A/N: A big shout out and thanks to my reviewers! I'm always up to answering questions – at embarrassing length, as some readers have learned to their dismay – but this website doesn't let me reply to guest reviews. Suffice to say that this is a work of alternative fiction and all bets are off.

22 September 1540
Dover Castle

The three siblings stood on the castle wall-walk, their eyes trained on the thin, pale line just barely visible beyond the vast flotilla of crayers, picards, caravels, and carracks crowding the harbour.

Calais.

"Fifty thousand men," Ned breathed, "and all in the service of God."

Charles laughed. "In the service of Father, you mean."

"You think there's a diff—"

"Edmund Tudor!" Mary barked. "Take care not to insult either the Lord God or our father the King. You too, Charles; speak respectfully."

"But—" Ned began.

"I said that you are to speak respectfully at all times," she repeated, praying they would catch her emphasis; to underline it, she flashed a look at the yeoman warder standing by the door.

"But Will…" Charles's eyebrows flew upward as comprehension dawned. "Of course, brother. Many apologies." He looked back at the ships departing the harbour, his expression turning pensive. "You still don't remember any of it?"

"Not a moment of it, no," she replied, keeping her voice and expression neutral. "In truth I'm impressed that I was able to organize such a massive expedition on my own – although I'm sure Father and the members of his Privy Council did their share of the work."

"Of that, my sweet William, I must disabuse you," Edmund said, a corner of his mouth quirking up as he looked back at her. "Our father the King gave you your head and you made him the proudest man in Christendom – or so he's told Charles and me a hundred times. Do you think you could do it again?"

She pondered the question. "With help, perhaps. It's not my intellect that's affected but my recent memories, and the physicians assure me they'll return soon enough." Which was all true enough; she could have organized a war in her own world had anyone thought her fit to do so.

But Charles's mind was still across the water. "Do you think there'll be good fighting, Ned?" he asked. "Or will the French run away like cowards?"

"War's in their blood," he replied confidently. "Mind you, the common people might refuse to raise arms against forces blessed by the Pope, at least if they aren't too badly contaminated by Luther's heresy."

Mary would have liked to agree but she wasn't so naïve as to think the French cared more about their faith than their homeland – and rightly so, since as far as she could tell this 'crusade' was nothing but a cynical land grab cloaked in legitimacy by the fortuitous death of a martyred queen. Once King Louis was dead and the throne restored to the Catholic faction (whoever that was) the allies would 'request' certain concessions – Normandy to England, eastern Provence to Savoy, Champagne to Burgundy, Corsica back to Genoa, and Bayonne and Narbonne to Spain – and if she could see that after two weeks in this world, the French surely could see it as well.

Nobody had made plans for failure; why would they when God was on their side?

Godly or not, though, the enterprise left a bitter taste in her mouth. Would the Holy Father have named her a martyr if Father had sent her to the block in her world? Would Christendom have howled for vengeance against the man who cut off her head? Had she lost the chance of sainthood and a guaranteed place at the Lord's side by taking the Oath of Supremacy? The notion might appeal to her sense of fairness as much as losing the certainty of Heaven broke her heart, but her practical side had rejected the comparison as inexact. The French Queen's refusal to swear her son's odious oath had been made solely on religious grounds; Mary's own refusal had involved not just religion but her own legitimacy and place in the line of succession, and no foreign potentate, not even the Emperor or the Holy Father, would stand in the way of another king's right to choose his heir. There was also no question that the sin of killing a disobedient daughter paled in comparison to that of beheading one's own blameless mother; even the arch-infidel Suleiman had shrunk back in disgust from that crime, breaking his treaty with France and signing a truce with the Empire.

She watched Edmund as he leaned out over the battlements, his black eyes gleaming in the early morning sun. Fifteen years old and the very picture of his long-dead maternal grandfather Thomas Boleyn, Ned was destined to wear not the helmet and armour he was dreaming of at the moment but choir dress and, God willing, mitre. Charles, on the other hand, was at eleven already his father's son and would one day make a magnificent soldier – if he could only learn to control that tongue of his.

Charles suddenly hopped up onto the balls of his feet, the ends of his wavy red hair brushing against the trim of his doublet. "Will! The Cardinal's here!"

"The Cardinal…" There was only one man she knew who was called by that name. She followed his gaze down to the courtyard – and her mouth dropped open.

How on earth was Thomas Wolsey still alive?

