Author's note: Brief update, I finished all the things I needed to finish which gave me a bunch more time to write. I hope you enjoy it. This is going to be the second to last chapter.

The sun rose the next day in a perfectly normal fashion. A bluejay came and sat outside their window to sing the song of morning.

Mary did not open her eyes when she woke up. This was where she wanted to be. Forever. Just her in Francis' warm arms.

She felt his hands running through her hair and beneath her his chest rose and fell softly. Mary knew that he was savoring this moment too. He was committing every detail to memory so that he could always know what he was fighting for.

On his fifth inhale Mary heard a rasp in his chest. Fear clenched her heart and her eyes sprang open. She sat up and turned to face Francis. He smiled a calm smile at her, but she could see the pain of the future and the pain of the present already crowding his eyes. She did not speak but lay back down so that they could have one more moment of peace and happiness together before they answered the bluejay's call. Francis draped an arm over her, and Mary clutched at it. He squeezed her tightly and pressed a kiss into her shoulder blade. Slowly Francis retracted his arm and pushed himself off the bed.

One breath later, Mary joined him to silently prepare for the day. She took off her nightgown and sidled into her corset as Francis put on his undershirt. She walked over to him and offered her back to him. He took the corset strings and laced them up for her. A servant could have done it, but she wanted it to be him. She wanted this time to be with him.

She struggled into her dress and heard chainmail clink behind her. She finished her battle with the last button just as Francis' sword slid into its sheath. She walked over to Francis and grabbed his hand to lead him through the door. Just as her hand was on the handle of the door, Francis grabbed her shoulder.

"Mary, wait," he said, finally breaking the silence. He spun her around and leant down to kiss her. Her whole body arched to meet him, and when he finally pulled away it felt as though a part of her soul remained with him. "Alright," he said. "It's time."

Catherine de Medici cursed herself for raising her son to be a man of integrity. She and Henry had taught him that to be king Francis must be willing to make sacrifices, but she never imagined that this would be a voluntary sacrifice he would be forced to make for his country.

Even now he rode out on his father's steed to face his enemy, the brute who had imposed himself on France. There would have been no need for Francis to go had they not sent all those men to the border in the first place. She had been so blind and now they were cut off. Of course this was her fate. She had all her systems in place, all her fallbacks and her secret plans, but now they were of no use to her. Not one of them could save her son.

Catherine de Medici was powerless to do anything but watch from the top of the east gate. Halfway between the two camps Francis stopped. That cursed William of Orange was already there waving his colors about as though he already ruled the place.

The two men dismounted. "These are the agreed upon terms," Francis announced to the crowd of spectators on both sides, "each man shall be granted a sword, a shield, and whatever sort of armor he wishes."

Mary inched closer to Catherine, seeking someone to be with as she watched Francis fight for France and for his life. The cold Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici, reached out and pulled Mary to her. She squeezed Mary's arm as Mary squeezed hers, and it was impossible to tell which of the two women exerted a more powerful grip.

"He who wins wins France. The loser gets nothing.

"This is a fight to the death."

Silence fell throughout the crowds and heartbeats all around quickened.

Francis and William walked toward one another and shook hands. Even if this was not a

conflict arisen out of gentlemanly greed, it would be resolved with dignity. They both took four steps back before drawing their swords.

"The duel will commence now," William announced.

Catherine's heart jumped, but all was quiet. She didn't know what she had expected, perhaps for William to lunge the instant the duel started, but the two men merely circled one another. Their knees were bent and their swords angled across their faces in a protective stance as their shields covered their body. Neither was willing to make the first move.

William began to move forward, his feet carrying him barely an inch closer to Francis with each rotation, but the change in mood was evident. William was crouching more like the predator waiting for the right moment to strike the regal prey. Francis did not back away.

Catherine's fingers were now imprinting white half moons into Mary's arm, but Mary didn't even seem to notice.

In a blur of cold grey, William's arm flashed forward and struck the first blow. Mary's gasp coincided with the clang of metal against metal as Francis blocked William's sword.

