They both fell ill after the incident, and had to spend the still bright summer days inside, in darkened rooms under heavy blankets, fed with bitter herbs and hot soups, but that wasn't the worst part. Neither was it Catherine coming into Mary's chambers on the third day, raging and screaming, wilder than the younger queen had thought she could be. She would dream, years later, of the fire in Catherine's eyes, of the helpless anger and hatred she seemed to radiate to Mary.
The worst part, however, was that Francis didn't seem to recover.
He had woken up when the men had pulled him out of the water, but only briefly, and since then, he had hardly regained consciousness.
The words pierced through the fire of Catherine's anger and dug deep into her protégée's heart. It was her fault, after all, it had been her idea, and only because she wasn't strong enough to endure the heat. The heat! Once again, Mary's eyes filled with tears, as they did often these days. Now she was burning from both outside and inside, and God knew how Francis was feeling.
God, who wasn't answering her prayers. Mary had started in Latin, and then turned to French, because surely God was French in France, and liked the language he had created here… but five days after the pond, Francis was still fevering, and while they got enough water and milk into him to keep him from dying, his mind was still wandering.
And Mary started to recite the old Scottish prayers her nurse and maids were speaking when they thought she wasn't listening.
Bash froze when he heard the strange sounds. The window in Mary's room was open, and though her voice was weak, he understood enough to hear a familiarity to the old language his mother and uncles spoke. Native languages, created and spoken before the influence of Christianity. Pagan words.
And one of them sounded exactly like "death".
"Mary!" As he ran towards her room, horrible images flashed through Bash's mind, each one darker and more incredible than the other.
Blood. Demons. Dark shapes in the water. Francis refusing to wake up. It made no sense.
Bash had never before believed in the gods of his mother, his father had told him that they weren't real, that they were only created to scare the ignorant; but even the bible spoke of demons.
"Mary, stop!"
She hadn't prayed for Francis' death. Bash dismissed the thought the moment he entered the darkened room. Mary's lady in waiting gasped and tried to shove him out but she only stared at him, shaking, with red-rimmed eyes, on her knees, her hands clasped around a rosary.
"What is it?"
The complete lack of courtesy was the last reassurance.
What had he expected? She was a queen, not an evil witch. He had spent the past weeks looking at her and Francis from afar, longing to be with them.
"Sebastian!" She had regained her composure enough to use his full name. "Please, what happened? Francis-" she couldn't say more. Her lips were quivering and as she came closer, Bash saw fever glowing in her eyes.
He swallowed. "I don't know more than you do." The relief was all but gone, as he remembered. Francis. Stuck between life and death, and there was no way for his big brother to help him.
"What were you just saying, M… your grace?" He looked down, only now realizing his mistake.
Mary shook her head unwillingly. "I prayed."
"In… what language, your grace?"
She shrugged, though her discomfort was obvious. "I remember my maids at ho… Scotland saying it. And since God doesn't seem to listen in Latin or French…" she gasped at her own blasphemy but didn't take it back, and Bash wasn't sure if he admired or feared her for it, "I need to… try something different. Like…"
"Do you know the words you were saying? Do you know their exact meaning?" He wasn't sure himself. He only knew some pagan words, and the Scottish accent made much of what Mary had said incomprehensible.
Mary swallowed. "I think it's some kind of blessing. They prayed at my brother's bed when he was sick, every night." Suddenly tears welled in her eyes. "But it didn't work. He d… died anyway." She looked up at Bash, so desperate that he reached out and gently took her hands. "Bash, I killed him! It's all my fault!"
"No, you didn't."
He knew the story, Claude had told him secretly, shivering with horror and pleasure: Marie de Guise had been pregnant again when her husband, the king of Scotland, had left for war for the last time. The child was believed to be another man's until its birth, when two things became clear: first, it was definitely the king's son, and second, he would die very soon. Sickly, weak, small – born to die, Claude had explained lightly, unaware of the fact that Francis had been just the same.
Yet Francis had survived, and had become strong – until…
"I promise I'll protect him", he murmured. "I swear to god and all demons I will protect him."
Mary squeezed his hands, stronger than he had expected she could. "I will, too", she promised, her voice quiet but as intense as her grip was, and so passionate she suddenly seemed a lot older. "I promise I won't let him get hurt anymore." Then the moment was gone, and the queen became a little girl again. "Do you think god will save him now?"
