Tampered Beauty

Fallen

Francis awoke slowly. He let out a moan, his voice grisly due to sleep. The closest arm extended out to the side, trying to find his wife and son as he had done for the past week and a half. But, instead of finding the little, sleeping lump that belonged to his son and the growing figure of his pregnant wife and Empress, his arm found nothing but the bed sheets. His eyebrows furrowed. That was odd. His head rose up a little, blonde curls even more curled and messier than usual. But, his eyes found what his hand did. Nothing. Nothing but little indentations of past figures in his marital bed.

He took comfort in the thrown sheets and bedclothes resting on the hamper at the foot of their bed, the curtains astrew on one side, the small satin tie undone and the physical, sheer curtain thrown back a tad, not falling right. He swallowed thickly, turning to the window. The sun was high up in the sky, the clouds a little larger than the day before. A shiver ran down his spine, so he pulled one of the furs laying across from him closer, protecting himself from the early November chill.

Slowly gathering himself from the bed, he untied and pulled back the other curtain, slowly lolloping over to the small table near another window, rubbing his arms together. Although not as cold as his wife's homeland, English weather in November was quite a bit colder than France. Languidly, he reached towards a small table, filling a goblet with water and taking it like a shot, enjoying the feeling of his throat being soothed by the cool liquid. He rolled his neck, sighing as the bones cracked loudly. He drained two more goblets, before throwing back some liquid on his face, waking himself up.

Wiping his face clean from the cold water, he cleared his throat softly. It had to be nearly midday now, and he usually would have been awake hours before his pregnant wife, but the King had spent the last five days travelling and visiting young John at the comfortably sized Hansbury House in the North-West of Wales. It was the home gifted to the boy by his father-with Mary's permission- after his last birthday, the child not taking to his step fathers' home as much as his father would have liked him to. 

John was healthy and far more contented than he was in Scottish -or French, for that matter,- Court. Although still angered by certain subjects, the boy adored his father and was so excited to lay eyes on him when he came to the house four and a half days ago.

"John, darling." Lola had chirped when he arrived, dishevelled in riding clothes and all. "There's a visitor for you." 

"Who?" John had wined. "Another boring person wanting me to be a nice boy to the Prince?" he asked, voice quite mispronounced and slurred. "No, I won't do it!"

"Not quite, love." his mother smiled as her fair haired son had came into the room.

John instantly lay eyes on his father. Little footsteps halted and he beamed, big blue eyes wide. "Papa!" he shrieked, running forwards into his fathers' arms.

The child had been happier than the last time Francis lay eyes on him, content in his new residence and happily oblivious to how much the servants disliked his mere existence, as well as his mothers. There were only a few of them to attend to the Dame, Sir and young Baron, after all. Not nearly enough to make a valid difference to John's mentality, and their dislike of his bastardy was disguised as much as possible.

The duo had had a nice three days together, riding in the hills and practising archery in the mornings, walking on the grounds in the evenings and enjoying each others' presence. Although it wasn't the same for Francis, a horridly true thing, he was very aware that he wanted to father this child as much as he was able, preferably without angering his wife or making his other children filled with the same jealousy and resentment that both of his sons had been filled with at one point or another.