"Mary." A voice said. Jumping, the young Empress came out of her reverie and looked to her familiar intruder. It was the young Baron, Sebastian de Portiers, the husband of one of her best friends and her half brother in law. Over his two week visit in Scotland -King and half brother in towe- the duo had yet to have more than a civilised conversation not about politics. Mary missed the companionship of the young Baron more than she though. Forcing a smile, the so tired Empress slowly waved a hand at him, beckoning him to enter the royal chambers.
It had been many days since her and Francis' late night conversation, with little output after the fact. He had retired from Edinburgh and went over to Dunbar, giving both some much needed space. They still played their parts well, they had little option, but it wasn't the same. The very alive King returned for Scottish court in the mornings, danced with his Empress and heir in the evenings and played the part of the King and husband well, but it was nothing in comparison to what they had both had just a few years ago. How long ago it seemed.
"Sebastian," Mary cleared her throat, sitting up from her un-Queenly slouch and sitting up straight, quickly starting to fix her hair and skirts. Once proper, she spoke again. "lease, come in." Mary said. Obeying, he walked over towards his young half sister in law, stopping a few feet away to bow, accepting a seat near her upon her nod. "To what do I owe this rare pleasure?" Mary asked. It had been a long time since they had spoken properly, almost a year, to be exact. A few French political conversations here and there, each one never lasting the length of a dance, but never more. Which, Mary suspected -hoped?- would be the outcome of this conversation.
"I've just gotten back from my brother." Bash revealed.
"Oh?"
"Yes. You are aware he resides in Dunbar? For the time being, at least."
"Yes."
"What do you plan to do of it?" Bash asked.
"Excuse me?"
"How will you rectify it? Francis has no idea how to, it is up to you."
"I don't have to do anything, Sebastian. This is his mistake, he must rectify." Mary replied, voice testier than usual, but not holding it's usual spark and fire.
"I cannot disagree," Bash agreed, leaning back into the chair. "but, he is a fish. You must give him the line to get what you both want. You cannot honestly tell me you wish to wallow in misery for the rest of your life?" Bash asked. "No. I know you. You wish to live happily, with a family of your own. This isn't it." Bash paused, letting his words sink in. "I can see how this is effecting you, how it hurts. You must relieve yourself of this pain, it is the only way for you to think with a clear head."
"I cannot. His actions, his foolishness, have ruined us."
"They don't have to, Mary." he paused again. "You must remember that he didn't want to hurt you. All of this wasn't set out to hurt you. He didn't lay with your Lady to actively hurt you. He didn't run away to hurt you."
"But he did."
"He did. And now, you must be the better person than he and Lola. You must be strong. And forgive, before this ruins you and changes you into something you cannot turn back from." Bash replied.
"So, I am supposed to just forget all this pain and anger and betrayal and jump into his arms as if nothing has happened? Push my pain and hurt aside until it consumes me. Come on, Sebastian," Mary angrily chuckled. "you know as well as anybody that that isn't how this world works. No matter how some may portray it to be otherwise." Mary finished.
"How do you know you are destined for pain if you let him in? You may completely turn him from you if you continue this, Mary. If he ever gives up on you, which he won't, then he will resent Jean and Lola and eventually, you. Both your hearts will be broken and it will be your fault. If you let him in, even just a little bit, you may get your only chance of true, unbridled happiness back." Bash finished.
Mary humorlessly laughed out loud. "So, this is all my fault? All of this pain and betrayal and hurt is because of me? Sebastian, I thought you better, wiser than that. I suppose I thought wrong."
"I would never suggest that." he replied, calmly. "This was not your fault. You may have set the ball rolling with the Prophecy ordeal, but you did not force Lola to sleep with Francis. You did not force her to commit betrayal, treason and sin. You did not force him to run away to Lola, you told him the risks and he still ran away, abandoning you and your son. He almost killed James. I will never forget, nor forgive." Bash replied, pausing.
