"We are gathered here today to assume the guilty or innocence of this Lady. You are hereby charged with adultery, being seduced by the devil and high treason, all punishable by death. How do you plead?"
"Not guilty, my lord."
"My lords, it is time to pass judgement."
"Guilty."
"Guilty."
"Guilty."
"Guilty."
"Guilty."
"Guilty."
"Guilty."
"Guilty."
"Guilty."
"My lady, at dawn, tomorrow morning, you will be sentenced to death by beheading. Take her away!"
"No, no, please! Stop this, please! I'm sorry! No!"
Cheers. Deafening, blood lusty cheers.
"Enter the traitor!"
The squeak of a gate. Pounding footsteps.
"Lady Lola Flemming. You are guilty of high treason against our sovereign Lady, Mary of the house of Stuart, first of her name, Empress Regnant of Scotland, England, Wales and Ireland, Queen Consort of France, Duchess of Anjou, Edinburgh and Lorraine. Do you have any last words as you stand before your Empress and your God?"
"I am sorry, Mary, please! Do not do this, please! No!" was screamed. "Protect my son, tell him I love him! Tell him everyday!"
The rise and fall of an axe.
Blood.
Punishment.
Mary awoke with a gasp. Startled, she snapped up, taking in a large, shaky breath as she looked over the darkened bedroom. Mary inhaled sharply, three times. Shakily, she drew in another breath, swallowing thickly, looking all over the room once more. It was dark, no fire lit, no candles burning.
"What is it?" Francis murmured sleepily next to her. "Is it the baby?" he asked, voice gruff and gristly.
"No, no. I'm fine. We're fine." Mary assured, placing a hand on her twenty seven week old bump. Under her hand, she felt a strong kick, relaxing her instantly. "Just a strange dream." Mary finished. He opened his eyes.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, they've been happening. I'm alright." Mary nodded a few times.
Such strange dreams for seven weeks. Tonight, Lola's execution, the Lady she hadn't seen in six weeks, much to her pleasure. Last night, Kenna's birth to her second child. The night before, Greer and James' wedding. The night before that, Francis' death in a forest.
"What was it about?" Francis asked, slowly sitting up, placing a hand on the kicking and turning unborn baby that was housed safely in her womb, as if trying to settle it.
"Leith." Mary lied. Francis frowned. "He and Greer got married, in this Court." Mary lied.
"This one?" Francis frowned. "How bizarre. Leith's never set foot in English Court." he added. Mary didn't want to tell him she lied. Well, it wasn't exactly a lie. She had had that dream, but six days ago. It was a little silly, however. Leith had never stepped foot in English Court, like Francis had said. Only around the country when he was doing business for Mary, desperate to get away from France after Claude's death.
And the fact that Leith and Greer hadn't been together since three weeks before James was born.
Plus, Lady Castleroy was already married, to Lord Castleroy.
"Yes, but Dame Amelia says that odd dreams are common with pregnancy. Don't worry." Mary tried to assure. She didn't want to tell him she'd dreamt Lola's death. And really didn't want to admit that one sick part of her wanted to see it again, to admit that it was somewhat satisfying to watch. Even if it was simply in a dream form.
Plus, he had gotten his second letter from Lola a few days ago, just after they had decamped from Edinburgh to London. She had told him of their son and how well he was doing, how relaxed and not angry he was. How he constantly asked for his father and eagerly awaited his next letter or visit. How he accepted Killian as his step father, but would not let his own father be replaced by him. There was even a small, squiggly drawing resembling a spider at the end, from said child himself.
Neither had talked about it, but knew it effected the King of France more than he'd let on. They both knew that Francis wished to physically see his boy, not just hear from him. But, with Mary's pregnancy progressing quickly and the issue of Catherine de Medici still unresolved, things were simply more important than John at this time. Not that Francis liked it, however.
However, Mary was well aware that now, she and James and the baby came before even France and the troubles with Catherine de Medici. On the days that he was especially sweet, taking them for picnics before it got too cold, strolling around the gardens or spending the day helping James build a small toy for his new brother or sister, Mary drempt of happier things. Their wedding, their happier times in France, the bliss of their wedding tour. But, most noticeably of all, the first time they met. The first time they met as children.
