Mary exhaled slowly, her grip tightening on the nearby bookcase and vanity. She moaned in pain, her eyes closing and clenching a little, rocking slowly back and forth, a fruitless distraction to the pain and anxiety that coursed through her veins. She moaned again, her head falling backwards, swallowing thickly, grimacing at the feeling of the child within her bearing downwards. She inhaled and exhaled slowly, mouth opening and closing in slow succession. Mary's grip on the oak and the bronze tightened again, before loosening up, her body starting to respond to the lowering amounts of pain, one so familiar and yet so different.
From the back of her mind, Mary could hear the door opening and closing and opening again in quick succession. She heard the 'click' 'clacks 'of midwives shoes on the hard stone floors, the 'pitter' 'patters' of the servant's feet rushing around with cloths and bowls of hot water. Physicians boots 'clomped' on the flooring as the several doctors made their way around the room. Against usual protocol, she had decided to have the best male physicians brought in from all over the island, in addition to the midwives she had ordered. It was quite uncommon, but the Empress' word trumped the old court ladies' huffs.
"It's alright." Kenna was all of a sudden near her, rubbing soothing circles upon her back. The Baroness whispered quiet words of reassurance, remembering the fears of childbirth Mary had confided in her about not that long ago. "Everything's going to be alright." she said again, wrapping an arm to straighten up the Empress, to try and make it easier for her to make it to the bed. But, Mary let out a sharp cry and hunched over suddenly.
"Ah!" she wailed, her knees starting to buckle. Midwives ran towards them and caught the more powerful of the two, who started to moan in pain again. She lifted her skirts, ignoring the rustle of the fabric, coming back with soaked fingertips.
"Your child is coming, Majesty." One of the midwives said. Mary straightened up to look who spoke in the eye. Short, dark blue eyes, olive-ish skin and blue damask. Emanuel Edeline, one of her favourite midwives that had been with her in France.
Mary exhaled through her mouth, trying to calm the anxiety pounding through her. She knew there was nothing really to be scared of. After all, she'd done this before in France with James. But the general risk of childbirth going wrong sent a chill up her spine. She may have done it once, but that was no guarantee she could do it again. But the experience and the lack of surprise at whatever would happen was a cold sort of comfort.
"Majesty, Majesty!" Emanuel said, her voice loud. She looked up and saw familiar blue eyes looking at her. No, staring at her. With the eyes large and resembling more buttons than visual orbs. "Come quick! You must carry the Empress to the bed!" she instructed.
Francis -whom she now realised properly was still in the room and hadn't been thrown out in the bustling madness of midwives, physicians and servants- did as he was told, rushing off towards his wife, hauling her up into his arms. He took her moaning, whimpering form to the bed, gently laying her down.
He stepped back, the midwives starting to fuss over her, removing her dress and leaving her in a shift. Her jewellery was taken out and her hair pushed over her shoulders. She exhaled slowly, moaning in pain as the more more insistent midwives lay her back against the pillows, her eyes slipping closed.
"Yes, rest Imperial Majesty. It could be a while before the child arrives. You must preserve your strength." she instructed.
"What in God's name are you doing here?!" Bash asked, storming into Francis' chambers. From the bed, Lola snapped up. She was fully clothed, a nice thing to notice, and her hair was dishevelled. Eyes half lidded, red and puffy with cheeks to match. Lilac satin and grey chiffon covered her body, pearls adorning her ears and neck.
"Bash," Lola sighed, before double taking around her surroundings. She paled visibly. "What-what are you doing here?" she asked.
"That is what I just asked you." he replied, his voice cold to his one time almost love interest, turned very distant marital relation. "Here," he gestured to the room. "Now. Why?" Bash asked.
"I-I,"
"You were caught trying to marry John off to Mary's enemy. Then, after caught, you were shipped off to the tower to await trial for your even more obvious treason, the second account of it, nonetheless. And now, Mary and James caught you and Francis sleeping in the same bed. Any more excuses?" Bash asked.
"I-I didn't mean to. I swear. Everything I have done over my sons lifetime was to keep him and I safe. I called for Mary in the French plague to keep us safe, I couldn't let us die. And now, everything that happens with John and the Hapsburg girl was to keep his future safe. Anything could happen to Francis, and if it does, John won't be safe. I need a safe haven for him, regardless if it costs me my life. Everything I do is for him."
"And you just happened to crawl into Francis' bed for him?" Bash chuckled, his softness for Lola long since hardened with the years that had passed. His knowledge of the Lady's actions over the last few years and the combined suffering and rage of his wife and of his Queen fuelling the barely controlled rage he expressed.
"No. He is with fever, it's dangerous. Francis was told of this, he went to comfort him, but John was asking for me, as well as his father. Francis let me out of the tower just for that, to comfort my son with his sickness, since we don't know if he'll even survive it." Lola's eyes grew watery. "My son remembers the time when we were in Italy, he pines for it more and more each day. It was such a simpler time. He misses it."
