Chapter 248: You Were Right
Henry had been a prince then, and wild with the conviction that he did not want the crown. He had meant to tell his father he would not be made heir over graves.
Stephen had followed him through the passages, wholly terrified. Stephen had chased after him all the way to the king’s chambers only to find the king gasping for breath.
The letter had drifted beneath the bed. Stephen often thought that was the mercy upon which England’s peace had balanced.
Stephen had found the letter later. Luck? Maybe. Divine will? Probably. Had it fallen into the wrong hands, the kingdom might have drowned. He folded it again.
The king knew enough to hate his mother. But did he know the whole of it? Stephen doubted it. Henry tortured himself daily for sins that had not been his. He wore his brothers’ graves beneath his skin. That was Theodora’s cruelest trick: she had murdered obstacles, made a king, and somehow left her son holding the guilt.
Stephen still did not know why he had kept the letter. Perhaps to hold Her Grace in check. Perhaps because destroying proof felt too much like helping her. Or perhaps, and this was the thought he permitted least, he had kept it for Henry.
Someday, Stephen might place the truth into his hands and tell him plainly: Your brothers’ deaths were not yours. The throne was built over their graves, yes, but you did not bury them.
His brothers’ deaths were not on him.
*****
Livia had never truly been on a pleasure boat before. She remembered, vaguely, her entry into London by ship. That had been delivery.
This was different. Tonight, the Thames carried them beneath faint stars. A lantern hung from the prow, casting gold over the water. London rose on either side in broken silhouettes.
Behind them, Lionel was in a second boat, cloak drawn close, one hand near his sword, eyes searching the banks.
Henry, however, seemed at ease. He sat behind Livia, his legs bracketing hers beneath the cloak he had wrapped around them both. Her back rested against his chest, and one arm lay across her waist. His other hand played with the loose ends of her hair where they had escaped Tabitha’s pins.
The night smelled of river mist.
"You were right," she said at last. "It is beautiful here at night."
"Peaceful," Henry murmured. His voice came against her ear, low enough to stir a shiver down her neck. His fingers slid through her hair again, occasionally brushing her nape. His thumb moved against her waist.
Livia looked out at the water. The lantern glow broke in ripples. London seemed softer from the river. "You know what would make this even more perfect?" she asked.
"A book." He answered without hesitation. His mouth touched her hair. A whisper of a kiss. Then another, lower, near her temple. His lips brushed the side of her neck, light as breath, dark as sin. "When I return from France...I shall paint you reading."
Livia turned her head enough to look at him. The boat rocked gently beneath them. "That sounds tedious...Sitting in one place for hours."
"You already do that when you read."
Livia considered this. "True."
His quiet laugh brushed against her ear.
Henry’s fingers resumed their lazy path through her hair. "You said your mother taught you to read."
"Yes."
"Tell me about her."
Livia looked out across the water. For a while, she said nothing. "She was exceptional," she said at last. "A good mother. Better than good. She made ordinary things feel important. Prayer, letters, stories before sleep. She always told me I was destined for great things. I thought every mother said such things to her child. Perhaps they do. But she said it as if she knew."
"She did not lie."
Livia lowered her gaze. The words warmed and wounded her at once. Great things had sounded beautiful when spoken beside a small hearth in Italy. They sounded far more dangerous now, wrapped in royal attention. "It was why she taught me everything...How to read. How to write properly. French, some Latin."
"She taught me how to sit, how to speak, how to greet people of rank. It did not make sense then," she said. "We lived humbly. There was no reason for a girl like me to learn the things she insisted I learn."
"How did she die?" Henry asked.
"She became ill." Her fingers curled around the edge of the cloak. "The physicians called it an infection. A fever that would not break. I was too young to understand all of it."
"Was that when she told you about your father?" he asked.
"Yes. She said he would take care of me. That I had only to get to him and I would be safe." Livia gave a small, humourless laugh. "A fine job he made of it."
"Did she know what sort of man he was?"
"I do not know. I used to wonder that. I still do."
The boat drifted beneath the dark ribs of a bridge.
When they emerged again into moonlight, he said, "It does not sound right. But I am glad your father was a son of a bitch."
"Why?"
"Because I never would have met you," Henry whispered. His mouth found the side of her neck, pressing a kiss there again.
"You never speak about your father," she said. "I heard you speak of him for the first time today at luncheon. You sounded angry. I do not know what to make of it."
His arm remained around her waist, but the warmth of him changed. "I never saw him much," Henry said at last. "He was king afterall." His breath warmed her neck. "He had many children. I suppose it was difficult for him to keep track of us all. I did not want to be that kind of father...I did not want my children to wonder whether I remembered their names. I wanted to know them."
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