11 December, Year 32 of King Frederick V of Monrique's reign

Western Bordeux Dungeons, Bordeux

Monrique

A small sprig of ivy continues to revolve above them, slowly, constantly.

Tears are silently streaming down the Archery Mistress' cheeks. "There was so much blood. He was bleeding so much," she is shaken, "I...I could not believe what I had done." She sounds revolted with herself.

The Duchess stares at her. "Is he...is he dead?"

"I was told that he lives, but that he has yet to regain his consciousness," her voice wavers, "the Physicians are not entirely certain if he ever will." It breaks.

"It was not your fault, Harrington," her friend tells her gently, "you were only trying to defend yourself."

"I know, but..." she sniffles, "the fact remains that I hurt him, and I feel horrible about it. The Queen would not even let me see him once, for fear I would try again and succeed in killing him."

The Duchess frowns. "Did you not tell her it was an accident?"

"She does not believe me."

"Because she already despises you from before?" her lips thin into an angry line.

"Aye, I think so," the Archery Mistress agrees, grieved, "but you must think about it from her perspective as well. I reached Amöneburg Palace that night, dragging a barely conscious Natalya and her completely unconscious son, with my dagger plunged into his side. Anyone in her place would have assumed the worst."

"I understand, but she still should have given you a chance to at least explain," the Duchess scowls, "did the Emperor not try to stop her from arresting you?"

"His Imperial Majesty may be an Emperor, but he is not my Emperor," she answers quietly, "he cannot stop a sovereign from doing what she wants with her subject. However, he can arrest the Pleasure Housekeeper and her men for attacking and injuring members of the royal family - and he did just that."

The Duchess nods. The pair grow lost in their thoughts, each taking a different direction. While the Archery Mistress dwells upon the love she was forced to leave behind in Amöneburg, the Duchess had other concerns.

"Who is Derik?"

The Archery Mistress blinks. "Pardon?"

"You mentioned Dela thought that someone named Derik had entered the room when you confronted them," she replies, musing, "who is this Derik? Why were Prince Richard and Dela expecting him?"

"I do not know," her friend shakes her head, "one of the many, many things that I do not know. Hell, I do not even know for certain if he and Dela were sleeping together in the first place."

"You believe Dela," the Duchess observes.

"I do," she admits, "but it means nothing. Richard, that fucking idiot, has made such a mess of things that I am more confused now than I was before I went there to confront him."

She remains silent for a moment, before shaking her head. "Even now, I still cannot understand what he wants," she blows a breath through her lips, "by God, I am so tired of it all."

The Duchess pats her knee. "I suppose you will have to make peace with your past without your answers, then, Harrington."

"For what?" her friend laughs humourlessly.

The Duchess is taken aback by the pain in her voice. "So that you can look towards your future with the Emperor, of course, like Princess Natalya said," she frowns, "you are in love with each other, are you not?"

"Aye, but..."

"But?" she raises an eyebrow.

The Archery Mistress sighs. "You, of all people, know that there is no future in imprisonment," she gestures to their surroundings, "the punishment for murder is a beheading, or at the very least, a few years in the dungeons. Even if I live, I cannot...I cannot ask him to wait for me."

"He may choose to wait, regardless," the Duchess suggests softly.

Her friend wipes away her tears. "He is an Emperor," she reminds her, "and he may have no choice but to end up marrying Lady Madeleine, as decided by his mother and Queen Eleanor. Our sovereigns are hell bent on a marriage, any marriage, between the two royal houses – and the Longbournian Nations covet that maritime trade deal with us too much to sacrifice it, simply because he is in love with me."

The Duchess smiles. "I would not be so sure about that if I were you."

"Why not?"

"For one, Lady Madeleine is still imprisoned somewhere here, like the rest of the eighteen heiresses who signed the petition. Unless he intends to spend his life with her in these dungeons, I do not see a wedding in the near future," she shrugs, "and secondly, if our Crown Council does not legalise the petition, Monrique will lose Roche – and Guillame Port with it. I have already made sure of that."

Her eyes harden. "The Longbournian Nations will be stupid to pursue this alliance now," she assures her, "especially when the fate of the ownership of the port is so uncertain. And from what you tell me, I do not think Emperor Sebastian is a stupid man."

The Archery Mistress remains silent for a few moments.

"You have a point," she eventually concedes, "but I have to admit, threatening the King and his Crown Council with independence was rather daring of you. Do you truly think you can win this gamble?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you have taken an enormous risk," she puts it bluntly, "but then again, there is little else you could have done, if the King is being as ridiculous as you say he is."

"He is utterly blinded," the Duchess closes her eyes, "he threw all eighteen of the heiresses into the dungeons, simply for supporting me - and even the Council did not say a word to stop him."

