A/N: When she gives Prince Henry 'a name', she does not say countess. At their next meeting, she informs him that she is in fact a commoner. Some scenes of the movie take place, involving these changed circumstances . . .

I'm not sure about the spelling of de Lancret. I saw this spelling in another fic and liked it, so here it is. I'm not being that big on accuracy, in case you couldn't tell...and I don't think Spenser was alive yet in this time...and I'm imposing John Locke onto Thomas More...so sue me.

"The only name I can give you is Nicole de Lancret."

De Lancret. A baroness? A countess? Duchess, marquise, viscountess? The lack of title made finding her that much harder. It could be a commoner's name, for all anyone—even his mother's hand maid, who's job it was to know everyone—knew of it, except that it had been a courtier who had given it to him. He mulled over this as he traipsed through the woods in attempts to reach another side of the pond. Signore da Vinci had fallen approximately—yes, there, and so would be coming to shore here, in a bit, and—

Who . . . ?

"My lady," he exclaimed, realizing that the drenched woman beside the signore was none other than the object of his thoughts.

Her eyes widened as she recognized him and she abruptly flopped down into the water. Henry strode into the pond to grab her hand, pulling her up. "Watch out," she admonished him, chagrined. "It's very slippery just . . . there."

Henry blinked, smiled, and removed his cloak. For a moment, he had thought Nicole—yes, he already called her that in his thoughts—beautiful, noble Nicole, had been trying to kneel to him. It was unnecessary, for someone of her station. Then again, her fresh face, her forward speech, reminded him of the country. She was, as she had said, visiting a cousin. She probably wasn't from around here; hadn't, he supposed, even been introduced at Court, which was why, he assumed, he didn't recognize her. He found her innocence refreshing.

Dripping, and shivering a little, Danielle was staring at the proffered cloak. Purple was a royal colour. What would he do if he knew he was offering such richness to a mere commoner? He had called her 'my lady'. She had not told him she was a courtier, but she had been dressed like one. She had given him her mother's name, so he wouldn't find her—and even though she had not said it was her own name, she had purposely misled him. And flat out, she had told him she was visiting a cousin, and she was certainly not doing anything of the sort. She shivered a little, and this time not from the cold. She had lied to him—to the Crown Prince of France.

Her eyes were blue and fiery. What, he wondered, had he done this time? Frustrated by the challenging way in which she was staring at him, Henry stepped forward—minding, with a silent chuckle, the spot she had said was slippery—and threw his cloak about her himself. He pushed his finger-tips into the small of her back, guiding her to the dry shore. Signore da Vinci was already forgotten for the moment.

Danielle shuddered a little again as she felt the heavy, soft cloak settle about her shoulders. It was warm, and she could smell him in it. And the five points of his fingers on her back were a deeper heat pressing into her, one she was not sure she liked. She had rarely felt so aware of anyone except her father, whose breathing she had always been able to distinguish with her eyes closed, whose moods she had been able to tell with just a glance, just a thought, just a feeling.

She watched as da Vinci went and made himself busy with his cart, muttering about leaving walking on water to those gifted with divinity. She felt deserted. He was a sharp old man, but had kind eyes, and the way he had spoken to her after he'd surprised her in the water—explaining the shoes, laughing, and teasing her about swimming, like a nymph in Spenser's poems—had set her at ease. Now she was again left floundering.

"Where are all your attendants?" the prince asked, peering into her eyes.

"I . . ." Danielle trailed off. She toyed with the idea of maintaining the charade, with the idea of claiming she was a noblewoman and that she had merely given her servants a day off. But what if he should see her again? How would she lie that time? And what if—heaven forbid—he should want to see her again? What should she do then?

Strangely, the thought did not only produce concern. Suddenly, she was toying with ideas of him seeking her out, and her welcoming him . . . Not because he was a prince. Not even because he was handsome—handsome? she thought, looking at him with surprise. Yes, she noticed for the first time, he was handsome. Handsome in a domineering, arrogant way, but his hands were large and—well, his hair looked thick and—and his eyes, well . . . were burning holes into her . . .

Danielle shook her head. At any rate, it wasn't because of all that that the idea of him wanting to see her again was so appealing. It was just that—well, he had read Thomas More. And despite his dismissal of Utopia, he had actually cared enough to read it, remember it, and understand it. And she so rarely got the chance for intelligent debate, to speak her mind, to . . .

He was looking at her oddly, those commanding gray eyes demanding her answer. "I don't have any attendants," she blurted out, and looked down.

