Bash dragged her from the river. It couldn't have been easy – it hadn't been easy – and she knew it, for she could not have dragged herself out. Her skits were soaked through and heavy, and the current wanted to take her and keep her – like Henry did.
Like Francis did.
Bash, who never seemed to want anything more from her than what she wanted to give, smiled at her when she staggered to her feet. It was a good smile, she thought, sad enough to be real. None of Francis' sunny promises were tucked away in the corners of Bash's mouth to be broken later.
"That wasn't so bad," Bash said.
"You and I have different standards, I think," Mary replied. She panted, water dripping from her fingers, her hair, her nose. The drops left little abstract patterns at the edge of her skirts' spreading pool of water.
His smile faded a little, and he said, "Probably."
When she stumbled over her hem he caught her elbow and kept hold. It was not a courtier's grip, though she knew he knew what a courtier's grip should be, and it was not Francis' grab when he wanted her attention. Bash supported her when she fell and held on after, grip light, almost resting there like he did not want to stop touching her. His hand was warm.
Mary should order him to remove his hand, or make a pointed comment, or even just shy away. Mary did none of those things. His hand was warm. She was cold. She let him pull her closer.
Later, when they reached an inn, one of the innkeepers was all solicitousness.
"Some soup and a warm bed will fix you up right, miss," the man told Mary sympathetically as his wife eyed Bash askance.
The woman relaxed when Bash requested two rooms and a hot bath for his father's ward.
"I've been charged with her safety," he said, smiling at the couple. Their smiles grew in response; how did he do that? "I've done a poor job with it so far."
They rushed to assure him that anyone could be attacked by bandits, all belongings stolen, and escape with only their lives and what they carried on their persons. "Even Queen Catherine, it is said," the man informed them.
"Indeed," Mary said. Bash glanced at her. Whatever he saw made him leave the innkeepers to discuss highway robbery between them and usher her upstairs.
He waited at the door for her to look around. A bed. A table. A small window. Nothing very fine, but she would be warm under the covers.
"The bathwater should be up in a bit," he said. "If it isn't, you can let me know. I'll ask after it."
"I am to go to your door?" Mary asked. Nothing she was taught of manners or etiquette could apply to the situation. Bash's very existence in manners and etiquette was nebulous, as a king's bastard son, and Henry was not here to give a guideline. She would not know exactly how to treat Bash even if they were surrounded by courtiers, and they were alone in a room.
She was alone, with a man who was not her betrothed or husband or brother or father, and she did not know what to do. With Henry she tried to keep her dignity and her country both intact. With Bash she thought neither her dignity nor her country at risk, but there was something that reminded her of Henry in how he watched her. He never seemed to stop watching her, for one thing.
Bash shifted in the doorway, arms held behind his back stiffly as though he wanted to stand to attention. He was not a servant, but she was a queen, and she should not have to visit him for aid.
"I could knock," he offered. "After a bit, I mean."
"Yes," she said almost before he finished speaking. She did not blush. She did not think she could be embarrassed with Bash anymore, and she did not want to be alone.
He watched her for a long moment, and said slowly, "I could stay. Until the water is brought up."
"Yes," she said again.
He smiled, but this time there was something wary there. She did not want Bash to be wary of her. He left the door open when he entered.
"I am not dangerous," she told him, trying to tease. "If I were, I need not have fled."
Bash's smile became sad again, but at least it lost the wariness. "You are entirely dangerous, Mary," he said. "As you should be."
She did not know what that meant, but she did not want to say so.
The water must have been heating before they arrived, for the innkeepers hauled the tub and several buckets of still-steaming water into the room before conversation could resume. Bash watched them the whole time, hand on his dagger hilt in a way he probably did not notice.
The innkeepers noticed. Mary tried to smile at them as Bash had earlier, to soothe the sting of their previously amiable guest's sudden too-alert stance. They left in a rush despite her smile: she was forced to conclude that she simply did not have a way with people. Children always liked her, though. Perhaps they sensed in her a similar frustration to their own, for no one took children seriously either.
"Well then," she said, reaching around her back for her laces. "I'll just-"
"Yes," he said, and turned to go.
His hand was on the doorknob by the time Mary realized there was no getting the knots undone. She realized it quickly: her nails could not find the spaces between the laces. Had Lola tied them too tightly?
Bash left, closing the door behind him, and she stared at the steaming water, arms twisted behind her, fumbling for the knots. She could sleep in her clothing, she was sure, but she couldn't bathe in it, and if it took her so long that her bath water was cold when she climbed in she was going to cry.
Now was not the time for tears of frustration – those could come later. Now was the time for solutions.
Mary let her arms, which were beginning to ache, fall to her sides and strode out the door.
Knocking was harder. She didn't know why. She managed a timid rap on Bash's door before managing to squeak, "Bash? I would appreciate some assistance."
He opened the door almost before she finished her sentence. "What's wrong?"
He had stripped off his jacket and gear. His shirt fell open at the neck and was not as thick as it might have been.
Mary had seen men in their shirtsleeves before. Plenty. Lots. She just couldn't remember any of the others right now.
"Umm," she said, waning confidence waning even further.
"Are you well?" he asked, stepping out and scanning the hallway. If there was trouble she would have screamed, not knocked politely, but she supposed he was used to Catherine, who would calmly request aid in the removal of a body after killing an assassin.
Probably.
"I cannot remove my clothing," she said.
He blinked. And blinked again.
"My lady?"
Mary turned and walked back to her room. He followed, probably frowning, and waited once again in the doorway.
"I cannot untie my laces," she said once she was safely in her room. The door was open, but she felt better anyway.
"Ah," Bash said.
"So help me," she said. She knew she came uncomfortably close to whining, but the tub still steamed – a minor miracle. So help her, she would get a hot bath.
He cleared his throat and walked in, closing the door behind him.