His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

"Especially then." Henry said. He was still soothing her towards sleep, his fingers moving gently through her hair, when a knock came from the outer chamber.

"It is me, Tabitha," Mrs Crowe called from beyond the bedchamber. "Your Majesty?"

"Enter," he called aloud.

The outer door opened, and Tabitha stepped in, remaining politely in the outer room.

"Lord Ashcroft is here, Your Majesty," she said. "He offers his apologies for bothering you, but the matter is urgent."

"Send him in," he said. He pressed one last kiss into Livia’s hair and eased himself from the bed. Only when he stood did he notice the unfortunate truth that his body had not received any official instruction to behave. His erection was still quite obvious through his nightclothes. Henry looked down.

Then he grunted. He stepped out into the outer room, adjusting himself. Lionel stepped into the outer chamber and bowed.

He was still dressed for duty, though his face carried the strain of a man who had been dragged from one urgent disaster into another.

Henry turned from the bedchamber curtains, still adjusting the fall of his nightshirt. "This had better be important, Lionel."

Lionel kept his gaze respectfully lowered. "It is, Your Majesty."

Henry’s irritation sharpened. "What is it?"

"It is Her Grace."

"What?" Henry asked.

Lionel lifted his eyes. "She tried to take her own life."

Henry’s expression did something terrifying.

Nothing.

The news struck him and seemed to fall at his feet.

"Tried?" Henry asked.

Lionel swallowed. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"So she failed?"

"Sire..."

"She is alive?"

"Yes, sire."

"When she succeeds, let me know. Goodnight, Lionel."

Lionel bowed. There was discomfort in the movement, but not surprise. He had seen the Queen Mother’s work. Still, hearing a man dismiss his mother’s attempted death with such coldness was not an easy thing to carry. "As Your Majesty commands." He retreated quietly.

Henry watched him go, then exhaled. When he stepped back into the bedchamber, Livia was already sitting up.

Sleep had vanished from her face. "Your Majesty."

He gave her a look. "Really? You were just moaning Henry."

Her cheeks warmed, but she rolled her eyes and ignored him. "She is your mother."

"Unfortunately." Henry returned to the bed and settled beside her. "Come here."

Livia did not move.

He opened one arm. "Livia."

"You cannot dismiss this. She tried to take her own life."

"She failed."

"She is your mother," Livia said again.

"And that is the great misfortune of my life."

Livia drew the coverlet closer to her chest. "You cannot truly wish her harm."

"I do, Livia...I strongly do."

Livia continued gently. "You do not have to forgive her. You do not have to save her. But please do not let her make you colder than you are. That would still be her victory. Henry," Livia whispered.

"Yes," he murmured. "That is more like it. Come on, come here." He gestured with his arms open again.

"Do not abandon her on my account," Livia begged.

Henry closed his eyes. He had dismissed his mother’s attempt on her own life with cruelty. He knew that. Some part of him had even enjoyed the cruelty. "I would really not like to discuss my mother in our bed."

"This is my bed," Livia replied.

Henry opened one eye. "What is yours is mine."

She shuffled closer and settled into his arms again. Henry adjusted at once, making room for her body against his. Her head came to rest on his arm, and her fingers began to move lazily over his chest, drawing little absent patterns through the thin linen of his nightshirt.

Henry stared up at the shadowed canopy above the bed. He could feel that she had something else to say. Livia had a particular silence when words were gathering in her.

Livia’s fingers kept moving over his chest.

Henry caught her hand gently. "Go to sleep, Livia."

Then, in one breath, she asked, "Did you have anything to do with your brothers’ deaths?"

He had not expected the question. That did not mean he would not answer it. "No. I did not." He gave her the answer plainly because she deserved it plainly.

She exhaled. He heard the relief in the breath. Her whole body loosened against him, and Henry realised then that the question had not come from idle suspicion. Someone had told her directly. She lifted herself and kissed him. "Goodnight," she whispered.

Then she settled even further against him. Within moments, her breathing began to change. Henry did not sleep.

Her question had taken sleep from him. No, he had not had anything to do with his brothers’ deaths.

Not in the way she meant. He had not carried plague-tainted linen into their rooms. He had not wanted them dead.

But he had known. He had known there were doors he should have opened and did not. Questions he should have asked aloud and buried instead.

He had been young, yes. But youth did not absolve him completely. Silence had its own hand in murder. He may as well have ordered their deaths himself.

No, I did not.

The answer was true. It was also incomplete. Maybe he ought to wake her and tell her exactly that. Maybe he ought to confess before she placed her future into his hands.

He looked down at her. She was asleep now. How could he place that burden on her tonight? He ran his fingers through her hair. He would tell her.

Someday.

Not tonight.

Maybe not even tomorrow.

But he would tell her.

*****

"I should like to visit Her Grace," Livia announced the next morning.

Henry turned slowly. "Are you mad?"

Livia was sitting upright in bed. "Perhaps I am...But she is your mother. I am to be her daughter-in-law. I should make an effort to mend fences."

"Mend fences?" Henry repeated. "With my mother?"

Livia lifted her chin. "I am not saying we are to become friends."

"I have heard enough to know the destination is foolish."

"The mother of the king tries to die, and his intended does not visit her. What will people say?"

"Love, people already know you cannot be the problem. All of England knows, without even knowing who you are, that where my mother is concerned, she is almost certainly the problem." Henry returned to his cuff with irritated movements. He was already dressed for the day. All of it had been done in Livia’s chamber, which Livia had observed with growing sympathy for Stephen was a lot of work.

"I do not need a long visit," she said.

"You do not need any visit."

"I need to be seen making the effort."

"You are not going."

"Am I a prisoner in Whitehall?" she asked.

"Of course not."

"Then I shall go. If I am not a prisoner, then I may leave with proper protection."

Henry drew in a long breath. "You are infuriating."

"I do tend to make up for it, do I not?" Livia asked, smiling sweetly.

"You," Henry said, then stopped.

Livia’s smile widened but when she saw he was getting even redder in the face, she sighed. "Henry, I know what she is. I am not forgetting. I am not forgiving her because it is convenient, and I am not offering her my throat. But I am about to marry you. If I do not at least make one formal attempt, then every hostile tongue in court will say I have turned you against your own mother."

"You did not turn me against her."

"No. She did that herself. But gossip has never required accuracy. I do not want to begin as queen with people saying I am vindictive."

"I am not having this conversation," Henry said. "And you are not going."

"Is this how royal government works? You say it so it should be so?"

"Frequently."

"No wonder Geoffrey wants to retire."

Henry turned to the one person in the room he clearly believed still possessed sense. "Mrs Crowe," he said with desperation, "tell her."

Tabitha lifted her head. "Tell her what, Your Majesty?"

Livia lowered her eyes to hide her smile. Henry narrowed his eyes at her.

"I would like to use your own words, Your Majesty," Tabitha said, entirely untroubled by his stare. "Because if you ask me, my lady is right. Appearances matter, especially for women of the court. She must be seen in places where people may know her, and, eventually, accept her. She is to be Queen of England. Even Her Grace will become her responsibility in due time."

"Everyone is mad in this palace," Henry said. He threw his hands up and walked out.

"Good thinking, my lady," Tabitha said at last. "The people need to see an empathetic queen. A woman who does not turn away from suffering, even when the sufferer is difficult to love. Public charity is often less about the person receiving it and more about the woman being seen to offer it. You must show them that you do not rejoice when even your enemy falls."

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