CHAPTER I – FRANCIS

"A glowing tree? Droplets of blood on flowers?"

Francis openly stared at his mother. Catherine clung to his arm and her eyes bore into his was a message. He would have laughed, quite hard, had her fear been played less. The notion of him dying when he is alive and well seemed ridiculous.

"What does any of this mean?" he asked with an edge to his voice, challenging his mother to come up with some witty response relayed from her seer's vision of his apparent death.

But his mother was caught off guard. She stared at him, for a few moments, before shaking her head and regaining her composure. "I'm not sure, but I thought you should know at once."

Francis' face softened. He meant what he said before that his mother's one and true redeeming quality was her love for family, her children. While her methods may seem extreme, he knew that it was made with the best intention. After all, she had nearly lost him once.

Especially with Mary's miscarriage, Francis felt for his mother and realized that to bury her children is her worst fear.

Francis straightened his resolve and gave his mother a pointed look. "Know what, exactly?" he asked, humoring his mother.

Catherine swatted away her hands and pressed further, tightening her grip on his arm. "The specifics don't matter. You're in danger." She insisted, as if her life had depended on it. Her voice resonated of panic and worry, of the message's urgency.

Francis thought of the vision he had been told. The sky was raining blood, the forest lit, a glowing tree, and droplets of blood on flowers. He sighed, his head hurting from the absurdity of it all. "How does this foretell my death? Does he see me in this vision?"

A faint expression of stubborn frustration passed through his mother's face. "It's not always black and white." She paced around for a moment, composing herself again. "Some prophecies he sees clearly, others are more symbolic." The reasoning was faulty. "There's something ominous in your future." She stressed, her teeth gritted together, almost coming out like a hiss.

Francis opened his mouth, to rebuke it or to assure his mother of his health and condition but before he could say anything, Catherine's eyes narrowed down into slits and waved her hand in the direction of his head.

"Your fever of the brain, it's only recently subsided—your health is not fully restored. I'm your mother, you think I can't tell?" she asked, scoffing to herself as if the very thought offended her. "Francis, I urge you to be safe."

Francis could so easily see her intentions, asking him to remain safe not just for his sake or for the country, but also for his siblings, for her, and for Mary.

"How?"

Francis always longed to be safe but a part of him knew that it was never really a reality for him. He's been born a fil de France. He's been raised, almost his whole life as its dauphin and he's only become the king because he killed his father. He's a Catholic monarch of a nation hanging by the thread that's narrowly missing a religious war. He's survive a coup and a revolution by a Navarrese prince with a blood claim to his throne. Lastly, his wife is a Catholic queen with a claim to the English throne, a Protestant country.

For the entirety of his life, he's accepted that he's never going to be safe.

Catherine paused for a moment. "Surround yourself with guards. Don't leave the castle." She rambled, as if Château de Bloi wasn't filled to the rim with guards roaming its halls ever since Condé attempted his coup and revolution.

He released a breath of air he didn't know he was holding in. "I will not be confined—"

"Only until he learns more!" his mother offered hopefully, as if they had been as lucky in the past. She insisted, but to him, her efforts were fruitless.

"Mother," he began, with a gentle voice and a soft smile. "I will not hide here waiting for a dream of my death." A look passed between them and an unspoken message rang clear.

Not again.

"I am not being reckless; I'm living my life." He stared out a window, letting the light hit his eyes when his gaze landed on a portrait of Mary. His heart soared. Francis couldn't wait to get out and live his life with the woman he loves. "And if you could see what I can see—the colors—they're so much brighter than before, and every movement, every emotion!"

His mother stood still, taking his answer in. Her brows were furrowed together in concentration. She raised her hands to rub soothing circles on his cheek. "Your illness, all you've been through—it changed you."

His gaze softened. His mother had always been a woman of extreme measures if only to protect the people she loves. It would never be lost on him that everything she's ever done, the motivation behind it is clear: for her children.

"Well, I don't know, perhaps, but I do know that I want to spend every day sailing with Mary until the snow comes. And I want to visit the Matterhorn and the Verdon Gorge—and yes, I will take precaution if only for the sake of the people I love. . .including you."

Catherine sighed and continued to caress his face. "I know that you mean well." He began, smiling at his mother for her efforts. "Your actions have always been motivated by your devotion towards me—to all your children." It was a teasing tone, but she caught on.

And for the first time during the entire conversation, light danced in her eyes and a smile, albeit sheepish, graced her lips. "To you, most of all. I shouldn't have favorites—but you, my golden child, I can't lose you. I won't lose you."

He sighed. "But you cannot keep me in a cage. Even one built with love."

Finally, she sighed and caved in. "It seems like your mind is set. That there's nothing I can do to change your mind."

Francis smiled and chuckled, shaking his head and laying out his journal. Within its pages were his notes, either for his swords or his plans for him and his wife. "I have it all planned, mother. We're going to tour Paris, dance under the stars of the Louvre, and—"

Catherine swatted her hands, waving away the idea in a fluster of annoyance. "And eat freshly picked oranges from Nice. Yes, yes, I know. My spies can't stop blabbering about it, wishing the same for the. I mean, feelings. Honestly!" she grumbled, only making him laugh.

Francis flipped through the pages of his journal and smiled to himself. "Well, as soon as Mary meets with Lord Nicholas, we'll set off for our journey."

"The English ambassador?" he nodded in response. "So, it's true, then. Mary plans to relinquish her claim to the English throne." She made a face indiscernible to him. "In the name of peace."

Francis found himself smiling. Even his mother can't help but acknowledge Mary's selflessness. "Yes, well, she plans to sacrifice much for the betterment of our people. France is fortunate to have her as their queen."

Catherine rolls her eyes playfully, not at all surprised at his response. "As for the announcements?"

He shrugged his shoulders, dismissing the thought as he turned his back on his mother to inspect the bookshelf and return his journal. "As soon as we return from our trip." He replied offhandedly.

"And your siblings' return to court, would you not stay even a short while for them?"

Francis' eyes widened. He turned around and his mouth hung open. "My siblings? Returning to court? Since when?"

A scoff left Catherine's lips, her hand hung on her waist. "To think that the servants of this court finally learned of discretion." But the thought was rid of her mind soon when she turned to see a portrait of the family. "Francis, before Delphine, the situation was bleak. Our physicians gave up hope. I just wanted your siblings to get the chance to say goodbye to their brother who's always protected them."

He paused for a moment. It's been so long since he's seen Henry. He was only a child when he was sent away for his protection. And Margaret, he couldn't remember her face. "They're coming back?"

Catherine's face softened. "Of course, do you think that I would deprive them of their last chance?"

A part of him dwelled on his mother's words. If he couldn't remember his siblings, a pang of great pain shot through his heart at the thought of his short-lived death—would his son, Jean, even remember him or know his name?

The words laid heavy on his mind. A dull ache resided on his chest. Francis wanted to leave for Paris, there was no doubt. But he also wanted to spend time with his family. Suddenly, everything his mother did, it's all become clear to him that, to some extent, it was justified.

He could imagine why she had gone to those lengths. Because, when the time comes for him to start his own family with Mary, he'd do the same.

"Alright." He conceded, and he saw his mother's face lighten up. The smile on her face somewhat alleviated the worry that resided in his stomach that made him so uneasy. "I'll postpone the trip. But only for a week after their return."

"Oh, Francis, they'll be so happy." His mother then continued to regale him of tales of his younger siblings and while he knew that he wouldn't come to regret the decision, there was a difficult feeling that made itself known.

A part that told him that he should have taken the chance to dance under the stars while he had the chance.