"-The tyranny of the Stuart dynasty is over!" John Knox bellows to the quiet crowd of Scotsmen and women as they somehow find their way into a huddle near him and his co-conspirators. "The people will rule this great land once more, the power will be taken from the scattered remains of the Stuart family, and given back to the Scotsmen and women who deserve it most!" he bellows, rocking his hips to continue the white mare's pacing from left to right, spit flying out of his mouth, dripping down his chin as he continued to yell. "The blood of the Stuart's have been spilled! Their time will be over, and a new dawn will reside over Scotland! A dawn of a new age, where there is no one family who have a false right to decide the actions of a man!" he continues to yell. "Death to the Stuarts! Power to the people!"
"Knox! Knox! Knox!" Lord Henry Darnley chants, making his way through the people, he parts them like he is the reborn Christian God, but the people whisper and titter amongst themselves as they spot the blood on his face and on his clothes, the slight limp in his gait as he walks, one fist in the air as he attempts to get the people to cheer with him. Little do.
The King and the Princess, James and Mary Stuart, they are murdered! Dead in the church at the hand of cloaked assassins!
The words flow past Francis' mind quicker than he ever thought words could possibly occur. Brother and sister, the only children from the not so long dead King of Scots and his Queen, who now resided in the mountains with little company other than her grief, dead, and he wasn't there to witness such a travesty. The Frenchman doesn't know if it is a sin or a joy that he was prevented from seeing the murder of his future wife, but his heart beats faster and faster with the heartache, almost to the point that he loses his dinner from the night before. His father's' arm tightens around his shoulders and chest, pulling him into his own front, tighter and tighter by every passing second. So tight he can barely hear the soft cries of his mother, who grieves the daughter she never had.
"-is that a ghost, then?" a voice asks.It's deep and fatherly and comforting in a way, and it pushes through Francis' mind, through the blur of voices and chants and hatred he has found himself pooled within.
His heart leaps with the possibility, and he turns to where shocked gasps lay in this courtyard of people. His father's' arms tighten around him again, and the people part, giving way to the blood-soaked angel he never thought he'd see again, after coming from the bakery to the stamped of frightened people, all crying out the notice of Mary's death. The blood soaked angel wears black clothing, her hair is unkempt and knotted, her bare throat exposing a concerning cut with mangled flesh and crimson ichor from where her tulle and satin gown doesn't cover. Her cape, it billows in the speed in which she walks, her hair is pushed back by the wind, and she resembled a demigod in that moment, one far more deadly than any Andraste, Anut or Bast. She walks with a loose gait, an almost swagger, a darkness in her eye that only mythological gods attain when they realise they have nothing left to lose, so they burn down each and every city they can, just because they can. An assuredness of tampered victory exposes itself onto her pale, bloody face and her body bounces almost with the lack of grace in her steps. She carries a bloody dagger in her hand, the silver dripping blood, leaving a trail of it, just like her mistress does. Francis realises she limps in a way, but she doesn't express any concern over her own physical pain, the only pain she expresses is one far worse, far more deadly, and within that moment, Francis de Valois-Angouleme-Medici, he begins to fear her, just a little bit.
"There men are murderers." she begins, her voice deep, low. "These men are villians, these men are treasonous bastards who have royal blood on their hands." she pauses, looking from Scotsman to Scotsman in every direction. "This day, these men, and several others, I bid you, these men plotted to murder me and my brother in the Cathedral, on the sabbath, in the middle of mass, from behind our backs." Mary hisses, rounding a large slab of marble held on a wagon. She astrides it, pulling herself up with a long, black rope.
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!-
