CHAPTER VII - FRANCIS
When Bash arrived at his doors, a solemn look on his face, Francis knew that something was horribly wrong.
There was a sinking feeling that nagged at him, a churning that burned at the pit of his stomach that refused to make itself unknown. His tongue felt like it weighed a pound and his mouth felt as dry as sand. Francis looked up from his desk and feared he couldn't stand up. "What?" he asked, his voice small. It was, as if, he was a young boy all of a sudden and he was being told that Mary was going to leave the castle.
But there was a voice whispering in his head that it wouldn't be just Mary leaving. It was something worse.
"Francis, there's been an attack." Bash began and winced, as if he was the one who was hurt, as if the information he held in his mind was causing him pain. "The entourage, while en route through the Blood Woods, was attacked by angry villagers."
A horrible thought flashed across his mind—his mother and sister weren't well loved by the public. A gruesome picture made itself known in his mind and a strangled sob left his lips. "My mother and Claude—"
Bash shook his head, a slow realization blossoming now. "Catherine and Claude were in a different carriage. They had barely entered the Blood Woods when the attack happened. They're on the way to the castle as we speak." Francis felt a sense of relief for a short moment before he realized that a name wasn't mentioned and that Bash still held that look of grief.
"What about Mary?" his voice was gravelly, but it was loud enough to make Bash grimace at the sound of his wife's name. A sense of urgency now coursed through his body, his arms now holding a renewed strength as he marched his way all over to where his brother stood, begging him to look at him dead in the eye. "What about Mary?" he repeated, panic now woven into his tone as he shook his brother.
It was only then, when Francis grasped the shirt of his brother, did he notice the unmistakable stain of crimson, or the metallic scent of blood that wafted to his nose that made him want to empty his stomach.
"She's alive." Bash relayed weakly and Francis could sense the underlying condition that hung at the end of his words. "But she's still inside the infirmary. The physician, Lord Anjou, is still working to save her." Francis felt his knees give way before one thought rang clear in his mind as he took off, running across the halls of the castle with Bash panting behind him, trying to catch up.
He passed by servants and nobles, all of which were giving him strange looks, but he couldn't care less. His wife was injured and alone, and he needed to be with her.
It was a miracle that he reached the doors, only to find an ocean of the remaining courtiers posted by the door. Above the noise, he managed to hear a familiar tone woven with a sense of urgency. "Oh, Francis!" there was a yell and he found himself engulfed in an embrace, his mother's arms wrapped around him as Claude stuck to his side, whispering her apologies.
Behind him, by the archway, Bash caught up and his chest heaved up and down. "Quiet!" his brother yelled. "Give the King some space!" there was a moment where everyone who stood by the doorway was caught frozen in the very spot they stood.
"What happened?"
Claude stepped forward. "The guards said that rebels attacked her carriage." There was now an unmistakable anger that his stomach nursed. "Brother?"
"Where are they? Those rebels?"
Bash shook his head. "Some of the palace guards are searching the woods, combing the land." Then, there was a great uneasiness that squared on his brother's shoulders. "But Francis, there's something you need to know. One of the rebels we've subdued had something on him—" from the satchel Bash kept on him, a small leather coin pouch was pulled out.
It weighed heavy. "Mary was targeted?"
"There's no mistake—and look at the gold." Francis took the pouch into his hands and let a few gold pieces sliver out. His throat tightened and his breathing came to a short halt. "That's Spanish gold, Francis. No doubt of it." Along with the coin, Bash pressed a folded pamphlet on his hands. It was a small piece of paper with one striking detail printed, front and center.
Everything began to race in his mind. Old allies he thought would never turn their backs against him now are suddenly the traitors whose knives have struck his family. A burning desire to yell or scream or confront his brother-in-law flashed through his mind, but when his gaze landed on his mother, a blood-stained dress in his vision, he couldn't help but let it all disappear to a forgotten darkness in his mind.
"How is she?"
"The physicians are still working on her, Francis. These things take time," his mother crooned, taking his hand into hers and rubbed soothing circles upon her palm but he evaded her, side-stepping to draw himself closer to the doors of the infirmary where a guard, perplexed. Still standing outside the doors, he took a moment to collect his breath.
"Let me in." He said, resulting in every single one of the nobles and palace courtiers looking over to his direction.
The guard sputtered but remained firmly planted by the doors. "I was told by the physician, Your Majesty. No one is to come in."
"I'm your king."
