Chapter 50: Let Me Do My Duty
A king’s grief was supposed to be private. It had rules. Colours. Prayers. Processions. Bells. Silences. Even his sorrow belonged to the realm before it belonged to him.
Theodora turned toward Lionel, who had only just entered and stood near the threshold, pale beneath his usual composure. She gave him a sharp signal.
Lionel approached carefully, as one might approach a wounded animal with teeth. "Your Highness," he said softly, "please... let me do my duty. I have the envoy ready to escort you."
"I want to know what happened," Henry said to Lionel.
Lionel bowed his head slightly, careful not to look too much at the crib, careful not to look too long at the king. "And I will give you all the information you need as soon as the Lord Chancellor has it," Lionel said.
Henry deciding to believe him, turned and walked out of the room. Bella’s screams followed him.
They reached for him from the outer chamber, tearing through the walls. Henry did not look at her. If he looked at her grief, if he saw it reflected back at him in its full, ugly honesty, whatever was holding him upright would break.
So he kept walking. Then came the bell. Far off, from the cathedral, the first heavy note rolled across London.
It struck the air once. Then again. A death bell. Announcing to the city what Henry’s body still refused to accept: the king’s son was gone.
His steps faltered. For one terrible second, the world tilted. The corridor stretched and blurred. His chest tightened so hard he could not breathe. The grief he had forced down, the grief he had pressed beneath crown and command and royal expectation, surged upward like floodwater breaking through stone.
His knees gave way. Lionel moved and caught Henry under the arm, holding him steady, his grip firm but discreet.
"Your Highness," Lionel murmured. "Hold steady. Head high. I will get you to safety soon."
There was no safety from this. No chamber distant enough, no guard strong enough, no locked door thick enough to keep grief out. But Henry understood what Lionel meant. Not safety from pain. Safety from eyes.
He nodded once. Somehow, he found his feet again. His face had gone pale, his jaw rigid, but he forced himself upright. King first. Father later. That was the cruelty of it. That was the joke God had made of him.
Step by step, he walked on mechanically, Lionel beside him, close enough to catch him again if needed.
They reached the courtyard where guards were already mounted, and the royal carriage had been prepared to escort him to the Tower of London to mourn in seclusion.
"Stephen will meet us there, Your Highness," Lionel said as Henry climbed into the carriage.
Henry gave no answer. His body remembered its duties while his soul had been left behind in that nursery. The curtains within were drawn, hiding him from the courtyard, from the servants gathered in frightened silence.
Lionel stepped back and signalled to the guards. Before he could mount, Theodora swept into the courtyard.
She came straight to Lionel. "You keep him safe," she said.
Lionel bowed his head. "I swore my life to the crown, Your Grace. He will return to you safe and sound."
Her gaze flicked once toward the carriage. Behind the curtains, Henry remained unseen. "Three weeks is a long time," Theodora said.
"It is."
"Send me regular messages. I want to know how he is doing. If he eats. If he sleeps. If he speaks. If he needs me..."
"I will have you on your way to him in the blink of an eye, Your Grace. You do not have to worry about a thing."
It was funny, really, telling a woman like her not to worry. Theodora had built half her power on worrying before others even realised there was danger. She worried like other people breathed.
Still, Lionel meant it. He bowed, then mounted his horse. With one sharp gesture, he signalled the escort forward.
The small royal party began to move out of the courtyard: mounted guards first, then the carriage, then Lionel riding close enough to reach it if Henry called. Hooves struck the stone in a steady rhythm. The carriage wheels turned. The gates opened.
Theodora stood still as her son departed. She watched until the carriage disappeared beyond the gate, taking Henry toward the Tower, toward his mourning, toward three weeks of seclusion.
Only then did her expression change. She may have told the king Thomas had died of natural causes, but she was far too paranoid to believe that herself. Children died, yes. Infants were fragile things. Fevers came like thieves in the night. Breath failed. Physicians shrugged and priests prayed and women wept until their bodies gave out.
But Theodora did not trust convenient explanations. She did not trust timing. She did not trust anyone.
Her grandson had been alive. Then he had not. Between those two facts stood a room full of servants, guards, nurses, courtiers, and lies waiting to be uncovered. She turned back toward the palace, her face smooth again, her grief locked behind iron. She was going to find out what happened with the child and if someone had anything to do with it, she would take great joy in stabbing a knife through their eyes. Plus she still had to solve the mystery of wherever it is the king keeps disappearing to but that was a matter for another day.
*****
Jane was already awake and waiting when Livia returned to the brothel. The moment the door opened, she rushed forward. "Livia!"
Before Livia could say a word, Jane pulled her into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the breath out of her.
Livia let herself melt into the embrace. Then she pulled back, frowning. "What’s going on?" she asked. "Why does everywhere look dead? Why is everyone suddenly wearing all black?"
It had unsettled her from the moment Stephen brought her back. The tavern below was usually noisy even at ungodly hours. But now the whole place felt subdued. Even Nicholas had looked almost respectable, which was perhaps the clearest sign that the world had tipped sideways.
(Brought to you by Mar King 2/2)