Bash swallowed. He couldn't give an answer to that. Even thinking about Francis lost made him want to cry and run, much less he could talk about it. "I don't know. Anyway… stop praying like that, okay? Something's… wrong, your grace."
"What do you mean, wrong?" Mary frowned. "How can praying ever be wrong?"
"Your gr…"
"And stop calling me your grace, I'm Mary!"
Surprised, Bash looked up and couldn't help but grin at the anger in her face. "Forgive me, Mary. I certainly didn't mean to upset you."
If she heard the mocking tone, she didn't show it. "What do you mean, wrong? Do you understand the words?"
"Not all of them", he admitted, "but I am pretty sure that it's not a blessing at all but…" he halted.
If he admitted his suspicion, Mary would always see him as a freak. How was she supposed to understand the pagan world where gods helped only those who were ready to help themselves (and even then, they proved cruel most of the time)? As Francis and Claude, Mary was raised catholic, brought up in the faith that God was watching over her, that her place in the social hierarchy was His will, granted and safe for life.
Bash had never felt that way.
"Mary!"
Catherine's voice prevented Bash from explaining. She rushed into the room without knocking. "Francis wants to see you. Now."
Mary gasped. "He's alive?" When she started to sob Bash realized he had tears in his eyes, too.
"Alive, awake, and very worried about you, so hurry."
The children ran after her, grinning at each other. When they reached Francis' room, though, Catherine turned on the spot and stepped in Bash's way. "Just Mary."
Mary stared at her. "But… you majesty…" She had noticed that the older boy was rarely around with her and Francis, and that Catherine didn't like him, but now certainly wasn't the time to be mad.
Catherine smiled coldly. "Not my orders, Mary. Francis woke up and wanted to see you. I'm sorry, Bash", of course she wasn't, "but you should go now."
Mary bit her lips. "Please…"
"It's alright." Bash swallowed. He would not give his stepmother the satisfaction to see him cry – it was an old game, and he was done with letting her win. Besides, Francis was awake. Nothing else mattered. "Remember your promise, Mary", he whispered, and for a moment he saw fear glowing in her eyes again, then she nodded and slipped into the prince's chambers.
Francis looked pale and smaller than a week before. Nervously, Mary stood next to the bed, waiting patiently for him to open his eyes. When he did, there was a flicker of panic in them, as if he hadn't really left the water, then his face cleared up with relief.
"Mary! You're alright."
"Of course I am!" She hadn't meant to cry, certainly not, but now the tears were coming again. Angrily, Mary blinked them away. "And I'm sorry, Francis. I'm so, so sorry, really, I…" She sniffed. "I never wanted you to get hurt."
"I know. It was my idea, remember?" Francis swallowed painfully, then managed a smile. "I'm just so happy you're alright. I thought you had drowned down there."
Mary forced herself to smile back. "But I can swim, remember?"
"I do." Satisfied to see her smile, Francis leant back in the cushions. "And one day I'll learn it, too."
"You still… want to learn it?"
"Of course." He reached for her hand, just as Bash had done before. "If you teach me."
Mary pulled her hands away. "That's not funny."
"I know it's not." Francis' glance fell onto his now empty hands. "You don't have to, if you don't want to…"
"Of course I don't want to! You almost died because of me!" Mary cried. "Are you stupid?"
"I hope not", Francis murmured, "I'm gonna be king, I can't afford being stupid." He closed his eyes, looking tired. "Do you really think I'm stupid?"
Feeling close to tears again, Mary shook her head, then, when she realized he couldn't see her, swallowed. "No, you're not."
"Good."
"But I can't go to any kind of water with you, okay? You need to find someone else to teach you. Maybe I can send for some teacher from Scotland, they often teach sons of lords and…"
"Mary!" Francis opened his eyes again, beaming. "Say that again."
Alright, he wasn't stupid, he was crazy. Mary shook her head, unsure what to feel. "There are teachers for swimming, maybe I can…"
"No, not that! Not that…" Francis smiled at her again, but his exhaustion was obvious now. "You just said "Scotland". Not "home" – "Scotland." I'm happy you feel like that. I'm really happy you're here."
Shyly, Mary reached for Francis' hands again and stroked them gently. "I'm happy too, Francis."