The time of circling assessment was over. Francis unleashed a flurry of attacks, cutting first this way then that, an impressive show of skill for even for one not suffering from an illness. But it seemed that no matter where Francis' blade ended up it met William's shield.

William smiled and lifted his sword over his head to attack. That was where William made his first mistake. Francis sprang at the opening and cut directly at where William's chest plate matched up with his right hip. William cried out, and Catherine knew that Francis had scored a hit. She smiled. The first blood was theirs.

The blow infuriated William. He whirled his sword to hack at Francis' knees, but Francis sidestepped. William was relentless. He stepped forward and jammed his shield into Francis' face.

The crowd inhaled sharply. Francis stumbled back but caught himself and stood straight. His helmet was dented and likely pressing in at his face at an uncomfortable angle. Without releasing either his sword or his shield Francis pulled off his helmet in one practiced motion.

Mary pressed herself into Catherine's side at the sight of blood running down Francis' face.

William, seeming to have realized that slamming his shield into his opponent's face was not a gentlemanly move, pulled off his own helmet to compensate and even out the duel. The two shining helmets rolled to a stop on the green grass.

Francis wiped away the blood dripping down his face leaving a streak of crimson across his cheek. He stepped back and started circling again, never giving William an opening.

He lunged, right at a spot William had left unguarded, and then - he faltered. His step stopped halfway through and his supporting leg buckled. William had been unprepared to defend himself before, so he had no time to do anything but stare in surprise. Francis, now kneeling on the soft grass, shoved his sword into the earth as though it were a cane and pushed himself upright to resume a fighting position.

His form was off. Francis' shoulders were stooped and he had the slightest limp on his left leg. No one else except for Mary could have seen the difference in Francis' posture, but Catherine could tell.

"Francis," Mary whispered, her breaths coming heavy.

Catherine couldn't watch this. She couldn't watch William slaughter her child. She had known it was a risk, but Francis had decided that it would be a risk he would take. Well if Francis was willing to take risks, they had to be willing to take risks too.

Catherine pulled her arms from Mary's grasp and grabbed Mary by the shoulders. "Mary," she said. Mary's gaze was still fixed on the battle in the field. Catherine slapped Mary's face. "Mary!" Finally Mary's brown eyes snapped to meet Catherine's. "Mary, we can't leave him out there." Mary looked back out to where Francis and William were still exchanging blows. "Mary!" Catherine grabbed Mary's chin and forced her to look at her. "Please, Mary, we need a plan. Mary, we can't do anything from here, but we need to help him. He can't be left out there to fight William all alone."

Mary's eyes darted and she whispered something under her breath. This time Catherine did not drag her attention back again. She could almost hear Mary's revelations. Mary whispered to herself again. "Yes," she said. "I must fight for what I believe in." Mary turned to the servants. "Amelie?" She yelled. The servants stirred, but no red haired girl stepped forward. "Someone go fetch Amelie, and be quick about it!" Mary said. "Tell her to meet me in the armory."

Mary turned and started down the steps, but Catherine snagged her arm. "Why are you going to the armory?" she asked.

"Come with me," she said. "I'll need someone to help me anyways, but I could do with your advice." Catherine looked unconvinced. "Please, Catherine, we don't have much time."

Catherine looked back at the battle field. Each clash of swords sent a spike of fear in her heart. Catherine finally relented. "Alright, but whatever you're doing you must do quickly."

Mary spared her a quick smile before racing down to the armory.

Amelie sprinted to the armory. No one had told her what she was wanted for, but they told her that Queen Mary wanted her, and so she ran. But the castle was large and she had only really acquainted herself with the living quarters, the dining halls, and the kitchens. She turned left. Dead end.

She spun around, hair whipping about her face. The armory. The armory was for the knights and the squires so perhaps it was near the stables? She began sprinting down the wooden servant's stairs, it was a more direct route. At the bottom of the stairs she flung open the door only to come face to face with — Jerard.

They both stood there, staring at each other in shock.

"Jerard," Amelie said, unsure if the word was a greeting, an accusation, or a question.

Jerard cleared his throat. "Amelie," he said, "the Queen-"

"Yes, the armory," Amelie interrupted, remembering where she was and what she had to do. "I should go," she said, and hurried down the hallway.

