So this chapter is bittersweet for me. I can't believe my story has come to an end. I want to thank all of my readers and reviewers for making this journey with me! It's been a learning process, and I've enjoyed every minute. I'm still working on 'A Lady in His Shield', so feel free to continue on the next journey with me there!
Author's Note: I own no claim over anything but the story line, and realize I am taking a great liberty with history (but that's what fanfic is for, right!) =) And yes, in case you were wondering, the title of this story is in reference to the wonderful 1966 movie starring Paul Scofield as Sir Thomas More.
Chapter 25 Music: Heavy in Your Arms by Florence + the Machine
I was a heavy heart to carry / My beloved was weighed down
My arms around his neck / My fingers laced to crown
I'm so heavy, heavy / Heavy in your arms
The darkened room did little to lift the curtain of despair that had closed over Mary's heart. She sat vigil by Francis's bedside, maintaining a tight grip on his clammy hand. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, but Mary was unsure how much of that was due to his fever, or the blaze being stoked in the fireplace. He tossed weakly about in the bed, tormented by the illness that flowed in his veins. Though so many things had changed over the past year, Mary would never wish Francis to be in such a state. She still loved the boy within, now barely visible under the yellowing, translucent skin. His vices had pulled him under, pulled him away from her, but the it was the illness that was decimating his body. She tried to remember him as he once was, the happy boy she had loved and cherished.
Gently, she rested her cheek against the hand she held tightly. She knew his time on Earth was coming to an end, the knowing look she received from Nostradamus had told her as much. Though their marriage had been far from ideal, France still needed it's King. And she was still his wife, if in name only.
Mary felt a hand on her shoulder, applying the gentlest of pressure. With a sad smile, she turned her eyes on Sebastian. She could see the redness in his eyes, fighting back his own emotions in the moment. France was losing a King, Mary was losing her husband, and Bash was losing a brother.
"I dislike mentioning it, Mary, but should Catherine be summoned? I fear his time is shorter than we would like to think," he whispered gently. Mary's sniffle came out as more of a gasping breath, but she nodded.
"Yes, of course. I can look beyond her past transgressions to give her a moment with her son," she acknowledged, knowing that should she ever be in a similar situation, she would bless the person who granted her the same courtesy.
He reached a hand to stroke her cheek, his thumb erasing the tear tracks that stained the flesh of her face, "you are so strong, Mary. Please never be afraid to show me your tears," Mary smiled at Sebastian, feeling the comfort only his presence could bring. Bash nodded, his reassuring grip relaxing from her shoulder as he left to summon Catherine.
"I know this is difficult, daughter, but be strong. James will need you," Marie reminded Mary from her seat in the corner. She held her sleeping grandson, having settled quietly in her chair in the corner after they rushed Francis to the room during the Christening. Marie moved slowly, placing James snugly in his bassinet which Bash had brought in earlier. She came to kneel by Mary, resting a hand gently on her daughter's knee.
"Much is about the change, Mary. Sebastian will need you more than ever, for the grief of losing a brother is a hard one to bear," Marie hesitated, watching her daughter's eyes glisten, "but most importantly, you will need a plan for yourself. James will be King of France. There is much to think about."
Mary knew her mother's words to be true. Would she stay in France and rule for James as Regent, much as her mother did in Scotland? Or would she take him to Scotland, and raise him with Sebastian at her side?
Part of Mary wanted to reprimand her mother for appearing careless and not allowing her time to grieve. But for a monarch, the time to grieve was best left to the darkness of night, wrapped in the warmth of a lover's arms when tears could flow freely. Unfortunately, the daylight was no time to grieve. Mary knew Sebastian's arms would be openly waiting, as would hers for him, but in the coming days, weeks, even months, the daylight would have to rule her emotions.
Looking back to Francis, he seemed to have calmed a bit, but his face was still pale and his breathing shallow. Marie moved back to check on James, and Mary tentatively reached to smooth the blonde curls from her husband's forehead. She had forgotten the feel of his skin under her fingers, but the texture was different than she remembered.
