And finally, an ending. An actual ending, for real. Thanks to everyone that's stuck around long enough to get this far, it really is appreciated. That said, I rather like getting feedback, so a nice review letting me know what needs improving and what you liked would be nice. Also, I'm sorry everything is so rushed - when I was writing it the pacing didn't seem so weird, but whilst posting I've become acutely aware of how quickly everything happens. It's less than ideal, and I should've spent more time on it, really. But it's a lesson learned, so it's not all bad. Anyways, incoherent ramblings aside, I present to you the final chapter in three, two, one...

~The Price of Love~

Four years on and Kate was back in the tournament circuit – more for want of something to do than any real need for trade. Adhemar's money seemed to never end, but she tired all to quickly of not working, and so for a while had set up shop in Scotland, living with her niece. As she'd expected, she barely had any work beyond shoeing horses, but anything was better than sitting around doing nothing all day.

She didn't allow herself to think of Adhemar beyond the odd thanks, but he came to her in her dreams regardless, as did her friends. She hadn't seen them since the day they'd set out, and pride had stopped her seeking them out again. She had been so confident, so sure of herself. To go back now would be humiliating. Of course they would accept her again – of that she had no doubt – but therein lay the problem. Who was she to receive such kindness, such unconditional friendship, when she had so readily abandoned them at the first opportunity?

So she remained in Scotland, catching snippets of gossip from customers as she worked. Tales of a great writer, currently penning his masterpiece. Rumours of a peasant knight and his ragtag band – whilst the Black Prince had given him a title, it seemed Will was still facing animosity from the upper classes, though his marriage to Lady Jocelyn hushed them somewhat. His peasant supporters continued to grow however, charmed by the idea of one of their own rising up to glory.

She heard nothing of Adhemar.

Though she loved Scotland and always would, she found herself struck by wanderlust, feet itching to simply walk out of the cottage and never stop. On a whim she packed her things and took them with her to Edinburgh when the next job called, and as soon as someone mentioned the tournament circuit she bought a horse and cart and never looked back, stopping only to write a letter to her niece explaining that the cottage was now hers.

It took ten days to catch up with the circuit, and once there it was like she had never left. So easily did she fall back into the routine, relishing in living with everything already packed, waiting for that moment when it was time to move on. Word had since gotten round that it had been a Scotswoman that had forged Sir William's armour, and she soon found herself accepting repairs and replacements. They still didn't trust her with a full suit, of course, but it was a start. The sudden influx of work meant she could save what remained of Adhemar's commission, and money put by never failed to ease the mind. Her stall became a showroom of sorts as everyone crowded round to watch a woman at work, and she suspected that most of her customers had come to her more for the novelty than anything else, but money was money, even if it meant being gawped at all day.

When she caught sight of the three phoenixes that made up Will's crest, she resisted the urge to bolt, the longing to see her friends overcoming her pride and self-loathing. It didn't take long for them to find her – she'd become well-known among the participants, and she soon found herself seeing faces she'd almost forgotten in the four years of their separation. There was stunned silence, and then an eruption of noise as everyone spoke at once, clamouring to be heard over each other. It was enough to put her off-balance, and as they surged forward to envelop her in their embrace she was knocked from her feet, bringing everyone down with her. Even Geoff was there, smiling fondly. She wanted to cry.

The next three days were a blur of alcohol and questions – Where have you been? How did things go with that scumbag? How many grapes can Watt fit in his mouth? Why didn't you come find us? Honestly Will, what would Jocelyn think if she caught you? - and she realised bit by bit that she had been a fool to avoid them this long.

For a while, things were wonderful. She chose to stay with the circuit, meeting up with her friends when work permitted, and travelled all over Europe. As the end of the tournament season loomed near, she found herself wondering where she'd go next. Naturally they'd offered to take her with them, but she wasn't ready for that, not yet. She could take care of herself – thanks to her savings, she had more than enough to get her through winter even if there was no work. Perhaps she'd travel?

