The scene was a familiar one: Mary and Bash, soaked to the skin, lying shamelessly to a pair of innkeepers about their identities, relationship, and purpose. Since that first night, though, they had only bothered to rent one room.

"Will it ever stop raining?" Mary asked wistfully as Bash helped her out of her overdress. She didn't need the help - she had tied it much more loosely these last few days - but it was much easier to have someone taller than she hold it up so she could wriggle out.

"Doesn't it rain in Scotland?" Bash asked as he dropped a quick kiss on the back of her neck and turned to spread the dress over the screen by the hearth.

Mary sighed, and a knock sounded on the door.

"Linens!" someone called, ut as Mary moved to unbolt the door Bash stopped her.

"We didn't order linens," he said, and Mary glanced at the bed, which was fully made up, and the towels that they had carried up with them.

"Our compliments!"

"Under the bed," Bash hissed. "Hide."

Mary dove under the bed and huddled. She heard the door burst open and sapred a brief moment of pity for the innkeepers, who would have to replace at least the deadbolt if not the door, but then Bash's feet came into view followed by guards.

One of them said, "You thought you could run off with a lady, boy? Where is she?"

"Gone," Bash said, grunting as he was shoved into a chair. Mary put her fist against her mouth and bit down on her knuckles. "She left three days ago, I just helped her get out of the castle. She's maybe headed for-"

The guard slammed Bash's head down so it hit the tabletop with a thud. "Don't lie to me, boy."

"Why would I lie to you, Matthew?" Bash asked, voice muffled. His feet remained still, though the guards around him walked restless around the room. "You've always treated me so nicely, I can't imagine not going out of my way to make your life easier-"

Another thunk. They wouldn't really hurt him, would they? He was Henry's child. He was acknowledged. Another.

"I'm not lying," Bash snapped finally. "She just wanted an escort away from the palace. You try refusing a queen."

"She isn't your queen, boy," Matthew said. Mary didn't think she imagined the relish with which he said boy each time.

A pair of booted feet stopped in front of the bed, near the hearth. Mary shrank against the wall, clamping her other hand over her nose.

"She left her clothes?" a new guard asked, and Mary's heart sank. She had forgotten the overdress.

"That's not hers," Bash said immediately. "You'll understand why I want you gone quickly, maybe? Not many women interested in princes are quite as interested in royal guards."

"You're a bastard prince," Matthew retorted, and Mary heard another thunk. "But you did always think you were better than us. Why not add some village wench into the mix?"

"Sarge," another guard said, sounding nervous. "Maybe don't beat him up too much?"

"He's a criminal now," Matthew said. "I get to treat criminals how I like. Especially thieves. Say, you know the punishment for thieving, right?"

Mary heard the particular rough slide of a knife from its sheath.

"Maybe, because you stole from the king, I'll take both hands," Matthew said.

Mary threw herself from under the bed. She didn't make a very graceful entrance - there was no graceful way to throw oneself from under a bed, she thought - but she managed to stagger to her feet.

"Stop," she ordered.

The guards blinked at her, but the ones holding Bash didn't waver.

"I am not something to be stolen," she told them, lifting her chin. "I demand you release him."

Matthew released only a bark of laughter. Bash, one arm stretched across the table, shot him a glare.

"Because you have so much leverage here," Matthew said, allowing a long, pointed pause to stretch out before adding, "Your Highness."

He looked her over from head to to and back again, making her uncomfortably aware that she was in only a damp underdress.

"Release him," she said again,trying to keep her tone steely in the face of Matthew's leer and Bash's imminent hand loss. "This man is my escort back to my country, and I have had enough delays."

Matthew nodded thoughtfully. "I could," he said. "Of course, I can't let a thief go free without some sort of punishment. That sort of thing erodes discipline. Leads to riots in the streets."

He raised a knife, which was larger than Mary had assumed.

"No!" she cried, leaping between them. "No, I promise, don't hurt him and I'll go with you."

"Mary," Bash protested, struggling, but Matthew was putting the knife away so she ignored him.

"Your word on that?" Matthew asked.

"Yes," Mary said. "My word as a queen. I'll cooperate so long as you don't hurt him."

Bash's face was bruised still, and his eyebrow had a split in it, but he still had both hands.

"Get dressed," Matthew ordered. "You don't want to meet your fiance in your undergarments. Your HIghness."

He sent the other guards out with a jerk of his head. Bash dragged his feet, but was removed, and Matthew leaned against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised.

Mary resigned herself to struggling into her wet overdress with an audience.

Her return was about as she expected: Francis was furious and hurt and confused, Henry treated her like a child, and Catherine treated her like a pupil who had done poorly on a test.

Francis only got one punch in before Mary separated him and Bash, but he left when she stared him down, Bash leaning tiredly against her hip, lip now split to match his eyebrow.

Mary doubted Francis' punch would have hit if Bash wasn't chained up, unless Bash had let it. She wasn't sure Francis would have tried to punch Bash without knowing Bash wouldn't punch back.

"I'm going to take care of this," she told Bash, stroking his hair gently but watching the door to his cell. "I can."

"I know you can," Bash said. "You don't have to, though, Mary. I don't want you getting hurt. You know how my father is."

"I know," Mary said, and left.

When she reached her rooms she called Lola and Greer and Kenna and hugged them each fiercely.

"What happened?" Kenna demanded, and Mary opened her mouth to answer before the thought but stopped before words actually escaped. Kenna was her friend, but Kenna was Henry's mistress too, and she had proved willing to do nearly anything to keep the position. Mary would trust her with much, but with this?

"Bash kept me safe," Mary said. "I'm fine."

Kenna did not press for more, seeming almost grateful, and eventually took her leave.

Lola was not so easily put off, and Greer watched them both worriedly.

"I'm tired," Mary said truthfully.

"Of course," Greer said. She and Lola helped Mary dress for bed, brushing out the tangles in her hair, but when Greer ducked out for a moment Mary turned to Lola.

"I need you to do something for me," she said.

Later Mary crawled out of bed and drifted to her sitting area with its windows, where she could sit and breathe.

Greer followed her, because Greer had followed her most of the night, worried as ever.

"Greer," Mary said, "I need you to pass on a message."

"Mary knows you fear for your son," Lola said, standing carefully, trying to put Mary's words and wishes into a framework Catherine would understand or respect. "She says, she will leave him to you and to France."

Catherine let out a short, bitter burst of laughter. "Will she? And what exactly does dear Mary want in return?"

Lola stayed silent, as if reluctant to admit that Mary would not do something because a fearful mother asked. The reluctance was not entirely a show: Mary was about to invest so much into this project. Lola didn't know if her queen's plans were genius or stupidity or the longings of a lovesick, lonely girl, but Mary was Lola's queen. Lola had to believe Mary knew what she was doing until she told Lola otherwise.

"Well?" Catherine demanded.

Lola told her.

Greer found Diane in the gardens, sitting on a bench and staring fixedly at a drooping rose as if she could will it back to health.

"I don't want to hear Mary's apologies," Diane snapped without turning around.

Greer bit her lip and said carefully, "She sends none."

Diane spun on her bench, back hunched, and hissed, "Your queen of scots can go to hell."

The flinch Greer couldn't help made Diane smile with too many teeth. Greer could see canines as Diane turned back to the rose.

"My lady," Greer said, holding her hands out, "if you would listen to me for but a moment-"

"Why?"

Greer too a deep breath. A mother afraid for her child was a terrible thing, and Greer didn't want to intrude, but Mary was her friend, and Mary had asked so she could save someone else. She said, "Mary asks for your aid. She says to tell you - she means to make your son a king."

Diane turned back around.