The Life Of A Queen

Chapter 4

  Mary lay sobbing onto her pillow, holding her aching chest through her over sized black light girdle. She was curled up to her satin pillows, hardly remembering to breathe properly, before hearing the secret passage's door open gently. She looked up, eyes red and puffy, cheeks wet, seeing her French Dauphin walk through the door and close it behind him.
"Mary," he whispered. Seeing that it wasn't anybody whom she had to put a facade on in front of, she let her head collapse onto the pillows again, starting to openly sob again.
"Mary," he had cooed, walking over to her, crawling on top of her soft sheets and laying behind her, wrapping his arms around her. She twisted in his grip and curled into his arms, sobbing into his chest. He cooed into her ear, whispering soothing words in his native tongue, kissing her hair and stroking the soft raven waves, holding her for as long as she'd let him. It was so strange, being in this position. He'd never of thought of doing this when they'd first met, but it felt so natural right now. It was hurting him, seeing her this broken. And, seeing her this broken was ridiculous. She was six years old! He only seven! They shouldn't be in this position! He shouldn't have to comfort his inconsolable fiancee after she'd watched her mother get brutalized before her very eyes!
He'd heard the faintest details about what had happened from listening to his mother and fathers' hushed conversations with Bothwell. Even that was small details, and those were graphic enough. There was no way that Bothwell knew exactly what had happened. He wasn't there when the horror took place and Mary couldn't have told him in detail what had happened, she must have been more inconsolable as she was now.
Before a brief interval of the sobs stopping, he reached over and fed her the soup that had been left at her bedside and had her drink half a jug of water from one of the goblets left by her bedside, to make sure she had some physical strength and dry herself out with the amount of tears she had been crying, before she had curled up to his chest, him laying down on the satin pillows, their legs slightly intertwined, and closed her eyes, allowing sleep to take over, the mental and physical exhaustion taking it's tole.
They went like this for a few hours. He'd hold her as she sobbed, had her eat and drink, softly sing French lullabies into her ear, stroke her hair as she nodded off and hold her as she slept. He'd wake her if she fell into a nightmare, hold her as she cried once more, kiss her head as she curled into him and lull her into sleep once more.
"It'll be alright now," he whispered into her ear, as she slept lightly on his chest. "You have me, and i'll never leave you. We'll make it through this, I promise."
A few days later, Mary opened her eyes at the familiar sound of steps walking towards her. Her grief had taken a physical tole on her body, as she was now struck down with fever and exhaustion. Her head pounded, her body ached, her skin was clammy and sweat covered. She could barely move a muscle without a searing pain down her body. The back of her throat screamed and the back of her nose burned, her eyeballs stinging and the usual beautiful raven hair was now dull and lackluster. Her skin was now a deathly pale and she was confined to her chambers, nobody but the physician and the servants allowed entry. The physician forced tonics and herbs down her throat, different herbal teas and light foods being constantly brought near her, to soothe and heal her.
Her doe, half lidded eyes -that had faded into a dark black colour, a horrid change from the beautiful green-blue all at court had accustomed too,- opened a little, her eyelashes matter together from the strong fever and sweat.
She saw Francis walking slowly towards her, holding a silver tray of covered bowls and cups, as well as a strand of Bell Heather, one of the signature flowers grown in her homeland that she missed and feared so much. He was dressed in his usual dark attire, a white tunic hanging over his frame, blonde curls unruly and blue eyes concerned.
"Francis," she whispered, her voice weak. Her throat hurt from talking.
"Marie," he said quietly. She was grateful. Loud sounds hurt her head. "I thought you'd want some company," he whispered, placing the tray down on one of the bedside tables. She nodded once, reaching out a clammy, sweat slicked and slightly trembling pale left hand to him. He took it and threaded his fingers through hers, bringing them up to his lips, not reacting to the concerning heat that covered her skin.
"You shouldn't be here," Mary whispered. "You could get caught and your mother will hate me even more, for getting you unwell," she said, her eyes drifting closed.
"I don't care, let her think I'm being irresponsible. You're sick." Francis said, placing her limp hand and arm on the bed, removing his boots, before climbing into the bed with her. "And I have to make you feel better,"
Instinctively, they both curled up against each other, a common trait both had learned before Marie's death and after they had gotten close, before Mary had gone away for a few weeks. It happened at their night lessons, or at balls or when the governess would read them and the other royal children a bedtime story before they'd go to sleep. Well, that had been before Mary had been granted her own chamber, due to the fact the was now a ruling regnant, not a regnant with a regent.
He lay beside her and she curled up to him, placing her head on his chest, her arms wrapped around his neck and their legs curled together. Her held her by her white chiffon nightgown covered waist, kissing her temple softly, whispering that he loved her and would make her feel better soon. Mary closed her eyes and rested her head in the crook of his neck, hearing the lullaby of his heartbeat under his skin. And, quickly, she fell asleep in his warm embrace.
The door slammed open, making the young girl instinctively hold onto her betrothed tighter, as if making sure the woman who she already knew was there wouldn't take him away, like she knew she wanted to do.
"Mother," Francis croaked. The sound made Mary aware that he'd slept as well. "You mustn't let the door bang like that, it hurts her head," he said quietly. Mary's eyes fluttered open, looking up at Francis curiously, dazed from her fever, before her eyes fell to the Queen Consort of France. She immediately closed them after finding the dark eyes of Catherine. Everybody in court knew Catherine hated Mary, but the reason was unclear. She had made her son happy in the brief window of time she had been allowed to do so, knew better than to flaunt her royal blood at the Italian born noble, didn't insult her or her country and did her best not to vex her as much as possible. Was it that she could command Francis' attention better than the Queen could? Was it due to the fact Francis had started running to her and not Catherine? Or were the rumors true that Francis had came alive once she had arrived in France, as he was sickly and weak as a child?