The peace couldn't last forever, though, and when Will broke his arm, Jocelyn insisted that he drop out. Kate was amazed that anything could separate that boy from his lance, but Jocelyn had a core of steel beneath her courtly manners, and would not be argued with.

And so it was alone she travelled to France. She ignored the way her heart ached when she saw the coat of arms that announced Adhemar's participation. The temptation to flee was almost overwhelming, but she convinced herself that she wouldn't be able to afford backing out just yet, and so she held her ground.

But he never showed.

For the month she was there she saw neither hide nor hair of him, only hearing of his progress through the ranks from her customers. Won every match, of course, but the news was tinged with surprise – it was the first time he'd jousted since his defeat in London four years ago. Not only that, but he was no longer wearing his customary black armour, but something new and ridiculously lightweight, with the most strangest symbol engraved on the breastplate; like the flick of an artist's brush.

She felt pride in a job well done – the armour was turning blows that would have obliterated the normal suits – but also more than a little hurt. She knew that her name had been tossed about, after all how often does one see a woman wielding hammers bigger than a grown man's fist? Yet still he remained absent. Then again, she had refused him. Perhaps after their last encounter, that had been the end of that in his mind, and he'd gone off to find another woman to chase. Even as she thought it she felt disgusted with herself. What right did she have to him, she who had turned him away when he had been at his most vulnerable? She remembered how open and unguarded he had been, and the wound was as fresh as ever.

At the end of the week, the winners were announced – Adhemar, of course, among them – and she resigned herself to never seeing him again. She prodded absently at the coal, contemplating what to do over winter and completely failing to hear the footsteps of someone approaching.

"You know, I have heard of the most remarkable thing. A woman blacksmith, of all things."

She whirled round in shock, eyes wide and heart in her throat. He seemed older, more tired, but just as striking as before. In his hands he held a large bundle of oiled cloth. Smiled crookedly, he leant against the workbench, gazing into the red glow of the embers.

"What is strange, however, is that I paid her a king's ransom for my armour, and yet here she is, working in a stall that, if I'm not mistaken, is even smaller than the one she had before." He raised his eyes to meet hers, and at that moment her heart stopped. "Why is that, do you think?"

It was all she could do to stay breathing, never mind talk, but somehow she managed to put together a reply. "Got bored."

"Of course. Perhaps fortune smiles upon me at last, then." Placing the bundle on the table, he unwraps it to reveal his breastplate, pristine but for the large dent. "I've discovered," he said wryly, "that whilst custom armour may indeed be superior, often it is only the maker that knows how to repair it. You blacksmiths are an awfully secretive lot."

Grasping at the chance to have something else focus on, she turns her attention to the plate, inspecting the dent. "You've only been in the tournament for a month, how on earth did you manage to do this?"

"Well, I was hit, obviously. Multiple times in fact."

"With what, an elephant?"

He rolled his eyes, a tiny bit of his younger self showing through. "I was not idle for four years. There were wars, disputes, raids, training. Contrary to popular opinion, being a Count involves more than riding horses and sleeping on piles of money. Shocking, I know."

Kate looked at the armour, and then at him. "Do you have payment on you?"

"Of course."

She chewed on her lip, thinking. Surely a single day in his company wouldn't hurt. They were friends, after all – or as close to friends as could be in such a strange situation – and if she was honest with herself, she had missed him. "Do you remember how to work the bellows?"

Unable to find the words to say, she focused instead on the work, hammer bouncing off the metal with the ever familiar tap-tap-ping. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Adhemar close his eyes and drum his fingers against his leg in time with the rhythm, and found herself smiling.

As she returned the metal to the heat, he placed a shilling on the table. "What have you been doing these past four years?" At her stare, he shook his head despairingly. "Surely you can't have forgotten the rules."

She hesitated, and then shrugged. What harm could it do to answer? And so she told him of her shop in Scotland, her reunion with her friends, and her lack of plans over the winter. To her amazement he only frowned slightly when she mentioned Will, though he did seem rather amused by Jocelyn's refusal to let him compete.

