A/N: Part two! Also, important note: Huguenots were the name for French Protestants in the sixteenth century, and faced some of the worst persecution under King Henry at the time. Also, I apologize in advance for my portrayal of them, to anyone who might be offended, though I suppose they can't be portrayed any worse than they were in the show.

They were going to eat the deer that Francis and Bash had caught.

Francis, for some reason, found himself more angry over this than the fact that these men had kidnapped them, though certainly not as angry as he felt over Bash's harsh treatment thus far, despite his injury, and managed to convey his anger quite well in the glare he levelled at these criminals while they started their fire in a small clearing not far from where Francis and Bash had been.

They bound Francis and the squire to two close trees and cast the injured Bash down beside them on the ground, hands tied behind his back, before setting up their camp, and had not acknowledged the hostages since, despite Francis' frequent threats.

Though the men did their best to ignore him, perhaps finding the glare more amusing than disturbing, as they gutted and skinned the deer and prepared it for their evening meal, not once glancing in Bash's direction, as if, by ignoring him, they were ensuring he would not wake up for them to have to deal with.

Bash. He glanced over at his brother, thrown bodily to the ground once the band of thieves had made their camp here, and left there, seemingly without another thought, as Francis and Bash's squire were tied down and jeered at.

Bash had not yet woken, and Francis was growing worried.

Worried that Bash might not wake again.

But that was ridiculous; the wound, bloody though it was, had been to his thigh, not his head, so he should wake up.

He had to.

"It'll be all right," the squire whispered to Francis then, as if reading his thoughts. "The King and Queen will notice that you're missing, and come looking for us."

Francis swallowed, but didn't get the chance to answer before one of their guards - a man with the brand of a traitor across the right side of his face - glared at them and snapped for the squire to be silent.

Bash's squire did not speak again.

Francis was almost glad of it, for he didn't know what he would have said in any case.

Francis felt his stomach growl sometime toward the end of the thieves' meal, though his mouth had begun to water long ago, and he let out a huff of irritation, focusing on Bash. Though there were limits to what he could do, considering that he was tied to a tree, but Francis managed to position himself as close to Bash as he was able, letting his brother's head fall on his shoulder, and thinking up scenarios of escape.

Bash was always a much better thinker when he was under pressure, though Francis had been known to get them out of almost as many scrapes.

When Bash finally woke, it was nearing evening, the men already making short work of the deer, though, Francis noted with some annoyance, they never offered any of the meal that Francis had helped catch, not them, to their prisoners.

Bash let out a low groan, careful not to move and aggravate his injuries, or, perhaps, careful not to let their kidnappers know he was awake, but, if that was the case, his effort was wasted when Francis jumped, scooting over to his brother - and dragging the squire along with him.

"Bash!" he cried out, though he had the presence of mind to do so quietly.

Bash let out another groan at the sound, as though Francis had screamed it, and then sat up slowly, lifting his head and glancing about with hooded eyes.

There had been some part of Francis, unrecognized until now, that was terrified Bash would not wake up, and now that he was awake, Francis resented the bonds tying him even more, that he could not jump up and hug his brother.

Bash glanced at him, gave Francis a weak smile before silently observing their surroundings, like a solider, Francis couldn't help but think, and then he felt a bit ashamed that he himself had not done the same thing when they arrived here beyond the cursory glance.

Then Bash winced, hissing in a deep breath and glancing down at his wounded leg.

Francis followed his gaze.

It looked even worse in the light of the clearing, despite it now being almost dark, than it had before, when Bash had gotten the wound. And it was larger than Francis thought it was, too; a gash about the size of his fist, and distinctly shaped like that of a wolf's front teeth.

"It's all right," Francis attempted to reassure Bash, and knew from the look in Bash's eyes that he was failing miserably. "It isn't that bad, and surely someone will come looking soon," he repeated the squire's words, noticing that they sounded even less reassuring from his lips.

