Chapter 214: Forget I Said Anything
"There is no such thing as safe, Your Majesty," she continued. "Certainly not near you."
"Bella was not attacked by an outsider," Henry said.
Livia’s eyes flew to his. He had not spoken as a man speculating. He had spoken as if he knew more than he had chosen to reveal. "You knew it was the princess?"
Henry stared at her. "What? What are you talking about?" he asked.
"Never mind," she said quickly. "Forget I said anything. It was nothing. Truly. Just foolishness."
"Livia?" Henry urged.
"Lady Bella did not ask me to say anything," Livia said.
Henry’s gaze did not leave her face. "She believes the princess tried to kill her. Why?"
Livia drew in a slow breath and looked toward the carriage window, though there was little to see beyond the moving wall of guards and the occasional startled Londoner peering between them. This was precisely why secrets were dangerous. They never remained quietly where one left them.
"You do not think it is nonsense?" she asked.
"I had the same thought," Henry admitted. "But I dismissed it after Lionel could find nothing that tied her to the attack."
Livia turned back to him. "Then perhaps Lionel did not look in the right places."
"What did Bella tell you?"
Livia hesitated. Loyalty tugged at her. Bella had trusted her.
Instead of answering, she asked, "Why are you marrying this woman?"
Livia lifted her chin. "You clearly have no affection for her."
"Have you not heard?" he said. "England needs stronger trade access through French ports and safer passage for her merchants. France will not grant favourable terms unless our houses are joined in matrimony." He exhaled. "It is a feat my fathers before me tried and failed to secure...A marriage alliance with France would strengthen the crown, open routes, quiet certain enemies. It would bring honour to England and glory to my name."
His eyes returned to hers. Livia studied him for a moment. The crown made a prison of men too, then. A grander one, perhaps, but still a prison. Henry spoke like a king, but beneath it she heard the man trying to justify the chains around his own wrists.
"I only asked why," she said trying to lighten the heaviness of the moment. "I did not ask you to convince me."
Henry’s smile faded. "I believe as the days draw closer I am trying to convince myself too."
Livia glanced at him, suspicion still narrowing her eyes, though understanding had begun to slip in despite her best efforts to bar the door.
Just when she had arranged him neatly in her mind as fond of getting his own way, he said something that made him appear almost human.
He had once told her he sought freedom too. But now, watching the weariness settle around his mouth, she wondered if he had meant freedom from the crown that sat on his head.
"If you were not king," she asked quietly, "what would you be?"
"Oh," he said readily, "a painter."
Livia’s eyes widened. "What?"
"A painter," he repeated. "I paint. Or I used to."
"You paint?"
"Yes, Livia. With brushes and colour. It is a very old art. I did not invent it, if that is what alarms you. I have not had the time since I came to the throne," he said. "And when I do think of taking up a brush again, it reminds me too much of a life I miss. There was a time," Henry continued, "when I could sit on the bank of the Thames and paint the ships coming in with the tide. I would sit there for hours."
His eyes warmed with memory. "Or I would ride out beyond the noise of court and sketch the fields, the trees, the way the light settled on water." His mouth curved. "Just the wind, the river, and the occasional cow."
Livia smiled. There was light in his eyes. Henry caught her smile and held it gently with his own.
"My turn for a question. If you were queen, what kind of queen would you be?" Henry said.
"The kind that stabs the king in the eyes every night," Livia said without so much as a pause for breath.
"Treason, my queen."
"Then the king must be prepared to bow at the feet of his queen if he wishes to keep his eyes." Livia chuckled.
"If you were my queen," he said softly, "I would drop to my knees at any hour and worship at your feet."
The words stole the laughter from her mouth. Henry looked away, turning his gaze to the carriage window. Livia, however, could not look away from him.
She wondered, if a king could feel trapped, was anyone ever truly free?
The carriage passed through the gates of Whitehall Palace. Guards stood ready. Servants waited in careful lines.
The carriage slowed in the inner courtyard, the horses stamping against the stones as the escort closed ranks around them. Stephen was already at the door of the carriage before the wheel had fully settled, looking pale with concern and stern with devotion. Beside him stood Tabitha, hands folded.
Stephen opened the carriage door and reached up at once. Henry ignored his offered hand. Stephen’s mouth tightened.
The man fussed like a mother hen. People might think he hovered because if anything happened to the king, his head would be among the first demanded for the failure. But Henry knew better. Beyond duty, Stephen cared about his sovereign, genuinely.
Henry stepped down from the carriage. For a man who had been shot the night before, Henry moved with admirable control. He turned back and extended his hand to her.
Livia looked at it. Her first instinct was to ignore him. It was a very strong instinct and entirely justified.
Then she caught Tabitha’s eye. The maid gave the smallest nod. Livia sighed inwardly. With all the grace she could gather, she placed her hand in Henry’s. His fingers closed around hers at once and he helped her down. She expected him to release her the moment her feet touched the courtyard stones.
