You Are My Light Part II

218 - The Abandoned Queen *reupload*

He was taller than Haine remembered, even though he couldn't see his true height because of the grand, white stallion that he had mounted. He was thin, now. As if the man hadn't had a proper meal -let alone a feast as a King should- in months. Who knew, perhaps he had?

Despite these changes, it was none of them that really caught the Lord's attention. No, it was the cold, empty, deadliness in the King of France's eyes as they scanned the room, from crumbled walls and dead monks to the left to terrified, cowering children and old paintings to the middle, before landing upon Haine himself, and Haine's prisoner. He took in each and ever person, dead or alive, monk to nun, children to Queen, his own men with an empty, cold gaze that missed no detail. It was the way that that horrid coldness slowly seeped down King Francis' body that chilled Haine's own, enveloping the King in an anger that was both as fiery as an inferno ready to set ablaze poor, unsuspecting victims and as icy as a cavern in the dead of the harshest winter. That surely meant that death was imminent in Haine's future. It had to be.

The second King Francis of the house of Valois certainly wasn't the heartthrob Dauphin that Haine remembered him to be, a reckless romantic who had at one point been a man-whore of the French Court. Where he was unberdoned of his station and his future position, yet fully indulging in the benefits that legitimate blood of the Valois and the Medici provided for him. Haine wasn't even sure that this physical being upon horseback, like a fairy tale Prince with glinting armour on an impressive steed, was even a man anymore.

Rather, the King of France took the place of an avenging angel, ready and willing to do whatever it took to take back what was his. And, although Haine's actions with the abandoned Queen in the horrid plague that started off the King's reign in France had started the ball rolling on three years of running, making sure that the King would never find this divine, little Scottish diamond, he couldn't felt but lose sight of the King, now, for he had no doubt that the King would do whatever he wished with him. There was nowhere to run anymore.

In one word, one very, very accurate word, the King of France had hardened. Somewhere in the back of Haine's mind, he wondered if the King of France's own wife could recognise her King as he was now. He couldn't see Mary's face, for he held a large fist of raven locks in his hand, and he didn't feel her tense with surprise, fear or hope.

Then again, she didn't do much of anything, nowadays. Even still, even on the off chance that the Queen of France didn't recognise the King, the King was sure to recognise his Sapphire Scottish Jewel, that he had no doubt come to rescue, like the reckless, romantic hero Haine knew him to be. First, he runs into the plague -for, what? A whore? A thrill?- and now he abandons ruling his country to find the wife that he had abandoned almost three years ago.

"Father," Francis gruffed, to the head monk that trembled closest to him, still on his knees, his brown robes hanging upon his body. "I can assure you that neither you, or your flock will be harmed. I have no quarrel with you, nor with the Almighty Lord. However, your walls will not hide from me something that is rightfully mine, and what I must bring to justice. I do believe, Father, that God might just forgive me and my men for what we must do." Then, he slipped down the horse with one jerk of an ankle, landing safely on his feet, giving sight to his impressive stature.

The monk stuttered, but he quickly realised that he would not be able to dissuade the King from the path he would be taking. He told his flock to not get in the men's way, and then he fell silent. So, Haine did the one thing he could think to do, to save himself and his life from this very, very, determined French King that was intently prowling over towards where he and the Queen of France were collapsed onto the floor.

He yanked Mary closer to him, then, getting them both up to their feet. Mary hung limply from his hand, as if he had bound her arms above her head and left her to hang from a hook. Nor did her arms do anything to stop him, for they hung limply at her sides. Her knees seemed to be buckling, too. Haine reached for his silver dagger, lined with black cast iron, his only means of defence against his enemy that had him outnumbered five thousand to just one.