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24th January 1585
French court had been a different place ever since the death of King Charles and the rise of King Henri. The bitter truth was the fact that the realm had prospered under the wake of the new King, no more was the country held up by foreign regime.
Nine years had passed since the coronation of King Henri-Francis and many things had changed. The King was no longer a boy and, at the age of twenty-three, he was able to make his own decisions and not have to rely on his regent to make them for him.
Harry still remembered his father's funeral, as if it were yesterday, the way his mother cried silently, the way his siblings huddled together, the way he had to walk alone. Not even John was allowed to walk at his side as he followed his fathers coffin to the Basilica of Saint-Denis.
The King had once been a bright and cheerful boy, but the innocence and joy that he held was soon crushed by the breath-taking weight of the crown. When his mother lost the vote of regency to Lord Narcisse it had only worsened the feeling of loneliness for the young King, his mother and siblings left for England as he watched with John from the shore. He was by no means a foreign King, but this was not his home.
---
It was a cold day in French court, the grounds were hard and cold, coated in a light layer of frost like a cake that had been sparingly iced. The winds neither howled nor did they still, they more so crept around the people of France as if they were ghouls stalking their pray, creeping up their spines in a moment of silence to whisper terrifying horrors that made their bodies shake with fright.
The weather tried its best, but nothing would stop the resilience of the dock workers and guards who spent their energy on the things that the richer people would not dare to do. Some of them were lifting heavy furniture from the ships and others were readying the carriage for the nobles who had just arrived.
A dark haired, middle-aged woman stood on her own at the docs. She twisted her hands together nervously as she looked up at the castle in all its glory, the last time that the woman had been here, she was a Queen. A Queen in her own right, and now she was nothing more than the mother of a King.
Mary, dowager Queen of Scots, held no contempt or anger for the Valois-Angouleme family, more specifically Tulia, for not reinstating her as Queen but that did not mean that she was not disappointed. Before that point, there had not been a single sentient day of her life in which she was not the Queen, it had been a hard transition but Mary knew that Tulia gave her all just to spare her life. If Tulia had never existed, Mary would be dead.
"Aunt Mary?" a soft voice called out to her, snapping her out of her dream-like trance. Mary turned around to look at the young woman in front of her.
