A/N: Uh. Let's ignore the huge elephant in the room (the elephant being my year and a half long ABSENCE).
Your undying support for this story, coupled with the encouragement for me to continue, have revived this zombie fanfic. So, thank you.
This chapter has a few pagan exchanges, and the translations can be found at the bottom. I hope you enjoy!
Chapter Seven: As Clever as You are Beautiful
Behold all the pieces of fortress that once stood
The canvases colors can't hold like they once could
Listen to the growing sound of all I've known that bids me farewell
I saw the new horizon deep within your eyes as the autumn leaves fell
And I'm in love
You broke me like the dawn breaks through the night
The day that didn't know that it needed light
Yeah, I'm in love
-Dawn,
Jake Scott
Bash indolently drug his feet as he sauntered down the familiar, cobbled walkway towards his newly-manifested nightmare.
Preceding this moment, he had been encircled by a crowd of villagers who all welcomed the king's bastard and his 'traveling companion' with equal parts warm enthusiasm and a sea of relentless questions. Naturally, Bash had anticipated this kind of reaction from the town's folk upon entering the village. What he had not anticipated, however, was the overwhelming feeling of guilt that weighed heavily upon his conscious as he received each friendly, innocent greeting; for every amiable reception had been accompanied by a fiery glance from Mary, as it became ostensibly more and more apparent to her that Bash had, once again, lied.
Lying, as a general rule, was not a method of which Bash often relied upon. In his experience, deception tended to be a messy and ambiguous beast, maintaining the most adverse inclination to turn and trample over its founder at any given moment. And yet, here he was. Floating adrift in-between a muddled torrent of truths and lies while wandering towards his partial-time childhood home.
He was flanked on either side by individuals whom existed within the two very separate lives that he led; on one side, Mary, Queen of Scotland, and on the other side, his secret family. One of Bash's two lives -the life in which Mary belonged to- was a charmed and privileged life. The other life -the one in which his secret bloodline resided- was… well, complicated, at best. Not surprisingly, these individuals and their respective lives did not fit well together, and Bash had spent fifteen years making damned certain that his two worlds never intersected.
Bash swayed slightly with exhaustion and apprehension as he, his family, and the Queen of Scotland all approached the front of a modest, stark cottage. It was nothing to gawk at; no fanciful décor, no high-rising pillars, and certainly no grandiose displays. The cottage was little more than a poor farmer's home, adorned and constructed with thick stone walls, slitted windows, and three spouting chimneys that jutted through a wooden, shingled roof.
The sight of the home prompted a multitude of memories, for Bash; including those that belonged to much simpler times. Memories of when his mother and uncle were still on the verge of mending a broken family relationship. Memories of his very young childhood, when he and Isobel would wander out past the livestock and crops to roll and tumble down the sides of bounding, grass-topped hills. Memories of nightfall, when the children would rush back to their homes from a long day of play, covered in dirt and grass, plainly exhausted from hours of sun-kissed frolicking. Memories of evening, crowded tightly around a campfire, enthralled by the nonsensical ramblings of the elders in the village...
"…lumenick dushkader et sparago faraha ay raynim doluchtai…"
Bash swallowed thickly, willing the demons of his past back down into the deepest, darkest reaches of his soul. He wondered if he would ever be rid of them -these terrible, shameful truths of his past- and reasoned that no one ever truly escaped from the grips of their lineage; whether it was royalty, or peasantry, or something far, far worse…
Before his thoughts could lead him down a tortured path, Bash's attention was drawn to Sylvia as she shooed a mud-caked pig and a bundle of chickens free from the intricately placed pebble walkway; and the king's bastard did not miss the deep flush of embarrassment that flashed across his aunt's face, nor the sidelong glance that she cast towards Mary. Well accustomed to this type of treatment, the snorting and clucking livestock disappeared into the thick, overgrown crops that lined the stone pathway, and Peter darted after the assortment of animals while giggling in childlike innocence.
Barely troubled by her child's frivolous actions, Sylvia stepped forward to push against the door at the entrance of her home. She released a disapproving 'tsk' as the hardware groaned loudly -as if in protest- against the palms of her soot-covered hands. Cheeks ablaze, she commented offhandedly, "your uncle has been meaning to fix that…"
Bash's heart cinched. His poor, kindly aunt's embarrassment stemmed from the innocent idea that Elise was a rich, highborn lady of French Court who was presumably entering into the unprepared farm house, unaccustomed to a commoner's simple -and, oftentimes, messy- way of life. More to the point, perhaps, Bash feared for the likelihood of Sylvia uncovering her unanticipated guest's true identity...
"Is that so?" Jon voiced, faintly amused. He tapped his fingers against the door's rusted hardware, acting as if this would miraculously correct the issue, then shrugged his shoulders up into his ears.
Mary, who formerly stood at his aunt's side, shifted tentatively into the side of Bash's arm as both Sylvia and Jon disappeared into the warmth of the cottage. The sudden, rough contact caused Bash to glance guardedly down and onto the young queen's face; and they each studied the other's expression, searching for an answer. For his part, the king's bastard hoped his aspect displayed the deep regret he felt for not being more forthcoming about his family. As for Mary's features… well, Bash could only liken it to the countenance of a woman who felt greatly betrayed.
Again.
"Please forgive the disarray!" Sylvia's voice rang out cheerily, if not slightly flustered.
Best get it over with… thought Bash, reaching his hand forward to grasp at the splintered, aged doorframe. Seeking strength in the wood's questionable stability, he tilted his head to the side in courteous form and gestured for the young queen to enter first. Beyond a moment of hesitation –wherein Mary clenched her jaw and squared her shoulders– the Queen of Scots shifted across the threshold of the home, fueled by a plethora of thoughts in no charming form. Bash's eyes trailed after her rather diffidently, knowing that it was entirely possible that she may never forgive him for this deception, then leisurely followed suit.
Jon and Sylvia's modest home had always felt smaller than it appeared from the outside, to Bash. The livestock and high rising crops gave the building an illusion of size; but it was, in fact, little more than a two-bedroom cottage. Nonetheless, the crackling hearth and the smell of freshly cooked meal counterbalanced what the house lacked in richness.
As Bash crossed the threshold into the small living quarters, he took a deep breath full of the comforting, spicy scent of herbs, onions, and the burning timber that wafted up from the fireplace
Welcome home.
Sylvia shifted into the small kitchen to place her basket full of gathered vegetables down alongside several piles of freshly cut meats, cheeses, and breads. As she created space for the newly arrived food, a large, juicy tomato rolled freely across the table, tumbling over the edge before she had time to save it. Fortunately, Jon swiftly caught the fleeing vegetable, exuding little to no effort in his quick reaction. He placed the tomato gently back atop the mountain from which it came, casting a wide glance at his wife, followed by a wink.
The king's bastard quirked a brow at the enormous gathering of food. It was an oddly generous amount, considering the family was made up of merely four people…
A soft creak in the floorboards drew Bash's attention away from the odd scene within the kitchen. He impulsively bit down upon the inside of his lip as he spied the Scottish Queen, now ambling slowly about the main room with a look of keen fascination painted across her face.
