Francis awoke slowly. He let out a moan, his voice grisly due to sleep. The closest arm extended out to the side, trying to find his wife and son as he had done for the past week and a half. But, instead of finding the little, sleeping lump that belonged to his son and the growing figure of his pregnant wife and Empress, his arm found nothing but the bed sheets. His eyebrows furrowed. That was odd. His head rose up a little, blonde curls even more curled and messier than usual. But, his eyes found what his hand did. Nothing. Nothing but little indentations of past figures in his marital bed.
He took comfort in the thrown sheets and bedclothes resting on the hamper at the foot of their bed, the curtains astrew on one side, the small satin tie undone and the physical, sheer curtain thrown back a tad, not falling right. He swallowed thickly, turning to the window. The sun was high up in the sky, the clouds a little larger than the day before. A shiver ran down his spine, so he pulled one of the furs laying across from him closer, protecting himself from the early November chill.
Slowly gathering himself from the bed, he untied and pulled back the other curtain, slowly lolloping over to the small table near another window, rubbing his arms together. Although not as cold as his wife's homeland, English weather in November was quite a bit colder than France. Languidly, he reached towards a small table, filling a goblet with water and taking it like a shot, enjoying the feeling of his throat being soothed by the cool liquid. He rolled his neck, sighing as the bones cracked loudly. He drained two more goblets, before throwing back some liquid on his face, waking himself up.
Wiping his face clean from the cold water, he cleared his throat softly. It had to be nearly midday now, and he usually would have been awake hours before his pregnant wife, but the King had spent the last five days travelling and visiting young John at the comfortably sized Hansbury House in the North-West of Wales. It was the home gifted to the boy by his father-with Mary's permission- after his last birthday, the child not taking to his step fathers' home as much as his father would have liked him to.
John was healthy and far more contented than he was in Scottish -or French, for that matter,- Court. Although still angered by certain subjects, the boy adored his father and was so excited to lay eyes on him when he came to the house four and a half days ago.
"John, darling." Lola had chirped when he arrived, dishevelled in riding clothes and all. "There's a visitor for you."
"Who?" John had wined. "Another boring person wanting me to be a nice boy to the Prince?" he asked, voice quite mispronounced and slurred. "No, I won't do it!"
"Not quite, love." his mother smiled as her fair haired son had came into the room.
John instantly lay eyes on his father. Little footsteps halted and he beamed, big blue eyes wide. "Papa!" he shrieked, running forwards into his fathers' arms.
The child had been happier than the last time Francis lay eyes on him, content in his new residence and happily oblivious to how much the servants disliked his mere existence, as well as his mothers. There were only a few of them to attend to the Dame, Sir and young Baron, after all. Not nearly enough to make a valid difference to John's mentality, and their dislike of his bastardy was disguised as much as possible.
The duo had had a nice three days together, riding in the hills and practising archery in the mornings, walking on the grounds in the evenings and enjoying each others' presence. Although it wasn't the same for Francis, a horridly true thing, he was very aware that he wanted to father this child as much as he was able, preferably without angering his wife or making his other children filled with the same jealousy and resentment that both of his sons had been filled with at one point or another.
He had gotten back the night before, missing the palace's small party by a few hours, coming into his chambers well past midnight to the heartwarming sight of James and Mary curled up together, fast asleep on the bed. They had been on their sides, James' head resting on his mothers' chest, a tiny hand placed securely on her growing stomach. They had been donned in simple whites, both of them attaining an angelic feel -as if they every would have needed it.
Francis dressed himself in a simple outfit of black leather trousers, knee high boots, a white tunic, a gold and silver embellished doublet with a fur coat that left his arms exposed. Running his fingers through his hair, Francis slowly left the chambers, smiling at the sound of childish giggling and squealing.
"Oncle!" two voices shrieked. Chuckling, the King of France knelt to the floor to receive the two little figures barrelling towards him.