Bash looked over at the boy. Sure enough, John was pale. His cheeks were red and nose even redder. The discomfort on his face was obvious, even in his slumber. The little brow was slick with sweat, golden strands faded to a murky brown. He was in white cotton, it was stuck to his little body, chest heaving up and down.
As if feeling his uncle's eyes on him, John awoke with a start. He inhaled an odd sounding breath, long and quick, his eyes widening considerably. They were a dark blue, almost black, the white a bright red.
"Oncle Bash!" the little boy cried, his voice nasally and congested. He fought off the blankets, scrambling over to Bash. He threw himself into his arms.
Bash stumbled back with the weight of his body thrashing into his.
"It's alright, little Monsieur. It's all going to be okay." he soothed as best he could, remembering that this child was him in so many ways. Punished and innocent. But this boy had to learn that if he wanted to survive, he had to adapt. Adapt with James and his legitimate cousins. Adapt to court life -so long should his father force him to stay there- and adapt to the fact his father would always have to choose James and this baby over him. And if he did not, his fate was even more unclear than the Queen's own.
Mary moaned loudly in pain, taking in deep inhales and exhales. Her hand was tight around Kenna's, reluctantly taking comfort in the imperious teal gaze that was close by. The servants rushed around quickly, cloths and warm water constantly being brought into the room. Bloody ivory cotton was brought out of the room at an alarming speed.
Near her, Francis paced back and forth. One black leather clad arm was wrapped around his middle, the other arms' fingers pressed tightly against his lips. Navy gaze was dark with concern, yet bright with fear as he watched his wife labour.
It was still dark outside. Mary had gone into labour around three hours previously -and the British isles were notorious for long winter nights- and was still going. The room was bright in comparison, torches flaming bright, the fire large and roaring. The room was hot, thankfully so, considering the cold English December weather.
Mary relaxed on the bed, the wave of pain over for now. From experience with James, she knew that she was prone to long and hazardous childbirths. There was no way the baby was coming anytime soon, much to her chagrin. Her eyes closed, enjoying the lack of pain for just a moment.
Adding to his fear for his wife was the fact he had never seen a childbirth before. Having been banned from his mothers' due to his gender and arriving at the cottage too late to observe Lola's. He never knew about James until he was eighteen months old, so this was his first time. And considering -even though they were embroiled in a rough patch and a fight currently- the love he held for his wife, Francis was completely terrified for her safety.
Mary relaxed further into the pillows. Slowly walking towards her, Francis took Kenna's place beside her, helping the former sit down on an overstuffed chair. He threaded their fingers together, enjoying the fact that she didn't deny him when he pulled their conjoined hands to his lips. He pressed a soft, reassuring kiss to them. He hoped he could express all he wanted to say in it, all his apologies and his love, his regrets and his mistakes and his hopes and his dreams for a brighter future for them. And, judging by the way her eyes opened as he did, and locked onto his, Francis almost thought she understood.
Footsteps echoed throughout the damp dungeons. The hallway was lit by only a few dim torches, the smouldering embers barely showing any light. The air was crisp and cold, the small windows frozen with ice. The air was visible in front of the man's face as he walked. A white cloud of air followed him. Breath clouded in front of his nose as he exhaled. His heavy winter boots clanged against the heavy stone of the flooring. A heavy black coat prevented much of one of his home countries colours, blue and black tartan, to be seen.
He nodded to a guard that stood in front of a heavy iron door. The dark haired, amber eyed man returned the sentiment, banging his closed fist against the cold door twice, before allowing it to swing open for the aforementioned Scot to enter the dungeon chambers.
On the makeshift bed knelt Catherine de Medici. She wore a white cotton chemise, copper curls messy and tangled. Her makeup was smeared and unkempt, void of all jewellery and finery the Queen Mother of France was used to. There were dark circles on her under eyes. She was wrapped in an itchy appearing grey fur. Her hands were pressed together, the sides pressed to her nose and forehead.
She appeared to be praying. Her hands held a rosary, her mouth moving silently. She was muttering to herself, he could hear now that he had walked forwards into her cell.
She heard his footsteps and stopped praying, hawk like hazel eyes bright and sharp as she looked him up and down.
"Look who it is." Catherine spat. "I never thought I'd lay eyes on you again." she hissed.
In front of her stood Henri de Anguleme. The illegitimate son of her husband and Janet Fleming. Unlike Sebastian, he was claimed and given lands and titles. Although half French, he was born and raised in Scotland with his mother, step father and half siblings.
Although he was quite respected in the French and British Courts -being a half sibling to the King and Queen- he was quite notorious for his illegitimacy. Although, he wasn't half as notorious as his half sister, Dame Lola Campbell, nae Lady Fleming.