The king's bastard could admit, despite his unease, that it was an enchantingly exquisite scene; Mary Stuart, the beautiful Queen of Scotland, standing within the center of his family's humble little home, captivated by the common and simpler things which made the cottage feel like - well, like a home.
The small, intimate quarters housed several windows along the far wall, where panes of sunlight knifed through the air and cast warmth upon a wood planked floor and an assortment of woven rugs. Mary's feet stirred swirls of shimmering dust up into the narrow rays of sunlight as she spun in a quick, tight circle; her gaze bouncing up and down as she took in the scene of what surely must have appeared to her as a rather 'quaint' collection of items.
A warm smile stretched across the queen's full lips as she traveled, glancing at details that enriched the home; such as the herbs that hung upside-down along the walls, the candles upon the banister that rose at varying heights, and the collection of colorful wild berries that overflowed from a wooden bowl atop the kitchen table. Her pale fingertips brushed along the carved arm of a cedar chair, and the corner of her lips tugged upward as she examined a hand-picked floral arrangement at the center of the room.
When she had completed her half-turns, Mary twisted about to face Sylvia.
For reasons unknown to him, Bash sucked in a cautious breath of air.
"You have a well-loved home, indeed; and it is perfect. You will apologize for nothing." Insisted Mary, her eyes soft and earnest.
Sylvia lifted her chin, noticeably swelling with pride and a pinch of relief. "I thank you for that, dear."
A shock of affection burst through Bash's chest as he watched their polite exchange, and he released his bated breath.
Internally, the king's bastard kicked himself. What had he expected? He had never known Mary to be cruel or wicked; and the thought of her treating his family with any dash of callous was absurd.
The sudden slamming of a wooden door, originating from the cottage's tiny hallway, rustled everyone's attentions. Then, before Bash had any time to digest what had happened, he was hastily enveloped by the familiar combination of sinewy arms, wild brown hair, and squeals of breathy excitement.
"Cousin Bash! What a wonderful surprise!"
In natural reaction, Bash embraced his assailant warmly and chuckled; blowing a few stray tendrils of long, unkempt hair free from his mouth as he lifted her up into the air.
"Isobel! Easy now!" Sylvia scolded from somewhere behind them, rapping her knuckles upon the kitchen table with frustration.
Bash ducked his head, momentarily transported into a previous time when he was merely a child being scolded by his aunt for his impetuous actions. He slowly lowered the girl back down, waiting until her tiptoes perched safely atop the ground, then allowed her to squeeze him once more before breaking their tight embrace. Beaming, the king's bastard took a large step backwards so that he could view his cousin in full.
Isobel was undoubtedly still the same fiery girl with ice-blue eyes, a quick tongue, and a spirit that could bring men to their knees – but, there was a rather alarming change to her appearance, and the sight of her bulging stomach beneath a heavy brown cloak and skirts gave Bash pause. Feeling abashed, he slapped his hand over the front of his mouth as an acidic sensation of guilt charged instantaneously forward.
Has it been so long? He mused, staring at his life-long friend with uncontrollable awe.
Last he saw her; Isobel had been merely a few months pregnant. How had so much time passed? How could he have allowed this to slip his mind? How had he been so... so... so distracted? Reining in his scattered thoughts, Bash lowered the hand that he'd clasped against his mouth and reached forward, gently placing his palm against his cousin's swelling belly.
"How are you?" He asked at a whisper, speaking as if he were afraid that his voice might startle the unborn child.
"Oh," began Isobel, with a long-drawn sigh and the scrunch of her nose, "tired, uncomfortable, anxious, swollen... the usual, of course."
Bash managed to choke out a chuckle, though it held more concern than humor. "Soon?"
"A month, or so." Isobel shrugged, then shifted her icy gaze over and past Bash's shoulder. "Hello, ma'am."
Bash side-stepped and outstretched his arm towards Mary, gesturing her forward while grasping desperately for his waning composure. "This is -uhm- this is Elise. Elise, this is my-"
"Your beautiful cousin, I gather." Mary smiled, reaching her hand forward.
Isobel clasped Mary's hand but noticeably shrank, as if she were embarrassed by the young queen's compliment. Her light eyes glanced beseechingly onto Bash as she mumbled, "I see you have finally found yourself a decent lady."
Bash hesitated a moment before attempting to answer her; stifled on a mixture of amusement, humiliation, and shame. "I-ah…"
"You said that your baby is due in a month?" Mary interjected, changing the subject.
Isobel brushed the back of her hand against the edge of her untamed hair and nodded. "That is what the village midwife has told me."
Mary looked as if she had more to say on the matter, but she remained composed.
"Come with me, Elise." Sylvia called from the edge of the living quarters, elbow-deep in a cupboard. "Quickly, you must change out of those sodden linens! I have stored Isobel's older gowns in here... ah-yes! This should do."
Syvlia withdrew a long, dark dress and tossed it over her shoulder. She eyed Mary briefly, considering, then decided upon something further and plunged back into the cupboard to retrieve additional items.
As both Mary and Bash had arrived within the families' home more-or-less in tattered rags, it was no surprise that Sylvia insisted that they change as quickly as possible. That aside, the offer still appeared to concern the Queen of Scots, and she nodded thoughtfully in Isobel's direction. "Oh – are you certain?"
Isobel stretched her arms wide, then patted her rounded stomach with a touch of pride. "Yes, I assuredly will not be squeezing into that dress any time soon."
Without further discussion, Sylvia crossed the floor in rapid strides and plopped the linens into Mary's arms so suddenly that the young queen nearly dropped them down onto the floor at her feet. Bash's aunt then whisked the Queen of Scots quickly down the hallway, ushered her into the same room that Isobel had emerged, and sealed the door behind them with haste.
The king's bastard suppressed his knee-jerk reaction to follow after them, knowing that this was the first true moment in which he had allowed Mary out of his sights since her rescue.
Making an effort to ground himself, Bash slid stiffly down onto the comfort of an old, splintered armchair. He attempted to picture the scene as it developed behind the closed door; all the while praying that the two women did not delve into the plethora of truths that he had been so desperately evading.
As such, Bash's head began to run wild with irrational suppositions, and his chest grew tight with anxieties.
Surely, he reasoned, Mary must have possessed the good sense not to reveal her true identity to Sylvia – especially in light of most recent events. In contrast, Bash was not so confident that Sylvia -who characteristically was much more direct than Mary- had the sound judgement to withhold family secrets from the young Queen of Scots. There was certainly a fine line drawn in the figurative sand when concerning their heritage, one that Sylvia wouldn't dare to cross; but what if she let on just enough?
There had been moments -far too many to count- wherein Bash had almost confessed everything to the young queen, himself. Everything about his family, and who they were, and who he was, and what they all were. Each time would prompt an internal battle; one side of his soul fighting to keep his secrets concealed, and the other side fighting to profess all of his truths...
But these were not his secrets, alone.
And though Bash would willingly risk his own life a thousand times over for Mary; he could not ask the same of his family.
The king's bastard sat heavily, forcing his eyes to travel away from the door that separated him from the Queen of Sots. His gaze shifted tranquilly onto his uncle; and the image produced a consequential chill, coiling at the base of his spine.