"Amelie," Jerard called. She turned. He gave her a weak smile. "You're going the wrong way."

Amelie blushed from embarrassment and returned to where he was standing. "Can you show me the way?" He nodded and smiled. "We do have to hurry though," she said.

"Of course," Jerard said and then grabbed her hand. "To the amory."

They sped down the corridors, the windows whizzing past and the perspiration between their palms mingling. He pulled her out of the castle, through the courtyard, and down a set of steps to stop before a wooden door.

Jerard paused for a moment, caught his breath, and uttered, "here."

Amelie nodded to him. "Thank you," she said. There was more to say, more than she knew how to articulate, but the moment had fled as they stood before the door. "Alright," she said and turned to the door.

"Amelie," Jerard said once more. Amelie looked at him. "I wanted to say that I'm sorry. For the way that I acted."

Tristain. The word was a ghost of salty tears as it lay on her tongue. She swallowed and nodded at him. Jerard smiled and left.

Amelie pulled open the door.

Chaos loomed before her. More intimidating than the metal spikes and razor thin edges of the swords was the mess in the room and the two women who were causing it.

"Is this right?" asked the woman swathed in chain mail.

"No, no," the other woman said. "That's the hole for your arm, not your head."

Amelie stood there, waiting to be recognized. The chainmail slid onto the first woman's head. Amelie took a small step back, for it was the Queen of France. "Amelie!" Mary said. The second woman turned, and the face snapped into Amelie's memory. This was the Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici.

"This is the kitchenmaid?" Catherine asked with obvious judgement in her voice.

Amelie blushed. If she had known that two influential women would be not the other side of the door, she would have taken a moment to tidy up a bit.

"Yes, Catherine, this is her," Mary said protectively. "Thank you for coming, Amelie," Mary said.

Amelie curtsied. "Your Majesty," she said with a bowed head.

"Amelie, I know that this must look absurd, but you told me something last night and that stayed with me. You told me to fight for what I believe in."

Catherine stepped forward. "I tried to convince her not to, that we could find be another way-"

"Not in time. Not another way that would guarantee his safety, which, even as we stand here squabbling, is precarious. I need to get out there, Catherine," Mary said. She turned to Amelie. "I believe in Francis. I believe in his courage, his valor, his integrity. I believe that he is the best king that France could have. Tell me, Amelie. I need you to tell me that I should fight for him."

Amelie swallowed. This was the Queen of France. And somehow her word, a kitchenmaid's word, could determine the queen's fate.

Amelie had said that, hadn't she. Hadn't she told Mary that she wished that she had fought for her brother to stay? Wouldn't she have given anything, anything so that he might have stayed. So that he might have lived?

Amelie wanted the queen to live. She wanted to have no doubt that Mary would continue to be the Queen of France until the day Amelie herself died, for now, Amelie believed in her queen.

But she couldn't impose the pain she herself had felt onto Mary. She couldn't give Mary that feeling of being torn apart by unseen forces. Amelie could not force the pain onto Mary because she knew what that pain was. It was pain that tainted every happy memory, everything that had once made life worth living.

"Do you love him?" Amelie asked. Mary's eyebrows drew together. "I don't mean as your king," Amelie said, "but as your husband. Do you love him."

Tears pricked Mary's eyes. "Yes," she whispered. "I do. For all that we've been through, all our trials and tribulations, everything that we have put one another through for France, for each other, I love him. I love him."

Courage filled Amelie's heart and she stepped up to the Queen of France. She held Mary's shoulders gently. "Then finish putting on your armor, go out there, and fight for him."

The unfamiliar weight of the armor pounded into Mary's shoulders with every hoofbeat. The horse beneath her galloped away the distance between the castle and the battle until all she could hear was the horse, her own breathing, and the duel before her. This was a balance of risks. No one could know it was her, but if she didn't go, Francis could die, and Mary could never accept it if she had been able to prevent his death. The duel loomed before her and knowledge of everything else but this melted from Mary's mind.