The man was young, younger than Lola by several years. But loyalty to the crown and a rather advantageous match to the daughter of an English Earl brought about by the Empress had softened any hard feeling between the subjects. The man was young, fresh and handsome, newly married and ready to serve and raise.
"And yet, here we are." Henri said. He would always think himself Scottish before French, which was the reason he was here on his blood written Queen's request, rather than his blood written King.
"What do you want? To gloat about my shortcomings? To laugh at my imprisonment? To mock me for all that I am not? Believe me, your mother did that before you were born." she hissed. It was true, Catherine always hated Lady Fleming, the one time mistress of the long dead King Henri. Not just for her illegitimacy in her own right, but for her baring Henry one of his favourite sons, one far stronger than her own until they grew. And, as she always did, she hated her illegitimate step children simply because they were her illegitimate step children. It had always been that way. Sebastian first, Henri second, then if he felt like it, Francis third.
"Not at all." Henri replied calmly. "I am simply here to inform you that my Empress, your daughter in law, is in the throes of childbirth as we speak." he said.
"What? I-"
"It's true. This night, she will give birth to your third grandchild. She and the baby may die. She just thought you should know."
"Ah!" Mary wailed out in pain, her fingers tightening around Francis' palm. He squeezed her hand back, letting her know that he was with her. And that he wasn't going to leave her again. Eight hours had passed since her waters had gone, and still nothing. The contractions had been hard and fast and frequent, but still no baby.
"Can't you do something for her? Anything?! Just look at her!" Francis snapped loudly, his own body tensing at the sight of his wife in great pain.
"I'm sorry, Majesty. There's not enough space for the babe to come out yet. He refuses to drop, sire." Percaville, one of the senior midwives, said to her Emperor, wiping off Mary's blood from her hands, mopping her brow with her forearm.
"You can do nothing? Nothing to speed the process along?" Francis snapped. "Look at her!" he growled, the fierce protectiveness for his wife -that he'd felt even as a young boy- causing venom to drip from his words.
"No, sir. We we can give the Empress only small amounts of food and water. We fear the babe's reaction should any tonics be introduced. Should he come out too quick, your wife could tear and bleed out."
He said nothing, merely looked at his wife, worried and anxious, doublet and waistcoat long since removed, hair messily pushed back. He took a breath of relief as the pain seemed to be lessening a little, her cries starting to quiet, her body loosening its tension.
When she was quiet, sipping on some water Kenna was pouring into her mouth from a goblet, Francis relaxed from his perch on the side of the bed. But his heart still raced as he anxiously prayed for the secure birth of his child and the safety of his wife.
"Tante?" James asked, a small hand reaching out for Greer's hand. The exhausted and grief stricken pregnant Lady in green brushed back his black curls, marvelling in the silky feeling of the ringlets between her fingers.
"Yes, love?" she asked, her voice expressing her own tiredness that was mirrored by the young boy. Hers was brought about by worry for Mary -who insisted she stay in the nursery and take care of her baby and the other children instead of being with her for the birth- and lack of sleep, brought about by her pregnancy and grief of her now buried husband. The small bump -barely even there at a mere six weeks- was well hidden in her gown, even less visible as she sat back down on the Prince's bed. A rare time where he didn't sleep in the royal nursery -where all his cousins slept- he had chosen to spend this night alone. His young shoulders bore the burden of fright for his mothers' life, the only reason he slept here and not the North Wing of the palace was that these bedchambers were a good distance closer to the royal bedchambers than the nurseries.
"Is mama okay?" the crown Prince asked. "Her and Papa were arguing and she was holding me, but then Tante Kenna came in and Oncle Bash took me to you, but mama started yelling differently. She seemed to be in so much pain, Tante. I've never seen her like that before, is she okay?" he asked, his little voice rambling and barely stopping for breath. His beautiful golden eyes that glowed an enchanting golden-green in the candlelight were wide with worry.
"Of course, my love. Your mama is going to be just fine. Your baby brother or sister just decided to come into the world." Greer smiled, but she truly didn't know. Childbirth was a dangerous business, after all. Many women died from it. But, "mama is with the best physicians and midwives in the countries. And your Papa will never let anything happen to her." Greer explained.
James huffed and mumbled something, but she didn't push to know what it was. She knew the effects James suffered from because of his parents' recently rocky marriage and father's mistakes. And she knew how important it was to not patronise or push him to reveal his inner emotions. If he would reveal, it had to be on his own time and terms. Neither he nor his parents reacted well to patronisation, anyway.
"I don't want anything bad to happen. I remember Tante Claude. I remember what happened. I remember what happened to Tante and little Olivier. I don't want it to happen again with mama."
"Nothing will, love." Greet soothed. "Your mother is so strong." she paused. "Do you remember when I was having little Rose and George?" Greer asked. "And when Tante Kenna was having little Meri?" she finished.
"Yes, Tante."
