Tu Es Ma Lumière

108 - Anger

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Enjoy your next taste of the period kid-Frary piece I'm working on, Loup de Guerre!

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The shoddy, wooden doors of the small taverne the Queens of France and Scotland, as well as the French King were stationed within slammed open with a large 'humph', the greening wood grunting with the strain of its door slamming against its wood. Three new occupants came inside the small room. As the door swung closed, the doorknob had left a sizeable chunk in the wooden wall. The thirteen year old ravenette with a six-day-bar lifelong reign paid it no mind, continuing to mutter with her half brother over the map of French Court. The King of France barely glanced at the new occupants, far too occupied with the planning to retake French Court from that bastard King of Navarre.

"Francis," the Queen of France gasped out, taking note of her firstborn son. The lanky blonde Prince was drug inside the small, full to capacity taverne. One arm was around each set of shoulders of the Scottish guards, his fine clothing torn and bloody as the two Scots drug him over towards the nearest settee. He was layen down upon it. "Oh, dear God! Francis!" Catherine gasped, rushing over towards her eldest child. 

That gained the attention of the two ruling regnants of Scotland and France individually. The four people huddled against the small, wooden table dispersed from their huddle. In quick succession, they all turned towards the weeping Queen, who held the limp body of her son in her arms.

"Francis." Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland and it's isles whispered, taking a step closer towards her future husband. His hair was bloody, his face bruised and beaten beyond recognition. The greys and reds of his fine, satin clothing was torn and ripped, exposing more and more drying and oozing blood, bruises of all colours upon the once untarnished, dainty skin. He was unconscious, long blonde curls matted and damp with blood, turning the beautiful, soft strands of golden spun into a murky, rusty combination of scarlet and orche. His mouth, guarded by his pretty pout, was open, blood seeping out of it.

The Queen continued to stare at the scene of the mother holding her beaten child. She saw the madame serpante of the French Court, reduced to nothing but a mother, whimpering and wailing as she held the boy she so adored. Queen Catherine openly weeped and wailed to the point of patheticness and pity, showing no signs of stopping.

The Queen of Scotland continued to stare at the two of them, barely even noticing how much King Henry barked and howled at the two, demanding what happened to his son and heir. There was nobody in her eyes but the Queen and the Prince, everything else fading out into blurriness. She didn't see the Prince's siblings wailing in their own right, nor did she see the King pulling at non-existent hair in both anger and desperation.

"Where did they leave him?" Mary demanded, her jaw locking. The ravenette continued to stare at Catherine and Francis, however she spoke to the men behind her. "Where was he?" she asked fiercely, tears of velvet anger in her eyes.

"Your Majesty?" was what was asked, in her native tongue. She shook her head, continuing to stare at the beaten boy and his heartbroken mother. "The Dauphin was just-" he paused. "in the streets, highness. He was left in the streets."

"The street." Mary chuckled angrily, although her voice was no louder than a whisper. "The street." she confirmed to herself, hissing in breath after breath. "They took him and they beat him, they beat him to the point of unconsciousness-" she scoffed quietly. "and then just threw him out onto the streets." she nods, anger burning within her veins. Her breath came harder and harder. She could feel it. The anger seemed to inflate her, strengthening her, until she was tempered like steel after the flames. "Well," she whispers. "that-that makes things simple, do you not agree? Simple, very, very, oh, so simple." she shook her head again, the thick raven waves sweeping from right to left over the grey and black tapestry of the fur-backed satin coat she wore. "Would you like to know why, sir Emile?" she asked, turning around. 

Suddenly, she is no thirteen year old girl. She raises her chin, ageing herself a decade within a moment. "Why, Queen Mary?"

"Because now, my lord, they have touched my most prized possession. And now there is no power on this earth that can stop me!" she snaps, reaching up to her crown and tossing it from her head. She reaches down and rips the skirts from her legs, leaving the long limbs covered in leather. She marches towards the table in which they left their weaponry, swiping her sword and baldric from the table. The enormous emerald shimmers against the dim light of the taverne. "Now come on!" she barks, storming out of the taverne, walking straight over to her horse and amounting the steed.

May your God have mercy upon you, King of Navarre. Because now, I never will.