The gentle, peaceful strumming of the violin is interrupted by a loud scratching sound coming from the impressive radio in the sitting room of Sterling Castle. The King without his crown looks towards the large wooden box with wonder, as it also catches the attention of his Queen and the heir, as all others still sleep soundlessly in their borrowed beds.
"Breaking news. Breaking news coming from Windsor Palace this evening, word has it that an assassination attempt was carried out upon the King of England, head of the commonwealth, Emperor of India, by an unnamed Nazi assailant this night." the radio sounds, the voice male and clear and pompous, but serious, frantic, worried and a thousand other things.
"Henry!" Catherine gasps.
"I-I repeat. An assassination attempt has been conducted upon King James by an unnamed Nazi party member, the unidentified man has been searched and was found with papers with his treasonous assignment, and the smoking gun in his hand was ripped away. Word from passers by say that the King was quick enough to cover his only child and heir, the Princess of Wales, the Duchess of Cambridge, Princess Mary. As-as many know, the two heirs to the throne, Prince James and Prince Arthur have preceded his Majesty in death, by similar mans of assassination. No word on if his Majesty has survived the attack, but reports have come out that the Princess of Wales is safe, being kept under heavy guard in a secure location in London. The Stuart family came to power after the assassinations of King George, his wife, Queen Elizabeth, and their two daughters, the Princesses Elizabeth and Margret. May they rest in peace. Similarly, the Queen Marie of Guise, she succumbed to the bombings eight months ago, after the deaths of the King's eldest children, son Adam and daughter Jean Stuart."
"My God. James." Henry whispers, his stomach rolling at the thought of his friend, his dear, dear friend, his brother in arms, being taken from him in such a manor. His lips part, and he leans upon a chair, gripping the thick bars in his hand, tightly, as if it will tether him to reality. Poor James, poor, magnificent, brilliant James, who saved his family from assassination after the fall of France a year and a half ago. Superb James, who saved his Russian cousins from death by granting sanctuary in Ireland. Good James, who he had met at the Some, the two Princes of the blood bound by blood and death and dirt, a shared history, a shared suffering, and now his life is up in the air, taken by a bastard with a barrel. "No." he whispers.
By God. If Winston doesn't rip that man to pieces, then Henry swears on the blood of his children, he will finish the job.
"Mary." Henry chokes, clenching his entire body in a coil, to keep him in this moment, the hatred and the bile threatening to choke him. He speaks the name of his Goddaughter, the only surviving legitimate child of the Stuart bloodline, she's so young, barely fifteen, and she could be all alone. "She-she-"
"She's safe, Henry." Catherine whispers, placing a hand onto her swollen stomach, biting her cheek to keep the emotions at bay for her eldest child, who looks at them both with wonder. "The-they said-"
"I know what they said!" Henry spits, "They didn't confirm anything, like they didn't confirm James is alive or dead!" he snaps.
No. No. This cannot be happening. He cannot loose James. Good, reliable James who saved he and his family from certain doom after the fall of France a year and a half ago. Brave, strong James, who has worked with the Prime Minister for the past two years to defeat the Nazi bastards, suffering great losses no man should bear. Kind, compassionate James, who pulled his cousins from Russia as their own throne toppled eight months ago, who now live quietly in Ireland, in safety, seclusion, only the patriarch coming from his exile to help whenever he could. Magnificent, remarkable James, who he met upon the Somme as nothing but boys with crowns on their heads and bayonets in their arms, bound by blood and dirt and death, a shared suffering, a shared past. His brother in arms, the father to his Godchildren, the Godfather to his children, possibly taken from him thanks to a smoking barrel and a lunatic totalitarian who looked like Charlie Chaplin, and who needed to be stopped.
"What about Mary? The-the poor child should be-"
"I don't know, Catherine!" he stresses. "I know as much as you do, which is very little. She has to be safe, he walked in front of that gun for her, I-"
They both seem to realise that Francis is in the room with them. Their sixteen year old heir, firstborn son of the royal marriage, long-time best friend and fiancée to the heir to Britain, the commonwealth and India, has just heard news that the girl he loved may be dead, taken from them like all of her paternal brothers (and one half sister) have, half-blood or pure.
"Darling, I-"
"No." he states firmly, calmly. So calmly it makes Henry wonder if his child is having spells of madness like his own father did towards the end of his life, so calmly that it makes him stop in his tracks. "There is no official word, no reason to get worked up or panic. That can be saved for later, when the truth is out in the open." he says.
And that, is what leads them all into silence until the sun raises high up in the sky and the poor butler rushes in as little Margret wakes up from her sleep, rubbing the backs of her fists against her eyes.
"Majesties," he pants, his face red from the exertion, the paper in his hand. "I-I-"
"Go." Catherine whispers, "Go." she states, and he obeys.
"Mother, what is that?"
"My darlings, I-"
"The King is dead." young Henri whispers, pointing at the paper, with a picture spread across the front page, a picture so horrid and gory he should never see such a thing. But he sees it still, and repeats the front line again.
Henry takes the paper from his wife, and sure enough, there is a picture of the young, fifteen year old Princess Royal and heir apparent, standing tall in an open tram, a coffin draped in black sitting at her hipline. She keeps her head high, her tears at bay, shoulders back, chin pointed, looking down at the reporters with their flashing cameras and loud words, not saying a thing. She wears some kind of pale colour -they cannot tell, black and white images and all- but what is most shocking is the blood upon her skirts and blazer, even across her face and hat, black fishnet piece covering half of her face, but none of it at the same time. There are dried tear tracks on her cheeks, and a stiff upper lip that can only describe her as bring British.
"She's still wearing the same clothes." Francis breathes.
"Good God." Catherine gasps. "Covered in her fathers' blood. Could-couldn't they have found her something else to wear? That poor, poor child. She's just a baby, Henry."
"No, I think it's deliberate, mother." Francis answers. "A message to Europe, and Germany especially."
The radio turns itself on, and the speaker reads as Henry does.
"A word to the British Public and the European world. At five seventeen AM, September 24th, 1943, His Majesty, the King of England, Ireland, Wales and Scotland and it's isles, ruler of the commonwealth, defender of the faith, head of the church of England, Emperor of India, was pronounced dead after a now-identified Nazi assassin took aim at his Majesty and the Princess Royal, the Princess of Wales and Duchess of Cambridge, at a function at three fifteen AM the same morning. His Majesty is said to have defended his only living child from the blast, taking a bullet wound to the chest. Doctors were said to be unable to stop the bleeding and fought for an hour and a half at St. Benedict's hospital in London. Their efforts were in vain, and sadly, the King took to his grave. He is succeeded by his only child, the Princess Mary Elizabeth Catherine Isabella Louise de Guise-Stuart, may her life and reign be long. The King is dead. Long live the Queen."
/
More WW2 oneshots coming on the way! We'll get Mary's reaction to her fathers' death, a flashback to her brothers' deaths' and her reign through the final stages of the war. Not to mention I have a few more mistress Mary's coming up for you all, and a couple modern pieces to make up for my sporadic updates this last little while. Please let a girl know what you think of this development, and I'll be sure to get the next one up over the weekend.
Love you all
me
:)
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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!-