Jon, who was now leaning against the far wall of the kitchen, bit savagely into a thin slab of ham that hung loosely off of the end of his silver dirk. His eyes, which had always been a dead give-away of he and Bash's relation, were hard-set upon his nephew.
"I've missed you, Sebastian!" Isobel started, drawing attention; and her attempt at breaking the thick bask of silence was kind, if not obvious. The freckles that lined the bridge of her nose were scrunched with a look of distaste, and she cocked a brow while gesturing her hand up and down, as if to place her cousin on further display. "You look awful."
He could always rely on Isobel to be blunt, for she was much like her father in that regard.
"Yes, well," said Bash, casting an appraising eye at his cousin's expansive frontage. "We've both seen better days, wouldn't you agree?"
Isobel snorted and made a face that Bash was quite familiar with. "I'll admit that it is nice to see you in your true, slack-witted form; unlike the gussied-up fop you usually parade around as."
Now it was Bash's turn to laugh; and he did so, allowing the feeling of humor to momentarily wash away his stresses.
"In truth," the king's bastard began, once he had recovered from the verbal blow that his cousin had cast, "it has been a long, tiring night. Firstly, we were caught within the storm, which delayed our progress. Then we came upon a gathering of bandits. As you can imagine -" Bash paused to glance sidelong at his uncle "- there was a brief skirmish."
"Is that what happened to her face?" Inquired Isobel, no doubt referring to the light bruise that still remained upon Mary's slender cheek. Bash nodded, once, then tensed as the sensation of his sword slicing through the heretic's stomach came flooding into memory. Attuned to the nature of his body language, Isobel raised her chin and softly added, "then I know, without doubt, that you gave those bandits a sound flogging in return."
Bash looked about, thin-lipped, as his gaze bounced between his uncle and cousin. "I gave them more than a flogging."
Jon nodded absorbedly, paying close attention to their exchange. He savagely bit the remaining chunk of meat off of the tip of his weapon, then asserted out of the side of his mouth, "it's unlike you to be so unprepared, Sebastian. What purpose were the two of you traveling for?"
"Elise has just returned from -ah- Spain." Said Bash, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. "I met her at the border, and from there... you know better than most, Uncle, how quickly a travel through the Blood Wood can turn."
Jon nodded, face alight with interest. "She's from Spain?"
Bash hesitated a moment. Stick to the truth, as well as you can. "No… she lives at French Court. She was only visiting her distant family in Spain – a second-cousin. Elise is actually… Scottish. She is the daughter of a wealthy Scottish farmer."
"She doesn't sound Scottish…" Jon commented skeptically, lifting his dark brows.
"She grew up here. In the country. She was sent over at a young age; raised as a convent child." Said Bash, with a faint smile.
"Not so different than Mary, Queen of Scotland!" Isobel remarked, blue eyes glowing with delight.
"Yes." Bash started to laugh but converted it into a tactful coughing fit. He couldn't help it; the accurate deduction from his sweet cousin was both alarming and hilarious. "Quite the same."
Despite their distaste for the French Royalty, and practically all things French Court related, Bash's family on his mother's side had always held quite an interest in the Scottish Queen. Then again, who didn't? Her unmatched beauty was rumored throughout the countryside, and her fabled life was that of a story among the common folk; a displaced Queen of Scots, hunted by her cousin's country and targeted by hundreds of enemies, hidden away in the vast, rural spans of France, promised to one day marry the Dauphin and both conquer and rule over half of the free world. It was an exciting tale, and a romantic anecdote, told to children and cherished in the hearts of most commoners.
And if Bash hadn't been a living, breathing part of her story, he might have enjoyed the tale of Queen Mary, himself…
"Now the poor girl is surrounded by the abhorrent rabble of French nobility." Jon voiced, pushing away from the wall and rounding the kitchen table. "And how is his most royal highness, these days?"
Bash picked up on the cynicism of Jon's tone, and his ears grew hot. He straightened within his seat, knowing that his uncle was prodding at an un-stoked fire, waiting to see where it may flicker and burn. Wetting his lips, the king's bastard said, with a bristling voice, "my father, The King, is well. The Queen is also well. The Dauphin is well. The nobles are well. The stable hands and the kitchen staff at French Court are all well." Bash narrowed his eyes, viewing his uncle sardonically. "That should cover all individuals and parties that you are concerned about, does it not? Or, have I failed to mention someone?"
Jon blinked, taken aback by Bash's tone. The sharp-cut features of his face firmed once again, and he inhaled his rebuttal…
But it was Isobel who broke the silence.
"How is aunt Diane?" She inquired, placing her hands atop both of her hips and drawing herself to her full height, paving the way for a verbal altercation. Slower than her father to lose her temper, Isobel still had one, no doubt of that, and she reveled in the chance to challenge Jon whenever the opportunity presented itself.
Bash was unable to contain the slip of a sly smile as it stretched across his lips. He shot Jon a quick look, cognizant that this was the exact direction in which his uncle did not want the conversation to turn, then muttered, "my mother is very well. French Court treats her kindly, and she lives like a queen."
"Et autem reges meretrix." Jon murmured under his breath, in a language quite foreign to most ears.
Bash's skin crawled as the word's tumbled free from his uncle's mouth, and he glanced towards the still closed door that separated Mary from their exchange. Never mind the fact that their house guest was the actual Queen of Scotland; this language was not the kind of dialect that could be heard by anyone outside of the village and surrounding wood, lest the speaker risk being marked as a heretic and burned alive at the stake.
Quick as lightning, Isobel whirled towards her father.
"Father!" She snapped in exasperation, hands in fists at her sides.
"It's quite alright, Isobel," Bash insisted, remaining impassive, hoping to calm the rising tension before it potentially doomed them all, "I am accustomed to being ridiculed at Court. Why not endure it here, as well? After all, what am I, if not a living, breathing reminder of all of my mother's mistakes?"
Bash stared at his uncle levelly, allowing his question to fill the air; the truth of it burning like a fresh wound in his gut.
Isobel made a sound that suggested empathy for her cousin, but Bash did not wish for nor need it. In truth, the king's bastard knew good and well that, for some people, he was nothing more than a hardship that must be endured. Whether it be Queen Catherine's pain and bitterness for his father's infidelity, or Jon's indignation for his mother's betrayal, there would always remain one common factor; Bash.
"You are family!" Isobel retorted, rolling her eyes onto her father and pointing an erect finger directly between his piercing blue eyes. "It is not Sebastian's fault that his mother was seeded by a king! Your anger towards your sister cannot keep spilling onto him, or anyone else of kin! You must let it go, Father! You have t-to… let it…"
The fire in her eyes subsided as quickly as it had appeared, and Isobel expelled a breath of air through gritted teeth as she grabbed for her stomach with discomfort. Both Jon and Bash reached for her in unison, seeking to offer comfort or support, but she angrily swatted them away. The spell overtook the young girl's fragile body for what felt like an eternity, and neither man moved a muscle as her pains came and went. Bash was certain that he had forgotten to breathe as he watched his cousin lean back, pressing her hands into the base of her spine and groaning with torment. Once it was over, and the stir of chaos had dissipated in full, Isobel straightened and glanced between both men with knitted brows.