"Hello, mes petites princesses." he chuckled, looking over Meredith -who was beaming at him, blue-green eyes brighter by her red, long sleeved gown and crooked necklace- and Odette, who was regaining her balance, copper curls messy and purple dress obstructing her unstable balance quite a bit.
"Oncle." Meredith smiled, giggling at her uncle as he picked them both up with ease, resting one on each of his hips. "Missed you, Oncle." Meredith wrapped her arms around Francis' neck, her half cousin following, repeating the syllables to her own uncle.
"I missed you, too." he chuckled. "Where are your fathers?" he asked the elder of the two when she unwrapped herself from him. Odette did not. He started to walk aimlessly through the palace.
"Papa is with Oncle Leith." Meredith nodded. "They're talking about boring stuff." she complained. "About Grandmere and the wicked King of Spain." she said, repeating the words eight year old Elisabeth had told him when they were children, such a long time ago. "Told us to go run and play, but we weren't to disturb Tante Mary, nor Maman."
"Why not?" Francis asked, turning a corner, getting a horrid feeling in his stomach. Like a cold knot forming, one that hadn't formed since he learned of Mary's brief dalliance with Lord Darnley.
"Tante Mary is very tired and James will not leave her alone. Not for a second. And Maman can't do a lot of things, the baby makes it hard." she revealed. "She's helping Tante Greer as much as she can." Meredith nodded. "But Tante won't let her do anything. And Tante Mary can't do a lot now. She can only lay down, to make sure her and your baby will be okay." she babbled.
"Clever girl." he praised, pressing a kiss to her dark brown curls. She giggled.
"Sweet boy, time to move away now." Greer softly said. James clung to his mothers' body, shaking his head, a small sound escaping his lips.
"Come on, love. Maman is okay." Mary softly said, her voice tired and somewhat weak. At thirty five weeks pregnant, she was feeling all the effects of pregnancy. Swollen feet and legs, tiredness, not being able to do anything, eating constantly, aching bones and joints, including the hard kicks of her unborn baby. Who, although proved him or herself to be strong, the kicks hurt her. And, after seeing her gasp in pain after a particularly hard shot, turned her boy into a doting and protective young thing, more than he was earlier.
"No, mama. No." he shook his head, little fists gripping her red silk and lace gown, shaking his head again.
Mary cooed at his clear distress and ran her -slightly swollen- fingers through his hair, whispering to him in their native tongue, sweet nothings leaving her pouty lips in an attempt to comfort him. He barely remembered what it was like to see Greer grow with child and the things he did were only what they felt comfortable showing him. Greer's pregnancies were quite unlike Mary's, including Kenna's, so the boy was in a frenzy of fear and protectiveness for his beloved mother.
He had spent the last few nights in her bed, driven by his fear for his mother and the lack of his father, thankfully sleeping to deeply to see her reaction to the latest dream she had been having.
"No, no!" she had cried. "You cannot do this to me!"
"I cannot? I cannot?! You're the one who did this! You brought this upon yourself! Your choices brought this upon yourself! You made this bed, now you lay in it!"
"Don't say things like that, please!"
"Why? Why? You want me to get angry at you, didn't you? Get my anger out of the way so you won't be scared that I'll resent you so much that I'll turn into another Catherine, you another Diane! No, the real reason you wish for my anger is so you can feel like the victim!"
"We won't! We won't! I am not Diane, you are not Catherine and Francis is in no way his father! I do not want your husband, Mary. I want your help! If you do this, you cannot loose! I'll marry a noble and move far away, you'll never see the result of what we did, you'll have children of your own with Francis, live happily ever after with him and rule for a long while!"
"Isn't that a nice thought? Kings and Queens do not live happily ever after. You should know that. Look and Henry and Catherine, look at Diane!"
"Diane and Catherine weren't friends how we are! We won't become them, I refuse to! Please, don't let my one night with Francis destroy what we have!"
"One night? Please. Don't lie to me. You get pregnant with Francis' child the morning before I married him. How is that okay?"