Francis and William were circling one another once more, and she could see the strain the duel had taken on the two of them. Their shields lay discarded in the field, each covered with scratches, and they were even punctured in some areas. There were new wounds on each man. Every drop of blood she saw on William raised her spirits, and every drop she spied on Francis made her own blood cry for vengeance against the man who had hurt her Francis. Francis looked awful. The dried blood from his nose remained stretched across his face, and his limp was even more exaggerated. The pain from his illness had evidently worsened. He was in no shape to continue dueling. The two men watched one another warily, but they both eyed her.

She dismounted from the steed and approached the duel. Her helmet fully covering her face, neither one knew who she was, only which direction she had come from and thus who she represented. "Stop," she said in the lowest voice she could muster. As much as she loved him, she knew that Francis could not know it was her immediately. If he knew he would send her back before she could utter her offer. "I claim second," she announced loud enough only for the two men to hear her. "I will fight in my king's stead."

William laughed at Francis. "Your own countrymen do not trust you to win. They see you as so incapable that they do not even think you can fight," he sneered.

Francis' face flushed red with anger. "Go back," he said to Mary. "Your assistance is unneeded."

"I have claimed second. It is up to William of Orange to decide whether or not to give it to me," she said.

"Go back, I told you. I am your king and you will do as I say."

"I have claimed second," Mary repeated. "According to the rules of the duel my claim cannot be retracted. If the opponent does not wish to fight me, he and only he can send me back."

"Your man is correct, King Francis," William said, making a mockery of the title.

Mary turned toward William. "Will you fight me then, William of Orange?"

William paused to see the anger on Francis' face before saying, "Yes. Yes I will fight you rather than your king. But," he said, "as your king has received a fresh knight to come fight in his stead, I, too, may summon another to fight for me." William's eyes narrowed. "Before I do that, however, I demand to see your face. I deserve to know who will be fighting for France."

Mary's stomach clenched. There was no turning back now. The three of them stood in a triangle facing one another, and Francis was already furious at this unknown knight. This was all for him. She was fighting for him. She believed in him.

She lifted the eye guard from the helmet and looked him right in the eye. "William of Orange," she said in her normal voice, "I, Mary Queen of France and Scotland, will fight for my husband."

Francis' face dropped. A sheet of ice rolled over his face, and he turned pale. "Mary," he said, "Mary, no. Don't do this. You can't do this."

She didn't look at him. She couldn't. She knew what she would find there. Pain, betrayal, and worst of all worry. "Will you fight me yourself or summon a second, you coward," she jeered. Their plan hinged on this, William himself must fight. No one else could know that she was the mysterious knight.

William smiled a wolf-like smile. "The Queen of France. This is even better than I had hoped. Two royals with one sweep of my blade. And a woman nonetheless," he said. "The best your castle had to offer, no doubt," he said to Francis. "Likely she's only one that would sacrifice herself for her king. Is loyalty in France really this weak? Perhaps I shouldn't have bothered with this duel in the first place, I could have just waltzed into your throne room and sat on your throne. That's all I would need for your nobles to bow to me anyways."

"You bastard," Francis spit at William.

"William," Mary said, dragging his attention back to her. "If you think that you have already won why not fight me yourself?"

He looked her up and down and, though she was insulated by thick armor, Mary shuddered under his revolting gaze. He smiled his cold smile and returned his stare to her eyes. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I think I will fight you myself."

Fear instead of anger had returned to Francis' heart. "Mary, please don't do this. Mary, I'll be fine. Mary, this is not a way to save me or France. You could be killed. Mary, please," he begged.

Finally Mary allowed her eyes to reach Francis'. He was so beautiful. He was always so beautiful. This was what she was fighting for. "You have always protected me, Francis," she said softly. "It is time for me to return the favor."

She turned to William. "I am ready," she said.

"Mary-"

"I am afraid, King Francis, that the decision is not yours," William said. "Please kindly step aside."

"No," Francis said.

William swept his sword up to Francis' neck. "Step aside."

"Do it, Francis," Mary said, her throat tight. "If you don't he wins by default and we will both die anyway."

