Francis had a handful of reasons to be wary of his wife's cousin as he offered his hand for Henry Stuart to shake—Henry's father had been accused of treason by his mother-in-law, Marie de Guise, in his wife's name, another reason is that he is heavily influenced by Protestantism while being a Roman Catholic, and the last reason is that Darnley, much like his Mary, is in line for both the Scottish and the English throne. Francis knew better than to lower his walls to a possible usurper to his wife's throne, a person who could probably execute her line.
"Majesty," Henry kissed Francis' hand before bowing low. "One cannot describe the grandeur of the Château de Blois by merely hearing words," there was a smirk in his lips as he turned around to examine the halls of the throne room. "But I understand why those travelers cannot utter a word of description for they have probably been left speechless by the elegance and perfection of the masterpiece your grandfather, François I, has crafted," Francis gave Darnley a tight smile before the latter waved his hand in the air and presented a statue of him and Mary.
It was a most beautiful sight.
"There were talks of a romantic scene in your household a few months ago, Majesty, talks of a dance most precious and endearing that atists and sculptors of Italy needed to immortalize in their works," it clicked in Francis' mind, the memory of his illness and what seemed like his last dance with Mary. He remembered wanting to take another course, to dance through another song when his knees had failed him and nearly collapsed in front of French Court. It was due to Mary's decisive and swift thinking that they managed to turn the tides of war when the gasps escaped their guests' lips.
A King of France happened to be so in love with his wife that he bowed down to her, a woman. It was a scene in which a husband puts his wife first.
"Yes, I remember that particular dance with Mary," Francis found himself saying as he looked at the portraits and the statue of their immortalized dancing. "And I agree wholehearted that it is a moment most precious," he smiled as he began to notice a small detail—Francis has not danced with Mary under the stars of the Louvre Palace or eaten freshly picked oranges from Nice yet, and although his pregnant wife shouldn't be dancing in her condition, he would slowly fulfill their wishes. "My wife will be most pleased," Francis gave Darnley a smile, a warm smile that happened to be genuine had he not remember that the man in front of him is possibly an usurper.
"Speaking of Her Majesty," Francis felt himself tense up. "I would like to inquire as to where the Queen is—I would like to pay my respects as she is both my cousin and sovereign Queen, surely I would not want to seem without my manners in the court of her husband where I am only a guest," there was a heavy feeling in Francis' stomach when Darnley produced a letter from his vest. "Also, I have a letter regarding some issues regarding Scottish finances her brother, the Earl of Moray, tasked me to deliver safely into her hands," Francis caught the embedded meaning in his words—he would not give the letter to anyone but Mary as he realized his ulterior motive.
Henry Stuart, the Lord Darnley is not visiting French Court for his businesses' purpose. He is here for an audience with his wife.
And that his looking around earlier, in the guise of complimenting the fixtures of his home was actually his scouting for Mary's presence.
With a tight smile and a determined will to prevent such an audience between Darnley and his wife, Francis held out his hand expectantly and his eyes shone with authority. He is a King, and Henry is merely a guest of a foreign court, his court. "I am actually planning to retire early to our chambers after this meeting—I am a bit worn out and, admittedly, quite terribly missing my wife—perhaps I could deliver James' letter to Mary for you and tell you of her reactions during the banquet later this evening," Francis could see the anger in Darnley's eyes as his jaws fixed hard. It was hard for Francis to fight off the grin forming on his lips as the yellow parchment was landed on his hand.
Darnley was obviously a man not used to being dismissed before getting what he wanted.
"Please, send my regards to Her Majesty," Darnley bowed low and refused to meet Francis' eyes as he was ushered out of the room by his Swiss guards.
Alone in the room, he opened the letter and Francis saw nothing of relevance—it was either a front or that he's truly being paranoid as he read on the letter from his brother-in-law asking for his wife's approval in a negotiation with Bohemians about timber wood. Despite being a King, Francis knows to himself the heavy feeling in his chest, the feeling of being utterly powerless. Contempt is not enough to condemn a man, not even the contempt of a King's suspicions about a shady character who just so happens to be a man who can succeed his wife and Elizabeth.
