War of Hearts || Reign || REWRITE

Chapter 2

May 5th 1562, Château de Louvre, Paris

I walk with Maximilian to the chambers of Francis, the crown prince of France. His guards let us through without question.

The audience chamber and private room are empty. Even the attendants are gone. Maximilian raises his brows at me, and I shrug.
"That is strange," I murmur. It is already afternoon; one would expect the prince's chambers to be busier than this.

Suddenly the door bursts open. A half-dressed lady slips out of Francis's chamber, her gown hanging loosely from her shoulders, her hair tumbling in disarray. When she sees us she lets out a small squeal, drops into a quick curtsy, and rushes past us into the audience room.

I hear another door open and close, and then silence.

Max shakes his head. "So early in the day."
I laugh softly and step into the bedchamber. Francis lies face-down across his bed, the blankets pulled only to his waist. He is completely bare.

I glance at Maximilian. "How long do you think before your father summons him?"
Max considers. "We have twenty minutes, perhaps."

"Then we must hurry." I stride to the bed and rip the blankets away. "Francis, wake up—now!" I grab his shoulders and shake him. Maximilian pulls the curtains wide, flooding the room with afternoon sun.

Francis groans, opening his eyes. He looks from me to Max, who has come to stand beside me.
"What are you two doing here?" He rolls onto his back and I quickly avert my gaze; I have no desire to see him fully naked.

"Father will call for you soon," Maximilian says. "He has news. Wash, dress, and be ready. Bianca, fetch him some clothes."

I hurry into the garderobe and select a black doublet, a white chemise, and black hose from the chests. When I return, Francis is splashing cold water over himself at the basin, while Max quietly repeats what I told him.

"Damn it," Francis mutters as he dries off and begins to dress. I turn my back to him, out of respect. "I thought he would delay. We gain nothing from Scotland."

"On the contrary," Maximilian counters. "If Mary becomes queen of England, then the Valois will hold half of Europe. Father would achieve what our ancestors never could. It is the best thing for our house."

Francis spins toward him. "If it is so good, then you marry her. Your name is Valois too."

Max grins. "Yes, but I, dear brother, am a bastard. We do not enjoy the same privileges." He gestures between us. "Bianca and I both know this well."

"Lucky bastard," Francis hisses. He pulls the doublet across his shoulders and fastens it. "There. Better?"

I smooth a hand through his blond curls. "Yes. Now you look as though you have not been rutting like a stallion."

Francis gasps theatrically. "My lady Bianca, such words are not fitting for a virtuous maiden like yourself."
I roll my eyes. "If you—and especially Maximilian—had not corrupted my innocence so young, I would never speak so."

"No one forced you to befriend me, Bia," Max protests. "I only pitied the poor little Italian girl. And look what she has become."

From the moment I arrived in France, nine years ago, Maximilian has been my closest friend.

He, the illegitimate son of King Henri and his mistress Diane de Poitiers, was one of the few children at court. Though Queen Catherine objected to his presence at court, Diane insisted, and the king indulged her. Catherine's own children were handed to governesses and tutors; she never truly knew the life of a mother. Until I arrived.

I was her distant niece, a bastard child from Italy. At first she bristled at my presence, but she soon saw something of herself in me. From that day, I was her ward. Henri had no claim over me; Catherine directed my tutors and gave me all I could wish for.

Though Catherine and Diane despised each other, the children they raised gravitated toward one another. Max and I had much in common: both illegitimate, both separated from our siblings, both loved by our fathers. We became inseparable.

Even the crown prince, though bound by duty, became part of our circle as they grew older. Yet none of those ties were stronger than the bond between Maximilian and me.

"Perhaps I pitied the poor, lonely French bastard," I tease.

Max shoots me a challenging look. "Is that so? Well, I do not pity you anymore." With no warning he lunges, knocking me onto the bed.

I shriek, thrashing beneath him. "Get off me! You will crush me to death! Help! Francis, help me!" Max's fingers dig playfully at my sides, but through the stiff bodice and layers of skirts I feel nothing.
"You fool! I wear stays—you cannot tickle me!" I shout, locking his head in a playful grip.

The chamber doors slam open. Guards rush in, lances leveled.
"Your Highness!" they cry.

Seeing Francis unharmed, they lower their weapons. He waves them away. "Go, there is no danger. Though perhaps fetch a physician if this goes badly." He glances between Max and me as we scramble off the bed.

The guards retreat, and Francis faces us again, his smile fading.

I study him with concern. "Are you all right?"

He nods. "I knew the day would come, but it unsettles me all the same, marrying a stranger."

Max lifts his brows. "She is hardly a stranger. Mary was at court for months before returning to her family. You played together."

"She was six years old then, and not a clever child. Her accent was thick, her manners poor." Francis sighs. "I can only hope she has changed. They say the Guise family is strict, devout. Her grandmother will have fashioned her into a queenly woman by now."

"Then we shall see," I say gently.

A knock, and the door opens. A valet bows low. "Your Highness, His Majesty summons you."

Francis nods, then turns to us. "Will I see you later?"
Max inclines his head. I shake mine. "I think I shall stay with your mother tonight—perhaps I can soothe her temper."

"Thank you," Francis says earnestly. "Tell her I will sit with her this evening." He leaves, and the door closes behind him.

Maximilian looks at me. "Let us hope Mary has indeed changed."
I meet his gaze. "Let us hope."