Mary's eyes suddenly watered. "He did. I remember-" she trailed off a little. "all the blood flowing from my legs, a few hours after he left me for her. Them." Mary spat. "Francis could have killed my son, later, me. I will never forgive that. Do you know how many more people would have died if he did? War would have flared, punished the innocent and the guilty. What then? Do I still forgive and forget after what he did? Sebastian, I simply cannot." Mary replied, her eyes tired.
"You look exhausted." Sebastian commented. "I am sure it has nothing to do with the Prince sleeping in your bed last night?" he asked, knowing full well that James always enjoyed sleeping in his mothers' bed whenever he didn't feel secure.
"No, it does not. I am exhausted with this situation. I cannot change it, I cannot remedy it and I cannot halt my life to focus on it. I cannot hear another's opinion on Francis and Lola and their child, nor on the state of my marriage. I am so tired, Sebastian. So tired of all of this." Mary sighed.
"I would be, too." he gently added.
"How can you paint him out to be this harmed God? An angel done wrong? He harmed you, too, with this ordeal! Your wife, your daughter, gone! Your nephew! The one who actually knows you, gone! All future plans of having another baby up in smoke!"
"You are right again, I do not trust him as I once did, but I cannot allow my little brother to suffer, even if he deserves it." Bash replied. "Would you do the same, should it be James?"
"That is not the same! Stop trying to make me feel guilty for not forgiving him! I can't! I just can't!"
"You would rather suffer to prove to him he was wrong? Deny your son a father to prove him wrong!"
"He did that! He denied James a father! He almost killed him before he was even born. And, do answer your question, yes! I did just fine on my own so far, as has James! We will do just fine without him!"
"I didn't say you did not. I just want you to see it from another perspective."
"The only perspective I need to see from is mine, Sebastian! I am an Empress! I will not speak any further. Any pretty words and false pretences he told you to spin to me will stop. I am exhausted of going round and around in this topic. I cannot, I will not speak more." Mary sighed, frustrated and angry.
"If that is what you want, then I will respect it. You are perfectly within your rights to want to make him suffer for what he did. Hell, a part of me endources it. As, you are right. He did drive away my family, as well as his own. But, Mary, do not let your anger blind you from any love you could face."
Miles away, the King of France and Emperor of Great Britain sat silently in his -Mary's?- lounge room, reclined in a green silk embroidered settee, feet bare and propped up. He wore nothing but some ill fitting leather trousers and a white undershirt, untied at the collar, a tankard of whiskey in his right hand.
It was past midnight, and he knew he should be slumbering, to get ready for his trip to Edinburgh the next dawn. But, like he did as an alcohol soaked Prince not that long ago, he chose to drown his sorrows and troubles with alcohol instead of facing him.
Foolish boy! Henry had once hissed, gripping his heir by the jaw, bringing them so close so that their noses touched. The King of France had just been notified of Francis' almost successful attempt to run off and elope with Lady Olivia D'amencourt, and was furious beyond belief, justifiably so. The Scottish alliance was prized higher than ever, now.
Yes, father. I am a foolish boy. Francis thought, looking at the bright Scottish moon, hearing the owls hoot and the hounds howl in the not so distant distance.
"Brother!" a voice said, from behind him. It sounded breathless.
"It's been hours." was the only response, slightly slurred from his alcohol consumption. Try as he might- and lord, the man did try- he wasn't the best at holding down his liquor, Scottish being the hardest to handle out of them all. Even his wife could drink him under the table. And, a fortnight ago, she had. And look where that had got them. "Where have you been?"
"Where do you think?" Bash asked, dryly. "So, dear brother, how have you been since I saw you last?" Bash strolled over to him, plucking the tankard out of his grasp and setting it away after a swig of his own.
"How do you think?" Francis replies dryly, reaching over for the tankard, before immediately giving up and settling back against the chair.
Bash chuckled. "You are acting like your son." he said, but there was anger in his voice. "And, you may be king, an Emperor now, but I'm your older brother. Don't avoid the question." Bash finished.