"I got through having them, so did Tante. And so did your mama with you. It hurts, but with the best help, women can get through it. Your mother is strong, my love. Stronger than anybody I've ever known. She will survive. And you'll have a beautiful baby brother or sister to love and play with."
James nodded. But the little boy said "it hurts?" with his eyes wide once again.
"Childbirth and having children is a very beautiful thing, but it is very painful to all women. But there's nothing we can do to change it." Greer brushed a hand through his hair again.
"Mama just has to stop having babies then. It's simple." his response was quick.
"Your mama is an Empress. She must have as many babies as possible to make sure her people are safe." Greer tried her best to explain the prospect of heirs to the near four year old. "And if mama and papa didn't have any more babies, then they wouldn't have your baby brother or sister. And you love the baby that you'll soon meet, don't you?"
"Yes, Tante." James said, rubbing his little eyes, childish tiredness running through his little body, but he still had things to say. "What of mama and papa? They were very unhappy together earlier. I don't want them to be unhappy! I don't want to see mama cry because of papa or that mean boy or his mama ever again!"
"Your parents will make it through this, just as they always have done. They've gone through worse than the little boy and his mother and have came through stronger for it." Greer smiled.
He tried to smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"What is it, love? What saddens you so?" Greer asked, cupping his chin and making him look up at her.
"I don't want anything to happen to mama. I love her so much, Tante. I don't want anything to happen to her because of the baby."
Mary collapsed back against the pillows, a soft whimper-wine leaving her lips as her body fell against the cool satin of the pillows under her. The sun had risen, and still no baby. She had forgotten the amount of hours she had suffered in this bed, they had all merged into one, agonising lump that just grew and grew with every passing minute.
The Empress felt the familiar sensation of Francis kissing her fingers again, but she could feel the tension underneath them. Opening her eyes, the large dark golden orbs met his troubled azure ones. They were stormy, the most mystical light blue with dark swirls within. The inner storm within him could be seen, she noticed, before catching onto the stern lock of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, the tight draw of his brow.
His worry for others -mainly her- presented itself with an almost anger, she observed. But it had almost always been like that. When they were sickened with fever as children -from playing too long on the frozen lake with Elisabeth and Claude and Bash and her ladies. He had healed quicker than her, and had yelled at the physicians to do something to heal his future wife or he'd have them thrown into the dungeons.
She breathed a chuckle at the memory, remembering his little, eight year old face drawn with anger. He usually seemed so gentle and reserved, almost as much as gentle Elisabeth who now safely -well, as much as you could get in French Court- in the aforementioned Court.
She felt a cool touch on her shoulder. Looking over, Kenna held a bronze pitcher and a goblet.
"Here, you must keep drinking." she said, her voice clearly trying to express kindness and motherly gentleness, but even her own worry could not be disguised as much as she wanted. The urgency in her eyes and the paleness in her usually olive coloured, blush rouged cheeks proved it.
To save face, Mary drank from the goblet and emptied it two more times. In pure tiredness -sleep had been a foreign concept in the final few days in her pregnancy, worry for her children and anger at Francis being the cause, never mind the fact the unborn baby kicked relentlessly- she closed her eyes, enjoying the absence of pain, even if it would only last a mere moment.
"Your Grace." Steven says to James, bastard born son to bastard born son. The page and spy bowed to the temporary regent, who had been fretting in his office ever since word of Mary's childbirth had reached him. If he listened closely enough, the echoes of his dearest half sibling could be heard, as she cried out in pain. It was well past noon now, and still, the cries of the newest royal baby hadn't been heard. He had paced Mary's office for hours upon hours, taking over her work after sending heralds and riders all around the Empire to alert the people of their Empress' condition. Word had been sent to Princess Elisabeth and the French regent, but it would be days until they knew, even with their fastest rider mounting the horse.
The Earl of Moray snapped up from his reverie to his illegitimate nephew. He pulled himself up from his chair by the fire, body rushing from behind his black desk, onyx leather and brown fur covering the temporary regent. His brow was drawn in concentration for the younger's words. His face was ashen, his heartbeat -he was sure- could be heard from both of them.
"Yes, what is it?" James' love for his younger half sister evident in his quick words, and also his fear for her. James knew well enough the danger of childbirth. He had heard the horror stories of the crown Prince's birth, never mind the fact that his first wife, young Marjorie, had been killed the same way. Young, so young. The baby, too. The little girl forever gone with her mother.
He blinked out of his reverie again, looking his bastard nephew in the eye. "The babe, has it arrived?"
"Her Imperial Majesty still suffers in the throes of childbirth." Steven paused, his own love and fear evident. "Ever since between the hours of seven last night, and to this moment, the child has not arrived."
"Still? She went into labour last night, it's well into the afternoon." James said, flustered.