Bash glanced up through pain-lidded eyes at Francis, and attempted a smile. "Yeah," he said finally, face strained from the pain he must be in, "You're right, I'm sure."

"I can't believe they think you're the Dauphin," Francis whispered out of the corner of his mouth to Bash, when he was sure the Huguenots would not overhear the words, distracted as they were by their drinking game about the fire. Bash paled at the words, as if he'd just remembered them himself, exchanging a worried look with his squire, who seemed to realize something in that moment that Francis did not, before turning to face Francis full on.

He looked scared, and Francis couldn't understand why.

"Francis...promise me you won't say anything," he hissed, and the intensity in his voice kept Francis from replying with the sarcasm he would have otherwise. "Let them keep thinking that."

Francis blinked at him, bemused. "But...why does it matter?" he asked finally. "I mean..."

Before Bash could answer, one of the Huguenots, noticing that Bash was now awake, stepped away from the fire around which they were all gathered, talking in low tones, and moved toward them, a bowl in one hand and Bash's hunting knife strapped to his belt.

Bash eyed the knife covetously, not meeting Francis' eyes now and focusing all of his attention on it as their captor moved forward.

"Eat," the man snapped once he was to them, shoving the bowl of food toward Bash only, and Francis glared rather jealously at it, as his own hands were still bound, and more so when Bash simply set the bowl aside and regarded their captor as though he were a puzzle Bash was trying to figure out.

"My father will pay-" Bash began, but the man cut him off before he could offer the bribe, and Francis wondered if this was because he knew his men might be tempted by it while he did not want it, or if he simply didn't care.

Madmen usually didn't.

"We're not going to be takin' you back to yer father for a ransom, brat," the man said, practically leering now, and Francis had to resist the urge to move closer to Bash instinctively, like a much younger child. "We've no use for Catholic gold."

Francis flinched at the way the man spoke the word, almost as though it were a slur. "You're Huguenots," he breathed in a mixture of disgust and curiosity, for he'd never met one before, and the thief smirked at him.

"So the bastard does have a tongue, after all," he smirked, and Francis found himself glaring, yet again.

"Indeed we are, little bastard, and it's long past time us Huguenots had a chance to express ourselves to His Majesty." A slow, cruel smile curved his face. "Since he doesn't seem to listen to anything else, we've been thinking 'e might listen to his own sons."

"If you harm us my father will see you hanged," Bash promised, sounding far braver than Francis.

"He'd have to catch us first. By the time he finds you...well, we'll be long gone."

Francis stiffened at those words, for it was the first time the thief's earlier words had sunken in, the first time he'd believed them. We've no use for Catholic gold. They weren't being held for ransom. These men didn't want a Catholic King's pardon, or his blood money.

"You're going to kill us," he breathed out, and, from the lack of surprise on Bash's face when he did so, realized with horror that Bash had likely come to this conclusion some time ago.

"Oh, I've got not'in against you, little bastard. Leastways, not yet. Your father's the one we hate. It's him and his ilk what did this to me," he lifted up the branded arm, "and killed my son."

Francis just stared at him, not feeling particularly sympathetic.

"And one day," now his attention was on Bash, as if he'd forgotten Francis was even there, "when you grow up and take yer father's throne, you'll see to it that the same thing happens. You'll be the same as him," said the thief, and suddenly Francis understood, with stunning, horrible clarity, why Bash had not corrected them when the men assumed he was the Dauphin, and not Francis. "And now we've the chance to ensure that doesn't happen."

He was protecting Francis. Again.

Just as he had, without a thought, by throwing himself in front of the wolf to get Francis to safety.

God, Francis could happily kill him at that moment. Providing, of course, that the Huguenots did not do the deed for him first.

"Why?" Francis asked then, and Bash actually rolled his eyes, looking like he was about to snap at Francis, rather than their captors.

The men, however, seemed to take pleasure in Francis' curiosity. "Because, little bastard, we're Huguenots, and yer father is a Catholic King. He'd see us all hung simply because we find fault in his worshipping, when he spends the rest of his time whoring and killing innocents."

