CHAPTER VIII - MARY
All that Mary could remember, in lapses, was the feeling of a searing pain that exploded in her stomach.
While her memory wasn't as clear and refined as she would have liked, Mary remembered distinctly the scent of drying leaves and the crisp, cold wind blowing from the north. She could still feel the wind as it clashed against her face and she could still remember the sharp sting of the dagger that dug into her side before her assailant had pushed her to the ground and stabbed her.
Mary could still remember how her heart beat so fast, so strongly that she felt like it would jump right out of her chest. It was only by a stroke of luck that he had missed, the dagger just planting itself near her back when she managed to throw herself to the man, putting him off balance and for them to tumble downhill.
There had been a loud crack and when her vision began to blur, she could only remember the man staring straight into the skies, the life in his eyes already gone.
But the attack wasn't what concerned her. Mary had managed to push herself up against the base of a tree, her hands straddling a small bulge that hid under the fabrics of her dress. A hiss of pain or a cry of anguish escaped her lips, which exactly she didn't know, but she could remember praying.
Another chance, she begged, just to protect my child.
And as Mary woke up, in a strange room with bright candles surrounding her, it seemed like she had been given the chance after all.
Rising from her slumber, Mary tried to push herself up but the pain returned with a growing vengeance, a sharp sting that invaded her senses and sent her right back to the bed where she laid. It was only then, when her eyes rolled to the back of her head did she hear the running feet and hurried voices. "Your Majesty!" a familiar but distant voice called out.
There was a great noise that followed, of glass and water, before her forehead felt a sense of coolness against it.
Water droplet slid down her forehead. "Fetch the King!" the man said once again and Mary stirred. The King, her mind seemed to process. Her husband. Francis.
With all the strength she could muster upon herself, Mary blinked open her eyes, catching the immediate attention of the palace physician. "Queen Mary," he bowed from the neck down before turning to work on a concoction. "God himself heard and answered our prayers."
Her brows furrowed together in confusion. "I'm sorry?"
"You were attacked, Your Majesty. You've lost a significant amount of blood." It was then when the doors creaked open, a voice that soon followed echoing and calling out her name.
"Mary!"
She could remember that voice.
"Francis!" she called out, the same urgency ringing in her voice until Francis made his way towards her side. Immediately, he dropped to his knees and took her hand into his, pressed her palm against his cheeks. "My love." She crooned, feeling a safeness that she hasn't felt since the carriage stopped in its tracks.
"Leave us, please." Francis said in quick passing and the physician left the pitcher and on a table near them.
It was with the newfound privacy when her husband broke down in soft cries, tears marring his face. Incapable of staying still, she weakly pushed her hand out of his hold and wipes away the tears. "I'm alright, darling." She promised, letting him cherish the feeling of her skin against his.
"You're real." She had been unable to fight a smile. "You're alive."
Mary found herself chuckling in response. "Last time I've checked, yes—I'm very much real and alive." She tries to tease, lighten the atmosphere that hung around them with a jest, but it ended flat as she winced in pain.
Francis jumped, alarmed before he sighed, a terribly exhausted groan that sent him right back to her side. "Lord Anjou advised lemon-water and herbs. I'll fetch them." He smiled warmly but Mary couldn't help a tug in her heart. On reflex, she reached out and shot him a look.
"No." She managed to croak out before managing a tired smile. "Please, stay."
Francis wordlessly went to the side of her bed, a knot forming between his brows and Mary wanted nothing more than to kiss his troubles away, even if only for a moment as they were alone together. There was a great silence that hung as Francis blew out a breath of air, a look of great unease settling on his face.
Concern began to grow in the pit of her stomach. "Is something wrong?"
He gave her a wary look, like he didn't expect for her to catch on but shook his head, a truly exhausted sigh leaving his lips in a form of a sad smile. "Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant?" he glanced at her face before looking pointedly at her stomach. It was still flat, her midsection, but she could already feel the blossoming feel of life that she nursed inside.
"Lord Anjou told you, didn't he?" she asked, her voice just barely above a soft whisper. "You weren't supposed to find out this way."
