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Moonlight coursed through the darkened skies and fell against the thick cloth of velvet curtains. Inside, a raven-haired Queen sat up in bed, gasping. She swiftly moved the heavy covers aside, already clad in a warm robe. Stepping to the window, she released the moonlight into her chamber. The pallid light accentuated the smoothness of her features, yet highlighted the distinct sheen of sweat atop her brow and the slight lines embellishing her face.
The first time she entered this palace, with its heavy curtains, was as a child promised to another to cement an alliance. She only wavered once from this promise, nearly marrying a bastard, only to romantically run back. Happiness clouded her, then. Excitement, the promise of a bright future and the hopes and dreams of hers melding best with her golden-haired prince, finding her answer on a blank parchment.
Youth, often a vessel of stupidity and naivete, triumphed then. How merciful and kind of Catherine to “let” her choose, to “grant” her a choice. To do something so selfless.
Yet how did she know she'd favor Francis? How did a choice of Mary's– stemming from a place of love– anchor Catherine's power?
Age now beginning to enter her features, Mary kept staring outside. It was a mild night, not overly hot or cold, just in the middle. Soon– or already– another mistress or perhaps a new interesting lady would make her way “discreetly” to the king's chambers.
Mary thought she knew what love was, to so gleefully embrace Francis that day, and choose him. Now, Mary decides she doesn't know what love is. Slowly, her white hands closed the heavy curtains, casting her chamber in a gray darkness. Settling into the side of her bed, her mind wanders.
Maybe, and what if, Catherine didn't “grant” her a choice? Maybe Bash–
Queens do not examine the past, or figure out alternatives. Mary is shackled to the French king and the whims of his mother until death.