Reign: The Haunting (3 page)

“Are you planning on making a habit of hiding from me?” Mary opened the door to Francis's old rooms. He sat at his work desk, striking a finishing stone against a new blade. Things had to be very bad for Francis to retreat to his sword-making but adding to that his scene in the great hall and Lola's desperate request for a late-night audience, Mary knew something was gravely wrong with the king.

“Leave me, Mary,” Francis said, eyes trained on the job at hand. “I need to be alone right now.”

“Then that's a problem,” she said with a soft, sad smile. “You're a king and I'm your queen. Neither of us will ever be alone.”

Francis looked up at his wife with confused red eyes.

“I'm so tired,” he said, a moan in his voice. “But I have such nightmares.”

“I know,” Mary said. She walked around his worktable carefully, sitting beside him on the bench. There were a lot of knives to hand and as much as she loved and trusted her husband, she couldn't help but feel an edge of anxiety. “But they are only dreams. Why do you want to send your son away?”

“Because he isn't safe here,” he replied, his expression tight and resolved.

“We are always in some kind of danger,” Mary tried to keep her voice light but her words honest. It was true, after all. They were the king and queen of France and Scotland, they would always have enemies. “We decided he was safer on castle grounds, bearing your name. That is why you claimed him.”

“I thought you would be happier with him gone.” Francis still refused to look at his wife. “I thought you would be pleased.”

Mary ignored the pang in her heart. Whatever was wrong with Francis, this wasn't the time to rise to a fight. “I want my godson near me,” she replied. “So does Lola. And I know that you do too.”

“But he isn't safe,” Francis said again, his voice breaking on every word. “I can't have him here.”

“Why?” Mary pressed, taking the stone and the steel from his hands and holding them in her own. “Who would hurt him?”

Francis looked up, his eyes full of fresh tears that he refused to let fall.

“Me,” he whispered. “I'm afraid that I will hurt him.”

Dawn came slowly, broad strokes of orange and red painting the sky outside the castle, the rising sun finding Francis on his knees in front of his father's sarcophagus.

“What is happening to me?” he asked the image of the former king. “Is this real? Are you really speaking to me?”

But the stone did not speak.

Francis rubbed his hands over his face, breathing out hard. His knees ached and his head throbbed, but he had sworn that he would not leave this room until he had an answer.

“You appear to me in my sleep,” he said, pleading with his dead father once again. “You use maids and nightmares to give me messages but when I come to you, there is nothing? Why do you torture me?”

With an angry shout, Francis pounded his fist into the floor, bloodying his knuckles, but his body was so overcome with exhaustion, he felt nothing. He couldn't go on this way, the dreams were too much. If the roses grew where his father had fallen, how long before harm befell his child, his only child? And if it wasn't his father's ghost seeking revenge that troubled him, how long before his own madness wounded the whole of France?

“Either I am a heretic”—he flexed his hand, watching the blood run over his fingers—“either I have been forsaken by my own god or I have gone mad.” Turning his back to his father's resting place he leaned his forehead against the freezing cold castle wall. “I don't know which is worse.”

“I've been called both of those things,” a voice said, a dark figure lingering in the doorway. “Neither is preferable. Especially for a king.”

“Lucky for you then that you will never be king,” Francis replied as Bash stepped into the crypt.

“I count my blessings daily,” he said, crossing himself in front of the sarcophagus and whispering a pagan prayer under his breath. “I never wanted to rule, little brother.”

“No, you only wanted my wife.” Francis punched the wall, grinding his fist into the stone. The pain woke him up, made the lines between reality and fantasy that much clearer. “If I were to die now, would you seize the crown, Bash? Would you seize Mary?”

“I don't know what's wrong with you, Francis, but people are beginning to talk.” Bash rushed over to his brother's side, thrusting himself in front of his fist before he could strike the wall a second time. Francis pulled his bloody hand away from his brother, the red imprint staining his white shirt. “This has to stop.”