For a moment, his eyes fluttered open, catching Mary's eyes as she held her breath.
But the moment was shattered, as Mary heard Catherine clamoring down the hall. His eyes fluttered closed as the door opened slowly, thanks mostly to Sebastian who had a firm grip on the door handle. Catherine hurriedly entered in a flurry of rustling skirts and waving arms. She had lost some since of decorum in her motions, but to Mary's surprise she refrained from raising her voice. Her eyes met Mary's briefly, then shifted to chair Mary was occupying. Understanding the request, Mary stood, allowing Catherine to sit by her son's side. Mary drifted to the end of the bed, letting her weight rest softly against the feathered mattress. She felt heavy, so heavy with the burdens now upon her shoulders.
Catherine's weathered hand grasped her son's tightly. She brought it towards her face, her lips moving in a silent prayer. Mary watched thoughtfully at the woman before, the same woman who caused her so much pain, torment, and nearly cost her Sebastian's life. But before her now was not the Queen, but a mother who, too, was grieving for a son whose life dangled precariously from the edge of living. She kissed the hand she held, reaching to brush his forehead with the other. Though they had their own quarrels, the creases in his brow softened with his mother's touch.
They all either sat or stood in silence for some time, James occasional coos the only sound in the room.
"Why is Nostradamus not here?" Catherine asked softly, her question directed to the room at whole. Sebastian stepped forward to fill the void of silence.
"He should be back shortly. Lola was assisting him on making a tea to ease his breathing," he answered, tilting his head toward Francis. Catherine returned her gaze to Francis, though here eyes had never reached Sebastian's, her own silent way of showing her distaste for him. Bash politely nodded, bowing his head slightly.
"I want to blame all of this on you, Mary, but I realize I am partly at fault," Catherine spoke suddenly. Her voice held no condemnation but was spoken as one would almost praise a child, "but know this Mary, even if I am locked away in the tower for the rest of my life, nothing you could do would ever gain my forgiveness."
Mary bristled, wanting to lash out at Catherine. Who was she to speak of forgiveness? She was the same woman who drugged Mary and Francis, Sebastian and Lola, setting a course of events that would change everything. She was the same woman who attempted to have Sebastian brutally murdered. No, thought Mary, I will never be concerned with gaining her forgiveness.
"I care not for your forgiveness, Catherine," Mary whispered, the power of her words resonating around the room, "and it should be you who is begging for my forgiveness. Your sins are too many to count," she paused, knowing every eye in the room was on her, "and I hope you drown in them."
Catherine's lips puckered, distaste written clearly across her features. She opened her mouth, an angry retort ready on her lips, but Mary spoke first, "and because of that Catherine, you will accompany me to Scotland in the coming days, where I can keep a watchful eye on you."
"Already written Francis off, have you? Eager to be with you lover? Make more bastard children?" Catherine stood as she spoke, her voice still quiet but anger dripped from every word.
"Of course not, Catherine, for I love Francis dearly, but as a Queen yourself you should know I have to think of my son, the future King of France, and my own blessed country," Mary felt the weight of her burdens lift slightly with the sudden decision to return home. She would go to Scotland, with Sebastian, James, and Catherine, her prisoner forever.
Mary could feel the pride from the smile her mother gave her, knowing she had made the right decision. She need not look at Sebastian for his love to impress upon her. Catherine would never accept defeat, and Mary knew she would be fighting her discreetly until Catherine no longer took breathe.
"And who will rule France in your stead? You cannot be Regent from Scotland," asked Catherine calmly, though Mary could see her hands clinched in fists. She had not thought this far ahead, but knew there were some very capable men on the King's Council.
"You need not worry about France, Catherine, for I will always have it's best interest at heart," Mary replied sweetly, and Catherine sneered in response. "What will become of my other children if I am in Scotland?"
"They are Francis's brothers," Mary answered, sincerity in her tone, "and I will make sure they have every luxury that can be afforded to them."
Catherine remained silent, contemplating Mary's words. She did not even look up when Nostradamus quietly knocked, handing a steaming cup of tea to Sebastian. Silence continued for awhile, Mary shifting uneasily from foot to foot, her thoughts drifting between returning home to Scotland, Francis passing away, and raising her son with Sebastian.