"Yes, your grace, uncle. Physicians and midwives say that the Empress suffers from long labours. Hazardous labours." They both paused. "The child shows no interest in showing himself into the world. She is no closer to delivery than before."
"God help us." James muttered, sliding his hands over his face in prayer-like fashion.
"I don't think he can, uncle."
She screamed. She screamed louder than ever. She screamed, and screamed and screamed and screamed. It had gone on for hours upon hours. The sun had risen and set again. And still, nothing.
"Keep going, Majesty!" One of the midwives yelled. Her hand tightened around Francis', the fingers locking into a vise-like grip. His jaw set in discomfort and fear, and didn't speak. She seethed, hissing in inhales and exhales. Her other hand clamped around Kenna's. Her nails dug into her lady's skin. She let out a choked sob, inhaling shakily. Her chest heaved in gasps or son's. She couldn't quite tell.
"I know." Kenna murmured into her hair. "I know, but you have to keep going, Mary." she said.
"I-I can't." Mary proclaimed, her body convulsing in so much pain that it was so hard to even breathe, let alone talk. Her womb contracted, trying to force her child out into the world, but it didn't seem to be enough. "I can't." Mary clarified, mumbling out the words, her eyes closing in pure exhaustion.
"You can, Mary." Francis murmured into her hair. "You did this before, before with James. You can do it again. Mary, please. I know you can do it." he said, his words an odd mix of exhausted and full of anxiety.
"I can't." Mary insisted. "I-I can't." she sniffled, her eyes opening slowly.
"You can." Francis insisted.
Mary wailed once more, the pain returning in full force. She screamed, the pain so familiar and different at the same time. Her hands tightened around those she loved as her body ground down. She could feel the child move inside of her, but it didn't seem enough.
"You're close, your Majesty!" one of the matrons yelled from between her legs. "Your child is close! Just a few pushes more, Majesty!"
Her body sagged in the bed. The white silk shift she wore clung to her, sweat making the fabric stick. Her legs were covered in blood, the bed sheets too. It was all getting too much. Too much pain, too much exhaustion. Not enough air. Not enough time.
"I-I can't do this." the Empress murmured. "I can't."
"Mary, please. You can. I know you can!" Francis begged her, bringing her fingers to his lips in a bruising kiss. She gasped in a trifecta of breaths, the inhales loud.
"Can't." Mary mumbled, her eyes falling closed. Just a few more moments of resting. That's all she wanted. So why was it so hard to open her eyes again?
The darkness was so comforting. So inviting. No more pain or suffering or uncertainty. Just rest.
"Mary? Mary!"
She tried to see him again. She really, really tried.
But the darkness was too strong.
"King Henry! King Henry we must stop!" the young man on horseback cried. Their guide to that year's new years party -held by Mistress de Portiers was a marvellous chance for the French people to see their King and Queen and future King and Queen. Upon the orders of Queen Catherine, the latter's had been safely locked away at Court. The reason being that the young Dauphin had only just gotten over his weakness and friality. And the young future Dauphine had only just arrived from her homeland that spring. And Queen Catherine couldn't bare to think of the duo being hurt outside the castle walls - was not a competent man. He easily lost his way because of the several inches of now covering the French mountains in which they rid upon.
Upon his brown, tall mare, sat astride the King of France. He was bundled into a shapeless clump of brown fur, red velvet and gold embroidery. Henri yelled back at the young man.
"We only have one more day!" he yelled, his voice a mere whisper in comparison to the horrid snowstorm covering them. "I am not stopping!" he yelled once again, turning to squint, trying to find the chateaux that he had gifted his favourite mistress and the mother of his favourite son. But, it was fruitless.
"What about the Queen?!" the guide yelled. He had been trying to get the stubborn king to turn around with their entourage for miles now. But, that was fruitless as well. "She's been astride her horse for hours now! She is exhausted!" he tried. Henry huffed in annoyance, turning around, his love for his wife long since soured into hatred. "Think of your child!" he yelled. That made Henry stop. Whilst he would allow Catherine to suffer, he would not when she grew with his child. And, the Medici Queen was heavily pregnant again, a much desired pregnancy seeing as she had given him two daughters after her favourite child, not two more sons as the king would have liked. And the Consort prayed for another son, not a useless daughter whom she -although fiercely loved- resented simply because of their sex- almost as much as she did her future daughter in law. Whom she simply disliked from the first moment they met over a year and a half ago.
Aforementioned Scottish Queen sat astride her favourite white stallion. A gift from her late father, the blonde haired, blue eyed intelligent and protective horse rode calmly through the snow. Clearly, this weather reminded mistress and horse of their homeland, for this weather was common in Scotland. The duo took to it instantly, but it was hard to enjoy after days of riding, their carriages unable to go up the steep hills. He was heavily covered in blankets and furs, along with the saddle that held the future of France and Scotland.
