Reign: The Haunting (2 page)

“I'm glad you were able to visit us,” Lola said, reaching out to pour Francis more tea. Her maids had been dismissed as soon as he arrived. “He's always happier when you're here.”

“Do you need more help?” Francis looked down at his young son, gurgling happily in his arms. “Is he too much?”

He couldn't help but feel responsible. Not only because he had burdened Lola with an illegitimate child, but also because he had sent the nanny away. The dreams had started after he met her, after she had unwittingly channeled his dead father. The poor maid didn't know it, but he had had to let her go, he couldn't risk having her around his child.

“He's just enough,” Lola replied. “I wouldn't have him any other way.”

“He grows more handsome every day, doesn't he?” Francis smiled. “And his eyes—how can they be so big?”

“He grows more like his father,” she replied. “Only I do wish he would sleep through the night.”

“He really does take after me,” he quipped, holding the baby closer. He knew Mary would be disappointed to know he had retreated to Lola's cottage, but the only time he felt truly at ease right now was when he was around his son. A fact that would hardly please his wife and he couldn't stand to upset her further.

“I did think you looked rather tired.” Lola pushed her curls over her shoulder. It was a condition she knew all too well. “Why don't you close your eyes for a moment? No one will disturb you while you're here.”

Francis looked kindly at his friend. This was not how he had imagined fatherhood. Hidden away in a cottage on the palace grounds, stealing moments with his bastard son while his mother, one of Mary's best friends, busied herself with maintaining a happy distance. But now, here with his son in his arms, he wouldn't change it. While he longed for a family with Mary, the solace he found here had become precious.

“Maybe I'll just rest for a moment,” he said, leaning back in the chair, the weight of the baby in his arms. “Thank you, Lola.”

Moments later, he was far away from the cottage, miles from Lola's hideaway. Francis looked around. He was in the woods, a place he had been before. This was the clearing where he had sat and talked with his father just before it happened. The last time he had truly felt their connection. The snow was on the ground and the trees were bare, just as it had all been during the hunt—but without the pages and nobles it seemed too quiet.

“Do you hear that?” From among the trees, a tall figure covered in furs emerged. Henry. Crown on his head, the wound covered by a crude leather eye patch.

“Father.” Francis stumbled backward. Every time he appeared, it was as if Francis were seeing him for the first time.

“Do you hear that, Francis?” he asked again, coming closer.

“I—I do not,” Francis replied, steadying himself. He would not back away from his father, he would not run from a dream. “What is it you think you hear?”

“The pounding.” Henry stood opposite his son, the sun at his back. But his crown did not gleam in its light, its shine dulled by dried blood. “It is all I hear, my son. Every time I lie down to sleep the pounding wakes me once again. At first I thought it was the horses; hooves, but I killed all the horses and still, it echoes on.”

“You killed all the horses?” Francis repeated. Suddenly the virgin white snow was covered with the bodies of slain horses, dozens of steeds lay all around, their blood seeping out into the ground. “Dear God.”

“I have asked him for help.” Henry laughed, pulling his sword from its sheath. “He ignores me. I find no rest.”

“The priest read your last rites,” Francis said, treading carefully around the corpse-littered clearing, away from the ghostly shape of his father. “We gave you a Christian burial. All was done correctly.”

Henry took one more step forward. “You murdered me, son.”

Francis opened his mouth to reply, but there was nothing.

“Blood will have blood,” Henry said, opening his fur cape to reveal a small swaddled bundle. A baby. Francis's baby. He held him tenderly, stroking his cheek and smiling. “My blood is yours, your blood is his.”

“Father, no.” Francis tried to move, to help his son, but he was frozen. No matter how hard he willed his feet into action, they refused to move. Henry twisted his sword in his hand, flexing his wrist as the baby began to cry.

“It saddens me that we were unable to meet in life, grandson.” Henry traced his sword over the swaddling clothes. “At least we may comfort each other in death.”

“No!” Francis screamed, fighting against his invisible bonds.

Henry raised his sword above his head. “Sons must sacrifice for their fathers,” he said. “Blood will have blood.”

As he brought the sword down, Francis's feet freed themselves and he lunged at his father, the steel of his sword slicing through the air.

“Francis!”

The scream that brought him to came from Lola, not his father. His eyes flew open, wide and wild, he was completely unaware of where he was. Lola stood before him, the baby in her arms, the same scared look on her face that he had seen on Mary the night before.

“What were you dreaming of?” she asked, holding their baby tightly. “I thought you would raise the dead.”

Francis stood quickly, pulling on his jacket and staring at his son before he turned for the door.

