His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

Jane lowered her eyes. If Livia had somehow survived and escaped, then good. No, not good. Nothing about this was good. Bess was dead. Jane’s hands were not clean. But if Livia was gone, at least one of them had crawled out of Beaumont’s reach.

"You girls get inside," Nicholas ordered. "I’ll get the watchmen. Inside!"

They hurried back through the tavern door at once, skirts rustling, faces pale. Behind them, Nicholas remained in the alley, staring into the dark.

*****

Henry was getting ready to leave the Tower of London. Stephen was packing up the king’s things, folding shirts, gathering documents, checking seals. Henry adjusted the cuff of his doublet and glanced toward the window.

Then came a knock. Lionel entered.

"Lionel?" Henry asked. "Is all set for departure?"

"Your Highness," Lionel said carefully. "I have some news."

Henry looked up at once. There was something in Lionel’s voice. A restraint. A softness that did not belong in ordinary reports about council papers, guards, or his mother’s latest attempt to rule England. His stomach tightened. "What is it?"

Lionel glanced briefly at Stephen, then back to Henry. "There was an incident on Pudding Lane, sire."

The words had barely settled before Henry was on his feet.

"No." His voice came out low at first. "No... no."

Stephen froze with one folded shirt still in his hands.

Lionel stepped forward. "Your Highness—"

"No, I don’t want to hear it!" Henry snapped. "I can’t—" He turned sharply, breath coming too fast, eyes wild with a fear too sudden to disguise. "Fuck!" He grabbed the jar of wine from the table and hurled it at the window.

The jar struck the stone beside the narrow glass and shattered. Red wine burst across the wall, dripping down.

"Your Highness..." Stephen called gently. "You must calm down."

"What? What!" Henry dragged both hands through his hair, ruining the careful order Stephen had spent half the morning restoring. "Can’t I have one thing? One damn thing?" He paced, then stopped abruptly near the table, gripping its edge so hard his knuckles paled.

"God is punishing me," he said, broken. "I cannot be happy. That is what this is. I reach for something, and He takes it. I breathe near joy, and He buries it."

"Your Highness," Lionel said, "you have not heard what happened."

Stephen turned to Lionel, confusion plain on his face. He did not understand the king’s reaction.

Only Lionel knew the king’s true feelings toward Livia. Stephen had not been brought up to speed. He only assumed she was a nice piece of ass the king liked to have.

"Your Highness," Lionel said carefully, "I don’t know if the news is that bad yet."

"Is she okay?" he asked pointedly.

"I don’t know."

Henry shut his eyes. He thought back to the last time he saw her. Her mouth against his. Her laughter under her breath. Her naked skin beneath his touch. The strange joy of being with someone who did not look at him first as a king.

With her, he had felt free. And now whatever cruel bastard governed men’s happiness had reached for her too.

"There was a fight..." Lionel continued.

Henry opened his eyes slowly. Stephen stood near the table, still holding the folded shirt. He glanced from Lionel to Henry, clearly understanding there was more here than royal lust. Far more. The king looked like a man listening to someone describe the edge of his own grave.

"Between her and another girl," Lionel said. "They both fell from the roof. One is dead, one is missing."

"What’s the good news?"

Lionel did not answer.

"No, truly," Henry said, spreading his hands. "Tell me. What part of that news isn’t bad? There is a chance Livia is dead. There is a chance she is alive but injured and missing."

Stephen looked down now, uncomfortable with the way the king cared about this brothel girl. He had thought Livia was only a pretty indulgence, some woman Henry had taken a liking to. But Henry’s face told a different story. There was fear in it.

"If she is missing, then she can be found. That is the good news." Lionel said.

It was a thin hope. Pathetic, really. Still, it was hope.

"Do your best. Find out from that friend of hers in the brothel. She might know."

Lionel bowed his head. "Understood."

Stephen cleared his throat carefully. "Your Highness, shall I send word ahead to Whitehall?"

"Yes," Henry said, already moving. "Tell them I am returning. And tell them I am in no mood for delays, greetings, speeches, or whatever foolish ceremony my mother has invented to remind everyone she still breathes."

*****

Lady Bella was kneeling in the presence chamber when Henry finally arrived. Henry had barely been given the opportunity to change out of his mourning clothes when his mother arrived with the report. Lady Bella had attacked the princess.

In grief, Theodora had said. Now Henry walked in with Lionel behind him. Bella knelt in the centre of the room, her black gown pooling around her. Her hair was pinned poorly, with loose strands framing her pale face. She had lost weight, Henry noticed.

Henry stopped before her. "On your feet, Bella."

Her shoulders shook once. "No, Your Highness."

Henry’s jaw tightened. He was tired. Too tired for court drama. Too tired for his mother’s games, the French princess’s fury. "I said on your feet!" he yelled.

Bella quickly scrambled up. Her hands twisted together in front of her, and her eyes remained trained on her feet.

"Look at me," Henry said.

Bella raised her eyes. Only for a second. Then she quickly dropped them again. Henry sighed. The anger inside him made room for pity.

"Bella," he said.

She did not move. So he lifted her chin and made her look at him.

"I’m sorry!" Bella cried, the words bursting out of her before Henry could speak. "I’m so sorry, Your Highness!" Her face crumpled. She looked ruined by grief, by shame, by the terrible knowledge that she had not merely lost her son, but had nearly torn apart the fragile peace of the court with her bare hands.

(Brought to you by Mar King 2/3)