Soft sounds from the bed caused everyone's heads to turn toward him. Francis's eyes were open, barely, and his hand twitched outward.
"Francis?!" Catherine called, rushing back to the chair and reaching for her son's outstretched hand. He smiled weakly, his grip nonexistent as she grasped his hand.
"Mother," he started, his voice raspy from disuse.
"Here is some tea, Francis, it will help sooth your throat," Catherine urged, reaching over to raise her son's head and help him drink the warm brew Nostradamus recently brought. He coughed slightly, but his body relaxed briefly with the warm liquid. "You must rest my son," Catherine urged, a motherly demeanor overtaking her person once more.
Mary drifted away from the bed to sit by her mother. She gazed down at James, sleeping peacefully, unaware of the constant turmoil that surrounded him. Even during slumber, his little face smiled her direction.
"Mary?" A strained voice from the bed spoke. Mary stood immediately, moving to stand by Catherine.
"Yes, Francis?" He smiled at her, but his normal vibrancy and enthusiasm was gone from his face.
"I would like to speak with you privately, for a moment?" Catherine moved to dissent, but Mary placed a firm hand on her shoulder.
"Would you please excuse us?" Mary asked, glancing at Catherine, then around the Marie and finally to Sebastian. She saw sadness in her mother's eyes, but only understanding in Sebastian's. Marie moved to pick up James, but Francis spoke quietly, "please, let my son stay. I wish to see him."
"As you wish, Your Grace," Marie bowed, gliding out of the room behind a very reluctant Catherine.
"Please, can you - bring James - closer?" Francis stuttered, the words becoming hard for him to speak. It was if every last ounce of strength in his body went towards forming the sounds. Mary moved quickly, a dreadful sense of calm filling her body. James remained asleep, even as Mary scooted the chair as close to the bed as possible. Nostradamus concluded Francis was not contagious, that his illness remained confined to only his own extremities, so Mary felt no fear in resting the sleeping infant beside Francis. It was a struggle, but he drug his hand over to James, resting it gently on his stomach. "So - beautiful," he uttered weakly.
The scene before her brought tears to her eyes, but not for the reason she thought it might. Part of her would always regret lying to Francis about James, and she knew she would answer for this sin before her God.
"Francis ..." Mary started, unsure where her thoughts or words were taking her.
"Mary," he paused, taking a shakingly deep breath, "I have known for some time," he struggled, his breathing becoming more awkward, "not my son." The words in between had been lost with his shaky breaths, but Mary understood what he was saying. James was not his son.
"Francis ..." Mary started again, but Francis slightly raised a finger in protest.
"I have not been," he stopped to breath, closing his eyes, "the husband," another pause, "you deserve."
"Francis, please do not exert yourself. You need your strength to get better," whispered Mary, reaching out to caress his cheek.
"Tell Bash to take care of his son," muttered Francis, the words clearer than any other he had spoken, and Mary gasped, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Her chest heaved with emotion, and her mind raced. What do you say to your dying husband?
"Can you forgive me, Francis? I do love him so," Mary cried, laying her head against the silken sheets.
"Easily, Mary," breathed Francis, the words flowing easier from his lips. Mary hoped the tea was beginning to help. "I was not the husband I should have been," he paused momentarily, eyes glancing back at James, "but it does not help the hurt, knowing he is not my legacy. I will not judge you, for God knows my sins as well, as He does yours."
"He will be King of France, Francis, and I want you to teach him as he grows, just as I will do," stated Mary, knowing Francis would never see James grow up. She did not want to acknowledge that reality yet.
"Always optimistic, my Mary," Francis chuckled, a harrowing cough emanating from his chest, "every time I close my eyes I do not know if they will open again on this Earth."
"Save your breath, Francis," whispered Mary, bending over the kiss his forehead, "I do love you, you know." And she did, but not in the same fashion she loved Sebastian. If things had been different, she might be expressing a very different sentiment when saying 'I love you', but she would not wish things to be different. Though she regretted the situation, she never regretted the path it led her on, or the choices she made. She loved Sebastian, and he was her rock. Without his love, she would never have had her beautiful son.
