Mary's screams were muffled by a blood-stained hand and the next thing she could remember was running through the woods without anyone but her captor. Then, she remembered the nerves inside her hands acting up when she stabbed her abductor, a victory short-lived when she found herself stabbed in the small of her back with a dagger. Black dots danced around her vision as she suddenly found out that standing was a tad bit too much for a pregnant woman stabbed—Mary lost control of her body and she plummeted towards the ground and found herself uncomfortably against the trunk of a tree near the lifeless corpse of her supposed-assailant.
Then, there were orange bright lights that illuminated the forest, and voices that sounded so familiar to Mary and yet so distant and far away. She felt like she was being lifted up in the air, the small of her back feeling cold with the air blowing against her blood-soaked dress before feeling a stinging pain, something like an open wound being jabbed. It was excruciating and unbearable until she realized that it was not the wound that had been hurting her, but her back. Mary realized this when gentle hands had straightened her back in midair.
From that point on, Mary couldn't feel. She couldn't hear the distant voices anymore or the gentle hands. She felt like she was trapped in binds of silence and darkness and she couldn't possibly break free from its hold. She also felt immense heat, she felt so much heat like she was being burned inside a wicker man even if the druids of Scotland barely commit human sacrifices. Mary began to give up, she could feel her hold on life slowly slip away through her fingers like water. She felt her head grow heavy as the minutes passed and the darkness spun around her.
Mary was ready to give up. Mary was ready to die when she remembered that her life was not the only existance at stake. Her unborn child mattered as well and she couldn't condemn the life she and Francis had created. Mary decides to hold on—she would fight because she is not so cruel as to create life and deprive it of a fighting chance to live in the world. I am a mother, Mary thought to herself determinedly, and I will not be the cause of my child's death.
Aside from seeing Francis' face as he smiled upon their small family, it suddenly became clear to Mary that she had another driving force in life. She was not only a Queen of Scotland and France, nor was she only a wife to her husband—she is a mother, and as all mothers would (Catherine is a rather fine example.) fearlessly dangle their lives at a cliff's edge, she would do so wholehearted. If there was truly one thing Mary and Catherine had in common, it was their undying and selfless love for their families. . .and Mary is not one to break away with old habits and traits and traditions.
She will fight for her life if it meant saving her child.
She will not be a type of person who would create life, a manifestation of love and marital union, only to deprive it of its naturally given right, a fighting chance to survive and to live in the world. Mary wants her child to grow up in a household where love reigns above all, where she would be able to show her child, a babe growing so slowly in her womb, the love she is so wanting to display. Mary wants to have the ability, the opportunity to show the people, her court and subjects her pride and joy, her life and future.
So, Mary forced herself to find this pull in her stomach, the strength inside of her to simply open her eyes. An ability once so easily done now so achieving if made. Yet it was too hard—there was pain in every attempt as she felt a whimper escape her lips when a sound replayed in her ear, a voice that sounded so familiar, comforting, and soothing. A voice that rejuvenated her soul and restored strength. "Now, all I need is you," that phrase resounded and replayed time and time again.
Finally, with one last pull of strength, her eyes flew open but as soon as Mary woke up, she had shut her eyes again. The light the chandelier emitted was far too much for someone who had been asleep for quite some time. A groan escaped her lips as she felt her head grow heavy and her vision blurred. Mary felt the heat and the dizziness take over when she saw curls upon curls of golden blonde hair, hair her fingers were so used to comb through. There was one resounding thought in Mary's mind. "Francis," she croaked softly to him.
There was no reaction and Francis remained asleep.
Willing up strength even if words, mere whispers of Francis' name felt like the icy stabs of sharp metal dagger through her throat, a throat as dry as an arid desert of the African continent. "Francis," her voice broke and felt black dots dance around her vision. The pain was too much as she tried breathe evenly. Mary found herself weak and frail, a point that made Mary's heart rate quicken—her child. . .has she failed as a mother again?
But then, at the corner of her closing eyes, Mary saw Francis lift his head and search the room for the sound of her voice. To Francis, Mary's voice felt like a painfully realistic dream. A disappointed sigh escaped his lips when Mary released a groan of pain. "Mary?" slowly, her eyes opened and the first sight Mary saw, the most striking trait Francis shared with the rest of the powerful House of Valois—blue eyes.
Slowly, Francis reached out for Mary, his hands shaking as it came closer to Mary's cheeks, but when his hand, rather the tip of his fingers touch her pale cheeks, a soft tearful laughter escaped his lips as Mary released a breath of air. "You're real," a lone tear stroke Francis' face as he watched his wife. "You're here—you're alive!" Francis' hands flew around Mary's frame. Even in Mary's weakened state and wounds, she found it so comforting to feel the heat that Francis' body gave her. It gave her such joy and security knowing she was in Francis' arms.