In her world he'd died a full ten years ago, worn down by years of negotiations and travels and paperwork and, at long last, bitter failure and the promise of a treason trial. How ironic that her birth as a boy had bought years of life for the man who'd worked himself to death trying to destroy her – but only at her father's orders, she reminded herself. "I remember him, but as a younger man," she said. "How old is he now, do you know?"

"Sixty-six last St. Berthold's Day," Ned supplied. "I used to be attached to his household."

So not as ancient as she'd thought. "I suppose his arrival means our lord father will desire our attendance. Shall we?"

They complied unwillingly, Edmund not tearing his eyes off the horizon until the last possible moment. What would Boleyn have said had he lived to see his grandson, a boy stamped with his every feature, destined for the Catholic Church? Or would he still have been a reformer in this world had he not died along with Charles Brandon in the jousts celebrating Mary's – or William's – birth?

With a shake of her head she followed her brothers down to the third floor, her bound shoulder throbbing with every step she took down the uneven spiral staircase. She had been in this world for two weeks and still she didn't have a handle on who was alive and who was dead, let alone who among the living still served her father. With preparations for war consuming everyone's time but hers she hadn't felt it her place to pester her supposed friends; even her confessor Thomas More had found himself run off his feet since they'd arrived at Dover. She still had questions but they would have to wait until she could find someone willing to defy her father and answer them, as he'd forbidden any discussion of her private life – and none of her companions had proven willing to disobey him.

Fortunately the King was in an expansive mood that morning. "Boys!" he cried, beckoning them to rise from their bows as Sir Richard Riche stepped away from his side. "What do you think of our mighty armada?"

"Majestic, sir," Edmund said before Mary could get a word in edgewise. "I can't be the only one rueing the ground under my feet at the moment, eh, Will?"

"I won't deny it, Ned," she replied, playing the game as best she could. "If anyone's more envious of our lord father than you it's me – but I suspect His Majesty would be the most envious if I were the one leading the expedition."

At that her father laughed out loud. "You know me all too well! Naturally we can't both be out of the realm at the same time but oh, how I wanted that French bastard to see the two of us fighting side by side. That would have shown him, wouldn't it?"

"The only drawback to that, sir, would be that I could never hope to outshine you. Any other man I could best – or at least hope to."

"Don't say that," he replied, waving his hand, although her fawning drivel had clearly pleased him. "You might very well have outfought me, son, and I would have been so very proud if you had. Ned, Charles, why don't you go find your lady mother? I believe she has a matter of importance to discuss with the two of you. Sir Richard, gentlemen; if you'd leave us as well."

Riche dipped his head. "Yes, sir."

Once they were alone Henry rested a hand on Mary's good shoulder. "How are you feeling, son? Tell me the truth; it must be hell having your arm tied up in that sling all day long."

"To be honest it doesn't bother me that much, sir; the pain is almost gone and your tonic has done wonders. I don't know if I've ever felt stronger or more alert."

"That's the lad," he said, beaming, but his face suddenly grew thoughtful. "When I think of all the boys your lady mother and I lost before you were born – weak, pale infants who would have never been half the prince you are – I can only thank God for knowing His business. Had you been Duke of York or Somerset and forced to serve one of them as I was my brother Arthur…England's fortunate to have you as Prince of Wales, son. How's the memory?"

At that she could only shrug. "Nothing yet. I can recognize some faces and names, I can remember most of my studies, but other matters are still as opaque as they were that very first day. I don't know how many prayers I've said asking God to heal me but still…"

He nodded, his expression showing far less concern than the admission should have warranted. "Your physicians said as much. I…I'm naming you and your lady mother co-regents, Will; I hope you don't mind."

So that was why he'd sent everyone away; he'd expected her to take umbrage at what was in truth an eminently sensible decision. "I don't mind in the least, sir," she said. "In your place I would have done the same thing."

Relief flooded his face. "I'm glad my decision hasn't touched your honour too severely – but this accident seems to have matured you, hasn't it?"

She made to answer but he forestalled her reply. "I don't mean that as an insult," he said. "You've always been a man of great honour and strength, but I suffered an injury much like yours shortly after your mother's death, and when I look back at the man I was before…I'm only glad God lifted the scales from my eyes before Anne arrived at court. Headstrong, thoughtless of my life, self-absorbed, unconcerned with anything but my own pleasure: that fall was the making of me, son, and I don't doubt yours will be the making of you once you recover."