Mary was donned in a heavy Scarlett chiffon ball gown, the skirt puffy and train long, waist tight and sleeves sheer. On top, her thickest house coat and at least three blankets, before the biggest sleeved cape was placed on her shoulders. It dwarfed the tall child, the black fur cape with thick sleeves keeping her body from the snow and the wind. The hood almost covered her eyes, the sleeves having the ability to run well past her arms, the actual cape able to wrap around her at least twice. It was thick enough to muffle the sound of the howls of the wind and the crunches of the snow.
In front of her sat her pretty Dauphin. Bundled up even thicker than she was, the six year old sat back against his future wife. He held onto the reigns of their horses, gloved hands covered by Mary's own. His usual leather trousers and boots were covered by a black tunic, a high necked red velvet waistcoat and a thick doublet of red and black leather, silver embellishments drowned in the four blankets Catherine had forced upon his little shoulders. A thick cape of red velvet backed with brown fur covered him, the hood up, hiding his long blonde curls and deep blue eyes. He held her close, bringing her forward by his grip on her hands. Although he was in front, Mary was in control.
"Think of the Prince and the Queen!" the man yelled once more. Henry's eyes fell to his son and future daughter in law, huddled together close, both mere lumps that didn't resemble children at all, due to the many layers they wore. "They are your heirs, the future! They are mere children, they won't be able to last in this weather much longer!" he yelled.
Henry seemed to contemplate for a moment.
"Think of the Princesses, Elisabeth and Claude!" he yelled once again. Sitting astride a mediocre sized brown bare sat the young Princesses donned in soft pinks, lilacs and whites. They -too- were mere figure less lumps, wrapped in so many layers of blankets and furs, upon Catherine's insistence, of course.
"Very well." Henry huffed, the last straw in his confusion being the prospect of England, Spain and the alliance Claude was to marry for crumbling, in addition to his future child being harmed. "We shall take refuge in the next house we see." he demanded.
They found a quite sizeable cottage a few hours later. The guards banged their fists against the door, and the woman opened up instantly, once they told her to do so "in the name of the King."
"What is this?" she demanded, or rather squeaked.
"Madam, the royal procession is here. But we cannot travel farther in this storm. We will take refuge here."
"Yes, yes of course." she said, her breath taken from her as she saw the King of France get off his horse and go to a white stallion, plucking two children from it, resting one on each hip. Little hands interlocked on the King's abdomen. Upon a large gust of wind, she saw the little heads. One dark and wavy, the other fair and curled.
Henry payed no mind to the woman who was obviously the Queen, who bumbled off her horse, baby bump big and proud. Nor to his little daughters, who were lifted off their horse and held by two different guards. No, only the two most politically important children, did the King's attention fall to. And it didn't look like this was a regular thing, either. The surprise on the boy's face and the uneasy on the girls' as he plucked them from the stallion -who was placed in the stables with the other horses- and carried them to the door.
"Your Majesty." the woman curtseyed low.
"Don't scrape, madam." he mumbled. "Where can I settle my children?" he asked, clearly thinking more of Mary than Catherine did. But that was not uncommon at all. The child didn't look up at him with wonder like she had done the other time.
"Here, sire." she said, gesturing to a light green tapestry covered bed near the fire in the corner. He lay them both down and servants -who had entered after the Queen and Princesses- started fussing instantly over the future King and Queen, stripping them from their cold, wet clothes and placed all four children -one at a time- in hot baths, laying them down in their thickest night clothes after they were dry.
"You must drink, mon petite reine." one coaxed Mary into drinking from a bowl of steaming broth. She had been holding it to her lips, but Mary refused to drink until Francis had been returned from his bath. Upon a quick glance, the servants had taken over the woman's humble abode, and who also was nowhere to be seen. She saw Henry and Catherine at opposite sides of another room, and Elisabeth and Claude fast asleep on a settee on the other side of that room. Beside her, Francis lay.
Obliging, Mary obediently drank the hot liquid, grateful for the warmth after so many hours of coldness. It was salty, but substantial and a nice change from cold ham and crackers and almost frozen brie. She could taste the remnants of root vegetables and venison in the broth, and the taste pleased her, tasting her past in the vegetables and her future in the fine meat, the combination appetising, left her wanting more when the bowl was empty. She wined in displeasure.
"Wonderful, children." one of the nannies clapped her hands in appeasement. "Now, let's see if you can stomach some with some actual meat in it."
Well, Mary wasn't apposed to that idea.
What she was apposed to was waking up some hours after she fell asleep, coughing and holding her head. She made loud noises of displeasure in the dimly lit house, cringing at the burning in her throat and the flames in her nose. She coughed loudly, but nobody made a sound. Beside her, Francis stirred.