Releasing a deep breath, Francis signaled for his secretary to come towards him. "Bring this to my mother, have her try and decipher this letter. See to it that any possible hidden message is uncovered and that no stone is kept unturned," the man bowed in front of him and began to leave when an important thought passed through his mind. "Call for my brother and send him to my study in the nearest time possible," the secretary jotted it down in his notebook before disappearing into the doors.
Leaving restless, Francis stood up and walked the familiar halls of his home and found himself standing in front of double mahogany doors. After a nod to the guard, three short knocks filled the air. "Presenting, His Majesty, the King!" the doors flew open and Francis saw his wife being attended by Greer while she pressed a damp piece of cloth against Mary's forehead.
Worry filled his head as he a rather pale Mary.
"Francis," Greer stood up and dipped her head low, something Francis hated seeing behind close doors. He wanted to be treated as him, as Francis Valois by his friends, and not this whole ceremony where his presence would require a dozen guards and a crier for his every door. It was ridiculous and an absolute waste of time, especially with his nobles trying to call on his favor by attending to his every need. Jarring him back to reality, Greer seemed to have read his mind and stepped aside to let Francis sit next to Mary.
"What happened? She was fine this morning," Mary's forehead was warm and sweat decorated her face. "Did she drink her tea?" Greer nodded her head and sheepishly pointed towards the balcony door.
"It was left open, she probably fell cold when she fell asleep," Francis took a deep breath before being handed the warm, damp cloth. "If you want, I could get some steamed towels and a bit more tea from Nostradamus," a grateful smile met Greer's eyes before walking towards the door as he tucked some dark brown strands behind Mary's hair as she subconsciously cover herself in more of the comforter. "If it's any consolation, her fever won't last long before it breaks. She's only a cold, Nostradamus assured me of that," Francis found himself nodded as he watched Mary sleep as the sound of a door clicking close faded into the background.
"The balcony door was probably your doing, wasn't it?" Francis stared at the curtain covered doors. "I feel like it's my fault why you're like this, having left you here and telling you not to leave the room," Mary shifted a bit in her sleep as a satisfied sigh escaped her lips when Francis enveloped her into his arms as they both radiate heat. It was as if she was saying 'Serves you right!' or a more wise-crack 'I told you so,' and he could hear her voice despite Mary being asleep beside him.
"I'll make sure changes are arranged, walks by the beach or strolls by the gardens—anything to your liking, my love," Mary snuggled into her husband's arms when sharp knocks resounded in the air before the doors opened. "What is it?" Francis held a finger to his lips and asked in a hushed tone, which the messenger immediately followed suit as the King tried to get out of the bed without waking Mary.
"Majesty, Lord Sebastian has arrived inside your study," there was reluctance in Francis' movements. He couldn't leave his sick and pregnant wife alone. But then again, it was he who called for Bash and the pressing matter about Darnley motivated him to get up on his feet. Twitching his finger, the messenger walked towards Francis, his eyes showing his curiosity. "Should I ask for the Lord Deputy to retire shortly to his chambers and wait for your summoning, should it pleases His Majesty?" there was a part inside Francis that wanted to accept but he knew better than to bail.
Francis shook his head and opened the wooden door.
"Ask for Greer to stay with Mary, or for Nostradamus to keep her condition in check—the Queen is not to be left alone, do you understand me?" the man nodded before bowing as Francis left the room and into the halls of the palace, his feet bringing him towards two familiar doors.
Soon enough, Francis pushed the wooden dividers and he saw his brother, Bash, helping himself to a few cases of almonds. "Francis," there was little formality between the brothers behind closed doors. The two embraced, sharing a moment to relive the easier days when it was so much simpler to run around the castle corridors with governesses chasing after them. "Why did you call for me?" it wasn't a rude question, but Francis saw that the airs in his lungs had abandoned him. "It's not normal for you to yank men out of their deserved breaks in hunting," Bash joked, his chuckles vibrating throughout the room until he saw the troubled expression that sat by Francis' eyes.
