His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

"And under whose control is he now? Yours?"

Geoffrey’s patience finally cracked. "The king is above all else!"

For years, they had circled one another with courtesy. He had respected her mind, feared her reach, endured her interference, and occasionally admired the sheer audacity with which she bent men to her will. But there were lines even she could not be permitted to cross.

Theodora rose slowly from the chair. "Do you want to make an enemy of me, Lord Langford?"

Geoffrey gave a thin, tired smile. He thought of Henry the boy no one had expected to wear a crown. "In the name of the king, yes, Your Grace."

"You know who I am," she said softly. "You know what I am capable of."

Geoffrey met her gaze without flinching. "Sadly, I do," he replied. "Which is why I think the king should never be under your thumb. Control his mistresses, fine by me," he said, with a dry lift of one hand. "If foolish women wish to fight for place in the king’s bed, let them fight."

Theodora’s eyes narrowed.

"But you," he said, "will stay far from the crown and the throne. Which means you have no business whatsoever dictating who is fit to sit beside the king."

"I am his mother."

"And I am Lord Chancellor." Geoffrey’s mouth tightened. "My duty on this earth is to do what is best for the kingdom."

"Be careful, Lord Langford."

Geoffrey gathered the papers from the table, stacking them against one another before tucking them beneath his arm. His work here was done. "I’m done with my interview," he said. "I will head out to see the king." He gave her a bow—proper, correct, and entirely lacking submission.

Then Geoffrey walked out. Theodora remained. The Lord Chancellor had always been a difficult man: too principled to buy, too experienced to frighten easily, too useful to discard without consequence. That made him irritating.

Her son needed more allies than enemies, and she couldn’t afford to make an enemy out of the Lord Chancellor.

But Geoffrey was wrong if he thought she would step aside merely because he had raised his voice.

She also needed him on her side, to see things her way. There was always another path. Another pressure point. Another door into a man’s loyalty. She would simply have to try another way, another method.

*****

At the Tower of London, Stephen had arranged the king’s things. A fire had been lit in the hearth. Fresh linen had been laid out. Henry’s traveling chest stood open near the bed, his clothes folded. A jug of wine sat untouched on the table beside a silver cup. Stephen had placed a small crucifix near the window.

Henry had not moved from the chair. He sat facing the window, though he did not seem to see beyond it. The Tower grounds had quieted under the fading light. Guards moved in the courtyard below. The river beyond the walls carried its usual dark traffic. London continued breathing, trading, drinking, gossiping. Bells had rung for his son, and still the city had lived.

That felt like an insult. Henry had not spoken since he arrived. Not one word. He had not been there for Thomas.

His son had needed him, and he had not been there. He had been elsewhere—hidden, distracted, selfishly alive. He had been chasing freedom while death found his child.

Stephen stood before him, hands clasped. "Your Highness," Stephen said gently, "would you want your dinner here or in the dining area?" He waited.

The fire crackled. A log shifted, collapsing inward with a soft hiss of sparks.

"I’ll just bring your meal over here," Stephen said at last. He bowed, Henry gave no sign of seeing him, and quietly withdrew.

Lionel was waiting outside the door, face drawn with exhaustion. "How is he now?" he asked.

"Same," Stephen replied, lowering his voice. "He hasn’t had anything all day. Nothing."

Lionel looked toward the closed door.

Stephen sighed. "The Queen Mother is going to kill me if he dies from grief."

"Never mind the Queen Mother," Lionel said dryly. "The realm will kill you."

The corridor outside Henry’s chamber was lit by torches set into iron brackets, their flames snapping faintly in the draught that moved through the Tower’s old stone passages. This was not Whitehall with its polished floors, painted ceilings. This place felt older, colder. Grief seemed to belong here.

Stephen glanced at the door again. "I don’t know how to help him."

"No one does," Lionel said.

Stephen rubbed a hand over his face. He looked tired enough to sleep standing. "He has not spoken. He has not eaten. If I bring him food, he looks through it. If I speak, he looks through me. I am beginning to suspect I may already be dead and simply too anxious to notice."

"That would explain much."

"Lord Ashcroft?!"

"Forget that. I have an assignment for you."

Stephen blinked. "With all that is going on?"

"Yes. Especially with all that is going on. I need someone to stand in for the king. To pay off Nicholas Beaumont and get Livia out of there."

Stephen’s eyes widened slightly. "The girl from the tavern?"

"The same."

"With the king in mourning?"

"The king gave the instruction before all this. He wants her resettled, but he does not want his identity exposed yet."

Stephen absorbed that, looking once more toward the closed door. "Does it have to be someone who doesn’t know the king personally?"

"Yes," Lionel said. "Someone with enough confidence to lie well. Someone who will act as though he wants Livia for himself, but under the authority of the king. Whatever price he calls," Lionel said, "give it to him. I want to get this done to at least give the king some happiness when he is out of mourning."

"I didn’t want to ask questions," Stephen said, which of course meant he was already about to ask one, "but what is going on with this girl and the king?"