"Would you like me to sing you another song, my love?" Mary whispered into the wall she had her back to and had been singing to for the past few hours. Her voice had been choked with tears, but even in this state of illness and unease, Francis had been gallant enough to not point it out. They were in different rooms, now. Mary was hidden away by a thickened wall, in a small closet conjoined to the royal bedchambers. Her husband, King and Emperor sat behind the other side of the same wall, sickened and dying.
"I-" he began, after long moments of silence, each one slowly tearing at Mary's heart. It had been days now, almost a week, since he had became stricken with plague. It was more or less past now. Court was slowly emerging from her bedchambers to wearily explore the awakening hallways, a horrid silence like a plague of it's own around the royal court of France. "I need to ask you something."
Mary's lower lip trembled and she nodded, trailing her fingertips down the wall where she she sat with her side propped up against, swearing she could feel the heat from his own body through the three and a half feet thick walls. She sniffled, wiping her cheeks as her head lay upon the wall, begging him to allow her to hear his voice once more.
"W-was I a good husband?" he seemed so unsure and afraid at that point. Mary's heart broke even more and she placed a hand upon her growing bump where his unborn children grew inside her womb. The two babies who will probably never know their father, just like she never knew her own.
His voice broke her revere.
"Everything I did to you, all the bad things. Am I a good husband? Or was," he breathed. Mary sniffled.
"A good husband?" she repeated, not knowing why he was so unsure about it. Sure, the first few years were tumultuous, but he had proved his worth tenfold ever since their second son and child's birth. She loved him. She loved him so much. And she was going to loose him. "My darling, you were the best husband I could have ever asked for." Mary promised him, leaning her head upon the cold wall. "I love you so much, I always will. You made me so happy, you gave me the best years of my life. You gave me our children and I will be forever grateful." she sniffled. "Don't leave me."
She heard his thick swallow and her heart ached more. They didn't have much time left. "I-I wish-"
"Please," she begged. "You must save your strength."
"No, Mary. We don't have much time left," she felt the warmth move, and felt her hand raise to follow it. "I don't want anything to be left unspoken between us." she shook her head, choking on yet another cry.
"I can't do this without you," she prophesied. "I can't rule without you, I can't raise the children without you. I can't live without you. Please, don't-"
This time, it was he who interrupted her.
"Yes, you can." he insisted. "You are so strong, Mary. So strong." he breathed. "You did it once before, now do it again."
"It wasn't real that time," she moaned. "You were in Italy, alive and breathing. But now you won't be." she sniffled, despising to acknowledge his mortality.
"I won't be in the land of the living, but I'll always be with you." he promised. Mary gulped. "In our empire, our children." he took a shuddering breath, seeming to be in tears as well. "I'll always be with you." he promised.
Mary could hear the heave in his breath and her heart ached to hear it. "I love you." she whispered.
"I love you, too."
Mary looked up as the door opened and there stood Baron Sebastian de Portiers, depressed by grief yet standing through strength. He silently held out his hand to her.
"You have to go now." Francis breathed, seeming to have heard the door open and his half brother appear. "For the babies."
"I don't want to leave you." Mary begged from the floor.
"You have to." he insisted. "For the babies, you have to go into confinement, you have to protect them. Do it for me." he made her promise.
"I will," she sniffled. "I will." she promised.
"I love you, Mary." he whispered into the heated wind.
"I love you, too." she swore.
But the tears grew heavier as Francis de Valois, King Regnant of France, Emperor Consort of the United Kingdom of Great Britain grew steady and quiet. And spoke to her no more.
"Mary," Francis breathed, reaching out a hand to her small figure. She seemed so small right now. Her hair was undone and dishevelled, her skin was paler than ever before. A white cotton nightgown hung upon her frame, but it seemed too big. And she seemed too small. A sheen of sweat clung to her skin and she slowly looked up, tears sliding down her cheeks, dying upon her lips.
Why did she look so sad?
"What is it?" Francis begged, coming in closer. "Tell me, please." he implored, reaching out a hand to grasp hers. She pulled the little palm and long fingers away from him, as if his touch burned her.
"You abandoned me." she hissed, the sadness in her eyes turning into anger. Her words dripped with the most acidic venom, melting his skin and blood and bone away with the simple trifecta of words. His lips parted and he tried to grasp as his wife's hand, but she refused him once more. "You chose her over me." she cried out. "And you left me, alone. In the most dangerous situation of our lives, and you disappeared and left me alone." she whispered, the anger melting away, giving way to the deep sadness she felt in her heart.
His own heart ached, and he said nothing.
Mary's hands slowly travelled down from her lips to down below her stomach, stopping in the middle of her thighs. They came back bloody and his lips parted in reaponse as the crimson bloom grew and grew and grew until her body fell upon the bed limply and she reached out to him.
He tried to move, to hold her, to comfort her, to tell her everything would be alright, but his body seemed to be frozen in place.
