"GOD SAVE THE QUEEN REGENT AND THOSE WHO DARE DEFY THE REALM!" the headsman roared, and flung the severed head of Marie de Guise to the ground. Mary couldn't hear the roar of the crowd over the pounding in her ears, tears relentlessly pouring down her cheeks. It was done. Her mother was dead, and she would never hurt Scotland again. She left the courtyard, her sorrow threatening to engulf her completely. By all rights, she knew, she should not mourn a traitor. She was a queen, and yet, she felt like a girl – a girl who had sentenced her own mother to death without blinking.
My mother isn't the first to die for her crimes against my country, thought Mary darkly. She won't be the last. She dashed to her privy chambers, slamming the door behind her as choked sobs wracked her body. Had she done the right thing by executing her mother? She was a traitor to the realm, she told herself. You would have to execute her regardless, even if she wasn't your mother. Her thoughts only made her weep all the more and she tried to muffle her sobs with her hand. Nobody could know that she mourned for a conspirator. Her heart was slowly becoming one of steel; perhaps it was better that way. Death was at every corner; it had devastated the Louvre, taking Bash and countless others, and now the fates had conspired against her, forcing her to sign her own mother's death warrant. What else did the fates have in store for her? Were they conspiring to take her son – her little prince, her little James – from her? Just the mere presence of her son flourishing on her womb threatened Elizabeth, and she had every reason to strike back against her.
A choked gasp escaped her, and Mary's hand fell to her belly. She stroked the soft swell where her son grew inside her; with each day that passed, he grew stronger. He would be a true king, a good king, to France after his father's time came to an end. She would rule as queen regent until he was of age, just as her mother had done. "James," she murmured. "My little James." She smiled sadly, and suddenly, a fanfare pierced the air. Who else has come to court?
"Hail François, by the Grace of God, King of France and Scotland!" the herald sang. Mary's heart sank in her chest, but she couldn't fight her sense of relief as she rushed to the balcony. There was no mistaking her husband as Francis stepped out from his carriage. The people bowed before their king, and she couldn't help but smile through her tears. Francis looked like a true king in that moment. Mary's heart swelled with her love for him. He was Francis de Valois, the king of France and protector of the realm, her husband, her lover, her king. It seemed an eternity before his eyes found hers.
"Francis, my husband," she whispered.
There were no words to be spoken as Francis's lips came down upon hers. Mary threw her arms around him, all thoughts banished from her mind as the coals of passion fanned and flamed between her and her husband. She wanted nothing more than to feel Francis's touch, to feel the softness of his kiss, and the strength and passion and vigorousness when he moved inside her.
"Francis, why…why did you come back?" she asked him breathlessly.
"I had to see if you were okay, Mary," Francis whispered, and he silenced her words with another kiss, and they fell back upon the bed. Time ceased to be between them as their naked bodies joined together as one. Mary met her husband's passion with her own; her pregnancy, she realized, seemed to awaken his desire for her, for his lovemaking left her completely spent afterwards. Her womanhood throbbed from the fire of Francis's passion, and her hair and body were wet with sweat. She rested her head above his heart, their limbs entangled with one another, as he tenderly stroked her bare back.
"You didn't have to come back for me," she said quietly, lifting her head to meet his eyes.
"Yes, I did," Francis murmured. "I had to know that you were safe."
"I'm never truly safe from my enemies. You know that. Elizabeth is here, and I don't know who to trust. My brother doesn't appear to give a damn what happens to me or our son and my mother is dead." Mary shook her head. "You can't stay here, Francis. France needs you more than Scotland does. Scotland needs me now, more than ever, and I am all that stands between Elizabeth and an English assault on the French."
"I would like to speak with Elizabeth myself," said her husband. "I am the king of France."
"Francis, no. No. I'm not going to bring you into my conflict with my cousin," Mary cried, aghast. "This is between me and Elizabeth. She already thinks of me as a threat and a rival to her throne, and for all I know, she is already plotting against me. She knows that I carry your son, and I will not let you put yourself in danger. I will not put our family in danger." She took his hand in hers and kissed his knuckles. "I love you, Francis, but I need to do this alone. I have to. If Elizabeth ever hurt you or our James, I know I would never forgive myself. Your duties lie with France, as they have always. You can't protect me and fight for your nation at the same time, husband."
"Mary," Francis began, "I love you. You are my wife before God and the mother to my son. I won't let anyone hurt you, not even your cousin. I'm not afraid of Elizabeth."
"You should be," said Mary bluntly. I'm terrified of her and the danger she poses to our son. "If anything happened to you or our babe…Francis, I could not live with myself. I couldn't bear it. I'm not putting you both in danger." She sighed. "Once James is born, I will bring him back to you in France. I don't want him within arms' reach of Elizabeth and my foes here."