"Honestly? Exhausted. All of this situation with Mary is getting too much. I know I hurt her and James, hurt them bad, but they won't give me a line of recovery. They won't forgive me. And, as long as Mary doesn't, James won't." he sighed. "I cannot think of how to make it right."
"I spoke with her. Neither does she." Bash revealed. Francis nodded, numb.
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know. Part of me wants to go to France, like she wants me to. Raise Jean with his mother, give him a childhood and protection for when he grows up."
"You did, after Mary left. Look where that's gotten us all." Bash chuckled humorlessly.
"Yes." he sighed. "Lola and I have been spending alternate nights to spend with the boy. But, the nannies and mother say he's such a fussy child. Hard to control. He just wails and wails and wails, nothing settling him. But, when he stills, he is beautiful, so serene and sweet." Francis looked away.
"You're not helping yourself, brother." Bash warned.
"I know, I know. I wonder, however, if I would have been prepared for this rols should Lola have told me the truth long ago. Maybe this all would have been different. But, she made her decisions. And, I made mine. I am forced to live with them as I live with my mistakes." Francis sighed, miserable. "I made such a mistake leaving. Father always said never let a bastard child effect political relations."
"But, you did not."
"I did not. But, it's hard to think of Jean as a mistake. I love him, so much. Don't mistake me, I'm not saying I don't wish I did not sleep with Lola. I do. But, he makes it hard at times."
"Answer me something." Bash said. Francis looked at him. "In France, why does it have to be Mary and James or Jean and not Mary and James and Jean?" Bash asked.
"Do not regress. You know that better than I. You raised him more than I did." Francis chuckled. "Jean's future. If James grows with him, he will grow to resent him for hurting his mother."
"And if Jean does not hurt Mary?"
"He always will. Do not be a fool. Mary may hide her pain well, you know as well as I how she does. But, even if she does, James will know. James always knows. You know how close the two are. And rightfully so." he paused. "Don't misunderstand me, I wish it could be all three of them, as well as any possible children the two of us could have. But, she's so headstrong and hurt that she isn't willing to let me in again. I don't blame her. If the roles were reversed, I am not sure I could, either." he paused again. Bash waited. "All I can do now is let her work through her thoughts and feelings and be ready to come back to me. But, at times, it seems like her and our son are just so far away. There are times where I could reach out and touch her, when we dance for her court, but there is something holding us back. I so, so wish she could see it how I do. Eventually, we could be together. I know it is possible."
"Have you tried telling her that?"
"I don't know how. Whenever I'm around her, even if she's yelling at me, I loose all sense when it comes to the two of us. Our marriage. Our rule. I just think of her coming back to me, how I'd do anything to make it happen. I just want to stand in front of her for hours and let her scream and yell at me all she wants, until her anger and resentment against me is gone, before we can start to rebuild. But, if I push too far, turn up too much, she'll pull away from me, getting farther and farther away with me with every attempted reconciliation I try. I cannot stand the thought of becoming father, Mary becoming my mother. She told me she doesn't want to, but she's adamant to make us that way. I love her, after everything we've done to each other, I just don't know how to prove it to her. Telling her isn't enough. I don't think she believes me.
"Francis, take it from somebody who has experienced the love the two of you have, what you share isn't ever going to go away. She may be conflicted about you, but if she truly hated you for what you did, she could have ordered assassins when you returned or just did it herself. She could have fought against the annulment between her marriage and Henry's. But, she did not. That spark, that ember, that light is still inside her. All you have to do is find it, brother."
"Excuse me, your Imperial Majesty?" a voice said. Looking up from her desk -her attention ripped away from the terms of a possible new treaty with Sweden- Mary watched as Steven, her bastard nephew and page came into the room.
"Steven, what is it, boy?" she asked, her words holding no malice, just kindness. A rarity nowadays, Steven one of the only ones out of her political and personal inner circle who knew about the trouble with Francis, seeing as though the Empress' marriage was quietly crumbling behind closed doors.
