A/N: In this fic, Bash is three years older than Francis, as I don't have a historical date for his birth, anyway, and it fit with the plot. Plus, I've always thought Bash was a little older than Francis, from the way they act around each other.
Bash didn't know, for certain, why he had come here, and, more so, why he had done when he knew that no one else was around, as if he needed to sneak in. Perhaps it was simply an old habit, one that he couldn't bring himself to break now that the tables were turned.
Francis had left some time earlier; Bash had watched him do so, presumably to go back to Mary for the night. Lola had left long before that, begging off staying with her son while Francis or the nursemaids were in the room because she needed her rest, though Bash suspected that it was more because she was a bit uncomfortable, standing in the same room as the man who had sired her son and forced her to stay at French Court, where she might have been happier with him elsewhere.
Bash understood that sentiment well enough. He often imagined what his life might have been like, if his mother was merely an unfortunate courtier, like Lola, and had been able to whisk him away to a happier life, one not quite so fraught with jealousy and the heartbreaks of royalty.
He was a little concerned to see that there were no nursemaids with the child, no one watching over him despite the fact that he was the King's only son.
The nursery was dim, the only light coming from the small fire in the hearth, bright enough to keep warm but not to cause an accident, should it get out of hand, that could not be resolved quickly. The windows were shut tightly, the royal family undoubtedly not wanting to make the same mistake that had been made with the twins.
And there, in the middle of the room, lying in an ornate cradle that had been Francis', as a child, but not Bash's, never Bash's, lay the babe that was subject of so much controversy at French Court, these days, wrapped soundly in a warm blue blanket, looking as though he didn't have a care in the world.
Lola's son. Francis' son. Not Mary's son. Never Mary's son.
He didn't understand why Francis was keeping the child, in all honesty. He knew well why his own father had decided to keep him; Diane was his official mistress, and he supposed that, in the beginning, King Henry had liked the idea of a child of his own. Something that was his and could not be taken away from him, any more than his throne could. A child that did not belong to his hated wife, who had yet to bear him a son.
Oh, he knew that his father loved him, while he was still sane even more so than he had ever claimed to love Francis. They had much in common, and Francis was far more like his mother.
But Bash did not delude himself into thinking that, if Francis had been born of Diane, rather than Catherine, rather than the Dauphin, Henry would have loved him any less than he did Bash.
Lola was not Francis' official mistress, and Francis didn't love her in the way Henry had loved Diane. And Bash didn't think his brother was capable of keeping a child just to hurt Mary.
Mary, who would live out the rest of her life, as Catherine had, with the knowledge that she had not been the woman to birth Francis his firstborn. And if it didn't lead to resentment of the child, as Catherine had resented him for so long, even after she gave birth to her own children, then Mary was the strongest woman that Bash had ever met.
He could think of no other reason for Francis to keep this child. Well, perhaps one, but he didn't dare think of that...
The baby's sudden cry snapped him out of these morbid thoughts, and Bash nearly jumped at the sound; swore under his breath. He glanced at the baby, and then at the open door behind him, not entirely sure whether he should run now, before one of the nurses came to care for the child, or should do something to stop the baby's cries.
He imagined there were many sleepless nights for him, as a babe, the bastard of the King, when no one came to help him back into the world of dreams.
Bash's feet moved him forward almost against his will, and he had entered battles with more enthusiasm, until he was standing in front of the crib, staring down at the child who would cause Mary such pain, who would live out a painful existence as the illegitimate son of a King, as Bash had done.
He was not the horrific fiend Catherine had always imagined Bash to be as a babe, refusing, he'd heard, to even come and visit Diane's child until Francis was born. He was not the ugly creature who would make Francis look bad in front of his Court, weak and sentimental for claiming a bastard child.
He was just...a child. A baby, like any other, with a tuft of golden hair that belonged to his father and a cry that must have belonged to Lola, for it was too quiet to be Francis', surely. He was tiny, his pink skin glistening, not a mark on him.
The baby kept screaming, eyes squeezed shut, little fists pumping angrily at the air, and Bash stared down at the little thing, torn.
When he picked the child up, he was not as light as he'd imagined it would be. He'd heard that babies, at this stage, were tiny, fragile things, and, if dropped, could shatter in your arms. And yet, holding this child, it seemed heavy in his arms, and he did not know if this was because Francis had hired the best nursemaids in the country, or because of Bash's own turbulent emotions, as he held the child that would one day be him, would one day stand in Mary's son's shadow, should she ever have a child, as he had Francis.
The moment the baby made contact with his arms, settled into them as if he'd belonged there, he stopped crying, going so silent that Bash glanced down in alarm, wondering if he'd somehow hurt the child. If he was strangling him, with his hold.
The baby had Francis' solemn blue eyes.
Innocent and wide, staring up at Bash as if he held all the answers to the world, and, in that moment, with those eyes staring up at him, Bash could almost believe that he did.
