AN: Thank you so much for the lovely reviews, everyone! I meant to update sooner, but I got side-tracked and ended up writing a fun (and slightly naughty!) Cathry one-shot to contrast the angst in this one! :) Here it is at last though. I hope it's not too long, but I didn't want to divide it anywhere.

Chapter Five

Her breath came sharp and fast as she walked as briskly as she was able, her heels pounding against the unforgiving stone floor, putting distance between herself and the throne room. How could he?! How dare he?! And the cutting, loveless way that he had spoken to her. He couldn't have known about her dream last night, and how broken it had made her feel, or that she'd remembered the necklace and looked for it this morning – it was just poor timing. Catherine struggled to force down the panic that threatened to completely overwhelm her. Why could she not control herself?! Why could she not face him down like she always had?! It was not like her, and that alone was very unnerving.

She had done the only thing she could do to maintain her dignity in the situation. She had left. Frustration ate away at her. She had had the words ready to return Henry's fire, and had wanted to voice them, but suddenly, terrifyingly, she knew that if she opened her mouth to speak, she would lose her composure. She had paused, mask still in place, fighting for control beneath the surface, desperate to suppress evidence of her husband's effect on her. His words, his actions with her necklace had bruised her battered heart all over again. Why must he continue to do this to her?! Standing before him as he eyed her, expecting her response, her throat had constricted and she waited for the sensation to abate, but it did not. She felt the ache in her throat rise, smarting at the back of her nose and burning behind her eyes. She had turned suddenly, afraid that her eyes had already given her away, and knowing that tears would follow, which she refused to let him see. How humiliated she already felt, and how much worse it would have been had the other occupants of the room noticed her pain.

Clenching her fists as she stormed along, her nails dug into the palms of her hands. Her chambers, her safe space that she longed for at this moment, were too far, past too many enquiring pairs of eyes, and she was out of time. Keeping her head down as she passed the guards at the stone archway, she emerged gratefully into the unoccupied gardens. Striding briskly across the sculpted lawns towards the farthest point, the stone wall that overlooked the sea, she relaxed her hold on her breathing at last, allowing herself the freedom of ragged gasps as she fought to catch her breath, no longer caring that relaxing her hold meant tears that blurred her vision and spilled down her cheeks.

Reaching the wall, she steadied herself, gripping the rough stone as she anchored her gaze on the rippling sea below. The salty breeze from the open water whipped the loose curls that framed her face and neck, and chilled her wet face. For a moment, she stood tall and strong, holding herself in such a way as to encourage the rest of her being to follow suit. But, the effort being too great in her current state, she just gave up. Physically sagging, her chest caved as much as her corset would allow, and her shoulders slumped. She leaned her tired body against the reassuring solid strength of the wall, let her head drop forwards, and wept. Always aware of the possibility that she might be being observed, she kept her hands down by her sides instead of bringing them up to cradle her face, as she'd felt the urge to, not wanting the view of her from behind to give anything away of her emotional state if she could possibly help it.

Fierce choking sobs shook her shoulders and the sharp irregular gasps that accompanied them felt raw in her aching chest. Hot tears ran freely, leaving their saltiness on her lips and dripping from her chin, and she shook her head in angry frustration at her own display of weakness. Having allowed herself to express her pent-up feelings for a few minutes, she began the process of pulling herself together, wiping her face with her hands, and smoothing her skirts. She willed the storm inside her to calm down, purposely taking deeper, steadying breaths, unaware that her son was crossing the lawn to her at that very moment.

Francis had searched the halls surrounding the throne room, and found his mother's chambers unoccupied. He was concerned – it was unlike her to react so, and he wondered why. What had his father done now? He felt unsettled by the way she had looked as she left the throne room, and he wanted to know if there was anything he could do, knowing she had been through a difficult time in recent months. Almost on the verge of giving up, he leaned his forehead against the window overlooking the gardens, and there he saw Catherine, at the wall that looked down over the sea. He hastened through the castle hallways and out into the sunshine, glad to see that nobody else was about. She must have needed some air and stepped outside to take a moment after her strained conversation with the King.

His mother stood very still at the sea wall, and as he approached her, he noticed how tired her posture was and how surprisingly small she seemed, and made a mental note to ask her how she was sleeping. Crossing the lawn behind her, his steps slowed as he saw her suddenly lift her head and straighten, raising her hands to her face and sweeping her palms over her cheeks, as though… as though… surely Catherine de Medici wasn't… crying? He knew his mother was a woman of feeling, despite the rumours, and his father's ridiculous opinion, for he had seen emotion well in her eyes many times. Pride and joy over her children, anger or frustration, urgency over a matter that made her anxious, and even resignation. But he could count on one hand the number of times he had ever seen that emotion spill over, and he couldn't remember ever having seen the Queen break down, not in front of him in any case. He was unsure what he would do or say, now that he had realised her situation. Francis loved his mother, and felt suddenly protective and tender towards her in her vulnerability.