"The Lady Amelile, my lady." he bowed out and the tall blonde came striding in. Mary smiled softly at one of her favourite working girls, all donned in pink lace and black leather.
James -who sat near her playing with some building blocks and wooden soldiers- squealed in excitement at seeing a familiar face. Especially when that familiar face made his mother happy.
"My girl, what news do you bring me?" Mary asked.
"Most gracious, your grace." Amelile curtseyed slightly. "I have finished my, how do I put it, correspondence, with one of the Lady Lola's household." they shared a secretive smirk. "And they tell me that by the order of the King, she is confined to the castle, only allowed to stay in her rooms most days. They say the King has spoken with his harlot, telling her that the Lady's future is in his Queen's hands, not his own. Lola is still a Scottish subject, my Queen." Amelile babbled a little. "Officially, he has not made her his mistress, I have spoken with Aimee on the matter -she is quite comfortable with the King's private secretary, Lord Dumas- and she confirms. The Lady is not titled with his harlot, although many speak of her to be." Amelile finished.
"What of suitors?"
"None, your Majesty. She has no contact with any those not servicing her or her bastard child. Any letters she sends are monitored and intercepted. French Court awaits your command."
"What do the people think of her?"
"She is secluded, so she doesn't add to the gossip of the Court. However, she has been shunned, the moment her child was claimed. Nobody has offered marriage, your Grace. No nobles, no servants. Nobody. Court sniggers behind her back as if she cannot hear. She's notorious in Scotland and in France. She's labelled his mistress, his harlot, his whore. She's ruined, your Imperial Majesty. Only you can change her fate, sell her off to the highest bidder as some sort of breeding mare. However, her price will have to be more than her fertility, seeing her lack of virtue and her scorned bastard." Amelile continued.
Mary nodded slowly, a sick sense of satisfaction running through her veins. It almost felt fulfilling to the point of pleasure.
"You speak of her future marriage, should my nobility not call for her head. Her family, the Flemming's, do they know?" Mary asked. "About what a harlot their daughter made herself out to be?" Mary asked.
"I am not sure, your Majesty. However, I feel with the news of Jean Phillipe's existence plaguing France into thinking their King is a sentimental laughing stock, they will know soon enough. Especially since the King himself is in Scotland." she finished.
"I see."
"If they know of her alleged widowhood, nobody has offered financial aid to supply a dowry. It is only a matter of time before the Flemming's find out what their only living daughter has done. I fully suspect with the King's entrence into the land of their blood, if they do not, they will know soon enough." she finished.
"I see, is that all you can tell me of my former Lady?" Mary asked.
"It is, ma'am."
"Very good work, my friend. Send word to all the girls, have them inform what they have figured out over the last while. Meanwhile, send for your husband, reside in the grand Sandown Castle for a fortnight. It's a luxurious palace, fit for your accomplishment." Mary ordered. She enjoyed rewarding her ladies for their good work from time to time, the three most accomplished being married off to handsome, rich, powerful men. Whenever they pleased her, they lived in complete luxury with fine gifts. It was a system all involved enjoyed.
"Thank you, your Imperial Majesty. I shall leave you to your work. I am sure the young Steven has another who wishes to see you."
"Very well, you are dismissed." Mary waved her out. She curtseyed to the Queen of France, before the Dauphin -who waved sweetly at her as she left- starting to walk out of the room. When gone, the Stewart blooded page poked his head inside once more.
"Your Imperial Majesty, aunt, may I present the King of France, Emperor Consort of Great Britain." he said. Mary sat back in her chair as Francis slowly walked into the room.
He walked to the higher third of the room, where the grand oak desk stood, a few feet from the fire and the gold fireguard. His breath caught as he looked at his wife for the first time in a few weeks. The night of the ball had been three weeks ago, their hard midnight conversation a mere two. She had grown impossibly more beautiful in the time he spent away from him. She wore a green satin gown, her shoulders bare and arms covered. Long hair fell in a wave of straight onyx sea, a diamond bandeau tiara the only jewellery she wore. How green satin had suited his bride.