Bash could remember a time when Francis looked upon him with that same expression, and he suddenly found himself swallowing down the lump at the back of his throat and wanting to set the child back down.
His first real memory was of when he was very young, no more than a toddler, and, frankly, he was surprised he'd managed to remember it, after all of these years. His mother always claimed that he couldn't possibly remember such a thing, but he liked to think that it was more than his imagination, and the memory struck him now, as he held Francis' infant child, all too real.
He'd been so worried, because his mama had been worried, even if she refused to tell him why in words that he understood, and then worried because his papa seemed worried, fawning over the woman who wasn't his mama.
Days had passed like that, Bash remembered being told, though, in his memories, they had seemed ageless. Days of worry and not being able to go near the Queen's chambers, because his mama didn't want him to hear the screams...
And then there had been celebrating, joyous celebrating, because a boy had been born to the Queen of France. An heir to the throne. The Crown Prince.
He hadn't really understood these things at the time, why Francis' birthday was so much more widely celebrated than his own would ever be, but he'd been excited. Had wanted, desperately, to run in and see this child who was his new baby brother, even if they didn't share the same mama.
Diane had quickly nixed that idea, telling him that he mustn't go into the nursery where Francis was being kept, that Bash would be placed in a different nursery, now. That she didn't want him having to deal with this.
He hadn't understood her, hadn't understood why she wanted to hide his baby brother from him, and so he'd done something marginally stupid.
He'd gone to Catherine, and asked her if he might be able to see his baby brother.
He hadn't thought it such an unreasonable request, after all; he was a big boy, all of three years old, and why shouldn't he be able to see this brother that everyone was fussing over?
Catherine had not yet left her bed. Bash didn't know much about childbirth of course, at the time, so he didn't quite understand why this was, but the moment he was admitted to see her, propped up against her pillows with her child in her arms, her face had taken on a look of fury, and she had screamed and shouted until her husband's bastard was removed from the room, by none other than Henry himself. Ecstatic over the birth of his first legitimate son, Henry was not about to upset her with the sight of his other son. The one who had caused her such worry and heartache until now as to cause three miscarriages, before finally Francis had been born.
Catherine had never been particularly nice to him, before the birth of her first child, but she had never demanded him thrown from her rooms before, and this only made him all the more curious to see the child she'd had in her arms, the child he hadn't even been able to glimpse.
"I didn't expect to see you here," a voice said behind him, and he tensed instead of jumping, afraid he would drop the baby if he did so.
"Francis," he said, surprise coloring the word, for he'd thought Francis would be back with Mary by now, would be asleep.
He wouldn't have come here if he'd thought otherwise. Somehow, being in the child's presence with Francis, his King, here, made everything all too real.
This child was Francis' bastard son. Just as Bash had been Henry's, and his father had nearly killed him for it, when Bash became more than a passing amusement.
Of course, Henry had been mad at the time, but it had driven home the point to Bash; living as a bastard was far more dangerous than not having a father at all.
Didn't Francis understand that?
All of the sudden, Francis was standing behind him, laying his hand on the baby's forehead and brushing a finger through his little tuft of hair.
The baby giggled at the touch, eyes crinkling around the edges for Francis, where they had been so solemn for Bash, and he let out a tiny coo.
"Are you angry with me, too?" Francis asked then, and Bash blinked, wondering how many people had already given Francis their opinion of his claiming his bastard son today.
"Of course not, Your Majesty."
Francis sighed. "Please stop calling me that while we're alone, Bash. I-" he bit his lower lip, immersed in thought for a moment. "I knew it was the right thing to do, letting him go with Lola. Knew that it would be better for him, better for me, better for Lola and Mary..." he stared down at the babe. "And I remembered that your life wasn't exactly easy, as the King's bastard. But I..." the baby reached out with his tiny hand then, wrapping it around Francis' thumb, and Francis smiled as though the baby had bestowed some great honor upon him.
For a moment, Bash wondered if Francis wanted to hold the child, but was oddly reluctant to give him up.
"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Francis," Bash said, though he didn't mean a word of it.
He wanted to know. Part of him had to know.
"I couldn't just let him go," Francis said in a soft voice, not wanting to wake the baby now that he had finally fallen asleep in Bash's arms once more. "I couldn't give him up."
And Bash wondered, as Francis stared down at his bastard son with such love and happiness in his eyes, whether King Henry had thought the same thing, when he resolved to keep Diane's bastard child, whether that had been the reason, or if he was simply worried that his wife would never bear him a son, and he thought even then to see Bash legitimized as his heir.
And wondered if, deep down, this was the true reason Francis had wanted to keep his child, as well.
Bash blinked at him, not quite certain what Francis wanted to hear. Reassurances? For Bash didn't know if he had any to give. "He might have had a happier life, away from Court. Safer."