Hearing his footsteps as he moved from the soft lawn to the pathway where she stood, Catherine's shoulders stiffened, but she didn't turn around. Francis stopped beside her, unsure whether to actually look at her or not. He folded his hands and looked out at the sea. After a few moments of silence, she spoke up.

"I'm alright, Francis." Her tone was steady, but he could hear the slight throaty thickness to her voice which told him just how broken she had been in the moments before he arrived. He picked up the hand nearest to him as they stood side-by-side, and turned to face her slightly, looking at his fingers, so much larger than hers now as he held them. How had that happened? He remembered looking at her hands as they held his little ones in comfort, many times. His hands used to fit inside hers, almost. He wished he could provide comfort to his mother now, as she had so many times to him over the years. It made him ache to see her in pain.

"What is it?" His voice was soft and laced with concern, "This…" he gestured awkwardly towards her with his free hand, "…this never happens, Mother."

Catherine looked out to sea with a sad little smile. "It never happens where the eyes of others can see," she corrected. "Even yours." she added, more gently, as she turned to face her son. She lay a reassuring hand on his chest and looked at the pattern on his doublet, admiring the strong, handsome man he was growing into. It warmed her heart that he cared for her, and had come to find her. She hadn't expected him to, but she was comforted that he had. So unlike his father. He would be a true husband to Mary.

Seeing her damp, tear-stained face, and red, swollen eyes, with such sadness in her usually powerful countenance, the Dauphin felt several conflicting emotions at once.

"Mother… I – I don't like to see you hurt. You know my fondness for you."

Catherine gave her son a loving smile, and raised her hand to touch the fair hair that framed his face. "My darling boy. You are such a comfort to me."

"Is it something I can help with? Did Father… I saw how upset you were with him."

"Your loyal heart is all the help I could need at this moment." She patted his cheek affectionately. "I shall be fine, truly. There has been… a lot for me to process lately. Your Father…" she looked down suddenly, focusing on her fingers as she picked lightly at one of her cuticles. "… You know we have our troubles. Nothing more than the usual trials I must endure." She huffed scornfully, and then looked up at her son, giving him a smile that was as bright as she could manage, to ease his discomfort at her situation. "Sometimes when my cup is especially full, just a little extra can cause it to overflow, that's all." She lifted her chin and held herself with dignity once more, filling her lungs with enabling air to add to the appearance of strength, and giving his hands a reassuring squeeze with her own. "All is well, my dear. Now, it must be time for you to return to Mary. I shall go to my chambers to freshen up before the audience is held."

Francis hesitated, observing his mother with a wary eye, unconvinced by her reassuring explanation. "If you ever need a friendly ear…" he offered.

In a voice overflowing with love and affection for her beloved firstborn son, she responded simply, "Thank you."

He bent, and kissed her cheek, and she gave his arm a loving squeeze, before turning and crossing the lawns towards the other archway that would bring her into the castle nearest to her chambers. Francis watched her go, his brow furrowed, unsure of what he should do next.

/-/-/-/-/

Henry shrugged off his leather waistcoat and laid it along with his sword at the foot of his bed. He lay back heavily, stretching his tired muscles. The day had been long, and the sparring practice with Bash had been just what he needed to unwind. He smiled at the thought of his son, so like him in humour and choice of pursuits. They had much in common and enjoyed each other's company.

A knock sounded at the door and, calling for the visitor to enter, the King raised his head from his pillow to look down the room towards the door.

"Francis." He sat up, curious as to the reason that the Dauphin had sought him out this evening. "You've just missed Bash, if that's who you're looking for."

"No, actually I came to talk to you, Father." Francis let his gaze wander around his father's chambers, as it wasn't often that he visited him here.

"Oh?" Henry leaned forward and grasped the heel of his boot, pausing to unbuckle it before pulling it off and reaching to remove the other boot in the same manner. He glanced up at Francis. He seemed fidgety, which gave the King a slight rise of irritation as he waited to hear what his son had to say.

"It's about Mother."

The King gave a short laugh and shook his head slightly, as he resumed his task. "What has she sent you for this time?!"

"She hasn't. She doesn't even know I have come to see you. Father, I – in the throne room this morning…"

Henry stood up impatiently, boots in hand, interrupting his son, "Yes, yes. I know. It really isn't a matter for the two of us to discuss."

"But the way she left… She - Did you – Do you know what the matter was?" began Francis again.

The King sighed, tossing his boots carelessly to the floor at the foot of his bed. "Yes and no, Francis." He sat again, heavily. "She was angry about some trifling detail, and I was the target for her outburst. She may say that I don't understand her, but I can tell you that it runs both ways."

The Dauphin shifted his weight from foot to foot, wondering how to interpret his father's answer to his question, and whether he should wait for more, or press him further. When the King said nothing else, he tried again.

"She seemed upset by whatever the trifling detail was, don't you think?"

