"Mama, what's happening?" Lucien cried as he clung to his mother's frame as they all were boarded up inside the royal chambers. The royal family and those they loved and trusted were boarded up inside the King and Queen's rooms. The torches were alight, the fires burning, herbs on the smoke all around the room that couldn't afford to get sick. "Why are we here? Why is grandmere crying? What's happening, mama?" he sobbed. Mary shushed her child.
"It's all going to be alright," she whispered, rocking him back and forth. Nobody was spread around the room, they were all huddled up inside the large chambers, mainly around the bed. The children were confused and upset, the only person not to be included in the huddle was Catherine de Medici, who cried alone beside one of the windows. She only went to her eldest son's side, to hold him, before going back to the window. She'd been doing so for hours, ever since the threat of plague had been announced the night before at the party, when the Italian Ambassador had fallen ill.
But they had all heard the music, over and over again. Many people were falling ill. And they could do nothing to protect them.
"What's happening, mama?" he whispered into her neck. The royal children, even James, were clinging to their parents even more frequently than usual. Anna and Jean were held in separate rooms, but everybody else was in this room. This hot, sweaty, fear filled room.
"People are getting sick, love." she whispered into his blonde curls. "But we're going to get through this." she said.
Mary only hoped she could keep that promise.
Yawning, the Queen of Scotland pulled her head up from the King's shoulder, slowly observing all around their surroundings. It was dark now, the candles lit and the fire burning. If possible, even quieter than the morning. She could hear the echoes of the infection melody and bit her lip in sympathy for the poor soul who would soon leave this world, before observing the inhabitants in the impressive room.
Bash and Kenna were awake, the former standing by the window where he could observe the grounds and the large lake. The latter sat with Meredith close to her, tending to the other children by brushing her youngest's dark curls back with a gentle caress, the eldest reluctantly fiddling with a rag doll. She noted that the Baron was upset, but like both he, his King and their father, he seemed to inflate with his fear. Eyes red with tears and cheeks dry, but his body bigger as if trying to protect those he loved from infection.
Leith sat upon one of the settees, his fair haired wife's head in his lap as she slept, large bump extending out from underneath the blue lace gown she had been wearing for quite a while. Their litter, both biological and step, sat upon a rug cuddled together with small trinkets upon the salmon blush fabric. They -too- were quiet, but didn't seem to understand what was happening. None of the children really did, but they were still affected by the tension and fear present in the room.
Mary sat fully up, gaining her own husbands' attention. He looked her over quickly, as if checking her body for infection, before turning back to his youngest children who slept in his lap. Prince Francis sucked his thumb as he slept, little Princess Anne muttering in her slumber. They seemed peaceful enough, but Francis' posture was hunched, as if daring anybody to try and take his children from his arms. Mary took his hand, silently assuring him of her own and the unborn children inside of her's health, looking over his side as she noticed arms wounding over his shoulders now she had awoken from her slumber upon the nearest one.
Wearing a regal purple velvet with gold silk lined bell sleeve gown, the Queen of France saw her predecessor and mother in law hold her favourite child close to her. Catherine's arms were wrapped around her favourite child's braud shoulders and she rested her cheek into his other shoulder. She seemed to be pouting as she held King Francis close to her. Mary let go of his hand and he leaned his head onto his mothers', in a silent moment of solidarity and comfort from three generations of the Medici in one.
Not wanting to get up for the substantial weight upon her abdomen, Mary looked over her other side, seeing her own eldest son sitting on the bed with her. A good few feet away and with his back to the wall, but close nonetheless. His knees were pulled to his chest and he looked intently at his signet ring recently gifted to him on his last birthday, now that it could fit and not slide off within several moments.
Her second born son was sleeping upon some light blue satin pillows. Cheeks chubby and perfectly serene, Mary smiled softly at the scene. Again when she saw James holding Lucien's hand as he slept. For a measure of comfort to his little brother just as much as one to himself, no doubt. As much as the Dauphin looked like her, he truly was his fathers' son.
"What are we going to do?" Sebastian broke the silence, silence could even be the operative word, considering the sound of the crackling of the fireplaces and the hooting from owls outside, the soft cries of the dying and the bereft and the gloomy melody of the musicians every time someone was struck with plague. Mary saw her husband look at his brother, and said nothing until he did.