“That's what I'm afraid of,” he said gravely. “Look after him, Lola.”

“Here you are.” Mary rushed the last few steps toward her husband, almost skipping with happiness. Even though they had been married for some time and had been through so much darkness, her heart still swelled when she happened upon him unexpectedly. “I thought perhaps you were with the baby. And Lola.”

“I was,” he confessed. “Had I known you were planning to visit, I would have waited for you.”

“It was not planned,” she said, leaning in to kiss him. Mary brushed her lips against Francis's cheek, but he turned swiftly, pressing his mouth against hers with unexpected fervor. The kiss deepened and in that moment, Mary could have been anywhere, could have been anyone. All that mattered was the kiss. Finally, he broke away, pressing his forehead against hers as they caught their breath.

“You're feeling better?” she asked, a flush rising to her cheeks.

“I am now,” Francis said. The rush of the kiss fell away at the thought of Mary talking to her friend about his visit. “Do you have to visit with Lola today?”

“No,” Mary replied lightly, her hands resting against Francis's leather-covered chest. “I haven't sent word, but I found myself alone and it has been too long since I visited my godson. I thought you were at court, Cardinal Strozzi is due to arrive any moment.”

“I'm on my way there now.” Francis felt his tensions slip away slightly as Mary took his hand in hers. Even though her guards were only feet away, he felt like they were the only two people in the world when they were together. He had never dreamed he could love this deeply. “Walk with me?”

“Is my presence required?” Mary asked, a winsome smile on her face. “I've already had the pleasure of your mother's company once today, I don't know if I can manage two audiences in twenty-four hours.”

“Let's take the long way back.” He squeezed her hand in his. “You saw my mother? To what did you owe that pleasure?”

“Just a happy run-in,” she replied. Lies tripped off her tongue too lightly these days, but this wasn't meant to hurt anyone, she only wanted to help Francis. “Tell me of this cousin of your mother's.”

“I've never met him,” Francis said, taking Mary's arm as they strolled back toward the castle, turning to take a different route from the one that had led him to the cottage. “I understand he didn't get along with my father. It's not that long since the Strozzi family and the Medicis were enemies.”

“Any enemy of your mother is my friend,” Mary said, smothering her laughter at the sight of Francis's quirked eyebrow. “I'm joking, I promise. How did they come to be allies?”

Francis gave her a playful shove, smiling a real smile at last and shaking off the final vestiges of his dream, chasing them away with another kiss. “Marriage, of course. Isn't that what brings all warring factions together? The Strozzis were far richer than the Medicis, but Mother's family seized political control in Florence, to all intents and purposes, ruining their rivals.”

“I can hardly believe it,” Mary said, wrapping her rabbit-fur stole around her velvet-clad shoulders although the chills that ran down her spine had far more to do with Francis's kisses than the cold. “As if a Medici would take delight in destroying rivals.”

“Cardinal Strozzi's brother fought beside me at Calais.” Francis pulled her closer. “They are loyal friends. I'm sure they would very much like to meet their new…”

“Francis?” Mary grasped at his hand as his fingers fell away from hers and his words trailed off into silence. It only took her a moment to realize what had claimed his silence. “Oh, Francis, I'm sorry. Let's turn back.”

Before them lay the jousting grounds where Henry had received his fatal blow.

“No, it's fine.” Francis steeled himself, leaving Mary's side. It was all too much, the dreams, the guilt, the lies. “I had to return here someday.”

“Look.” Mary pointed toward the barrier that separated the jousters, picking up her skirts to take a closer look. “Someone has left flowers where he fell.”

Francis felt a chill come over him and his legs became unsteady. “Flowers?”

“Roses,” Mary replied, looking back over her shoulder from where she knelt. “Someone has planted roses.”

“‘Beware wild roses,'” Francis whispered. “‘Blood will have blood.'”

“Francis?” Mary focused her gaze on the king, every part of her being aware of his panic. “What's wrong?”

For the want of an answer, Francis turned on his heel and ran back to the castle, away from the roses, away from Mary.

“When Catherine decides to throw a party, Catherine throws a party,” Lady Kenna said to her husband, Bash, as they entered the grand hall. The room glowed with candlelight and sang with music, food, and drink everywhere she looked. A servant was in front of them before she could even think to be thirsty, holding out a silver platter laden with fully charged wine goblets.

“Thank you.” Kenna smiled as she took one. Bash declined with a swift shake of his head.

“I'd rather not spend too much time here,” he said, an arm around his wife's slender waist. “Too many Italians for my liking.”