"Do you intend on returning to France?"
"I can't go back to the Louvre, Francis. Not after what has happened," she went on. "I have made an enemy out of your mother, and the people hate me for allying with England. I need to stay here, for the sake of my people and our son." She smiled sadly. "You and I are going down our separate ways, but I promise you, I will return to you and our James." She gently kissed him, and he raked his hand through her hair. "Francis," she said softly, "do you think it is too late for peace between me and Elizabeth?"
"How do you mean?" her husband asked.
"She considers me a threat to her claim to the Crown," she said. "I consider her a threat to our son and our family, and even a greater threat to Scotland. She has all the cause in the world to declare war on Scotland, but I do not think she will take that course of action since our countries are bound to one another. If one falls, so does the other."
"You know that I will stand by you regardless of your decision, Mary." Mary managed a weak smile before she continued. "You're my queen."
"I'm considering reconsolidating my claim to England," she told him. Nostradamus warned me not to take England, but this is my risk to take.
"Mary…"
"Elizabeth and I walk a fragile line, Francis, and sooner or later, she is going to take action and someone is going to get hurt because of her. I can't let that happen. I know that there will be war if I reassert my claim, but it's too late for that now. It's now or never."
"Declare war on your cousin and she will have your head," Francis warned her. "Don't do it, Mary. For the love I know you bear me and our son, do not."
"If I do this," she said reassuringly, "it is because I love you, Francis. I'll be okay." I would rather die than Elizabeth touches my family. "I do not plan on taking action until after our son is born. To restate my claim to the throne now would put him in too much danger, more than he is already." Mary gently pulled herself out of her husband's embrace, climbing out of the bed and making her way to the window, where she would look out upon her country. She could feel his eyes on her as she moved, and she couldn't help but look back at him over her shoulder. Francis, too, rose from the bed and she let out a sigh of contentment as he wrapped his arms around her from behind. He stroked her hair that had fallen upon her breast, gently pushing it back, leaving her neck exposed.
"Mary," he murmured. She tilted her head to the side, as he began to kiss her. He kissed her cheek, her collarbone and her neck, his hands fondling her breasts before falling down to the tenderness of her belly, where their child flourished and grew. His lips slowly trailed down her back, his hands firmly planted on her waist. Mary felt her own passion rekindle itself, a small moan escaping her.
"Francis," she sighed. "We shouldn't…not now." Her body betrayed her words, for Francis's touch set her skin afire. "Scotland and…and France –" Her words were cut off when he turned her around to face him. Their eyes met, and Mary could hear her heart pounding in her chest. She reached for him slowly, gently touching his cheek before placing her hand on his firm, muscular chest. Her thoughts trailed off despite herself, and she ceased to think as her husband's lips met hers. Francis wrapped his arms around her waist possessively, and lifted her into his arms. Mary let out a small gasp, not once breaking their kiss, and wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her back to the bed. She forgot all her troubles as they became one once more, the fruit of desire ripening between them as they shared its sweet, sensual taste.
"Francis?" A whimper of contentment escaped Mary's lips, her eyes fluttering open, and she reached forward for her husband, only to feel the softness of the silken sheets and mattress. Had he left her while she slumbered? Why? What could be of utmost importance that would have him leave me after making love to me? she asked herself. She rose from the bed and dressed herself, before leaving her apartments and making her way to the throne room. There, she saw the people buzzing about. Francis and Elizabeth were nowhere to be seen. She began to walk up to the throne, and the crowd dispersed for their queen, immediately falling silent upon seeing her. In that moment, she was not a wife and a lover, but a queen, as she slowly sat down upon the throne.
"I know that much talk has surrounded the possibility of an heir to the throne," she began, her voice echoing throughout the room. "From the day of my marriage to Francis de Valois, I have been urged time and time again to give him a son, a prince, the future king of France and Scotland. To Henry de Valois, an heir would secure my claim to England, for he conspired to kill his son, my husband, and wed me in his place so he could rule France, Scotland, and England – but he is dead now, and my husband is your king. A prince grows inside me – your future king, a Prince of Wales. When the time is right, I will take my rightful place on the throne of England and I will bring down Hell upon the Tudor queen!" The people roared and cheered, and Mary continued over their screaming, "I WILL RULE ENGLAND AND MY SON WILL BE YOUR KING ONCE MY TIME IS OVER! THE TUDOR DYNASTY WILL BE NOTHING BUT ASHES, AND A NEW AGE WILL DAWN! THE AGE OF STUART AND VALOIS." Her heart was racing in her chest, adrenaline pumping through her veins. She rose slowly from the throne, all her fear forgotten, looking towards her people.