Francois de Valois waited patiently next to his mother and father, the entire court behind them, eagerly awaiting the little Queen of Scots' arrival. She'd been on a boat for many weeks, on a carriage for as many hours, making Francois' eagerness to attain a playmate grow and grow. It just so happened she was to be his wife.
After a few minutes standing in the bright sunlight, Francois finally saw a carriage pull up in the courtyard. He felt a smile pull his lips up, as the footman jumped down from the back and brought the brown leather box, guards on brown stallions in silver and tartan guarding the carriage well, another carriage pulling up behind the first, Scottish guards on horses leading it and a pure white stallion.
There was an audible intake of breath as the curtain was sweeped into place and the door was unlocked, before opened, and the footman reached inside. Francois beamed as he saw long, pale and thin fingers wrap around the satin glove of the footman. He looked up at the hand as it came outside, covered in a signet ring, jewelled rings on the other fingers, and a bracelet that was made of twisted gold and emeralds. A pale gold satin triangular heel popped out of the carriage, closely followed by a sea of gold satin skirts. He held his breath as slowly, the five year old Queen of Scotland came outside her carriage and stepped out onto French soil for the first time. There was an audible gasp as the little girl came into complete view.
She was very beautiful. The child was tall, adding to the appearance of her age. She had long black curls that trailed down past her corset that shimmered in the sunlight, the lighter black -almost dark golden- sections more noticeably against the darker sections. Her eyes were a beautiful golden that faded into a bright green. She was slim and had snowy, pale skin, high cheekbones and plump lips that stood out with the dark pink rouge the wore on them, eyes accentuated with her long eyelashes painted a dark raven.
Her gown was a beautiful shade of gold satin. A bardot cut exposed her neck, shoulders and chest and gold satin clung to her arms tightly. She wore a tight gold bodice with gold lace on the top hemline, soft embroidery under that, small rubies and emeralds in the intricate embellishments. Her skirt was wide, hiding layers upon layers of underskirts, a long train of gold satin behind her. Vine-like embroidery covered the section of her skirt over her legs, two inches above the bottom hemline having matching embroidery and small jewels, going all across the front of the skirt and over the train in a long inch and a half tall rectangle. On the crooks of her elbows and across her back was a shawl of gold velvet, on top of it was a matching long cape of velvet and silk embroidery.
On the Queen's head she wore a tall crown of intricately twisted gold with large pale emeralds along the bottom, around the middle and the top, three larger and the darkest emeralds standing tall on the very top of the crown. She wore long chandelier earrings on each ear, two teal coloured emeralds on the lobe, a bright emerald holding together a large half circle of intricate twisted gold, before a dark emerald shone on the bottom, moving softly with the wind. A matching large necklace was across her chest, her rings matching the gold and emerald colour scheme.
She had a regal posture about her, an aura of royalty and an intimidating ambience around her, Francois could tell, even from being quite a few feet away from her. Her raised chin emitted her courageous and fearless aura.
Francois smiled. He wasn't sure what to expect when he saw the Queen of Scots, but seeing her now, she was perfect.
The young boys' dialogue was obvious in his eyes. And, when the two orbs met for the first time, they both knew exactly what the other was thinking.
And both knew that they would get along just fine.
Francis opened his mouth to reply, but the doors to their chambers opened. Well, one of them did. And a little body came rushing towards them at lightning speed.
"Mama! Papa!" the boy squealed in delight, launching himself on top of the bed, giggling.
"Hello, you." Francis grinned. The boy was adorably mischievous. Nobody could get irritated at his antics. "Did you run from Madame Alante and Dame Rose again?" he asked, referring to the nursemaids they had for him that night.
"Yes." he admitted. "They were sleeping still. Didn't wake them up." he shrugged a shoulder, making himself comfortable on Francis' lap as he turned to his mother, eyes shining bright at the thought of being with them.
"Hi, mama." James reached over to his mothers' growing bump. "Hello brother!" he smiled. Mary's smile was as bright as the not yet risen sun, touching both of her ears practically. The boy was so sweet and caring it brought tears to her eyes, even more so since she was pregnant.
