The door creaked open and Francis' heard the familiar squeaky rubber boots his page usually wears. He smiled at the memory of the celebration of Christmas, it was Mary who had given the servants (And their families!) of the castle some useful and beautiful gifts. 'My wife will never cease to show the people of France her golden heart,' Francis thought silently as he continued to study the alliance contract between Spain and France in hopes of fixing the problem before it blows up and reaches Mary.
"King Francis, Her Majesty, the Queen Mary is requesting for a private audience," immediately, Francis removed his attention from the contracts and stared at his page with confusion. 'Mary? Asking for an audience?' the thought raced in his mind and the first assumption would be about their baby. Worry fell on his face as he stood up and raced towards the door. 'Had something happened to Mary? Is the child. . ?' Francis didn't want to finish that thought, it brought so much bad memories to his mind that he couldn't bear to imagine that a miscarriage would happen again when he suddenly came face to face with his wife.
Seeing her safe and sound brought relief to his mind but his heart began to beat wildly when he saw the worried expression on her face.
Feeling a breath of relief leaving his lips, Francis looked over Mary's shoulder and smiled at his page. "That's all for now, Thomas, thank you," he dismissed the young and fair-haired page, his heart beating in anticipation for the familiar click of the door to signal that the unneeded audience had left the room. "Now, what is it? What's troubling you?" Francis asked gently, leading Mary to a small sofa near the fireplace to get warm and comfortable as he watched her face morph into confusion.
A look that said, 'How did he know?' or something along those lines and implications.
"You normally don't announce yourself—and I happen to like it that way—what happened?" Mary bit her lip and her thumbs had played with each other. There was this uncomfortable silence and Francis immediately decided that he did not like it. He longed for the days when they were able to tell each other of every single problem without pause nor hesitation. He missed those times where opening up to one another was as easy as breathing for the both of them.
Indeed. What had happened in the short, short span of a few hours?
The wood was crackling under the heat of the fire and Francis would have not heard his wife had he been a few more inches away from Mary, but he saw her lips move and the words they spelled had froze his blood. "The injured in the courtyard, the countless dead, the Scottish people—how did that happen?" and there it was, the silence between them that Francis hated with a burning passion and yet he couldn't utter a single word, not a sound escaped his ajar lips; it was like a spell that someone had cast upon him and there was nothing in the world that he wanted more than to be rid of the inability to be honest.
The people in the courtyard were supposed to be hidden from Mary, the effects of the growing tension between France, the Vatican, and the Fidei Defensor, King Philip of Spain. He had no idea on how he could protect his country from the devastating forces delivered by the mercenaries on a so-called "religious pilgrimage" from Spain and the Vatican while avoiding a war with the people who undoubtedly empowers him as a King and France as a Catholic nation.
"Why were you in the courtyard, Mary?" it was a soft question. No one but Sebastian knew of the people, they had prepared an excuse and staged an event to back a story wherein they came to the rescue of the poor people who lost their homes to a great fire. "No one was supposed to know, how did you find out?" He hated the deafening silence that would consume the lot between them, the absence of being open to one another happened to be the most excruciating feeling in the world and his pounding heart made sure it was never forgotten.
"I hear the maids whisper in the halls," it was almost a whisper, shaky as it was. "And I've heard that the convent was involved in the fire," that word triggered an enormous amount of memories and of understanding. Three of Mary's maids were actually girls from the convent she had lived with. "I've spoken to a few of the survivors and I've learned that the convent wasn't entirely destroyed by the fire and I've been wanting to see the nuns who raised me," though it made sense, Francis was far from impressed.
While it is true, that some of Mary's maids were girls from the convent and that her secretary was a nephew of the a nun named Agnes, someone who the English had poisoned to get to Mary, nobody was allowed to gossip about the happenings in the courtyard—little knew about the happening—so how did she find out? The courtyard wasn't even supposed to be a part of her day because he had specifically asked Claude to keep her occupied and her activities kept at a firm distance from the courtyard.
She had someone tell her, whether willingly or not, that much he could tell.
"And I just want to make sure that they're alright," he saw, by the corner of his eyes, that Mary was playing with her thumb fidgeting. "And to help while I can—which is the very least I can do, Francis, knowing that they have raised me will give my morale a little boost, unlike staying by the bed inside our chambers, however. . ." she trailed off, once again hinting at her distaste of being kept inside her chambers. Taking his arm, Francis melted at her touch. "I owe them that much," he could see in her eyes, the dreamy and warm brown orbs that he would willingly drown in, the genuine need to help.
"Very well, but you have to take someone, for your protection," Mary raised a brow and crossed her arms. This piqued his interest.
"The last trip I had, I brought with me dozens of servers and men—how does that help?" Francis couldn't fight off the smile lurking by the ends of his lips. He expected this kind of witty retort from Mary, and although he couldn't suspect any kind of complaint against a traveling companion, Mary always felt like she needed to have the last laugh. One way or another, she will fight with the best of her abilities to achieve that honor rightfully—and she will win inevitably.
"Are you, by any chance, trying to dissuade me? Because I can tell you, Mary, it's looking that way," his wife merely shook her head and gave a tight smile.
"Just pointing the flaw out, but who would you have me take, then? Hopefully not Catherine," she mutters and eyes a rather colorful rugs, a gift from an Italian nobleman. "While she's not berating me for leaving the bed, she's busy trying to blow me up to the size of a whale!" and he couldn't help himself. He had to laugh, because seeing the image of his mother scolding his wife while trying to feed her a croissant is a most precious sight to behold.
