only increases as Francis sweeps her into his arms, his embrace firm and convincing. There is something utterly tender about it, as if the way he is pulling her tight into his chest is supposed to convey everything he has failed to say recently. As his lips graze across her forehead, Mary allows herself to settle in his embrace. For a moment, enveloped in his scent, Mary is able to let the rest of the world collapse. She can almost believe that nothing between them has been spoiled.
All too soon, the embrace ends. She stops herself from clinging to him like a desperate child, but cannot help herself but give him a glance that lingers a few too seconds long. Turning away, she removes her earrings and sets them delicately atop the dresser. Behind her, she can hear Francis undressing. With a careful nonchalance with only a small measure of curiosity induced, Mary speaks. "Catherine tells me you wish for her to return to Italy."
Though she has not posed it as a question, Francis responds to it as such. "Sometimes I feel the castle and the country would function better without her presence." There's a pause. "I'd forgotten how close you two had become." There is something biting in his addition to his initial answer. Francis' bitterness has Mary's hackles rising before she can stop herself.
"Well," she says loftily as she turns to appraise him with hard eyes. "It's difficult to be close to someone when you don't talk to them. Catherine does talk to me."
She sees his Adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallows hard. "I just find it curious that you're able to forgive my mother for spending an entire year plotting your death yet you're unable to reprieve me-"
"Your mother plotted my death because she thought it would save you!" Mary interjects loudly. She shakes her head at him in disbelief. "Francis, a mother's first thought is preservation of her child, a being that she breathed life into! Of course if she is given an opportunity to eliminate the one that she believes to responsible for ending her child's life she will take it! That situation is entirely incomparable to the barbaric damnation of hundreds, possibly thousands because you are too weak to stand up to people beneath you!"
"Mary, you do not understand." Francis growls through gritted teeth. His has straightened his shoulders, squaring them as he stares at her with the force of a thousand men.
"Then help me to understand!" Mary cries, wringing her hands in despair. "Stop shutting me out!"
She realises how close she is standing to him then. Francis' breath is coming harshly now. It blows across her skin like a cold wind. Only minutes earlier, being close to him had been comforting. Now, it frightens her. His face is taut and pinched. His bluey grey eyes, usually like a tranquil body of water are a churning ocean. Never before has Mary seen any similarities between Francis and his father; now she is seeing them everywhere. Controlled by fear of losing what they have, playing a game that only keeps the strong happy, a refusal to acknowledge that the oppressed will rise to become the oppressors... lies and manipulation. They trailed behind his father like a cloak. Mary can see the weight of it on Francis' own shoulders.
"Mary," his voice drops. "I can't let you in. I can't. I'm just asking that you trust me."
Mary's heart drops to her stomach. "I'm sorry Francis. Sorry that I am no longer your equal. I'm sorry I can't give you the blind faith you want either."
o - - - - o
"I don't understand..." Kenna says slowly, shaking her head as she stares wide-eyed at Bash. "What will this mean for France?"
Bash exhales heavily, rubbing a hand tiredly across his forehead. The day has been a long one, and he wants nothing more than to drop off into a deep and dreamless sleep. Kenna on the other hand is inquisitive. She is full of questions, brimming with energy and a thirst for knowledge. As always, Bash has shared with her as much as he feels he is able to, yet the flow of questions he cannot answer is ceaseless. However, her latest question has nothing to do with him being unable to disclose the information - he simply cannot piece together what a schism between his brother and Mary will do to the country they rule.
"I don't know Kenna," he confesses, rolling onto his side so he has a better view of his wife. "Francis is the king which means he will always have the final word, but Mary is a powerful ally to have. She's brave, quick-witted, clever... she's a real fighter."
Kenna's breath hitches in her throat as if she is struggling to breathe around a lump there. Concerned, Bash slides closer to her, tucking an arm protectively around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest. Kenna is as stiff as a plank of wood. Lightly, Bash rests his chin on top of her head. "Don't worry, Kenna. As much as I fear for what would happen if Mary's faith in Francis dwindles, I know that there is a solution. We are fixing it."
"Who's 'we'?" Kenna asks sharply.
Surprised, Bash leans back so he can see her face. Her olive complexion has paled, leaving her looking drained. Her jaw is clenched in a way that he's seen many times; something is bothering her that she is determined to get to the bottom of. He wants to kiss her, to distract her from her worries, but he knows that any attempt to quell her rapidly thinking mind will only irritate her. Instead, he softly detaches himself from her. "Francis and I. I'm not in any danger, Kenna. Try to sleep. Try to worry about this less. It's not your problem, there isn't anything you can change."
Kenna's face twists into a scowl. "I don't see why it has to be your problem either."
"I'm the King's deputy, it's my duty-"
"Always so honourable and duteous," Kenna rolls her eyes at him, shaking her head. "I remember a time when you were unpredictable, slightly selfish and completely unconcerned with matters at court."
So do I. They are the words he is about to say out loud, but they die in his throat. They were days when he had been able to take certain liberties without repercussions. He had lived freely, riding and hunting, messing around with swords to his hearts content. He had done whatever he wanted when he wanted. There had been little of real importance in his mind. His only concerns regarded Catherine's growing hostility toward his mother. But then Mary had happened. She had breezed into his life, taken him wholly by surprise. He continued to take his liberties, but things had seemed smaller and more petty, ridiculous and unwholesome. His thoughts were consumed by a girl - a girl who had taken him and plunged him into a world he'd always consciously chose to stay away from. She opened his eyes to the bigger picture. She enlightened him. She challenged him. She pushed him. Maybe she even lo-
Abruptly, Bash catches himself. That was a different time. A time that feels ancient and foreign.
But as he drops off to the sleep he has been craving since he collapsed into bed hours ago, he cannot stop himself dreaming of the girl who always laughed the loudest and the fought the hardest... A girl with ebony dark hair and alabaster skin.
