A/N: A line near the end is stolen from my favorite line in ID-4.

Sighing, Danielle flopped her arms about her. She wished she could just be with him, instead of being surrounded by all these frivolous ladies-in-waiting, whose sole goal in life seemed to be to make her a suitable wedding dress in the time allotted. Danielle felt as if she had done nothing but stand in the midst of the fabric and measuring tape flying around her this past day and a half, and it was time she would have much rather spent with her prince.

It was worse than being attacked by gypsies—even worse than one of Marguerite's marathons in which she needed the perfect dress for one affair or another. She couldn't even tell them to lay off as she had to the gypsies, or escape, as she would have from Marguerite. After all, anything she did now—especially today—reflected on Henry. She supposed she would have to tone down her usual forthrightness. A little.

At last, the attendants were finished, and stepped back. "How do you like it, milady?"

Danielle started guiltily, realizing that comparing the women—who were, after all, only trying to be helpful—to gypsies and Marguerite wasn't really fair. These servants weren't her family and weren't used to her moods, as those at home had been, and she hadn't exactly been very patient with them.

But it was so difficult to be patient when she was about to marry the only man she would ever love. Danielle sighed. He had said there were 'things to be taken care of', before and after the marriage—things that didn't involve the two of them, alone, talking and teasing and discussing in the way that only the two of them could, things that didn't involve his lips on hers and his hands drawing her hips to his and her hands exploring the fascinating depths of his hair and contours of his skull.

Smiling a little dreamily, Danielle thought ahead to that night, when she would at last have Henry all to herself. For real, this time, because there would be no deceit, no misunderstanding, no uncertainty between them. Danielle hid a smile. There would be a whole lot less between them all around—far less formality, worries of propriety, and—clothing. Come to think of it, she couldn't fathom why these ladies were so intent on fashioning her a wedding gown if she was only going to be taking it off once she—

Someone coughed, and Danielle started again. She glanced up into the glass, and blinked. "I . . . I don't know what to say," she finally said, staring at herself in the mirror. Her mother's wedding dress had been ruined by rain and dirt—though Danielle still prayed that there was someone at the palace who could do something for it—but this was another thing altogether.

"The front is too high, isn't it?" someone said. There was a gouging of elbows and an "I told you the front was too high."

"Any lower and I would be half-naked," Danielle said idly, and someone gasped. The dress was a concoction of velvet and silk and lace and many tiny winking stones, all worked into the delicate filigree of the trim and bodice. It was a beautiful gown, not unlike her mother's, and yet far more modern by today's standards. It was far heavier and yet she felt far less dressed. She remembered what she had felt the first time she had put on a courtier's dress to save Maurice, and wondered how all the countesses and marquisses did it everyday. She hoped Henry would not expect her to dress like this all the time—how could she still whip Gustave? But she had to admit, it would be fun some of the time.

"What's wrong with it, milady?" a voice said finally.

"Oh! Nothing!—nothing," Danielle said, smiling happily and throwing herself at the old matron who had spoken. Her name was Beatrice, and she was Queen Marie's own lady-in-waiting, and had headed the whole affair of making the dress.

Beatrice was not at all used to future-princesses throwing her arms around her—Queen Marie would surely never do anything so undignified—and yet, in the past forty-eight hours, she had found herself growing fond of this would-be queen. Danielle gave herself no airs, and was so kind to them all it was as if she was one of them. And yet—she had a dignity about her, an intrinsic understanding of what went on around her, that Beatrice had always thought a queen should have. Yes, she wouldn't mind having this girl for her mistress. If only she minded her clothes a little more and didn't get them muddied as she had warned them all she was prone to do. That wasn't a very queenly thing at all.

When it was finally related throughout the palace that Danielle had been properly attired, it was related all the way back that she might make her appearance in the throne room. This, Danielle knew, was to settle the 'business' to which Henry had referred, which he had told her—with a certain amount of annoyance—his father deemed necessary before their marriage. Danielle went willingly, annoyed not at all. She would go through a great deal, if it meant she was to be married to the man she had come to know this past week.