"It isn't! I made a mistake! An enormous mistake! One that if I could take back, I would! But, I have no carriage that takes me back in time! I can't change it, what we did, nor the consequences of our decision."
"You made a stupid choice, Lola. A downright, stupid choice. One that is ruining my marriage."
"What? Francis doesn't know."
"I am not talking about that. I am lying to my husband for you. To protect you. Imagine the cracks that my protection for you bring to my marriage! If I can't get pregnant, and soon, we will turn into them!"
"We won't! When, not if, when you get pregnant with Francis' legitimate child, you will be happy. So, so happy. So will the relm and France and Scotland and England as well. You won't turn into Francis' mother, and he not his father. The only one who will be alone in your happiness is me, if I cannot wed before my child is born. But, Mary, do not let that happiness -or the anger you bare me- undermine compassion. For those less fortunate than you. Peasants, royalists. Me."
"Compassion? I have compassion for you, but it is not compassion that rules you as we speak. But desperation. Desperation for a childish fantasy of love in marriage that will never happen because of what you did. Of what I must do for you, to protect you, despite what you did to me."
"I-"
"No. Stop. You getting pregnant has put a time stamp on your marriage. Now, you will not love this man, this is merely a political affair, to protect you from yourself. If you wish to love him, learn to. But it is of no consequence to me if you do or not. It is a cage, Lola. A cage that I and every woman -royal or peasant alike- feel. One you are trapped in now, but it is of your own making, not mine. The bars formed the moment you decided to sleep with Francis knowing my feelings for him and him to me, the lock closed the moment that child was conceived."
"Yes. Yes I know! I know! Get that anger out of your system, so we can move on, together!"
"You do not speak to me as if it is I with the problem. It is you! A literal problem grows inside you!"
"Don't bring my child into this!"
"Aww, do you not like the truth? That all that child that grows within you is, will ever be, is a problem. A political problem, he will be hated by two nations. A personal problem, he is destroying my marriage!"
"I-"
"Stop! The only reason you wish my anger to come out is not to help you, but so you can feel like the victim! But you are not! I am! To a certain extent, that child is! You, who will give it life, have taken it away! You have brought it into a world of hatred and neglect. Don't you realise? You have killed him!"
"You are wrong. I wish your anger to come out not to feel the victim, but to get my friend, my Queen to help me. Like she would. But, I see you now. Who you have became. And I know she will not."
"How dare you impune my character! Oh, Lola, please forgive me for not waving a magic wand and making a perfect nobleman who will wed you, pregnant with a bastard whelp out of thin air! Oh, forgive me for being concerned by the fact that if Henry and Catherine take my head -like the contract they tricked me into signing allows them to do- that my country will fall into their grip and will burn from the inside out! Oh, no, it is all about you and your problems! Always about you and your problems!"
"It was a mistake!"
"A choice! A stupid, foolish choice!"
"If I don't wed, I won't have any choices! Not anymore! You do and you always will, you are a Queen!"
"How perceptive of you! In case it slipped your notice, the life of a Queen is so much harder than that of one that ties my shoes and fastens my corsets! That is all you have been born to do, all you will ever be, and you find a way to mess it up! How stupid are you?!"
"Am I forbidden to bemoan my problems? That because of the child that grows inside of me, I will be ruined forever? Cast aside and left to starve in the streets? Oh, mighty Queen, forgive me! You will hear nothing of minor problems. Problems of village girls and people who have forced themselves onto others. Or of a girl who used to be your friend."
"Oh, no! How will I ever survive? My husbands' whore doesn't want to be my friend anymore! Oh, excuse me whilst I go cry myself to sleep! No, wait a second, I don't think I will. Think about it, you not wanting to be my friend any more is all the power you have. I could take your head for treason! Without me, you are nothing. You cannot wed without my permission and if you anger me, I will refuse any marriage proposals you may miraculously attain and ensure you starve on the streets. Get out! Get out of my life, and go burn without me!"
