This is a companion piece of sorts to Rapprochement and, like it, takes place in the aftermath of the revelations of Catherine's poisoning. This time the focus is on Francis and I don't understand why we didn't see something similar in the show. But since TPTB ordained otherwise ... I decided to write it.

Poisoned By Degrees

Catherine was frowning over a letter she was attempting to draft to her notoriously touchy son-in-law, Philip of Spain. Her head gave an unpleasant throb and she dropped her pen to rub at the source of the tension between her brows; writing to King Philip was challenging at the best of times, and all the more so when one was still struggling to recover from poison.

The Spanish alliance, she thought grimly, was not what they had hoped for. Instead of providing a strong bulwark against Protestant dissension within and English aggression without, France's most powerful neighbour and supposed ally seemed content to do little more than sit on the sidelines and criticise endlessly. Even Catherine, battle-hardened as she was, was starting to wince involuntarily at the sight of the black-clad and invariably disapproving form of the Spanish ambassador.

Well, the letter would not write itself, she decided, lifting her pen. No point in expecting the children to do it, they were too entangled in their own worries and affairs—and neither Francis nor Mary had the necessary patience or subtlety to deal with Philip. It was all down to her, as usual ...

Inspiration was flowing freely and her quill scratching rapidly over her parchment when the doors opened and Francis slipped in without a word. His mother glanced at him briefly and continued to write, the line between her brows deepening as she tried to articulate a sufficiently persuasive argument while keeping an eye on her son. He was leaning against the window, his fingers rapping persistently against the wooden frame.

Catherine took a deep breath and tried to ignore him. This letter was important.

Rap-raprap-rap-rapraprap—

'Francis!' Exasperation made her drop her quill with a loud clatter and the young King whirled to face her, blue eyes very wide. She forced a smile. 'Francis. Darling. Are you here for a reason or are you trying to annoy me?'

Twin spots of colour touched his cheeks.

'I'm sorry, I ...' He paused to gather himself, his shoulders straightening and his chin coming up. 'I wanted to talk to you.'

'H'mm.' She studied him. 'What's wrong?' Nostradamus's face flashed before her mind's eye and she swallowed, remembering the prophecy. 'Are you ill?' She left desk and letter to take care of themselves and circled the room to his side, reaching to take his chin in one hand when he stayed quiet. 'Francis? What is it? Is it ... Is it Mary?'

'No, Mother.' He caught her hand in his and smiled the sweet smile that always made her melt inside, returning her in an instant to the glorious moment of his birth: the advent of her heir, her saviour, her golden child. His smile faded. 'I'm not the one who's been poisoned, am I?' He sounded uncharacteristically bitter and all at once she understood.

'Ah.'

Francis did not seem to hear. He was still talking.

'Why didn't we realise? Why didn't you?' His stare was accusing. 'You said you'd checked for poison and I believed you.' He released her, returning to the window. 'I tried telling you, you and Mary, but you wouldn't listen, you were both so absolutely certain that my father was mad you convinced me. And because of that I killed him.'

He twisted to face her once more, the light behind him blanking his features and transforming his hair into an aureole of gold. 'I put a lance through my father's brain. I made myself King before I was ready, before France was ready, deprived my brothers and sisters of a parent and you a husband and ... And all because of a bloody poison!'

She clasped her hands, her nails digging into the back of them. 'Francis—'

'I know what you're gonna say.' He slid down the wall to the floor, his hands swinging limply as he braced his wrists on his bent knees. 'That it was clever poison. That you—even you—didn't realise when you nearly fell victim to it too, but still ... For God's sake, Mother!' His head went down and she flinched, his pain hurting her as it always had.

'Francis ...' She lowered herself to the floor beside him, but without his easy grace; heavy skirts and tightly laced stays precluded that. 'You can't think like this, my son. You can't look back. Regret ...' She shook her head. 'It's futile for anyone but for a ruler most of all. You did what you had to do based on the intelligence you had at the time. That's all you can do; all anyone can do. Let that be the end of it.'

Francis's head came up as she spoke. 'And pretend it never happened?'

Something in her shrivelled and threatened to die at his tone. She'd successfully schooled herself to ignore the opinions of others—including her family, including Henry—but she'd never been able to defend herself against her eldest son. Before she'd realised, one hand jerked out to grab his wrist.

'Don't misunderstand me.' Her grip tightened; his velvet-clad wrist was like the finest Toledo steel beneath her fingers. 'I'm not suggesting that you do not grieve for your father ... God knows I do, despite everything. But not the manner of his death; leave that where it belongs, in the past. Guilt and regret can only weaken you.'

And I know this better than most. Regret has been my faithful bedfellow these twenty-odd years ... More faithful than Henry ever was.

'That's easier said than done,' Francis said dully. 'Everything that's gone wrong between me and Mary is because of him. If Father was still alive ... Narcisse would not be the power he's become, the Protestants and Catholics wouldn't be at each other's throats and Mary—' His voice broke and Catherine's eyes burned at what was coming. 'God, Mother. Mary. If Father was still alive she'd have been safe.'

'You don't know that.' Her heart ached for him, for them both. 'Mary's a Queen in her own right. She's always been in danger; she always will be.

Muscles rippled along her son's jaw. 'No. It's not the same. Mary was put in danger because of me, because of the things I did while Narcisse blackmailed me over the truth of my father's death.' He eyed her and gave a short laugh that held no humour. 'Sorry. I know you're ... friends.'

A beat.

'Companions, rather,' Catherine corrected and the blue eyes watching her narrowed.

'Are you and he—Never mind. I don't want to know.' Francis gave a delicate shudder and his mother mentally rolled her eyes.

'We are not.' Nor are we likely to. Stephan Narcisse has no interest in ... women my age.