“I don't know what's wrong with me either,” he said. “You were raised a pagan, you understand their beliefs and superstitions. Do you believe a man can be haunted?”

Bash's forehead creased at his brother's question. “I believe in the world we see,” he replied, pushing thoughts of The Darkness from his mind, of the plague, of the people he had seen that he could not have seen. “Trusting in prophecies and stories leads only to discord and chaos.”

“Then do you believe that poisoned blood passes from father to son?” Francis stared hard into his brother's eyes. “That the madness that took the king can pass down to his son as freely as the crown?”

His knees gave way beneath him and he slid down the wall, stretching his legs out in front of him.

“So that's it?” Bash followed suit, sitting side by side with his brother. “You fear you're going mad, like our father?”

“I don't know how else to explain what's happening to me,” he confessed. “I dream of him every night, he talks to me, in cryptic warnings and riddles, but it feels as though the dreams are coming true.”

“That's why you want to send your son away?” Bash leaned his head back against the wall. “You're afraid that you'll hurt him. Or that he'll inherit a sickness you perceive in yourself?”

Francis laughed. “Dear brother, I hadn't even thought of that. Splendid, another burden to carry. Besides”—he slapped his brother's knee—“I realize now sending the baby away won't help. Whether it is my mind or my soul that is poisoned, having my son raised by strangers won't change a thing.”

“I'm glad you've come to your senses,” Bash said. “Mary will be relieved.”

“Mary will be heartbroken,” Francis corrected him. “I'm not sending the baby away because I am leaving instead.”

Bash's mouth hung open, his clear gray eyes wide. “Before, I thought you were suffering from a lack of sleep and the weight of the crown,” he replied. “Now I truly believe that you are insane.”

“There's no other answer for it, Bash,” the young king said with a tired determination. “I've spent all night searching for another way and there just isn't one.”

“Damn it, Francis, you're the king of France.” Bash pushed himself up to his feet, dragging his brother up with him. “People will make allowances for you. You can kick goblets at servants and shout at your mother and call your brother's wife a whore, but you cannot disappear on a whim.”

“I am sorry for the things that I said last night,” Francis said, pushing up the sleeves of his dirty, bloodied shirt. “I wasn't in my right mind, which is the problem I'm trying to resolve.”

“By running away?” Bash asked. “Where does that leave Mary? And the country?”

“No one needs to know,” he muttered, thrusting his brother away. “I'll tell Mary and my mother I'm going on a goodwill mission and when I've conquered whatever demon torments me, I'll come home. A horse is waiting for me, I leave this morning.”

“And when will that be? There's nothing mad about you, brother, other than this plan.”

“Our father's madness nearly brought the country to its knees,” Francis said. “I won't remain at court while everyone watches me lose my sanity. It isn't safe.”

“And what if there is no solution to your problems?” Bash shouted as Francis walked toward the door. “What happens to us all then?”

With one last look at his father's sarcophagus, Francis shook his head and turned his back. “Pray that doesn't happen, brother.”

Striding through the bowels of the castle, Francis felt better than he had in weeks. The decision made, his mind felt clear. He would write notes to Mary and his mother and ride out, find a cure or an answer or whatever solution it would take to make these dreams, this haunting, this madness leave him be. Mary and the baby would be safe. Relieved, he turned a corner into the dungeons, looking to take a secret passageway back to his chambers.

“Excuse me, Your Grace.”

Francis gave the man a curt nod, recognizing him as one of his mother's guards.

“The prisoner is in her cell,” he said, his voice gruff and bold. “I was on my way to fetch the Queen Mother to aid in the questioning.”

“The prisoner?” Francis asked.

“Yes, Your Grace.” The guard's eyes darted over to the door on his left. “The nurse? We collected her from the village at dawn, as instructed.”

The nurse. His son's nanny. Francis closed his eyes, a bitter taste in his mouth. Why had he said anything to his mother? This was her answer to everything, throw someone in the dungeon and wring whatever answer she wanted out of them, whether it was true or not.