Francis had gone quiet after muttering an 'I love you too Mary', his strength exerted for the time being. She thought she even heard an 'I am sorry' muffled as well, but she paid it no heed. They said what needed to be said to each other, though Mary hoped it would not be the last time they spoke.
Glancing back, Mary noticed his hand on James had slipped down, and she reached to touch his hand but stopped. She watched his face, eyes roaming to his chest and back. There was no visible movement.
"Francis?" Mary whispered, gently touching his hand. There was no response.
"Francis?" Mary asked more forcefully, panic beginning to surface in her voice. There was still no response.
What happened next, Mary was not sure. She must have called for Sebastian, for he was suddenly by her side, James cradled in one arm and the other firmly wrapped around Mary's shoulders. She heard Catherine's anguished cries, the cries of a mother who lost her child. Her mother whispered words that Mary did not comprehend, a muffled sound blanketing her ears.
And somewhere, off in the distance, she thought she heard a bell toll.
It had been two years since Francis had passed away, a year and a half since Mary had returned to Scotland. Times had been difficult, trying to remember a country she had barely lived in. It had taken awhile for her advisers to trust her, a French woman in their eyes, but her mannerisms and friendliness had worked in her favor, and she easily gained their trust.
The shade of the willow tree provided some respite from the afternoon sun, though the heat was not overwhelming. The blue sky held few clouds, creating the perfect atmosphere for an afternoon outing. Mary had been in meetings with her advisers during the morning hours, and the fresh air had been a welcome change.
Her fingers tickled the blades of grass at the edge of the blanket, the fabric providing a soft cushion to the rocky soil. The sun reflected of the ripples of the Loch beyond Linlithgow castle. The wind carried the waves, along with the giggles of her son, rolling around happily in the grass. His curls, now dark brown like hers, bounced as he moved. Sebastian called cheerily after him, now getting to live in the complete roll of father.
She gazed lovingly at the man before her, now chasing James through the bluebells. He could never be her King, and he accepted that fact easily. Likewise, he could not be her husband, a fact made perfectly clear by her advisers. However, her nobles agreed to not push Mary towards a marriage out of duty. They would accept their Queen as she was, with a strong man at her side, loyal to her to a fault. In some ways, they viewed her just as the English viewed Elizabeth. She was a strong, personable, respectable Queen. She could rule Scotland with a strong, just hand, without a King Consort.
And likewise, she could love where she wanted.
And she knew she had placed her love in the right place. He glanced over at her, walking slowly towards Mary and stretching out a hand to help her stand. He pulled her close to his side, her head resting gently on his shoulder.
"It was a summer, much like this, when we took that first ride through palace grounds together," he whispered, reminiscing on those first few months of their budding relationship.
"We were together through summer, fall, and most of winter before you had to disappear," Mary stated, remembering those horrible moments thinking Bash was truly dead, "and then I finally got a have a spring with you."
"We have been through a lot, you and I," added Bash, placing a gently kiss on the top of her head, "both good times and bad."
"My man for all seasons," Mary breathed, closing her eyes and breathing in the scent of fresh air, Sebastian, and freedom. Under her head, Mary felt Bash's chest rumbled as he laughed, a genuine mirthful sound. This time he turned to face her, capturing her lips sweetly with his in way only he could do.
"I love you, Mary," muttered Sebastian, the words full of emotion.
"And I you," replied Mary, stroking his cheek, "now go chase down that wild son of yours."
Laughter filled the air as they both laughed, turning around to find their son. James was happily picking bluebells, his tiny fist crushing the flowers.
"James!" Called Bash, opening his arms wide. The boy quickly forgot his flowers, running happily into this father's arms. The movement of the golden flag above their heads caught Mary's attention, the red dragon rippling in the breeze from the loch.
This was her joy. This was her life. This was her family. And this was her Scotland.
And back in France, with Lola curled into his side, Nostradamus smiled.