Rebirth

Chapter 19

He said a few words, before Bothwell spoke.

"I, James Hepburn, take thee, Mary Stuart, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I pledge thee my faith and pledge myself to you or plight thee my troth." He grinned, forcing a circlet of gold with a large ruby onto her finger. Mary had been sobbing all the way through his vows, trying to jerk her hand away from him and run away, but his grip had been too tight. She couldn't do anything.

"And you, my Queen." the bishop said, indicating her to repeat the words. Mary sobbed and shook her head.

"No. I will not marry him. You can't make me."

"You love your children, don't you? You want to see your precious French King rule your country as well as his?"

"What are you talking about?"

"If you don't do this, give me the crown, you can say goodbye to that wish." he growled, their noses touching. Mary's eyes widened and she sobbed harder.

"You-you wouldn't!"

"Try me."

"My Queen," the bishop said again.

"No. I don't want to do this. I wish for only death." she sobbed.

"Either you do this, or your hands will be bathed in your baby's blood. Your choice." He growled. Mary sobbed harder, feeling the sharp press of a blade against her. The choise was made. Her sons had to be protected. If nessecary, with her own life.

"I, Mary Stuart, take thee, James Hepburn, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I pledge thee my faith or pledge myself to you or plight thee my troth." she sobbed.

"Good. Let's give the news, wife."

Walking past the chambers, James Stewart, the Earl of Moray, closed his eyes, hearing firmiliar screams coming from the royal bedchamber. The two hated each other more than anything. Bothwell was rude, pretentious, false, powerhungry, abhorant, abusive, rude, insolent and voilent. As soon as news reached that Mary had been forced to wed her captor and the man who was the main suspect in the murder of Darnley, things had started to go downhill. Thankfully, because Mary had whitnesses that the wedding had been forced and she hadn't wanted to wed the man who had held her captive, the vatican and her Catholic allies hadn't turned against her and wanted to kill her husband, but also because they hated the Protestant King, Catholic and Protestant were at each others' throats again. Even though Mary had been fiercley tolerant through her entire reign. Her country was starting to turn against each other, against her, it was clear. People were starting to pine for her son to be the King of Scotland and England under James' regency, Mary was well aware.

Inside the room, the deed was soon done. Bothwell's wife lay sobbing softly on the bed, the sinful King -if he could still be called a King at all- getting up and pulling on a robe. Mary coughed loudly, wheezes making the sound even louder. She started leaning up on her elbows and crawling over to the end of the bed, grabbing the remenents of her ripped housecoat and covering her bruised and bloody body, as well as the prominent swell of her third pregnancy. Looking down, she half smiled, wishing more than ever that Francis was here with her. Nond of this would be happening. She wouldnt have had to marry Darnley and Bothwell would be far from her and the children. She'd have a good, loyal King at her side and happy Princes at her feet. None of which she actually had.

Of course, John, James and Edward were stifled and hidden from their mother's pain and fear and poisoned union. As much as she physically could, they were hidden. She was only seen to her children a few times a day, a little more for the youngest so he could feed from her. But, the children were ever so perceptive, and they could see behind their mothers lies and smeared eyeliner. A trick they'd inherited to the only true husband Mary ever really had. The baby was too young to notice, but he wouldn't stay that way for long.

She looked down at the swell of her abdomen. It was bigger than before. Much, much bigger than her previous pregnancies. Almost double the size. There was no doubt of who the father was, Bothwell regularly forced himself upon his Queen. But the size of the bump -which couldn't remain to be simple overindulgence at meals for much longer- worried her.

He hadn't allowed her to make the announcement. He hadn't claimed the babe that grew within her. It could still be cast off as a bastard, bringing with it his or her mothers head.

And Mary understood the life of a bastard child. She didn't have to look farther than her post trusted hald brother, nor much farther than her own eldest son. She had protected them both as much as possible, but this child couldn't be protected for much longer.

A king could have a bastard, but god forbid the Queen had one. Even if her bastard was legitimate.

Mary walked over towards the bathtub and sat on the edge, dipping in a hand, still finding it warm. She sighed in relief, taking off the housecoat and leaving herself in her bathing gown, slipping inside the warm water with a relieved sigh, completley submerging herself.

A laugh almost bubbled out of her chest, remembering the first time that it had happened in France, the ailing Catherine de Medici's words ringing in her mind. Submerge yourself, my dear. It will soothe as well as clense.

Mary's eyes fluttered closed. She wasn't going through with her threat of a few months ago, just before he had forced her hand -literally- in marriage, just before she found out of her fourth pregnancy. She had threatened to drown herself out of suicidal despair from the hell of her marriage and the current discord he had forced her country in.

It wouldn't be like this for long, she reminded herself, letting out all the air from her lungs. As soon as Bothwell claimed the pregnancy, she could work on deminishing his power and influence, before sending him to death for assaulting his queen. They hadn't been married when he'd forced her to get pregnant.

She remembered those few hours of bliss, her only willing pregnancy, with her beloved at her side and their only living baby in her womb. All those times with Francis, how she loved him. How she still missed him. How she wished James got to know his father. How she wished she had known her own father. Would he be proud? Disapointed?

He may have lived on within her, but she damn sure didn't feel his presence now. Maybe, soon. Just a few more moments, she may feel his tender touch. Just a few more moments.

Just a few more moments.