"Well, don't tempt me," an amused scoff of disbelief left Mary's lips and Francis felt like he could breathe again. He loved these moments where they're them. They're alone and themselves, not the King and Queen of anything. They were just Francis and Mary, and they were together. "I'll have to go and check with Charles and Bash, see if they're anywhere close to cracking the case with this overly literal heart thief enough to lend me their chief investigator," Bash would have been his first choice, no matter what.
Despite loving Delphine, Francis knows that Bash will always carry a flame for Mary. He will always fan the embers, because that's love. It doesn't just fade away, there's no quitting. Francis knows that, just by seeing the way Bash's eyes light up when he's to learn of Mary's recovery. He knows that his brother's affection will not fade away, but Francis could also be sure that Bash is in love. Perhaps with Delphine, or perhaps with the idea of being in love.
"Well, I'll have to ask him," taking her hand in his before looping it around his arm, Francis' brought her to their chambers and crossed the room towards their bed. "I know that you wouldn't agree to this, but try to rest, please," because I know you've been with someone and I could see it in your eyes that you're tired as I am, but those words went unsaid as he pressed his lips against her. Francis reluctantly pulled away. "I'll have to check on Bash, see if he's available as soon as tomorrow for your trip," it was a beautiful sight, the image of Mary's smile.
Albeit it being a devastatingly tired smile, the curved lips still made Francis' heart flutter like wings.
"Don't take too long, I couldn't sleep," he could see it in Mary's eyes, the unspoken words of without you.
"Of course, darling, anything you wish," and with a click of the door, Francis's smile turned into a frown as he adjusted his sword by his hip. He walked fast through the hall in hurry to get to the courtyard, now empty of the refugees and victims of the great fire, only to find a boy and a horse readied for him. "Where's the Master of Horse and Hunt?" Francis neared the stallion and ran his hand through its mane before climbing on his steed.
"He's by the brothel, Sire, the one managed by Her Majesty's former lady, the Lady Greer Castleroy," taking a step back, Francis felt the cold wind against his face as he rode towards the tavern, determined to end the robbing of hearts once and for all.
"Francis! I wasn't aware!" the heavily pregnant Greer motioned to a seat near Bash. "When your brother here told me that he was going to bring help from the French army, it never really crossed my mind that he'd bring the chief commander of the troops!" it was a warm and light joke that lifted the atmosphere, everyone's mood in fact, except Delphine, who seemingly felt the anger of the murderer, this heart thief that strikes fear in every heart near the village.
"Well, the castle was once infiltrated and with Mary, I couldn't take any chance," Francis eyed the beams of the tavern and the tight passageways. "Are you sure you can capture him? The chairs and tables will stall the both of you and the passageways can easily make for that damned thief's escape," there was little space in the tavern and he could almost hear Delphine's heart beat against her chest. "By God," he turned to the healer who he owed his life to, "Delphine, you're a fright! Bash, are you sure she's fine?"
Greer and Bash stopped their conversation midway and paused to look at Delphine as he held her by her arms. "What is it, what do you feel?" Bash stood up from his stool to kneel by Delphine's side. "Is he near? Is the killer here?" Bash asked before a loud clatter of noise was heard outside and near the wine cellar.
Francis felt his heart beat faster and he could hear almost nothing else. Will this be his end, 'death by a lunatic who collects hearts'? He hoped not as he ran up through the stairs leading to the empty town square, where men and drivers of coaches were found littered on the ground. "Blasted!" Bash ran to one of the men and pressed two finger against the neck. "This one's dead," turning to a side, Francis saw Greer holding up an arm before shaking her head.
Francis felt scared, but then he saw movement by the carriage and saw an injured stable boy, head bloodied and shirt soaked with crimson liquid. "This one is alive!" Bash and Greer came running, their breaths visible in the cold. "You, boy, what happened? Who attacked you?" but the answer was soon forgotten when there crashing and breaking of wooden furniture. "Who did this? Boy—no, don't die!" but it was effortless, the young boy's head lolled to a side.
"No," Bash muttered before rushing inside the brothel. It was only then when Francis realized what was wrong—they were missing one person; Delphine was left inside to deal with the murderer.
Taking Greer's hand, Francis lead her to a scene he wanted to forget. It was an image burned permanently in Francis' mind and he couldn't help but think of the situation with him and Mary. It hurts because it's so real and it could happen so easily. "I tried to. . .subdue him, Bash," Delphine was on the floor, in a tangled mess of broken wood and blood pooling around her. "I tried my best to be. . .s-strong, but he was too much," the scene rang familiar in his mind, Francis thought to himself, as he remembered Mary's pleas and crying.
She was begging him to come back to her.
"Don't," Bash gently pressed a finger against Delphine's shivering lips. "Save your energy, we'll get you to Nostradamus to the castle—just don't say anything," Francis rarely saw his brother like this; a mess trying to block off truth and believing a false reality or some kind of lie.
Delphine's lips glistened with red, Francis was frozen in his spot. His feet were glued and tied down to the ground. "Bash," his brother tried to get her to rest, but it was fruitless. It was obviously the end for Delphine, and while it was difficult to admit, the amount of blood spoke for itself. "Listen. . .please," Bash was left to wordlessly apply pressure to the open wound. "I only did it because I love you," she rasped through the bloodied lips. "I was only a woman who loved someone I couldn't have," and there was silence between them.
Delphine had fallen as another victim to the heart thief, and while her heart was still intact, Bash's universe was shattered into pieces.