Chapter 190: Covent Garden Is Too Open
"Would you like me to arrange the days on which she is to attend you?" Theodora asked. "A private schedule could be prepared."
"No."
Theodora lifted a brow.
"I will not be summoning her to the palace."
"Then how do you intend to see her?"
He looked back at his mother. "I will be visiting her in Covent Garden."
"No," Theodora said at once. "No, Your Majesty. You cannot mean that. Covent Garden is too open. You would be exposing yourself to every one with a grievance against the Crown."
"Mother."
"The house is unsuitable," she pressed on, taking a step toward him. "It is not a royal lodging. It cannot be guarded like Whitehall."
"Mother, it is fine," he said.
"If an assassin can breach Whitehall, beneath our very noses, then what do you think waits outside?"
"I said," he replied, "I will be fine."
"Your Majesty," she whispered, and then her voice broke. "Please."
The thought of him walking through dark streets, slipping in and out of some house for a woman who already had men orbiting her like starving dogs, made her blood run cold.
"You are all I have," she said. "Please."
"You may go, Mother."
Theodora sucked in a sob. Her paranoia would not let her be at ease.
"Now," Henry added.
Theodora lowered her head in a stiff bow. "As Your Majesty commands." She turned toward the door. She had nearly reached it when Henry stopped her, remembering one more thing.
"Mother..."
"Your Majesty?" Theodora turned back.
Henry did not face her at once. For a moment, he remained near the table, one hand resting beside the wine, his shoulders drawn tight beneath the dark fabric of his robe. When he finally looked at her, there was a calm finality in his face. "The next time you raise a hand to Livia...I will run you through with a blade."
Theodora went still. For one stunned instant, the chamber ceased to exist around her. There was only her son standing before her, speaking in the voice of a king and threatening his own mother for the sake of a woman who should have meant nothing.
She searched his face for some sign of exaggeration. A crack through which she might slip reason. There was none. Henry looked at her as though he had already considered the horror of what he was saying and had decided he would do it all the same.
The shock was beyond measure. This was her child. The boy she had protected when the court had forgotten him. She had bled her pride, her youth, her tenderness into keeping him alive. She had made enemies, swallowed humiliation, and done unforgivable things so he might become King of England.
And now he stood there threatening to put steel through her body because of Livia Valenti. A nobody.
A whore.
"That will be all," Henry said.
Then he turned from her. Theodora watched as he poured himself a cup of wine. He carried the cup to the window and stood there, staring into the dark panes as though she had already left the room.
As though she no longer mattered.
Theodora remained frozen near the door, her fingers clenched against her skirts. Her mind could not accept what had just happened. This was not ordinary desire.
This was sickness.
No.
Witchcraft.
It explained what reason could not. The whore had done something to him. Some filthy charm, some brothel trick darker than seduction. She had ensnared him.
Theodora had to act before it destroyed him completely. The whore had some nerve, using dark magic on her son. Because how else could this be explained. A king threatening his mother for a woman finished by many other men. She turned and left the chamber, leaving Henry alone.
He remained by the window, staring out at the darkened palace grounds where torchlight flickered along the paths.
Livia was near. It soothed him, weakened him. She had looked at him with hatred in her eyes and still, simply knowing she was beneath the same roof made him breathe easier. The ache in his chest loosened. The shadows at the edges of his thoughts withdrew. The palace did not feel entirely empty.
Even if he remained a monster to her. Even if she would never forgive him. She was here. She was real and close enough that if he crossed a few corridors, he could hear her voice again.
Henry closed his eyes. Someday, perhaps, she might choose to remain at Whitehall. Beside him willingly. Close enough that he could reach for her. He imagined her there and nearly laughed at himself.
Fool.
She had told him never. He set the wine down untouched and dragged a hand over his face. He could go to her now. No. That would anger her. He needed something smaller. A gesture that did not smell of command. Something that said he remembered her.
Think, damn it.
What did Livia want?
Freedom, his conscience answered. He knew her, did he not? And yet he had no idea how to make her soften.
A King of England, and he could not win one woman’s trust.
Pathetic.
He crossed the room and pulled the bell.
Moments later, Stephen entered and bowed. "Your Majesty, you called."
"Quick," Henry said, turning as Stephen straightened from his bow. "What do women like?"
Stephen blinked. Of all the things he had expected upon being summoned to the King’s private chamber that night, that question had not entered his mind. "What do women like?" Stephen repeated, buying himself time he did not have.
Henry’s eyes narrowed. "Yes, Stephen. Women. You have seen them before, I presume."
"I have, Your Majesty."
"Excellent. Then answer."
Stephen looked briefly toward the ceiling, as though divine guidance might descend through the plaster. "Flowers?"
Henry stared at him. "Flowers," Henry repeated flatly.
"They are generally appreciated."
There was something almost miraculous about this moment, absurd as it was. Henry had been grief and fury for so long that Stephen had nearly forgotten this version of him existed.
