"It's the Dauphiness!"
"The Dauphiness has returned!"
"Open the gates, the Queen of Scots has returned!"
The orders continue on. The raven stallion that the raven Queen had mounted continues to gallop until he has delivered his mistress unto the stables in which she steers him. Immediately, servants lollop into the thick inches of snow, reaching their arms up to steady the Queen and her stallion. Her face is drawn in anger and betrayal, her blood pumps heavily in her veins. Mary's entire body trembles with hatred and heartbreak, it seeps into her cold lungs until she can no longer breathe. Her hands clamp down on the gold studded black leather stirrup so tight that even if there wasn't thick snow surrounding them, her hands would have lost their feeling anyhow.
Furious, the Queen rips the Lady Fleming's arms from around her trim waist. She allows her to fall unsteadily into the servants' hands bellow them, taking the moment to straighten her cape and let her hair down from its restraint. The stablehands gasp at the state of the Queen's Lady in waiting, catching the little whore's body as she falls limply into them. They see the blood that stains Lola's skirts, as well as the saddle, but it hardly matters to Mary in this moment. She can hear the chatter, the franticness for a physician when Lola's eyes close completley. Mary pays them no mind, instead she slips down from the tall horse and orders him warmed by the stable boy. In a voice that sounds scarily similar to that of Queen Catherine's, Mary angrily orders that the whore be ripped down into the dungeons by the guardsmen, and if she must, then be treated by a physician. She ignores the questions the servants pose her with a sharp glare, and they silence themselves immediately, following her orders. It gives Mary savage pleasure to watch Lola be dragged away by guards, her body hollow and bloody.
Savage pleasure.
The Queen of Scotland drags herself from the coldness of the French winter into the warmth of the castle. She ignores the handmaidens who replace her snowy cape and riding boots with a knitted black shawl and gold satin court shoes, instead forces herself into her shared chambers into where she knew her husband would be waiting for her. The nobility and the servants bow for the future Queen of France as she passes at an impressive rate, intent on finding the blonde who held a significant hand in the situation she and Lola found themselves within a few hours ago. How could he do that? How could she do that?
Her thoughts are put the back of her mind when Francis stands up in front of his writing desk, looking at her with that beautiful smile on his face. He's so handsome, so beautiful, and he's hers. Nobody else's. Francis belongs to Mary, not to Lola, not to Olivia, not to Natalia. He's Mary's.
"Mary? Is something wrong?" the Dauphin of France, King of Scots, asks his wife, walking over to stand in front of her. His hands reach out towards Mary, she knows he can tell that something's wrong with her. Anger, heartache and lust begin to pound in her veins as she takes him in. He's hers. He's hers.
The Queen proves it by angrily grasping at Francis' lapels, pulling him down for a deep kiss. It catches him off guard, he doesn't return it at first. And yes, she is a little forceful, but after hearing of Lola's pregnancy and seeing the little blob after the Madame ripped it out of her body, she needed to affirm that he was hers, nobody else's. Anger and tears could wait for now. Right now, she needed him. She kisses him forcefully, her tounge pushing into his mouth, claiming it for herself. It's animalistic the way she grips her husbands' hair with one hand, his hip with the other one. She wants to mark him as her own, so every person at court, man or woman, would know who he belonged to. She wants to kiss each and every essence of Lola from him, and every other woman who had been with him. He was hers now, all hers. Their tounge dance and massage in a forceful waltz that speaks of nothing but animalistic lust -on the Queen's part, anyway, but it's not as if he's pushing her away at all- until Mary pulls him away.
"What was that for?" Francis pants, sucking in all the air he physically can. Her eyes darken as she sees the way his lips have swollen from her kisses.
"You're mine." her voice is low and so sensual, in that moment, she can see his confusion and resolve break. "All mine." she grips his doublet in her two hands. "And I want to prove it." she shoves him backwards towards the bed.
Needless to say, the courtiers don't see the Dauphin and Dauphiness until the next morning.