Her husband leaned forward, confusion and hurt written clearly on his face. "Then tell me why it did, why it happened this way?" his fingers were already woven into hers, their wedding bands just barely meeting. "This is our child. I would be happy to hear about the news, overjoyed even."
It all suddenly felt very real to Mary, and the guilt that nestled between her heart and lungs made it very difficult to look at Francis. But the truth was something he needed, something he deserved. And while his expectant gazes were hardly reciprocated, she found her voice, albeit a soft one just barely above a whisper.
"The last time I was pregnant, Francis, it gave you so much hope." A soft sound escaped Francis and Mary knew what would inevitably come next. "It gave you so much happiness and I saw it all crumble away when I lost our child." The pain still lingered in her mind, a vague memory of the blood trickling down. "I wanted to be sure, this time, that when I tell you of the pregnancy, you would get to hold our child in your arms."
"Mary. . ."
She finally met his gaze, her eyes filled with tears as his hand came to cup her cheek. "I couldn't let you go through that pain, not again." He thinks she does not know, but Mary watches silently every once in so often, that he would ask a guard to send for instructions to light a candle at the Cathedral de Saint Denis for their unborn child, or that he would shed tears when infants were presented at court.
"To what end?" he asked, not unkindly, pressing his lips against the back of her hand, stroking thumb against the joint of her wrist in smooth, circular motions. "To only hear of your pregnancy when you've miscarried?"
"If only to save you the pain, Francis." She offered hopefully, a sheepish look in her eyes. "I've kept it a secret so if, God forbid, something happens, you wouldn't be as broken as before," then, a sharp look flashes on her face, one that was followed by a grim, bowed head. "Not to mention the whispers of the court."
Francis frowned. "What whispers?"
"No—"
"Mary, what whispers?"
She sighed and caved in, shifting in her position so to better look at her husband. "When Catherine held a celebration for the pregnancy, everyone was happy but when I miscarried. . .they looked at me differently, they looked at me as if I'm a failure of a mother who couldn't even care for her children before they're even brought to this world."
Then, softly, she gives him tentative look. Her mouth hung open, unsure of what to say, of what to do. "Are you angry?"
Her husband sighed, pressing a kiss once more upon her forehead. "At you?" he whispered in a low tone, "Never. Hating you, that I think is an impossibility." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and her a pressing, urging look. "But I am worried. If that would happen, if I were only to learn of your pregnancy only when you've miscarried, then I would be so powerless to help you, to comfort you. If was so broken when we lost our child, then I couldn't even imagine the hurt you felt. I cannot leave you to stand alone in that moment of vulnerability."
In lieu of words, Mary let her hand fall to her stomach. Francis' gaze followed her fingers and watched in wonder as she led his hand to the small obtrusion on her otherwise still flat stomach. "Francis, my darling," she whispers, letting him marvel at the small sign of life that is burgeoning inside of her, "we're alright."
"Mary," he says, voice thick with emotion, his eyes filling with tears, "you're showing."
She smiles, at last, a small, lingering smile that tugs inevitably on the ends of her lips that she cannot help but entertain. "A common occurrence, I'm told, for women expecting for over two months." But her voice drops as the door creaks open as a servant placed a tray of food on the nightstand beside the bed.
"But you want to keep this a secret." Francis supplied for her.
She nods, slowly and then all at once. "Yes," he looks like he is conflicted, "but only until we are sure. Then we can tell everyone."
"Alright," he nods, tilting his head to a side, a small teasing smile now on his lips. "But once you start showing I'm afraid you cannot count on me to lie on your behalf." He spots the cup of tea on the nightstand and passes it to her.
On first sip, Mary gags back and wrinkles her nose as she swallowed the concoction. "What is this?" she balks at the tea and nearly puts it down if it weren't for Francis' pleading looks.
"Lord Anjou said that you've been stabbed with a poisoned blade. You will make a recovery, you and our child both, but it is better to have taken all the precautions." On the tray was an assortment of fruits and vegetables, well-proportioned meals and glass of ground herbs and roots into a fine powder. "Your recovery, as per the decree of the King, is the utmost importance and priority."
Mary, to appease her husband, took another sip but blanched as the liquid reached her tongue. "It really is horrible, if you must know."
Francis smirked. "Then now, you understand what it was like to take those wretched little weeds you call pills!"