Echoes of the Past

The King of France makes his way down the hallways of his chateaux slowly, methodically, his poise prowess and powerful. His stature imposing and impressive, towering over any and all courtiers or courtesans who dared even attempt interrupt such an intimate moment for the King. Although the King of France embodies the same earthly body as the man, the husband, the father, the King of France grew smaller and smaller in stature as the grandeur doors to the chateaux's chapel came into view. As he touched the brass and gold doorknobs, the King stood no more, golden crown and crimson velvet robes amounting to nothing as the doors opened slowly.The King of France, second of his name, stood no more. In his place was only Henri de Valois-Angolueme, the man, the husband, the father. The father who was hardened by grief and loss, outliving not one, not two, but three of his children. One heir for the throne, two daughters of France for the marriage market, three children to warm the cold, aching heart of their mother. Now, no more than the rustle of the wind. Living only in memory of their brief lives -for two of them- immortalised not by a rule or their actions as they grew, but just by a collection of letters that will eventually fade into nothingness.The King of France caught sight of the Queen immediately after he stepped through the grandeur doors to the even more grandeur chapel. She was illuminated by lit candles, flickering and dancing in a slow, mournful waltz. A portion of her Medici wealth had gone into the chapel when she became a Princess of France, later the Dauphine. But never had the walls glistened with such jewels and gems, it was all down to her. With each loss, the time she spent in the chapel grew and grew, and as such, it sparkled even more. Three losses before Francis, one just after Claude, one just before Henri, and the final just after Margot. Although the losses of babes due to miscarriage ached his heart, that pain was lessened slightly. They were never actual people, never had the opportunity to grow further than a few weeks past conception. The worry the then Dauphine felt because of Sebastian's pregnancy and first two years of life had caused the first three, but there was nothing they could do to continue the other pregnancies. But losses such as these, they were different. So, so different.Young Louis, just a toddler. Limp from cot death only months after his birth. He was just starting to develop a personality, his mischievousness and his daring. Dark haired and bright eyed, little teeth almost always with gaps within them. A happy, contented little toddler, his life cruelly taken from him for reasons no more understood than the last. Even that was different, however. His birth had been quick and healthy, there was nothing anybody could have done to save him. It was God's choice to take him from them.It wasn't like the birth of their final children. Catherine had screamed and screamed for almost two days, labouring with no results for days. Her little body, curvaceous and swollen because of pregnancy, arching up with each contraction that came fast and hard, rapid. The King of France had -surprisingly- been there for the birth. He could still remember the metallic scent of blood as more and more appeared from Catherine's body. The salty taste of sweat in the air, her petite body dripping in perspiration, pale and rosy from childbearing. He had been terrified, even Francis' birth, which was the worst of them all, hadn't taken this long. He worried for the babes, their birth had been almost three weeks later than the physicians had predicted. Still stuck inside their mothers womb, unable to get out.The heat of June had made the birthing chambers almost stiflingly hot. Henry could still remember how much his hand had ached for days, Catherine had clenched and clawed at it for over an entire day. He remembered how his ears had rung and screamed as Catherine's cries had -somehow- increased in volume, when Nostradamus had reached inside her body, breaking one of the babies' legs to try and save Catherine's life. The Queen lived, yes, but the same could not be said for the children she bore.Unlike their other children -except Margot, Charles and Francis- the babies did not scream heartily when they finally exited their mothers' womb, little arms and legs kicking angrily. Like the eldest boys and the youngest girl, Victoria bleated weakly, each breath an effort for the little girl. Choking and gasping for each and every gulp of air. Her body was tiny and pale as it was laid upon her mothers' chest for just a moment. She did not kick or punch at the air in fury of birth, no, she just sagged into her fathers' arms when he had the opportunity to hold her. But the fact her heart beats was enough for them. It was a tenfold more than what had happened when tiny Joan had slid into the world.Their first