Author's Note: I've been incredibly flattered by the responses and traffic I've had for this story. Thanks to each of you for your reviews and reading! There's a slight chance the story will run a chapter or two longer than I had originally planned ... This one here was supposed to hold much more plot than it does, but it got away from me. I chose to limit it instead and keep chapter length somewhat consistent (under 2000 words, that is). So, who knows? Enjoy!


SEVEN: First Month

The first month after marriage, when there is nothing but tenderness and pleasure. (Samuel Johnson)

In spite of their reluctance to leave their new quarters, the newlyweds were sent off the following morning by the Court. It had been planned for them that they would travel to Paris and spend several days there as a wedding trip.

Paris, while quite vibrant, was not enough to draw Francis and Mary out of their rooms very often. The two sought to make the most of their days together without distraction. They spent their last two mornings in the markets and shops, hoping to find Christmas gifts for their family, friends, and servants. Vendors sold them earrings and bundles of lace, rolls of silk richly dyed from the East, small toys and slippers, and a new trunk to carry everything back with them.

The carriage ride back to the castle was long and Mary slept, her head slumped against Francis' shoulder. He smiled at her sleeping form, memories returning of a similarly lengthy ride with his younger brother on their way to meet his own future bride, Madeleine. Her scent had been foreign to him then, yet intoxicating. Now, it was very much familiar in light of the last months.

The Court heralded their arrival as it had celebrated their departure, everyone on the front lawn waiting for the carriage as it came up the road. Francis glanced out, ready to disembark as the wheels rolled to a stop. He stepped down and turned back to assist Mary. As they spun around to face those gathered, he noticed their announcement.

"Her Grace, Mary, Queen of Scotland, and His Grace, Francis, King-Consort of Scotland and Dauphin of France."

Leaning over to whisper in Mary's ear, he offered his arm, saying lightly, "That is certainly a little different now, isn't it?"

She stifled a giggle and they walked forward to be received. In turn, they embraced nearly everyone before being led inside, Charles chattering at their heels about a new game he had learned and Lola eager to share with them their numerous wedding gifts. Catherine received her son warmly and her daughter-in-law a little less warmly, though there was a noticeable difference in the queen's demeanor.

Somehow, they made it to their rooms, requesting the chance to rest before the evening meal. Francis told the guards stationed outside of their door that they were not to be disturbed until it was time for said meal, and they went inside and closed the door behind them.

Mary stopped, once more taking in their bedchamber. Francis took her in his arms, smoothed back a strand of hair misplaced by the carriage ride, and said simply, "Welcome home, Mary."

She sighed, relaxing into his chest. "At least for a while."

He nodded and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Yes, at least for a while." Stillness and peace hung in the air as he walked her over to the bed. "You should rest for a spell, my love. Here," he pulled back the bedcovers, helping her remove her shoes and lay down. "I know you are tired from the journey. There are several hours yet before supper. Please, sleep."

"All right then," she agreed. An impish look found its way onto her features as he leaned down to kiss her once more. She took advantage of his oddly balanced position and pulled him down onto the bed with her. "I will rest if you will join me." She smiled drowsily as he flopped over her, boots and all. Laughing, she bent herself at odd angles to attempt the removal of said boots.

Once they were finally settled, Mary laying against Francis and her head tucked comfortably in the crook of his arm, she sighed deeply - relishing the moment and yet thinking of all that needed to be done now that they were back at Court.

He tickled her just a little bit on her side, taking care not to move any other part of his fatigued body. "I know that sigh, Mary," he spoke softly. "Rest, my love. Do not think of all that must be done."

She agreed with a tired nod of her head, protesting only a little. "But Francis, we must tell them what we have decided. They are all waiting to hear what we intend to do."

Again, his voice encouraged her to cast aside such thoughts. "Rest, Mary. We will let them know soon enough."


The next days passed quickly as they resumed life at the Court and continued with preparations for the Christmas holiday and feasts. With each day and night spent in the eastern wing, Mary felt a sense of belonging that she hadn't before.

One afternoon as he entered their rooms to ready himself for supper, Francis found her asleep on their bed. Strange, he thought to himself. She doesn't often rest in the middle of the day, does she?

He crouched by her side and nudged her awake, his hand on her jaw.

"Mary? Are you feeling all right?"

She awakened slowly, groggily, blinking at the reintroduction of light. His worried expression caught her attention and a smile tugged its way to the corners of her mouth.

"I am just a little tired. Surely it is just the added details of the holiday and adjusting to our new sleeping arrangement." She teased, a blush rising on her cheeks, hoping to dispel any anxiety he might be tempted to feel.