The throne room was long and felt far more intimidating empty than it would have had it been full of people, she felt. King Francis was standing by a table—obviously a temporary piece of furniture in the throne room, but looking regal in its own right and not at all out of place. On it were spread maps, papers, and various renditions of the royal insignia in scattered form, and behind it and around it were many of the ministers of France, looking grim with steepled hands and sour expressions. Queen Marie was on her throne, watching Danielle with compassion, as if she was about to go through some ordeal, and the Prince stood at her side, behind her and a little to the left.

When she first caught sight of him, her heart jumped. She had never seen him look so handsome. He was all in white or shades thereof—for the wedding ceremony, she assumed. The tints emphasized the tan of his skin and the startling steel gray of his eyes, the only other color the circlet on his brow.

She was surprised by how natural it looked there. She had not fallen in love with him because he was a prince, but because he was a man who felt as passionately and profoundly as she did. Now, however, she saw the other half of him—the side he had been running from, in his company with her, the side that had told her, in no uncertain terms, that she 'was just like them'—beneath him, unworthy of his notice, unworthy of calling him by the only name he wanted. That part of him, she knew, would take some getting used to.

King Francis was looking at her with a deep frown, his brows heavy and ponderous over measuring eyes. Danielle lifted her chin and arched a quizzical brow, which caused him to blink several times. "Danielle de Barbarac," he said at last, when she was before him. She inclined her head in response, and he huffed, as if in annoyance. "I don't know what spell you've cast over my son to make him want to marry a commoner, but—"

"I have done nothing, Sire," Danielle said, startled into indignation. "I think—"

"Yes, yes," Francis replied, waving an idle hand at her. "I've heard enough of what you both think." He rolled his eyes, then, noticing that his son had crossed the dais and was half-way down. "Young people," he groaned, under his breath, and hastily went on. "You're not here to argue about it, any rate. You're here because even if it is the wish of my son to marry a common woman, it isn't my wish, and yet apparently, you're the only woman he'll have—heaven knows why—oh, back, you devil, I'm merely saying what I think, now; I've heard enough from you—"

This last to Henry, who had descended the stairs completely, and whose eyes were very very angry. The prince had had assurances from his father that Danielle would receive no harshness from anyone due to her background, but now it seemed he hadn't held himself to his own word. Queen Marie was half out of her seat as well, noticing with pity the hurt in Danielle's eyes, as well as the fires that blazed there.

But neither of them had any real need of worry. King Francis was the sort—like Henry, rather, which was no coincidence—who had to be heard, even when it made no difference, and liked for everyone to know he was unhappy when he was so, and to try to make everyone else unhappy in the bargain. But the truth of it was, King Francis was not so very unhappy as he made himself out to be; the treaty with Spain was being signed tomorrow and his son, at last, was to settle down, even though the maid he had chosen didn't seem the settlingest sort. "Anyway, as I was saying, it isn't my wish that my son marry a common woman, so as of today you are not a common woman."

Danielle blinked. "I'm not?"

"No. You are Countess de Flauvent, first of—"

"Flauvent?"

"It's a small bit of land, in Provence," Francis explained, unpleased that he had been interrupted. "As I was saying—"

"Land?" Danielle asked, frowning. "I'm afraid I don't understand—"

"Father," Henry interjected, placing a hand on his father's arm to stall the king's angry retort. "At least let her know what she is getting into."

"You said you wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible," Francis replied, sounding as petulant as Henry often could.

"Not when it means leaving my future wife uninformed," Henry told him, raising his brow.

Francis huffed, waved his hand, and said dully, "Gerard?"

One of the ministers at the table stood up, looking shy. Another minister wrinkled his nose, scowling up at the one named Gerard, obviously believing that he should be the one talking. "Flauvent," Gerard began, shuffling through the papers on the desk, "belonged to the Count de Flauvent—obviously—and passed on to his only daughter, who has since joined a convent." The attendant's voice was nasal and wobbly, and he looked from Danielle to Henry to Francis, as if unsure of to whom to speak. "Eighty acres, partially vineyards; income of four thousand franks per annum, consisting of—"

"Gerard."