"Help me." she pleaded.
Helplessly, he could only stand there and watch her suffer. Watch her wither and cry out upon the bed as ladies and physicians gathered around her. The echo of the melody of the dying clanged into his mind as he watched his wife suffer, the power he held from his title admitting to nought as he watched, almost like a ghost, for nobody acknowledged him. Not even her.
One by one, the physicians and the ladies funnelled out until they were left alone. She was in the bed. He stood where he did.
She hissed at him, one more time.
"I hate you. I hate you Francis Valois. And I love you with all of my heart. You killed my baby."
Francis' eyes snapped open wide. He drew in a deep breath, snapping up inside the bed. A dozen people he loved were in his bedchambers. He felt new, invigorated, healthy, as he was tackled by his mother and smothered in her kisses as those who kept their distance breathed and laughed in relief and happiness that the King would live to fight another day.
When Catherine let her eldest son go, he looked over her shoulder and saw the love of his live standing close, one hand upon her bump where their children grew, the other on her chest. She smiled at him, tears sliding over her cheeks. He managed a cheeky grin at her, enjoying to see her so relieved.
"Francis," she whispered. "Oh, my God."
"Mary." he breathed as she came over and took his hand.
"You're alive." she breathed, smiling so wide it nearly hurt, but she didn't care and neither did he. "You came back to me."
"Now that's a sight I'll never tire of." King Francis of France smiled, coming into his bedchambers where his Queen lay. Looking up from writing in her journal, the Queen of France smiled at her golden haired husband as he came closer to her.
Shamelessly, Queen Mary Stuart lay in the bed, clothed only by a skirt of scarlet tulle covered in gold letting, lace, embroideries and rubies. She'd been bare to her husband what felt like millions of times, and the time for embarrassment was over several years ago. Hell, on their wedding tour, the Prince at the time had convinced her to walk around their chambers topless for his own manly enjoyment. However, as much as he enjoyed seeing his wife's bare flesh, there was a more practical reason for her state of undress.
Latched onto both breasts were their newest additions to their growing family. The Princes, Edward Alexander Charles and Henry Richard Louis of Valois-Anguleme-Stuart contently sucked upon their mothers' breast, one arm wrapped around them to keep them secure, the other newly wrapped around their fathers as he touched their backs, always eager for physical contact between himself and all of his children.
"I'll never tire of baring your children." Mary smiled up at him as he sat down near the three of them. "I just need a little time to rest before we can start trying again." she confirmed his silent question of if they would have another child. The birth had been the worst and most bloody of the lot, and they had been warned of keeping conception out of the question until the Queen was fully healed from her ordeal that damn near killed her.
Besides, Francis was eager for a few more daughters to have him wrapped around their fingers, and a few more sons to protect them.
The King lay down near them, enjoying the sight before him for several minutes, before his wife spoke again, breaking the comfortable silence.
"You know what I just realised," she said, looking down at him.
"What?" he asked, running his hand from one babe to the next, before settling on her stomach for quick intervals, still as fresh and undisturbed and imperfection-less as the first time he saw it just before their wedding day.
"England." was all she said. Francis looked up at her curiously.
"If you're going to tell me you've only just realised you rule upon the land, we've got a little bit of trouble upon our hands, don't you think, darling?" he joked. Mary smiled at him, cupping his cheek.
"Not that I rule over the land," she smiled. "But that you haven't been coronated." she said. Francis' brow rose. It was true. He had been granted the consort crown of Scotland just after Lucien's birth, the Irish just before Anne's, yet England was still vacant.
"Why do you bring it up?" he asked. "The people know I'm the King, and you are the Queen, it's not necessary, since I'm only the consort."
"It's not right, you should be granted all the pomp and pageantry as you gifted me after we won the war against Phillip." she said.
"If that's what you want, I will be glad to take my place beside you upon the English throne."
So when the time came, the royal family were comfortably stationed upon English soil. The deed was to take place in Westminster Abbey, and almost five hundred people from all around the world were crammed into the seats to witness this new step in the new golden age of the empire, which would soon include France. That's why the King and Queen wore gold, in fact dripped in it, as they wore their white satin ensemble that matched, to show their unity in the off chance that a man, woman or child doubted their solidarity. Just before the doors were to be opened, the Queen of England stole a glance at her King. She held her orb and sceptre, wore her crown and livery collar, and just looked at the handsome man who would rule beside her for the rest of her live. It was a new begging of sort, where they held Catherine de Medici upon their side, and their litter grew and grew and would continue to grow and grow and prosper and spread. A new age of tolerance and acceptance would lead to a new world. A world where Lola wasn't an issue and neither was her son, where their family had married the loves of their lives and had children of their own to care and love together. They would remain united together. For united they were strong. It was anything unlike the first in France, where they were together but alone. It would be different this time.
Because this time, they were going to do it right.