"What can we do, brother?" he questioned quietly, far from the confident boom he had used not that many days ago. "All we can do is wait."
"Come, Francis! Come!" the little Queen of Scotland giggled, serene and content in white and lilac chiffon as it billowed behind her as she drug her pretty little Dauphin with her.
"Where are we going?" he smiled, going willingly as his grip on her thin, long fingers tightened. He provided no resistance to her.
"I've just had the best idea, come!" she smiled, flashing her pretty smile at him as the future King and Queen of France ran through the hallways of King Henry's court.
They ended up in the rose field that had just bloomed for the summer, a much needed relief from the bitter cold both had been subject to not that long ago, when the King wanted to go see his mistress in the Alps in the east and party with her and other nobles dragged through the cold.
The little children ended up playing in the field of crimson, not caring at all when the stems prickled their little fingers and turned them in their own right of crimson. Flower petals were tossed in the air and floated down, gentler than the soft kiss of snow, ending up in their long hair as they laughed in serene joy.
When they had stood from the bed of rose petals they had been making snow angels inside, Prince Francis turned to his lovely, adventurous companion and looked at her. Really, really looked at her, back lit from the slowly setting sun. He had always acknowledged her pretty, but as the eight year old took in the sparkle in her pretty golden eyes, the curl of her hair in the darkest raven colour, the flush in her cheeks and the scarlet rose petals in her hair, he realised how truly beautiful she really was.
And as she took him in in her own right, all golden curls and beautiful blue eyes, the little Queen Mary realised the same.
King Francis awoke slowly, exhaling from his nose, letting his eyes flutter open in the early morning sun. He rolled his neck, hearing the cracks, and sighed in satisfaction, slowly sitting up. The King looked from right to left. Everybody was still sleeping.
"What were you dreaming about?" a voice said.
Startled, he jumped. "Son of a-" he mumbled, swallowing thickly, observing his mother sitting with her legs curled up behind her, eating from a strawberry tart. She seemed as smug, pompous and royal as ever, but the look in her eyes told him that his mother was actually afraid of the plague. Perhaps not loosing her own life to the disease -she had never been afraid to loose her life after his birth-, but for him or one of his own children to loose theirs. "What?" he decided.
"You were talking in your sleep, what were you dreaming about?" she glanced at him, feigning uninterested, but he knew better than her facade. He took her in, still in the gown she had worn ever since the plague had been announced and apart from her copper curls messy and bed woven, she looked the same as the night before.
"My childhood with Mary." he revealed. Catherine nodded. "It was a simpler time."
"Indeed it was," she nodded. "You were so happy with her." she was quiet for several moments, seeming to be deciding what she was going to say. Francis waited patiently for her to speak. "I knew you loved her, even then." she nodded. He took in the swallow in her voice, remembering how she hated the fact he loved a woman -at the time, a girl- more than he loved her. She even hated it now. "Your father even noticed, and we both know how present he was in your lives." she revealed. He nodded slowly, never really knowing how to feel about his father.
"He wasn't the most present parent, but we knew you loved us, even if he didn't." he sat up, untangling himself from little arms and going over to his mother.
She chuckled, making him frown. "What?"
"Nothing," she mumbled, unable to help seeing him in her poisoned hallucinations, unable to remember the things he had said about how much he loved her and the children.
But Francis never knew about that. She thought he was dead with his father at that point. The entire country did.
"Are you feeling alright?" she said, pressing her hands to his face, neck, brow. At that point, the confusion on his pretty, handsome face turned to annoyance.
"Mother," he nearly wined, pulling her away by the wrists. "I feel fine," he insisted. Although the worry was at times irritating, he knew she must have been remembering the time the first plague was in France and his foolish actions that changed the course of their lives.
So did she, he thought, turning to look at Mary's sleeping form, surrounded by all of their children, one hand upon the growing bump she sported, the same bump that housed and grew two more children at least. But she didn't share with him that particular worry.
He'd never forgive himself for running off that day, all those years ago. It changed so much and could have cost Mary, or himself, their lives. Only God knew how they had managed to get past that horrid time brought about by foolishness and sentimentality.
