You Are My Light Part II

290 - Brood

"Papa," the young Princess says, looking up at her father with wide blue eyes. Francis looks down at the young girl who sits upon his hip, pillowed by the gold brocade on the deep maroon jacket that trails at the back of his knees. The Princess Aylee Victoria Elizabeth Catherine of the house Valois-Angoulème-Stuart wears pretty blues that accentuate her eyes, every inch her father's daughter as she looks deep into his eyes, as she is carried by the King of France and Scotland. "Is Mama okay, now?"

"Of course, my little dove." Francis says, running his fingers over Anne's soft, dark waves as she walks next to him. "She's been very excited to see you, introduce you to your new brother." He says, adjusting her on his hip as the family walks with purpose over to the Queen's birthing chambers. Mary had taken to those rooms at eight months gone, when the child inside her tired her more often and her ankles had swollen to the point of pain, and she has been in there for the last four days since thr baby was born.

Of course, they would have shown the baby and the new mother to their brothers and sisters a few hours after the baby had been born, exactly how they had repeated the motion after every new baby born, but the labour had been long and Mary had bled a lot more than the midwives would have liked. Francis had been sternly told off by the intimidating midwives, telling him that for the next year, two years, he should remove his stick from the Queen's modesty, for that body that may one day wear the crown of England needed to rest from childbearing.  He had agreed, for the woman was even more intimidating than his own mother, and he did not want to risk a slap if he said anything otherwise.

The young Duke of Anjou and Rothsay looks up at his father, a small frown on his plump lips.

"But Mama is okay, Papa?" The Prince James Henry Edward François of Valois-Angoulème-Stuart asks, his dark curls brushing his shoulders as he walks with the brood of Princes and Princesses. "She doesn't hurt?"

"Not anymore, little King. Of course, birthing a child will always hurt the mother, but we have midwives and physicans that can brew her teas and herbs that can soothe. Your mother isn't in any pain." And while that is true, neither mother or father or physicans or doting grandmother wanted the children to see the deep red bloody sheets that the Queen had kept being lifted out of, the pain was not the true issue. And no child of theirs was old enough to see such a bloody spectacle of the difficult birth of their youngest child.

"Alright." James whispers, and Francis is grateful that at least he does not verbalise his thoughts to his siblings to hear. He will speak to him later, when they are alone in the King's apartments, and the rest of the children are sleeping in the rapidly filling nursery.

The brood gets to the door, and Francis takes his hand off of his firstborn daughter's shoulder to twist the knob and push the door open.

It's dark in the room, lit only by an oak wood fire, candelabras and torches glitter from the walls and the ceilings, dark wood bedframe tall with red tulle covering both sides, the foot of the bed open and ready for the children to see their mother in the oversized bed.

The room is sparsley littered with midwives, servent girls, and a few physicans muttering with each other on the Queen's condition. Trusted servents gather sheets for the laundry and sleeping gowns and various rags in large wicker baskets. They smile and bow to the children as they pile into the room, rushing over to clamber on the bed, gasping with delight as they lay eyes on their mother and the sleeping bundle in her arms.

"Mama, Mama!" The childrens voices are soft as they climb and crawl onto the plush mattress, the sheets soft and warm.

"My darlings." Mary smiles, reaching out to kiss their heads as much as she could without jostling her sensitive abdomen or move the sleeping baby.