"It's been a few days, Francis." was the only thing she said, once he stood in front of her, all donned in the grand and fine clothes fit for a King.
"It has. I needed some time to think of our relationship, how it can be repaired and how I can change to see it happen."
"I see." Mary leaned back further. "However, I am being a ruler right now, the issues with our marriage can and will wait." she paused. "So, I speak to you as a ruler, now. Can I help you?"
"Yes. I would like to see my son. Our son." Francis replied. Mary raised her chin and an eyebrow, pointing behind him. The King of France clearly hadn't seen his son yet.
"He is right behind you." Mary replied. He turned and, sure enough, sat the royal heir. Two small figurines were in his hands, a building block in the other. He was donned in a small pair of black leather trousers, a white puffy tunic and a buckled black leather waistcoat with silver swirls heavily embroidered into the fabric. His black curls were unruly, big dark eyes shining as he looked up at his biological father.
James offered him a small, shy smile. He recognised him.
"May I spend the afternoon with him? It's time to finally be a father." Francis said, still looking at the perfect mix of he and Mary.
"You may. He is yet to spent his usual few hours in the open air." Mary replied. Francis smiled softly, turning to his wife.
"Thank you."
"I reiterate. I will not keep him from you. It's horrid growing up without a father. He deserves a father, your and I's issues are different. He is the priority." Mary finished.
"Thank you, Mary." he smiled softly, turning to James, holding out a hand. "James, would you like to come with me?" he asked.
Whilst Mary would have preferred one on one father-son time to be eased into, at first being loaded with those James knew, before transitioning into one on one, she knew the slight recognition James held for Francis may just be enough.
The small boy looked to his mother, almost asking for permission. Mary smiled at her son.
"It's alright, my love. You may go with your father and have fun. Mama has to work." she smiled softly.
James smiled, a small, little toothy grin, getting up from his perch on the embroidered rug he sat upon, walking up to his father and slowly taking his hand, the King's dwarfing the size of the Prince's.
Mary watched as the duo left her study, a strange feeling of fufillment in her heart. This one, however, this was so different than the other feeling, so different that she hated to admit what it actually was.
"Bessie!" young James squeaked, pointing at one of the chestnut stallions he and his father passed.
"Would you like to go riding?" Francis questioned his child, heart busting with love and attachment.
"Yes, yes, yes!" he beamed, starting to jump up and down. Francis smiled wide at the child.
"You there, boy, have a horse set up for the Prince and I. And send for someone to fetch a cloak." Francis ordered to a near bye stable boy. He nodded and bowed, getting right to it.
James' insistent tugs on his hand brings Francis' attention from the retreating figure to that of his son and heir.
"Riding," he said, not pronouncing the 'R'. "Where? Where?" he asked, clearly excited for the trip. Francis briefly wondered who James thought he was, as he seemed far more comfortable and at ease than the last time he'd seen him, but would settle for even being thought of as his mothers' friend. Anything was better than a stranger who carried a sent he didn't like.
"Those mountains and those trees, way over there." Francis smiled, kneeling to James' level, pointing to the horizon of trees and mountains. God, Mary lived in a beautiful country.
"Where? Where?" James asked, pressing his face close to Francis', squinting his little eyes to see the picture. Francis was surprised. This was the closest the boy had ever willingly been -he'd had the honour of placing the child in bed as he slept a few times in France- but his child didn't seem to notice the tears of love in his eyes. Francis brings him closer with the other arm, pointing at the mountains once more.
"Those trees, way past the forest and the water, right there." he began, smiling at James' squeal of excitement. He talked about all the things five year old Mary had told him of her homeland, not stopping until a voice from behind them spoke.