"God knows it; you're both thick-headed asses!" Isobel spat, swiping at the strands of hair that now mussed about her face. She absentmindedly stalked towards the fire, legs noticeably wobblier than before, and braced herself against the stone fireplace, allowing the glow of the dancing flames to color her despondent expression. "I don't delight in the prospect of bringing this child into such a tormented household; lest the babe grow up to be much like one of you!"
Taken off guard by her hasty recovery, Bash laughed, a little shakily.
Jon cocked an eye at Bash, considering, but decided against any snide comment. At length, he sighed and lifted a brow, looking sourly amused. "You are right, Daughter. Sebastian; I am sorry."
Agreeing to meet his uncle halfway, the king's bastard murmured, "I know."
One final, quick glance shared quietly between the two men concluded their pointless dispute.
The conversation continued, running on casual lines and avoiding any further distresses. They discussed the weather, the crops, the farm; all things that could be discussed by enemies and friends alike, but coated with unspoken words clearly heard beneath the mask. Jon confessed the need for an extra hand around the cottage, and he shared that he had begun to teach Peter how to run the home when he was absent for hunting trips. Isobel disclosed the daily proposal of marriage that she had received -offered to her by one of the elder men in the village- of which she admitted to politely declining on a regular basis, causing Bash to roll with a fit of laughter. Eventually, when it was the king's bastard's turn to share, he avoided the subject of his other family altogether, focusing instead on the mundane aspects of his life, all the while insisting that nothing of interest had occurred since his last visit.
"You always act as if life at French Court is so... dull." Isobel said, now seated across from Bash, staring musingly into the fire while absentmindedly cupping her stomach. "It's a wonder why you ever return to it."
"You would prefer that I remain here?" Inquired Bash, feigning amusement.
Jon made a noise in the back of his throat, indicating hilarity at this ludicrous idea.
"And why ever not!?" Demanded Isobel.
"I can give you several reasons," Jon interjected, rubbing a rough hand down his dark, peppered beard and twisting the long strands at the end, "one of which is in your bedroom, no doubt."
As if on cue, the door to the aforementioned bedroom swung open with a rush, and Sylvia slipped languidly out into the hallway. She was carrying a pile of folded garments over her right arm, and Bash recognized the largest of these bundles to be Mary's filthy, ruined dress. The king's bastard rose sharply to his feet, ignoring the immediate pang of fatigue that shifted down his legs, and glanced behind his aunt with expectant eyes.
"She is dressing." Said Sylvia, tone indifferent, as she closed the door tightly behind her. "In the meantime, you can borrow some of your uncle's clothes and use the wash basin in our bedroom."
Bash clenched his jaw as the memories of the past night rose with a ferocity that he had not anticipated. He disliked the idea of Mary being alone, much like he disliked the growing opportunity for his other family members to speak with the Scottish Queen before he had the chance to explain himself, and, more importantly, before he had the chance to inform her of her newly fabricated life.
"Perhaps I should go check on-"
"Oh, Sebastian! She's quite alright, I assure! You can bare a few more moments without her – now go!" Sylvia admonished, smiling out of the corner of her mouth.
She will be fine, Bash internally chided, avoiding the urge to push past his aunt and barge straight into the bedroom from whence she came. Instead, he inhaled deeply, drawing his gaze away from the door, and acknowledged numbly, "right, I suppose a change of clothes would be … welcomed." And yes, certainly, a change of clothing would nice; and Bash could hardly imagine what he looked like –let alone smelled like– having worn the same riding outfit for a number of days that he altogether couldn't count on one hand.
"The clothes will be too big 'round the waist for him," Jon smirked, stepping forward and poking Bash in the stomach before continuing, "come along, then. I'll show you to them."
The king's bastard took a few tentative strides after his uncle, then stopped short as a thundering force of realization curbed his forward motion.
It occurred to Bash that now, in this moment, was the best time for him to inform his family of a partial truth; all in the hopes of avoiding any future spills of a dangerous secret. "She…" he began in a low timbre, craning his neck towards the closed door for emphasis, "… et non scitis ex nobis."
Having been somewhat prepared for this moment, Bash was unsurprised by the brief, stupefied glances shared between his aunt, uncle, and cousin. Jon took a sudden, deep intake of breath as his light eyes swept restlessly onto his wife and daughter, casting them a look that bordered on cautionary. The countenance of his face shaded over as a flurry of thoughts swept across his mind, and his long, graying beard shifted forward as he pressed his lips into a hard line.
At length, Bash's uncle murmured lowly, "and we intend to keep it that way."
Then, grasping Bash by the shoulders, Jon steered his nephew into his and Slyvia's bedroom, and closed the door swiftly behind them.
Long after his uncle had left, and the clothing in question had been laid upon the bed, the king's bastard caught his reflection within the old mirror above the wash basin. Despite a long crack that split down the center of the glass, and a cluster of cloudy spots that had formed upon the object's surface over time, the young, tired face of the man who stared back at him was alarmingly clear to see.
Bash's hands automatically reached up to feel the sides of his face, raking through the stubble that had doubled in length since his initial departure from French Court. He then inched his fingertips upwards, walking them across his cheeks, and gently pressed at the deep, dark circles that arched beneath his eyes, plainly displaying the chaos that he had been through, of late. He then journeyed his hands even further upwards, picking at a few leaves and twigs that entangled themselves into the roots of his raven hair, and he sprinkled the particles down onto the ground alongside his muddy boots. Finally, he acknowledged the overall status of his clothing, which appeared –well– bedraggled, at best.
With practiced fingers, Bash unhooked his sheath and sword from across his chest, then unfastened the strings of his tunic –once white as snow, now yellowish-brown in color– and placed each item aside with care. He bent to pull off his riding boots, then picked them up at the shaft, one at a time, and set them neatly aside. He slipped out of the breeches he'd worn for days on end and groaned in relief as he freed himself from all of his filthy cloth under-dressings. Then, once he was stark-naked, he began the meticulous task of scrubbing the sweat and grime from his body using the soft rag that Sylvia (God bless her) had left out. As he worked, Bash found himself longing for the comfort and cleanliness of a true bath; one where he could soak for hours within a large, deep tub, submerged in soaps and suds.
Like a true gussied-up fop, he mused, chuckling lightly at the recollection of his cousin's earlier insult.
Once he was finished, and the previously clean rag held all of the grime that had once sullied his skin, Bash surveyed the clothing upon the bed with a critical eye. The proffered apparel was not the kind of attire that the king's bastard was accustomed to wearing, nor was it made of the same fine cloths and leathers that he usually donned, but it would suffice, for now.
After shrugging his uncle's large brown cloak up and around his shoulders, and kicking his legs deep into the black, sturdy wool trousers, Bash surveyed himself one final time within the mirror above the wash basin.
Better, he considered, albeit he looked a touch like Nostradamus in an oversized cover...
