Chapter 206: You Keep Him Cool
Together, they worked to cool him. Cloth after cloth. Water against his skin. Whispered curses from Tabitha whenever the fever surged beneath her palm. Henry slipped in and out of consciousness, sometimes muttering words too broken to understand, sometimes going still enough that Livia’s heart stopped until his chest rose again.
Then a loud knock struck the front door. Both women jumped.
"I will see who it is," Livia said, forcing herself upright. "You keep him cool."
"My lady," Tabitha warned, "be careful."
Livia nodded. She took the nearest candlestick as if it were a weapon, if the assassin stood outside, she doubted brass would be a formidable defence. Still, a woman had to work with what she had. She slipped from the room.
Tabitha turned back to Henry, pressing a fresh cloth to his neck. Suddenly, Henry’s hand clamped around her wrist.
His eyes were half-open, fever-bright and frighteningly clear for one brief moment. "Tell Lionel to get Richard away from the Tower and on to the ship before Whitehall finds out about this. My mother will suspect him and turn everyone in his direction. The real culprit will never be found."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Tabitha said.
Henry’s grip loosened. His hand fell back against the sheets, and his eyes slipped shut again, the brief blaze of consciousness swallowed by fever.
Tabitha stared at him.
Even now.
The King still thought of Richard. He knew how eagerly Theodora would point every blade toward the Duke of Kingsmere.
Tabitha knew Richard would never have done this. That was not even a question worth wasting breath on. Richard was reckless, stubborn, and tragically gifted at making bad choices but regicide was not among his hobbies.
And Henry knew it too.
The bedroom door opened. Livia entered first, candle in hand, her face pale with urgency. Lionel came behind her, sword drawn, his expression hard and alert—until he saw the bed.
He stopped dead. "Your Majesty!"
Tabitha rose at once. "Lord Ashcroft, His Majesty cannot be moved."
Lionel crossed the room in two strides, his eyes taking in the bloodied bandage, the basin, the blackened veins spreading beneath Henry’s skin. Whatever colour remained in his face drained away. "Poison?"
"Yes," Tabitha said. "Bring the King’s physician here immediately."
Livia hurried back to Henry’s side, taking the cloth from the basin with shaking hands. She resumed wiping his face and throat. "Henry," she whispered, though he did not stir.
Lionel turned toward the door.
"One more thing, Lord Ashcroft," Tabitha called.
He halted at once.
Tabitha lowered her voice. "His Majesty gave an instruction before he lost consciousness. Richard must be taken from the Tower and placed on his ship for France before Whitehall learns of the attack. The Queen Dowager will suspect him. If the court fixes its gaze on His Grace, the true culprit will vanish while everyone is busy sharpening the wrong knife."
Lionel nodded once. "I will see it done." He looked toward the shuttered windows. "Bar the doors behind me. Do not open them unless you hear my voice." He instructed and ran out of the house.
Within an hour, the house had transformed into a fortress. It was impressive, really, how quickly a quiet Covent Garden residence could become the most heavily guarded structure in London.
Dozens of royal guards now stood outside, posted at the doors, beneath the windows, along the alley. Stephen had installed himself in the house.
The royal physician had arrived with two assistants, several leather cases. He had examined Henry, muttered darkly over the wound, identified enough of the poison to begin treatment, and declared—after what felt like three hundred years—that His Majesty was no longer in immediate danger.
Only then had Livia’s body remembered how to breathe. She had remained at the bedroom door until Tabitha practically pushed her away, insisting that hovering would neither heal him nor improve the physician’s temper.
Now she sat in the drawing room, sinking into the same chair he had occupied earlier. She stared blankly at the room.
Danger, it seemed, did not prefer one address over another. It could live in places like Beaumont’s on Pudding Lane. It could live in Covent Garden.
There was nowhere truly safe.
"Tea, my lady?"
Livia turned. Stephen stood in the doorway, carrying a tray with a pot of tea, two cups, and a small plate of biscuits.
"I made some for myself," he said, stepping inside. "But if you would like a cup to calm your nerves..."
Livia stared at the tray, then gave a quiet, disbelieving chuckle. "Calm my nerves. I did not know tea worked for that."
Stephen smiled faintly as he set the tray down. "You would be surprised what tea can do, my lady." He poured with care.
Livia accepted the cup, warming her shaking hands around it. "Is this something you deal with often?" she asked, studying him. "I mean... you seem in control watching your king on his death bed."
Stephen smiled faintly. "Not often, my lady...But it is something we are always made to anticipate."
Livia looked down at the tea in her hands. The surface trembled.
"There are men who want the King dead," Stephen continued. "Some hate His Majesty himself. Some hate the Crown. Some hate the very idea of being governed by monarchy. England is a loyal kingdom, my lady, but loyalty is never universal. There are always men with grudges."
Livia stared into her tea. The warmth of the cup did little for the chill inside her. She could still see the arrow in Henry’s back. The black veins spreading beneath his skin. The way he had shoved her aside, taking the fall, the pain, all before she had even understood what was happening.
"This is my fault, is it not?" she asked quietly. "Somewhere deep down, you blame me."
"No."
"You may say you do not, but if I had gone with you when he ordered it—"
"Then perhaps the attempt would have happened on the road," Stephen said gently. "Or tomorrow. Or next week. Or outside the palace some other night when His Majesty decided to sneak out of Whitehall."
(Brought to you by Mar King 3/3)