With his help, she sat up and beckoned him to join her on the bed. "I did want to discuss something with you, though."

"Of course, wife." The sweet flavor of that word was something Francis savored every time it left his tongue, and he found himself using it more as the days of their marriage continued. "What is it?"

He sat down and she toyed with the blanket still draped across her lap. She fidgets so much when she's nervous, he thought. Why is she nervous?

"I have been wondering whether we came to the right decision. It's just-"

"Mary," he began. As much as he knew she wanted to spill forth every argument all over again, he cut her off. He had observed her in recent weeks, and quite carefully, and he had sensed this conversation coming.

"I know you want to stay." Her eyes darted up quickly to meet his, her surprise that he knew her heart evident in her countenance. He continued, "I see it in your eyes every night as we come back here. You have a home here, certainly, and always will if it is needed. But we cannot stay." His tone was gentle, firmly reassuring.

"But, Francis, this has always been your home!" Emotional tears began to slip from her eyes, one by one, and he wiped each of them away with a sweep of his thumb.

"Yes, it has, but it has never really felt a home until these last few weeks. You have established my sense of home, Mary. Only you. As long as I have you in Scotland, I am certain I will feel at home there, as well."

"Are you sure?" she questioned meekly, resuming her fiddling with the blanket.

"Yes," he lifted her chin with his fingers, making sure she saw his eyes as he spoke. "I am sure."


"I will not allow it."

The throne room was especially tense this morning, Francis and Mary having finally divulged their intentions to all interested parties. Queen Catherine, in particular, did not take the news well.

"I will not allow you to take my son away from me. ..."

Her ranting continued and King Henry let it. His wife could have her say, but his would be what mattered. He took in the younger queen and his son, their calm measure. Well-aware that they had taken a good deal of time to make this decision and to make it on the basis of what would be best for both countries left him with a great sense of accomplishment. Perhaps Francis had listened to his instruction after all.

His thoughts were interrupted by the silence, now glaring as Catherine had ceased talking and all present had turned to him. It's good to be king, he thought, smiling wryly.

"I understand Catherine's distress at losing our son from our own court, but I am afraid that is where our agreement ends. It is best for Scotland to have its queen returned with a king at her side. When the French crown does pass to you, Francis," he acknowledged his son. "I do hope you will take similar care in deciding where to reside when both countries are yours."

Francis nodded, acquiescing to the terms.

"Besides," his father continued, joking. "Having two kings and two queens in the same court is one too many. You intend to depart at the end of the next month, yes?"

"Yes, father. At the close of January, we will set out for Scotland."

"Very well, then. Thank you for informing us of your intentions. I think it best if we all ready ourselves for the Christmas feasting this afternoon."

The king dismissed them, Catherine appearing promptly at his side ready for a fight. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, a rare moment of tenderness.

"Catherine, I know you are upset, but they are rulers themselves. They must do what is best for Scotland." The warmth and patience of his gaze was unusual and quenched all protest from the queen. "Let us set this aside and enjoy the feast. They will be with us for yet another month." His eyes took on a jesting twinkle, "There is plenty of time for you to tire of them."


Francis and Mary returned to their rooms emotionally spent. In particular, Francis took note that Mary looked physically spent as well. In spite of their discussion, he had to admit he was worried for her. She slept well, always waking refreshed, and then tired rapidly midday. He walked her over to the bed, her face puzzled but her body unable to fight the firm directing grasp of his arm behind her back.

He helped her onto the bed before speaking, noting her questions.

"No, I am not going to take advantage of you before the feast, though I most certainly would like to," his laughter was light before his face set itself into a grim collection of wrinkled brow and uneasy eyes. "I'm worried about you, Mary. We are only halfway through the day and you are utterly exhausted."

"The morning held a lot," she attempted to defend her state. "Please don't worry over me."

"Oh, but I do," he replied huskily. "I want you to rest before the feast. If you continue to be tired, I will need to consult with Nostradamus."

Protesting, she fought him as he tried to assist her in laying down.

"Mary!" He pinned her effectively to the bed. "Sleep! If you feel better, then we have no reason to worry." She gave in, begrudgingly letting him pull the covers over her.

"Good. I will be back before the festivities begin." He pressed a kiss onto her cheek and moved toward the door, concern etched in his features. Why is she suddenly so tired? he wondered as he entered the corridor and took care to inform the guards that his wife was sleeping inside and not to be waked before his return.

Why, indeed?