Not wanting to waste any further time, the king's bastard slipped his boots back onto his feet and grabbed for his sword, leaving the room quickly. He tactfully avoided the curious eyes of his family members as he crossed the creaking, wooden floor, and had no sooner pressed himself flush against the entrance to the second bedroom when he became inevitably aware of the dispute that awaited him within. Acting instinctively, Bash grasped tightly at the hilt of his sword, as if this conflict could be defeated with brute strength alone; and then, before he had the opportunity to reconsider his actions, the king's bastard gently rapped his knuckles against the door.
"Come in."
Bash leaned his shoulder heavily against the wood and slipped noiselessly into the room, dismissing the touch of trepidation that trailed in his wake.
The bedroom was just as he'd remembered it; small, cluttered, filled with the aroma of burning wood, and warm beyond reason – mainly due to Isobel's aversion to the cold. Two small beds and a stony hearth inhabited a majority of the space, and a collection of small trinkets, clothes, and books lay strewn across the planked floor. To Isobel's credit, the room had once maintained a bit more order and tidiness… that is, before young Peter was born.
The king's bastard found the Queen of Scots among the chaos, seated at the edge of one of the lumpy beds, staring into the embers at the pit of the fireplace. She fit perfectly into Isobel's dark brown dress and buckskin coat, and -despite always seeing her in more 'royal' garb- Bash considered these garments flattering to the young queen's raven hair and the smooth cream of her skin. She looked more like herself, now; though the ghosts of her recent trauma still remained, hanging closely about her, haunting and clear to see.
Mary's delicate hands worked busily at combing her hair through, pausing mid-sweep as she glanced up. Her face was tranquil and blank as a wall, save for the slight arch of her brow as she narrowly regarded him. Then, without so much as an utterance, she drew her gaze back down onto the ash and cinders, and the sound of the comb navigating through the tangles of her hair filled the span of silence once more.
Bash swallowed, thickly. He could see the chasm that lay between them, created by a slew of secrets and deception, gaping and impassible. A tension coursed throughout his entire body, and he felt as if the wood beneath his feet had reached up and trapped him where he stood. Glancing up at the low-beamed ceiling, briefly seeking solace in whatever God may have granted him comfort, the king's bastard began, voice soft, "did you manage to elude Sylvia's prying?"
Mary's countenance promptly shifted into an expression bordering on hostility, though she refrained from looking up.
"I am no stranger to a false identity," she said by way of greeting, comb suspended loosely between her fingers. "Though it is an interesting question, coming from someone who is perpetually dishonest."
Bash's jaw tensed and his eyes widened, for a beat. Despite the many diverse scenarios that the king's bastard had previously conjured up within his mind in preparation for this exact interaction... no amount of planning could have prepared him for that. "My… intention was to tell you, Mary."
Evidently, that was all it took.
With breakneck speed, Mary threw Bash a harsh, fiery look with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
"Oh? When did you intend to tell me? Certainly not before we entered the village, nor before the entire town -including your family- flooded into the streets to welcome you back!" The Queen of Scots challenged, voice carrying passionately around the small room despite her low murmur. "And what of your promise to me!? You swore to never take my trust for granted again!"
"I had several reasons for… withholding this information." He insisted; voice slightly repressed. "The main reason, however, is the same reason as always; to guard your safety."
Mary slapped the hand that grasped the comb down onto the bed with vigor. She was irritated, and didn't trouble to hide it. "Most gallant of you, as always."
Bash's lips curved into a deep frown as his heart stuttered and fell. "It's… complicated. You wouldn't – you can't understand!"
"Very well, then! Continue with your lies; this day shall be abundant with them." Said Mary; though something in the shadows that darkened her gaze warned the king's bastard that he would not escape with such vague, simple answers.
There was a long silence, then. Bash could hear the very steady, nervous pounding of his heart within his chest. He could hear the soft song and dance shared between the wind and the high-rising crops in the meadows beyond the window. Farther still, he could hear the call of a small songbird... and he wished, more than anything in this tense, unmoving moment, that he was that bird. Or, at any rate, far, far away.
Bash winced and glanced down at his hand, still clutching the hilt of his sword. The golden lion he had chosen as his bastard-born symbol peeked through the tight, pale twist of his fingers; signifying that he could be brave in the face of all nightmares, this one being no exception.
"My mother first brought me here, to meet my family, when I was a very young child. She felt as if it were important that I 'understood my roots', despite the vast rift between her and my uncle. For…" he began, and swallowed again, finding his memories and secrets much more difficult to tell than he had anticipated. "For many years, whenever my mother would go to Paris, I would come to the village under the guise of accompanying her. I was taught of the commoner life and informed of my family heritage. I… I loved having a second life, then. I thought it might grant me a chance to be whoever I wanted."
Bash hesitated. The image of his younger self -naïve, hopeful, optimistic- flashed across his mind. He had enjoyed life in French Court, as a young boy – really, he had. But when the opportunity had been presented for Bash to be someone other than the king's bastard son; well, it had all seemed too good to be true, at that time. Of course, he had eventually learned that neither life was truly fulfilling; for whenever he found himself growing comfortable in one life, there was the distant, beckoning lure of the other…
"I can still recall the look within Jon's eyes when he first saw me. It wasn't a consideration of loathing, like Catherine's impression of me. No, no – it was… pity. He looked at me as if he could see the torn life that I would lead; not truly belonging here or there. He, too, is a bastard child, you see; and I believe that his empathy is what incited him to take me in, in spite of the risk..." Bash trailed off, wishing his story could end just so.
"What risk?" The young queen prodded, voice pitched low.
"Years ago, when my father was still a Dauphin, he was investigating the area for a supposed pagan rebellion. When he came upon this village, he met a young woman -my mother- and was instantly infatuated. Seizing the opportunity of a better life, my mother allowed him to -ah- 'court' her. Of course, Jon was never fond of the monarchy; he believed that the power should belong to the people, rather than to the crown. So, when he realized that his half-sister had left to be the official mistress of the future king... well. It was enough to persuade my uncle..." Bash swallowed once more, hard. An icy ball formed in the center of his stomach as he considered his next words; knowing, with some regret, that there were certain parts of the truth that could no longer be skirted.
"Shortly after my mother had settled into the castle, Jon was…" Bash drew a steady breath and squared his shoulders, drawing on whatever strength he had left, "he was involved in an uprising-"
"An uprising!?" Mary echoed, not caring to conceal her appalled reaction.
Bash nodded; jaw clinched. "A foolish, insignificant uprising; but, yes. He was captured, among many other rioters, and was sentenced to hang. My mother interfered, of course, and she arranged for his release. As they say; she has always possessed an uncanny ability to… persuade my father into seeing things her way."
Mary's mouth opened soundlessly, then clamped shut into a tight line. She didn't speak for a time, but her eyes pierced straight through the king's bastard, replete with a thousand inquiries. Her fingers twisted nervously within her lap, pinching and tugging, until eventually she found the courage to inquire upon the detail which seemed to disquiet her the most.
"Everyone believes that your mother is from Paris, and that the king met her within the city. Does – does anyone in French Court know of the truth?" Despite Mary's best efforts to mask it, Bash could gather -merely by the inflection of her voice- where the true question lay, veiled deep within her heart. Does Francis know?
Of course Francis knows. Bash mused, tackling down the jealous rise of his heart.
