Massacre

1

Mary took long steps over the lush green grass. Her golden satin heels sunk into the mud, blue floral lace gown trailing on the grass. Her chest heaved, her breaths short and sharp. A hand was placed over her bodice, she tried to calm her racing heart and debilitating anxiety. It did little to soothe. Her feet kept walking, walking and walking and walking until she was out of sight of the castle and surrounded by woodlands. One of Court's lakes lay in front of her, mirroring the lowering sun and the purple clouds. Her breath echoed in her ears, heart thumping in her chest. She gripped the floral lace of her skirts, another hand wiping her damp cheeks.

He had actually done it. He was actually going to subdue his wife and queen to a life his mother had lolloped through. He was actually going through with this.

How could he? She thought, silently asking the setting sun. As much as she despised the fact that he slept with Lola in Paris, she may be able to get over it. But this? How could she get over this? How could she -they- adapt to this?

The boy was going to be claimed. Gifted lands and titles and never able to be gone from her life. Until she died, every day she would wake up to the little bastard belonging to her husband and friend running around her court whilst she remained barren and dry.

Everybody would know. They would know it was because of her that they couldn't ever have a child. She would be in danger, and thus Scotland hung in the balance. She wasn't like Catherine. She couldn't wait a decade to have a son. She may not even ever have a son. She wouldn't ever have a son. Her royal blood was so much more desired than that of the Medici. All Catherine was by blood was an orphaned duchess that many would like to see without a head. But she? A Queen by blood, she was in so much more danger. There were many more that would lust to see her death.

And Francis knew this. He was the King of Scotland. Then why would he put her Queen and the country in danger all because he wanted one little bastard to have a little more in the bank? That child was nothing, he would live out the rest of his life scorned and hated by so many and so much. But he was going to be the thing that dissolved the royal marriage and may as well took his Queen's head whilst he was at it.

If Knox found out -which he would- then he would take her throne and most likely her head. Then where would Scotland be? English Catholics? French Catholics? Even just Scottish or French royalists. Her head would be removed, people would revolt. Revenge for revenge for revenge. A bloody stalemate that would turn from a civil war into an international war. Why would he do this?

Her tears grew heavier as her hand slipped from her cheek to the back of her neck. How long would it remain untainted? How long would the skin remain in tact? Her hand moved upwards to the base of her skull. How long would it be there, connected to her shoulders?

"Mary." a voice said. She jumped, a sharp gasp leaving her lips. She turned around and saw Francis standing there. His blue eyes were bright against the darkness of the sky. When did it get dark? How long had she been out there?

"Francis." the word came out choked. He didn't seem to notice it.

"We've been looking all over the castle for you, have you been here the entire time?" the King of France asked.

"I have."

"Whatever for? We are King and Queen, after all." Francis said, his head leaning to one side.

That's rich, coming from the man who abandoned his Queen and castle to run off into plague stricken lands, you were a King then, weren't you? Mary inwardly thought. But she settled upon "I needed a few moments to collect my thoughts." as her response to her husband.

 "What of?"

"You having a baby with my Lady for a start." Mary spat, turning from him and back to the water. She couldn't look at him.