His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

There was joy in his eyes as he spoke. Suddenly, another thought struck her.

"Wait. A ball means people from Beaumont’s house may hear about it too."

"Lionel has had that taken care of," he said.

Livia frowned. "How?"

"Let us just say Lionel can be quite frightening when he wants to be."

"Did he threaten them?" she asked.

"Probably. I did not ask for details."

She gave him a doubtful look.

He reached up and brushed his thumb across her cheek. "No one from that house will trouble you."

A breeze moved over the balcony. Livia shivered.

"Come on. Let us get you inside."

Before she could protest, he bent and swept her into his arms. He carried her back through the balcony doors into the warmth of his chamber. The shift from cool night to firelit intimacy made her body relax despite herself. The room was quiet, the candles low, the bed turned down from earlier disturbance.

Livia glanced at him. "Are you going to carry me all the way to my chambers?"

Henry looked genuinely puzzled. "Why would I carry you there?"

"Because that is where I must sleep tonight."

He stopped beside the bed and looked down at her. "Must?"

"Yes."

"According to whom?"

"According to me."

"A notoriously unreliable authority."

"I beg your pardon."

"Do you plan on being stubborn every night of my life?"

"Yes. But Mrs Crowe thinks she knows me," Livia said. "I would like to prove her wrong."

Henry smiled as he laid her carefully on the bed. "I think it is I Mrs Crowe can predict." He leaned over her, one hand braced beside her hip. "She knows that once you are in my arms, I am not letting you leave."

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth betrayed her with a smile. Henry pulled the coverlet over her legs and tucked it lightly around her. Livia shifted in the bed, making herself comfortable. She was about to tell Henry she would rest for only a moment before returning to her chamber.

Then her nose caught something. A suffocating mixture.

"Do you smell that?" Livia asked.

Henry paused in the act of removing his robe and turned. "What?"

Her brows drew together as she looked around the bed, searching. The smell was faint at first, buried beneath linen, and Henry’s familiar scent. But now that she had noticed it, it seemed to thicken. Her gaze fell on a small cloth near the pillow.

It was finely made, embroidered at one corner with the royal crest.

She picked it up carefully. "This is yours. Something must have spilled on it. It smells like herbs." She lifted it to her nose and inhaled.

The effect was immediate. Her eyes fluttered once, confusion passing across her face. Then her body softened as though every bone had been unstrung. She sank back into the bed, the cloth still caught loosely in her fingers.

"What the hell?" He was at her side in an instant. "Liv!" He caught her face gently between his hands. "Livia."

Her head lolled slightly against the pillow.

"Livia, open your eyes." He turned so violently towards the bell that the robe slipped fully from his shoulders and fell forgotten to the floor. He yanked the cord hard enough that somewhere beyond the chamber, the bell must have sounded like judgment day.

Then he turned back to her.

He patted her cheek lightly. "Come on, love. Come back to me." His fingers moved to her throat, searching for a pulse. "Livia?" He lifted one of her hands, meaning to check whether she would stir, whether some small movement might reassure him. As he did, the cloth slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.

The door opened.

Stephen entered quickly. "Your Majesty?"

Henry bent and snatched the cloth from the floor. The moment it came near him, the smell struck properly. His blood went still.

Stephen saw his face and stopped. "Your Majesty?"

Henry held up the cloth. "What the hell is in this?"

Stephen’s eyes moved to the linen. Then to Livia. The colour drained from his face.

Henry’s voice rose. "What is in it, Stephen?"

Stephen stepped closer, horror sharpening his features as recognition struck. "Sire... It must have been missed. When the chamber was cleared."

"Why was it here? Why does a cloth belonging to me reek of opium?"

Stephen went fully white. His mouth worked once before sound came. "The physician used it on you while he was here."

"What?"

"Earlier, sire."

"Earlier when?" Henry moved toward him, the cloth clenched in his fist. "When?"

"When Lady Livia had not yet returned from the Tower."

Henry looked down at the cloth again, and memory came back in broken pieces rather than order. His stomach turned.

"I should have found it. I should have made certain everything used was removed. I should have—"

"What happened to me?" Henry demanded.

Stephen went silent.

Henry’s voice lowered. "Stephen."

"The physician used it to calm you," he said. "You had an episode."

"What?" Henry asked. "When? What happened?"

Henry remembered waking groggy. That was all. He had assumed exhaustion had taken him. Stephen looked as though he would rather be facing a French army.

"You were quite worried about Lady Livia while she was at the Tower," Stephen said carefully. "And you..." He stopped.

Henry’s patience snapped. "Speak, Stephen, before I lose my goddamn temper."

Stephen swallowed. "The physician has been using opium to calm you whenever you..."

"Whenever I what?" Henry stepped closer. "Whenever I what?"

"When you get like that, sire."

The words struck him hard. Some part of him had always known there was something wrong. Henry’s gaze moved to Livia.

Her breathing remained soft.

"Like what?" he asked. "Stephen, are you saying I am mad?"

"Goodness, no, Your Majesty. Far be it from me, sire. I would never call you mad."

"Then what would you call it?"

Stephen looked helpless. There was no elegant way to say, Sometimes your mind breaks under grief and fear. "It happens rarely," Stephen said at last. "Only when Your Majesty cannot bear the weight of certain emotions."

"How long before she wakes?"

Stephen looked at Livia, clearly grateful and terrified to be asked a question with a possible answer. "The medicine should wear off soon. She inhaled very little, and the cloth is no longer fresh. I believe it is not as strong now."

Henry turned back to Livia and sat beside her on the bed. He touched her face carefully, as if any pressure might break her. She looked asleep, but it was not sleep, not truly, and that difference tore through him. "Who knows?" He asked. "About this illness."

"It is no illness, Your Majesty."

"Do not dress this up for me. I am not a child who needs sugared words before swallowing medicine."

Stephen’s throat worked. "Your Majesty has endured too much grief. More than anyone should. Fear overwhelms you at times. That is all."

"Who else knows?"

"Only the physician and I, Your Majesty."

Henry shut his eyes. What had he done? God, what had he done? He had pursued her. He had spoken of worshipping her, giving her the world. And all the while, this had waited beneath him. Beneath every night she would one day sleep at his side.

What had he subjected the rest of her life to? The thought made him feel sick.

Stephen took one cautious step forward. "Sire."

Henry lifted a hand to silence him. "How long?"

Stephen bowed his head. "Since you became king, my lord."

Henry almost choked on air. He had been like this for years? He looked at Stephen as though seeing him anew. "And you did not think to tell the Lord Chancellor?"

"I could not." Stephen swallowed, then continued, words rushing now. "If Lord Langford knew, he would be bound to act. A council of physicians would be summoned. Your condition would be examined. They would ask when it began, what brings it on, what words you speak during it, what memories trouble you. They would search for the trigger, sire. They would keep searching until they found the root."

Henry went cold.

Stephen’s voice broke slightly. "And then everyone would know why."

Henry barely breathed. "Know what?"

Stephen’s eyes lifted to his. "About the deaths of your brothers."

The life drained from Henry. The thing beneath the thing.

Henry’s mouth parted. "You know?"

"Your Majesty," he said quietly, "there is little I do not know."

"So you know what I did?"

"You did nothing."

Henry’s eyes flashed. "And now you are lying to me again."

"No," Stephen said, firmer this time. "This time, I am not."

Henry turned away sharply, one hand dragging through his hair. "You do not know what you are saying."

"I know exactly what I am saying."

Henry looked as if he might strike something. All the old rage had risen in him, but it had nowhere useful to go. The dead remained dead. Theodora remained Theodora. The past remained smugly out of reach.

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