"I can only hope to be the best Prince and son I can," she replied, schooling her face to hide the sting in her father's words, as the accident he'd suffered in her world – he'd almost drowned after trying to vault over a mud puddle – had done nothing but inspire him to annul his marriage and strip Mary of her legitimacy. He probably saw it the same way, she thought. No wonder he'd hadn't been able to understand how he'd gone wrong.

Before she could continue a knock came at the door. "Enter."

One of her father's grooms poked his head through the doorway. "Your Majesty, His Eminence has arrived and is awaiting your presence in St. Mary's."

"Thank you. Shall we, Will?"

She followed him out into the Great Hall and took her place beside Queen Anne, who dropped her arm from around Charles's shoulders and curtseyed deeply as she and her brothers bowed. Mary hadn't quite figured out Anne yet; a devout Catholic, a loving mother, and a woman of obvious high honour, she didn't seem anything like the harridan who'd cast a spell on her father in her world, yet from time to time over the past two weeks she'd caught hints of a temper and determination that reminded her all too well of her erstwhile nemesis. But the Devil can only work with the tools man gives him; the Dark One hadn't made Anne temperamental so much as he'd manipulated that temper into serving his needs.

It wasn't the first time she'd had to remind herself of exactly how powerless Satan was. The realization that only God would have been able to send her to this world had comforted her, she couldn't deny, but at the same time she'd felt the need to pray incessantly for the soul who must have originally inhabited her body and who, she fervently hoped, was now in Heaven with their mother. Mary despaired that she couldn't have masses said for William Tudor but she dared do nothing that might raise suspicion and prevent her from carrying out whatever plan God had in mind for her.

"Your Majesty," her father said with a courtly bow to Anne, "Your Highnesses, lords, ladies, and gentlemen. Today we embark upon a journey not of vengeance or greed but of holy justice, a journey which with God's help will return France to the faith of its forefathers. As such, I have asked His Eminence Cardinal Wolsey to celebrate Mass before we depart. Nan, shall we?"

The King and Queen led them all down the long, steep winding staircase to the courtyard and into St. Mary's in the Castle, where Wolsey and the choir and ordinary of the church were waiting for them. Mary desperately wanted to lose herself in prayer but even in such holy surroundings she had to keep her guard up; Latin was a gendered language, after all, and it would do no good to offer the wrong response.

Once Wolsey had pronounced the dismissal and they'd returned to the courtyard she took a careful look around. Every day brought new yet familiar faces; last week William Compton had returned to her father's side along with Henry Carey, while just yesterday she'd spotted Henry Norris – Viscount Langley in this world – entering the castle. She didn't begrudge Norris's survival (or his ennoblement) any more than she did Francis Weston's position in her household, as she remembered Chapuys had believed the men who'd died with Anne and George Boleyn had been wholly innocent of wrongdoing. 'A Queen cannot be convicted of adultery unless her lovers are known, Princess,' he'd pointed out. 'The men Monsieur Cromwell prosecuted were chosen for other reasons, I'm sure, but none of them would have dared meddle with the witch – and not one of them was guilty of any crime deserving death."

How she missed her old friend; how she prayed Eustache was alive and safe in this world.

He wasn't the only one she prayed for. She was most worried for Anne Stanhope, of course, but she also prayed for Anne of Cleves, Frances Jerningham, Barbara Hawke, Lady Salisbury, and even Hal Howard, whose kinship to both of her father's less pleasant queens had never affected the deep and abiding respect he'd always shown her. It was of course understandable that none of the women would be with her – they could hardly be attached to a man's household, after all – but her heart still ached for them.

She swung up into the saddle of a dark Arabian stallion, waving off the groom's assistance, and followed the King and Queen down the tortuous path to the harbour below where the Peter Pomegranate was waiting. As they dismounted she momentarily wondered how they intended to bring her father on board the tall carrack but before she could ask he'd drawn her and Anne aside and taken their hands in his. "I don't need to tell you how to act on my behalf," he said to them in low tones. "I have every faith in you both and I know you'll do all you can to keep England safe."

"Thank you, Majesty," Anne said. "I give you my word before God that we will dedicate ourselves to carrying out your wishes to the best of our abilities."

"As do I," Mary added.

"I have no doubt of that. Will, I can't promise you Louis's head – that goes to the Holy Father – but I'll do my best to send you his doublet. I think your mother Queen Katherine had James of Scotland's stored away somewhere; in no time you'll have a matching set."