"Your Majesty," the voice said. Francis stood and turned, finding a nursemaid with a small grey and black cloak. "The horse is prepared and I have this for the Prince, but is this wise? The Prince is still very young."
"Nonsense, the child needs some fresh air." Francis shook the concern away.
He took the cloak and swooped it over the child's shoulders, listening to the little giggles from the sweet child. Reaching out his hand again, James took it without reservation, walking alongside his father for a few steps, before turning and waving goodbye to his nursemaid.
Francis hoisted James up on the horse, vaulting behind his child as they started to gallop through the hills and the streams of the serene Scottish countryside. The little boy was wailing in excitement, pointing out the birds in the air and the insects on the trees. Francis felt a sad happiness splutter through his veins. How could he willingly have missed a single second with his child? But, it brang him comfort to know that there was still mend this.
They stopped on top of a tall hill, rivers and streams flowing healthily beneath them, trees and forests and fields as far as they could see.
"One day, all of this will be yours." Francis said, leaning down into James' ear.
"Really? But it's mama's." he said, wide eyed and full of wonder.
"It is, but one day, when you rule on your own, it will be yours, my Prince." Francis smiled, running a finger through a lock of raven ringlets.
Suddenly, the words are flowing. He didn't start them, nor know how to stop them.
"James," he trailled off, quiet. The boy looked back up at him. He doesn't know how to do this. "I haven't been a very good father to you, I haven't seen you grow, because I did something very bad to your mother, and she's sad because of it."
James gasped. "Mama shouldn't be sad!" he proclaimed, words a little misproncounced.
"No, she shouldn't." Francis agreed. "I am so sorry for not being around to see you grow, for making your mother upset. But, I promise you that I will make it right." he doesn't know how much the boy understands, but is more than sure that it is enough.
Lady Greer of Castleroy slowly folded the Crown Prince's small clothing into some trunks, awaiting his nap time ritual. A song that reminded him of his mother, one of her blankets -Mary herself usually did this ritual, so they had to remind him of his beloved mother-, some warm milk sweetened with honey and a few slices of bread and cheese, before he was tucked into his bed for a few hours. Kenna was busy with a fussy Meredith -the child had been unwell- so Greer had to take over this daily process for Mary had been called into an emergency privy council meeting something dull about unrest East of Wales the Empress had said. Greer was accustomed to this ritual. She'd tucked the boy in for his afternoon sleep hundreds of times, as well as her own children who were slumbering near her.
She had been told about Francis and James' afternoon out by the Empress herself, and was anxious to be told how it had went. The bond between father and son was far more important to the Empress than the bond between Empress and Emperor.
Because the last few meetings between father and son hadn't gone well, Greer was surprised to see Francis carrying James into the royal nursery on his hip, the child already donned in his sleeping garments.
"Greer!" James squealed as he saw one of his mothers' best friends. He beamed and waved a sleepy hello.
"Hello, sweet boy." Greer smiled.
Francis lay James in his bed, watching as Greer took care of the ritual of song, warmth, food and drink, before kneeling by the bed and leaning over.
"Did you have fun today?" he asked.
"Yes," James answered, but he said two words. The second began with a 'P', but was ineligible.
"You can call me Papa, James." Francis smiled, taking his childs' hand. "I am your father." he smiled. Francis' throat constricted as the boy looked at him with big eyes that were all Mary. Suddenly, the sleepy child launched himself from the bed and into Francis' arms, nearly knocking him over.
"Don't go, Papa." the boy said. He gently leaned James back down, stroking his raven coloured, silky curls tenderly.
"I'm never leaving you or your mother again, James. I promise." he told his second born. That seemed to satisfy the young boy, who tightened his grip on his fathers' larger hand, closing his large, circular eyes contentedly. The pain in Francis' heart lessened a little, and he realised that the key of rebuilding the boys' family was forming a bond with him. And, once he did, the greater chance that his mother would open her heart to him once more.
The thought made him smile.
"I love you, my little prince."