She wiped her eyes, pretending to rub them.
"Are you sleepy, mama?"
"Yes, love."
"Why don't you go back to sleep with us?" Francis asked, enjoying the boys' smile.
"Can I? Can I?" he repeated, starting to jiggle in excitement.
"You can, little one." Francis helped him fall to one side, safely on the bed and pillows. "Just be careful and don't cause trouble."
"Won't, Papa." James promised, his voice little and sweet and diluted with tiredness. Mary felt her own eyelids get heavy with fatigue. She closed them happily, feeling two hands across her body. A large, substantial one wrapped around her own fingers. A tiny, nimble set resting carefully on her stomach.
"The French left you to the wolves. They left you, a queen of three countries, in a convent. No protection. No anything. You were held captive for years by the English, and they allowed it. How can you defend them?" their captor hissed.
"They did indeed to all those things. However, Timothy, the English attack on the convent left all but me dead. They usually wish to take responsibility for their actions, but why would they risk international war, to get something they had wanted for years?
"Not at all," she smirked. He went to punch her, but she casually rolled out of the way. "Is that all you're going to throw at me? If it is, I'm disappointed," she complained slightly, walking almost casually. "Now, down to business," she said casually, snapping her bonds with ease. "You've taken those I care for hostage. I have a problem with that. No matter your motives, these people will go back to where they belong, and you will suffer for this treasonous act."
"You figured out a way to get free." he observed.
"Of course I did. A little trick I learned when the English kidnapped me from a Brecon fortress. Simply burn the ropes and they will fall whenever you please," she smirked. "You left us alone, without binding our feet. It made my job so easy. Child's play, really." she nodded once.
"You really think I wouldn't have a plan for when your facade comes into play?" he grinned, reaching behind him, pulling out the handle of a blade. Mary smirked, reaching behind her own body and onto one of the chairs, bringing up the actual blade. He scowled. She smirked wider, raising her eyebrows in challenge.
"Goodness, is killing you going to take all night?" he asked, irritated.
"More than likely so," she smiled. "Are you busy?" she questioned as they started to circle each other.
"Not at all," he grinned. He walked in circles with the young queen, grabbing an arbalest from underneath a gold and red silk pillow. He went to fire, but nothing happened. Mary chuckled, pulling out three arrows from the arm of an overstuffed chair.
"Impressive for a child, I will admit." he nodded once. "You noticed?" he asked.
"Of course I did. I've had to do a lot of that to keep my head over my reign," Mary narrowed her eyes as he let the gun fall to the floor. She did the same with her arrows, not looking at her fellow captives as she walked slowly over to the man, watching as he stared into her eyes, before reaching into the bowl of apples, pears and strawberries, bringing out a dagger and throwing it. Mary quickly reached into her belt and pulled out her own, throwing it, listening as the silver crashed into each other and fell to the ground with a 'clunk'.
"It's all very good, your way of doing things, I will admit. And this has surprised me, majesty. I didn't realise one would use my own weapons against me. You've even used fire to your advantage," he noticed, looking down at the burned rope on the floor. " But now, it's my turn." he brought a small hand cannon and aimed it at Mary and Francis, whom she was standing near in their circling. Catherine screamed and Timothy yelled in frustration, as Mary mockingly dangled the piece of rope he needed to burn close to her face.
"Nice try," she threw it carelessly behind her and they circles again, this time getting closer and closer.
"It is clear that your problem is with the Scottish Queen! Please, at least let my son go!" Catherine begged. Mary inwardly cursed. The woman was idiotic.
"Calm yourself, all you are is collateral damage, no harm will come to you. Again, you won't risk international war just to irritate me." Mary addressed Catherine and Timothy.
"What do you want with us?" Henry demanded.
"Nothing from you, something from my queen." Henry looked at Catherine. "What? Don't you remember me?"
"What are you talking about?"
"A shame," he pouted. "I remembered you."
"The battle of Oueatreaux, the general of the fifth wave suddenly was captured. Much like me, by the English. This is what they were building. My would-be assassin. This way, he would want to kill me, but the English would face no repercussions as this man is a Scot."