Francis shrugged. "He might have done. But I...It was selfish of me, I suppose, to bring him here. You're right about that. But..." and here, he glanced up at Bash with a look that mirrored the one his son had given Bash, mere moments ago, so similar that Bash shuddered at the sight of it. "The moment I allowed myself to hold him in my arms, I knew I wouldn't be able to let him go again. That I didn't want to. He..." He swallowed thickly. "He's my son. And I loved him before I even realized I could."
Bash nodded, glancing down at the child again, this sweet perfect child in his arms.
He had never given much thought to having children. Before, when he was just the King's bastard, he hadn't leaned in that direction, for he had never much thought to marry, and even if an appropriate woman would have him, he hadn't thought he wanted to carry on the shame of bastardy to his son.
When he was betrothed to Mary to save Francis, he hadn't given much thought to that, either, too caught up in falling for Mary and trying not to, to really think about needing heirs for the throne.
Now, with Kenna, the option had never really been discussed. They hadn't been trying for a child, after all, but they certainly hadn't been trying not to have one.
But now, looking down at Francis' son, Bash thought he might like a child.
"I..." Francis cleared his throat then, as if he'd been caught up in some spell, staring down at his son, and was only now pulling out of it. "May I..?" he gestured toward the baby then, and Bash swallowed, feeling foolish.
Of course Francis would want to hold his newborn son. Bash should have offered the moment he stepped into the room.
But he hadn't wanted to.
He held the babe out to Francis, careful not to wake the sleeping boy and unleash havoc from the child's lips like before, and Francis took him, gingerly, the baby's head supported perfectly in the crook of his arm, and Bash could have cursed himself, for not doing the same thing when he held the baby.
Francis' child opened big blue eyes again as he switched holders, glancing around with idle curiosity from Francis to Bash and then back again. And then those bright eyes snapped shut, and he was burrowing against Francis' chest.
Francis smiled slightly, murmuring something comforting into the child's ears, and, within moments, the baby was asleep. It was not long after that Francis followed, sinking down into the nearest rocking chair only moments before his eyes slid shut, as well, and yet his hold on the little child did not loosen with sleep.
Bash moved toward the door, intent on leaving father and son to their rest, when he saw the way Francis shivered, not enough to wake either him or the baby, but still, Bash felt the urge to do something. The windows were shut, of course, and the dying embers in the fire would not provide suitable warmth for the rest of the night.
Bash reached for the blanket which had before been covering Francis' son in his crib on instinct, and draped it over the both of them, kneeling down to do so, smiling a little as Francis shifted, getting comfortable, looking to Bash's eyes much younger, in that moment, than he had in years. He wondered how many times he'd tucked Francis in, when their father was not around to do so or simply did not care to.
Francis' jostling in an attempt to get comfortable woke the baby, but the little boy only looked around, blinking once, seeming entirely undisturbed, before his attention turned to Bash.
Bash started once more, underneath that gaze.
He had finally managed to sneak into Francis' nursery, the one that used to be his but now wasn't anymore, his new one relegated far more close to his mama than he liked, for he was a big boy and didn't need her fussing over him as she did.
It had made it all the more difficult to sneak away, but he'd managed it, once Diane was called to his papa's chambers and his nurse had decided to take a nap.
Francis' nurse had glared as Bash entered the room, no doubt having been made aware of Catherine's outburst earlier, but her expression softened as he attempted to explain himself, just wanted to have a look, he thought he'd said.
She'd smiled, and held him up so that he could peer down at the babe in that crib, his little brother, for the first time.
He looked so small, shriveled up and a little icky, and Bash had made a face at the sight of him, thinking his little brother was much uglier than he was, and surely his papa the King couldn't be too pleased about that.
But then Francis had opened his eyes for the first time, and they'd locked with Bash's instantly, as if he knew Bash was looking at him before he'd even woken.
Bash knew then, that this child's searing blue eyes would not leave his memory soon, just as Francis' never had. The way he had looked at Bash, before Francis entered the room, and now, with the sort of intelligence in his eyes that Bash wouldn't have expected of a child so young, startled him somewhat. As if he knew exactly who Bash was to him.
The baby stared for a full minute, and Bash couldn't bring himself to break this strange contact between them, not when the child was looking at him with such trust in his eyes.
It occurred to him that he should stand up and leave. That Kenna would be wondering where he was, and he still hadn't had supper with her yet. That, if anyone walked in, the sight that greeted them would be rather strange, of Bash kneeling before the King and his son.
And yet, Bash couldn't bring himself to move. He felt oddly as if he belonged here, as if he always had.
And so, before getting up off of his knees, Bash swore fealty to this little child, swore to protect him in all things, just as he had to this little boy's father, not so very long ago, and yet long before swearing such before King Francis II.
And when he finally stood and left, letting the door swing softly shut behind him, not loud enough to wake the sleeping babe or his father, Bash still felt as if he shouldn't be going.