"Last time I've checked, yes—I'm quite alive," Mary found the ability to lighten the atmosphere by cracking a joke, but Francis had none of it.
Francis shifted in his position and slowly, reluctantly, released Mary from his arms. "Your fever has not broken yet," he muttered under his breath and stood up. "I'll call for Nostradamus to give you your herbs and lemon-water," Mary, quickly grabbed her husband's arm and clung unto it with all her strength. "Mary?" his voice laced with concern as he tried to think of something wrong.
"Don't go," it was a silent whisper, but Francis heard it nonetheless as he replayed her lips spelling it out for her. "Stay with me, please," there was reluctance in Francis' face. "Keep me company," Francis found himself frozen on the ground before willing himself to move towards the door to summon a page-boy to fetch Nostradamus.
"I'm not going anywhere, not without you," Francis dragged the stool closer to the bed and rubbed soothing circles on his wife's palm. "I've had quite some time to reflect earlier when I've realized that you've kept a secret from me, a wonderful secret," a small smile graced Mary's lips as Francis' hand found its way towards her flat stomach. "You're pregnant and you've managed to keep it a secret from me—to think that I was going to surprise you with a trip to Paris when you return to court!" a small laugh escaped Mary's lips, and although her spirits had been lifted, the pain resounded in her mind.
But no matter how joyful Francis was—Who wouldn't be at the knowledge where your wife, the love and very core of your life, is carrying and would soon give birth to a child?—there was one question that ran rampant in his mind, a question that refused to let him settle or rest peacefully.
"Why would you keep your pregnancy a secret?" there was silence inside the room and Mary found it hard to look at her husband.
The expectant gaze was never reciprocated, but there was a small voice. "The last time I was pregnant, Francis, it gave us so much hope and I've seen the pain and sorrow in your eyes, the happiness shattering in your soul when your mother broke the news of my miscarriage. . .I wanted to be sure that when I tell you of my pregnancy, you can hold on to the fact that you will get to hold our child in your arms," Francis' eyes softened and gave Mary his warmest smile, his hand covering her cheek and wiping away the stray tears. "I couldn't get you to hope so much, to invest so much only to lose it all in one instance," Mary saw how he had laughed, how he had rejoiced and how he had been so broken.
Francis thought that Mary would never see, but she would hear the pained cries in the hallways or the silent messages to the errand boys to set up candles at the Basilica-de-Saint-Denis for their unborn child, a life taken away so soon.
"To what? Hear of you pregnancy when you've miscarried?"
"Only so that I could save you the pain of becoming too attached," Mary offered hopefully, but Francis shook his head and took both of Mary's hands and held them in his. "I've kept it a secret so that when, God forbid, I lose the baby, you won't be as broken as you were before," Mary's hair kept falling into her eyes, but Francis tucked the strands behind her ear. "Are you angry?" it was a silent question that would have been for ants, but her husband heard it nonetheless.
"I'm not mad, just worried—if that would happen, I would be so powerless to comfort you," Francis caressed Mary's face and smiled lovingly. "If I was so broken that time, you were so much more than that, and while you are the strongest woman I know, how could a mother recover from the loss of her child?" Mary stared at her stomach and whispered a small prayer to whoever was listening. "I could not let you stand alone in such moment of vulnerability," Francis whispered as the doors to the infirmary flew open to reveal the same page with a tray of food and a herbal tea.
"Place it on the nightstand, please," Mary smiled tiredly at the boy before he left the room. "And I don't want the people to look up at me expectantly only to judge me for being a failure of a mother—a mother who could not care for her children before they are even born," it had a bitter twang to her voice and Francis resented every minute of her self-lamentation. "Please keep it a secret for now," a sigh was released and Francis slowly nodded his head.
"But when you start showing, I'm afraid I can't keep the rumors from growing," Francis teased as he lifted the bowl of soup from the tray and started to feed his wife. "Until then, you should focus on your recovery—Nostradamus said that your wounds and fever would be over by the fortnight," Francis lifted the spoon from the soup and brought the silverware to Mary's lips. "I can't have my pregnant wife on an empty stomach while being sick, now could I?"
Mary gagged at the taste and shut her eyes when she swallowed he offending soup and tea. Francis laughed at her reaction and fought off a boisterous fit from escaping his lips. "Now, you shall experience how I've felt like when ingesting those wretched little weeds you called pills!" Mary brought her hand to her lips to prevent a rather disastrous laughter laced with herbal tea.