Francis looked first at William, and then at Mary. She nodded at him. The look he gave her as he moved away was one of such raw pain that she nearly snapped. She barely held herself in place and standing upright.

William saw none of this exchange. He immediately turned to the crowds and announced, "A second has come forward to fight for King Francis. I will remain fighting for myself." A roaring cheer erupted from the Netherlands' camp. As William basked in the glory he had concocted for himself, Mary stepped over to Francis.

"I'm sorry, Francis, I am. But I had to do this. Just… if the worst comes to worst, please don't look."

"Mary-"

"Please, Francis." She let one hand linger on his shoulder as she stepped away, and eventually even that small touch was gone. She stood ready to fight for France, and for Francis. Mary was ready to kill him.

"Are ready m'lady?" William asked her.

Mary didn't event him finish his mock bow before she stepped forward and swung her first blow. The shock of her strength and her speed hit William nearly as hard as her sword. The sharp bite of metal against metal reverberated throughout her shoulder and jarred her teeth.

His eyes narrowed and he charged. He charged her as he would not have dared charge a man. His shoulders barreled forward head on. His center of gravity was moving in a perfectly straight line, making it easy for her to side step the moment before he reached her, leaving only her sword in the air waiting for him to arrive. He crashed into Mary's sword in another clang of battle.

A line of red crisscrossed his face, but the impact of him on her sword left Mary reeling. She had miscalculated how much of his motion would move into her arm. The sword and then her arm left her completely off balance. She extended her other arm to balance her weight, but William turned just in time to catch that arm with the tip of his sword.

Mary took in a sharp breath as she felt his sword graze her skin. The pain was not awful, but it was present. Rather than let it distract her, Mary focused in on her pain. When she did that everything that mattered was closer. Each breath William took Mary heard. Every step he took she saw. And Francis. Francis was there too.

Not as the man standing next to the battle watching it, but as the man behind her, guiding her every movement and whispering tactics in her ear. Target areas: upper arms, shoulders, torso, and thighs. Francis' teaching words came back to her now. Aim there. That is where the armor is the weakest and where you can do the most damage in a fight.

Attuned to the details of the duel, Mary scanned William's body for evidence of Francis' previous blows. Scratches stretched across the metal plate that sat atop William's torso and upper arms. Francis had attacked there to no avail. Alright, Mary. What about his shoulders?

She lifted her gaze and saw a splash of crimson where two metal plates connected right above William's shoulder. That was a target.

And thighs, Mary? What about his thighs? Mary didn't need to look to see what she'd find. She was already replaying the sequence of strikes Francis had taken to connect a swing with William's hip. That was another target area.

Anything else? William wasn't wearing all the armor she was. He wasn't wearing his helmet. It still lay in the grass next to Francis, another discarded player of the fight. That made three target areas.

Mary let the pain from her arm go, and the world came slamming back into her.

William straightened himself and stood at his full height. Mary raised her blade above her head with her other arms crossing the sword at its hilt to form an 'X'. Her sword extended from her arm like a viper poised to strike just the way Francis had shown her that morning so long ago when they had first learned of William.

She lunged forward and struck out at William, curving her blade as she went down to hit him perfectly at the connection between his shoulder plate and his chest plate. With a twang, half of William's shoulder plate fell off.

A memory snapped into place. The other morning when she had met with Bash, he had told her something. He had told her that William left his left side unguarded.

The moment of thought had cost her a second, and in that second William attacked. His swings were wary now, a quick in and out. He wasn't underestimating her anymore. His sword spun and bot at her ankles. The cut on her arms was quickly joined by others. Her steps carried her back as William pressed forward.

Left. Left. His left side was unguarded. Mary had to get a blow there. She raised her sword to strike, but his sword caught hers and pushed it back. She staggered back, her arms, back, her whole body straining against William as he pushed down on her. She turned her head to look for any advantage, scanning for anything.

Her eyes lighted on Francis and the vein on his forehead straining in worry. For her. She couldn't die. She couldn't do that to him.

Resolve hardened in her heart, and Mary immediately stopped pushing against William's blade. Half a second before his blade fell on her head, Mary twirled into him and jabbed her sword behind her, into the left side of William's armor. She felt the armor give and the sickening slide of her sword into his flesh followed by his cry of pain.