“My mother is indisposed,” he said quickly.

The guard's eyebrows knitted, the conflict between his orders from Catherine and a command from the king confusing him.

“Women's problems,” Francis added. The guard winced and straightened his spine. “She sent me to question the girl.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” He opened the door to the cell. “I'll be outside.”

“No need to wait,” Francis replied. “In fact, I need you to go and fetch me some irons. And dry bread. And three candles.”

The guard frowned. “Your Grace?”

“And three candles,” Francis repeated, raising his voice. “Was there some confusion?”

“Not at all.” The guard backed away quickly, practically running down the passageway. “Not at all, Your Grace. Irons, dry bread, and three candles.”

“And be quick about it,” Francis called after the man. His heart thundering in his chest, he opened the cell door to find the young nursemaid cowering in a corner under her cloak. “It's all right,” he whispered, crouching down. “Do you remember me? Do you know who I am?”

“You're the king.” She pulled the cloak away from her face to reveal a swollen cheek and bloody lip. His mother's guards had never been known for their careful handling of prisoners. “What have I done?”

Her fear of the royal family had been replaced by fear for her life.

“Nothing,” he said, helping her to her feet. “There was a mistake. Let's get you out of here.” She rose painfully, leaning against his arm.

“Bring your shawl, leave nothing behind,” he instructed, taking her slight weight in his arms as she began to cry. “You were never here,” he said softly, carrying her toward one of the secret passageways before the guard could return from his fool's errand. “Last night never happened. It was only a dream and dreams can't hurt you.”

Leaning against the stall of his fastest mare, Francis felt exhaustion sweep over him. He collapsed in the dirty hay, soothed by the warmth, the familiar smell of the horses. The nurse was gone, sent away from the castle, and warned, with care, never to return. She was scared and confused, but Francis was certain she would do as she was commanded and even more certain that he had done the right thing. He felt a small smile growing on his face, not of happiness but of relief. Even in his darkest moments, he would find the light. He was going to be a good king, a fair and just man. There would be sacrifices made along the way, but not this woman, not in his name. Somehow he would explain this to his mother, but there was no way he was going to let an innocent suffer to keep his secret sealed. Whatever evil haunted him, Francis knew he was different enough from his father in that way.

“Francis!” Mary rushed into the stable, flying around the stall and pressing her hands to her heart at the sight of her king lying in the hay. “Francis, wake up, are you all right?”

“Yes,” he replied, his eyes still closed. “I'm sleeping.”

“Then wake up,” she said, falling to her knees and batting him about the head. “Bash came to find me, he said you were leaving, that you feared you'd gone mad like your father. Francis, tell me he was playing some kind of ill-conceived joke or that he was confused. Or some other reason I cannot even begin to think of.”

“I've been so confused, Mary.” Francis opened his eyes to see his wife, her hair wild about her face, her gown covered in mud. It seemed as though he hadn't seen her for days and now, though she was in such a state of disarray, he had never thought her more beautiful. “I didn't see any other option.”

“You are not mad,” Mary said, taking his hand in hers. “You are tired, you feel the pressures of court in your heart because you are a good man. You wear your guilt as clearly as you wear your crown.”

“My guilt?” Francis started. Did she know?

“About your father,” Mary said tenderly. Francis swallowed hard and held his breath. “It's only natural, Francis. When my cousin Mary died, I felt such guilt at the very thought of taking her crown. It must be so much worse for you, to have lost your father and then have been expected to pick up his mantle the moment he passed.”

“Oh, yes.” Francis closed his eyes again, the dreams running around his head, but Mary would not let go. She squeezed his hand tightly, her little pale hand showing her warrior strength.

“The weight of leading a country truly and honestly is a great one, Francis,” she whispered. “The fact that it steals your sleep away from you only proves to me how sane you are. You are a good man.”