Tu Es Ma Lumière

169 - Proxy

"Your Highness! Your Highness!" the servent cries out, her cream and white coloured skirts and pinafore lunging behind her with the speed of her steps. Slippers slap against the smooth stone flooring of the Queen of Scotland's chambers. The door closes behind her, the loud bang echoing in the air around the small Queen of Scotland. The sun is long since retired, the chambers glowing a dark, sensual glow of candle and firelight. The scent of Scottish roses -a gift from the new Earl of Galloway after his young Queen gave permission for his heir to be engaged to the daughter of the Marchioness of Fife- battle against the smooth, smokey scent of the burning firewood.

The loud bang startles the Queen of Scots from her deep slumber. No longer does she think of running around fields of lilac and jasmine with her feet and hem getting dewy and wet from the water on the ground, no longer does Sterling chase her around in the fresh, crisp air of the mountaintops. No longer does the little Lady Beaton squeal as Lady Livingstone splashes her with pond water from the marshes. Instead, the Queen is forced into the world of politics and vanity, where she must be iron tight and as cool as ice.

Before she can even sit up in this world, her thin body is forced up from the warm blankets and into thin arms of a servent. She makes a noise of protest, but the next thing she knows, the nightgown she wears is removed and her body is submerged in warm bathwater. All she can smell is rose and peony, Queen Catherine's favourite scents, she realises, as three different pairs of hands get to work on brushing out the long locks that hang from the eleven year old's head, before rubbing various different soaps into the strands. Hands paw and rub all over her body, and she begins to make noises of protest, for she is most capable of washing her own body -thank you very much- but before she can, her hair is rinsed and she is picked up frantically from the water.

Nursemaidens get to work on drying her hair and her body as the Queen tries to force herself to wake properly. When she manages, her questions go unanswered as various items of clothing are forced unto her lithe body. A chemise and kirtle was placed on her long body as her hair was dried with towels and cloths. As usual, the corset was far -far- too tight and made her gasp for air as soon as it was fastened. Hundreds and hundreds of layers of skirts were tied around her waist, and by that time, her hair was dried out. Finally, the over gown was brought towards her. It was white and glittered with gold grandeur. Vaguely, Mary remembered that gown, or a gown just like it, but there was no time to reminisce. 

It was pulled onto her body, the half sleeves tightened so they clung comfortably to her biceps, the overhang of the sleeves golden lace and extravagant. The train was somewhat lacklustre in design in comparison to the dress itself, but its size gave it some sort of score. Although it was somewhat hard to breathe -corsets would be the death of her, and she was only eleven years old- the extravagances of this dress' nature did please her. She wouldn't be able to run with sterling or climb trees with Sebastian, but Mary did have some sort of vanity.

Her long black hair fell in curls, whilst her largest, most heaviest jewellery was brought out to her. Long golden chandelier earrings fell from her ears, the expensive diamonds as ridiculous in weight as they were in expense. Matching necklaces and bracelets and rings were tied onto her body, and part of her hair was pulled up in the shape of one of her Scottish roses. It would have pleased the Queen if she could actually see it. But even that was covered by a veil of golden lace, the veil hanging longer than the train did. It was attached to her head by her finest crown of gold.

"Why have you done this to me?" she murmurs as she's pulled out of the chambers by the seven nursemaids. "The sun isn't up, there is no cause for such grandeur, there is no ball, no diplomat." she continues.

"You must silence yourself, your grace." one maiden rushes as they all make their way to the chapel in the underfloors of French Court. The click of Mary's heel was the only sound apart from the swish of her dress. "We know no more details than your highness, but you must trust the intentions of King Henry."

The last time Mary heard that was two years ago, when the wicked Queen attempted to push her son's betrothed to a puny convent after another failed assassination attempt by the English.

They make their way down the staircase, and it becomes obvious to Mary what all this grandeur was for. The chapel was full of foreign dignitaries and diplomats, members of the clergy and the cloth, and the Pope's envoy, Cardinal Perrazo. Far away from her, she could see Francis standing in a similar ensemble to she, standing awkwardly near his father and cousin, Antoine de Bourbon. The Queen bites her lip, attempting to retreat, but it does no good, for she catches sight of an older set of people standing at the alter.

Mary may be but eleven years old, but she knew a proxy marriage when she saw one.

Henry catches her eye, and he comes barrelling towards her, his blonde little heir attached firmly to his hand. Catherine follows, snipping and snapping at her husband, but he pays her no mind, walking towards the regnant Queen in all of her finery.

"My dear daughter!" he smiles widely. Briefly, Mary wonders of her surrogate father is having spells of madness, but she remembers the one insanity rulers like them share. A madness for power. "We have received marvellous word from the English envoy! Your cousin, the English King, he has taken his crawl to the grave! Isn't that marvellous? The English crown is open, we must seize it. Come, come." he takes her wrist and marches bride and groom up the isle, the larger bride and groom take to the bottom.

Ah. So that's what this was. A marriage to strengthen her claim to England. A proxy marriage, due to the fact that neither she or her future husband were of age. Wasn't that marvellous?

The music plays as soon as she and Francis are seated. The proxy couple make their way up the isle, and they wed the Scottish Queen and the French Dauphin in a matter of hours.

The bells chime. The French celebrate. And Mary cries.