"HAIL HER MAJESTY MARY STUART, QUEEN OF SCOTS AND ENGLAND!" the people shouted in unison. "HAIL HER MAJESTY QUEEN MARY, THE TRUE QUEEN OF ENGLAND! HAIL HER MAJESTY QUEEN MARY, THE TRUE QUEEN OF ENGLAND!" Gradually, their cry built to a chant, and it thundered throughout the hall. The guards began to pound the butts of their spears onto the floor in rhythm to the mantra. I have won their allegiance and their hearts, she thought to herself, and Elizabeth's enmity.
"You must be a true fool to think I'll just leave my cousin be after what she's done," Elizabeth spat. "My affairs with Mary do not concern you."
"Yes, they do," said Francis coolly, "especially if her safety and that of our son is involved. Leave my wife in peace and I give you my word that England will benefit." His temper was boiling beneath the surface, and it was all he could do not to scream at her. Any threat to Mary was a threat to him, and he would do all he could to protect her.
The Tudor queen laughed. "You think negotiating with me is going to help out my dear cousin?" she scoffed. "Oh, Francis, you truly are a green boy. Mary wants my crown, and she shall have it…upon her head on a pike."
"Hurt Mary and I swear to God, I'll –"
"You'll what?" snapped Elizabeth. "Besiege Windsor Castle with the Spanish fighting behind you? You and I both know that you can't win, even with King Philip's warships. I will crush France, and after that, I am going to destroy Mary. And who knows? Perhaps after the babe is born, I'll hire an assassin to finish him off. I won't have my cousin on my throne, and I have no problem shedding blood to make sure of it."
"Even the blood of an innocent babe?" Francis couldn't mask his horror. "How do you know about my proposed alliance with the Spanish, Elizabeth?"
"I have spies in French court, Francis. I am not oblivious to what happens in France. How else would I know that my coz is slowly growing pot-bellied with your child? There is not one thing that happens in court that I am not unaware of. Of course, I also have my little birds nesting here as well. I have my eyes and ears everywhere. That is how I know the Habsburg king has agreed to your cute little alliance." She smiled coldly. "I will always be one step ahead of my enemies. Always." She poured herself a flagon of wine, and Francis felt a sudden surge of hatred for the woman. "I will say, Francis, I admire your nerve to confront me about my dear coz, but that was your first mistake."
"Oh, was it?" he challenged her.
"Yes, it was," Elizabeth purred. "You see, a queen could always use some leverage to hold above her enemies. And I have my own guards – bought, paid for, and bribed – posted right outside the doors. Their allegiance is to me, and only to me." She sipped her wine. "I know my coz holds you close to her heart, Francis, which makes you my ideal choice. GUARDS! GRAB HIM!" Francis barely had time to react as the guards burst into the room. They grabbed him, shoving a scarf into his mouth and pulling a hood over his head. He struggled, but they were stronger, much stronger. Their grip was like death, and their nails were digging into his flesh. "I could very easily take you as my hostage to hold over my coz, but will I? No. The power is mine, but I'm not going to waste my time with you… Do you hear that?"
It was muffled through the walls, but it was resonating throughout the castle. A profound chant: "HAIL HER MAJESTY QUEEN MARY, THE TRUE QUEEN OF ENGLAND! HAIL HER MAJESTY QUEEN MARY, THE TRUE QUEEN OF ENGLAND!" A knot formed in Francis's stomach. No, Mary…
"Let him go," Elizabeth ordered, and he was thrown to the ground. He heard the doors close as he pulled off the hood and hurriedly untied the gag, scarcely aware that he was shaking. Mary and I have both underestimated her, and now Mary has reasserted her right to the throne. God save us all.
"HAIL HER MAJESTY QUEEN MARY, THE TRUE QUEEN OF ENGLAND!" The chant reverberated all throughout the castle until it was all that was to hear, and Mary found that she was overwhelmed by it all. My people have waited a long time for me to arise, she thought, and my ascension has put me and Elizabeth on a collision course for the throne. It seemed an eternity passed, and the doors swung open, unveiling Elizabeth. Her face was stone, but Mary could sense the anger underneath. The entire hall fell silent as her cousin approached the throne.
"Coz," said Elizabeth formally. "I wish you the best of luck."
"In what?" It was all she could do to keep her tone even, to keep it from betraying her alarm. The people were watching her; she was a queen, not a girl. "I do not understand what you mean."
"Your pregnancy and all that will follow, Mary. You're my dearest cousin. I wouldn't want ill fortune to befall you," her cousin said sweetly. "You know how it goes with queens who are with child. I cannot tell you how many have either miscarried their babes or assassins have stolen into the night with daggers, stabbing them in the womb and watching them bleed out. It never matters to the hired knives if the queen survives, only if the babe dies."