"Very clever." they stopped, face to face, nose almost touching nose. "I'm all yours, sweet girl." He leaned forwards. Mary chuckled and reached into his mouth, pulling out a small and sharp glass vial filled with a bright yellow-orange substance.
"Very clever." Mary mocked, throwing it behind her again. It clinked and rolled on the floor."You know, you have made one very big mistake." Mary whispered, as they were still close.
"And what's that?" he chuckled.
"You let me talk." she said, pulling his own sword from his belt and sheathing it into his chest, right above his heart. He instantly choked and fell to his knees, blood spilling from his mouth, his soul leaving his body before his chest hit the floor. Mary looked down at him coldly, not one emotion in her eyes or on her face.
Slowly, she brought the blade from his chest and brought the blood covered blade from the body, holding it high, before turning and effortlessly snapping the French's bonds.
Kick.
Mary smiled down at her growing bump, encased lightly in a thin gown of cream lace that accentuated her growing figure. Said bump was cradled gently in slightly swollen fingers and hands, popping out more than usual in the soft material. Raven curls fell down her waist as the young, resplendent Empress adored her unborn child. Her left hand cradled the underside of it, the right gently running over the material, enjoying the feeling of her child kicking and squirming in response to it's mothers gentle touch and the end of her soothing melody. She whispered words of love in her mother tongue, comforted by the sensation of her unborn baby moving inside of her.
The Empress had always suited pregnancy. Never putting on noticeable weight, waist and hips plumping for the child, then snapping back when said child was born. Her breasts were bigger, swollen due to imminent milk, but according to Francis, they were -if possible- even more beautiful. Her bump was never overly big, simply a noticeable bulge that couldn't be mistaken for anything other than pregnancy. Her skin glowed, a smile barely ever off her face, her hair was glossier and thicker, the onyx locks longer, as well as her nails. Mary enjoyed every moment of pregnancy, and this was no different.
Mary walked over towards the large window, settling her weight upon it, staring out at the beautiful English countryside. They had retreated from London to Sherborne a few days prior, and the scenery was breathtaking. The ride was long and dreary, but Mary had been getting a little too anxious in the town for her midwives liking, so to the peaceful south they went. Francis had obeyed the midwives even more than he did his own father, even if he was a King himself. It had became apparent since Nostradamus told him of Mary's conception that she and their unborn and born child were the most important things to him -on par with France-, and he couldn't risk them for anything. If Mary was anxious and stressed, then so were James and their unborn baby, and he couldn't allow that. Besides, they still ruled well in the smaller castle and still held court there, it wasn't that different from anything else.
Not as beautiful as her homeland, but beautiful nonetheless, Mary silently admitted, watching the pretty scene in front of her unwind. She watched the trees sway and waltz in a tune all their own, heard the echoing cries of birds and wolves, how the bushes provided a counter beat to the cheering Englishmen in the distance and the serene rustles of growing crops. She could see the faint glows from torches that illuminated small villages in the horizon, she could smell the ash from the fires and the salt of whatever was being roasted for dinner. She could smell the sweet flowers in the courtyard and the confectionery being prepared in the kitchens. She could hear the laughs from her people and allowed the few moments of peace in an otherwise hectic life to wash over her, relieving her of all the stress she faced in the life of an Empress.
She looked beautiful, as Francis repeatedly told her. Wearing a gown of cream lace that left her shoulders exposed, a few inches of lace on either bicep holding it up, her arms bare. Now at almost thirty one weeks pregnant, the crisp English air was a little colder now, so a cape of cream fur hung from her elbows, trailing behind her for a foot and a half. The lace hugged and accentuated her bump, lightly resting upon it, drawing attention to it, as all expectant mothers who were rulers had to do when they grew with child. The lace hung lightly over her legs, a mixture of chiffon and the satin slip she wore underneath providing a somewhat pleasurable sensation around her sometimes stiff legs. Flat satin shoes were hidden underneath her gown, providing her with even more comfort. Mary hated wearing court heels. Although they were pretty, they hurt her feet when she had to stand for hours at a time. Plus, her feet tended to swell in pregnancy, and stern midwives immediately removed all her heels and corsets when they were informed by Nostradamus of the Queen of France's conception.