"I can see that," he said, smiling slightly, reaching out to tug his cloak yet more firmly around her. "I'm asking where they are. Or don't you know?"

He was teasing her, she realized, and he wasn't going to understand. She sighed a little. She was risking her life—and quite possibly even Maurice's—to reveal that she was merely a commoner. But she did have a weapon—a good head on her shoulders, and a good tongue for argument. She felt pretty confident that she could get out of this without dire consequences. Royal pride, after all, did not like to be embarrassed. "I meant, my Lord," she said, tilting her head, "that I do not possess attendants. I never have, not since I was very young."

The prince looked sardonic for a moment. "Are you telling me—"

"You have mistaken me, my Lord. I am a mere commoner," she said simply, and this time, effected the proper obeisance without slipping down into mud and water.

Because she was on her knees and her head was bent, she did not see the walls slam down in his eyes. "What—?" he spluttered. "What is the meaning of this?" When Daniel remained bowed before him, he demanded, his voice almost petulant: "Stand up! Stand up and look at me." She was slow to obey. He was not used to not being obeyed promptly—even by courtiers.

When she at last lifted her head, he saw that her eyes were still blazing. "A commoner . . .?" he repeated stupidly, looking at her. She was, most certainly, the same woman who had stood before him the day before, in pearls, satin, and lace—the woman who had told him, roundly and sharply, that he—he! the Crown Prince of France!—was arrogant, the woman who had kept him awake more than half the night with thoughts of her eyes, her lips, her voice, but most of all her words.

She had told him, in effect, to open up his eyes. He had and he was looking right at her, not knowing what to think. And so he said the first thought that came to his mind: "Where did you get the garments of a courtier, then, and twenty francs to save . . . save that—who? Your fellow servant?" He was growing angrier by the minute; her presumption beginning to penetrate his consciousness. "Your father, your uncle—your husband?"

"Maurice is the steward of an estate, and the husband of the house keeper there," she replied, her voice low, and remarkably full of venom. "The dress belonged to my step-mother, so there was no illegality in borrowing it. The twenty francs, you will remember—"

"Were from me," he said slowly, in realization. And then his voice became hard, an accusation: "I remember. The apple," he spat, and brought a hand to his forehead in memory. It still hurt a little. She certainly had good aim, for such a pretty— Henry grit his teeth. His rage at having been so easily duped—upon being deceived, no less, was slow in coming through the shock, but now it was starting to hit full force. "Do you know you can be imprisoned for impersonation? For even looking me in the eye? These are crimes, my—"

He found that his voice had risen, and intense anger had made him unreasonable—he stopped just short of again giving her—a peasant-woman, apparently!—the title of 'my lady'. He shut his eyes for a moment and tried to regain his composure. It wasn't, he knew, that she had broken the laws of impersonation, or even that she had spoken directly to him, even though she was merely a commoner. He could care less about laws regarding servants, thieves, and anything to do with Thomas More; he was prince and he could talk to whom he pleased—and shut up whom he pleased, even his father. What truly made him angry was the embarrassment. She had quite simply fooled him into thinking she was of importance. What was more, he had been . . . attracted to her. She really had kept him up half the night. A commoner.

No wonder his father wanted him married to Spain as soon as possible.

"Madam," he began again, his voice low and harsh. "You try my patience. I should have you sent to the Americas for this."

"But you won't," came the steady reply. Startled, the prince was jerked out of his dark anger for enough moments to listen. Danielle had hoped it wouldn't come to this—it was, after all, almost a sort of black-mail, but there was no other choice. She had had to pretend to be a courtier to save Maurice, and it was the prince's own fault for having been fooled by her. He would have to accept the consequences of his actions. "Many people saw me beg for my friend's release. They saw me, and saw you help me. They also saw that we spoke directly, as if on somewhat equal terms. They also saw," she continued, looking away, "that you followed me and demanded my name." She swallowed a sigh as she looked at her dirty toes. "You would not want to embarrass the Royal name by having it revealed that you allowed a commoner, no less, to deceive you."

She had hit the nail on the head. It was the shame to his pride he could not stand, not the fact that she had broken any laws. "Who says I would have to reveal it? The Crown has it's ways, madam. I could have you shipped off to the Americas—even killed—with no one to know who you were or what you did. No one would ever know."

Danielle's jaw dropped a little, and she realized suddenly the danger of the situation. Here she was, trying to tell the Prince of France he couldn't touch her for fear of embarrassing the Crown, all the while forgetting the Prince was the Crown—and that he could do anything he wanted. She suddenly remembered More and his lamentations that a corrupt authoritarian made for a corrupt state, and that was the root of the problem with absolute monarchy. She realized in a moment of crystal clarity that More was really very right—and that suddenly, all his ideas applied to her more than they ever had.

