His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

Something had happened. And it was doing absolutely nothing to help his courage. Tonight was meant to be the night he told her. About the dreadful truth that his mind sometimes became a place even he could not safely inhabit.

They arrived at Whitehall beneath a cold night sky. The palace received them. She kept her hand on his arm. They walked through the corridors together, and the silence followed them like a third person. Henry tried once more.

"You should rest tomorrow."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"I shall send the physician to see you."

"If you wish."

Henry’s patience thinned. At last, they reached the corridor crossing where one passage led towards her apartments and the other towards his.

Livia stopped then she withdrew her hand from his arm. She turned to face him, lowered herself into a graceful curtsy, and said, "Good night, Your Majesty."

No.

Absolutely not.

No.

Henry was not having it. Before she could take another step, he bent, slid an arm beneath her thighs, and lifted her off her feet. His other hand came firm against her back, balancing her securely against him.

"Put me down," she said.

"No."

"This is not the time."

"It is exactly the time."

He held her closer, his voice lowering. "You may be angry with me. but I will be damned if I let it stew until morning." He carried her towards his own chambers.

Livia did not argue. She stayed quiet in his arms, one hand resting loosely against his shoulder, her face turned slightly away from him.

Henry hated it. He would have preferred her fury. By the time they reached his chamber doors, Stephen and Tabitha were already there. Henry stopped at the door with Livia still in his arms and turned to them. "Bring water...Then take the night. I shall care for myself and my intended."

Tabitha bowed. "As Your Majesty wishes."

Stephen bowed as well. Henry carried Livia inside. The door closed behind them. The chamber was warm, lit by candles and the dying glow of the hearth. The bed had been turned down, the coverlet arranged neatly.

Henry set Livia carefully on her feet. He moved behind her and began to undo the fastenings of her gown.

The gown loosened. Layer by layer, the evening fell away from her. The silk slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her feet.

Livia stood in her linen underthings, staring ahead. Henry crossed to the wardrobe press that had been prepared for her in his chambers. A few garments had been placed there for her.

He took out a soft robe and returned to her. Gently, he draped it over her shoulders. She drew it closed without speaking.

Soon, servants entered with tubs and pitchers of steaming water. They poured it into the wooden bath set behind the painted screen in the private bathing corner of the chamber.

When the last servant withdrew, Henry turned to Livia.

"Do you want me to help you wash?"

Her eyes moved to his. "I can manage." She walked behind the screen.

He undressed slowly, removing the formal garments Stephen had placed him in with such haste earlier. Henry changed into his nightshirt and robe, his mind turning over every moment of the evening.

What had he done? Had he arrived too late? Had he embarrassed her by coming after saying he would not? Had she felt abandoned? Had some noblewoman wounded her?

Usually, Livia’s anger was direct. It had force. This was not that. This anger had no fire. It carried sadness.

Was she sad he had not come with her from the beginning? She had seemed to manage well enough without him. Geoffrey had said so. She had not stumbled. She had not faltered.

So why?

Henry pulled out a clean nightdress from the wardrobe press and laid it across the bed. He waited and waited and waited. His patience thinned again. "Liv," he called. "Do you plan on washing yourself until your skin peels off? Am I to come in there and pick you up?" he demanded.

Henry heard the ripple of the bathwater first. Then the softer sounds followed. Livia drying herself behind the painted screen.

At last, she emerged. Her damp hair lay over one shoulder, her body bare to him. Henry stepped forward and pulled the nightdress over her head. She lifted her arms obediently.

Once the fabric settled around her, he adjusted it over her shoulders, letting his fingers linger briefly.

"Now can we talk?" he asked quietly. "What have I done wrong?"

"You lied to me, didn’t you?"

"I cannot seem to remember any conversation since you returned to Whitehall in which I lied to you," he said.

"I spoke to Richard," she said. "He told me about your brothers."

Henry turned away sharply, sucking in a breath. "Fucking hell."

"So it is true."

Henry looked back at her. "Is what true?"

Her mouth trembled. "You had your brothers killed."

"No," he said. "I did no such thing."

"But you stood by and watched."

The accusation struck harder because it was nearer the truth.

"It is not as black and white as Richard made it sound," he said.

"Why not? You told him yourself, didn’t you?" she asked.

"Why?" His laugh was broken. "Why do you think?"

"I do not know. I am asking you."

"Because I have lived every day of my life since then carrying the guilt of that decision. God has punished me again and again for not saying something," he said. "For not stopping her. For being afraid."

"You helped your mother cover up such...such evil?"

"I..."

The word failed. He tried again.

"I..."

Nothing came.

"I did not kill them," he said, voice low.

Her tears spilled then. "You cannot justify this, Henry,"

"I know."

"Your mother herself told Mrs Crowe. And I told Tabitha it was not possible. I told her there was no way. There was no way. That is what I said. You did not have that kind of evil in you."

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