Instantly, she gripped his hand and snuggled in closer, seaking the comfort he always brought her. He nestled into her, wrapping an arm that seemed suspiciously hot around her. Swallowing back a cough, she felt that his own skin was as wet and clammy as hers was. In one part of her mind, she could already hear the devoted Catherine's yells as she found out her son -her favourite child at that- was with fever. She'd no doubt find a way to blame Mary. She usually did. How was it Mary's fault that Francis fell out of a tree when he was racing with Bash about who could climb the highest when Mary sat at the bottom of it, reading a book from her homeland? She never would understand Catherine de Medici.
But the other realised that she and Francis were with fever. That meant it was because of the cold they endured the night before. She somewhat relaxed in that aspect. The last time she had awoken in such pain had been the aftermath of an assassination attempt back home. But this was different. It had to be.
She inhaled deeply, swallowing thickly in an attempt to loosen the pain in her throat, but it came away fruitless. She wined quietly into Francis' neck, as if asking him to make it better. He stirred again, falling back to his back upon the bed, his arm sliding out from it's place upon her, much to the little Queen's displeasure, only opening his eyes in a light hiss as his other arm slung across his eyes. His brow creased in pain.
He mumbled something in French, ever so quietly. Her Dauphin looked down as she started coughing quietly into the pillow, a light hand placed itself upon her back, brow furrowed in a mix of his own pain and hers, the gesture a clear attempt to comfort her. She made a small noise once her coughing had subsided, turning from her stomach to her back, threading his fingers in between hers. They didn't talk. They didn't really have to.
The next time they awoke, it was to the outraged yells of Catherine de Medici.
"You utter fool!" she berated her husband. "Look at your son! Look at him!" the pregnant Queen shrieked. "He is pale and sickened with fever, was it that important to go see your whore?!" Catherine yelled. From the bed -where she had grabbed Henry's chin to stare- the children wined and moaned in pain at the horrid squawk. Their heads ached already, without the yelling to make it worse. "You dragged him into the snow, the cold! He is sickened!" she yelled once more "What if he is lost to me forever? No, no, I cannot bare the thought." she was rambling now, and rushing towards the future King and Queen of France, taking the future King into her arms -much to the future rulers' displeasure, Mary clinging to her Dauphin until Catherine forced her grip on his hand loosen, Francis reached out to her -Mary-, wining in dissatisfaction- shushing him as one shushes a newborn babe.
That day had been horrid. They were still confined to these small lodgings, the snowstorm not letting up. Catherine hadn't left Francis alone for a single second. He had squirmed and wined in pain and displeasure of being separated from Mary, who in response, was pushing away the servants and rolling about the bed, hitting the pillows and panting, her fever not broke, her skin hot to the touch, covered in perspiration, so much so her nightgown stuck to her.
"Will you put the boy down?" Henry hissed in irritation, tiring of that terrible, shrill wine leaving his sons lips. For all his shortcomings, even he was worried of his child's well being. Even if he tried to convince himself that it was because Francis was his heir and not just his son.
"No!" Catherine snapped, rocking him from side to side. "He is my son, he is sickened! He needs me!" she said, despite her sons' attempts to get away from her too tight embrace.
"What the boy needs," Henry mocked, his voice a hiss again."is that girl over there!" he pointed to the now stilled Queen of Scotland, who watched their conversation with rapt attention. S~he let out soft whimpers and wines, but wasn't squirming anymore. Henry came close and took Francis into his arms, cradling him how one does a newborn babe. Catherine tried to cling to him, but Henry took Francis from his mother and to his future wife, laying him down against the bed.
Instantly, the two silenced. Their eyes shut, bodies curving into each others'. Francis extended out an arm, and Mary cuddled into him, her head resting on his chest -right above his heart- and one hand fisting his nightshirt. The other hand wrapped itself around Francis', his own arm wrapping around her. They settled instantly. Sleep was easy to find when they had each other.
"Well, would you look at that?" Henry chuckled. Catherine fumed from behind them.
Mary moaned softly. She panted for air, her eyes still closed. Two hands were wrapped around her own. They tightened suddenly. All she could hear was her heartbeat, but it sounded as though it was under water, slowed down considerably, at that. But then, voices swam through. Voices that got clearer and clearer.
"Push, Majesty!" a third shrieked. Not having the strength to jump at the harshness of the voice that opposed the other two that were so soft. "Push!" she yelled.
Mary's eyes opened slowly. She took in air.
"That's it, Mary!" Francis' voice was in her ear, his other hand assisting her in sitting up. "I've got you. I'm here and I'm not leaving. I'm not going anywhere." he said into her ear.
Mary looked down, saw the sweat soaked and blood stained shift, the bulging bump upon her abdomen. Instincts ran through her. Her body bared down and she pushed hard, a shriek leaving her lips.
"That's it, Majesty! I can see the head! Again, again!" the midwife yelled.
Mary panted for air, her hands tightening around Francis' and Kenna's.
She pushed down hard, a wail leaving her lips.
"Yes, that's it! The head is just starting to come out! Ladies, prepare the water and the cotton!" she yelled.
