His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

Lionel looked at him. Stephen immediately regretted speaking. "You want to go ask him?" Lionel asked.

"No, my lord."

"A wise answer."

"I’ll just go get him his dinner."

"Another wise answer. Two in one night. Be careful, Stephen. You may become useful."

Stephen bowed quickly and hurried down the cold stone passage toward the kitchens. The king was in mourning, refusing food, and the servants had all begun behaving as though a wrongly seasoned broth might become a matter of treason.

A tray had already been prepared: bread, broth, roasted fowl carved thin, stewed apples, and wine. Stephen inspected it.

The royal taster was summoned. The man took a spoonful of broth, a bite of bread, and a careful taste of the meat. Then everyone waited.

After several minutes, the taster remained alive. With an armed guard beside him, he escorted the servants back to the king’s chamber.

The small procession entered: servants carrying dishes, a guard at the rear, Stephen at the front.

Henry looked up as soon as they stepped through. His eyes focused. Unfortunately, they focused with cold disbelief.

Were these people idiots? Was food supposed to help him feel better? His son was dead. His child lay cold in Whitehall and they were bringing him food?

No one spoke as the table was set. The servants moved quickly, eyes lowered. Plates were arranged. Wine was poured. Nothing in Henry suggested he intended to reach for anything.

When it was done, they bowed and filed out one by one. Only Stephen remained. He stood near the table. His face was pale with worry.

"Your Highness..." he began and swallowed. "I beg of you. Your Highness... please... just a little something. Doesn’t have to be much, just a little."

"What’s the point, Stephen?" Henry asked. He sounded like a man speaking from the bottom of a grave. "What point is there?" Henry continued, staring through the food. "What will God take away from me next for having the simplest pleasure as eating?"

Stephen’s throat tightened. "Your Highness, you cannot think that way."

Henry’s mouth curved faintly. "Cannot I?" He looked at the table. "I might as well eat," he said. "How else can he hurt me? Maybe he’ll just take my life."

Stephen dropped to his knees, bowing so low his face touched the floor. "Your Highness!" he cried. "Do not make me witness this."

Henry looked down at him. Another man was suffering in the room with him because he was terrified of losing his king to grief. Henry smiled sadly. "He frowns at the simplest happiness I have," he said. "Just a little, not even everything. I had just a bit..." His voice caught.

The silence after it was unbearable. Henry’s gaze drifted toward the fire, but he was no longer seeing it. He was seeing another room. A sleeping woman. A stolen night. A moment in which, for once, he had not been crown, duty, bloodline, or expectation. He had been just Henry.

"And I paid for it with my son?" he whispered.

"Your Highness..."

"Get on your feet, Stephen."

Stephen remained where he was.

"I am not your king!"

"You are my king!" Stephen argued.

"I was not supposed to be your king! You know that. The people know that. God himself knows it." His hand clenched on the arm of the chair until his knuckles paled. "Why else is he punishing me?"

Stephen had heard men call Henry many things including usurper. But no one truly knew him beneath the crown. "Everything works together for good, Your Highness," Stephen said. "It may be dark now, but, Sire, please. Hang on. Hang in there. There is always light at the end of the tunnel."

"That is the sort of thing priests say when they have run out of answers...Get on your feet. Clear all of these," Henry ordered.

Stephen rose slowly, brushing his hands against his clothes. "You have to eat, Sire."

Henry looked away.

"I am responsible for your health," Stephen continued. "If a thing happens to you, it is my head. Not that I care so much about it right now, but I have grown rather used to carrying it."

The untouched meal sat between them.

"Stephen," Henry said, "do as I say. I’ll head to bed."

Stephen wanted to argue. He wanted to drag Lionel in, summon the physician, send for the Queen Mother despite the terror that woman inspired in every living soul. He wanted to do anything except obey and leave Henry alone with his grief.

But Henry’s face had closed. The king had returned, even if only as a shield.

Stephen bowed. "As you command, Your Highness." He went to the door and opened it, calling softly for the servants. They entered in a small, anxious procession, eyes lowered, hands moving quickly as they cleared the table. Stephen stood aside, watching.

He didn’t know what else to do. Time, they said, healed all wounds, but what if, in that time, the king harmed himself through starvation.

*****

Princess Madeleine lay in her bed, still pretending to be ill. She had to admit, she played the part beautifully.

Not too weak, because that invited physicians. Not too recovered, because that invited questions. She remained in the delicate middle: pale, languid, occasionally pressing a hand to her forehead. It was a performance worthy of applause.

Still, she had managed to change into a black dress. Mourning black suited her more than she expected. The colour sharpened her complexion, made her eyes look larger, sadder, more innocent. A useful discovery. If anyone came to see her, they would find a grieving French princess confined by sudden illness and wounded by tragedy.

How touching. Earlier, Theodora herself had come to check on her. Or rather, to inspect her.

The Queen Mother had stood at the foot of the bed, looking Madeleine over with those cold, clever eyes of hers. "Perhaps something you ate disagreed with you," Theodora had said.

"I believe so, Your Grace," Madeleine had replied faintly, allowing her lashes to lower. "The English table may not yet agree with me."