Francis pulled back on the reins, slowing the horse as they approached the village of Vannes. He adjusted the hood so it covered the sides of his face. Everything in him hurt. It had been a long day, full of worry and missteps. He had taken a wrong turn out of Marcel’s village and lost several hours trying to find his way back to the right road. It didn’t help that news of the plague had spread. Even in villages where the disease had not yet struck, most townspeople locked themselves in their homes, refusing to open their door for fear of getting infected. He had to find his way alone.
And now the sun was setting. Night would be upon him within the hour. The pagans would be out hunting for innocent blood again. He needed to get to Lola—to find the small cottage that Lola had described in the letter, a red house with a thatched roof and a barn behind it. Francis had the sinking feeling that if he didn’t get there until morning, it would be too late. He knew how serious her condition was.… He knew that she could die. The baby—their baby—might be sick, or perish with her.
Francis lowered his head as he urged the horse into the village. The main street was empty. The wind whipped through the trees, rattling the branches, making the deserted road seem even more eerie. Though Francis could see the smoke rising from the chimneys, and smell the comforting scent of hearth fires burning, every door was closed and locked. Every curtain was drawn.
As he reached the outskirts of the village, he scanned the shadowy buildings between the trees. Mary had said Lola was in a house by the mill. He spotted the tall stone tower in the distance. It rose up out of a wheat field, its giant wooden cross moving slowly in the wind. Francis set Champion running toward it at full speed. He could see, as he got closer, the small, modest house tucked just to the side—a red structure with a barn behind it.
When he reached the cottage, he dismounted from the horse and tied the reins to a nearby tree branch. As he worked at the leather straps, knotting them around the branch, he noticed his hands were shaking. He kept worrying about what he’d find inside. Lola pale and bleeding, crying out in pain. Lola already gone, her skin a ghostly white. Lola with a beautiful, newborn baby. His baby.
Francis started toward the steps, taking a breath before he knocked on the door. A few minutes passed. He knocked again, but no one answered. It wasn’t a surprise, after what he’d seen in the main stretch of the town. Still, he didn’t come this far to be turned away.
“I’m here to see Lola,” he yelled, banging three times, hard, with his fist. “Please let me in. She sent for me.”
When there was still no response, he took a breath and stepped back. He glanced at the windows in the front of the house—the shutters were closed and locked. He banged on the door again, trying to judge the thickness of the wood. He took a breath, preparing himself to throw all his weight into it, when the thing swung open a crack. A middle-aged woman peered out at him. Her dark hair was pulled back, her forehead lined with worry.
“Is Lola here?” Francis asked, pushing the door open. He stepped inside, moving around the startled woman.
“Who do you think—” she started. Then he turned and she saw his face in the firelight. The woman looked horrified. She immediately dropped into a curtsy. “I beg your pardon. I apologize, Your Majesty.…”
“Never mind that. It’s fine,” Francis said as he walked into the living room, looking for any sign of Lola. “Is she here? Is she all right?”
Just then a woman’s scream tore through the house—it was coming from a back bedroom. Francis hurried toward it. It was a small comfort, a reason to hope. It meant Lola was still alive.
The woman maneuvered around him, stopping at the bedroom door. “Your Majesty… you should prepare yourself.” She looked up at him, her eyes filled with concern. “She’s not doing well. She’s lost a lot of blood already. I tried to help, but…”
Francis felt his throat tighten. “I just want to see her. I need to.”
The woman pushed through to the tiny bedroom. The sick smell of blood filled the air. Francis followed her inside and saw Lola on the bed. She was deathly pale, her skin taking on a strange greenish hue. He knelt down beside her, his hand taking hers.
“Lola, you’re alive.…” He ran his other hand over her forehead, pushing the damp curls away from her face. “I’m here. It’s Francis.”
Her dark eyes fluttered open. She looked at Francis, her brows drawn together in confusion. “Francis? But how did you…?”
“Don’t worry about how,” Francis said as he pulled off his cloak and set it on the floor. “I’m here. That’s all that matters.”
He looked down at the foot of the bed. The woman was kneeling by Lola’s legs, peering under the bloody sheet that covered her bottom half. She met Francis’s gaze, then looked away, pressing her fingers to her temple. “I think you’ve come just in time.”
