His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

The room tilted. Stephen grabbed the back of the chair and forced himself upright. His legs felt oddly distant.

"Master Stephen," the maid said quickly, stepping forward. "You have to wait for the queen mother."

Stephen turned his head toward her slowly. Even through the fog, his anger found its shape. "No," he said.

"Her Grace gave clear instructions."

"I am sure she did."

"Please sit. You are unwell."

"I am drugged!!!"

The maid flinched. He took one uneven step toward the door. She moved to block him.

"What do you think will happen to you when I tell the king of this?" Stephen demanded. "Do you think the queen mother will protect you?"

"I only did what I was asked to do," the maid said.

Stephen stared at her through the fog gathering behind his eyes. He understood what it meant to work for Theodora. Everyone in Whitehall understood it, whether they admitted it or not. Serving the queen mother was a thin line between favour and ruin, between life and death. Her smile could lift a servant’s whole family out of poverty. Her displeasure could bury them before supper.

"Then pray she rewards you well," Stephen muttered, "because the king will not." He moved as quickly as his failing body would allow, pushing past the maid toward the door. His legs were heavy now, his thoughts slipping in and out of order. The room stretched too long before him, the ground seeming to rise beneath his feet.

Almost there. He reached for the door handle. Then the door opened. The queen mother herself stood on the other side.

Stephen’s heart sank. Theodora took in the sight of him with one calm sweep of her eyes: pale face, unsteady stance, sweating brow, one hand braced against the doorframe.

"Stephen..." she drawled. "Didn’t think you would still be on your feet."

"Your G...race..." His speech was beginning to drag. Still, stubbornly, stupidly, he gave a clumsy bow.

Theodora’s brows lifted. "Careful. I would hate for you to crack your head open on my floor. It would be inconvenient to explain."

Stephen tried to straighten. "I should... return to His Majesty."

"You should sit before you fall."

He took another step. His knees nearly betrayed him.

Theodora sighed, then gestured to the maid. "Get him to a seat before he collapses."

The maid obeyed quickly, moving to Stephen’s side. He tried to shake her off, but his strength was leaving him in pieces. She guided him back to the chair, and this time he dropped into it with no dignity whatsoever.

"There," Theodora said. "Much better."

Stephen blinked hard, trying to keep her face in focus.

Theodora turned to the maid. "You may go."

The girl curtsied and fled. The door shut. Stephen and Theodora were alone.

"Y...Your Grace," Stephen forced out, gripping the arms of the chair. "I know nothing..."

"Oh, Stephen." Theodora moved closer, her gown whispering over the carpet. "You know plenty."

His throat tightened. She smiled.

"The king himself said so."

"He will kill me," Stephen said.

"Do you know your king at all?" she asked. "Henry couldn’t hurt a fly."

Stephen’s lips moved faintly. Theodora stepped closer, lowering herself into the chair opposite him.

"Now, I have questioned you once before, Stephen," she said, "but you keep treating me like the enemy."

Stephen’s eyes struggled to focus on her.

"But I am not doing this to harm him. I just want to help my son."

His head dipped slightly, and Theodora leaned forward at once.

"Stay with me, Stephen."

He blinked hard.

"There we are...I can reach people you do not even realise I can. Every little pair of ears in London."

Stephen’s breathing had grown heavier.

"All I need is a name," Theodora said.

"I..." His eyes closed briefly. "I don’t... know."

"Do not lie to me."

"I don’t."

"You, Lionel, and the king would always sneak out at night. Where do you go?"

Stephen’s fingers tightened on the arm of the chair. Theodora saw the resistance gather in him, weak but still present.

Loyal bastard.

"The king..." Stephen muttered.

"Yes?"

"The king... leaves without me."

"With Lionel?"

Stephen’s brow furrowed. "Yes."

"To where?" she asked.

Stephen’s lips pressed together.

Theodora leaned closer. "Stephen."

He shook his head weakly.

"Tell me where."

His body fought him. Sweat gathered near his temple. His jaw trembled with the effort to hold the words back. But the drug had loosened the locks inside him, and Theodora knew how to pull.

"To where?" she repeated.

"Wood Str...eet," Stephen answered.

Theodora sat back slowly. "What is there?"

"Lord Ash...croft owns a house there," Stephen answered.

"And who does the king meet at the house?" Theodora asked.

Stephen’s head lolled slightly before he dragged it upright again. The poor man was fighting the mixture with every stubborn bone in his body.

"No one," he said.

Theodora sighed. The man was truly stubborn. "Why does the king go there?"

"He waits."

"For who?"

"For me," Stephen answered.

Theodora stared at him. Then she closed her eyes for a brief second, summoning patience from whatever dark pit still supplied it. "Oh, for goodness’ sake, Stephen," she said. "How hard is it to get an answer out of you?"

"I don’t know anyth...ing."

"Why does the king wait for you?"

"To bring the girl," Stephen answered.

"What girl?"

"The girl from the broth...el," he said.

A storm fell over the queen mother. She went very still. What was the king doing with a girl from a brothel? No. No, she already knew.

Her son. Her only son. The King of England. In love with a harlot. A common whore. "She’s a harlot?" Theodora asked, her mouth curling around the word.

Stephen smiled faintly. "Only for the king..."

Theodora’s head snapped up. "No." She turned away, fury flashing in her eyes.

No. Henry could not have given his heart to filth. Not after everything she had done. Not after the blood spilled, the brothers buried, the path cleared, the crown placed on his head. She had carved a kingdom open for him with her bare hands, and he had gone to fall in love with a woman men paid fuck.

(Brought to you by Janelle Fox)