She grinned. "I expect no less, sir."

"You deserve no less. No matter what happens, even if…I couldn't leave England in better hands than yours, son."

How this could be the same selfish, vindictive, cruel man she remembered she didn't know. "God will bring you home safe and healthy, sir."

She stepped back to rejoin her brothers and Thomas More as Father took private leave of Anne. "I take it the soldiers are confessed?" she said to More under her breath.

He all but rolled his eyes. "Confessed and made right with God, sir, just in time to cross the Channel and sin again. I trust Your Highness is feeling better?"

She sighed. "To an extent. I'd like to make confession myself before we return to London."

"Of course, sir."

Father flew up the rope ladder behind Will Compton as deftly as if he'd been born a sailor, answering Mary's earlier question handily; she and Anne dropped to their knees, the rest of their company following their example as the vessel pushed off from the wharf. Would she ever see her father again? Would he die in France? Was this why God had brought her to England, to rule as King?

But she stopped herself; that made no sense at all. The William Tudor her friends had described seemed perfectly capable of ruling in his own right; why, therefore, would God replace him – and with a woman, of all people? And even if he had been destined to be a bad King, Edmund hadn't made his vows yet and was still free…

…and there was another clue to the great mystery Father was hiding from her. The first had been Sir Henry Seymour's refusal to tell her whether she had children; the second had been the empty, discoloured spot on the wall beside William's portrait at Windsor Castle showing where a matching portrait had been recently removed.

It didn't take a scholar to figure out what she wasn't being told; she only wanted to know why.

She rose to her feet as the ship left the harbour and held out her good arm to Anne. "Shall we, Your Majesty?"

"Thank you, Your Highness. I take it Your Eminence is returning to London with us?" she asked Wolsey, who was walking on her other side.

He dipped his head. "Majesty, I regret my health precludes travelling any great distance by land. I and my household will be departing this afternoon – William," he asked, turning to the knot of men trailing behind him, "when does our ship leave?"

The man she'd known as Gregory Cromwell stepped forward. "At three, Eminence."

"Then I expect to be in London by Friday evening at the very latest, madam," he said to Anne. "If Your Majesty has anything she wishes to discuss before we part…"

"I don't but I believe Will might." And she squeezed Mary's arm.

She blinked. Why would…but of course; as a Prince of the Church Wolsey enjoyed a certain freedom which other men did not. "As a matter of fact, I would appreciate an hour of Your Eminence's time for a private discussion; perhaps we could meet after dinner?"

He bowed his head. "I am at Your Highness's command."

They were to dine that morning at Dover Priory, a Benedictine institution nearly as old as the castle they'd just departed. As they remounted their horses and turned northward Mary's mind went back to the visit she'd paid that summer to the site of the priory, one of the hundreds destroyed by Cromwell's minions in Kent alone. There hadn't been anything left of the priory save a few stones and a single wooden barn that had somehow survived the looters. Seeing the buildings whole sent a chill up Mary's spine much like the one she'd felt when Wolsey had appeared that morning, and for the same reason; a great institution – flawed, imperfect, yet still magnificent – had returned to life.

Prior Lambert met them at the door once they'd dismounted. "Allow me to welcome you to our humble priory on this solemn but reverent occasion," he said as his servants led away their horses. "Might I interest Your Majesty, Your Eminence, and Your Graces in a tour of the grounds before dinner? We have—"

Mary interrupted him before he could launch into whatever speech he'd prepared. "I for one would enjoy such a tour," she said, "but I believe Her Majesty and His Eminence would appreciate a moment to refresh themselves."

His brows flew up. "Of course! What am I thinking? Brother Francis," he said, beckoning over a stoop-shouldered old monk, "please show the Queen and the Cardinal to the guest lodges. Your Majesty and your ladies will find female servants waiting to assist you – of the highest possible morals, of course," he quickly added, as if he feared the matter was in doubt.

Anne dipped her head, hiding the same smile Mary was fighting. "Thank you, Father Prior. Eminence?"

Once they'd gone the prior turned back to her, his face red with embarrassment. "Forgive me, Your Grace; I didn't realize…"

Mary stopped him with a shake of her head. "We gentlemen sometimes forget that great ladies such as the Queen and Lady Norris are expected to dress to a certain standard, and their attire tends to be quite heavy as a result. Imagine being as small and weak as a woman and yet having to wear armour everywhere; that they rarely complain of it is a mystery to me."