"Yes," the minister replied, startled by the king's annoyed voice. The minister who had wrinkled his nose looked self-satisfied and snide at the reprimand. "Since mademoiselle de Flauvent has joined the convent," Gerard went on, "the lands naturally revert to the king—er—him—His Majesty King Francis II of France, of the line of Valois, son of—"

"Gerard!" It was Henry's and Francis' voice together, this time.

"Yes, your Majesty. Your Majesties, I mean. I mean, yes." Gerard glanced nervously at Danielle and found that she was smiling encouragingly, which suddenly seemed to make everything alright. "The land now belongs to the king, who may dispose of it as he wills. He is free to grant it to any nobleman he chooses. Or," Gerard continued, putting his head to one side, as if he had just thought of it, "he may knight any fellow he chooses and bestow the lands upon him to grant him a title. Or," Gerard went on, giving Danielle a generous nod, "he can . . . er, Lady any lady he chooses, and bestow the lands on him—I mean her—to grant her a title. Er—that's all."

Danielle nodded her thanks to the stumbling Gerard, who sat back down, a silly grin on his face. It was strange, although they said Danielle de Barbarac was a commoner, her nod and smile already felt like the nod and smile of a queen, and those who received it already felt privileged. The snide minister curled a lip at Danielle, who instinctively didn't like him.

"I'm afraid there has been some mistake," Danielle said clearly. "I don't want any estates in Provence."

"Of course you do," Francis told her blithely. Prince Henry merely raised a brow. "Now, you will need to sign here, here, and—"

"How am I to look after property that is in Provence?" Danielle asked, completely ignoring the document the king was waving at her.

Francis blinked several times. "Why, you foolish girl, you are not going to look after it. After today, you shall have nothing to do with it. Gerard and my other ministers handle all the Crown's property. Now—"

"He said it would be bestowed upon me," Danielle said simply. "I will not have any property attached to my name that I cannot care for. In person." As Francis suddenly realized that she was, in fact, quite in earnest, he stopped dead, the parchment in his hand suddenly going limp in his hand. "Furthermore, I want no other property—and no other name—than that which is already my own. If that is not good enough for Henry," she said, locking eyes with her betrothed, "then he is not good enough for me."

Henry merely smiled at her, an easy, contented smile, that was really quite self-satisfied about something. Danielle frowned and glanced back at the king, who had pulled his son back to splutter at him in undertones. "Henry," he hissed, his voice low, "what is the meaning of this? I will not have you marry a commoner, much less one who talks to me this way."

"It's back then, I suppose, to disowning me and you living forever," Henry replied, off-handedly, almost dreamily, his gaze never leaving the form of Danielle and the smile never leaving his face.

"What!" King Francis exploded, outraged. "I will not have you do this to me! I will not! She will sign; she will be the countess of Flauvent, and that is final. And what are you smiling at?"

Queen Marie had finally risen, looking harried. "Couldn't you just make her countess of the de Barbarac estate?" she asked, interposing herself between her son and husband, because the latter had begun to look as if he would do serious injury to the former.

"That's not how it's done," Francis was heaving at his wife. Henry, meanwhile, was oblivious. His gaze was riveted to Danielle, and most of the other things going on in the room seemed fuzzy and small. Danielle was scowling at Francis, indignation still in vivid colors on her face.

She was outraged that the king would try to give her land just to change her name and make her someone who she was not. She couldn't hear what was going on between the royal family, but she was resolved: she was not opposed to a title; but she was—and would always be—opposed to land that was not rightfully hers and a title she could never even attempt to earn. If she was to marry Henry, she would marry Henry as who she had always been, and no one else.

"Henry," the King exclaimed, his voice somehow a shouted whisper, "get the woman to sign the damned papers or the whole thing is off! I mean it this time, Henry, if you don't—"

"Look at her," Henry said softly. "Just look at her. Take a deep breath and look at her, father."