Mary threw back her sweat slicked hair in an effort to clear her thoughts. All she had to know was that she had to push, and push hard. And push now.
"Yes, Majesty! Push!"
Despite the pain, Mary screamed and pushed again. Over and over and over and over. She screamed and cried and cursed, her cheeks wet with tears and sweat.
"Almost, Majesty! Just one more!" the midwives yelled, the bustling midwifes and physicians and servants never louder. "One more and it will be over!"
"That's it, Mary. I'm here, I'm here and I'm never leaving again. Just one more, bring our child into the world." Francis murmured into her hair. "You can do it."
Taking in one more gulp of air, Mary clenched her teeth, clamping down on Francis and Kenna's hands one more time, pushing as hard as she physically could. Another scream left her lips.
And then, it was over.
The babe having left her, Mary collapsed lifelessly onto the bed, gulping down air and closing her eyes in pure exhaustion. She sniffled, looking down the length of her body to see the physicians and midwives fretting over a small bundle.
And then, it cried.
Mary laughed aloud, different types of tears cascading down her cheeks. Her husband came close and leaned down. Francis cupped her cheeks, leaning closer, placing delicate kisses on her lips, their previous argument -at least for now- forgotten. Kenna stepped away to give them a moment, and herself to compose herself.
"Oh, Mary. You did it!" he smiled, pulling back. Mary choked on her own laughter, staring deep into his eyes as she had done so many times before. Francis fixed her wet hair and pressed another kiss to her lips, before pulling back and straightening up, his hands sliding from her face to her hand again.
"Imperial Majesties." one of the midwives said. Francis and Mary looked up to see her -old and greying blonde haired, hazel eyed, exhausted and covered in a white chemise and a blue pinafore- holding their baby.
"What is it?" Francis asked. Mary stared, open mouthed, at the little screaming bundle that looked so small in her arms.
"My Emperor, a son." she smiled, coming closer to him and extending the bundle to him. He choked a tear filled smile, letting go of his wife and stepping in close to receive his newborn son. He sniffled in delight, tears sliding down his face as he stared down at his newborn son, who made small kittenish noises in his arms.
"Je'taime, mon petite prince." Francis murmured, kissing his cleaned up head, his little tendrils of hair soft against his fathers' lips. "I'm your father. And I've waited so very long to meet you. And I love you more than I can say."
Francis smiled down at his boy, before looking up to see his beautiful wife, looking exhausted but delighted, staring at them both. He smiled back, coming close to lay his son into the arms of his mother.
"Hello there, my love," Mary whispered, instantly enchanted by this little being. To her amazement, the baby seemed to respond to his mothers' voice, settling instantly.
The midwives and physicians quickly coaxed the afterbirth from Mary's insides, cleaning her up to the best of their abilities, before checking on the bleeding and making sure that it wasn't too much for their liking. Once satisfied, they and the servants bowed out with Kenna, off to rest and spread the news to the Empire and France. And representatives from the church -whom Mary only now noticed were there- left with them, until it was just Mary and Francis together.
"What should we name him?" The Empress whispered, having bathed and eaten and now rested inside a clean bed. The sun was just coming up, giving the room a beautiful glow. The baby now rested in his mothers' arms, suckling greedily from her freed and bare breast.
"I had a name in mind." Francis revealed, completely full of adrenaline from the birth. He couldn't stop smiling at this little being who would surely be the thing to complete his family and strengthen them like never before. And at his wife, who had never looked more beautiful, holding their newborn son in her arms, a sight he had never seen before, but he was sure he would see again with more and more children.
They seemed too have a wordless agreement between the them. Not to mention their previous argument. At least not now. Both were sure that it would be resolved, but not now. There would be time for that later. They would only get to experience this moment with their newborn once.
"Really? What is it?" she asked, looking up from her baby to her husband once again. He lay on his side next to them, half on the pillows, watching their every move with rapt attention.
There, they had heard the cheers of the palace's residents when they heard of the successful birth, and of a son, no less. She could practically hear the countries breathe a sigh of relief, knowing they had a second Prince and heir, and that the Empress had survived childbirth with little issue. There, they enjoyed their time as a little family, patiently waiting for young James to awake and come and meet his brother and unify their family once and for all.
"Lucien." he revealed. Mary started to smile. "Prince Lucien Robert Francois Valois-Anguleme-Stuart, of France, England, Wales, Ireland and Scotland." he completed. Mary smiled. That had a ring to it. It sounded perfect. It went nicely with James' full name. Prince James Henry Philippe Valois-Anguleme-Stuart of France, England, Wales, Ireland and Scotland.
"I like it." she nodded, looking down at her baby once again. "Don't you, my little Prince?"
Lucien made a noise, almost agreeing.
Mary giggled, looking up at Francis again.
"Lucien." she said. "What does it mean?"
"It means light."