The prior paused. "I hadn't considered the matter in that light, Your Grace – but of course you have the right of it. Shall we, sir?"

They made their way through the entry and toward the abbey church; as Prior Lambert described in detail the repairs and other changes that had been made over the past two years she took a moment to breathe in the scent of the English countryside and allow herself to relax. The past two weeks had been among the most strenuous of her life; only the strength of her new body (injured or not) and her fear of disappointing God had kept her from breaking down completely.

They eventually found themselves at the gate of a fine orchard. "Your older monks must enjoy the benches you've placed out there," she said to Lambert, wincing as Edmund and Charles shared a snicker behind their backs. "Pray forgive my brothers, Father Prior."

He smiled. "Young men will act as they will, sir, and maturity comes when it does. And yes, the monks do appreciate a place to sit and enjoy the natural world. In fact, one of my more venerable monks prefers to make his confession here in the midst of God's handiwork."

"No one can hear?"

"If we speak in low enough tones, no."

Perfect. "Shall we return?" she asked him. "I wouldn't want to leave my lady mother waiting for too long, and of course we'd like to wash before dinner."

"Of course, sir. Brother Mark," he called, "please see the Princes to the guest lodge."

Francis Weston helped Mary remove her sling once they were indoors and had been shown to a room; she dropped her arm to her side, holding back a groan as shoulder and elbow both protested the move. "Why do I have to do this?"

"Because if you don't your elbow will lock and it'll be ten times worse later on," Weston replied as he began to flex the elbow for her. "That's what Dr. Butts said, and he should know."

She nodded, meeting her own gaze in the polished metal plate that served as a mirror. She still found it strange to see someone else's reflection staring back at her – a broad-shouldered man's, at that – but she couldn't help but feel pleased that in this world she resembled her parents and not her pinch-faced great-grandmother Margaret Beaufort. She had her mother's eyes and mouth, her father's brow and nose, and – well, she didn't know where the cleft chin had come from; perhaps that was Edmund Tudor's. "I suppose you don't know why my parents named me William?" she asked Weston, hoping to draw him out.

"It's no secret," he replied. "The King tells the story every year on your birthday. It was your lady mother Queen Katherine who named you; she said you would be a conqueror and that you would be named accordingly."

Mary couldn't help but smile at that. "She laid down the law, then?"

He lifted her arm so it was pointing straight forward. "The King wasn't prepared to complain. I don't know if you remember that they lost four children before you were born, and one daughter between Your Highness and Prince Edward."

"Edward's the one who died – in the pestilence of '28, wasn't it?"

"One of them; do you remember Princes Henry and Owen?"

She shot him a glance. "No one's mentioned them. They were my brothers?"

"Your half-brothers, yes. Henry was four and Owen only an infant when the pestilence took them. You survived, though – relax your fist – as did the Queen, although she lost the child she was carrying at the time."

"I pray God gave her comfort," she murmured, crossing herself with her free hand. "When did the King marry Queen Anne?"

Weston released her arm, his brow knitting. "I believe it was January of '23, about six months after she arrived from France with Princess Renée—" The blood drained from his face. "Oh my God."

And there it was: the answer she'd been hoping to get out of Wolsey.

In truth she'd suspected from the very first that she had a wife hidden away somewhere. Her father would never have allowed his Prince of Wales to remain unmarried for so long, and were she widowed her father would have had no reason to keep her in the dark. She'd briefly wondered if she was married to Kathryn Howard – perish the thought – but if that had been the case the bitch wouldn't have had to strong-arm her way into Mary's room that first night. No, a marriage to Renée made a great deal of sense; although she was six years older than Mary she was the best marriage prospect in Europe as the sister-in-law of the King of France…

…but in this world she was the sister of the King of France – the very king they were at war with.

That might explain the order of silence.

She opened her mouth, intending to ask Weston why – but the look of sheer terror in his eyes stopped her. "You haven't told me anything I didn't already know," she said, smiling as he heaved a sigh of relief. "Father didn't want me to find out, I'm aware of that, but he can't stop my memories from returning, can he?"

"No, of course not. Shall I rewrap your arm?"

"In a moment, please; I have to use the close stool first."