“Don't be such a spoilsport,” Kenna teased, standing on tiptoes and tilting her head to plant a gentle kiss on his downturned mouth. “We'll drink, we'll dance, we'll see our friends, and then we'll go back to our rooms and have a party of our own.”

Bash couldn't help but smile at that thought. Perhaps he and Kenna hadn't had the most auspicious of beginnings, but he had never known such a passion. She was just as bright and brave and caring as she was beautiful and it was a combination he found difficult to resist, even here in public. He loved watching her dress for an occasion, the way she braided her long, silken brown hair, applied her kohl and rouge. He counted as the maids fastened the tiny silk-covered buttons that fastened her beautiful gold silk dress. It gave him even more pleasure to know every man in the room had their eyes on his wife but only he had his hands on her. She was his and he was hers. Forever.

“You're making me want to leave right away,” he growled into her ear, his hand sliding around the waist of her gown, his fingers lightly sliding upward until they found her bare shoulder blades. She shivered with delight. “There are thirty-six buttons holding this dress together. How long do you think it would take me to unfasten them all?”

“You can rip them off for all I care,” she whispered, her voice hot in his ear. She stood right in front of him, tracing a line down his chest and then resting her hand right above his belt. “But I am going to make you wait.”

With that, she danced away from Bash, laughing as she swayed through the crowds, raising her goblet to him as she went.

“Married life is treating you well, brother?” Francis threw a heavy arm around Bash's shoulders, his tired eyes light with laughter as he watched Kenna make her way across the room. “I would never have guessed how well you would take to it.”

“Neither would I,” Bash admitted, clearing his throat as he came out from under Kenna's spell. “Luckily, of all the decisions our father made in his madness, this one seems to have been blessed.”

“You're a lucky man,” Francis replied. His golden-blond hair glowed against his black jacket, the silver-blue embroidery picking out the color of his eyes. It was a favorite of Mary's. Thinking of her, he knew he had some explaining to do after his bolt that afternoon. “Lady Kenna is—”

“Mary,” Bash interrupted his brother, his eyes drawn across the room.

“Well, no,” Francis said, thrown. “I mean, she's very beautiful, but—”

“Mary is here,” Bash said, gently elbowing his brother. “Look.”

And it wasn't only Francis who looked. A page announced Mary's arrival, but he needn't have said a word: everyone in the room stopped and stared. There was no arguing with the fact that she was a beautiful woman, but tonight she looked unearthly. Her long, dark hair shone almost black in the light of the lanterns and her dress sparkled as she moved, the midnight-blue silk skirt billowing out around her, the bodice seemingly decorated with thousands of tiny diamonds. It looked as though she were wearing the night sky itself.

“Hello, boys,” she said, heading straight for the light- and dark-haired brothers. “Are you not drinking? Is something wrong with the wine?”

“We couldn't possibly raise a glass without our queen,” Bash replied. Everyone knew he had loved Mary fiercely, including Francis—his brother, her husband, and the king—and while that was all in the past, he couldn't help but marvel at her beauty.

“You look incredible,” Francis said in a soft voice, hardly daring to touch her. “Your gown is a masterpiece. Your dressmakers have surpassed themselves.”

“Thank you,” she replied automatically, her shoulders stiff and high. Although Mary smiled, Bash could see the sentiment did not make it to her eyes.

“The dress of course is nothing without the woman inside it,” he said quickly, glancing between Mary and his brother. “I fear Kenna will combust when she sees it. She spent an age choosing her gown for this evening.”

“Then I must find her at once,” Mary replied, grateful for the easy exit. “We can talk dresses while you men keep your visiting cousin company.”

Francis knew that Mary was no more likely to spend an evening at court discussing fashion choices than she was to go outside and milk a goat for their morning drink but it was quite evident that she was unhappy with him.

“Whatever have you done, brother?” Bash said, clapping him on the back as if he sensed the exact same problem. “Find a way to undo it quickly. I haven't felt a frost like that since the depths of winter.”

With an unhappy sigh, Francis nodded and set off across the hall. He couldn't bear to have Mary mad at him for another moment.

“Ah, here is my handsome son.”

Before he could take another step, he saw his mother in front of him.

“Tell me, Francis,” she said, guiding him away from where Mary and Kenna stood and over toward his throne. “How are you feeling? You look so tired.”

“I'm fine, Mother,” he replied, his temper growing shorter with every second. “Busy, that's all.”

“Something is weighing on your mind. Marital woes perhaps,” Catherine pressed. “Is it something a mother could help with? Or an executioner?”

