"Mother of God!" the young Queen of Scotland yelps, holding her arms out side in a pose that could be accused of blasphemy. She grimaces and curses in her mother tounge, glaring in front of her as she continues to struggle in a way that is both unqueenly and utterly humiliating. She wobbles precariously several times in the time it takes to raise one foot and place it on the floor. It's gotten to the point where she's pinned her skirts up to expose her feet and shins, just to make sure she didn't trip over the blasted pink monstrosity that Queen Catherine had forced her handmaidens to put on the Queen's body.
From a few feet away, perched lazily on top of her bed, the Dauphin has a good laugh at her expense, his arms folded behind his head as he watches her struggle to walk in a straight line, let alone with the grace and modesty of a Queen in her own right. He laughs as she sends him a scowl that she usually only sent him whenever he beat her to the point in geometry or literature. She pokes her tounge out of the corner of her lips -a measure she didn't even do when she had stolen his bow and arrow in his own lessons (she sighted watching him was getting dull, and embroidery was painful to her very soul) to shoot a few aims when Master Gerome wasn't looking.
"Oh, shut it, you!" Mary snaps. Francis just laughs louder. "You can laugh! You don't have to walk around in this abomination-" she pulls at the frilly pink thing that looked like it belonged in little Claude's dreams rather than on Mary's body for emphasis. "in shoes that look like they belong on a femme de la nuit." she mutters.
Francis snorts. "You have my sympathy." he laughs.
"No, I don't! You're mocking me!" Mary cries out.
"So what?!" Francis laughs again. "Look at you! You look so displeased and just so-" he can't seem to find the word to describe this girl, who seemed so comfortable and happy tretching around in muddy skirts, climbing the tallest trees for the sweetest apples, kicking around the organ of a pig with her ladies in the dewy petrichor of autumnal afternoons, wearing plain dresses that showed her feet so she wouldn't have to worry of falling over the material, of wearing her hair long and loose, her face bare of any cosmetics, holding a bow or a blade rather than a sewing needle or a flower in the state she was in now. Her hair was in curls, an expensive gown was hiked up for blind practicality, face strewn in irritation and frustration of being in this situation.
"What?"
"Unqueenly." he decides. Mary blinks at him. "If it makes you feel any better, mother's making every girl wear heeled shoes so she's not ashamed of her clipping and clopping."
Mary flops onto the bed, face first, groaning. Her pretty head pops up and she grins at him. "Well, it's not my fault your mother wears heeled shoes to disguise she's got the height of a-"
"Mary!"
"What?" she grinned. He chuckles in disbelief. Even though they had known each other for three years this coming spring, he's still surprised by the way she acts and the things her mouth come up with. He laughs though, she's indeed more fun than feeble Elisabeth and the little ladies of court, who are so vain and quiet, even at this age.
"Nothing." he says. "You best get the hang of those shoes, I won't be around all night long at the ball to help you put one foot in front of the other."
"You wear these blasted things, then! And then see how you like it when the foot throbs and you get a horrid mood come over you."
"Wait, the foot can throb?"
"Yes!"
Francis waits for a moment, seemingly trying to decide how that was possible and how odd that would feel. Huh, it really does show how cooped up he is in the studies of the French Court, he hasn't walked for long enough at once to realise that the feet can hurt.
"Well, I suppose I can tell Bash that we have to stay at the party for mother's anniversary of birth long enough to help you walk around the ballroom."
"Thank you."
"Well, you won't be happy, anyway. They're going to make you wear makeup."
"No!" Mary's head falls back against the bedsheets. And Francis laughs louder.
/
femme de la nuit - woman of the night
YOU ARE READING
You Are My Light Part II
Historical Fiction-Reign Oneshots/Taking Requests- The world can be dark, Mary, and uncertain and cruel. The only thing that matters is that we face it together. No matter what happens, you are my light. Part 2! -Read TEML first!-
