Mary sighed blissfully, enjoying the warm sunlight on her cheeks. She sat outside in the gardens, watching her countrymen and countrywomen enjoy themselves at the harvest festival. It was early June, a month and a half after the latest instalment in this ridiculous story she had found herself in. By day, Francis and James grew closer to be as thick as thieves. And, by night, the two conspired together to make each person they knew, happier. Even now, they played on the grass together. Francis twirled his heir around on the bright grass by one arm, and the boy squealed and giggled as if he'd known his father for all his life. Which, in some ways, wasn't far off the mark.
What a picture the pair made. Because of the physical closeness of the pair, it was now not that difficult to see the physical similarities the two held. Unruly curls, a narrow nose and sharp jawline, a pointed chin and a substantial height. Although James clearly resembled his mother, he looked just as much like his father.
It was early June, now. The summer festival had been organised by Baronesses Kenna de Portiers, who was well known for throwing lavish parties in both English and Scottish Court. Music played fluently, food and drink flowed. The people laughed and conversed, socialising and mingling well, not an argument or disagreement in sight. Men, women and children associated with each other, uncharacteristically not trying to scheme or back stab for their own game. For the first time in months, everybody was simply happy.
Mary looked over, observing the chief mastermind behind the party. She was donned in a cream lace gown, a crown of white roses in her brown hair. Near her was the Baron, looking as handsome as ever in a dark blue ensemble, his beautiful little daughter in a tiny purple and white lace gown, brown hair and green eyes bright in the summer's day. Meredith was the most beautiful little girl, the perfect mix of Kenna and Bash. Young and sweet and innocent, so adoring of her cousin.
Mary shut her eyes, remembering the time she had seen the little Lady as she was born.
"Mary," Bash smiled, opening the door after hours of Kenna's screams. The horrid sound was finally penetrated by the scream of a newborn, instantly setting Mary and Greer -who had been removed when Kenna started to struggle with blood loss- alight. They hadn't left the corridor outside the room where Kenna had been giving birth. "Greer. You can come in now." Bash had smiled.
They had lept from their perches on the floor, quickly walking inside the large room where Kenna lay in bed, covered in sweat and pale, yet glowing and ecstatic.
"Kenna." Greer whispered.
"Mary. Greer." Kenna had smiled. They looked over at the midwives, who were bathing a bloody, wailing creature. "I had a girl." Kenna said, quiet and weak, but so happy and proud. Mary stepped closer to the newborn girl, reaching out a hand to touch her cheek. The baby's eyes opened and Mary smiled once more.
Bash's eyes.
"What is her name?" Mary asked as the baby girl was wrapped up and given to the dishevelled beauty that was her mother.
"Meredith. Meredith De Portiers."
It hadn't been anything like Mary's own birthing experience.
Pain. Pain unlike any she'd known previously. Unbearable pain, coming in vicious waves, different pains combining into one unbearable cocktail of suffering and agony. A sharp burn with so much surrounding agony that it made it almost unthinkable to even gasp for air.
It was so hot. Why was the fire roaring?
Sheets doused in blood had been changed half a dozen times each day. So, so much blood. So much pain and blood. Servants seemed shaken whenever they carried the bucketfuls of once ivory-now crimson coloured cotton and satin. So much blood. So much pain. So many days. Still no baby.
"Push, your Majesty!" A voice yelled from her legs. Screaming out, her throat burned worse than ever before. She shot the nurse a hard glare, all she had been doing was pushing, for days and days and days. And still, on the fourth day, still nothing.
Mary felt her chest convulse. In sobs or gasps, she couldn't identify. Tears slipped down her cheeks, her mouth open in a silent cry.
"Another!" the voice yelled again. The room was loud, not just because of her screams. Servants bustled around the large chambers, gathering sheets and cloths. The sloshing of bowls of water and alerting the pages and those waiting outside echoed throughout the room, as well as the cries of the physicians and the midwives. The Queen was struggling, the chance of both Queen and King -Prince?- transitioning into the next life grew by every passing minute.
"Don't give up, Mary." another voice said. This one was familiar. It was Greer. Her favourite Lady clung to her hand, the right, her voice exhausted and trembling. "Please, don't give up!"
Mary cried out again, collapsing back against the pillows.
"I can't!" she sobbed, shaking her head, her eyes closing on their own.
"You can, Mary." Kenna murmured into her hair, on the other side of her, kissing the side of her head. "You can."
Another wave of pain. Another choked scream.
"I can't." Mary repeated, her voice quieter now. "I can't." she confirmed.
"Mary please, you can. You will live, your baby will live! Do not give up!" Greer cried into her ear.
Her voice. Why was it so far away?
Choking on another sob, Mary felt the world start to spin and shrink. The Queen of Scotland welcomed it.
The darkness closed in on her. The darkness was so inviting. So warm and inviting. No more pain. No more anything.
Gulping, The Empress came back to earth. James' birth had been horrid, almost five days of labour to finally produce her son. They had both nearly died, a mix of blood loos and too long spent in the womb almost being a killer. But, they had managed to survive. They had survived that ordeal, and they would survive this one.
Almost all of Court had deemed Francis dead by that point, their hopes of an alive Valois King diminishing by about her sixth month. So, they looked to her and her stomach. The one which held the future of France. So, it was vitally important that she and her child lived. Her child to be King, her to be regent.
Catherine hadn't been all that popular at that time. She had messed with the wrong lord, and that lord turned others against her. A France under her rule and Charles' crown would have folded under the pressure of ruling, especially when England started to turn from the long dead Tudor Queen Elizabeth and looked towards the Scottish Queen with her Imperial heir. The Tudor Queen had felt threatened, and turned darker, became more dangerous, so dark that she lost her head, thanks to an illegitimate pregnancy coming to light. Both she, the child and Robert Dudley had lost their heads, Mary replacing her on the throne.
It had nearly turned Elizabeth mad to know that Mary's child -and herself- lived through the hard birth, even worse when it was revealed that the child was a male. James had been but a few months old when he became heir to England as well, he being the key factor in placing his mother -and in ways, his father- on the English throne.
Her beloved seemed to have grown accustomed to his father over the last month. His little face lit up every time he saw the fair haired Frenchman who had now been accepted into his life and heart. The little child seemed so happy now, even starting to call Francis 'Papa' and not by a wordless giggle. Even now, he span in circles on his fathers' hand, laughing freely. His mother smiled at him from across the courtyard.
Ah, the innocence of a child.
"My Lady, you must come to the throne room, there is an important guest who insists on seeing you." Mary heard in her ear. It was Steven.
"Who is it?" Mary asked.
"She did not give me her name, but she wishes to speak you in the throne room."
"Very well. Assign me a fleet of guards to the throne room." Mary ordered.
"Yes, Majesty." Steven bowed out, sending another page to inform the Empress that her small fleet was ready. Mary wasn't going to meet a strange visitor alone, not when so many opposed a catholic female monarch ruling an Empire in her own right.
Mary made her way to the throne room, settling into her impressive golden throne. The squire came into the room after a mint coloured caped figure made it's way into the room, head bent low. It made it's way through the sea of tense guards, kneeling at the bottom of the stairs leading to the throne. It's pale hands pulled down the hood, revealing brown curls.
Mary tensed.
"Your Imperial Majesty, the Lady Lola."