stillbirth, Henry noted miserably. And their last. Young Joan, limp and still. She responded to no prayers from the midwives, nor to the frantic cries of her mother. The was gone, never really had a chance. It was a small blessing that it was her little leg that had to be snapped, she would never feel the pain of the break, unlike what Victoria may have done. Henry shuddered to remember the feeling of having to pluck the little girls' limp, dead body from Catherine's trembling arms. The helpless agony of it all, the weakness of tears that slid from his eyes to the dead girls' cheeks. She responded not to the King, either. She was gone. And she called to her sister not six weeks later. Just after the christening of Princess Victoria, the baby was limp to the world. A horrid thing, but a blessing, perhaps. She was sickly, she was weak. She would never have survived in this world anyhow. Best take her away before it could do damage.There was no chance for them to fill Catherine's arms or womb with another babe, to warm her heart, to give her what she most wanted. It would kill her this time, Nostradamus and the best midwives in the country had said to them both, several times. She must make do with the children she had already. Francis, Elisabeth, Claude, Charles, Henry, Margret and little Hercules. There could be no more.Henry could hear the soft cries leaving his wife's lips. In any other circumstances, these precious Medici tears would barely have bothered him. They had grown so apart in their first round of miscarriages and all. Catherine pushed him away so much that they were no more than amicable strangers by the time Francis finally arrived in this world. He had resented her coldness, not understanding it, turning to Diane over and over. The cold calmness to Catherine's passionate fire, he needed them both in different ways. But now, Henry could think of nothing other than coming over towards his Medici blooded wife and Queen, a mother of his children, the mother of his heirs. But Diane claimed him now, so openly and plainly, so much so that there was nothing for Catherine to hold claim to, apart from the crown she wore and the children she had bore. Thinking of Diane in this moment seemed almost sinful, but he couldn't help wondering if it was something to do with him that there was no more children. After Sebastian, his mistress had also experienced losses, children slipping from her womb before their first kick. He shook it away, there would be time for pondering later.He sighed at the horrid sight, preforming the cross before coming any closer. Catherine was thinner now. Her once full, curvaceous, petite frame was now thin and gangly, copper curls devoid of their shine and glossiness. Her skin was pale and chalky, the gown she wore dwarfing her frame. The son, second-heir and inheritor of King Francis I of Valois-Angouleme slowly knelt before his wife, reaching out, almost carefully, placing a hand upon her shoulder. They both shuddered at the feeling of his large, meaty, warm palm touching her shoulder. It was so cold.Catherine slowly turned to look at him. Henry stared into her eyes. Their crowns were crooked and their faces dismal. They both looked away, the sight of them both too pitiful and painful to watch upon for a moment longer.~/~"Do they still remain?" the Queen of France asked the King quietly, walking slowly around his impressive frame to look up into his eyes. The King jerked in surprise, looking away from the melancholy scene that seemed so familiar, looking down at his little wife. For all the Queen enjoyed her heeled court shoes, the click of them could be silenced when she wished it so.He exhaled in response, nodding slowly, looking away from Catherine and back towards the chapel. Just like that horrid day where Catherine had finally came out of confinement and made straight for the chapel, the candles were lit and flickering. The cold and jewels glinted in their grandeur, but they could have been made of mud and stone and it would have made no difference to the thick, mournful feeling of the air. Catherine lowered her head in sympathy for the poor girl and her poor boy, looking through her copper lashes at the scene as it played before them. There they stood, in a show of almost solidarity in such a grief stricken time, the current King and Queen of France stared silently at the backs of the future King and Queen. They weren't noticed. The King and Queen of Scotland always had a way of pushing out the entire world in favour of one that contained only themselves.What a difference just a few years made. Just two years before, the Dauphin and Dauphine of France had been in a state of such bliss after their wedding day celebrations. Nine years of companionship had finally paid off and the two were wed, to create a better future for their countries, with the possible addition of a third if God willed it so. They did have