"You're quiet today," Castleroy commented. Greer didn't look up from her dinner plate. Her heart was heavy with regrets. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine," she said, forcing a smile. My one true love has deserted me. "I was just thinking of the wedding." It was better to tell him half of the truth. Castleroy couldn't know about her trysts with Leith, otherwise it would ruin her. Deserted by two potential suitors. The shame would be unbearable. "I want to get married straightaway." She drew out the parchment that he had given her, unfolded it, and placed it upon the table. This was the right decision. It had to be. Leith was no longer a part of her life now.

"Greer, are you certain of this? You don't need to sign unless you are absolutely ready to wed me." Castleroy looked at her in concern. "I don't want to pressure you into something you're not ready for."

"I'm ready to marry you. I want this marriage." Greer forced herself to look her future husband in the eye. Leith was gone; they would never be together. It was time she accepted that. "I want to be married. Tonight. At sundown."


"Pack my belongings," Mary ordered a servant. "I'm boarding the next ship to Scotland this evening." Francis walked beside her as she walked to their chambers. She could feel his concerned stare piercing through her. So much was at stake. France and Scotland were at a standstill, and England still posed a serious threat to Scotland. If the alliance falls, Scotland will be vulnerable on all sides. France gives her more strength, and me a stronger claim to the English throne. I sealed that claim the day Francis and I were married, and when I donned the English coat-of-arms at Henry's tourney. Elizabeth already considered this a declaration of war over the throne, she knew. Her cousin was ruthless and calculating; she was no doubt plotting her next move against her. She would lose her head for setting her sights on England, and Scotland could not live under her mother's reign. Not anymore. I must renounce my claim to the English throne, she realized, and try to win Elizabeth's support. England has more power than France. Power that I need to save my country, should I go to war with France.

"I'm coming with you, Mary," said Francis, interrupting her reverie. "Regardless of our personal differences, I don't believe you should go alone to Scotland. It's risky." Mary met his eyes. There was no hint of the cold reception he'd given her upon his return. Any anger he harbored towards her, he'd buried it for the time being, and he was right to do so. He was king now; he had to think with his mind, not his heart.

"You locked me in a tower when I last tried to go home," she reminded him acerbically. "Must you do that every time my country needs me?"

"I understand that you need to go, Mary," her husband explained, "and I'm coming with you." Mary stopped in her tracks and turned to him, startled.

"You're accompanying me to Scotland?" she asked, staggered. "Francis…"

"It'll be better if Scotland sees its queen and king united," Francis went on, taking her hand in his. "They will truly believe that our countries are still at peace and our union strong." Their fingers intertwined with one another, and Mary's body reacted instantly to his touch. How she loved him! How she still loved him! Her flicker of hope died as quickly as it had ignited, and her hand dropped from his. Their countries were no longer at peace, and their marriage was fraying. And I have yet to give him a son. Even if Carmen is legitimized, the French throne will never pass on to her unless he convinces the pope to alter the line of succession.

"You shouldn't leave your daughter behind," she said abruptly. "You have a responsibility to her and to France."

"We can bring her with us on the voyage if that is what you want," Francis offered. She furiously shook her head.

"No, Francis," Mary said irately. "I do not want that child with us. She may be your daughter, but she means nothing to me. Nothing."

"Undoubtedly, my daughter means something to you," answered her husband indifferently, "otherwise you wouldn't become so angry at the mere mention of her. Carmen." His azure eyes bore into hers, and she unflinchingly met his stare. "She will not come with us to Scotland, but do not ever presume to speak of my daughter again with such cruelty. Do you understand?"

"I understand," she said frostily.

"Good. We should prepare for the voyage; it's going to be a long journey." Without another word, Francis turned his back to her and stormed off. If this marriage collapses, so will the peace between our countries.


"Can you believe it?" Catherine demanded. "My son has a child, but not by Mary. By Lola, one of her ladies-in-waiting." She laughed bitterly. "Like father, like son. I know Francis well enough to know that he's not going to cast aside his own daughter. He's going to keep her here in court, a constant reminder to Mary that he has been with another woman – but enough of this nonsense. Nostradamus, France and Scotland are on the verge of open war. Have you seen anything that might tell me of my country's welfare?"

"No." Nostradamus shook his head. "I have seen only death. Death in France, death here in the castle – but not Francis'." Catherine felt her heart leap with relief. Francis was still safe. For months, she had been plagued by the knowledge that his marriage to Mary would bring his death, but that was over. He was not her firstborn; Clarissa was, and she was dead. He and Mary would be together for many years and have children of their own. The only future I want for my son.

"Death in the castle?" she echoed, horrified.

"Yes. The plague," Nostradamus went on. "The plague touches the castle, and spreads like wildfire. Bodies are piled at the gate to be burned. Many, many bodies. So much death."

"The gates are closed. How could the plague possibly penetrate the castle walls?"

"The plague breached the walls the moment Sebastian returned with Francis, Your Grace. I've seen the first death, and how it infects the castle one by one, day by day, until at least one dies from the disease per day. I'm sorry to bring you such ill tidings."

"Who is the first to die, Nostradamus? Tell me."

"Sebastian, Your Grace. Sebastian will be the first to die. It is only a matter of time."