Bash raised a brow, unable to keep up his façade of disinterest by that point. "Says a thief who leads a band of murderers and thieves into the King's Forest," he quipped, earning a glare.

"I'd'a not had t' murder if yer father's men hadn't made it illegal to worship in our churches, and sent in his guards to kill my wife and son."

Francis blanched.

Bash, however, was unmoved. "Killing me won't solve anything," Bash pointed out in a surprisingly reasonable tone. "I have brothers."

The man snorted. "Indeed. A bastard and a couple of children long from the throne. But killing you will send a message, and there are just as many noble Huguenots as peasants."

"Isn't it against your beliefs to kill anyone, much less a child?" Francis burst out then, and the band of thieves turned to him as one, as though they'd forgotten he was even there.

He wasn't certain on that score at first, as he knew next to nothing about Huguenots other than that, under his father's reign and King Francis I's before him, they practiced heresy, a crime guilty of death, but then the other man reacted, and he had his answer.

For a moment, a look of regret passed over their leader's face, before it quickly washed away. "That doesn't matter now. This is for the good of all our people."

Bash noted his hesitation, and leapt on it. "At least let my father's bastard go," he pleaded, eyes wide and, for the first time, looking truly frightened. "He's no threat to you. He's an innocent in all this."

"No!" Francis shouted, before he could stop himself. As much as he didn't want to die, he wasn't about to let Bash die for him.

"Quiet you!" the man snapped, reaching out with terrifying speed and smacking Bash, rather than Francis, across the face. Francis flinched in sympathy, wondering why he'd been ignored, and then realizing it was not Francis' outburst that this man was angry with. "Enough talk then." And then he was stepping away, and Francis and Bash exchanged confused looks.

"Aren't you going to kill us?" Bash demanded then, and Francis resisted the urge to kick him for reminding the man, even if he was certain the Huguenot had never forgotten.

The man gave Bash a sickly smile. "In the morning, Your Highness. We men wish to reward you with the same death your King would give us, to make fair."

Francis tasted blood on his lower lip, but didn't dare ease his teeth up. He and Bash exchanged another look then, this one far different from the last, for there was no confusion in it.

And then Francis saw the silver hunting knife, the one that Bash had brought on their hunting trip and which had been taken away by the Huguenot's leader, glinting between Bash's cupped fingers.

Suddenly, the reason behind Bash's stalling, his attempt to draw the Huguenots into conversation despite the fact that they had nothing to say he didn't seem to already know, made perfect sense. And, while Francis still didn't understand how Bash had managed to sneak back the weapon, he was rather proud of his brother for doing so, and annoyed with himself for not thinking to.

Francis awoke from his light doze - he had always been a light sleeper, provided he wasn't ill - to the sound of a rope being cut through, very close to his skin. He yelped, sitting up straight and leaning away from the rough edge of the knife before he even registered his surroundings, and then he blinked awake.

Bash was leaning across behind him, the dull edge of the blade pressing into Francis' side as Bash attempted to free his squire.

It was the only sound in the Huguenots' camp, besides their own snoring, the crackling fire, and the occasional call of an owl, far away, and Francis was terrified that at any moment someone would wake and see what they were doing. He straightened his back, giving Bash more room to work.

As he did so, his eyes moved unconsciously toward the dying embers of the fire, and he shivered, though it was not a particularly cold night.

He'd seen someone burned at the stake before, just outside the palace walls when he was ten years old, though his mother had quickly whisked him away when she caught him watching. An old woman, accused of witchcraft. She'd screamed for half an hour before the flames finally took her.

"We men wish to reward you with the same death your king would give us, to make fair."

He was slightly annoyed, in a selfish, fearful sort of way, that Bash was freeing his squire before his own brother, but he supposed that he'd been asleep, while the poor squire had not.