The pregnant Empress was covered in the jewels that fitted someone of her station. Although politics were slow around the Empire and France at this time of the year -post the height of the harvest when working men and women's bellies were full- there were still a lot of it to get through, seeing as though she had to rule over five countries simultaneously, not just one. A thin bandeau diadem hung from her flowing locks, light enough to be comfortable to wear -and she hated being draped in jewels in pregnancy anyway- but big enough to let everybody know who she was. As usual, chandelier earrings fell from her ears. Mary couldn't get out of that one -Kenna always insisting that she don them even when pregnant, even doing so as a pregnant woman herself- so they settled on a smaller pair of golden sets with small diamonds and a pearl hanging at each end. A dainty chain of gold hung from her neck, a strawberry sized diamond hanging from it -once again, Kenna- and her fingers were adorned in equally as dainty gold and diamond rings. They were slightly swollen and Mary hated to be donned in uncomfortable, heavy jewels when it made life a little harder than need be. Her hair fell in curls, soft ringlets falling down past her hips -longer thanks to the pregnancy- and some sections were lightly braided back from her face, a small pearl adoring each twist.
It was evening now, a sacred few moments before James came for tea and cakes with his father, their usual proper family time before the parents had to go back to ruling again, when Mary simply got to enjoy the time she had with her unborn child. As much as she adored her son and loved her husband and ladies, it was nice to have a few moments of peace and serenity with the little person who depended on her more than an empire did.
As if hearing his or her mothers' thoughts, the child gave a swift kick. Mary smiled down at her bump again, her eyes falling from the beautiful autumnal English countryside down to something equally as beautiful. She cupped her bump again, her fingertips quick enough to feel the indents of a small, growing foot.
I love you, Mary thought, knowing the silent phrase would travel down to her child.
"Mama!" a voice cried with joy. Mary turned from the window to the door, seeing Francis come in with James on his hip, the latter twisting and squirming in joy at seeing her for the first time today.
"My love." Mary smiled to both of them, walking over to Francis. He stopped and allowed James to lean and kiss his mother, before waving to the bump she sported.
"Hello, mama!" he giggled. "Hello, brother!" James smiled wide. Mary's heart melted as a tiny hand found her bump, rubbing it a little. James seemed so excited for his new sibling, a stark contrast to his reaction to his other sibling who lived not four days ride from where they were now.
"Aren't you sweet today," Mary noticed, placing a hand on his hair, stroking back the silky soft strands.
He let out a sound that resembled a giggle. Mary smiled at him, adoring his sweetness and his cuteness.
"Should we eat?" Francis spoke up from enjoying his view of the mother-son interaction.
"Yay! Look!" James pointed to the door that just squeaked open, revealing several servants carrying pots of freshly brewed tea and trays of cakes and biscuits. "Look!" he repeated, his eyes instantly locking onto his favourite cake, a sweet sponge cut in half, held together by a layer of sweet and thick whipped cream and chopped strawberries, the same chopped berries laying inside the sweet substance and laying on top, dusted with powdered sugar.
Mary watched as they lay their treats down, before slowly taking her place at the table. Now, it was her turn to enjoy the interaction between Francis and James, smiling as they laughed with each other, quietly sipping her tea and eating whatever small pastry was on her silver plate. It was satisfying to see them now, seeing now far they'd came from not that long ago. Now, it seemed like James had known his father his entire life, enjoying his company and presence when just a few months ago, he couldn't stand it. Mary adored them both.
A quick knock echoed throughout the room. Mary turned from her smile towards her husband and son and towards the door, watching as Sara poked her head inside the room.
"Imperial Majesty, aunt. Uncle James, Earl of Moray, the Earl of Montin and Baron Sebastian de Portiers request an immediate audience with your Majesties, aunt, uncle." Sara rambled, in a mix of respect and familiarity.
Uh oh. Mary thought. Whenever Bash, Leith and Bash wished to speak with her and Francis without Kenna with them, it was important. Political and important.
"Very well." Mary replied. "Take the Prince, have him put in the nursery with the Baroness de Portiers and Lady Castleroy."