Francis was Bash's best friend; and, though his mother had greatly warned against it, Bash had decided to tell his brother of his secret family many, many years ago. He had told him of Jon, and of his family, and of their beliefs, and he had trusted that Francis would be discrete with such delicate and damning information.
"To this day, the only people at French Court who are aware of our kinship with Jonathan Durand are my parents, Francis, myself, and now… you." Bash inhaled a shaky breath, digging through the years of surmounting fears as they materialized before him; and his placid appearance likely failed to obscure the tumult of his mind. "You can imagine what Catherine would do with such information."
Mary's lips parted slightly, and she flattened her hands against the dark fabric in her lap. She whispered, with more than a slight edge to her voice, "yes, I can imagine."
There was more to the story, of course. More darkness, more frightening details, and more incriminating information. But Bash had a suspicion that if he told her the rest of it now, here in the humble room of his childhood, he would regret it for the rest of his life; and also, he suspected, would she.
But what other choice did he have?
Continue to lie to her?
Jon's earlier assertion, whispered in secret, encircled Bash's mind, "…and we intend to keep it that way…"
Bash sighed, and it was a disheartened, absent sort of sound. In a last-grasp effort to ensure her understanding, without revealing any further secrets, he continued faintly, "I have sworn to protect you; and, in doing so, have forsaken the lives of those I love. Had I any other choice, I would not have brought you here. But the horse hasn't rested in days – we haven't rested in days. You are hungry, and exhausted-" he paused as Mary drew the fabrics of her dress tightly around her, as if his acute observations unnerved her, "- and I won't risk your health or safety in any further travel, this day."
A muscle contracted near the corner of Mary's mouth, and a stubborn gleam surfaced at the center of her eyes. "I am the Queen of Scotland. You have no right to decide what is or is not advantageous for me. And you certainly have no right to keep secrets of this gravity."
Well accustomed to the young queen's headstrong tendencies, Bash countered, "and you would have come with me willingly, knowing that my uncle is a marked traitor?"
"I might have!" She spat in defense, cheeks flushing with ire.
Bash bowed his head stiffly forward, raking a hand across his face. Often times, he found the Queen of Scotland's unyielding stubbornness to be enchanting and amusing; but this was not one of those times. "Mary, you know yourself better than that. I know you better than that!"
"So, never mind my royalty," said Mary, hurt flickering briefly across her features, "my trust -my word- bares no significance to you, either!"
Bash deadpanned. "Is that really what you think?"
"It doesn't matter." She said in a finalizing tone, twisting away from him in a dismissive manor. "You have underestimated the value of my faith in you, and you won't have it again."
Mary was as still as a mountain, then; defiant against all elements. Her face was blank as an empty canvas as she stared down at the ground between her feet, dark hair falling like a curtain across her milky cheek.
The king's bastard could hardly stand her expressionless mien, nor the thought of what must lie concealed behind it. He wished desperately for some way to break the silence that parted them; longing for an act or a declaration that could restore the lost trust between them.
Without giving himself a moment to think on it, Bash moved briskly across the creaking floor and knelt down onto the ground at the young queen's feet. His wrists hung loosely across his raised knee, hovering just close enough to Mary's legs that he could feel the warmth of her skin. He could feel a great deal of other things radiating off of her, as well; such as the enmity that clouded her heart, and the fear that she held tight under rein, and the courage that made her continue on, in spite of it all. The king's bastard then gathered his own courage -a flimsy comparison to what Mary contained within her- and reached forward to grasp the Queen of Scots gently by the arms. Torn between the impulse to pull her in, and the urge to run away, he did neither; instead he remained, his thumbs circling in small, comforting motions where he held her, brushing against the soft fabric of her sleeves.
In an act that nearly seized his breath, Mary haltingly raised her right hand up and over her lap and laid it gently across Bash's forearm, squeezing lightly.
As they held onto each other, unmoving and unspeaking, the distance between their impassioned hearts began to lessen and give way. Like a soothing balm, their former quarrel was warded off by the sudden intimacy; and, gradually, the anger within Mary's eyes wavered, just as the tightness within Bash's chest crumbled away.
"I was afraid." He admitted; his hoarse, shaky voice alarming to them both. "That doesn't absolve me of anything, but… you were right. I was wrong to keep this from you. And … I'm sorry."
I'm sorry. It was a sentiment he'd spoken too often, of late.
Mary's eyes flickered upward to study his face, long lashes blinking softly. After what felt an eternity, she wet her lips and audibly reasoned, "I can't imagine how you must feel; leading two very separate lives."
Unbidden, an ironic smile spread across Bash's lips as he exhaled a sigh of ease. "It is not ideal."
The Queen of Scots shook her head back and forth. Her hair brushed softly across Bash's wrists, the length of it reaching down to where he still lightly held her, sending a pleasant chill down his spine. "I shouldn't have spoken to you the way that I did. Again. Giving you edicts, questioning your actions..."
Bash averted his gaze, focusing on the point where Mary's hand rest evenly across his arm. "So, you're not… angry with me, for acting impulsively?"
He could sense her eyes, boring still into him, and he could feel her body relax as she considered her answer. "You did what you had to. I see that now."
She straightened then, removing her hand from his line of sight and demanding -without words- that he look at her. Obediently, Bash lifted his gaze, re-captured within her familiar, warm, and gentle stare.
For a heartbeat, the king's bastard studied the perfect, fine points of Mary's face; and it was within that moment that he realized, with mild impress, that the Queen of Scotland had changed. She was no longer the girl who had skipped rocks with him at the water's edge, no longer the girl who had slid alongside him down the hallways of French Court, no longer the girl he had spun around and held close at the costume banquet. She was stronger, now. And with that strength came courage.
"Is that everything, then? No more lies?"
Her inquiry jarred him, and Bash swiftly withdrew his hands from her sides. Mary's words slid across his skin like a scaly, toxic snake, threatening him with the tip of its flicking, pronged tongue.
Is that everything, then?
Feeling hard-pressed beneath the Queen of Scot's adamant stare, Bash's soul fell briefly into tatters; and 'torn' did not even begin to describe the sudden division of his heart. His thoughts were reeling as he fought for a foothold within his mind, searching for some frame of action that could provide him with an answer to give.
No more lies?
Pressing his eyes briefly closed, Bash centered himself, forcing his mind into a state of calm.
God.
One day, he silently vowed, he would tell her. Everything. But this was not the place, nor the time.
Mouth dry and pulse pounding, Bash resolved in a whisper, "no more lies."
There was a loud sound as Peter entered into the house, followed by an instantaneous heckling from Isobel, then a calculated scolding from Sylvia, ending lastly with an amused comment from Jon. From what little he could make out, Bash deduced that the boy had hurled himself into the home, covered in grime and pig-filth, and whirled about the kitchen, resulting in quite the uproarious scene on the other side of the door.
Momentarily distracted by the mayhem, Mary inquired lowly, "are they not concerned of me knowing the truth?"
Bash peered briefly over his shoulder, staring expectantly at the door as Peter began to giggle and squeal. When the playful clamor had quieted down, he inclined his head and audibly reasoned, "they know that I would not risk their lives by bringing someone into their home who I did not trust."
