His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

Theodora’s eyes flashed. "Enough."

"No," Madeleine snapped, touching the scratches at her neck and looking at the blood on her fingers. Her pride burned hotter than the sting. "I don’t understand why she is still here. I said I want her beheaded." Madeleine yelled once more.

"And what right do you have to pass judgement?!" Theodora raised a brow at her.

Madeleine stood with her hair half-loose, her gown twisted from the struggle, scratches burning across her face and neck. Her eyes flashed. "I am the Princess of France," she said, each word clean and cold. "I am the king’s guest. I am his betrothed. Any harm done to me, Your Grace. It is an international incident." She touched the tender skin at her neck, then lowered her hand and looked at the faint mark of blood on her fingers. "I will not let this insult pass."

Theodora’s face hardened. "The king will be passing judgement himself!" she snapped back. "You have no such right!"

"Then I guess I better tell the king what I want."

"Princess—"

"No," Madeleine cut in. "I will not be disrespected. I refuse to be reduced to these puppies." She gestured toward the other ladies with a dismissive flick of her hand. "The king will pass his judgement," Madeleine continued, turning back to Theodora, "or I will see to it that France hears of this insult to their princess."

Theodora’s nostrils flared. Madeleine did not wait to be dismissed. She gathered what dignity she could from her torn pride and began to walk out. "I didn’t ask you to leave," Theodora said, her brow lifting.

The ladies were still watching, listening. Feeding on every twitch of power between them. Theodora would be damned before she allowed them to see that Madeleine had no respect for her whatsoever. Public humiliation was a disease. Once it entered court, it spread faster than plague.

Madeleine stopped. Slowly, she turned. "Your Grace," she said, voice tight with fury, "I am injured. I would really like to get away from your mad dog here!"

"And you will take your leave respectfully!" Theodora instructed.

For one dangerous moment, it looked like she might say something that would turn the whole chamber into a battlefield. Her chest rose with a sharp inhale. Her fingers curled into her skirts. Every woman in the room was watching to see whether she would obey.

"May I leave?" she asked.

Theodora made a dismissive gesture, as if releasing a servant. Madeleine’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing more. She curtsied and swept out of the withdrawing chamber.

Only when the door closed did the room breathe again. Theodora turned to Bella.

"You’ve ruined everything," Theodora said.

Bella stood between the guards, hair loose, eyes wild, face wet with tears.

"You have put His Highness in an impossible situation," Theodora continued.

"I’ll die," Bella said. Her voice broke, then steadied with terrible simplicity. "I don’t care." Bella looked up at Theodora. "But please, Your Grace... keep her away from the king. She is a witch."

Theodora sighed in exasperation. "For God’s sake, Bella."

"She is," Bella insisted. "She was outside my door. She wanted the king for herself. She took my baby."

"No one took your baby," Theodora said. "You are unwell." She gestured to the guards. "Take her away."

"No." Bella twisted in their grip. "No, please. Your Grace!"

The guards began dragging her toward the door.

"Your Grace! He was your grandson!" Bella yelled. "Your Thomas! Please, Your Grace!"

The doors shut behind Bella’s screams, cutting them off into a muffled sound that faded down the corridor.

The withdrawing chamber looked like a room that had survived a small war. Theodora turned to the rest of them.

"Get back to what you were doing," she said sharply. "Entertainment is over."

The ladies moved at once. One of the ladies stepped forward, boldness shining through her false concern. "Your Grace," she said carefully, "does this mean the king will need a new favourite?"

"I cannot answer that," Theodora said. "But as long as you ladies behave, I’m sure I can swing things in your favour."

The ladies curtsied as they returned back to their seats, a bit of hope in their chests.

*****

Richard had been visiting the tavern for days now, though he made no request to see Diana.

That, in itself, was ridiculous. Men did not come to Beaumont’s establishment for the ale. The ale was thin and sour. The men drank it only because they needed something in their hands while waiting for the women. Yet Richard had returned every day, sat in the same shadowed corner, ordered a couple of mugs, and watched.

He told himself he only wanted to make sure Beaumont was holding up his end of their agreement and not serving Diana to other men behind his back. Beaumont was greedy enough to sell the same loaf of bread twice. If there was coin to be made, the man would find a way to make it, even if it meant breaking promises to men who could have his teeth removed one at a time.

So Richard watched. Every day, he came to the brothel and kept his eyes on Beaumont. If the tavern master so much as looked toward the stairs with too much intention, Richard noticed. If a man asked too many questions, Richard noticed.

And when he was sure the greedy bastard was making no moves, he left. Richard had no idea why he cared.

Was it because Diana lit a fire in him he couldn’t understand? Was it because in all his years, no woman had ever made him laugh so hard?

Richard finished his last mug of ale and pushed it aside. The tavern was quieting down, most men had gone and the girls were retiring. He stood. He had seen what he came to see. Beaumont had behaved himself for another night. He started toward the door, pulling his cloak around him.

Upstairs on the roof, Livia was reading the book Henry had given her, La Vita Nuova, using the lanthorn she had brought from her room.

(Brought to you by Missy Dionne 2/2)