There was a painfully guarded expression from one of the older nobles who stepped forward. "Your Majesty, I understand that you wish to be with the Queen." Francis couldn't begin to convey the anger he so clearly felt when the older man began, but a part of him needed to remain diplomatic. "But this is no place for you, Your Majesty. The doctors will need time and space to work on Her Majesty."
His mother crept up on him, a hand placed on his shoulder. "Francis, why don't we go to your chambers? Get something to eat?"
He shook his head vehemently. "I'm not hungry. I need to see my wife."
"Your father wouldn't do this, King Francis. I suggest that you listen to the Queen Mother."
Somehow, it stuck on him, that people crowded around the door, fixed on their spot, an inscrutable expression on their faces that now was made clear as he realized he was always going to be a king who lived in the shadows of his father.
"I am the king of France." He said in a deadly even voice, his hands shaking but pointed sharply at the doors. "In there is my wife, she's fighting for her life, and I won't be kept from her, not when she needs me the most."
The nobleman was shot aback as he strode forward, steeled his gaze and ordered the guards to back down. "Open the doors." The guards, mercifully, followed his orders and he stepped inside, aware of the eyes that trailed him as he disappeared into the walls.
The first thing he noticed was the metallic scent of blood. It almost sent him doubling over, the overpowering smell. But with that, he noticed another detail—it was awfully quiet.
His heart began to race and his finger curled up, his stomach felt like churning up and emptying itself of its content as he peered from cot to cots, searching for his wife only to find them empty and desolate of anyone. Francis was ready to run and yell at the top of his lungs when, from the corner of the infirmary, came the doctor, Lord Anjou, who emerged from a cot, blood stained and weary.
The doctor looked startled. "Your Majesty," he was about to curtsy and bow, but Francis waved him off, steeling his nerves as he stepped forward.
He didn't care for all the pomp and circus that the court offered him. He shakily took another deep breath, afraid to peer behind the mere curtains that separated him from his wife. "Is she. . ." he trailed off, a tight knot forming by his throat like a great ache. "Is my wife alive?"
It was then when the physician laughed, a tired and low chuckle, but a good-natured one nonetheless. "Yes, Your Majesty. The Queen is going be alright, though the blade used against her had been poisoned, it seemed like Her Majesty and the baby will make a full recovery."
Francis' knees nearly gave from the relief until his ears caught on a small word that sent him into a rigid shock. "What?"
The physician's brows furrowed. "The Queen is going to be alright, Your Majesty. The toxin that had coated the blade had been subdued, though she may need some herbs to counter—"
"No!" he yelled. He felt breathless, he feet running towards the curtain and yanked them apart, his heart beginning to rest when he saw his wife, cleaned and resting on the infirmary. She looked peaceful. "You said something about a baby."
Lord Anjou looked perplexed. "Yes." The doctor said simply. "Her Majesty came to me weeks ago complaining of fatigue and nausea. My predecessor, Nostradamus, had her chamber pot tested and the results proved that the Queen is carrying a child. Has she not told you yet, Your Majesty?"
Francis silently, wordlessly, fell to her side, his hands just finding hers. "No." He said offhandedly. "Not a word, actually." At first he recoiled, because never had her touch been so lifeless and timid. But he rejoiced at the fact that, as he held her skin against his, he felt the pulse and heat of blood that coursed within her. She was alive, and that was more than he could ask for.
"Well, King Francis, I am happy to report that the Queen and the child are ready, with the proper medication, to recuperate fully within a fortnight. The child is developed nicely. I would place the birth sometime around the month of August, Your Majesty."
"Has there been any complications?"
"Other than the nausea, no, sire."
"Leave us, please?"
The doctor bowed his head and slowly retreated away from the cot, probably to announce to the waiting crowd outside the infirmary of Mary's recovery.
When they were finally alone, Francis let his shoulders loosen up and his gaze to fix itself upon his wife's face. "You've given me quite a fright." He said lightheartedly, giving his sleeping wife a small smile. "Not only that, but you've kept a surprise from me—a wonderful, and big surprise, and here I thought I was going to whisk you away to Paris to dance under the stars."
She didn't answer, but he liked to think that she would roll her eyes fondly and with a smile, she would gaze at him and say, teasingly, that he still owed her a dance.
"Everything we've ever dreamed of is now coming true—a peace with the English, and now our very own family." He wove his fingers with hers and he pressed a soft, chaste kiss on the back of her hand. "Now all I need is you, my love."