Noble Blood

Rival

Dear diary,

it's been a while since I last wrote into these pages. I know not who will read these words, will it be long after I am gone from this world? Will people note these thoughts in three hundred years as they dissect every inch of my life, from begging to end? If they do, I am duty bound to honour these wishes. If they do not, then my life will remain just that, my own.

From the last entry, I can announce that a great deal has happened to me. My husband is no longer just returning to me after so many years away, fighting our enemy with every inch of breath in his lungs. No, he has spent the last three years firmly at my side as we rule our countries in the upcoming eighth anniversary of our rule.

I no longer harbour resentment to Lola Fleming. No, the little girl was wed to our enemy that damn near caused our downfall, a peace treaty, as it was. To Stephane Narciesse, she birthed two daughters. One stillborn, the other joining her sister into the world of unknown before her second anniversary of birth. Their union seemed to be happy, until it was dissolved when the scandal of his intimate involvement with my mother in law came to light. I feel for the poor girl, all of her children are dead, my stepson joining the litter not six months ago. Nobody could figure out why, but the poor little girl could finally start anew. She now resides in a little Welsh village, far away from the scandal of her name. A little bread baker for a husband and a little room above the stoves in which they share their lives. She is happy, not a jewel or a fine gown in her memory, no longer a lady of mine. The scandal of Europe has an alias now, hardly any contact between us. I cannot help but think that this is for the best.

My husband ended the reign of our mutual enemy when he was in her land. He took her head and gave me her crown. The five countries under our rule have prospered in a new golden age of religious tolerance and contentment. We face the power hungry vipers on a daily basis, but that is to be expected when one wears a crown. Our rule is settled, no longer questioned by any man, woman, or pope. Scandal is far behind us, I am grateful for it. We are no longer burdened by a bastard child or a lack of offspring, nor are we threatened by the land of the English or any Bourbon cousin of ours, my husband and I trust each other, we will rely on each other until the day we meet our maker. 

I have just given birth to my third child, a second son. A son who bares his fathers name, the golden spun of hair and the beautiful gleam of cerulean eyes. My Prince Francis is a sweet child, he nears his ninth week. In fact, he gargles and wiggles around on a small carpet near me as I write these words. You may know more than I do, whomever may read these words in however long. What will make of my third born? What will he achieve in his lifetime? Will he live a long while, or will I bury another child? Will he rule a country in the future, will he wed? Will he love a wife, whoever she may be? Will he have children of his own one day? I cannot help but wonder.

Nine months after I left you, pleading at the alter of Chateau des Allyme, I gave birth to my first living son. My body tingled with my husbands' touch, and that touch granted us the strong, healthy heir we had both been so desperate for. My firstborn whom walks this earth bares the monikers of his grandfathers and the name of my cousin Edward. He holds my eyes, and my hair. He is sweet, compassionate, brave and kind. The boy is so sweet, I adore him more than I've ever adored a being before. A mother should not have favourites, but my James has done so much in his three years of live that some never do in sixty.

My boy was eight weeks old when his sister was conceived. The Princess Anne has reached her second anniversary of birth. Unlike me, she adores dolls and toys, holds them as she awakens, whereas I awoke each morning and night with a blade. My only daughter -so far, will I have another, I wonder?- has her father wrapped around her little finger. He will bend to her will in whatever she demands. Whereas James is a perfect blend of my husband and I -he holds my eyes and hair, but my husbands' face stares back at me when I look at them-, Anne is an almost replica of my young self. I wonder if it will continue as she grows into whomever she may become. She, although sweet, has the Tudor-Stuart temper, I can already see it.  I wonder what she will do with it as she grows? Will it be a strength or a weakness? I often wonder what she will achieve with her life, I do with all my children. I am aware of what my eldest living child will attain, I am sure he will live past his childhood and attain an empire when his father and I are long gone. But with my youngest, I often wonder. Yet I relish every moment I have with them when they are this small. Now that my fertility is no issue, I am eager to add to the nursery in which they take their rest.

I am afraid I must leave you know. My husband -My King, my Emperor- calls for me and I cannot disappoint. I am sure it is time for our nightly oversee of the state of our Kingdom, our empire. After all, what kind of Queen, Empress, would I be if I did not settle my Kingdoms before myself or my children?

Goodnight,

Empress Mary of England, France, Wales, Ireland and Scotland and it's isles.