That wasn't one of her bizarre dreams. Not like the ones where Clarissa was granted her mothers' love, not like the ones where Leith and Greer wed and not like the ones where Kenna gave birth to Henry's child. That was a flashback. A flashback to one of her and Lola's first arguments about John, just before Francis nearly drowned and Henry forced Kenna to wed Sebastian under duress. A flashback that, Mary could readily admit, wasn't as dissatisfying as the others she had. The most noticeable, being Lola's execution. Which, of course, was still on the cards in reality.
"Mother, what do you plot?" Queen Elisabeth of Spain asked, coming into the room where her mother sat writing. She placed herself down on a nearby settee, her skirt rustling as she sat.
"Nothing you need to concern yourself over, dear. You have matters of your won to deal with." Catherine replied, not looking up from her parchment.
"Like what, mother? I am the lone, foreign Queen in a foreign land. Not a friend, not an ounce of power. This is Phillip's country, he does whatever he pleases. I can do nothing about it."
"Oh, not of political matters, darling." Catherine smirked, standing up from her table and chairs and walking over to her eldest daughter, wolfishly smirking at her. "Of a matter a little more personal." she let on, sitting down next to Elisabeth, toying with her dark locks.
"Mother?" Elisabeth frowned, clearly not used to matters so personal and affectionate from her Medici mother. Although she doted on her children when they were young, Catherine had only been touchy feely to Francis, much to the young boys' dismay. Plus, she had always resented her daughters a little more than her sons, loved them a little more. When they were children, Catherine had absolutely despised Mary as she grew for four years, but there had always been a little more resentment to Elisabeth's' end than any of her other daughters. Something that contributed to her being shipped off to Spain when Mary was shipped off to the convent.
"Hush, dear. Let me help you."
"Whatever with?" she frowned.
"How long have you been wed? Years? And not once has your womb swollen with child." Catherine's hand snuck south, touching the lower part of Elisabeth's' bodice. "I wish to help remedy this."
"Mother!" she snapped, snapping up to her feet. "This is not about my womb and the lack of a son for Phillip. This is about my brother." she snapped. Catherine's eyes hardened. "Why do you betray him? Francis is and always was your favourite out of all of us. Your golden child could do no wrong. So, why do you betray him so?"
"That Scottish wife of his, that's why." Catherine hissed.
"Why do you hate Mary so? I adore my sister in law, something Phillip hates more than her herself."
"She has poisoned Francis' mind against me! He listened to me until he started taking his council from her! He listened to reason, claiming his bastard, ruling well, but then he ran off after her after she left him! The girl stole my life! My crown, my position, my country, my son! Now it is time that I take something from her!"
"So you conspire with her enemy? Think of it, mother! She has birthed your grandson, expects another child within the month! Why would you harm something so precious and dear to your golden child? Why, mother? Why?" Elisabeth cried. But Catherine had no response.
"You know I love you, don't you?" his voice was quiet and a little raggedy. Their skin was slick with drying sweat, heartbeats thumping underneath their rib cages. The young, resplendent Scottish Queen and Dauphine of France lay across her King and Prince's chest, hearing the heart that had long since claimed, interlocked and submitted to her own. She drew aimless patterns on his skin, glistening golden due to the heavy candlelight in the room.
"I do." was her quiet response. Guilt and anger twisted in her gut, unrequited resentment burning her insides. How could Lola force her to hide this from her husband? How could she expect that from her? In fact, why was she submitting to Lola's desires in the first place? She was the Queen, not Lola. She could tell him -tell him right now. Then, they'd work through it and be done with it.
But then the reality of that plan sunk in. If she told him, their dynamic would change into something they might not be able to come back from, or adapt to. He would without a doubt claim the unborn baby, dote on Lola and trap her and it in Mary's life for good. The anger and resentment Mary bore would grow and feature and bloom into something cold and hard, resembling the figure of Catherine de Medici. Francis would transform into his father and Lola to Diane. The love Francis bore to Mary would fade in time, and redirect itself into the Flemming woman's direction. Mary would harden into Catherine, her heart becoming blind and deaf, only beating for her country and any children she may finally be granted.
