Chapter 180: I Need Air
She pushed through the door leading out onto the balcony. Cold air struck her face. The night opened above her.
This was her favourite spot or it had been. The same place where her blood had been spilled. Bella stumbled forward and sank to the ground.
The stone was cold beneath her knees. She cried then. Her child had been reduced to a weapon in another woman’s mouth.
At last, Bella lifted her tear-streaked face to the sky. The stars blurred above her. She looked up, searching the darkness with a broken heart, wondering if her Thomas was still there.
Bella reached for her chest as the sob tore out of her. It was ugly with breath, and it scraped its way out of her. Her heart had finally split where Theodora had struck it.
Of all the things the Queen Mother could have used to cut her down, she had chosen Thomas. Her son. The small, sacred wound Bella carried everywhere.
A wound still open. A wound she had learned to breathe around just recently. The cold stone beneath her knees bit through her gown. Wind moved over the balcony, lifting loose strands of hair from her damp cheeks.
The stars blurred through her tears. There were many of them, but her eyes found the brightest one and clung to it.
"Thomas," she whispered pressing a trembling hand to her mouth, then lowered it, forcing herself to breathe. Theodora’s words circled like knives. You could not keep a child. Bella shut her eyes hard.
No.
She had not failed him by losing him but she could fail him now. Bella wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand. She would do everything in her power to keep Thomas’s father happy and well. She may not have been able to save her son, but she would not fail his father.
Thomas would never forgive her if she did nothing.
*****
"Your Majesty!" Stephen called. "Please, you have to stay in bed."
"I need air, Stephen." Henry’s voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges. He stood unsteadily near the bed, pulling on a robe. "I need to breathe," he said, shoving one arm into the sleeve, then the other. "I need to get out of this palace."
"Your Majesty, please." Stephen moved toward him, then stopped, terrified of overstepping and more terrified of doing nothing.
Henry tied the robe with impatient hands. Stephen dropped to his knees. His forehead nearly touched the floor.
"Your Majesty, please," he begged. "Lord Ashcroft is not available to escort you. Please, Your Highness. I beg of you."
Henry sighed. "Fine," he said at last. "I will stay in the palace."
Stephen lifted his head cautiously.
"I just need to get out of this room," Henry said.
Before Stephen could answer, Henry stepped around him and walked toward the door.
"Your Majesty—"
"I said I am staying in the palace."
Stephen scrambled to his feet and followed at once. Henry moved through the corridor feeling trapped.
He needed air. That was all.
Air.
A simple, stupid thing, and yet his body seemed starved of it. His chest felt too tight, his lungs caught beneath the weight of guilt, heartbreak, and the monstrous knowledge of what his own hands had nearly done.
Livia’s face haunted him. The print on her cheek burned in his mind too—his mother’s hand. That, at least, he could deal with in the morning.
Theodora had been given leave to act. She had not been given leave to hurt Livia. She had no right.
The irony. He himself had almost done the same. What was he becoming? His knuckles throbbed. His head ached.
At the upper gallery, he turned sharply and pushed through the door leading out. The night air struck him at once.
He shut his eyes. The darkness gave Livia back to him. Her face appeared at once, pale and wet with tears, her eyes wide with fear.
Had he truly tried to force himself on her? Had he sunk that low?
Had he?
His fingers curled around the balcony rail until his damaged knuckles screamed. Why had there been so much hate in her eyes?
The breath he had dragged into his lungs vanished again. Whitehall might as well have been a coffin. Henry stumbled forward, one hand pressing hard against his chest, heaving.
"Your Majesty!" Stephen hurried toward him.
Henry lifted one hand. Stephen froze at once. He forced himself upright, swallowing the ragged sound caught in his throat. He took another breath.
Then he heard sobbing. A muffled sound coming from the other side of the balcony, where the stone curved away beneath the arch.
Henry turned and quickened his steps. The balcony stretched ahead. Wind tugged at his robe. He rounded the corner and stopped.
Bella was on the ground. She sat folded in on herself, one hand clutching at her chest, her skirts gathered awkwardly around her, her hair loosened from its pins.
"Bella?" he called.
She jerked as though the sound of his voice had pulled her from far away. "Your Highness..."
At once, she tried to gather herself. She pushed herself up.
Bella bowed her head. "I was worried about you."
"Is that why you are crying?" Henry asked.
"No, Your Highness," she said. "No."
Even in his own ruin, he could see hers.
"Then why?" he asked quietly.
Bella’s mouth trembled. "I fear I may have caused Lady Diana grief she does not deserve."
"Bella," he said, forcing steadiness into his voice, "you had nothing to do with it. I will not have you blame yourself."
"But I invited her here." Bella looked up at him then, searching his face with painful bravery. "What happened, Your Highness?"
Henry turned toward the parapet. "I believe...I have done something terrible. I may have won the war," he continued, voice hollow, "but I have lost the battle."
In trying to keep her, he had killed whatever remained of him in her eyes.
"Is she hurt?" Bella asked.
