His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

He walked back to her and extended his hand. Livia forced a smile and placed her hand in his. Her fingers were cold. "Do you want me to take you away from here, or do you want to dance?" His voice lowered for her alone. "I am here for you to use me however you want."

"It would be quite rude to leave in the middle of my own party."

"Indeed," Henry said. "But I am king. That comes with privileges. I can decide to kidnap a woman from her own ball. No one would question me."

"No," she said quickly. "No. Let us just make the final rounds, and then I can call it a night."

"Of course," he said.

Her fingers tightened faintly around his. They moved together through the ballroom. And because Henry stood beside her, the final rounds became easier.

Meanwhile, in the courtyard, Stephen had already heard the gossip from the servants of the noble guests.

A groom had heard it from a lady’s maid. The lady’s maid had heard it from a countess’s woman. The countess’s woman had heard it from someone.

In fact, Livia now had the nickname the Italian witch. The king’s mistress had used black magic to entice the Duke of Kingsmere.

She had also bewitched the King of England, charmed Lord Langford into claiming her as a daughter, and, in one truly ambitious version of the tale, caused the Princess of France to murder the king’s son, Thomas FitzRoy.

Stephen stood very still in the courtyard and listened to two servants whispering as if they had just received revelation from the mouth of God.

What in the world? No, truly. What in the world? He had lived in palaces long enough to know rumours rarely arrived dressed in reason, but this one had apparently fallen down a staircase, struck its head, and continued walking. The logic was not merely poor. It had been murdered. Princess Madeleine of France had plotted murder because Livia had used dark arts?

If that was witchcraft, then Mrs Crowe had been practising it for decades with one eyebrow. The servants spoke with maddening confidence. That was what troubled him most. They were not giggling over nonsense. They were repeating it as if their sources were genuine, as if the matter had passed from important lips into humble ears and therefore carried the weight of truth.

Witchcraft was not ordinary gossip. A woman could survive being called improper. But witch was a different weapon.

And Livia’s name now shared a breath with the king’s. That made the rumour more than cruel.

Stephen found Tabitha soon enough. She was near the side passage leading from the servants’ entrance, speaking in a low voice to one of Lord Langford’s women. At the sight of Stephen’s face, she dismissed the woman with a nod and turned fully towards him.

"What is it?" she asked.

Stephen wasted no time. "Where are these rumours coming from?"

Tabitha did not ask which rumours. "Where do you think? From the Queen Mother’s household, of course."

Of course.

Of course it was Her Grace. Why should the evening contain only one problem when Theodora could provide several?

"Does she never tire?" Stephen muttered.

"She breathes," Tabitha said. "That appears to be enough."

Stephen looked towards the house, where candlelight spilled from the great windows and music floated into the night.

Livia had become Henry’s lifeline. When Livia was near, Henry returned to himself. When she was threatened, he broke.

No. Stephen could not let this grow. He could not stand by while Theodora’s household placed the word witch into the mouths of servants and noblewomen until the Church came sniffing at Livia’s skirts. He could not allow another threat to approach the woman who held the king’s mind together.

It was time to do something about it.

He gave Mrs Crowe a small bow. "Thank you." He went to find Lionel.

Lionel stood beside his horse, arms crossed. His horse was saddled and ready behind him. "Stephen," Lionel called, amusement touching his voice. "The king says it is your fault he is here."

"Yes, yes," Stephen said. "Have you heard the rumours going around?"

"No." Lionel’s expression sharpened. "Why?"

"Of course they will not breathe near you," Stephen said. "You should try to be less stern. Then you may become more approachable."

"Speak, Stephen, before I run you through," Lionel snapped.

"They are calling Lady Livia a witch," he said. "And according to Mrs Crowe, the news came from Her Grace’s household."

"I suppose it is safer for the Queen Mother’s purpose to accuse her of witchcraft than of being a whore," Lionel said.

Calling Livia a whore might stain her. Calling her a witch could kill her.

"You know what? Come to my chamber tonight."

Lionel’s eyes narrowed. "Stephen. Please rephrase that statement before the entire royal guard begins spreading inappropriate rumours about both of us."

"Oh, Lord Ashcroft," Stephen said, lifting his voice just enough for the nearest guard to hear. "I have always had my eyes on you. You are so strong, so stern, so terribly—"

Lionel drew his sword halfway from its sheath.

Stephen stepped back at once, both hands raised. "All right. All right. I shall stop."

"You will stop breathing if you continue." Lionel slid the sword back with a sharp click. "You are the most unserious man I have ever met."

Stephen sobered. "Come later. Quietly."

*****

By the time Livia and Henry returned to Whitehall, she had gone deathly quiet. The carriage ride back from Langford House had been unbearable.

He had tried conversation first. "You handled the evening beautifully."

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

That had ended there. Then he had tried humour.

"I believe three mothers attempted to marry their daughters to me while I was standing beside you. I admire their optimism."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

Dead.

Then tenderness.

"Liv, you looked magnificent tonight."

"Thank you."

Dead again.

By the third "certainly," he began to suspect he was being buried. She sat beside him, hands folded in her lap, eyes turned towards the dark window. The lantern outside the carriage cast brief flashes of light across her face, revealing and hiding her in turns.

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