It was a quick job that seemed even faster with his company, and soon Kate was quenching the breastplate to restrengthen it, before tossing it on the table to let it cool. Wiping the sweat from her brow, she eyed him up, sliding the coin over to him. "So, what about you? If you've not been idle, prove it."

He didn't answer at first, and instead played with the coin, rolling it back and forth. "After I left, I came home. By an amazing stroke of coincidence that I'm sure my mother had nothing to do with, I was just in time for a ball she had apparently been planning for weeks. It wasn't a complete disaster – I was able to dance, thanks to you, and met Lady Adele, whom I discovered I was to marry. Soon after the wedding we had a son, and some time after that, she died giving birth to a second child. The child, my daughter, survived." His eyes were downcast, shoulders slumped. She wanted to say something, to comfort him, and to both their surprise she reached across, her hand resting over his. He stared at it for the longest time before continuing, voice nigh inaudible. "She was a good woman, a wonderful woman that deserved far better than what I could give. I never truly loved her, and she knew it." A sad little smile creased the corner of his lips, and he looked up at her. "She used to tease me about it, trying to figure out who it was that had 'stolen my heart' before she'd even had a chance. In a way, I suppose we were more friends than lovers."

Not knowing what to say – who would? - she squeezed his hand, and he grasped it tightly, pressing it to his cheek. After a while he seemed to compose himself, straightening up and adjusting his sleeves, never once letting go of her hand.

"After that I threw myself into campaigns, hellbent on protecting my land. It seems that having something, or indeed someone to fight for stirs paranoia that misfortune will come and take it away. The armour held up wonderfully, but eventually began to show signs of wear nonetheless. I decided to try and find you, using the tournaments to travel to England in the hopes of stumbling across you. I never imagined you'd be back in the circuit."

"Well, like I said, I got restless. I've lived near'n my whole life working. Quitting now would be unthinkable."

"Perhaps. It seems you've managed to make a name for yourself at any rate."

She shook her head, laughing. "Hardly! They're only interested in me because I'm a novelty. I'm just a dog that's learned to do tricks is all."

"Then they are fools." There was such conviction in his eyes that her heart fluttered, and they sat together in silence, his eyes on her, and hers on their hands, still entwined.

"Kate, four years ago I asked you to come back to Anjou with me. You gave me several very good reasons why you could not, and I have tried to move on." He laughed humourlessly. "However, it seems that by trying to forget you, I also addressed the issue that stood between us – I have married and produced an heir, so my mother can no longer badger me into such things. To take a mistress now would not be an uncommon thing. To remain faithful to her and her alone, to have her raise my children as their mother is unusual, but not unheard of. In some ways, I am now as free as you are to choose my partners, and I assure you my feelings for you have only strengthened over time. And so once again I lay myself at your mercy."

He released her hand and pushed the shilling towards the centre of the table, eyes always on her. "Will you come with me, Kate?"

She stared at him, and for what seemed like a decade they remained like that, the silver coin shining in the firelight between them. A thousand possibilities, a thousand scenarios raced through her mind. She thought of Will, almost killed by this man before her. She thought of Wat, personality as bright and vivid as his hair, of Roland and his soft smile and artist's hands, of Geoff and his intricate web of words. She thought of her husband, loved and lost. She thought of the Count of Anjou, a ruthless man held aloft by his sneering ways and distaste for anything considered beneath him. She thought of Adhemar, befriended four years ago; a man lost in his own shadow, trapped and condemned by the monster he had created in the heat of the moment. She thought of the man before her now, older and wiser, a man of his own creation, no longer at the mercy of his temperament. She thought of herself, of the fear and guilt she had once felt so long ago.

And then she decided that sometimes it was possible to think too much, grabbed the front of his tunic, pulled him towards her, and showed him in no uncertain terms what her answer was.

The shilling fell to the floor, forgotten.