Chapter 311: They Were My Brothers

Stephen stepped closer, carefully. "You have to let go of this burden you have placed upon yourself."

"They were my brothers."

"And may their souls rest in peace," Stephen said. "But you did not kill them. What was expected of you?" Stephen asked. "Speak up and send your own mother to the block? Denounce her before the realm? Create a succession crisis?" He drew a breath. "No, sire."

Henry looked away. He did not have the strength to fight tonight. So he let the matter go. "Schedule a meeting with the Lord Chancellor and the physician for morning."

Stephen blinked. "Sire?"

"You heard me."

"You will inform council?"

"I will inform Geoffrey."

"Your Majesty—"

"He should know."

"He will be bound to act. This could become dangerous."

"I have to inform the Lord Chancellor so the proper protocols can be put in place for when the day comes and I lose it completely."

Stephen hesitated. He looked as though he might argue. The impulse passed quickly. He bowed. "As you wish, Your Majesty."

Stephen crossed the chamber and picked up the cloth from the floor. He folded the cloth once, his face tight with guilt, then withdrew.

He sat back on the bed beside Livia and took her hand in his. He raised them to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. "I am sorry," he whispered. "I am so sorry." He closed his eyes and pressed her hand against his brow.

How many times had he promised safety? How many times had he told her she would not be alone, that he would protect her, that she would be cherished? He had offered her a crown as if it were a shield, forgetting that crowns cut the heads they sit upon.

He lay down beside her carefully and drew the coverlet over them both. He did not pull her into his arms at once. For once, he feared his own closeness.

So he settled for holding her hand. Henry stared at the ceiling. Regret filled him until there was hardly room left for breath.

He had ruined her. He had made her enemy of his mother, object of council scrutiny, subject of gossip and now future wife to a king whose mind could break at any moment.

What right did he have? A better man would let her go. A noble man would tell her the truth and then release her from every promise. A saint would send her far from Whitehall with money and the freedom to live as Livia Valenti without his darkness reaching for her.

Unfortunately, Henry had never been a saint, or a noble man, or even a better man. He turned his head and looked at her.

Would he let her go now?

No.

No way in hell.

The answer came with such terrible certainty that shame followed it at once. He could not go back to being without her.

They had something beyond Whitehall’s madness. They made each other happy. Should that not matter?

Surely happiness should count for something. Surely, two people finding joy in each other was not a crime.

Yet happiness was not enough if she did not know the truth. He had to tell her. He had to tell her now, before she swore forever to him.

He pressed a kiss to her fingers again. "I am so sorry, my love," he whispered. "I am truly sorry. I did not mean to ruin your life." Henry stayed awake.

One hour passed. Then another. The candles burned lower. His body ached with exhaustion, but he refused sleep. He watched her breathing.

At last, Livia stirred. Henry was upright in an instant.

"Livia?" he called, his hand moving to her face.

Her lashes fluttered. She made a soft sound, barely more than breath, and then opened her eyes slowly. "Henry," she whispered, before his face had even fully come into view.

"I am here," he said.

Her gaze shifted, clearing little by little. She looked at him, then at the dark chamber. "Your Majesty," she murmured. "You are not asleep? Have you been awake all this while?"

"Just watching you. You look peaceful when you sleep. I feel like joining you in there."

"Then it will not be peaceful anymore."

Henry placed one hand over his chest. "Oh. That hurt. Cruel woman."

Livia shifted and tried to sit up. "I need some water," she whispered.

Henry caught her gently before she could rise further. "Stay... stay love. I’ll get you water." He shuffled to his feet and crossed the chamber to the side table. His bare feet made little sound against the floor. The jug stood where Stephen had left it, beside a covered cup and a small dish of sliced fruit.

Henry poured water then carried it back to the bed. Livia watched him through tired eyes.

"Served by the King of England," she teased.

Henry chuckled softly. He sat beside her and helped her lift the cup. Livia drank greedily, as if her throat had become dust. Henry watched every swallow.

Now it made sense why he would become desperately parched sometimes when he woke up.

Henry took the cup from her once she had finished. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she murmured. "I suppose I must have been terribly tired. You should come to bed, Your Majesty," she said, settling back against the pillows. "Staying up so late is not good for you."

If only the matter were that simple. If only sleep could mend what had cracked open inside him years ago.

Henry replaced the cup on the table and returned to the bed. He lay beside her and drew her into his arms.

Her head settled against his chest, and within moments her breathing softened again. This time it was sleep.

He closed his eyes. Sleep found him eventually. But peace did not. His dreams were full of doors. Doors that led to every terrible thing in his life.

When morning came, he left for council while Tabitha helped Livia get ready for the day. Lionel walked slightly behind him, as always.

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