She turned away and prepared to empty her bladder, deciding it was a good a time as any to change the subject. "You can't be happy about remaining in England with me," she said over her shoulder as she flipped up her codpiece and attended to the act she still found intensely distasteful. "If you'd rather be in France…"

"In truth, I'm glad i stayed; I tend to agree with Father More about the futility of war – and to be honest I'd rather be in England when Anne delivers."

That was right; he was married. "When is your lady wife due?"

"In late October, the midwives say. I hope the army is back by then; I'd hate to see them bogged down in the winter rains. If only your lord father had agreed to wait."

She shook herself dry and readjusted her clothing. "I'd wondered why we were going on campaign so late in the year," she said as she turned back to him. "It was my father's idea, then? I thought I'd made the arrangements."

"You did, for the spring. The King had different plans."

They shared a glance. "We've had this conversation before," she ventured.

He nodded.

"And you can't tell me why we're embarking on a war this late in the year?"

"I may be your friend but I serve the King and—"

"—and you must obey his orders," she finished for him. "Rest assured I won't force the matter, Francis. Or do I usually call you Frank?"

"You call me Francis when we're around others; between ourselves, however, I am Patch."

She laughed out loud. "Patch? You're far from a fool."

"And that," he said, smiling widely, "is why you call me so."

"I'm glad I still have a sense of humour." With a fond shake of her head she washed her hands and let Francis retie her sling. "I'm going to take the Cardinal into the orchard after dinner. Would you be so kind as to entertain my brothers?"

"I'd be pleased to. You might wish to ask His Eminence about his own recovery; he suffered a similar injury to yours almost ten years ago, if I recall right."

She frowned at him. "A shoulder injury?"

"Knock on the head," he replied. "He was at sixes and sevens for a good week, according to Will Cromwell."

Dinner was a typical monastic repast – typical, that was, in that the prior was caught between wanting to provide the best meal he could to his royal guests and not wanting to give them the impression that the monks ate that well every day. Mary did her best to carry the conversation but she wasn't able to chase away the butterflies congregating in her stomach.

A Cardinal of the Church served his king, it was true, but he also served the Holy Father. Mary would have to convince Wolsey that it was in the Church's best interest that she be told everything of her marriage to Renée and everything else she was being kept in the dark over. What were Anne's ties to Queen Mary and Princess Renée? Did she and Renée have children – or did she have children with anyone else? Was Kathryn Howard her mistress, or something more? And why was her father so healthy and…and so mild?

All too soon they rose from table. "With your permission, Father Prior," Anne said, "my ladies and I would like to spend some time in your lovely flower gardens. Will, were you going to…"

"I had hoped to accompany Cardinal Wolsey to the orchard Father Prior showed me earlier," she said, turning to the cardinal. "I understand Your Eminence takes a great interest in the planting of apples and cherries, and if I'm not mistaken I spotted a few apricots against the north wall as well – or did I, Father?"

"Indeed you did," the prior replied, bowing. "I wish you an enjoyable visit."

They set out toward the orchard. "I hope it's not too far for Your Eminence to go by foot," she said, holding her arm out to Wolsey.

"Not at all, Your Highness. I'm perfectly capable of walking; it's riding that tires me." He still took the arm, though, and out of the corner of her eye she could see Gregory – no, William – Cromwell hovering nearby.

They made their way past the flower garden and down a gentle winding path. "The prior told me the orchard is so remote he can confess his oldest monk in it without fear of being heard," she said as they neared the gate. "I must admit myself baffled by what such an elderly man could have to confess."

Wolsey chuckled. "An old man has the same desires as a young man, sir; he only lacks the means to carry them out."

"That may be true but…but forgive me; I lack the wit at the moment to jest. I am sorely afflicted, Eminence, and I can only beg for your help."

His hand tightened around her forearm. "No need to beg; I promise I will do what I can."

She steered them between the rows of apple trees, gesturing to young Cromwell to remain behind at the gate, and led Wolsey to the furthest bench. She expected he'd let go of her as soon as they sat but instead he drew her close and wrapped his free hand around hers and spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "Don't faint. Whatever I say, don't faint."

"I won't. Is the news that bad?"

But he didn't answer her question. "For ten years I've wondered what would happen if I died and there was nobody to replace me—"

Her mind spun with shock. Francis had said he'd been 'at sixes and sevens' ten years ago – after an accident…no, it couldn't be…

"—but God's sent you to carry the torch for me…hasn't he, Mary?" And he met her gaze.