His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

The man beside her wore dark clothing, his shoulders straight. Even from a distance, something about him demanded attention. Then he turned slightly, and firelight caught the gold on his head.

A crown. Livia’s breath caught. The king. And the woman beside him, judging by the tiara and the way she held herself, must be the French princess Lady Bella kept talking about.

Future Queen of England. Livia leaned closer to the window. She could not make out his face clearly from where she stood. Only the outline of him. Tall. Broad-shouldered. A man built for command, even at a distance.

"So that is him," she whispered.

The evil king. Livia watched as the princess tilted her head toward him. They looked like a painting.

Power beside beauty. She squinted, trying to get a clearer view. The distance and dusk worked against her. The gardens had turned soft and shadowed, the torches throwing more gold than truth. The king and princess were only shapes now, moving slowly beneath the evening sky. Still, Livia found herself leaning closer to the glass, curious despite herself.

What sort of man was he? Bella had spoken of him with affection. Richard spoke of him with loyalty. The world seemed divided on whether the king was a saint or a tyrant. Maybe he was a man too powerful for anyone to know or understand.

Livia wanted one proper look. Just one. The man turned slightly, and she held her breath. Before she could make out his face, her maid called from behind her.

"Lady Diana, would you like to have a bath?"

Livia startled and stepped back from the window. "Oh yes, please. Thank you."

The maid dipped into a curtsy. "I’ll go get some water in the bath."

Livia nodded, smoothing her hands over the front of her dress. The maid left, and Livia glanced back once more.

The king and princess had moved farther into the shadows.

*****

Stephen was a little glad the king seemed to be returning to his usual self. Not completely, of course. Henry still carried that haunted look at odd moments, the one that made Stephen want to remove every bottle of wine in a ten-mile radius. But he was sleeping more. Eating more. Attending to papers without staring at the same line for half an hour.

Stephen was surprised when he found out the princess had spent the night with the king that morning. The princess was to be his wife, after all.

Besides, the queen mother was not around to throw tantrums about approving her stay there. That alone had made the morning feel peaceful.

Stephen was quite sure Her Grace would still have something to say about it when she returned. He was just about to go to the kitchens to have the king’s dinner tasted and brought when the Duke of Kingsmere appeared in the hallway. He stopped.

The duke looked travel-worn, impatient. His coat was dusted from the road, his gloves still in hand.

"Your Grace," Stephen said.

Richard looked past him, down the corridor, toward the deeper heart of Whitehall. "I need to see the king."

"Of course, Your Grace." Stephen turned at once and hurried back into the king’s chambers. He did not like the look on the duke’s face. Stephen entered quietly. "Your Highness..."

Henry turned from the table. Several papers were spread before him, weighed down by a silver knife and a seal. He had been looking over the treaty again, checking the fine print of the trade routes approved by both England and France. "What is it?" Henry asked.

Stephen bowed. "His Grace, the Duke of Kingsmere, is here to see you. It seems urgent."

"Oh..." Henry said. "Sure. Send him in."

Stephen bowed and left. Henry rose from the desk and stepped into the main area of the room. He stood near the hearth, hands clasped behind his back, while his mind began its dangerous work.

Had something happened at Kingsmere? The door opened. Richard came in moments later and bowed.

"Richard..." Henry said.

"Your Highness."

Now, standing in front of the king, Richard seemed to lose the courage he had left Kingsmere with.

There was no escaping it now. Richard looked back at him and felt the truth claw at his throat.

"Are you well?" Henry asked.

"I do not know how to answer that question, Your Highness."

Henry raised a brow. "What’s..." Henry stepped closer. "What’s wrong? This doesn’t seem like you."

Richard’s mouth moved, but no words came.

Henry’s face tightened. "Something terrible must have happened."

"No," Richard said. "Nothing terrible happened." He looked down at his own hands. "I did something terrible."

Weariness crossed Henry’s face. "Oh my God, Richard. Who is it this time?"

Richard looked up.

Henry rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I thought you said you were staying away from scandal."

"No... no." Richard swallowed. "I did something terrible to you."

Henry lowered his hand. The king stood very still now, and Richard saw the moment understanding began to move through him. He took a pause, digesting the words.

Then his lips lifted in a broken smile.

"You have her."

Richard closed his eyes briefly. There was no point lying now. No clever turn of phrase. The truth stood between them already, bloody and breathing. He nodded. "You were right. I had her." Richard forced himself to continue. "I saved her when she fell at Beaumont’s."

Henry’s face drained of colour. He looked as if someone had struck him across the chest, hard enough to take the breath from him. His eyes fixed on Richard’s, and Richard saw the betrayal arrive fully. Henry turned away first. He walked over to the sofa and sat down slowly, as if his legs had remembered weakness before the rest of him could forbid it.

Richard stood where he was. Henry looked up at him.

"Please," he said, voice quiet enough to be terrifying. "Go on."

Richard’s throat tightened.

"Tell me everything." Henry’s eyes hardened, though the hurt beneath them remained raw. "Tell me exactly how a man I call my best friend looked me in the eye and lied to me."

(Brought to you by Mar King 2/3)