Francis released a deep sigh before he bade his wife goodbye and started dressing himself for a meeting. Apparently, there were some English merchants seeking business opportunities in France and Scotland due to the alliance brought by Mary's decision to sign her claim to the English throne invalid in the name of peace between the British Isles and of France.
What irks Francis to the bone was the fact that his subjects, his disappointingly powerful nobles, thought it was what Mary owed to France. Mary's English cause, a predicament she has never wanted nor directly put herself in, has been adding up to France's expenses. While it is true, the war with the English on Scotland's behalf has become a drain on the French money, it is also their war he is fighting—while the war between England and Scotland has been an open issue in Europe and the colonies, France is no stranger to territorial disputes with an English monarch especially when the Tudor King, Henry VIII claimed the his Kingdom as his own.
What the people cannot comprehend and refuse to realize is that Mary traded one of her most precious possessions to end, not only her country's warfare with Elizabeth, but also to end England's claim to the French throne.
"Francis," Mary lifted herself up on the bed, clutching a blanket to cover herself as her voice jarred her husband back to reality. "You'll be late for your meeting if you keep staring at St. Anthony's portrait," there was a hidden tone behind the teasing. A question that asked Francis, 'Are you alright?' as he bent down and kissed his wife's temple, something that made Mary's grow wide and her husband's initial sense of duty to attend the meeting vanish into thin air. Her smile, Francis thought to himself as he fixed his trousers and belt, is something he could watch from dusk till dawn.
The French King chuckled to himself as he took a deep breath of air. "Well, he's always watching us fervently, I think that my glares are quite well-deserved," Mary laughed softly and sunk back into the feather-filled pillows and matress as Francis stared outside the window, thinking of the beautiful weather. "It's such a pity that I have to spend my whole afternoon with those dreary nobles," Francis sighed wistfully and mocked regret, and in a way, he truly does. The thought of having to spend so much time away from his wife.
"Well, at least you're actually going to do something," Francis felt himself give Mary a sheepish smile as he buttoned up his vest. "Being on bedrest while smothered by Catherine was not what I had in mind for this week or for the next one to come," old habits die hard for Nostradamus as he's told Catherine of Mary's pregnancy while coming to terms with the Scottish Queen's wishes of keeping her condition a secret for until further notice. "I'll have to spend my whole day in bed or eating that offensive soup and, ugh," Francis laughed at his wife's expression, "that tea is horrid! If I wouldn't have known better, I'd suspect it to be one of Catherine's vile poisons!" he smiled at his wife before heading for the door.
"Would you like me to pass something on to your council?" it was agreed—after much debate—that Francis would shoulder Scottish affairs while his wife recovered. "Any topic you might want to be covered during the meeting?" fixing his collar to his taste, Francis opened the door wide and stared at Mary expectantly.
"Just about the land reforms for the druids and farmers," Mary's face brightened. "And remember the renewed trade deals with Portugal for timber and to create deals with England," Mary smiled before a page entered the room, carrying a tray of what seemed to be porridge or oats and her arch-nemesis, the soup and herbal tea.
Francis pushed aside the ledgers and the journals containing Scottish issues and passed them until his brother-in-law, Robert Stewart, the Earl of Orkney. "Now that we've discussed these issues and suggested a reasonable amount of solutions, I'll have to pass this to the Earl of Moray's very capable hands," he gave the Scottish ambassador a nod before grabbing new ledgers containing French issues. "Lord Narcisse," the tired man would have glared at Francis should he be a commoner and not a King of France, "I want you to give me a summative report about the Bourbons in Navarre, especially Antoine regarding his reaction and answer to our very generous offer," the once proud and mighty Lord Chancellor of France stumbled as he stood up.
Least to say, Stephan Narcisse became a mere shell of the man he used to be. Stuttering and slurring, it was obvious that he was feeling the after-effects of his heavy drinking. Lately, he showed no signs of Lord Narcisse, the politically ambitious man. Instead, he showed the drunkard Stephan, a man who lost his wife due to his own actions. "Antoine sent a letter to the Queen Mother during her stay at the villages near Navarre and has written that he accepts the hereditary position of becoming the lieutenant general for France in exchange for official peace and his claim being pushed back in favor of any living member of the House of Valois," Francis smiled to himself.
It seems like everything he and Mary had been hoping for is nearly attained, Francis thought to himself as he signaled for Narcisse to sit.
"Is there anything else that should be brought to light?" Francis asked, and while no one answered, he dismissed the meeting when, suddenly, knocks filled the air before the doors opened. "What is it?" Francis asked as he stood up, the page bowing deeply at the sight of nobles and the most senior member of the Royal Family—the King.
"The merchants from England has arrived, Your Majesty," Francis nodded and the nobles stood up to follow their King towards the throne room where, outside, the merchants were lined up to greet the King.
The crier announced the merchants as they've entered, bringing gifts of wealth and size. "Introducing, His Highness," Francis raised himself up, curious as to who the Royal merchant was, "the Lord Darnley, Henry Stuart!" the man sauntered into the halls, bringing servants who carried wooden chests, displaying traits of both a Tudor and a Stuart, Francis had felt this feeling in his stomach that told him something wasn't quite right.