Author's Note: I do not own Reign or the characters therein. Also, just so you're all aware, I'm not usually one to write multi-chaptered stories. That being said, this idea has been plaguing me for days and I'm going to give it a shot.

Night One, or, Planning and Playacting

His mind was still reeling. As if his mother's murderous and treasonous legitimization attempt wasn't enough, now he found himself a willing companion to the Queen of Scotland as she ran away from his brother on their wedding day. The gravity of the situation hits him like a ton of bricks every now and then, and it is only his strong will to live that keeps him seated on his horse when panic knocks the air out of his lungs. He is willing to die for Mary's sake, and he's proven this much already, but the idea of facing his father's wrath and Francis' combined does not strike him with anything remotely close to comfort.

His plan had been to remain inconspicuous, to lay low and wait for his mother to smooth things over with his father. But that was before Mary. Now they will surely be pursued, for the King will not willingly lose England, nor will his brother willing let his fiancee go. Two sets of tracks for them to follow. He won't be able to run as far or as fast now. Trying to calculate the logistics of traveling with a conspicuously lovely, undoubtedly delicate, and obscenely rich girl while trying to lay low make his head ache.

Though, looking back on their day, it wasn't as though traveling with her was much of a hardship; she was strong and capable and had determination to make up when her endurance failed her. He'd rode them hard, covering as much ground as possible, knowing that it could mean the difference between life and death later on, and she'd not said a word in protest. In fact, she had been uncharacteristically silent the whole day, her mouth set in a grim line, spurring her horse ahead of him the two times he'd tried to ask her questions.

These questions are what makes his mind spin the most. Was she alright? Why hadn't she turned back when his brother called after her so desperately? Had Francis done something? Was this grief over the death of her friend? Anger? Fear? What was her plan? Was she alright? And on and on, always circling back to whether or not she was alright. And she'd not volunteered any information, not yet.

On the bright side, she hadn't asked what he was running from either. Guilt over his mother's attempt to orchestrate the death of his brothers he could deal with, but Francis had given him a quick summary as to what had happened to Mary when Count Vincent had paid his visit to the castle. He felt sick knowing that his mother had been behind the plot that had forced Mary to be the sacrificial lamb in order to save the castle inhabitants. Lately, his dreams have run wild with the sparse details Francis had shared with him about Mary nearly being raped, about how she'd killed a man with a piece of Italian cutlery. The guilt that she endured these things in order to advance his claim to the French throne is enough to cripple him in his nightmares and in his waking hours alike. He is grateful that he doesn't have to explain his need to flee just yet.

In the midst of these thoughts, he has come up with a plan of sorts. Everyone at Court knew of his mother's connections in Paris, and would naturally suspect him to go there first. His plan is to make as if heading to Paris, and cut back towards Orleans, throwing anyone who might try to find him off the scent. They have stuck to the main roads all day, and when they stop in the prominent town of Evry, he is pleased to see that there is only one inn, makes a show of parading Mary and her bright red cloak down the main avenue to it, pays the stable boy handsomely to look after their horses. He requests the best rooms in the house and orders for a small feast to be prepared just as soon as he and his companion have had a chance to refresh themselves.

Mary doesn't say a word as she follows him through these charades, though he catches her looking incredulous on more than one occasion. He makes a show of leaving her in her room, sheds his cloak and sword in his own, and then quietly makes his way back to hers. He chooses to cross the balustrades that divides her small terrace from his rather than be seen in the hallway.

She has barely had time to remove her cloak when he appears at her window, but he notes, with some amusement, that her riding boots are haphazardly strewn in two different locations across the room. She gives a small shriek of indignation as he slips through her window, but he has crossed the room and pressed a hand over her mouth before she can say a word.

"We need to get our story straight and quickly. I'm going to take my hand off your mouth and we're going to speak very quietly, agreed?" She nods, her eyes very wide. He lifts his hand and leads her to sit on the edge of her bed.

"I don't know why you've chosen to leave Court, but you should know that leaving with me is going to put us both in a bad situation if we're caught."

"Yes, I have had time to consider that. You have no responsibility for me, Bash. You can leave me wherever and whenever you wish. I'll go tonight if you wish."

"No. No matter the danger to me, it would be far more dangerous for a rich, beautiful girl to wander to countryside on her own. I won't allow it. I just need you to understand the risk. Your leaving with me like this, on the day of your wedding...If we're caught I'll likely be hung for treason. You could lose your crown, even be killed with me."

"Bash, I'm so sorry-"

"I have a plan to keep us from being caught, and I think it will work, but I need to know what you intend to do. Should I assume you intend to return to Scotland?"

"I suppose so, yes."

"And the sooner the better, am I right?" She nods and he continues, his mind racing ahead of them, "The closest port town is Calais and they will expect you to go there, no doubt. I may be able to buy us some time by laying a false path for them to follow to Paris. We will have to ride long and hard to get to Calais before my father's men do. It won't be easy and it will likely be very uncomfortable and very dangerous. I have to know, Mary, is whatever you're running from worth this? Are you prepared to do whatever is necessary to get to Scotland?"

She is silent for a moment, then raises her gaze to meet his. "I am. I can never go back to the French court. To do so would mean Francis' death." Her voice is choked with tears, but it is firm and steady, and a grim fire of determination lights her eyes.

"You will have to explain that to me, but not now."

"What now then?"

"Now, we have to go downstairs, eat to excess, act very happy and very much in love, and be very vocal about our plans to leave for Paris in the morning."

"Very much in love?"

"My father, Francis, everyone at Court, will suspect that we have run off to be together. For the time being, that will work in our favor. When we leave this place tomorrow, I want the whole town abuzz with gossip about us."

She nods slowly, her eyes wide. He rises and makes his way to the window. "I'll come back in ten minutes to escort you downstairs?"

"Bash, wait."

He pauses with one leg over the sill "Yes?"

"I never asked you what made you leave, why you are running."

He grimaces at the window frame as he considers that he has traded one deadly problem for another by taking on Mary as a travel companion. But he cannot bring himself to tell her about his mother's ill-advised schemes.

"It doesn't matter now." And without any further explanation, he's out her window and over the balustrade.