"Your majesty," the newly appointed Earl of Bothwell whispered to his grieving Queen in raven skirts, kneeling next to her as she curled up in her overstuffed small couch that resided in her French chambers. She'd been allowed two weeks of solitary grieving in her chambers, now however was the time to be the Queen she was again, even though the little girl wasn't even seven years old. "your presence is required in the main hallway. You, the king of France, the Dauphin and Queen must greet your guests."
Mary nodded solemnly, raising her eyes to meet that of her bodyguard and one of her closest advisers. With the regent dead and no others eligible to rule in her stead, the little Queen was forced to rule her country without any help, to minimize the wars for power that had raged her lands for the first five years of her life. With no choice, she had to learn how to rule on the job.
Bothwell smiled sadly, seeing the shrunken in cheekbones and dark circles under her eyes, the normal pretty hazel eyes now darkened to a colour of raven that matched her tresses and tulle, lace and sparkle gown. His Queen was still deep in the throws of grieving, however had no choice but to forget feelings and rule the best she possibly could, trying so incredibly hard to find out who she could trust and who prayed for her downfall.
"Of course," she whispered, Bothwell smiled a little and picked her up from her chair, leading her over to the dressing table where she covered her under eyes in makeup and straightened her crown, before being lead by the hand by the Earl.
"Her Majesty, Queen Mary, of Wales, Ireland and Scotland and it's isles," she was introduced, joining the small line of royals as they awaited their mysterious guests. The dauphin looked at her out of the corner of her eye. She could see how he stepped a few inches closer to her, extending a gold embroidered arm out to her, she took it, like a good royal should, and could see the faint smile on the Queen of France's mouth, before the guests were announced.
"King Antoine of Navarre, Louis and Mionette, Prince and Princess of Conde and Margot, Duchess of Maille." was announced, as the royals looked over at the four people walking into the main hall.
"Majesty," Henry bowed his head a little, to the man he both respected and disliked.
"Majesty," Antione did the same. "I trust you remember my brother, Louis, and sister in law, Mionette?"
"Indeed, Antione. I trust you both are well,"
"Very well, your Majesty. May I introduce you to our daughter, Margot, Duchess of Maille." Louis said, nodding to the short brunette four year old in navy silk. She curtsied a little.
"Your Majesty,"
"A pleasure to meet you, child." Catherine smiled, a little forced. "May I introduce you to my son, The Dauphin, Francis de Valois, and his betrothed, Mary, Queen of Scotland, Ireland and Wales, Duchess of Lorraine." Catherine nodded to the children, who smiled softly.
"A pleasure, Margot," Francis said. Mary nodded to the child, once, before they turned to Henry.
"Majesty, may I see you in the throne room? There is much to discuss between your country and mine,"
"Of course, come. You are all dismissed,"
Francis lead his little Queen by the hand, over to the tree where he, she, Bash and little Elizabeth and Claude had spent a lot of time playing, before Mary was called back to Scotland to crush the rebellion, before the horrible murder had happened.
There, they found Bash and the two little Princesses laying and climbing around the branches. She cracked a smile as her Prince lead her over to them. They played and climbed up and down, finally being children again.
The happiness was not to last so long, however.
The little Queen stood glaring at her subject as he held her betrothed and his parents hostage in a basement of a random abandoned tavern in the village.
"I sent my men to Edinburgh to kill you," he sneered.
"And they failed, my mother protected me. She is dead because of you,"
"She is dead because she brought filth to the Gaelic bloodline, French blood has no place in the eyes of the Scots. I stopped that whore from ever diluting Scottish blood ever again. And, it will never dilute that of a Welsh or Irish Monarch. Now, I only have one more obstacle to overcome," he took steps closer to her with every word. "A vulnerable little girl, all alone on foreign land, nobody left to protect her."
"You and your clan desperately want my crown. My head and my blood. You are no better than the English who daily try to take my life and spill my blood." Munro spat on the ground at the mere mention of an Englishman. Well, at least she had that in common with the man who stood in front of her. They both hated the English. The subjects of the Gaelic alliance despised every single Englishman that had walked the earth, the same feelings towards them being shown by the English. "They have failed time and time again. You have failed, time and time again." she said, glaring into the eyes of the man who murdered her mother in front of her eyes. "You wouldn't have, if you had figured out who you were actually targeting, however," she said, walking around him casually. "You would know that all that time you had tried to poison me, behead me and stab me, that I have grown stronger. I have done unfathomable things to keep my head, slaughtered many of my own countrymen and that of an Englishman to keep my head and my blood. But you don't know that. You don't."
"All that time you spent fighting for your life, my Queen," he spat. "have all been for nothing. Your mother cast my family to steal, starve and die, in your name. It matters not how it began. Those who brought suffering and death upon my family will die. Your mother paid her price, and you will too. It matters not when, nor how, it began. Somebody will finish this this night," he sneered.
She narrowed her eyes, squared her shoulders, straightened her back and raised her chin, suddenly aging herself a decade. Giving the French a glance of the Queen she would one day become.
"I know," was the only response, before grabbing the sword she had kept close, thrusting it into Munro's throat, watching as he slowly choked on his own blood, collapsing to the floor. She heard the screams of Catherine and Francis, noticed the lack of reaction from Henry, but only paid attention to the dying man in front of her. She stared into his eyes, her own blank and unmoving, watching him slowly die, taking vengeance for her mother, slowly becoming the cold hearted queen she had to be, to rule.