"And who am I, exactly?" The young queen inquired bluntly, catching Bash slightly off-guard. Sensing his apparent confusion, she expanded, "who is… 'Elise'?"
Bash gnawed on the inside of his cheek, recollecting upon the story he had fabricated earlier, when explaining that complicated answer to Jon and Isobel. "You're the daughter of a wealthy Scottish man, but you grew up in French country. You were sent to Court once you became of age, to acquire a suitable husband…" he trailed, then, trying to recall if it was a cousin or… was it a second-cousin? Or, no, yes… "your second-cousin is Spanish, and you've just returned from visiting him in Spain. I met you at the border as, of course, I am simply your escort, assuring your safe return…"
Bash trailed into silence as the Queen of Scots straightened, her body as tense as a bowstring. A slew of emotions danced and warred upon her face, until finally one of them emerged victorious; and that look was quite embarrassed.
Curious beyond belief at her sudden change in demeanor, Bash furrowed his brow and leaned slightly forward. "Say what you're thinking."
Mary eyed him fixedly and inhaled. "While tending to me, your aunt kept remarking on what 'a lucky young lady' I am."
Her implication was not lost on him, and Bash felt the corner of his lip twitch upward with amusement. "I will make our relationship clear; you needn't worry."
"No." She said quickly. Too quickly. Then, seeing Bash's uplifted brows of amusement, stammered, "it helps the story! What other reason could you possibly have for traveling with me?"
Bash's smile widened; albeit, it was more on behalf of Mary's clear disquiet, rather than any foolish notion that she may have been eager to portray his beloved. "The truth, perhaps? As I said; I am simply your escort, returning you safely back to French Court."
"Why? Why not anyone else? You are not an escort by occupation – you're… you're the king's son." Mary argued, lifting her shoulders.
"And his fastest rider." Bash added with mirth. "Which, if you consider it, would establish me as an excellent escort."
Mary's full lips twisted into a smirk as she avoided his gaze altogether. "No, it leaves too many holes, too many questions. It would be easier if we stuck to a story that they already believe to be true. Do you not agree?"
Bash mulled it over carefully. He had to admit that there was a certain amount of possibility there. His family did appear to believe that he and 'Elise' were romantically involved, and the villagers would easily trust 'Elise' if she were presupposed to be faithfully following Bash; more-so than some high-born lady being escorted through the Blood Wood. It was a fine plan to avoid any further difficulties on that account, he supposed. Though, it was a plan likely peppered with its own considerable obstacles…
Bash tilted his head appraisingly, casting a narrow glance at the young queen. Still kneeling in front of her, the king's bastard pressed his hands into his leg and bowed slightly backwards; cautious in the event that Mary may decide to throw her arms wildly about after he dared to speak his next words.
"If you insist, Your Grace."
"I don't insist!" Mary snapped, flashing her attention onto his face with a hint of asperity. Despite her initial reaction, however, Bash could see the slightest trace of amusement, waltzing within the corner of her deep, polished eyes.
The king's bastard expelled an amused rush of air through his nose as he caught his lower lip between his teeth. "So, you are my betrothed, then?"
"I do not have a ring." The Queen of Scots respired in a small voice, casting a low, temperate stare at the ground.
No, he supposed, she did not have a ring. Not from him, nor from Francis.
Bash winced then, knowing -without truly knowing- that the absence of a ring was much more disappointing to Mary than simply just for the sake of their story...
An idea suddenly dawned, like the light of daybreak, and Bash shifted his legs to allow him easy access to the hidden pocket of his left boot. Reaching down into the deep, tight compartment that usually housed his silver dagger -which, he assumed, the young queen still possessed somewhere on her bodice- Bash swirled his finger around the narrowed compartment until he felt the smooth surface of the item he sought. Prodding the loop gently, the king's bastard withdrew the Scottish crested ring to the sound of Mary's gasp.
"You-you found it…" The Queen of Scots whispered through an astonished gape.
"If I hadn't, I would not have found you." Said Bash, recalling the moment in which he'd found the emerald jewel, hidden among mud, twigs, and leaves. The ring had represented everything that the king's bastard had needed within that terrifying moment in the Blood Wood; the hope that Mary was still alive, fighting for her life. And God only knows what would have happened if he hadn't discovered the ring...
A wild thought suddenly occurred, as Bash reminisced in private, and he looked to Mary with shock. "And you dropped this with purpose?"
Evidently pleased with his appreciation of her gumption, Mary nodded.
"You are as clever as you are beautiful, Mary." Bash smiled, twisting the ring back and forth between his fingers.
There was a time, not long ago, when the king's bastard had considered the idea of 'settling down' to be a laughable suggestion. He had, of course, been 'of age' for several years, but Bash was fortunate enough to evade the pressure of marriage from both his father and suitable courters, alike. And whether King Henry's disinterest in the matter was fueled by apathy, or the lack of a profitable opportunity, Bash had never questioned the gift of his carefree lifestyle; for it seemed much preferable, when compared to Francis' long-arranged marriage.
That is, until he actually met Francis' fiancée of ten years...
Possessed by an impulsive desire that he truly couldn't identify, Bash suddenly gestured for Mary's left hand.
Dumfounded and curious, the Queen of Scots placed her fingers tentatively against his open palm, and Bash closed his hand gently around them.
Heartbeat awakened to the cadence of a drum, Bash lifted his head slightly and offered Mary a dimpled smile. Holding the silver ring steadily between his fingers, he straightened his shoulders, wet his lips, and readied himself to ask the question he'd never imagined himself saying…
"Marry me, Elise?"
The Queen of Scotland bit back a charming laugh, the tops of her cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink. Bash accepted her amusement as a form of agreement to his proposal, and he slid the ring gingerly onto her appropriate finger. The light, seemingly innocent touch sent jolts of heat throughout his entire body, and a ripple of longing hummed down along his spine, twisting down until it plunged deep into the center of his core.
For a brief moment, Bash envisioned a life where the woman seated before him was, in fact, Elise, and not Mary, Queen of Scots. A life where he wouldn't hold back his feelings. A life where he wouldn't allow titles to come between them. A life where the heat that now coursed from his hands into hers would not lead to nothing, but rather a passionate, real kiss that would leave them both lightheaded and weak. A life where he could admit the yearnings that he had long eluded. A life where he could declare himself hers, and only hers.
"Sit DOWN!" Sylvia's voice, passionate and angry, cried from the other side of the door.
Shaken by the outburst and nearly desperate for an excuse to draw breath, Bash rose quickly to his feet while gently guiding Mary with him. Feeling a little lightheaded, he allowed the young queen's hand to slip free from his grip, watching as she busily flattened it against the folds of her wide skirt.
Rubbing a hand across the stubble of his jaw, Bash made his way for the exit. He hesitated briefly, fist resting against the center of the door, and he glanced back with a look that inquired, are you ready?
Without an utterance, Mary nodded.
If the cottage was often a peaceful place, it was also one of intermittent turmoil; and, true to form, Bash and Mary entered into the hallway to discover that his aunt and eldest cousin were caught up in a verbal skirmish, of sorts.
"You need help! This is too great a task for one person!" Isobel remarked, seated –presumably by force, judging by the look upon her face– at the kitchen table.
