Tu Es Ma Lumière

117 - Rescue

Queen Mary of Scots, the Queen Consort of France, knew that travelling to Scotland at such an advanced stage of pregnancy was unwise, yet she knew she didn't really have a choice in the matter. It wasn't her fault that her brother James had made a rare mistake that angered some nobility and their followers. James may be acting regent in Scotland, but it was Mary's word that was law. In her defence, if she didn't go, she may not be able to give her child the Scottish inheritance that he deserved. And if James wasn't such a dunderhead, she wouldn't have had to risk her childs' safety in the first place.

When the nobles were happily pacified with gold, and the regent was sharply scolded for his lack of intelligence, the Queen had attempted to make her way back to France for the birth of her first child, for she wanted to birth him with her King at her side. Queen Elizabeth had taken issue with her rival, never having had her so close before. The English Queen had always hated the Scottish, especially after she had announced to the world that she had finally gotten pregnant with a child fathered by the King of France. Honestly, Mary shouldn't have been that surprised when her ship has been under attack.

The young ravenette shuddered to remember the frantic fighting as the English war ship started launching missiles at her own boat. The sound of the bombs exploding, the quaking of her ship as she took on water. It had been terrifying. The Queen of France didn't know where the crew and her servants had ended up after the fighting had finally come to an end, if they died quickly from one of the cannon explosions or a horrid death from drowning. Mary really, really hoped that if they died, it was a quick end to her loyal servants. But there was still hope that they washed ashore on some country, coughed up the water from their lungs and started anew and had the opportunity to live again. That was more ideal to what had happened to her and her baby.

She'd had been so scared that she and her unborn baby would drown after the explosions had started making the ship gain water. She knew the horrid, spine chilling feeling of water coming up over her head would haunt her for the rest of her life. The ravenette didn't know how she had gotten there, but she had awoken in English imprisonment, still in her damp gown. From her ordeal, the child had decided to join this world sooner than she remembered the physicians and midwives had told her that he would. To make matters worse, since she was in England, none of her imprisioners would send for a physician or a midwife, so she had to deliver this baby alone. It had been horrendous, birthing a baby by herself with no help whatsoever. The metallic scent of her own blood and the sickly feeling of her own sweat all over her body. Hours and hours and hours of the worst pain she'd ever felt, the worst fear she'd ever felt. If they were in France, or even in Scotland, it would have been fine if she died. Her babe would be safe. 

But alone in an English tower, if she died, would her child join her from hunger? Or would he be taken away and ransomed until France and Scotland were bankrupt? Everybody knew the bad blood between France and England. The old claim ran deep, and with the baby King in their grips, they'd hold Scotland. It was such a horrifying thought. Would her baby be ransomed, or simply murdered?

That thought alone kept her strong, awake, during the horrid birthing process. The pain and the stretching and the pressure and the tears and the ripping and the bleeding were the cost for the most precious thing in her entire world finally slipping from her thighs. He was small, but he was alive. Alive and kicking and screaming healthily. She had never been so happy in her life when she cradled her child to her breast, keeping him warm by ripping layers from her gown to wrap him up within the rags.

The most wonderful pleasure of feeding her child from her own breast to the most horrid pain as the cold jailer stormed into her cell and ripped her baby boy from her arms. Mary had screamed bloody murder, whilst being restrained, as her baby wailed in fear. He had been taken away from her, and she didn't know where she was. The worst pain in the world, a mother who didn't know where her child was.

The sounds of battle jar her from her weary, teary repertoire. She lifts her head from the cold, stone wall. The sound intrigues her, sending a rare glimmer of hope through her veins. Could it be, finally, her saviour? Her angel that would release her from this English hell?

Boot steps, rapid boot steps, echo. They get closer to her. Mary sniffles in confusion. She jumps, a loud sound echoing off her door. It sounds like the intruder is trying to get in.

She jumps. "Who-who's that?" she calls loudly, forcing her body up from the floor. "Who's there? You watch it, because-" she doesn't know what to say, so she goes with a rediculous initiative. "I'm armed and really dangerous, and-" now, she's really, really lost, and goes with the first word that comes to mind. "angry." she says it like a question.

"Like you'd be any other way." that voice made her want to fall down to her knees and cry with relief. Her jaw dropped, chin quivering with the relief.

Francis.

"Francis?" she whispers. "Francis, is-is that you?" she questions, almost not believing her luck. Could it be him? Or perhaps an angel? Or a mirage?

"Yes, my love. It's me. Give-give me a second. The door is bolted." he says. It sounds as if her husband is trying to open the door, with little luck.

"Francis." she sighs, wiping away another round of tears before they can fall. "Francis, I-I had the baby. Myself. And-and they took him." her voice cracks. "Francis, they took our baby."

"Now," the door opens. In he walks, grandeur and golden and everything she's ever wanted to see. "your Majesty," he pauses. "that is never, ever going to happen." upon closer inspection, she can see that he's holding a baby. Mary's heart stops. She runs to them both, wrapping her arms around Francis' neck.

"Oh-" she breathes. "oh, my God." she looks down at the baby. Her tears fall onto his face. It's him. It's not an importer. Her baby, the one that came from her womb, is now in her arms. He's beautiful. Pale and soft, dark hair and the most beautiful blue eyes. He's wrapped and bundles up. He's awake, he makes a soft noise of recognition. "Francis." Mary's voice cracks. He wastes no time, pressing his lips to his wife's. Mary lets him, not pulling away until air becomes an issue. "What-what've they done to him? Is he alright?"

"My love, he's perfect. I checked. He's alright. He's perfect, and he's ours." Francis smiles down at her. Mary lets out a soft sob of delight, leaning into him as they stare down at their child.

More footsteps come towards them. Francis steps in front of his new family, as if getting ready to defend them. But it's Sebastian, donned in a guards' uniform. The Queen now realises that Francis is also in steel armour.

"Francis, there you are." he says, before catching sight of the woman behind him. "Mary, the baby, is it-"

"Bash," she smiles. "My son is fine. He's early, but he's perfect." she assures him. 

"I'm glad." he states, looking back to his brother. "Take a look outside, brother. Every one of them is leaving. My brother, Dover Castle is ours without a single drop of blood spilled. Brother, your wife and your son are fine, protected, we hold part of England, and their unconditional surrender, you have never risen higher."