He had no idea where he was going.
Mindlessly he turned a corner, startling a pair of chambermaids as they emerged from one of the rooms carrying trays and fresh linen. Each immediately dropped into a hasty curtsy, but he was already gone, leaving behind only the rapid staccato of his footsteps as he fled down another passage and dipped into a stairwell.
He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. He had to get out. Now.
Why couldn't he find a goddamn way out?
Finally, at the end of yet another long hallway, he spotted one of the intricately carved set of doors that led from the east wing out into the park.
The two guards standing sentry at its sides regarded him with curiosity as he approached. "Is there something amiss, your Grace?" one of them asked.
He didn't answer, because he didn't quite trust himself to speak. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed firmly upon the doors, hardly noticing or caring as the guards scrambled to fling them open before he barreled straight into them at full-speed.
And, suddenly, he was out.
It had grown colder, and he breathed in the cool air with great, heaving gulps. He felt its chill burn all the way down into his lungs, thankful as it quelled the nausea that had nearly overtaken him at the sight of his brother's torn and bleeding abdomen, and had since refused to subside.
Bash had almost died, and it had been his fault.
Six companies of men had died, and it had been his fault.
Cursing himself for forgetting his cloak, he pulled the sleeves of his wool tunic down over his freezing hands and stalked across the lawn. His pace was stiff, rapid, as if he might somehow outpace the demons that pursued him if he could only walk fast enough.
It was no use.
A thinly-veiled threat to his father, a message couriered by Bash to the men stationed between the court and Calais…it had all seemed so simple. How many women had gone to bed as wives, only to discover in the first rays of dawn that they had become widows overnight? How many children had woken up as orphans? A thousand? More than a thousand?
So much sorrow and misery, and all it had taken was a few words from his lips.
And all of it—all of it—had been for Mary.
How many soldiers had paid with their life's blood so that he might keep her by his side?
I can't risk sending more, he told himself fiercely. I won't.
And then came the thought that finally halted his restless feet.
She'll have to leave soon.
The realization stopped him abruptly in his tracks, and he nearly crumpled under its weight like a marionette whose strings had been severed without warning. He stood looking rigidly out at the horizon, attempting to let it sink in.
Yes, she would leave. Not for the convent this time, but for good. And she would take everything—her books and bed curtains, her dresses and smiles, the faded toys still scattered about her old rooms, and his heart—and he would never see any of them ever again.
His heart.
Perhaps with it so far away and safe with her in Portugal, he would have no need of fearing its influence ever again. Nor the dread of this soul-crushing pain.
There were soft footsteps in the grass behind him, and he knew that it was Mary even before he heard her tremulous voice call out his name. He'd had years to memorize the sound of her feet traipsing along in his wake. He would know it anywhere.
"Francis?"
He whipped around to stare at her, and wondered if the point of an English blade could possibly wound or hurt as much as her eyes just then. They seemed to grow larger as she watched him, stricken with fear at his stony silence. "Francis?"
He felt cold. He felt ill. He felt heart-sick and alone and mournful already of what he was about to lose. He knew what he had to tell her, but he couldn't make himself speak. Not yet. He just wanted to look at her and stop time, and so he continued to simply look at her, praying all the while that the sun would stop its slow journey across the sky so that he might remain standing and gazing at her forever.
She glanced around nervously, at a loss, and frantic to find the words that could ease his turmoil. "You did the right thing." Her voice was small and fragile, but he barely registered her words because suddenly all he could think about was how cold she must be, and how he wished that he had brought his cloak now just so he might drape it over her bare shoulders. He wanted to do nothing else for the rest of his life but remember to carry his cloak so that he might protect her from every chill wind that would ever blow her way.
But that was to be someone else's job, and he could hardly swallow just thinking of it.
Her eyes searched his face desperately. "Talk to me," she begged, and this time there was a catch in her voice that was nearly his undoing.
I want you to stay. I want this to be your home. I want you to be with me, wherever I am. I want to memorize the lines of your hands and feel your breath on my neck and know what your hair looks like in the morning sunlight on the pillow next to mine.
These were the things that he wanted to say, but they were not what he knew he must say.
I have to let her go.
Even as he thought it and knew it to be true, every fiber in his being rebelled. They were meant to be lucky. Had that not been what they were told as children? Well, he certainly didn't feel lucky now. He could feel nothing other than this terrible aching, loss.
He would let her go. Of course he would let her go. He cared too much to do otherwise. He would not dangle glittering promises before her that he had no intention of keeping, just so that he could save himself from this pain. He refused. She needed help—Scotland needed help—and because he could not give it, he would release her into the hands of someone who could.
He felt dangerously close to tears, and suddenly he knew that there was something that he had to do while she could still look at him with hope in her eyes, or else he would never forgive himself.
Omnia tempus habent, et suis spatiis transeunt universa sub cælo, his mother's priest was fond of reciting. To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.
Tempus plangendi, et tempus saltandi. Tempus amplexandi.
A time to mourn. A time to dance. A time to embrace.
Now was the time. It was the only time they had.
He rocked back on his heels once—a split-second of hesitation as he summoned his courage—and then in two strides he was before her with his hands cradling her face and his lips on hers. He felt the tension in her, and her surprise, and then she was sinking into him and clutching his arms as if they were the only things keeping her standing. Everything about her felt warm and soft and pliant, and she tasted just as sweet as he had imagined. So sweet that he wanted nothing more than to carry her off into his chambers so that he might lock the door and taste her everywhere.
I want this, he thought. But what he wanted was not what she needed.
With painful effort, he broke away from her, and it tore at him to see her sway forward on her feet with longing in her eyes.
"You should marry Tomas." The words spilled out abruptly, blotting out her desire and causing her brow to furrow in confusion. "My father's right. I haven't been thinking clearly."
She shook her head, uncomprehending. "That's not true. You were trying to help!"
His voice was rough and brittle. "I can't help you," he insisted. "France can't help. There are no more troops to send." Then, he finally spoke the words that he knew would convince her when all others failed. "Do what's right for your country."
Her eyes brimmed with tears of dismay, and he wanted to die. "Francis—!" she choked out, pleading.
"Tell me I'm wrong!"
They were meant to be rhetorical, but as soon as the words left his lips he recognized them for what they truly were: an appeal. A prayer.
Please tell me I'm wrong.
Please.
But she couldn't, and she didn't, and he felt his heart sink like a ship in storm-tossed waves. He said nothing else after that. There was nothing else to say.
So he turned and left her, and it was only through sheer force of will that he was able to put one foot in front of the other and widen the distance between them.
One day he would be king, and he knew that he must think like a king.
He would not offer up any more soldiers to be slaughtered at the hands of the English. That, he would do for France.
He would release Mary from their engagement treaty so that she could get the help for which her country was in such dire need, and he would see to it that the terms were fair. That, he would do for her.
But the kiss…
He had done that for himself.