Francis turned back to Lola, squeezing her hand in both of his. “You can do this, Lola. You’ll be all right, you just have to keep going.”
He spoke with a confidence he didn’t feel. It had been the same way at Calais, when he’d been trapped with his men behind enemy lines. He’d been terrified, overmatched, and doubtful of their chances. But he knew that the second he let his men know that, all would be lost. Instead he’d acted like he had a solid plan, like he had years more experience than he actually did. He’d spoken with such confidence that his men had followed him into battle—and, miraculously, had won. He would do the same thing for Lola now. He’d be her calm, her steadiness as she moved through this peril.
“You’re doing well,” he said, smoothing back her hair. “Everything is going beautifully.” He could feel the woman’s eyes on him, but he just looked right at Lola, letting her know that he had no doubts about the delivery. “And you’re almost there. Can you stay with me, Lola? Can you fight?”
Lola looked back at him, her eyes glistening. She took a shuddering breath, then nodded. Her hand squeezed his. “I can try,” she said, her voice shaking.
“We’re in this together,” Francis said, kissing the back of her palm. “We’re going to be all right.”
The baby’s cry broke the silence in the bedroom. Francis let out a deep breath, the tears blooming in the corner of his eyes. He had never heard so beautiful a sound. He had been by Lola’s side through another two hours of labor. Francis had tried to keep her spirits up as the woman acted as a midwife, coaxing the baby out. At one point Lola had been crying. Her grip on his hand had grown weak, her skin clammy and pale. He had feared she wouldn’t make it through. But she had found some hidden reserve of strength, drawing long sips of air into her lungs, pushing a few final times.
“It’s a boy,” the woman said, smiling as she cleaned the baby with a damp cloth. She poked and prodded the crying child, wiping at its nose, clamping the umbilical cord with a clothespin, then wrapped him in a blanket.
“A boy?” Francis echoed. The woman handed Francis the small bundle, and he gently moved the blanket aside to see his son’s face. His skin was pink and wet. The baby’s eyes were open, looking around, bright, clear blue irises just like his own. He had his own tuft of blond hair as well, though his heart-shaped mouth was unmistakably Lola’s.
Francis crossed over to the bed and held the baby out to Lola. “Look,” he said, feeling the words catch in his throat. “Lola. It’s our son.”
But Lola didn’t respond. She could barely keep her eyes open. Francis saw just how exhausted she was, her whole body limp now as she rested back on the pillows. He touched her gently on the shoulder, hoping she would stir, if only for this moment.
“It’s our son, Lola…” he repeated. But her head fell to the side, her dark hair in her face. When Francis reached for her hand, it was cold beneath his touch.
“Let me take him,” the woman said softly. She took the baby into her own arms. “I know a woman in the village who will nurse him.”
“What’s wrong? You have to help her,” Francis said, his voice rising in panic. “Please…”
“I’ve done all I can,” the woman said, her eyes filling. “I’m sorry.”
“And now… now what? We’re just going to let her die?”
“I don’t know what will happen, but she’s lost so much blood. You should say the things you need to. Pray over her. It’s too late for us to find a priest. They’ve all gone to the neighboring villages, helping those with the disease. I’m sorry,” she repeated. Then she turned away, rocking the baby and murmuring to him. She closed the door behind her when she left.
The bedroom was quiet now, except for the sound of Lola’s ragged breathing. Francis took a simple wooden chair from the corner and pulled it beside her. He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, though Lola didn’t respond, or even seem to know that he was there.
Francis lowered his head, the tears hot in his eyes. There was so much to say.… He was all too aware of every wrong turn he had taken that day, every delay that had caused him to reach her side at so late an hour. Here, now, he couldn’t help thinking of all the other chances they’d missed. All those months that Lola was there, in the palace, he could have talked with her about their night together. He could have told her what it had meant to him, to see a familiar face there, after he’d been cast out of court. He could have told her how much he’d realized that night—that she was so funny, so kind, so beautiful. Instead they’d both tried to pretend it had never happened.