If she didn't portray her pain and guilt, then Mary would forever live in silent pain and torment. It would burn her from the inside out, leaving her a cold, empty shell of the naive and sweet girl she once was. However, if she did, what would happen then? Would Francis help them and marry Lola off? Or would he turn to Lola and be a disgustingly happy family whilst she was cold, barren and alone? Mary didn't know if she had the strength to do that. Would she have no choice? Bound by a marriage that couldn't be taken away, forced to stay in French Court, watch Francis dote on his bastard whilst she remained barren and unloved. If she didn't have a child and Francis did, it was a danger to her. She could loose her head because of this, no matter how badly she wished to give him a child, a son, a family. Instead, she would have to be forced to watch Lola -of all people, her least loyal Lady- give her husband that. Would he make her his mistress in the future? Have more bastard children whilst she waited a decade to have an heir? Or, would he simply kill her and take Lola as his second wife? That had been done before, it was always a possibility of happening again.
That child and Francis' reaction wouldn't only wreak havoc on Mary's personal life, but her professional as well. Francis would be weak and sentimental, lessened on the world's stage, putting France and Scotland in danger and turmoil. And, since he was a man, the world would look to him to rule and not her. It was the curse of being morn a female regnant, her husband ruled his wife and Scotland would be ruled by a foreign Prince and King, not her birth written ruler. They'd be a laughing stock, all because Francis and Lola hadn't thought of the consequences of their actions and were blinded by repulsive lust. Did they not realise the consequences of that night?
Did they just forget that she existed? That she'd inevitably find out and be devastated? Or, was that the plan? To hurt her? Was that possible? Did he stop loving her? Why would Lola hurt her like that? What had she done to deserve that kind of betrayal? Of, was that the plan, again? To hurt her for not saving Collen all those months ago? Even if it wasn't, did they honestly not know that Lola could end up pregnant? That she could be ruined and that child forever slandered?
Obviously, Francis knew the mechanics of conception. She knew there was always the possibility that he had a few bastards out there, he was quite the ladies man before she arrived. And, he had slept with Olivia quite a few times, even when Mary was at the castle. He wasn't naive to that aspect of life, he knew the mechanics of both bodies and had to know the possibility of a third. He couldn't have set out to get Lola pregnant. That was just too unlike him.
But Lola was different. She was obviously too young and naive to be having sex. And, yet, she still was. The foolish harlot. Did she honestly forget the importance of virtue? With Collen, with Francis? The sheer fact she didn't know where to terminate the bastard pregnancy was proof enough, the sheer fact she wasn't a virgin anymore was a fact. She probably didn't know how children were even conceived until she conceived one.
Francis' child. Francis' child at that.
Subconsciously, Mary's fist balled into a tight fist. Her jaw clenched.
Francis's hand wrapped around her own, gently, even if it was a bit slick with sweat and clammy with exertion.
"What is it?" his voice was soothing, the greatest remedy to her horrible thoughts.
"Nothing," she quickly replied, swallowing down the anger and resentment and jealousy and mistrust. "It's nothing." she took in a breath, trying to convince them both that it was to gain oxygen to remedy her exhaustion over their recent activities. "Never mind."
"Are you sure?" Francis asked, taking her fist and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "No more secrets between us, Mary."
"I'm sure," she affirmed. "Everything is perfect, my love."
No more secrets? Wouldn't that be nice?
The pregnant wife turned her head on the pillow, hearing it crinkle and crease under the weight of her head and the thick, long sea of black curls. The satin and lace were warm from her body, chilled by the winter's kiss that lay herself over their land. She brought her blankets and furs over herself a little, feeling the trifecta of kicks that their unborn child has made his or her own. She bit her lip, registering the back and hip pain that had been a near constant since she had hit five months, the nearly inaudible sound echoing in the substantial room. She inhaled deeply, her eyes turning from the large bump underneath the blankets and her skin to something equally as beautiful, the sleeping face of her husband.