"Bash, I need you to do something for me," his brother nodded and took out a notepad and a quil. "I want you to send some men to England along with the merchants seeking to set up trade near the English Royal Court—make sure that your network of spies are impenetrable and discreet—to hear word of Darnley and what his true intentions are," Francis couldn't help but notice the grimace that appeared on his brother's face the minute he had mentioned the name 'Darnley', something that would have sent him laughing weren't for the situation at hand. "What's wrong with you?" he asked silently, nudging his brother's shoulder.
With a deep sigh, Bash fixed the collar of his shirt. "As a bastard of a King, I've been entitled the right to spend my time at the ill-reputed taverns of the best reputation," immediately, Francis caught on to his brother's words. Fighting off a snicker, Francis waved his hand and urged Bash ti continue with his story. "And so, as I was saying, as a young man with deep pockets, I couldn't help it when they compare me to a man of youth and of formidable wealth station, a man known for targeting women in his quests—even married ones," Francis' caught his breath midway and felt that the world had stopped spinning.
With the dots aligning themselves perfectly, Francis could make out a steady image of how and why Darnley's in France.
"Are you saying that Darnley is after Mary?" Bash shrugged and looked at his brother's eyes—Valois eyes.
"It makes perfect sense! It's a strategic marriage for him. A marital relationship with Mary could make Darnley a major player and heir for the English throne and the Scottish throne, or perhaps to crown himself using the Crown Matrimonial," possibilities raced in Francis' mind when Bash suddenly grabbed his shoulders and gave him a solemn look. "Perhaps you and Mary should retreat to the Louvre and wait this incident out," Francis caught his breath midway and stopped breathing for a moment—this is his chance to do right.
Will he be a coward of a King, running away from danger like a dog with its tail in between its legs? No, Francis promised his wife that he would be a different kind of King, a just and fair ruler who would not abandon anyone. But, maybe this is the Universe's way of telling him that he should dance with Mary under the stars of Orion's Belt inside the palace of the Louvre. Who should he be? Should he be a King, just and fair, a man who wouldn't put any love above his country or a husband and a father commissioned by God to serve his wife and protect his child?
"No," it was a firm decision, an iron will that resounded in the air. "I will not run away. Mary and I dreamed of becoming different kind of rulers, a vision I would gladly make a reality. I will not act solely on the whim of a possible usurper and destroy an alliance, the peace between our three countries that Mary has sacrificed for, by displaying myself as an absent King who would not meet his guests because of whatever reasons they may think of,," Francis faced his brother, whose brows were furrowed and mouth was ajar from a fruitless attempt to argue and protest. "Having Mary travel isn't the most effective option, either—she's recovering from a serious wound and battling a fever—now isn't exactly the best of time to travel," Bash nodded and clasped his hands together.
"I understand, I'll send off some men at first light," Francis shot his brother a thankful look and a warm smile. "Oh, and I'll probably be traveling with them," Bash chuckled when his brother shot him a curious look. "A killer has been on the loose and Delphine has these waves of emotion, these feelings that maybe the killer is nearby a village near the route," the name brought familiar memories and a sudden rush of gratitude.
"Ah, yes," the issues of the heart thief that plagued the nearby villages. "Be careful, I don't know what goes on in that head of your's, but I do know that it usually involves trouble and danger," Bash chuckled deep and picked up his gloves before heading for the door.
Cleaning up his desk and arranging the papers scattered across it, Francis stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a portrait. It was a portrait of Mary, dressed in regal white with a glittering crown upon her head. His breathing stopped for a moment. "We're one step closer, Mary," Francis whispered to himself as he grinned widely at the oil-based masterpiece. "Our happy future is no longer a whisper of longing," with his motivation to go on, Francis picked up a lavender from a vase near him and headed for his chambers.
On his way to his chambers, Francis had bumped against a person. "An apology, Your Majesty," the deep tenor registered in Francis' mind when he reached the doors of his chambers.
Henry Stuart.