Chapter 247: Keep This Close About You
Tabitha did not like it. That much was clear from the way she tied Livia’s cloak. She tugged the woollen shawl around Livia’s shoulders, adjusted the hood, frowned at the fabric, then adjusted it again. "Keep this close about you."
"It is not so cold."
"If His Majesty insists on carrying you through London after dark with no fear then the least you can do is avoid catching a chill." She stepped back and looked Livia over, still dissatisfied. "You both must be careful."
"It is just a night in town."
Tabitha gave her a flat look. "A night in town for royals is not the same as a night in town for ordinary people."
"I am not royal."
"No," Tabitha said, reaching to tuck a loose strand of Livia’s hair beneath the hood. "You are only the king’s favourite, leaving Whitehall at night with the king himself. How royal can one woman get? Come. You should not keep His Majesty waiting." Tabitha walked behind her through the passageways.
Stephen was waiting in the courtyard. He stood beneath an archway. "My lady," he said with a bow. "His Majesty is waiting for you at the stables." He led them across the courtyard, where the night air carried the scent of horse and hay. The moon was thin above the roofline, caught between clouds. At the stable entrance, two horses waited, saddled and restless.
And there stood Henry. He was dressed as the man she had first known. The same plain merchant’s coat. No jewels. No cloth-of-gold. His face was half-shadowed, but the smile he gave her was painfully familiar.
It seemed like another lifetime. A time she had not known she was touching a crown every time she touched him.
The memory stirred things in her she did not want to name.
"My lady," he said, stretching out his hand.
Livia moved forward and placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers.
His smile deepened. "You look beautiful."
"So," Livia asked, trying to steady herself, "where are we going?"
Henry lifted her hand and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. "Wherever our hearts lead." He guided her to the horse. He placed his hands at her waist and helped her up. Livia settled sideways before adjusting herself properly, trying not to think about his hands.
A moment later, Henry mounted behind her. His body settled close, his thighs bracketing hers, one arm reaching around to take the reins. The warmth of him pressed along her back.
"Comfortable?" he murmured near her ear.
Livia blushed in response and looked straight ahead. Lionel mounted his own horse nearby. He was dressed plainly as well. His eyes moved over the courtyard, and the road beyond.
Tabitha and Stephen stood together as the small party rode towards the gate. Tabitha’s hands were clasped tightly before her, worry plain on her face despite her attempt to hide it.
Stephen noticed. When the horses passed out into the night, he spoke quietly beside her. "She will be fine. Lionel is with them."
"One never knows whom to trust in Whitehall," Tabitha said. Her gaze remained fixed on the gate. The night had swallowed the riders quickly, horse hooves fading into the damp London dark, leaving only silence behind. "Things happen suddenly here," she added. "And then people bury them."
Stephen looked at her. "You can trust me."
Tabitha turned her head and gave him a sideways glance. "Sadly...I do."
Stephen’s mouth twitched. "You warm my heart, Mrs Crowe."
"That was not my intention, believe me." She scowled, gathered her shawl closer about her shoulders, and walked away.
Stephen watched her go. He still did not know what to make of Tabitha Crowe. That unsettled him.
Tabitha did not fit neatly anywhere. Was she for the king or against him? Her conduct these past days suggested loyalty. She had guarded Livia, and stood by the girl. Yet five years ago, her actions had nearly destroyed Henry.
Stephen turned back towards the palace. He entered through a side door, acknowledged the guards with a nod, and made his way to his chamber.
Only once inside did he lock the door. His room was plain by courtly standards: a narrow bed, a chest, a small table, a stool, a clothes press. Stephen crossed to the press, opened the lower drawer, and removed a small knife.
He pushed the bedstead aside. The wood scraped softly over the floor. Kneeling, he tapped along the wall with the knife handle, brick by brick, until one gave back the dull, hollow answer he sought. He worked the blade into the narrow gap where the mortar had been loosened years before, levered carefully, and drew out a single brick.
Behind it lay the hiding place. Inside was the letter. It remained tied with faded string, folded exactly as he had left it. Stephen took it out and sat back on his heels, holding the past between his fingers.
For a moment, he did not open it. He knew the contents too well. Then, Stephen loosened the string and unfolded the page.
The handwriting was Theodora’s. The instructions were brief. The maid was to carry plague-tainted cloth into the princes’ rooms.
It was the perfect murder.
Stephen swallowed. Seven obstacles removed from Henry’s path though there was still no proof of the first two princes to link their deaths to Theodora.
Stephen still did not know how the letter had come into Tabitha’s possession. That mystery had gnawed at him for five years. Had she stolen it from one of Theodora’s women? Had the dying maid confessed?
Whatever the answer, she had sent it to the late king. That revelation had killed him. The late king had already been worn thin by grief. Seven sons dead. A queen deposed. Then came the proof that the woman poised to rise beside him had engineered the deaths of his children.
No heart, however royal, could be expected to bear that.
Stephen had found the letter by luck. He had followed Henry that night.
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