The Archery Mistress gasps. "But a good number of them are their own daughters!"

Her friend spreads her hands helplessly.

"They deserve what is coming to them, then. Once they lose Guillame Port, all their pockets and treasuries will be significantly lighter," the Archery Mistress mutters grimly, "what do you think is happening this very moment?"

"Let us see," the Duchess begins slowly, "by this time, no doubt His Majesty would have sent his scouts down to the south to check if I was being serious about my threat."

"When they reach Guillame Bridge, they will see three thousand Corporals camped out at the border, armed with every kind of weapon at their disposal. They will be led by all eleven Earls of Roche – including Ned, who is serving as regent for Tommy," she continues to describe, "a further two thousand men will be armed within their homes, ready to join the army officers and the Earls at a moment's notice if necessary."

"The King's scouts will then ride back to Bordeux to inform him of the situation, which will take another two days," she predicts, "leaving the King and the Crown Council with one day to make their decision about the petition – and two days to send someone down to Roche to relay the news."

"If the decision is still not in our favour, well, Guillame Bridge will burn. I did not make empty threats, you know," she holds the Archery's Mistress' gaze, "but I do not think it will reach that point. His Majesty values Guillame Port too dearly, even more than his pride, to let it go."

"The King can still send down Corporals to try and suppress the men you have managed to gather," the Archery Mistress points out in concern.

"The rest of the south will join us if it comes to that," the Duchess assures her solemnly, "they have been waiting for this chance since the day the government changed the taxing ratio. If the south stands as one, the King's army from Bordeux will be no match for us. We have the upper hand in numbers, and in our knowledge of our lands."

"That is true," her friend concedes, before sighing, "I am still worried, though. Papa has not been to war in a very long time."

She scoots closer to the Duchess, wincing as she does so, and rests her forehead against her shoulders. The Duchess swallows in dread, as she leans her cheek against the top of her head.

"I am truly, truly hoping it does not come to that. Unfortunately, things have not been going our way lately, and I can make no promises," she replies quietly, "for all it is worth, though, I am sorry for all the trouble I am putting you and your family through, Harrington."

"You are all fighting for our future daughters, sisters, nieces, granddaughters," the Archery Mistress murmurs, "for a better future for them. Why are you sorry for that? If they let me out of here, I will ride straight down to Roche and join our men."

"Me too," she agrees, "but mayhap after making sure that Jules has been delivered safely."

She adds, suddenly remembering. Her earlier fear, before the Archery Mistress was brought in, now returns with its full force, laying siege to her heart.

The Archery Mistress tenses. "Is she still in labour?"

The Duchess nods. "I could hear her scream all the way from her chambers on the day I was brought here, you know," she whispers, "for hours, and hours...and slowly, they faded away. It is nearing two days now, and I have not heard her voice, or the church bells ringing for the birth of a royal child."

"She and her baby will both be all right," the Archery Mistress tells her fiercely, gripping her hand, "we must keep faith."

The Duchess squeezes her hand back. Silence falls between them both again, as they return to their thoughts. It begins to gnaw at the Archery Mistress, and desperate to keep her mind away from the recent events in her life, tries to strike up a conversation again.

She clears her throat. "De Beauharnais?"

"Yes?"

"Are you truly going to let Ned go?" she asks hesitantly.

The Duchess stills. She has been asked, and has asked herself this question, too many times to be truly startled anymore.

"Aye," her voice is soft, "if he is happy with Evie, and wants to spend the rest of his life with her – well, who am I to interfere? He knows how I feel about him, and he knows...he knows how hard I am trying to move on. I do not want to sabotage their future in any way, like I tried to with Nick and Jules."

"But does it not hurt?" her friend whispers.

The genuine concern in her voice stings her eyes. "Of course it does," she admits, "but I cannot...I cannot give in to the pain. I have a future, my people, to think about. I – "

Just then, they hear footsteps approach. They fall silent at once, tensing.

The Duchess notes that, unlike the synchronised thunder of the army boots, these footsteps sound lighter, more hurried. She is quick to deduce that whoever is coming, is not part of the army – and is thus not authorised to come here.

She rises to her feet, gesturing at the injured Archery Mistress to remain seated. She carefully advances towards the door, tensing, and keeps her gaze trained on it.

A key is jammed into the keyhole. There are a lot of creaking and jiggling, before the door is gently opened.

Both the Duchess and the Archery Mistress cover their faces with their hands on instinct, as the sudden light from the candles outside shines straight into their eyes.

The Duchess spreads her fingers a little at a time to allow small rays of light at a time to enter her eyes. When she is accustomed to the brightness, she peels her hands away from her face to look at the newcomer.

On the threshold stands Lady Evangeline of Warwick, her goblin green eyes rimmed red with exhaustion, and her cream gown stained with dried blood.