Bash did not waste a moment. The second the squire's bonds snapped free, he was leaning back, against Francis' shoulder as he worked at Francis' own bonds.

"Go! Get out of here, and don't wake them up," Bash snapped at the squire, unnecessarily loud in Francis' opinion, who had stood to his feet and was glancing between them and the safety of the woods, however safe it might be when there were still wolves present, longingly.

The squire did not need telling twice. He jumped to his feet, not sparing Francis and Bash a moment's glance before taking off into the woods, surprisingly silent, considering the look of fear on his face.

Then Francis' bonds were free, and Bash was pushing him silently to his feet.

Francis gulped, his next words whispered with far more bravado than he felt as he glanced from Bash back to their sleeping captors. "I'm not leaving until you do, Bash. Here; I'll untie you." He glanced down at Bash's legs, once again thinking it cruel that the men had tied his injured legs together, even if Bash had managed to untie his hands with little difficulty and would likely be able to do the same with his legs.

"No!" Bash cried out, and Francis blinked in surprise at the vehemence in his voice, glancing back at their captors to be sure the words had not woken them. Bash's expression softened. "No, that's fine. I'll get it. I want to..." he gestured back toward the men, and, at Francis' confused look, went on, "They took your bow. I'll get it back for you, too."

Francis snorted. "Then I'll wait for you. Or I should get it, since I'm not injured and it is my bow." He glanced sympathetically down at Bash's leg, the bloody wound having stained the other boy's trousers at the thigh almost beyond recognition, and he was suddenly afraid that, by the time they returned to the palace, it would have to be removed.

It was festering in the moonlight, ugly and yellow and red, and yet Bash seemed to be in far less pain now than he'd been earlier.

Bash shook his head stubbornly. "Too dangerous. One of us needs a weapon, and you'll do us no good if you stay behind and get yourself caught. I'm the better fighter."

Francis frowned in annoyance. "Says who?"

Bash let out a sigh. "Francis...I'll...I'll catch up with you later," Bash promised, though Francis could hear the weak tremor in his voice. "I'll just slow you down now, and if you and my squire make it back to the palace, you can make sure I'm rescued properly. Besides, there's something I have to do first."

Francis blinked at that, having thought until this moment that Bash was simply tricking him into leaving, when he himself was too injured to do so. He would have said that he wasn't foolish enough to fall for that, not with the threat of the Huguenots killing Bash, had he not heard the rest of what Bash had said. Francis glanced back at their sleeping captors, and he shivered as he thought of the dead wolf, it's blood almost as messy as the blood from Bash's wound.

"I'm not leaving you," Francis insisted stubbornly, and Bash swore under his breath. "I'll help you." He wasn't so certain he wanted to offer that.

He'd never killed another person before. Hunting animals through the woods seemed a far different exploit, one far less...evil when he thought of it, no matter the reasons behind it.

One of the men let out a loud snore, and turned over in his sleep, causing both boys to freeze where they were.

"Francis, go!" Bash snapped, but Francis stubbornly stood his ground.

"You're injured," he pointed out, unnecessarily. "How are you supposed to come after us by yourself on that leg?"

"Francis, please," Bash begged, and it was so little that Bash ever begged anything of Francis, looking as frightened as he did now, that Francis almost relented, almost did as Bash asked of him.

But he didn't.

Because, no matter what Bash wanted, no matter how much safer Francis might be if he attempted to run off, as the squire had, since these men had no more interest in what they assumed to be the King's bastard than they did in his son's squire, no matter if he might be able to find the help the squire clearly hadn't, Francis could not leave his brother here any more than Bash could leave him to the wolf.

And, after a hopeful moment, Bash seemed to read this answer in Francis' eyes, for he wilted visibly, despite the darkness of the night.

"Not to break up this tender moment," a voice drawled behind Francis, and he stiffened, "but I think it's high time we stopped waiting and did what we came to do. Be a mercy, anyway."

Francis supposed they shouldn't have stopped whispering.