His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

A gloved hand appeared first resting lightly on the arm of the assisting footman. Her maid descended immediately behind her.

The princess was wearing a deep green velveteen dress. A small veil of fine lace rested over her face, lending her an air of mystery and refinement. As she stepped forward from the carriage, her movements were graceful, clearly the result of years of careful courtly training.

The courtyard of Whitehall Palace had fallen into a respectful hush. English nobles, adorned in their finest silks and jewels, observed the moment with keen interest, aware that this encounter carried significant political weight.

Princess Madeleine approached Henry’s procession and executed a flawless curtsy, her skirts spreading elegantly around her. "Your Highness,"

Henry inclined his head in acknowledgment. From his vantage point, the veil obscured most of her features, yet one detail captured his attention immediately—her lips, softly curved and strikingly beautiful. He felt a flicker of curiosity, wondering what expressions those lips might form once the veil was lifted.

"Welcome, Princess..." Henry began, already forgetting her name.

"Madeleine," she supplied. "Princess Madeleine, Your Highness."

"Princess Madeleine," Henry repeated. "I trust the journey was not overly tedious."

"It was as if the high seas did not want me here," she replied lightly. "But I was determined to come out the victor. Being here now, seeing you," she continued more softly, "I realize the effort was worth it."

Henry found himself smiling, both amused and intrigued by her spirited nature. "Well then," he said warmly, "we are most pleased to have you safely arrived. Your determination does you great credit."

Henry gestured toward the palace entrance, mindful of the day’s solemn yet celebratory obligations. "You should get some rest after your travels," he advised kindly. "Today is my son’s baptism, and we are shortly to depart for the cathedral."

"Oh, you have a son?" Madeleine asked.

"Yes... uh... with the royal favourite, Lady Bella," he replied. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

Madeleine inclined her head graciously, her composure unwavering. "Congratulations, then. A child is always a blessing to a kingdom. I apologise, but I am so exhausted from the journey. I would have loved to be present at the baptism."

Henry offered a reassuring smile. "Of course. The crossing of the Channel can be unpredictable, even in the most favourable weather. We can have tea when I return."

"I would love that," Madeleine replied.

Henry stepped aside as the princess was led toward the grand entrance of Whitehall Palace. French attendants gathered around her, their elegant attire contrasting with the more restrained fashion of the English court. Lord Chancellor Geoffrey Langford followed at a respectful distance, quietly coordinating the formalities of her reception.

Henry then turned his attention to the royal carriage awaiting him in the courtyard. The day’s second momentous event—the baptism of his son—was about to commence. He paused beside the carriage, scanning the palace entrance for Lady Bella.

At that very moment, the great doors of Whitehall swung open. Lady Bella emerged, resplendent in a gown of soft white silk, a colour symbolizing celebration appropriate for the sacred ceremony ahead. Though not a queen, her attire was elegant and tasteful, befitting her role as the mother of the king’s acknowledged child. Behind her walked the wet nurse, carefully cradling the infant swaddled in fine linen, a small christening cap adorning his head.

As fate would have it, the two women passed one another at the threshold of the palace. The contrast was striking: Madeleine in deep green velvet, embodying the promise of a political alliance, and Bella in luminous white, representing a personal Chapter of the king’s life.

Madeleine’s gaze shifted subtly toward the child in the nurse’s arms. Without breaking her graceful stride, her eyes lingered.

When I was coming here, I was not told of any distractions, she mused. This was a distraction.

*****

Nicholas Beaumont’s establishment was alive with a feverish energy that seemed to pulse through every timber of the building. The narrow street outside buzzed with the sounds of celebration—laughter, clattering carriage wheels, and the distant peal of church bells marking the momentous events unfolding within the city. With the arrival of the Princess of France and the baptism of the king’s newly acknowledged son, Thomas FitzRoy, London had swelled with visiting nobles, merchants, and dignitaries eager to partake in the festivities.

Inside the brothel, candles flickered in iron sconces. The air carried a heady blend of spiced ale, pipe smoke, and sweet perfumes worn by the women who moved gracefully among the patrons. Music filled the room—a lively tune played on a lute accompanied by the rhythmic tapping of a tambourine—while laughter and flirtatious banter echoed off the low ceiling.

Nicholas Beaumont was in his element. Beads of sweat dotted his brow as he supervised the evening’s operations with tireless enthusiasm. Every table was occupied, every corner alive with conversation and merriment. The influx of wealthy visitors had turned what was usually a profitable night into an absolute windfall. Nicholas could almost hear the satisfying clink of coins piling up in his strongbox, and the thought made his lips curl into a delighted grin.

"Mind the glasses!" he called over his shoulder to one of the servants as he rolled another barrel of ale into place behind the counter. "We are serving gentlemen tonight, not dockhands. Let us maintain an air of refinement."

Across the room, the girls entertained their guests. Some danced to the lively music, their skirts swirling as they laughed and teased the men around them. Others leaned close to whisper into eager ears, their soft laughter promising delights yet to come. Jane, ever the crowd favorite, perched on the arm of a well-dressed merchant.

Nicholas, meanwhile, was practically drooling at the steady stream of income. He wiped his hands on a cloth, admiring the lively scene with unabashed satisfaction.

As he adjusted the tap of the newly delivered barrel, one of the patrons approached him. The man’s attire suggested refinement—his coat of fine wool and the polished buckle of his shoes hinted at noble status. Nicholas quickly assessed him, noting the confident bearing and the subtle air of someone accustomed to being obeyed.