“I’m sorry, I meant to be here sooner. I came as fast as I could, but I got delayed.…” Francis took a breath, trying to summon the courage to say it. “Do you know how many times I’ve thought about it? How many times it would come back to me, even when I was in the palace, miles from there? I remember everything about that night, what you looked like, what you said.…”
He smiled down at her. He could almost imagine the face Lola would have made if she’d heard him now. She would have raised an eyebrow and smirked, those full red lips drawing to the side, revealing the deep dimple in her right cheek. What night are you referring to? she’d say without saying. I dare you to tell me.
“I remember… it was like it was the first time I was seeing you.” Francis leaned back in his chair, still holding on to Lola’s hand. “You’d always been in the palace, by Mary’s side. Of course I’d liked you. You were warmer than Greer, and kinder than Kenna. But you were always one of Mary’s ladies, one of Mary’s friends. How many times did we actually speak about anything real?”
He thought back to those first weeks at court when Mary and her ladies had arrived. Everyone had been dazzled by them, this bevy of beauties following the queen around. He’d noticed Lola from the beginning. Her green eyes, sharp and intelligent, were always watching, taking everything in. She didn’t miss a thing.
“But then when I saw you in Paris… it was like you breathed life back into me. I’d been dying a slow death. I didn’t even know who I was anymore.…”
He hated thinking about it, even now. Mary had cast him aside, choosing to believe some ridiculous superstition. She had chosen to be with Bash—his own brother—instead of him. She thought she was doing what she had to, to keep him safe, but it didn’t change the fact that he felt he had been replaced. In Mary’s heart, in her bed, and on the throne. When the proceedings to legitimize Bash had begun, he’d fled the palace. He couldn’t stay and watch someone else live the life that was supposed to be his.
He’d wandered from place to place, hopping across the Continent. He’d indulged his appetites for women and wine, hunting and gambling. But the whole time, he wasn’t truly enjoying himself. The loneliness was so awful he couldn’t have described it, even if he’d wanted to. Everyone was a stranger. Women loved him for the gold coins he put in their purses, for the lavish furs he was able to give them. Men were friends when he was buying them their third round of beer. He’d hated it, hated himself, until he’d landed in a gambling salon on the outskirts of Paris.
He’d been taking his turn at the tables when he’d heard a familiar voice. Lola. He’d been surprised at how happy he’d been to see her, as if she were the only woman in the room. For a while that night, they had just talked. She made jokes about court, telling him a funny story about how one of the servants had dropped a steak on the Duchess of Calle. She spoke of her family, of the brother whom she’d been trying to get out of a gambling debt. Maybe it was the wine they’d been drinking, or the way she covered her mouth with her hand when she smiled, or the way she looked at him as though she knew what he was thinking.… In any event, he’d taken a chance and kissed her.
He had thought of their night of passion many times. Her hair as she pulled it out of the bun at the nape of her neck, those dark curls cascading down her bare shoulders. His mouth on hers. The way she laughed when he ran his fingers over her stomach, tickling the tender spot below her belly button.
Even when he returned to the palace—and then to Mary—he had tried to put it out of his mind. He had to. He didn’t have a choice. But staring down at her now, at her pale face glowing in the candlelight, he regretted letting that connection slip away. Lola barely made eye contact with him in the palace halls. Francis went out of his way to make sure that they never sat beside each other at meals, and that he was never alone with her when Mary was not there.
“You saved me, whether you know it or not,” Francis said. “That night saved me. When you found me in Paris, I had lost my way. And then there you were, in that salon, a familiar face. I remember all of it, Lola—all of you. I remember the way you kissed my eyebrow before I fell asleep, the way you promised me I was going to be all right. You were—you are—so kind. So good. That night was one of the blessings of my life.”
Francis looked down at her, smoothing the hair away from her face. It seemed that her breathing was shallower than before.
“My beautiful Lola,” he said, leaning closer to whisper in her ear. “I need you to be strong. I need you to fight through this. Can you hear me?”
He studied her expression, but it revealed nothing. He lay down in the bed beside her, pressing his face into her neck, listening to each one of her breaths. He held her close.
“I need you. Your son needs you. You can’t leave us, not yet, not now. There’s still so much we need to say to each other. Lola…” His voice broke, the tears coming on.
He reached down into his cloak, pulling out the cross that Marcel had given him. He pressed it into her hand, closing her fingers around it. “Please…” he whispered, though he knew it might already be too late. “Lord, have mercy on her.…”