She pulled her sword from him and whirled around to face him once more. William's face a was plastered with pain and blood was falling freely from his wound. William was dying.

But she wasn't done yet. She saw it in William's eyes. The cold reptilian look of pure hatred he cast at her bored into her skull. He stumbled back to where they had come from, back to Francis. Mary's blood ran cold. He wouldn't dare try.

Francis was standing unprepared, now fully leaning on his sword. Mary stared at him, her eyes wide with terror. "Go!" She yelled. Francis grabbed the hilt of his sword with both hands and tried to wrestle it from the ground. "Francis, go! Your sword doesn't matter, just go!"

That was when she realized. He wasn't leaving. He wasn't ever going to leave her. He knew that if he left William would find some way to kill her, and Francis wasn't going to let that happen. She charged forward too late. William stood before Francis, his sword raised while Francis still stood there trying to prepare for the battle he didn't realize was already in front of him. Her feet couldn't carry her there fast enough. William's sword fell, and Mary couldn't stop herself from waiting to watch the imminent collision between William's blade and Francis' neck.

But the collision never came. The sound of blade against bone never came. Instead Francis stood taller than William, his sword against William's. Mary let out the breath she had been holding. He was alright. He was going to be alright.

And he was. Until he faltered.

Francis' left leg gave, and he stumbled backward. William pursued him, convinced of his victory. Mary sprinted, and one moment before William raised his sword a second time she crashed into him not with her sword but with the full force of her body.

William stepped aside twice to gain his balance, but his third his step was not stable. He stepped in his own cast aside helmet and fell. He cried out in pain. His ankle was twisted at an unnatural angle. William tried to push himself to his feet but fell back. His sword lay just out of reach. He tried to crawl over to the sword, but Francis' boot fell on his wrist.

Mary approached him and hoisted her blade. William closed his eyes. Mary pulled her arms back and swung.

A second passed, and then a minute. William of Orange opened his eyes. Mary's sword was leveled right at his neck so that a big inhale would slice his skin. He stared at the sword, then at Francis, and finally his eyes lighted on Mary.

"You, William of Orange, will never win," she said. "This duel is ours. Yes, there were questionable moments, but the outcome is this. You attempted to harm one who was no longer involved in the duel, and we spared your life. France has no quarrel with the newly formed Netherlands but the one you yourself have forged. Repent, accept your defeat, and we will leave you to your own nation. We will never have to see one another again."

William spat on the ground. "You will never let me go," he said. "I have seen your face, and I will tell all who it was that really fought in the place of France's weak king."

"Watch your tongue lest you lose it!" Mary said as she placed the flat of her sword just beneath William's chin, forcing him to expose his pale neck. "William, we will let you go because you will not dare speak of this encounter. Not the least because if you did you would merely be shaming yourself, but also because should you breathe word of this to a single living person, France will come to Netherlands with all her might, with all of her soldiers and all of her wrath, and you will have wished you never set eyes on this land.

"This is your choice, William. Life and a free country, or death and your nation in flames."

William swallowed. He took in a breath.

"Life," he finally said. "Life and freedom."

"Let it be so," Mary said and lifted her blade. She sheathed her sword and turned to face

Francis. "Francis-" she said.

"Not now, Mary," he said. "Today let us have won. We can talk tomorrow. Today we did it. You did it." Mary smiled at him. "For now though you must go, before anyone discovers your identity." He was proud. He was happy and proud, but he was angry too. Mary knew he was right. Now was not the time. They would talk later.

Mary nodded and stepped back to her horse. She mounted the steed and set her straps. She looked back at Francis. He nodded, and Mary pushed her heels into the horse's side.

Francis watched Mary disappear into castle. She would make it back to an inconspicuous place safely for, if he knew anything, his mother was bound to have had something to do with this, and his mother never left a plan unfinished.

Facing the crowd instead of the gate, Francis cried out a mighty, "France is the victor!"

Cheers erupted from the castle, but nothing matched the relief he felt in his heart.

It was over. It was all over.