Young Peter was settled in across from his sister; drops of water streaking down the sides of his face where a rag had been recently dabbed to remove the offending grime. Jon was no-where to be seen, though the king's bastard reasoned that his uncle could be found in the fields, avoiding the never-ending bickering between his wife and daughter. Sylvia was bustling to and fro, preparing and overseeing several pots and dishes; her pale cheek dusted with a stripe of flour, and the back of her neck gleaming with the slightest drops of perspiration.
Pausing in her progress, Bash's aunt peered over her shoulder to snap at her eldest child. "Not from you! You need to stay off of your feet!"
"Oh – who else, then?" Isobel challenged, slapping her hand on the table. The wooden bowl at the center of the table vibrated slightly with the sudden percuss.
"What can I assist with?" Bash inquired cheerily, interjecting before Sylvia had the chance to lash back.
Sylvia and Isobel's attentions turned, and their expressions brightened upon seeing the king's bastard alongside their unexpected house guest.
"Nothing, nothing." Insisted Sylvia, and she grabbed for two sections of bread as she scampered across the floor to meet them. "Here, eat. You both look famished."
Both Mary and Bash accepted the proffered portions, exchanging quick glances before biting hungrily into their pieces. The satisfying feeling of food in his belly was quick and welcomed, and -though he had been unaware of his feeble strength beforehand- the king's bastard instantly felt steadier on his feet.
Once he had completed his simple meal, Bash took a wide step into the center of the kitchen, glancing about at the display of multiple foods. He then inquired, in a tone of mild impress, "what is all of this in preparation for, Aunt?"
Sylvia, who was now sprinkling a handful of herbs across a large chunk of meat, shook her head with a light flush. "The whole village is gathering tonight for an early harvest celebration. I will be supplying a bit of food."
"A bit of food!?" Isobel mocked, clearly unable to contain herself.
"Shush!" Sylvia fluttered a hand at her daughter, expression severe.
"I will gladly help, if you wouldn't mind." Offered Mary, in earnest.
Bash smiled. Sometimes, he realized, he would forget how truly good Mary was; as a person, as a Queen, and as a friend.
"Oh, Elise – I dislike the idea of asking my house guest to assist in such tiresome work… and you look exhausted!" Sylvia insisted, dismissing the notion of help with a wave that ended in a reach for some garlic bulbs.
"Nonsense," said Mary, rolling the dress sleeve into perfect sections up her left arm, "I will help you, and I won't take 'no' for an answer. After all, I was a rather unannounced house guest. And as for my exhaustion… well, I can sleep when I'm dead. I am happy to help, I assure you."
Sylvia hesitated for a moment, considering. She then nodded, once, and a smile creased one corner of her mouth as she pushed the basket of potatoes closer towards Mary. "Alright, sweet girl. Peel and cut. Let me just find you a suitable knife…"
With no hesitation, Mary reached her fingers down into the center of her dress and plucked the dagger that Bash had given to her free from the depths of her corset, and laid it down alongside the vegetables with a small smile. She then remarked, rather airily, "I have one."
Bash's jaw fell open.
"Oh, I quite like her." Isobel declared with a grin, leaning back in her chair.
Once he had recovered, it occurred to Bash that his family had been waiting for a moment like this; for a sign that 'Elise' was a humble, un-pretentious lady of French Court. And, he reasoned, Mary likely recognized this, as well. She was, after all, skilled in diplomacy and authority, having been schooled her entire life for such things. And what was this, if not a simpler form of negotiations and finesse?
Quiet as a mouse up until this moment, no-doubt waiting for the perfect opportunity to spring, Peter hopped down from the chair, causing the furniture's legs to squeak across the wooden floor. With hands clasped tightly together in an imploring motion, the small boy scampered over to Bash's side and begged, "Bash, come play with me!"
Sylvia whirled about, sending a few sprigs of thyme down onto the floor. "Peter, your cousin is tired!"
Well-prepared for the initial denial, Peter shrugged his shoulders up into his neck and widened his bright green eyes. With a passionate tone, he proclaimed, "but –but– nobody is as good at sparring as cousin Bash!"
Bash chuckled. Seven years ago, when the king's bastard was merely twelve years old, Sylvia had plopped a small, squealing bundle into his arms. Take heed, she'd warned, he's wiry and unbridled! No doubt, Peter had never stopped being either of these things, since then; and the family had never succeeded in curbing the boy's tenacity for turmoil.
"How can I say 'no' to that?" Inquired Bash, touched by Peter's pronouncement. The king's bastard then reached forward and pulled the boy into him, tousling his hair and capturing him within a tight, playful grip. Peter wiggled and laughed, exerting great amounts of energy in his efforts to break free.
"Oh, that's easy," Isobel rebutted, eyes narrow, "you simply round your lips like this-" she paused to round her mouth with wild exaggeration and leaned slightly forward "-and you proceed to say, 'nnnnnooooo'."
Peter stuck his tongue out. Isobel made a signal with her hand, placing her thumb to her nose and wagging her fingers. Sylvia sighed, defeated, and cast disapproving glances at both of her children. And Mary, bearing witness to it all, pressed her fingers to her lips to forbid a laugh from bursting through. Oh, what a spectacle they all must have displayed, through the eyes of the Queen of Scotland.
"Grab your swords, Peter." Bash commanded, at length; barely getting the sentence past his lips before Peter had squirmed out of his cousin's grasp and dashed off in the direction of his bedroom with an eager squeal.
The king's bastard stepped hastily towards Mary, catching the young queen just below her elbow and pulling her gently towards him. He whispered into the side of her neck, certain that the timbre of his voice was low enough that only she could hear him, "don't cut yourself on the dagger, Your Grace."
Mary nudged Bash good-naturedly with her shoulder and crinkled her nose. In response, he offered her what she'd often referred to as a 'cheeky' smile.
Young Peter sprinted back across the floor, catching the end of Bash's oversized robe sleeve within his small, surprisingly strong grip, all the while clenching two well-loved wooden swords between his lanky arm and ribcage. He hauled the king's bastard towards the front door with palpable excitement, swinging the exit open to the sound of a high-pitched creaking.
Before he was drug completely out of the cottage, Bash managed to cast one final glance back at Mary, just as she had begun to cut through a rather healthy, rounded potato. The ring, now secured upon her finger, shone against the lines of sunlight that poured in through the window, glistening as if it were proud to be displayed. Sylvia, at this time noticing the scintillating jewel, murmured something to 'Elise' with a wide smile and a wink, and the Queen of Scotland giggled lightly and nodded in cordial response.
And the sight warmed Bash's heart in a way that little else ever had.
A/N:
I can't speak to whether engagement rings were truly a 'thing' of the 16th century, but I know that wedding rings were. So, for the sake of 'awe' purposes… we will just roll with it, eh?
The pagan exchanges translate (roughly) into:
lumenick dushkader et sparago faraha ay raynim doluchtai = deep the roots, dark the night, red the blood, I will pay
Et autem reges meretrix = and the King's Whore
Et non scitis ex nobis = does not know of us
Let me know what you guys think! The feedback is what has kept me (extremely slowly) going, so bring it on!
Love.
