You Are My Light Part II

327 - Letters

"Majesty." Mary looks up at the sound of the door opening and her squire -Marcus- walking in, bowing, before handing her a large wad of parchment. Held together in a red satin bow, wrapped on both sides, slightly crinkled with travels and varying rough handling, and smelling of vanilla and oak nonetheless. "Your messages from France, from the King and your ladies."

"Thank you, dear." She takes them in both hands, one on top and one on the bottom, raising to take and sitting to unravel. Marcus bows again and leaves, and Mary pushes her letter to the Duke of Malborough to one side to focus on her letters.

The first one was from Francis, saying all the usual things one would expect from a loving husband missing his wife. Saying how much he loved her, that the children were well and were missing her and their siblings, his mother's latest dalliances and the latest news on his eldest younger brothers engagement plans, how he hopes to see her soon and hopes the latest unsettlement in her homeland would pass soon so she could return to her family. The usual correspondence from husband to wife and King to Queen.

But it was the code that interested her.

"Brother," Mary calls from the other side of the room. James Stuart, the earl of Moray, looks up at his sisters call and walks over to her, eyebrow raised in question.

"Francis is going to marry Margaret to the King of Navarre." She reveals. The other eyebrow of her bastard brother raises in surprise.

"But Navarre is protestant. And you told me about all that bother with Kenna, Sebastian and the King. Don't tell me your husband still hasn't learned his lesson about making the dinner table awkward with unwanted guests. How long did it take for Jean-Philippe to be welcomed into the family, and for Sebastian to forgive Kenna?"

"I know," she sighs. "He tells me his mother is furious, that she tried to seduce and then poison the clerk that would make it official when that didn't work."

James retches at the thought of a woman older than his mother engaging in bedsport. But he composes himself after his sister gives him a small smile of amusement.

"What do you think?"

"It's a double edged sword. Catherine is furious, he says, and all eyes will be upon me for my response. It'll look like I'm gathering support to make a pass to England."

"Well, you are." James notes. "It's been the plan from the start ever since you got Knox under the thumb after Narciesse. Strengthen Scotland, strengthen France, get Navarre from under Elizabeth's influence. And strike. You've got everything she does not, sister dear. Married, several children, heirs and sons. But yes, they will look for you, look at you for your response."

"But we'll need to be careful. My husband is not a subtle man, my husband is not a manipulator. He wears his heart on his sleeve, take Jean-Philippe and all the ruckus that caused."

James huffs, shaking his head. "Poor boy."

"Yes," Mary isn't sorry to see the back of the child, and she's greatful for the break from the uproar and violence her husband's bastard causes on a daily basis. But his main muse, his eldest younger half brother, is here with her, as well as the twins she delivered last November, and her stepson is Francis' problem until this one is resolved. "But we'll have to tread very carefully. You know Elizabeth sweats whenever James and I travel north."

"She does." The bastard son of their father replies, licking his lips. "Who will you get on side, to help us with this?"

"I'm calling in an old favour," Mary notes, pressing her quill into the parchment. "the King of Portugal has long since owed me one, he's never forgotten that bother with Tomàs."

"And if he makes noise? Makes a statement that the true Queen of England is in the north, not the south?"

"Then our cousin will finally end this endless, bloody, political tyrade her siblings and father have shackled me with. We'll end this, face to face, and one way or another, England will be mine."