Francis took a deep breath—several, in fact, and looked. "I don't see what—"

"That's the woman I want to marry. Look at her, how beautiful she is. Look at the fire in her eyes, at the way she's holding her own against you. Can't you see why I want to marry her? Today? Right now?" His voice was hoarse with emotion and desire, oblivious to the propriety of using such a tone in public. He turned slow, heated eyes to his father. "You're the King of France. Surely you can do anything you want. Surely you can see I will marry her anyhow, some way, even if you make it impossible for us to marry with your consent. Look at her, and tell me you wouldn't do the same."

Francis looked again, and saw, not Danielle, but Marie. Marie not as she was now, but not as she had been when he married her, either. When he had married her she had been a frail, trembling girl, passed on to him with a signed treaty and business negotiations.

No, what he saw now, in his mind's eye, was Marie when he had first realized he loved her. Marie standing in front of a three year old Henry and telling her husband that her son would not be betrothed in infancy to a girl neither of them knew, that Henry would not be schooled in a far distant corner of France where neither of them would ever see him, that Henry would not wear a crown, because he had this uncanny habit of chewing on them, and that she would not stand for him reading her son any more adventure stories because Francis, you newt, they frighten him and how am I to spend my nights with you, love, if he is up fretting all night?

Francis recalled the fire in his wife's eyes, the resolution, the anger. It was then, and not before, that he had realized he loved her. He wasn't sure he ever told her, but she knew. Their was a forced relationship from the beginning, and had either of them had to live it over, they might have lived it differently. They were at each other's throats more often than not, it was true, and they hardly ever agreed on anything, especially where Henry was concerned. But it didn't change the fact that he loved her. It didn't change the fact that he would rather spend the rest of his life with her than any other woman on the planet.

Shaking his head and frowning, Francis demanded petulantly, "What am I supposed to do?"

"I suggest you make it possible for us to marry with your consent, and then allow us to do so," Henry replied blandly, and then added, "and hurry up about it."

"Oh good grief," Francis said, rolling his eyes, and muttering something about young people again. "Come here, girl, and kneel down."

"What—" Danielle began, her voice as imperious as any queen's.

"Do you want to marry my son or not?" the king demanded impatiently.

Danielle came there and knelt down.

"I name you Countess of Barbarac," the king declared, touching Danielle lightly on her forehead. "A benediction, I think, will do nicely. Father, if you will?" A priest approached, and Danielle bent her head still further down. Words were said, a piecemeal, make-shift dubbing was enacted, and after it all the king told Danielle to stand up. "Now, is that all?" he mused, stroking his beard. "Oh yes," he concluded suddenly. "There is the small matter of the paper-work."

He strode over to the table and grabbed several lengths of parchment. With flourishes that Danielle could see even from where she was standing, he signed several of them, crossed things out on others, and then threw his quill down. "There, that should do the trick," he said.

The ministers were in a tizzy, looking over the documents with appalled, confused faces. One of the ministers—the snide one—brought the matter to a head with the outburst, "You just can't do that!"

Francis turned slowly back to the table. "I have many jobs as king," he said, his brow rising, "and one of them is to do any damn thing I please."

"We were born to privilege, and with that comes specific obligations," Henry added helpfully, nodding wisely.

The snide minister, who had been sneering at Gerard all through his stumbling speech, scowled and sat back with a huff. "You're making a big mistake."

"The only mistake I ever made, Jacques," Francis began succinctly, striding back over to the ministers, "was making you my chief advisor." Without even trying to be regal about it he snatched the wig from the minister's head and placed it on Gerard's skull. "You're it now, m'boy," he said, and turned back to face the royal family. "Do we have a wedding to attend?" he asked, all guilelessness, and held his arm out for his wife. Henry and Danielle smiled at each other, and, with the ever-present train of attendants and heralds, they exited the throne room to make their way toward the chapel.

"He can't do that," Jacques complained petulantly, sitting back in his chair.

"He just—er . . . did," Gerard replied, and shrugged. He did, however, offer Jacques back his wig, and that with great aplomb.