And yet, the prince had not seemed like a corrupt man. She chanced a glance up, fear showing in her eyes, and saw fury blazing back at her.

Seeing the horror in her eyes, Henry stepped back a pace. He was, of course, only playing the devil's advocate. He wanted to scare her, wanted to get back at her for having made a fool of him—not kill her, nor even ship her off to the Americas. She had, after all, only tricked him to help save a friend, and that was worthy of reward, not punishment. He wished he could love enough, merely feel enough, to risk that kind of danger for another person. The deep damned truth of it was: he was jealous. He was jealous of a peasant girl for feeling more than he could. He had shut that feeling off, set his teeth, and determined that that would not get the better of this conversation.

And yet, now that he had indeed scared her, he realized it was not what he had wanted at all. There was something about those clear, liquid blue eyes blinking afraid of him that made his insides twist with a burning sensation that was anything but comfortable. She had faced him—twice, now, with conviction, and very little fear in the face of all his royal bluster. He had threatened her today and she had merely lifted her head and told him that he wouldn't do it, he couldn't—as if she wouldn't let him. Her argument had been faulty, but he had to admire her courage. Very few women—hell, very few men—would have stood up to someone of his position with such determination, such fire. Then again, very few people would risk their lives to save a servant, either.

He did not know what to think of that. His feelings confused him; he hated her for fooling him and for facing him with so little respect, and yet that warred with something very close to . . . admiration, in his heart. It reminded him very much of when Laurent would find him after his latest exploit. He was always determined to feel no shame in having run away, and yet his mother's dismay, his father's anger, and Laurent—the only role-model he really had—Laurent's disappointment, always made him feel guilty. At the same time he always wished he'd gotten away with it. In the end, he always just wanted to forget the whole ordeal, because it upset everyone so, and because in the end, it had done no good—he was still a failure.

In the same way, he wished he could just forget this—forget the beautiful courtier that had haunted him last night, forget this dripping woman standing before him, wearing his cloak. And for the love of God, he wished he could stop looking at her lips.

"You may go," he said idly, flicking his wrist.

Without either of them noticing, Signore da Vinci had approached them and was looking from one to the other with not a little understanding of the situation. "What, so soon? I thought the lady might want to try my flying contraption."

"I'm not a—"

"She's not a lady," Henry said harshly, sparing Danielle a glance, and wishing once again that he had never laid eyes on her.

"Surely you're not a man?" Leonardo ventured innocently, peering at Danielle. He straightened and regarded Henry reprovingly.

Danielle shrugged out of the cloak and extended it back to the prince. "Thank you, your highness," she said, bowing down once again. "I'm sorry you were under misapprehensions when you lent it to me. Good day to you both."

She was about to spin around when Henry caught her arm. She was still wet, and the warmth of him sank right through to her skin. For a moment, he actually considered asking her to stay, to forget the whole business. He wanted to pretend, for the space of the afternoon, that they were just people—just the two of them, just a man and a woman. He had never wanted to be a prince; he was always trying to escape it; what did it matter that she was a commoner? But it was no use. Suppose she was just as engaging, passionate, fascinating has she had seemed that day she saved her servant, or even as she seemed just now? What then? There could be nothing between them. For all his dreaming, he was a Prince, and always would be. It was better, in the end, to just pretend she didn't exist. "Here," he said, thrusting the still-warm and slightly damp cloak back into her arms. "You keep it."

"I never wanted your pity, my Lord." She pushed it back at him and turned away.

"Wait!" He took two steps toward her, but she was already crashing through the woods. It was, after all, hopeless.

Signore da Vinci looked at Henry with a frown. "You sure handled that one well, my boy. You let her get away."

Henry sighed, clutching the fabric in his hands. He contemplated putting it back on, but it was wet—and furthermore, it smelled of fresh water, of herbs and earth and a trace of cinder. It smelled of her, and he never wanted to smell that smell again. "Let's go," he told Signore da Vinci.

"Where?" Leonardo asked, again feigning cluelessness.

"Home."

"Yes, I knew that. As I said: where?"

Henry scowled. "What do you mean? Where else?"

"Home," da Vinci explained, lifting a brow, "is where the heart is. Already a cliché phrase, but very very true."

Henry scowled, and turned around, forging ahead along the path to the castle. Da Vinci shrugged, and followed along behind.