His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

Chapter 55: You Look Unwell

"A pity. You will have to develop a stronger stomach if you intend to survive here." Theodora had drawled.

Madeleine had smiled weakly and said nothing, but inside, she had taken note. The woman was indeed cold.

Only hours ago, Theodora had lost her grandson. Her own blood. The king’s son. Yet she could still deliver cutting remarks, and carry on. Madeleine almost admired it.

So far, no one suspected anything. Madeleine stared up at the canopy above her bed and let a small smile touch her lips.

Simple explanations were the easiest ones to swallow. But she had a problem. Sophie. Sophie was her new problem.

The girl had been a disaster since morning. Pale, shaking, spilling water, dropping pins, nearly bursting into tears every time a bell tolled. At one point, Madeleine had asked for a shawl and Sophie had brought her a prayer book. A prayer book. If guilt made a person stupid, Sophie had become a scholar of idiocy.

The fool couldn’t seem to stomach what they had done. It was intolerable. Visible guilt was dangerous.

So Madeleine had sent her to her room to take the day off.

"Rest," she had said, sweetly enough. "You look unwell."

If Sophie continued this way, she would have to look for a replacement maid sent from France. Someone with a spine, preferably.

Good help was seriously hard to find.

*****

Richard rode like a crazed man from Kingsmere the moment the news reached him. He had barely allowed his groom enough time to saddle the horse before he was mounted and gone, tearing down the road.

By then, of course, London already knew long before news reached him. News travelled quickly in the capital, faster than horses. By the time Richard reached the Tower of London, night had already settled over the city. Torches burned along the fortress walls, their flames bending in the wind.

Richard’s horse was lathered and breathing hard beneath him. His own cloak was dusted with road dirt, his hair wind-tossed. He knew Henry well enough to know this would not be easy for him.

The death of a child was no ordinary grief. But for Henry, it would be worse. Losing his brothers was hard on him even though London believed he had something to do with their deaths.

Richard would be damned if he waited another minute before seeing his friend. At the gates, the guards crossed their halberds.

Of course they knew him. Every man near the crown knew Richard. Under better circumstances, that recognition would have opened doors.

Not tonight. Tonight, the crown was in mourning. And only a select few were permitted to see the king in such a state.

"My lord," one guard said carefully, "His Highness is not receiving visitors."

To their credit, they did not look pleased about refusing him. To Richard’s irritation, they did look determined.

"Inform the king’s personal guard I am here."

"It’s late, my lord," the guard replied, his grip tightening around the shaft of his halberd. "Perhaps you should return in the morning."

"Unless you want to lose your teeth," Richard cut in, "you will inform Lord Ashcroft of my presence, you nitwit."

The guard stiffened. "My lord..." He did not get to finish.

Richard finally reached the end of Christian patience. Without even dismounting fully, he removed one foot from the stirrup and kicked the guard squarely in the jaw.

The man went backward with a startled grunt, landing hard on the stones. The rest of the guards surged to attention, swords drawn, halberds shifting, faces suddenly full of the very serious realization that the nobleman at their gate was mad.

Richard landed gracefully from his horse, and reached for the sword sheathed near the saddle. Steel whispered free. "This could have been simple!" he snapped.

"My lord, stand down!" one guard warned.

"Gladly," Richard said, raising the blade. "Once one of you develops a brain and uses it."

The fallen guard groaned from the ground, clutching his jaw. Richard shifted his stance, anger bright in his blood. He did not truly want to fight them. But if they thought a wall, and a handful of sharpened sticks would keep him from Henry, they had mistaken him for someone reasonable.

Then a voice rang out from beyond the gate.

"Your Grace!" Lionel called.

Richard turned his head, glowering past the steel points aimed in his direction as Lionel Ashcroft emerged through the open passage, face grim and exhausted. Richard glowered at the guards one last time before sheathing his sword back on the horse.

Lionel signalled for the guards to let him pass. "Open the gate."

The guards obeyed. Richard stepped forward, then paused beside his horse.

"Take care of the horse, you nincompoops," he spat, and walked through the gate.

"Where is His Highness?" Richard demanded the moment he reached Lionel.

"In his bedchambers," Lionel said. "Did you really have to fight the guards?"

"They need the exercise."

"One of them may need a physician."

"Is the king asleep?"

Lionel fell into step beside him. The gate closed behind them with a heavy groan, shutting out the street and sealing them inside the old stone belly of the Tower. "Last I checked in with Stephen," Lionel replied, "he had merely been staring into space."

Richard’s expression tightened. He had expected as much. "Take me to him," he said.

"My lord... you know the rules. The king is in mourning."

Richard stopped and turned to him. "Lionel, he is my friend." The anger in his voice thinned. "Who else can be there for him right now?"

There were rules for royal mourning.. There were always rules. But rules did not sit beside a man in silence.

Rules did not make him eat. Rules did not stop him from drowning in the dark.

Lionel sighed. "Alright. Maybe you can help."

They resumed walking. The brief exchange faded quickly, swallowed by the silence of the fortress. The Tower at night had none of Whitehall’s softness. Here, every sound seemed older than the men making it.