It seems even God wishes to punish her for her sins this day. How much does she have to endure, suffer, because of one decision made not out of some sort of sinful romanticised plot influenced by betrayal and heartache, but fear and the need to protect the one she loved the most. Was that still the case? Did she still love him the most? Did she love him the same way after watching him take stride on a horse and gallop into fate's hand, gambling everything they have and may yet have, all for a child that he was never supposed to know about? It's been days now, and still no word from either one of them, no return with gallantry and romanticism and joy in the midst of so much fear and unrest and death. She's never felt so alone than she does in this moment, and after the last year of French Courtly life, that is quite the statement, even if she doesn't say it aloud.
She can see the Lord now, wishing to overwash her body with even more pain than she already had swallowed over the last week. Does he take satisfaction in this notion? Is the Lord gleeful as he watches her gasp and moan in pain, clutching at her abdomen, trying to rest her body weight on her dresser and her table, for her body is too weak and pained to hold the small limbs? How much pain will it be until the Lord declares her free? Or, is this pain some sort of cruel punishment? For she knows that her Lady has borne her husband something that the Queen herself has not, and never will do? For months, she's grown hopeful as her breasts begin to swell and her hips begin to ache, and she lays with her husband to try and bid the wizard prophet wrong, yet her hopes are destroyed as she bleeds without fail.
A cruel joke played on her by the Christian God, for she knows that somewhere, Francis and Lola are playing house with their bastard offspring, celebrating Lola's fertility, one that is yet another cruel jeer from the Lord above. She winces and gasps as the imagined visions of Lola and Francis' one night begin to mock her, she groans when she imagines the birth of their child, for her stomach continues to cramp in fear, in pain, in the lack of fertility, one that she now knows she will never be able to overcome. A barren wife, what use is that to a man, yet alone a King? A paper castle, a seedless vegetable, unfruitful soil. The jeers mock her, and she is angered by the whispered voices so much that she sends a chair to its back with a cry of anger and pain, for another wave of pain overtakes her lower abdomen. Once again, no child within her. She will never be able to hold a child within her womb, she will never get to cherish a little boy with curls, she will never be able to set eyes on a little girl with bright eyes and a mischievous smile. Good God, she'd risk so much just for one chance to roll the dice.
Is that why her husband had abandoned her for his lover?
By some miracle, should she ever produce a child, would the bastard born hold favour in his father's' eyes? Would the child seeded during steamy, passionate intimacy hold weight over any child sired in the ancient, ceremonial, dull marriage bed? Waves of blood red satin fly past her eyes, and they are contradicted by stiff white cotton and aged, dusty lace. Her stomach rolls at the mere thought of such a concept. Were the two of them destined to turn into the parents they had always sworn never to be? Would she live the rest of her days, unloved and feared, whispered about by the pit of vipers, who give her a wide berth, never daring to touch or get close. Isolation, a life of isolation and duty, and should she ever have a child, a child born of rigid and dull marital status who is turned away by their father in favour of the child born of passion and intimacy.
Good God, the pain continues to grow.
Mary is tempted to cry out for mercy, but she is stifled by the rare appearance of another human being in her chambers. It is not the man who abandoned her, nor the woman who betrayed her, simply three servants with cloth over their faces and sheets in their hands. One holds a tray of food and wine, and she places it on a table with a nervous curtsey.
"Are you feeling alright, M'lady?" One asks, Mary looks at her for a moment, it's her little Charlotte. Young, fair haired and blue eyed. The cruel irony makes Mary wish to hate this girl, but she dares not to, feeling herself fall into Catherine's mold by the day.
"Yes, of course. I'm fine." Mary says, straightening up.
"Forgive me, but your Majesty seems pale. And Isla and Hadley have seen blood upon your linen. Shall we fetch some herbs for your monthlies, your Grace?" the girl asks. Little Charlotte, she's so sweet, she reminds her of Aylee in a way. Her beautiful little Aylee, who was taken from her so long ago, to save her life from Catherine, from equally as loyal Clarissa. "Or perhaps a physician? There is more blood than usual, highness."
"No, I-I wouldn't want to disrupt anybody from their isolation. There is risk in you being here, child." she says. Charlotte doesn't seem convinced, and honestly, Mary wouldn't be if she was in the girls' poorly made shoes. After provisions had been made, the entire French Court had taken to their rooms to wait the plague out. Complete isolation for almost an entire week, perhaps a taste of the life that was to come if ever her husband decided to be King?
"Forgive me, but your Grace does not seem well." Hadley said, Mary looks at the red headed, dark eyed girl in matching uniforms.
Mary opens her mouth to reply, but a hiss leaves her mouth as a wave of pain unlike any she has known in her monthly cycles causes her knees to buckle. Her handmaidens shriek in fright, Hadley managing to stabilize her new Queen, catching her.
Mary feels something so strange in that moment that she doesn't respond to the ladies. A dropping feeling in her gut, a stretching in her womanliness that is so foreign to her, foreign enough to tell her something is very wrong.
"Your Majesty!" Isla screeches. "Good God, the blood!" she cries out. Mary glances at her feet, and sure enough, she suddenly stands in a pool of her own blood. But it's not just blood, there is a clear liquid that swirls like oil does in water. Her eyes would have widened if she was not so preoccupied by lifting her skirts and feeling the river of blood skating down her thighs. She pulls her fingers out, and there is clear fluid over her fingertips, tinged with blood. She gasps.
"Your Majesty, I-I-" Charlotte stutters. "I fear you are loosing a child."
The words do not register with the new Queen of France. She doesn't understand the decade of words, nor does she have time to try and make defination of the sentence, because suddenly, she's being sat onto her bed, and her skirts are lifted once more, after little Hadley had begged permission to look. She nods, and suddenly, the girls are screaming as Mary contorts in pain.
"Little feet! I see little feet!" Hadley cries out. "Fetch a midwife, fetch a physician, fetch anybody! The Queen is having a child!"
/
I don't know what this is at all, but I've always wondered what it would be like if Mary hadn't known she was pregnant through the first season. (And yes, some women don't know they're pregnant) I have an idea for a part 2 if you guys wanna see it!