How perfectly he had been sculpted, he held an angelic feature about him. Golden curls and bright blue eyes had been the first thing she had noticed about him when they were children, eye big and bright and glistening. His curls had danced to a tune all of their own, but he had grown into an attractive young King over the years.
A strong, chiselled jawline and a straight nose, high cheekbones and those pretty blue eyes that had been so expressive over the years. Stormy dark when he was angry, azure and cloudy when he was sad -she had seen so much of that in the latter section of their time in France- and so bright when he was happy, again, she had seen so much of that in the last few months.
His manly beauty had been a factor in their progression from their past mistakes, at least on her part. Their once undisputed love for each other had been the majority factor, a little being the fact that she wanted James to have a proper family, something neither of them had, a little being that she didn't want to be another Catherine, but the simple fact of him was a little factor in that. How could she deny him, when after all they'd been through, she loved him so?
Mary turned to him, looking deeper into his face. She traced her fingers over his jawline, heard him moan in his deep sleep. He'd definatley worked through most of the walls she'd put up over the last years. And, although he'd been loving and attentive -for the most part, when he wasn't being politically manipulated by his mother- before they knew of the baby, he had acted so different when they found out that she was in fact with child. So attentive and adoring, rushing to attend to her every need, rubbing her sore back and feet at night, bringing her water or extra blankets at the brink of dawn.
Francis had had almost a childish awe to him over her pregnancy. How fascinated he'd been when noticing the changes in her body. It was adorable, although he was quite the stranger to pregnancy. The closest he'd gotten to it -really- was when he was young and his mother was giving birth to his fathers' sons and daughters. And that seemed quite a while ago, looking back.
But these pregnancies were completely different. It was his children growing inside. His children and his heirs. Well, his sons, at least. He'd never known about Lola's pregnancy, only knew of his young bastard when he was being born, seeing him only after he was born, not before. And, of course, he had been in Italy when Mary was pregnant with James. Even that was different. Lola's pregnancy and John's entire life was -as horrid as it was to say- a mistake, a rendezvous gone wrong. Treason and betrayal and pain. But Mary's pregnancies -although the latter was a little different to the former- were the result of their pure love and adoration to each other, although it didn't seem like it at times.
Mary watched his reactions as she gently stroked his skin. How he turned to her as her fingers skated across his face, how he sighed and almost purred as her fingers slid down his throat. His soft moan as her palm danced over his chest, the shiver as the hand slid over his waist. She watched in her own fascination as the goosebumps appeared on his skin was her fingers waltzed down his arms, the shudder of his whole body as their hands slid together.
Her lips parted as she lay the other hand on his chest, listening to his heart. It raced hard, seeming to be reacting to her touch and her physical presence. She had never seen anything like it before, never actually saw the depth of his feelings for her. They had been doubted -even by himself in their early courtship- and pushed aside at times, but she had never actually saw it as she did now. Mary knew for a fact that he hadn't done this with anybody else. Not Natalia, damn sure not Lola, not even Olivia. Only her.
Mary fixed a lock of golden hair, enjoying its softness and beauty. He moaned in his sleep, shifting over to her. Mary smiled softly down at him, bringing their still conjoined hands to her stomach, letting him feel their child's strong kicks and turns and punches.
She leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to Francis' lips. Even in sleep, he responded, lips softening under hers. Or, was he actually sleeping? The thought slipped into her head. But, he was. She always knew.
Whilst most had been forgiven on both ends, Mary knew she never would forget what had happened in their past. She knew, however, that that ember of love had never smouldered, even when she thought he was dead. And, all that anger and pain and resentment hadn't dulled it. Whilst she was well aware that she loved him, more after his latest actions, now was the first time she actually faced the reality of the fact that she loved him, now more than ever. After all this time, that love was still there.
And she doubted it would ever go away.
No, Mary knew it would never go away.