“How lucky I am that I have both of those in one person,” he snapped. Catherine took her hand off her son's arm, eyes wide with surprise. “I'm here to greet your cousin,” Francis continued. “Where is he?”

“On his way,” Catherine said, focusing her gaze on Francis. There were deep, dark shadows beneath his eyes, and his hair and skin lacked their usual luster. When Francis was a boy, Catherine had doted on him as though he were a doll and it delighted her that he had never lost his golden curls and bright blue eyes. But tonight he looked aged and broken. Mary was right, something was wrong.

“Tell me, Francis.” She spoke in hushed tones, turning away from the happy dancing crowds that surrounded them. “What is the matter? A mother knows when something troubles her son.”

Francis paused. If anyone would understand, it was his mother. She had plotted with Mary to kill his father when his madness took hold. She would tell him he had done the right thing, she would help, perhaps her private doctor had something to help him rid himself of the dreams, to help him sleep. Nostradamus would have known what to do. If only she knew where he was.

“Francis.” She gripped his hand, concern in the gray eyes that mirrored his own. “Tell me.”

“It was Lola's nursemaid.” The moment he opened his mouth, the words began to tumble out uncontrollably. “She spoke in Father's voice. And then the dreams, it's every time I close my eyes. I can't stop it, I can't stop him.”

“The nursemaid?” Catherine gripped his wrists, trying to calm him down. “Tell me about the nursemaid.”

“She's gone now,” he said, the relief of letting it out almost overwhelming him. For a moment he imagined how he would feel if he could tell his mother what had really happened that day on the jousting field. “I had her sent away.”

Looking up into his mother's face, concern etched into his features, he stopped, his throat suddenly seizing up. He couldn't tell her. As soon as she knew, she would share the burden of guilt. While he was the only person who knew of the events that had led to his father's death, his family was safe. If two people knew the truth, whoever the second might be, they would be in danger. A secret only stayed a secret if the owner took it to his grave.

“My son,” Catherine implored. “Speak to me.”

“Leave me be.” He snatched his wrists from her hands and pulled away. “Everything is fine. The nurse has been sent away, the dreams are dreams and nothing more.”

Instead of giving in to his mother's plea, as he dearly wished to, Francis turned away, crashing into a servant carrying a trayful of drinks. Goblets clattered to the ground, splashing the servant, Francis, and his mother with wine.

“Your Grace, I'm s-s-so sorry,” the servant stuttered, bowing to his king and grabbing for the goblets as they rolled around the floor. “I didn't see you.”

“That's quite obvious.”

In his rush to leave, Francis stepped on one of the fallen goblets and lost his footing, slipping over and barreling into the servant. Even Catherine gasped as her son struck him in the head in an attempt to prevent his fall.

“I'm sorry.” Francis, on his knees, clawed at his hair to push it back out of his eyes. “I didn't mean—”

“Brother.” Bash was by his side once more. He grabbed Francis's shoulder with one firm hand and hauled him to his feet. Francis let Bash lead him out of the hall, away from the staring nobles who surrounded him. “Whatever is the matter, tell me now. I've never seen you this out of control.”

“Out of control?” Francis replied in a restrained growl. “I'm out of control? Leave me alone, Bash, you have no idea of the pressures I am under. Go back to Father's whore. I mean, your wife.”

Bash looked at his brother with such ferocity he felt that he could happily drive a sword right through his chest.

“Good night, Your Grace,” he said through gritted teeth. “I suggest you get some sleep.”

Alone in the dark hallway, the irony of his brother's words was not lost on Francis. Alone in the dark, he began to laugh. Quietly at first, it built into uncontrollable hysterics as he wandered down through the castle and out into the night.

“Shouldn't you be at the party?”

Lola opened the cottage door to find Francis shivering on the doorstep.

“I'm not welcome,” he replied, following her inside and kneeling beside his son's crib. “It's not safe here, Lola.”

“What's happened?” she asked, immediately alert. “Where's Mary? Is she safe?”

“I don't know.” Francis laughed softly, stroking the baby's cheek. “But I know he isn't. I have to send him away from court.”

“Francis, no.” Lola stood over the crib, staring down at the wild-eyed king. “Whatever is happening, tell me. We're safer here, with you to protect us. That was your decision.”

“A decision I have reversed,” he said, standing and staring Lola in the eye. “I am your king and when I make a decree it is law. There will be no questions. He will leave tomorrow.”

“He?” Lola's lip trembled as her fingertips reached out for the edge of the crib. Her baby began to stir, whining in his sleep. “What about me?”

“What about you?” Francis replied. “Have him ready to leave by midday. I'll make the arrangements.”