Francis’ job was straightforward, almost to the point of mundanity. His hands knew exactly how to work to craft weaponry and armor alike, but it was usually such a mindless task.
Today, however, the project in front of him had Francis thoroughly interested. It certainly wasn’t for its usefulness, but rather its comic relief.
The to-be King Darnley ( which Francis still found impossible to wrap his head around; how was such a blatant moron being granted the chance to become a royal? ) had requested a commemorative sword to be made in his honor. It was the exact kind of pomp and narcissism he’d come to expect from the man. Like a child, he needed validation and praise constantly. It would be hilarious if it weren’t so absurd and pathetic.
Oh, how Francis loathed working for such a jackass.
But that was a part of the job, and his father would have been honored to be tasked with it. His devotion to the crown would have been unwavering despite the arrival of a new imbecile of a figurehead. Francis, though, had trouble seeing past his reluctance.
It was about halfway through the project when Darnley himself waltzed through the doors of his workshop. Everything from his gait to his expression screamed exaggerated superiority. It took every once of restraint in Francis not to openly scoff at it.
“Lord Darnley, just the man I was hoping to see,” Francis greeted him, plastering an amicable smile onto his face. The expression became slightly more genuine when he saw that not far behind him was Queen Mary.
She deserved so much better. The entirety of Scotland did.
Francis wiped his hands off on a nearby rag and then gestured to his half-finished handiwork.
“I’ve been taking ample time to work on your sword, and I hope that it’s to your liking so far,” he implored, every word measured and meticulously filtered. It was so difficult to be personable with a man like Darnley. Francis felt like a phony even attempting it.
