Epilogue

She wanders through the corridors to venture outside. Three weeks back at Court and the castle stifles. Her husband barely acknowledges her presence, his anger still fresh in the wake of what her actions nearly cost him - that, and his attempts to appease his only remaining mistress have taken precedence. Her counsel is dead. Her son, while warmer than in her departure, remains cold toward her. Only her younger sons received her with joy upon her arrival but, even so, they do not know how to handle a mother who left for two months without saying goodbye.

The winter grey coming through the windows has made the castle's walls suffocating. Little escape presents itself.

So, as the first signs of spring appear, she decides to take advantage of the opportunity to enjoy some fresh air and begins to weave her way through the gardens.

Apparently, she is not the only one to have such an idea.

She passes a merry party led by her son and the young woman now unavoidably her daughter-in-law. The bastard tags along with one of Mary's ladies. A kitchen hand lopes along with a second. The third, no doubt, off somewhere with the king.

Her son bears little resemblance to his father, that is for certain. Henry would never stand for servants spending time with royals on equal footing. But she is grateful for Francis' kind heart, as well as the ever-present smile on his face since she returned from her exile. For nearly two months, she had worried she might never see that smile grace his features again.

Granted, she missed the wedding. Henry had made sure of that, having sent his summons to her in Italy when the two were already married and she could no longer put a stop to it. He had been unwilling to risk her presence, and she couldn't fault him. Her regrets were numerous.

Catherine watches as Mary catches up to Francis and laces her hand into his. The young woman's happiness rivals that of her son's, the intimacy and joy in their union evident even in the company of others. Mary appears to be at peace, any lingering worry concerning the prophecy long since banished at Francis' urging.

Her time away had provided her with ample opportunity to ponder how her son would receive her letter's admonitions and, subsequently, how he would receive Mary upon her return from Marseille. Many nights, she had lain awake in Italy, questioning her choice of words and whether she had allowed too much freedom for the fate Nostradamus had predicted to come to pass.

The seer's words prove difficult to forget, even back at Court - his claims that Francis would die because of his union with Mary. That she would be alone, childless.

Mary's current state gives Catherine hope. The young girl is aglow with early maternity, her cheeks flush and her dresses newly altered to hang loosely upon her frame.

And how Francis dotes on her!

She smiles to herself, curious how a boy raised by a man who never demonstrated affection toward his own wife could ever know how to be different. It is all she has ever wanted for her son, to see him love and be loved. Happy. Willing to forgive his wife.

Francis has proven himself to be quite the attentive husband. While newly wed, and naturally still enjoying that nascent blissful state, his love for his bride displays itself in every small gesture, every reach for Mary's hand. Catherine had even crossed paths with the pair in the corridor the other day and felt voyeuristic as she witnessed her son's tenderness, the way he held his hand to gently brush his wife's swelling abdomen. His excitement for the child's birth could not be contained.

And yet, the war inside of her wages over where to place her trust. She has always adapted to whatever faith has best benefitted her position. Nostradamus' uncanny ability to foresee future events had lured her, surely, but had he truly not seen his own death when he chose to divulge that her son's union with Mary would cost him his life?

It is almost enough to convince her that everything might, indeed, end well - that, as Nostradamus had told her before his unfortunate death, they might be able to force their own fate. She finds herself wary, however. Unable to find peace. Unable to embrace the beautiful and carefree thing before her, as her daughter-in-law seems to have been able to do.

Her many questions linger, her conscience unsettled within her. Francis and Mary have been married. She cannot change that fact, nor can she intervene as she once did. There is no choice but to trust, to hope, they share a different fate. Their happiness and Mary's pregnancy could be signs that it might be so.

Yes, she hopes that it might be so. And the prospect of a grandchild most certainly provides motivation for her to mend what has been rent in the meantime. It has been a good many years since a child last wailed or toddled within the castle walls. The thought tempts her.

But, as she watches the party lope toward the lakeside to examine the first evidences of spring, she still wonders. In spite of her hopes, she cannot escape what sits in the recesses of her mind.

What if Nostradamus was right?

She cannot escape it, for she has no answer.

Author's Note: I tried to make the epilogue longer but it just didn't want to be longer! Perhaps this ending doesn't satisfy? It seemed to me to be the only reasonable way to end this tale. Francis and Mary are happy. Catherine is back. No one can know what will come their way next. You can choose for history to tell what truly happened between these two or you can make up your own ending ...

Thank you all for coming on this epic journey with me. It has been quite something, to be sure, seeing as how I just wanted to do a one-shot of Francis post-1x08! I'll be taking a much-needed break from writing to focus on some other things while the show is still on hiatus, but I'm always up for any great ideas you might want to shoot my way via PM. Please review and let me know what you think of the story and how it ends. :)