His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

The last time had been when he had found out Princess Madeleine was responsible for Thomas’ death.

"Your Majesty," Stephen said carefully, "shall I fetch you some wine? It may help you relax."

"What I want," Henry said, each word drawn tight, "is Livia safe, in Whitehall, Stephen."

Stephen swallowed. "Yes, sire."

"She should have returned. She should have returned by now."

"Please," Stephen said, softening his voice, "let me send a messenger."

"I will not have her think I cannot trust her to walk outside my sight."

"She will not think that."

Henry’s hand slipped from the chair. His breathing changed. He noticed the way Henry’s gaze lost focus, the way his fingers flexed as if searching for something to hold, the way his body seemed both rooted to the spot and desperate to flee it. "She is dead too, is she not?"

"Sire."

Henry did not seem to hear him. "My mother never misses. She is dead. She is dead too."

"Sire!" Stephen hurried to him and caught his hands.

The old episodes had usually come with violence first. Trying to move, to tear his way through the world because the world had caged him inside his own mind.

This was different. Worse, perhaps. He was not lashing out. He was folding inward. His fear had ice.

"Look at me," Stephen said.

"She is dead too," Henry whispered.

"No, sire. Lady Livia is well. Lord Ashcroft would have sent word if anything had happened."

"My mother never misses. She always finds a way. She killed them." Henry pulled his hands free and turned away, both hands going into his hair. He gripped hard. His breathing quickened.

"Fuck," Stephen muttered. He rushed to the door, pulled it open, and looked out at the guards. "Fetch the king’s physician," he snapped. "Now."

The nearest guard ran. Stephen shut the door and returned to Henry. The king had begun pacing again. He moved in a short, restless line, turning too quickly, one hand pressed against his chest now, the other still tangled in his hair. His lips moved around the same words.

"She is dead. She is dead too. She is dead too."

Stephen stepped in front of him. "Your Majesty."

Henry tried to move around him. Stephen moved with him.

"Sire, listen to me. Lady Livia is alive. She is with Lord Ashcroft. She has guards. She is not alone."

"My mother never misses. Bella...Thomas...My brothers... Everyone dies around me, Stephen. Everyone."

Stephen gripped his arms. "Do not do this. Do not let this take hold," he said, more urgently now. "Stay with me, sire. Stay here."

"She is dead too. She is dead too." The king shook, trying to pull air into lungs that seemed to have forgotten their purpose. Stephen tried to guide him towards the bed, but Henry resisted at once. "I have to go. I have to go to her."

"You cannot go like this."

"I have to go. I am king. She is dead too," he whispered again.

Stephen held him more firmly. "She is not."

Where the hell was the physician? As if summoned by the violence of Stephen’s thought, the door opened.

The king’s physician entered with a leather case in hand, his cap crooked from haste and his face already set in grim understanding.

"It has started," Stephen said.

The physician hurried over at once. He did not waste time. This was not the first time he had been called to Henry in such a state. The physician opened his case and removed a small vial wrapped in cloth. "Hold him steady."

Stephen obeyed. Henry tried to turn away, but Stephen kept one hand at his shoulder and the other at his arm, murmuring apologies the king could not hear. The physician poured a little of the sharp, soothing tincture onto a folded linen cloth.

"Sire," Stephen said, close to him now. "Forgive me."

The physician stepped closer, lifted the cloth, and pressed it gently over the king’s nose. Within moments, the king slumped forward.

Stephen caught him before he could fall fully, his arms locking around Henry’s shoulders. The physician barked instructions and together they carried Henry to the bed.

For all his beauty and royalty, Henry looked painfully simple when unconscious. They laid him carefully on the bed.

The physician checked his pulse, lifted one eyelid, then placed two fingers lightly at Henry’s throat. "What brought it on this time?" the physician asked.

"He was on edge. Nervous."

"Not angry?"

"No." Stephen’s eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"

"I am afraid," he said carefully, "the condition is worsening."

Stephen’s stomach tightened. "But he has not had one of these episodes in a long time."

"That does not matter." The physician exhaled. "Before now, rage was the chief trigger. Grief also, perhaps, though it often disguised itself as anger in His Majesty. But this..." He looked back at Henry. "This was panic. If more emotions are able to bring on an episode, then his mind is becoming easier to push past its limit."

Stephen looked towards the bed. Henry’s breathing had steadied slightly. His hand still twitched continously against the coverlet.

"The more emotions that can start an episode," the physician said, "the worse it may become."

Stephen rounded on him. "Then make it better."

The physician’s mouth tightened. "You think I do not know what is at stake?" he looked back at Henry. "How long do you expect to keep this from Lord Langford?"

"As long as I can."

"You cannot mean that."

"I do."

"I have an obligation to report this to him."

Stephen stepped closer, snapping. "And I said hold on." Stephen rarely raised his voice. But now his composure had begun to crack at the edges. "This is not something we can simply deliver to the realm...You know that."

The physician gave him a grim look. "Loyalty is not the same as good judgment."

Everything had become tangled, and every thread led to danger. If Geoffrey knew, he would act. Men who already questioned Henry’s judgement would begin whispering of instability.

(brought to you by Janelle Fox)

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