"Very well, aunt. Shall I take them to Princess Odette de Valois, Lady Meredith de Portiers, Lady Rose and Lord George Castleroy, aunt?"
"With their mothers, yes." Mary instructed, swallowing down the sadness she felt when James started refusing his cousin's arms as she picked him up.
"No, no, mama! Papa! No!"
"I'm sorry, my Prince. Mama and I will come and see you later." Francis said as the door opened, taking away James and Sara and bringing in James Stewart, Leith Bayard and Sebastian de Portiers.
"What is it?" Francis asked, standing up. Mary said nothing, just watched their bows as the candlelight glittered along her pretty face, one hand finding it's way to her mouth, a nervous habit from childhood she'd picked up after her fifth month of conception with her second child. News for Catherine de Medici, who had been confirmed to not be in France and confirmed not to be dead, had been scarce, something everybody knew was worse than having a ton of news about her. A silent Catherine was usually more deadly than a present Catherine.
"Francis, our sister Elisabeth, the Queen of Spain has written."
"What does she say?"
"One of the working girls stationed in Spain, Mathilde, told her what we wanted her to know of Catherine. She is repulsed by your mothers' actions, doesn't understand how in Catherine's mind, she's doing the right thing. By you or any of her children. She offers help in resolving these issues, since she'd heard of the trail of outrage this 'woman' has left in her wake in Spain. But her husband-" Bash trialled off.
"Hates me." Mary finished, speaking up after many minutes of silence. "He mistrusts me because I am female, wishes for you to be the main ruler here, not I. He hates a female having power, blood written power." Mary added, glancing at Francis.
"You are right, Majesty." Leith said. Mary gave him a look. "Mary." he amended. Mary smiled a little, nodding for him to go on. "He respects a Catholic holding power, but not a female. Even more so you, since you rule over France with Francis." Mary looked over at Francis, who seemed to be deep in concentration. "He is angered that your Empire rivals his own, mistrusts you since your power and popularity grows every day. Plus, the issues with sir Francis Drake have unsettled him. But, he is known for disliking any female monarch, simply you more than the rest." Leith added.
"And Catherine is there."
"She doesn't say so, but the letter takes time to get here, I have no doubt something had happened after that." Bash tried.
"Well, what do we do about this?"
"We can't really do anything. She's not really a French subject, even though she is the Queen mother. She's Italian, she only answers to the King of Italy. In addition, we can't go barging into Spain, Phillip would use that as grounds for war, he's trying to find an excuse, as you know."
Mary silently nodded.
"We have the Queen of Spain on our side, that much is obvious." James finally talked. "But, she is merely Queen Consort, they have no children yet, she has no real power in Spain. Phillip has all the power, and he is known to be manipulative."
"She's a Valois. She's strong willed." Francis almost snapped. The two had never gotten on, and it hadn't helped by recent events.
"I don't doubt it, but if Queen Elisabeth's on our side, it won't take Phillip long to realise and start to change this. And, if Catherine is there, she will feed him what she knows of both of you, your weaknesses, your countries' weaknesses." James replied.
Mary stood from her chair and took a few steps away from them, back to the window, as if seaking solace from this situation. "So, what do we do? How do we stop this?"
"All we can do is send word to Elisabeth, make sure she has her husband not believe a word Catherine says. Perhaps we can send Sir Drake over to Spanish waters again, with the addition of our French Pirate allies." Mary and Bash gave Francis a look, still more than a tad confused about his odd decision to ally himself and France with the pirate Martine and the man's flock of pirates. "Nab her whilst Phillip is distracted, by perhaps a mock battle, Elisabeth could help with that. Maybe get her over to the safety of France, then to England, where we can ally ourselves with our sister officially." Bash went on. "Since we won't be going to France, or travelling, anytime soon." he glanced down at Mary's growing bump, in which she had placed a protective hand over. She knew Catherine would never hurt her grandchild -she'd proved that with James- but if her words to Phillip -infused by odd anger and jealousy- started a war between them, there was every possibility that James and this child would be one of the main targets.
She gulped, starting to not listen as Francis, James, Leith and Bash plotted about this whole Catherine ordeal.
