His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

Jane looked at her with wide, shining eyes. Nicholas’s face hardened.

"How much more do I owe you?!" Livia cried. "What more do you want from me?"

Nicholas was so stunned by her yelling that, for one suspended second, he simply stared at her.

Then his hand moved. The slap cracked through the room. Livia’s head snapped to the side, and the force of it sent her stumbling back. Her heel caught against the edge of the rug, and she fell hard to the floor, one palm striking the floor to break the fall.

Jane took one sharp step forward. "Mr Beaumont—"

"Stay where you are," he snapped.

Jane froze. Livia remained on the floor, one hand pressed to her cheek. The sting spread hot and immediate across her skin. Tears sprang to her eyes.

Nicholas pointed down at her, breathing hard now. "I gave you a roof over your head!" he barked. "I fed you, bought you nice things, gave you this beautiful room. Out of whose pocket is that supposed to come from?" Nicholas demanded. "You will get dressed tonight, and you will dance along with the girls. You will fuck whoever chooses you. You will earn my money back."

Livia’s stomach twisted.

"And if you mention this arrangement to any of the other gentlemen, if you breathe one word to them, I will make your brief stay here incredibly miserable."

Jane’s hands curled into fists at her sides. Livia’s throat had closed around all the things she wanted to scream. Around Henry’s name. Around her prayer. Around the terrible knowledge that Beaumont was not bluffing.

Nicholas stepped closer, then crouched. He reached down and gripped her chin, forcing her face toward him. His fingers pressed into the tender place where he had struck her, and pain flashed bright enough to make her vision swim. "I said," he hissed, "do you understand me?"

Livia stared at him. For one reckless second, she imagined spitting in his face. "Yes, Mr Beaumont," she said.

"Good." Nicholas released her and stood, smoothing his coat.

Then he looked at Jane. "Make sure you both are ready for tonight."

He spat the order and walked out of the room. Jane rushed to Livia at once, dropping to her knees beside her.

"Come on," she whispered, sliding an arm around Livia’s waist. "Up you get."

Livia allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, her knees felt as if they belonged to someone else. Her cheek burned where Nicholas had struck her, and already she could feel the dull ache spreading beneath the skin. Jane guided her toward the bed with careful hands.

The moment Livia sat, Jane crouched before her and took her face gently between both hands.

"What has gotten into you?" Jane asked. "Why would you talk back at him?"

Livia stared at her, eyes wet and blazing. "What else do I have to lose? What? He’s taken everything from me. My labour, my body, my choices."

Jane’s eyes softened. "Livia..."

"Even Henry cannot save me now," Livia cried. She folded forward, sobbing with a force that seemed to tear out of her chest. The panic, the humiliation, the abuse, the cruel certainty of being trapped—all of it poured out at once.

"Oh, Livia..." Jane pulled her close, wrapping both arms around her as Livia shook. "I don’t know what to say," Jane whispered, stroking her hair. "I don’t know how to help you. I wish I did."

Livia only clung to her harder.

*****

Henry stood on a balcony high within the Tower, looking out over London. The Thames moved below, carrying barges, boats. Smoke rose from chimneys. Bells rang from distant churches, no longer solemn with mourning alone but returning, little by little, to the rhythm of ordinary life.

He could feel the city changing. The first days after Thomas’s death had pressed London into a hush.

But grief, when it did not belong to you, was a coat easily removed. Now the city was beginning to shrug it off.

Henry did not blame them. They were not the ones who had lost a son. The thought no longer struck with the same violence it had before. It still hurt, yes. It would always hurt. But the first madness of it had begun to loosen its grip. He still felt grief and guilt over Thomas’s death, but he was healing quickly mostly because he had no choice.

Lionel joined him soon, and both men stood together.

"How much longer do I have to stay here?" Henry asked.

"Merely a week and some days, Sire," Lionel replied. "Her Grace the Queen Mother sends her regards."

"I’m certain she sends more than regards."

"Instructions, mostly."

"Of course."

"And threats."

"Naturally."

Henry leaned his hands on the cold stone rail. "How is Lady Bella doing?"

"The news is grave, Your Highness," Lionel said. "She is all but mad with grief. The physicians say her sorrow is too great."

Henry closed his eyes for a moment. He had expected no less, but still the guilt moved through him. Bella had loved Thomas with the fierce devotion of a woman who knew her child was not only her son, but her shield. Her position. Her proof that she had mattered to the king for longer than a season.

"I don’t blame her," Henry said. "She thought Thomas would keep her relevant at court, especially now with the princess being prepared to be queen."

"Will she remain relevant, my lord?"

Henry opened his eyes and looked out again over the city. "I doubt it."

Court was not built for women who had lost their usefulness.

"I will see that she is cared for," Henry added.

"I know, Sire."

The wind moved between them.

"I... the thought of another consumes me, Lionel."

Lionel turned his head slightly.

"Even now, in this dark time, the thought that I have her..." He stopped, searching for the right word and finding only the honest one. "It calms me."

"Then you will be glad to know that I carried out your orders," he said. "I have made arrangements for her to be moved out of Beaumont’s establishment and set up in a recently purchased townhouse near Covent Garden."

"My identity remains hidden from her?" Henry asked.

"Yes, Your Highness," Lionel said.

"Have you ever been in such a position, where one woman consumes you, Lionel?"

Lionel cleared his throat. "If you speak about physical intimacy, my lord," Lionel said carefully, "then yes."

Henry turned his head and gave him a tired look.

Lionel lifted one shoulder. "I thought it best to begin with the simplest interpretation."

"No," Henry said. "Not just the physical." He frowned, annoyed with himself for not being able to command language easily. "I cannot explain it. I... miss her." He looked away again, jaw tightening.

"My lord," Lionel said, "you have to remember, she is a woman from a brothel."

"A woman nonetheless."

"Yes. A woman. But the court will not call her that. The court will use uglier words, and it will enjoy doing so."

Henry’s fingers tightened against the stone. "I am the king," he said. "Why can I not change that? Why can I not change who she is perceived as?"

Lionel sighed. "You could buy her a house. You could dress her in silk. You could place jewels on her neck heavy enough to make half the court faint from envy. But the moment they learn where she came from, they will see the brothel. They will not see the woman you admire. They will see a scandal they can use."

Henry’s face hardened.

Lionel softened his voice. "Livia is a woman you can only yearn for in secret. Your affair cannot see the light of day. The Church, the people, hell, your mother will crucify you."

"I know," he said.

"One more thing," Lionel said, his voice turning careful. "You cannot sire a child with her. You should always remember this."

"I know..." Henry grumbled. He knew, of course. Lionel did not need to say it. His body, his bed, his affections, even his seed—everything had consequence. "The sacrifices we must make for the throne become heavier and heavier every day."

"One more piece of news from Whitehall," Lionel said.

Henry turned slightly. "What is it?"

"The princess’s maid is dead."

"How? What’s her name? Sandie or something?"

"Sophie," Lionel corrected. "Her name was Sophie."

Henry looked away, frowning faintly. He remembered her only in fragments: a quiet figure in attendance behind Princess Madeleine, eyes lowered, hands folded, always close enough to be useful and far enough to be forgotten. "What happened?" He asked.

"They say she took her own life."

Henry’s frown deepened. "Why would she do that?"

"The explanation being passed around is that she missed home too much," Lionel said. "France, her family, familiar faces. The princess claims Sophie always had serious personal troubles, and that being away from home merely aggravated them."

"Really?" Henry’s eyes narrowed. "That’s odd."

"It is."

"Has the princess been assigned another lady’s maid?" Henry asked.