a third, but it wasn't one that anybody imagined them having. A gift, or a curse?The once fiery, headstrong, strong, fearless Queen of Scotland, who had once lead armies into battle, who had gambled with fate and the devil himself for a better future for her country, the same woman who'm could play with fire and had taken a blade for her rule, poison for her childhood, was such a different entity now. Always an enigma, but in a way never such as this.They were wed a twin of years ago, in a ceremony with as much pomp and pageantry as people within their station deserved. A fairy tale, the history books will say. The beautiful Queen and a handsome Prince, ready to forge a new empire. The wedding was a fairy tale, yes, but the first year of husbandhood and wifehood was no whimsical, fanciful, utopian. Enraged by the wedding, Queen Mary I of England had sent soldiers to her northern border. In response, the King and Queen of Scotland had risen an army and mastered the waves and the battlefield, meeting her on the very same hill that took Mary's father from her before she had even lived a week in this world. Blades had swung, arrows had flown, and months upon months of tactical politics and straight hand-to-hand combat had attained a victorious ceasefire for the Scottish Queen, as well as quite a few miles of land who now bowed to Stuart, rather than Stuart.Months of rule in Scotland had lead to a trip to France, full of glory and valour for the young rulers who had finally been able to prove themselves upon the worlds' stage. Victorious celebrations had occurred in France, as well as celebrations for the Scottish Queen's womb, which had swollen with child. An heir, one who would be the strongest ruler anybody had ever seen. And, in another reality, perhaps it would have.The Queen of Scotland had spilled her waters in the middle of the night, a few days before her anniversary of her birth. The contractions were fast and hard, however the Queen of Scots was young and strong, and the Dauphine of France welcomed each and every wave of pain, for it would bring her boy closer to her.It did, until it didn't.Thirty eight hours of labour had exhausted the young Queen of Scotland and Dauphine of France. The King of Scotland and Dauphin of France had resisted the wishes of frightening midwives speaking in words he had only begun to understand. He would stay with his wife, the one who meant the most to him, until the end. He hadn't left her side even once during the labour, court had been made aware of, even yelling back to the midwives who tried to throw him out of the chambers he had been birthed within.The Queen of Scotland made peace with her God, naming her successors should she or the baby not survive the birth, for she was far from ignorant to the dangers of childbirth. However, let it be known that the Scottish Queen is still young, fierce and strong. It is only unfortunate that her child was just a little too exhausted from its ordeal to remain in this world as its sacred body finally slipped out of his mothers' womb.The cries of the Queen had been deafening as the child did not cry within the midwives' arms. Nothing could be done, the young son of King Francis and Queen Mary was gone.A boy, both courts tutted sadly. Christened Prince Matthias, a true gift of God. His body was lain to rest in the land of the French, rather than the Scottish. The French wore white, whilst the Scots were mournful in black. Just the same as now, it would seem. The King gleamed in white, whilst the Scottish Queen was shadowed by black.King Francis was kneeling by his wife's side, a hand upon her shoulder as the childless mother weeped her grief in full eye shot of the only person in the world who could see such sacred tears. A blackened veil was covering her face, but he could see.Two rulers. Two sets of Kings and Queens. Two sets of bereft parents. Pulled apart by two different generations and held together by two church pughs in two different worlds.The King and Queen of France stood at the doorway, watching their successors and children, almost guarding them from the prying eyes of the rest of the world. They were strong, they would survive. "My love." Francis whispered, within his wife's native tongue. She did not look at him, but he knew she listened to his words. The King of France watched as the Dauphin slowly reached over his neck to unlace a golden locket. The Scottish King gently laid the large locked in his large palm, the golden chain framing it.The Queen of Scotland slowly reached over to unlatch the necklace, her hand small and pale and frail. A sob curt from her throat as she stared back at the face of her son. Matthias smiles up at his mother from his eternal place within the necklace, entombed for eternity within paint and canvas and gold.She touches the portrait gingerly, and glances up at the blue eyes of her husband and King. Neither look away.