Princess Isabella

Part 1

"Francis, we need to talk." the Queen Mother of France said, walking into her son's study where he sat writing at his desk, sitting comfortably in front of the large European map. Ocean blue orbs moved up from an edict about the north of Borleign and to his mother whom strode inside the room without knocking.

"What is it?" he dropped the quill to the piece of parchment and sat back into the overstuffed, grand chair, black and silver doublet impressive and eye catching as he reclined, every inch a King. He looked older somewhat, although the man was still youthful and in his prime. "Is it one of the children?" he asked, remembering his mothers' newest position in court, overseer of the royal nursery where his heirs and his bastard slept.

"No, they're fine." she smiled at the thought of the small children, before turning serious again.

"Mary and the baby?" he guessed, eye twinkling at the thought of his wife and their newborn son Arthur. Catherine noticed, biting back the ache in her heart. Her son was her son until he found a wife, now he was a husband and had sons in his own right, not even mentioning his success as a King and recently declared consort-heirship to England from the dying Elizabeth.

"Not at all," she stated, sitting down in front of him.

"What, then?" Francis asked, settling himself against the back of his chair, his quill in between his fingers, for something to fiddle with and put emphasis upon, it seemed.

"Lady Lola," Catherine nearly spat the name. The former Lady Narciesse had been a thorn in all of their sides. In Francis' for disrupting his marriage with their child and the problems thereafter. In Catherine's for stealing her beloved lover Narciesse away from her and marrying him. It had been sweet for Catherine, to implode their marriage in a way that he and nearly done to her sons. The union between Lord and Lady Narciesse had ended in annulment after his affair with the Queen Mother came to light almost eight months ago.

"What about her?" Francis sighed, tiring easily of hearing of his mothers' childish hatred of Lola, not for shaking his marriage, but for sleeping with and marrying Stephane.

"Since she is mother to your firstborn," Francis winced at the words. "I thought you should know that the Lady has initiated courtship of the Count Nardin."

"Philippe?" Francis asked. "Why? I told the Lady several years ago of the count's tastes in bed. She'd never be happy with him."

"The ins and outs of her life are not my concern, Francis. I do not tell you in hopes of dissolving this courtship. I simply thought you should know."

"Very well, I will talk to-" Francis was interrupted by the arrival of one of the nannies whom cared for his and Mary's children.

"Forgive me, your Majesty." she curtseyed low. "But I thought it best to inform you of the Princess Aylee's fever." Francis nodded, worrying for the blonde, blue eyed, little Princess whom had taken over with fever four days previous. "It has not broken, your highness. The Princess eats well, yet she complains of fatigue and pain. She is so hot, Majesties." the nanny babbled.

"Mother," he nodded. "go and tend to my daughter, I will join you soon." he finished. Catherine got up, tutting at her son.

"A King should not be around a sickened child. We cannot afford a sickened King again." she tutted, her voice a mix of Queenly ordering and motherly tenderness. She understood, however. There wasn't a valid definition of too many precautions when it came to the next generation of royalty. They had lost some already, they couldn't afford to loose any more. 

Before the King of France and Scotland entered his daughters' rooms, he stopped by his own. Opening the door, Francis came into sight of some of the lights of his life. His wife, beautiful and porcelain and onyx, wrapped in a white satin robe as she lay in their bed, their newborn son laying next to her, gargling in delight, little kittenish sounds making the girls and boys around him giggle and swoon.