Francis fought tirelessly as his men slowly started falling around him. He had sweat dripping off of his brow, his loose curls in a mess around his eyes and his face covered in mud and blood. He glanced up to see his nemesis, sat there suited in armour yet leaving the fighting to her men, her red locks blowing in the wind as her white stallion jumped at the clashing of swords and men groaning in pain as they hit the floor wounded. Whilst most of his able bodied men were playing their part in this game of thrones and fighting the English, Francis himself was aiming for his own target, Elizabeth.
He crouched behind shrubbery, keeping his eyes and ears open to any possible threat before moving forward towards the English Queen. Francis' vendetta against Elizabeth was more than political, it was personal. The English had torn into his motherland for centuries and this was the perfect opportunity to expose their weakness and attack.
"Why is the infamous Virgin Queen sat here and not with her men?" Francis called out tauntingly. In response, Elizabeth turned around to be greeted by the dauphins cocky smirk before turning to look back at her men nearly defeated by the french and dismounted from her horse sword in hand. She approached the young man with a look of fierce sincerity. Francis too had his sword drawn and was making his approach whilst more french soldiers had surrounded the queen. Elizabeth had lunged forward at Francis with the intent of killing him but instead a newly enlisted french solider, Leith Bayard, had bravely slayed Elizabeth in Francis' stead. At last, after just a few years on the throne, Elizabeth Tudor was dead.
Francis rejoined his men on the main battlefield as the two nations continued to fight to the death and after 12 hours of bloodshed, France reigned victorious and the throne now belonged to Francis. He mounted his horse and with his men trailing behind and headed towards London where he was to stay the night at the Tower of London before being coronated the next day.
The route back to London was long and tiring but they made it in good speed, the horses and trailers of armourments were taken to the courtyard outside the white tower with Francis is tow. He made his way to the royal apartments alone, he sent his men to the local taverns as a reward for their bravery and hard work. He jumped onto the four poster bed and sighed. His father had dreamed of uniting France, England and Scotland and now he was part way through completing the dream. He sat up and pulled the rooms writing desk closer and began writing to his mother:
"Mother, it is done, the english queen is dead and the throne as of tomorrow will be mine. Most of our men survived the battle and are thrilled by this victory, some will sail home after my coronation tomorrow. oh how i wish you could be there Mother to see me in my defining moment however i know we both have parts to play in completing fathers wishs and so i will see you as soon as i can...i miss you and i hope that you and my brothers are well.."
He looked at the letter dissapprovingly and threw it in the fire. it wasnt that he didnt want to send it but he felt that he could wait until after the coronation where he'd have more interesting things to share with his beloved mother and with that he undressed himself and got under the covers.
Francis found it tough to sleep, he kept tossing and turning and often found himself looking at the canopy above the bed. He just couldnt believe that he was the royal to defeat Elizabeth Tudor and he was about to become the monarch of England at the young age of 18. After an hour or so of processing his thoughts, he soon drifted into a deep sleep and tried to get enough sleep ready for his big day.
