You Are My Light Part II

318 - Back Rest

"Come here, darling." Francis says, taking Mary's gradually thickening waist into his hands as he slowly guided her to lay back against him. He doesn't care that his black and red brocade doublet gets wrinkled, nor does he pay attention when his ribs and pelvis begin to protest the weight now laying upon them. No, all that matters in this moment is Mary and Mary's welfare as she presses herself against him, the goose feather mattress beneath them sinking low as the pair's weight presses down against the material.

"Feel better?" the King of France asks, rubbing his thumbs into Mary's hips, that have been long hidden from him with their child making house inside her womb. She complains of back pain, of hip pain and of the painful kicks to her ribcage and the nausea and the unquenchable appetite, but she bears all of these ailments with a smile as she knows it's a fair exchange to bear these aches and ailments for their child, that the midwives say will grace their arms in the winter. Much loved and much wanted, this child will be their pillar of strength, a show of their love that will rule France and Scotland in a new age of peace and harmony.

"Much." Mary whispers, reaching out to take the mug of hot tea that Catherine brewed for her. As much as she was thrilled to be pregnant, Mary was miserable with cold-like symptoms. Catherine says it's normal, and the midwives aren't concerned, but her headaches and sore throat and chills and lethargy don't make for an easy few days. It's been happening for almost a week, a week away from duties and a week spend laid up in bed blowing her nose and hacking up phlegm in a way that Madame Horticia would have given Mary three lashes on the palm if she was still a schoolchild.

Francis took the mug when she was finished, not wanting his wife and Queen to strain herself in any way, in fear it would harm her or the precious life inside of her. He kisses her head, pulling her back to him so her entire body reclined against his front.

Mary sighs in relief as he takes her bump into her hands, crossing his fingers at the curve of her stomach and lifting slightly. He wishes he could take the strain off of her all the time, but the fact of the matter is that devoted husband he may be, but he is the King of France, so he settles for moments like this when he can take her pain and strains and pressure and take them upon himself. She complains of lower back pain accounting on the substantial weight upon her front, and accustoming herself with this new balance issue is a strange feeling she's only had as a child when Catherine made her wear high heeled shoes to mask the Medici Queen's clipping and clopping.

"Rest, my darling." Francis whispers, kissing her head again, inhaling the jasmine and peonies she has in her bathwater. "You didn't sleep a lot last night, and you must keep your strength."

Honestly, as ecstatic as he is to be starting a family with his wife, as the days and weeks and months passes and Mary's stomach grows, he worries about the birth and how his wife -already depleted from an exhausting pregnancy- will handle the hours and days of horrific pain. And the baby, so frail and innocent and delicate, how can he fit through the narrow pelvis when he already is so large in Mary's stomach? She's so large and round, the baby may rip her apart, and he worries for them both. King he may be, but apart from employing the best midwives and doctors in Europe, he can do nothing for her, and it's frustration he doesn't know how to express.

When Mary relaxes in his arms, finally taken by a delicate sleep, he runs his hand over her stomach, feeling the swell and the squirm of the delicate little life inside of her.

"You be gentle with your maman, little King." he whispers. "She needs her rest, so she can bring you to us."

A small foot kicks at his hand, and he smiles, worries extinguished for the moment.