Nerves burned in her stomach, but it was worse than that.
The woman lay in bed. She couldn't move. Something was wrong. Something was wrong.
Pain...Such incredible pain. A pain like she'd never felt before. It was incomparable to any sickness or injury she'd ever had.
Mary doubled over, a small groan of pain leaving her lips. She felt the urge to vomit the dinner she'd eaten just mere minutes previously. Her breath was nearly lost from the pain.
"Ugh." She breathed, a shuddering breath mixing in with the groan. She scrunched her face in a small grimace, lightly trembling from the pain. Her teeth clenched, and a bead of sweat dripped down her face.
She clutched her stomach, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with her. The pain simultaneously drew her organs together and ripped them apart, coming in waves. Pain, then incomparable pain. Stars could be seen every time she closed her eyes.
"Ugh." She whimpered, feeling her stomach lurch again. Trying to settle the nausea, she breathed in and out in short, sharp breaths.
"Oh my god." she mewed, running a hand through her sweat laden hair. Mary was clueless about what was wrong with her. The only thing she could think of it being close to was the worst menstural cramps she'd ever had in her life. But, that was impossible.
Her stomach lurched violently again and she shot up, the pain doubling. Unable to quiet the cry she let out, she threw back the blankets in a attempt to get up to regurgitate.
That's when she noticed it.
The blood.
"No!" Mary screamed out, unable to not do so. The blood covered the sheets, in a long patch from side to side. More than when Catherine had given birth to Charles when Mary was a child and they'd seen the mess. More than when Sebastian had been stabbed by the English in an attempt to save Scotland from said country. More than any she'd seen before.
"Help me! Please!" She cried out to nobody in particular, but it was worth a shot. She looked in between her legs again and noticed the sickening trail of bright red blood, two inches horizontal, flowing down her legs and inner thighs. Her heart rate and pulse forcing the blood out faster. Another clot of blood pumped out steadily every time her heart beat.
Drawing in a long breath, a high pitched wine of agony leaving her lips as the tears started to flow, more scared than she'd been in her life. Crawling over to the side of the bed, not caring about the dull, intense pain in her knee, as she physically couldn't hurt it any more, she reached for it, holding out a hand for the white vase to throw at the wall, to alert the guards who somehow hadn't heard her, but a intense dropping pain forced a scream from her lips.
It was as if someone had taken a huge rock, jammed it behind her rib cage, and let it drop, falling out of her, breaking everything in it's path. Unable to stop, she placed her head in the small pot near the bed and regurgitated due to the intense pain.
She remembered that pain. That pain had been with her for almost four years. She'd never forgotten that pain.
Her stomach.
Why did her stomach hurt so much?
"Presentando a su Majestad, Catalina de la casa de Medici, Reina Madre de Francia." the herald cried. Confidently, in walked an older woman with copper curls. Her gown was dark green chiffon, the heat of the Spanish autumn impressive and stifling. She wore a crown of gold and emeralds, the tiny figure walking confidently over towards the two golden thrones.
She curtseyed a little, observing the dark haired, dark eyed, olive skinned, King in regal red and gold. His crown was impressive and large, livery collar sparkling in the bright sun peeking through the windows. His chin was high, his posture regal.
She looked over towards his wife and Queen. She smiled brightly at Princess Elisabeth Valois, her eldest legitimate daughter. The Queen Consort of Spain was donned in a white, light gown with blue roses embroidered over it, a silver tiara glistening on her dark hair. Dark green eyes glistened, much like Sebastian's. However, there was love in those eyes, but much more uncertainty and mistrust.
"Queen Catherine, how delightful to officially meet my mother in law for the first time, somebody so legendary." King Phillip said, voice thick with his Spanish accent.
"Thank you, your Majesty. I am honoured to lay eyes on one so powerful in this world." Catherine began, ever the diplomat.
"May I help your Majesty? Or do you wish to see your delightful daughter, my wife and Queen?"
"As wonderful as it is to lay eyes on my child once again, I must admit that it is not. I can help you, highness."
"And how is that?"
"By offering you something you and I both wish for."
"And what is that?"
"The end of the reign of Mary Stuart."