"Upset?! Perhaps. I'm not sure that's the word for it though. Your mother's jealousy has always been a difficulty in our marriage, Francis, that's the problem here. Something that she cared nothing for which I gifted to someone else - "

"Kenna – her necklace!" Francis suddenly remembered the pained look on his mother's face as she asked Kenna where she had obtained the necklace she was wearing that morning. He had never seen that piece before, but that could only mean that it was a gift from his father to the Queen many years ago, perhaps even before he was born, when she had told him they were happy and in love. He looked somewhat coldly at his father.

"She was upset because you gave Kenna a necklace that you'd given her, something that meant a lot to her?"

"Something that meant nothing to her, Francis!" Henry's voice warned him not to press the subject further. "Why else would I choose to take it for another?! She had discarded it, and I'll have you know that it meant a lot to me, even if it didn't to her."

"How do you know?!" The Dauphin raised his voice, angered at his father's selfishness and ignorance about his own wife's feelings. "You have just decided that she discarded it! What if it meant enough to her that she kept it sentimentally, never to wear, but to keep as something special?! Did you think about how she might feel about it?!"

Henry stood suddenly, returning his son's anger, shouting bitterly, "Catherine de Medici doesn't FEEL! She is cold-hearted and incapable of love – except for you of course. All her efforts are for her children, for the good of the realm." He gestured widely, sourly, his arm flinging back, fingers spread. Looking back at Francis, he added tiredly, "How would you know, in any case. You know your mother only tells you what she wants you to hear. Whatever will serve her purpose." He swept his arm angrily at the sheathed sword and waistcoat on the end of his bed, and they fell off the edge, the sword clattering heavily to the floor.

"She didn't tell me! She didn't tell me anything. She – I know because… I happened upon her after she left the throne room, and - "

"You happened upon her?" Henry's voice dripped with sarcasm. "You mean you ran after her to see if she needed help finding something to blame me for?!"

"SHE WAS UPSET!"

"So she says!"

"You didn't see her, Father. Mother, she – she is dealing with more than you know. She is doing her best, and I'm sure she would never want you to know – I'm sure she feels you don't care…" Francis gave his father a hard questioning look, and the King scoffed and looked away to the tapestry that graced the wall by his bed.

"What could Catherine possibly have to struggle with? She has been pardoned, she has you back, happily married… Everything else is carrying on as before. You could say she's got her life back!" Henry threw his hands up in perplexed annoyance.

"You're wrong about her, Father. She DOES feel. I'm… I'm concerned about her." Francis laid his hand on the back of a chair, glancing at it as he fingered its smooth texture thoughtfully.

"Because of her outburst today?!" The King rolled his eyes.

"She was crying, Father."

Henry looked up sharply, feeling as though he had been punched in the stomach. The silence was too deep, and he quickly remembered to breathe in order to speak, though it felt like an age before he was able.

"I'm sure she has used a few tears to win over many a man in her time." He protested mildly, in a voice unusually quiet and unconfident for the King of France.

"Father, aren't you listening to me?! She didn't even know I was there! It wasn't a show for my benefit!" He paused, taking a steadying breath, returning his gaze to his hand on the wooden back of the chair. "I've – I've never seen her so upset. It worried me, Father. She assured me everything was alright, of course, once she realised I was there, but…" He looked at his father. "Must you assume the worst of her all the time? Couldn't you entertain the possibility that you might be wrong? That Mother might be hurting? That she might have feelings, many of which you could be responsible for? Perhaps if you could make things a bit easier for her, she would be more able to deal with… the other things."

"What other things?"

Francis sighed, suddenly tired by their conversation, and hoping he wasn't doing the wrong thing by his mother in talking with his father about it. "She told me that she was especially burdened by troubles lately, or she implied it at least. She wouldn't really talk to me about it. Father, you do know that Mother is just terribly private with her feelings, don't you? She would never reveal them, but it doesn't mean they are not there."

Henry looked at the floor, his strength evaporating rapidly.

"Father, I just wanted to bring it to your attention, that's all. I don't know what other things Mother is dealing with, but I am concerned about her. It's not like her, and I – I thought it might be helpful if you knew." Francis straightened and moved towards the door of his father's chambers. "Goodnight, Father."

Henry looked up at his son, blank and tired. "Thank you Francis. Goodnight."

As the door closed, Henry slumped back against the bed. He didn't know what to think. He had not been prepared to hear what Francis had revealed to him. Catherine, crying?!... Catherine, crying?! Without something to gain from it? That never happened. He shook his head disbelievingly. Could he have hurt her that much? A cold feeling of guilt crept into his stomach, and his mind flashed back to various occasions in his memory that he had said or done something hurtful, only to have her react harshly, coldly, or seemingly not at all. Could he have been mistaken? What if Francis was right, and she was in pain, but too damn stubborn to let it show? Something gnawed painfully inside him. It hurt him to think of Catherine hurting. She was… she was too important to him. He dropped his head into his large hand, rubbing at the tension that had gathered in his brow.

Francis was right. It was not like Catherine. This just wouldn't do at all.