"What are you saying?" Mary forced the words out through clenched teeth. She wanted nothing more than to rake her nails down Elizabeth's face for threatening her son. "Did you just threaten me? Did you just threaten my child?"
"No, I would never do such a thing, coz, but you would do well to take my words to heart." There was a poisonous sugariness in her voice, and the tension in the room was so strong that she could see it in the air. Elizabeth turned on her heel and made her leave, the people erupting into hushed whispers.
"LEAVE," Mary roared. The people immediately scrambled out of the room, and she pushed her way through the crowd. She had to find Francis. He was the only one she could turn to. "Francis! Francis!" she shouted. "FRANCIS!" She managed to escape the mass, stumbling out into the halls. "FRANCIS!"
"Mary!" Mary whipped her head around to see Francis rushing to her. Relief flooded through her as she ran to him, and he folded her in his embrace. She clung to him, tightening her embrace, and it wasn't until then that she could feel the unevenness of his breath, the tremor in his body.
"Francis, you're shaking," she said quietly, and they finally pulled apart. "What's wrong? What happened? Where were you this morning?" She hadn't seen Francis this upset since Bash's passing, and it worried her.
"I was with Elizabeth," her husband answered. "I thought that maybe I could blackmail her into stepping down from this war of the throne, but…" He shook his head furiously "She threatened to kill you and send a hired knife to butcher our son once he is born. All I want is to protect you – protect our family – but how am I supposed to do that, Mary? How am I supposed to protect this family when you have already reaffirmed your claim to England? – and you told me that you wouldn't do so until after James is born!"
"Francis…"
"What is wrong with you, Mary?" he demanded. "Why did you go against your word? Do you realize what you've done? Do you realize the danger you've put yourself in? Elizabeth will kill you for this."
"Not if I kill her first," said Mary bluntly. "This is my life. My decision. My risk. I know you're scared –"
"You must be mad to think you can beat Elizabeth at her own game! She is mad, utterly mad. Not like my father, but if you misstep once, it'll be your head on a pike. She told me so herself."
Now it was Mary's turn to be angry. "What the hell were you thinking, confronting her?" she snapped. "You know how dangerous she is!"
"As do you, and you've made yourself her enemy! I can't believe you would do this, Mary. I can't protect you from her, and you've made yourself vulnerable to her!"
"Francis, it doesn't matter what I do," Mary began, "Elizabeth will always see me as her enemy. The only reason our countries are still friends is because we are each other's only chance of saving our respective nations, but we will always be locked in this war for the Crown. You can't protect me from this, husband." Softening her tone, she reached for him, gently stroking his cheek with her thumb. "I love you, but you must let me be the queen I was born to be."
"I'm not going to let you get yourself killed for the throne, Mary. I won't. I would bring down the Tudor dynasty if it meant saving you."
"I will not be the one to die. Elizabeth will."
When it was time for Mary and Francis to part ways, it felt as though the lovers were saying their final farewells to each other. They stood on the docks, the ship looming on the harbor as it awaited Francis to embark.
"I wish I could stay here and protect you," said Francis softly, "and be with you when you bring our child into the world."
"I know." Mary wrapped her arms around him, her heart aching in her chest. She wanted nothing more than stay with her husband, but there as too much separating them. Our duties to our countries will always be in our way, she thought forlornly, and the only way Francis will be safe from my cousin is if he returns to France. "I just want it all to be over, this war between our countries and mine own with Elizabeth. The things we do for our countries…" Her husband silenced her with a deep kiss, his hands fisting in her hair. His kiss consumed her, leaving her breathless. His kiss was raw passion, everything he couldn't say. Francis kissed her cheek and neck before crushing his lips to hers again. Mary held on to her husband, and he to her, neither of them willing to let go of the other.
"I love you," she said breathlessly. "God, I love you so much, Francis husband."
"As I love you, Mary wife," Francis murmured, gently running his knuckle down her cheek. "You have forever enraptured my heart. There has never been another. Only you." Overwhelmed, Mary kissed him again, and it took all of her willpower for her to part their kiss.
"Have a safe journey home. Take care of my heart…I've left it with you." Mary felt tears slipping from her eyes, and her husband tenderly wiped them away with his thumb. She could see the struggle that raged within him; he was unable to stay, unwilling to go, but going nonetheless. The fates conspired to keep them apart, just as they willed her to condemn her mother to death. Francis's fingers interlaced with hers, and he offered her a sad smile before releasing her hand and boarding the ship.
"I love you, Francis," she whispered. As she watched the ship grow smaller and smaller in the difference, she felt as though a piece of her was missing. We will be together again soon, she told herself.
When his mother gave him the parchment, Francis did not need to read it to know what it said, but he opened it nonetheless. Written were only two sentences in King Philip's own script: It's done. Spain will fight with France against England.