Some of the nobles say that the only job of the Queen is to warm the bed of the King. Without question, this isn't true in two aspects, because not only did Mary strike the bastard who insulted her (she was more annoyed that the ruby had fallen out of the gold band she had been wearing that afternoon, the bumbling bastard's cheekbone had been just as thick as his skull), when the King of France awakes before dawn this morning, the nip of the air chills his skin to the point of pain.
He frowns, opening his eyes to inspect the room, confused for a moment, unbared by the lack of light in the room, the lack of sound, and most importantly, the lack of his wife. But then he realises the culprit of the coldness is advice from a middle aged midwife from northern Bordeaux, who had advised Mary on sleeping on her side as the made it through the final days before her child would be brought into the world.
Francis hadn't liked this bit of advice, seeing as though he could no longer wake to their child kicking at him from inside his mothers' womb, and he regularly woke up on his back, looking for the Scottish ravenette beauty of royal blood who should have been residing in his arms, protected and safe as she took her rest.
But it matters not when Francis turns around and sees the frame of the Queen of France and Scots laying on her right side, her body barely any different from the back, the only thing telling him his wife held their child inside her body was the slight thickness of the waist, which honestly really wasn't that dramatic.
Until she turned around, of course, because Mary claimed she had a stomach the size of France and a child who wished to be a soldier with the amount he kicks.
Francis inches closer, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her tight around him, warming them both, with the dying hearth and the horrid chill of the winter's breath. He can feel her breath hitch with surprise -even as she still slept- but Mary relaxed soon after, and fell back into a deep slumber, her arm falling outstretched, covered only by ruched white tulle. He covers it with the blankets, and curls in behind her, so his breath is at the nape of her neck and his hands rest on her stomach, seaking out the little life within.
A little foot kicks at him, and he rubs it slowly through the fabric of Mary's nightgown. The child settles, and Francis smiles, perfectly content in this moment, holding everything that ever really mattered to him within his arms.
YOU ARE READING
You Are My Light Part II
Historical Fiction-Reign Oneshots/Taking Requests- The world can be dark, Mary, and uncertain and cruel. The only thing that matters is that we face it together. No matter what happens, you are my light. Part 2! -Read TEML first!-