"I'm glad." the Queen Mother breathed, bringing the King's attention back to her. She saw the worry in her son's eyes and tutted, reaching over to cup his cheek. "We're going to make it through this, Francis."
"I hope so, mother."
"Now, why would I want the filth of the blood of the French?" he grinned. "Or that of an Italian whore who is so conceited, so convinced she is royalty just because of her sham of a marriage, that she doesn't realise you are the most superior person in the entirety of the French court? The King believes it, too. So little respect for the little girl who brings the promise of empire. Why would you align yourself with them?" he said, staring into the young queen's eyes.
"The marriage and who I am aligned with was and are out of my control," Mary grit her teeth, still trying to get out of the grasp of her captor. "If it's me you want, if I am so superior, then why bring them?" she asked.
"Collateral damage." he grinned. "It's unlikely they would do anything if their future Queen just disappeared," he clicked his fingers. "due to the treatment that you've received."
"What are you talking about?"
"Her Majesty," the man spat out Catherine's title. "told your beloved betrothed that he was the heir of one of the most powerful countries in the world, whilst you were below him in every way possible. That your country was weak, so weak that she failed to acknowledge you as the heir of the most sought after throne in the world. That you bring the promise of empire. That, unbeknown to her, most likely, that the sham of a marriage that you are forced into, that France will benefit more than Scotland, from your marriage. That they will attain so much more from the auld alliance than Scotland will. That she has brainwashed the country to think that your marriage will be a burden on him and on his country. Why would you align yourself with somebody like that?"
"I'll admit, more often than not, the French King and Queen are disrespectful to me and my country, you are correct in that aspect. And many others. France will benefit far more than Scotland, no matter what they have been told, nor what they believe. However, that does not give you the right to kidnap them and me, just because you don't like the marriage that I have been forced into." Mary grit her teeth.
"End the alliance, benefit Scotland, let France see what they've lost, when you take your rightful place as Queen. And, you'll have your freedom."
"Ridiculous terms." Mary looked into his eyes, she wasn't afraid, she simply couldn't be. "You know fine well that should the support be taken away that the English will attack in full force and spill mine and every Scot's blood. How could I be their queen if I'm dead?"
"Why would I kidnap the French King and French heir and the Italian to hurt them? Why would I spill their blood? Why would I do that, when yours is so much more legitimate, so much more superior?" he roughly grabbed her right wrist and brought a forearm up to his face, trailing his fingers along the veins.
"Stuart and Tudor blood run through these veins. English and Scottish. Irish and Welsh. Powerful blood. Gaelic and Celtic blood. Imperial blood. Far more superior blood than that of the French and the Italian whore, why would it's holder sacrifice the greatest political move she has for those who do not acknowledge your power, simply because of your age and location?"
Mary had no response. He was getting into her head. Eventually, an alliance without France would benefit her country so much more than if they were tied together by marriage or an heir. All they really needed was a little support until the inevitable time where they'd scream for her to be their queen. All she could really do was let out small noises of struggle as she fought to free her arm.
"Such sweet blood." the madman produced a dagger and looked into her eyes as he slowly inserted it into the pale skin. Mary bit her lip, preventing the wail leaving her throat as he slowly moved the dagger down, her blood instantly starting to squirt from her body like a fountain. He'd ripped through something important, Mary was sure. She immediately started to get light headed from the loss of blood.
"No! No! Stop!" she heard Catherine scream.
"Such luscious blood." the madman smirked, covering his hands in the young girls' blood, covering his lips in the crimson substance, before giving a nod to the captors. They threw her to the floor roughly, her head banging on the stone floor. She managed a whimper, barely managing to remember that she needed to stop the blood loss before she died, wrapping it tightly against her waist, before the entire world turned black.
Mary awoke with a start, shooting up in bed. She looked over at Francis, noting he was awake. But something seemed to be wrong.
"Francis." she whispered, reaching over to him. But something told her not to touch him. Something didn't seem right.
"Mary," he whispered, weakly. He was so pale, pale and sweaty. Mary's heart began to race. No. No. "I-I don't feel so well. I think I have a fever."
Mary's eyes widened, her heart started thumping and fear began to overtake her as she saw Francis begin coughing.