His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

"He hasn’t eaten," Lionel said after a moment. "Or had anything to drink since we arrived this morning. Stephen is beside himself."

They climbed the stairs to the king’s lodging. At the top, outside a heavy wooden door, Stephen had made himself a miserable little post. A folded cloak lay near the wall where he had clearly intended to sleep.

Lionel nodded at Stephen. Stephen quickly got to his feet, smoothing his rumpled coat and opened the door.

"Your Highness," he said softly. "The Duke of Kingsmere is here."

Henry had been sitting on the bed, still dressed, his boots planted on the floor, his hands resting uselessly between his knees. The fire had burned low, and the room was lit more by shadow than flame. He got to his feet.

Richard walked in. All the things Richard had planned to say died at once. All of it vanished when he saw his friend’s face.

Henry looked hollow. So Richard crossed the room and pulled him into his arms. Henry held on.

"I’m so sorry," Richard whispered. "I’m so sorry, Your Highness."

Henry’s grip tightened once, then slowly eased. "I’m glad you are here," he said.

Richard kept one hand on Henry’s shoulder for a moment. Then he looked him over with frank concern. "Lionel tells me you will not eat."

"I’m not hungry."

"My lord... it is not an option. You may be pained currently, but you are this kingdom’s sovereign. We are doomed if anything happens to you."

Henry looked away. "I keep wondering what would have happened to the kingdom if I had died with my brothers," Henry said.

"But you didn’t," he said firmly. "And we have a king because of the mercy God granted us. You didn’t die, and their deaths had nothing to do with you."

Henry looked at him. "But it did, Richard."

The moment the words left him, Henry knew there was no going back. He felt it like a door closing behind him.

Richard’s brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Henry swallowed. His throat felt dry. His hands, resting at his sides, curled slightly into fists. Speaking this truth to Richard frightened him. "Richard," he said quietly, "don’t tell me you never wondered how I got lucky enough to sit on the throne."

Richard exhaled. "Henry, you know me. I know you. What people say has never mattered to me."

"But you did wonder."

Richard did not answer quickly enough. That was answer enough.

Henry gave a faint, broken smile. "There it is."

Richard stepped forward. "I wondered because everyone wondered. Because seven men stood before you and then, one by one, they were gone. Men wonder at storms too. That does not mean they accuse the rain."

Henry’s eyes dropped to the floor. "I was last. A son no one expected to matter beyond ceremonial appearances. I was not raised for this. I was not meant for this crown."

"A few of the deaths can be explained, Henry," Richard said carefully. "One died with his mother in a fire," Richard continued. "Another had an accident with his horse while hunting."

"And the five?"

"The plague, Henry," he said at last. "You had nothing to do with these deaths."

"Five princes struck down by the plague." Henry raised a brow. He had opened a locked room inside himself and found bones waiting there.

"Henry..."

"My mother killed them all," Henry said.

The words landed with such force that no one moved. Richard stared at him, struck dumb. Language itself had failed him.

Henry gave a faint smile. It was terrible to see on him. "And I knew about it."

"Your Highness..." Richard whispered.

Henry’s eyes returned to Richard. "Now tell me," he said, "do you think my son’s death is truly natural causes or karma?"

Richard looked wounded by the question. "I..." He swallowed. "I don’t understand. There is no mean bone in your body. The thought of war even sickens you."

"And yet..." Henry’s voice lowered until it was almost swallowed by the fire. "I knew it would happen."

Henry seemed to be looking backward, into rooms none of them could enter, into years that had been sealed over with lies. "I let it happen," he said. "Because deep down, Richard, I wanted the throne. I just didn’t have the guts to admit it out loud."

"No." Richard shook his head at once. "No. You must be mistaken," Richard pressed on. "The Queen Mother would never go to such lengths."

Henry shrugged, but the gesture was hollow. "She always wanted to be queen. She wanted to rule beside my father. She believed she was made for it. Perhaps she was. God knows she had the spine for it, the mind, the stomach." His mouth twisted. "But she was not his wife. She was not crowned. She was only the woman he loved to fuck."

"The only way to become queen was to make her own son the crowned prince. The current queen would have to be dethroned."

"But she didn’t become queen." Richard noted

"No. Because karma works hard. My father died the night before her coronation," Henry said. "Out of grief, they said. His heart gave out."

Richard stared at him, the pieces arranging themselves in his mind and refusing to form anything merciful.

"Imagine that. A woman clears a path through blood, reaches the very edge of the crown, and loses it in a single night because the man meant to place it on her head could not survive the cost of getting there." Henry looked down at his hands. "I used to think that was punishment enough."

Henry seemed smaller. A man crushed beneath the weight of a crown he had once desired and now believed had been purchased with every death that followed.

Richard’s throat worked. "Your Highness, I know how you must feel right now. No," Richard corrected himself. "That is a lie. I do not know. I cannot know. But I know grief is a clever bastard. It finds every door you forgot to lock and drags out every ugly thing you ever feared about yourself. But this topic? Bury it."