'You can't blame me for thinking so,' Francis muttered. 'I've never seen him dote on anyone the way he dotes on you.'

Catherine laughed. 'Of course he does. Francis darling, it's not me Narcisse dotes on but power. He knows you hate him and he thinks he's got a back door to it in me.' She smiled. 'He's using me—and in truth I'm using him.'

Her son looked perturbed. 'And that's supposed to make me feel better?'

She squeezed his arm.

'Take comfort in this at least. I'm on your side—first, last, and always. If Narcisse wants to stay on mine he'll have to behave rather better than he has of late. So no more blackmail, Francis. You hear me? Your job is difficult enough; I won't have him make it harder.' I'd kill him first.

She felt some of the stiffness and tension leave Francis's body—and only then did she realise how knotted and twisted he'd been over the whole thing.

'Why didn't you tell me before?' she demanded, suddenly furious with him for trying to shoulder this burden alone. 'Why didn't you tell me you killed your father? Did you think I wouldn't understand? That I'd blame you?'

He shuffled away, his gaze dropping—and all at once she was transported back through the years to his fifth birthday, when he'd confessed to destroying the betrothal gifts sent to him by Marie de Guise. One servant was whipped and another sent away on pain of losing her hand if she returned and Francis had kept quiet until something in his manner had made her suspect. He'd said he was sick of bossy girls and didn't want another in the nursery, Elisabeth (gentle Elisabeth!) was bad enough ...

And then Mary arrived, lithe and gay and beautiful, and Catherine's six-year-old son had fallen for her instantly and forever. Even Henry—not usually the most observant of parents—noticed and commented on it.

'Francis ...' She cradled his cheek in her hand. 'I do not blame you. You must not blame yourself. What's done is done and ... France needs you to be strong. Mary needs you to be strong. If you cripple yourself over what-might-have-beens you are of no good to anyone, least of all yourself. Everyone makes mistakes and when you're a ruler your mistakes are larger than most. Remember the lesson your father tried to teach you? Leave emotion at the door when you deal with matters of state, my son. It is the only way. Ruling requires that your hands be drenched in blood—and I assure you, the more you allow your heart to interfere, the bloodier those hands will be.'

'They're already so much bloodier than I ever thought they'd be.' The vivid blue of his eyes had darkened to indigo. 'I'm not yet seventeen, Mother, and ... Mary and I wanted to be different. We never wanted to rule this way.'

This time her laugh was without amusement.

'You think your father and I did? We became what we are by degrees, innocence and naïveté slowly poisoned by cold reality. We loved each other once, but somehow ... Somehow, we never realised it fully until we were too old and bruised and betrayed to give it another chance. As for power ... Well, you've seen for yourself how one decision begets another and before you know it, you're forced onto a road you never wished to travel. You can't turn back now, not if you want to hold your throne.'

He swallowed. 'There's going to be a war, you know.'

She remained quiet, knowing he was right but unwilling to add to his pain by admitting it.

'That'll be my legacy. That's what they'll remember me for. Not a glorious war against an enemy, but a war within France itself. The worst thing of all!'

'Perhaps it's what we need,' she said softly. 'A short, sharp war. Both sides will suffer, Catholic and Protestant alike, the innocent along with the guilty ...' Her throat tightened with the memory of soldiers' laughter. 'And when they've suffered, when they've suffered enough ... then they'll listen.'

'But how long will that take?' Francis's softness matched her own. 'How much more blood will be shed?'

'I don't know.' The words caught in Catherine's throat; she'd had a momentary flash of Paris, its ancient streets turned into crimson rivers. She could not see the future, not like Nostradamus, but sometimes ...

Not by Francis's command. It will not happen. I will not allow it.

The double-knock that indicated her guard was waiting to admit someone sounded and she tutted. 'Oh ... One moment!' She turned to Francis, still inwardly seeking to find the words he needed to hear, but he'd already scrambled to his feet.

'Duty calls, isn't that right?' His eyes were still bleak, inward looking. His hand extended in silent invitation.

She took it and allowed him to pull her up, her own hands moving to lie flat on his black velvet doublet. The double-knock sounded again and she whirled, impatience flaring.

'Are you deaf out there? I said one moment!'

'I should go—' Francis was edging away and Catherine stopped it with a hand on his arm. She wasn't finished, she couldn't let him leave with that shadow on his face and in his soul.

'Listen.' She put a hand on his cheek to compel his attention. 'Don't despair. You are young, you haven't been King a year yet. You have time. Thank God—'

'Not Nostradamus?' Francis interrupted with a strained attempt at the cheeky grin that recalled the carefree boy he'd once been.

His mother tapped his chest in mock reproof.

'Thank God,' she repeated, giving him a look and hiding her own smile when he smirked, 'you have time. Certainly time enough to create a worthy legacy. Everyone makes mistakes. You and Mary are more fortunate than most; you have the intelligence to learn from them as well as passion and charm. With a little time and experience you can be the great rulers I know—I know—you were born to be. And who knows? Perhaps after all you will find a different way.'

Francis's shoulders straightened. 'Yes. With you and Mary at my side ...' His smile grew, glowing like the sun pressing through clouds. 'And time. How can we lose?' He leaned in to kiss her cheek swiftly before twisting with dancer-like ease to stride from the room.

Catherine watched him go, one hand treasuring the touch of warmth from his lips. Her guard was trying to announce someone but there was a roar in her ears. That sense of premonition lay on her once again, a cold implacable dread that presaged a heart-rending loss. She shivered, her skin prickling into goose-pimples beneath the silk of her gown.

She was not Nostradamus. She could not see the future.

It was the poison, still. It must be.

Fin

I hope you've enjoyed reading and I'd love to know what you think! I've also really enjoyed writing Catherine and Francis so I may do more with these two if people like? X