1558 was the ninth year Mary had spent away from home. Scotland was but a vague memory compared to the very vivid reality of the French court. Her dresses were the finest of Paris, her library dominated by French literature, her tutors and servants were also natives and her ladies, though Scottish, had quickly and irrevocably adapted to the customs and traditions of this foreign land.

She had spent most of her life here, had been married here, and one day would be their ruler….

Marie de Guise made sure that Scotland would be ruled by a French queen, fulfilling at last her duty to her country of origin.

Often Mary hoped her father would have lived longer and given her the opportunity to stay in her home and nourish her love of country, while readying her to become what her bloodline demanded. The queen of Scotts. This wish was satisfied only by the knowledge that she needed to stay true to herself and her people, while being pushed and pulled by the personal interest of others in a game that she had become all too familiar with here at court.

For she knew that had he lived, he would tell her what she had always felt in her heart. That she was a Scott. From the fiery temper, to the boldness of her words, to the determination that defined her so. She was a true Scott to her very bones.

And the more that thought solidified, the more trapped she felt in France. The longing to return to her homeland increasing each day, especially now that Scotland was in peril. There was never a time that she considered France a home. Never. But she had felt that she was home often. That feeling wasn't caused by a place. But by a man.

When she was with Francis, she felt that sense of belonging. Of home…

Unfortunately he had recently turned that home into a prison. Taking her right to choose, forcing his will on her. Rage didn't even begin to describe what she had felt. Betrayal and hurt were there also. A week had passed since she had last spoken to her husband, carefully making sure to avoid him at all costs. She needed time to think her options, to see what could be done to appease her subjects while being away, virtually powerless..

Another wave of rage rolled through her and she decided that it would be better if she went for a walk and hope that the fresh air might inspire a solution.

As she was walking down the hall she saw Catherine rushing towards her. She froze by the expression on the Queen's face as she approached her rapidly, clasping her hands and looking at her with severe intensity.

"You! He will listen to you! Go to him! Go to him now and demand he change his mind. You're my last hope."

"Catherine what is happening?"

"The king's madness will cost everything if you don't hurry. There is no time to explain. Go to Francis. Please, I beg of you! Go!"

Mary was bewildered and could not even process her command before she rushed down the hall, towards Francis' chambers.

Whatever this was it was spreading fear inside her quicker than the shock of seeing Catherine beg. And her of all people.

The guards did nothing but bow as she opened the doors, which was more courtesy than Francis had received from her guards. They were instructed to inform the dauphin that his wife was unavailable. Of course that would not stop the heir of France from entering if he wished, but Francis didn't push. He knew that imposing his will on Mary a second time would not help matters.

As soon as she walked in, she saw Francis standing at the edge of the bed looking down on something. He looked up when he heard her and Mary didn't see surprise in his gaze. Just regret.

"Your mother came to find me. She seemed quite distressed by something. What is all the urgency about? What has Henry done now that I need to be aware of? A secret deal with the Scottish protestants perhaps?"

Francis' expression became weary.

"It has nothing to do with Scotland. So you can leave if you wish. Your presence isn't necessary."

Mary's gaze drifted to where Francis was staring before she entered.

"Why is there an armor in your bed?"

"Because I'm going to be needing one." He uttered the words casually, as if he spoke of the weather.

Mary's insides turned to ice.

"What do you mean?"

Francis sighed and looked at her.

"My father has ordered a surprise attack on England's southern borders. Our army is thin and not well supplied. So he thought that to improve our chances, I must go with them. Apparently having the prince fighting by your side, significantly improves your sword skills."

Mary just stared at him. She had been seething with rage all week and suddenly, she was faced with the possibility of his death. Again. That feeling of hers that she had left behind when Catherine had removed the threat of the prophecy, the feeling that woke her up, drenched in sweat and screaming for his name from the nightmare of his lifeless body, the feeling that urged her to pray and despair, that feeling had returned.

Francis' life was threatened once more. She barely found her voice.

"How can you be considering this? England's army is well trained and ruthless on all sides. They can handle a whimsical attack. This is a suicide mission!"

"The king has ordered it, and the only way to stop a civil war, is for the soldiers to have a guarantee that it is a reasonable move. I play that role."

"So you are aware that the chances of your survival are slim. And you're still going?"

"What choice do I have? Leave thousands to be slaughtered pointlessly? If I'm there I can make circumstantial decisions that can prevent this insane command, if only for a certain time. I convinced my father to grant me enough autonomy to evaluate the situation before we oblige him."

"You are the Dauphin of France! Your place is here at Court, surrounded by councilmen and guards! You cannot risk your life on the battlefield! Your life is too precious!"

Her voice had started to sound shrill even to her own ears. And Francis' expression had remained unchanged. The more time passed, the more she realized the weakness of her arguments. He had made up his mind. So she would plead. She had nothing to lose.

"I know I have kept you away these past few days. I was angry at you, and hurt and lost. But I love you. I love you so much and you can't do this to me. I cannot bear it again. Please, please don't leave. Don't leave me!" Her voice broke and sobs started shaking her from the inside.

Without knowing how it happened she was in Francis' arms, crying against his chest. He had pressed his lips to her hair and spoke softly.

"I am duty bound. This isn't a rebellion, it's war and the only way to stop it is for me to intervene."

She pushed at his chest as hard as she could. He moved backwards and she followed him itching to hit him again.

"Wasn't I duty bound when you locked me up in that tower? Should I do the same to you?"

"Mary please understand! There is no honor in dying of poison or backstabbing! This is a war! A war I can stop only if I am there!"

He had seized hold of her and she was in the same position she was in minutes before, crying uncontrollably in his arms.

"You said you put me first! Is this what you meant? Leaving me a widow months after our wedding?"

Francis let out a shaky breath which she felt since her cheek was pressed against his chest.

"I love you. But when you could have wed another, you chose to wed a King. And a good King lives for his people. You of all people understand that."

She did. She married Francis because she loved him most and she loved him most because he mirrored her in so many ways. It wasn't the nuns or her mother and uncles who had taught her what it meant to be a ruler. It was Francis. He always acted with duty and honor and he never strayed, not even for the sake of love. He might have been a hard man to love, but he was definitely the man she wanted by her side. And even now, burdened by grief, she looked up to him. Her consort, her confidant, her husband. A man of honor, until the very end.

When her crying had stopped and he saw the acceptance in her eyes, he led her to sit down. They talked of the strategies, and the plans and what would happen when he returned. And then they talked of silly little things and past things. They were both aware this might be their last night together. So they talked, and kissed and made love again and again until dawn came.

And as she lay in bed and watched her husband put on his armor and head to war, she realized that this pain and anguish didn't spare Queens. But a Queen must handle it bravely. There was no other option. So she dressed with him and kept my head high as we headed outside where the troops were gathered. And when he bowed to her and joined his fellow soldiers, he didn't look like a fragile prince. He looked like a King. Pride rushed through her. Her king.