Chapter 334: To The Council
"I shall not be using it to protect Livia," Henry said.
Stephen’s gaze snapped back to him.
"I shall be using it to have my mother beheaded."
Stephen’s eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. "Your Majesty. You intend to expose it?"
"To the council. To England, if I must."
Stephen looked as though he needed to sit down.
"Livia has asked me to believe in my people. She thinks if they see me bring justice upon my own mother, they will not raise a storm. She also thinks," Henry continued, with a bitter little smile, "that the people love me enough to forgive my silence all these years. It is a nonsense sentiment."
Stephen straightened. "Her Majesty-to-be has a good head on her shoulders. Your people do love you, sire."
Henry smiled. "We shall see," He looked at him again. "The letter, Stephen."
Stephen held still. The last resistance of a man who had guarded something too long to surrender it easily.
"Stephen," Henry said. "Give it to me."
Stephen lowered his eyes. "Yes, Your Majesty." He crossed the chamber slowly, every step seeming to cost him something. Then he bent before the section of wall Lionel had described and worked his fingers along the brick. It gave way beneath his touch. He pulled it free, and withdrew the old parchment.
At last, Stephen stood, crossed back to him, bowed, and placed the parchment into the king’s hand.
The paper felt dry and fragile. Henry stared at the tied roll. He began to unwrap it.
"Your Majesty," Stephen warned quietly.
Henry ignored him, opened the parchment fully and read. He knew his mother’s hand immediately.
Theodora’s writing had always been beautiful. Even her letters looked incapable of mercy. Henry’s eyes moved over the lines.
His brothers’ deaths, written with the cool order of household management. Stephen watched him closely.
His eyes remained fixed on the king’s face, searching for any change. A hitch in breathing. A tremor in the hand. That distant, dreadful glaze that warned another bad day was coming to collect its due. Stephen looked ready to call for the physician.
Henry finished reading and inhaled slowly. Then he rolled the parchment back up. "Who else knows about this?" he asked.
Stephen blinked, surprised the king had not shattered. "No one else, sire."
"Good."
Stephen’s shoulders eased by the smallest measure. Henry held the parchment in his hand. The past did not feel lighter now that he had read it. It felt heavier, but clearer.
"Were you able to send a message to Kingsmere?" Henry asked.
"Yes, sire."
Henry nodded. "Thank you, Stephen." His mouth softened faintly. "I do not think I say that enough."
"I only do my duty, sire."
Henry chuckled. The man had no idea duty was just the bare minimum.
*****
The rumour from Theodora’s household could no longer be ignored. Livia knew it from the way the Archbishop treated her.
At first, he had been cautious, speaking gently, asking questions. But now his caution had become wariness.
He would not look her directly in the eye. Whenever she answered a question or repeated a prayer, his gaze moved somewhere just past her shoulder, as if he feared direct eye contact might cause boils, or inappropriate affection for Italian women. He also kept a considerable distance from her during their sessions. A very holy distance.
Livia could swear there was more incense in the prayer chamber now. Holy water too. If anyone brought in one more candle, she feared they might accidentally roast her before the Church had formally decided whether she required burning.
All of the Archbishop’s prayers had changed as well. Gone were the careful devotions about humility, and the duties of a Christian queen. Now the prayers were about the protection of the realm. The preservation of the king. The guarding of England from snares, and the claws of witchcraft.
It was almost flattering, really. Beaumont’s had once reduced her to nothing but a pretty body. The English Church, with far greater creativity, had promoted her to a threat against the realm.
Progress, of a kind.
Livia did not care. She was here to be purified by the Church. How the clerics felt about her did not matter much.
Besides, she found comfort in knowing that Theodora’s end would come soon. Livia had helped placed the weapon back where it belonged: in the king’s hand. Theodora could whisper all she liked from the Tower. She could fill England with tales of Italian witches and black magic.
It would not save her.
Livia rose from her knees slowly. She smoothed her skirts, lowered her eyes in the proper manner, and turned to leave the prayer chamber.
The Archbishop cleared his throat. "Lady Livia."
She stopped. The sound of her name in his mouth had changed too. Before, it had been careful. Now it was burdened. Livia turned back. "My Lord Archbishop?"
He stood near the prayer desk, hands clasped before him. He did not come closer. Naturally. The claws might have reach. "I have sent word to the king about our progress...and I believe I should also let you know."
"Of course," Livia replied.
"The Church has decided," he said, "that the wedding should be postponed indefinitely until we know a little more about your origins."
Livia raised one brow. "Oh?" she said. "Will I remain here until then?"
The Archbishop’s fingers tightened around each other. "Yes. That would be wise. There are some delicate matters that must be handled."
"You mean the matter of my being the Italian witch?"
The Archbishop looked pained. "Lady Livia—"
"No, my lord. Let us not exhaust ourselves walking politely around the word. Everyone else is using it, are they not?"
"This is not merely gossip. You can see our concern, can you not?" he asked. "No one knows anything about you save for what the Lord Chancellor has told us. We do not know your family. We do not know your blood. We do not know your true origins. You might as well have been spat from the inner pits of hell."
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