His Secret Slave to Chapter 9: My Valet Is Mistaken

Chapter 9: My Valet Is Mistaken

At last, they reached the king’s chambers. Stephen stepped aside and opened the door.

"My lady," he said.

Bella took a small breath, steadying herself. Then she stepped inside. "Your Highness." Bella curtsied, lowering herself carefully, mindful of her still-healing body.

Henry turned at the sound of her voice, surprise flickering plainly across his face. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

Bella straightened slowly, her hands folded neatly before her. Candlelight softened her features, though there was still a faint paleness beneath her skin that spoke of recent strain. "Your valet said you needed ," she replied gently.

"My valet is mistaken," he said. "You have just had a child. He is barely three weeks old. He has not even been baptised."

"Your Highness," she said quietly, "I can still perform my duty."

Henry exhaled, rubbing a hand across his jaw as he turned away briefly. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, filling the silence that followed.

Duty. Everything, it seed, returned to duty.

"Never mind," he said at last. "Just... sit with ."

Bella blinked, surprised. Then she inclined her head. "Whatever you need, Your Highness."

Henry moved toward one of the large carved chairs near the window and sat down, leaning back.

Bella crossed the room slowly and took a seat at the edge of the bed. She sat carefully, her back straight, hands resting lightly in her lap.

This was not how these visits usually went. There was usually so flirtation, and then she would pleasure her king. This ti it was just...quiet.

Henry glanced at her, then away again, searching for sothing to say. The silence stretched.

Then, unexpectedly—

"So," he began, "what books have you read lately?"

Bella stared at him. She was certain she had misheard. "Books, Your Highness?" she repeated.

"Yes," Henry said, nodding slightly. "Books."

"I..." she began carefully, "I have not had much ti for reading of late. I did read a prayer book, Your Highness," she offered. "During my confinent. And the Bible..." Bella added softly, offering sothing of value.

Henry let out a slow breath. "Great... just great," he drawled, the faintest edge of boredom slipping into his voice.

Bella’s hands tightened slightly in her lap. She had answered honestly—what else was there to say? "Would you like

to read any specific books?" she asked, trying again.

Henry waved a hand dismissively. "Never mind."

The conversation died there, fragile as it had been. He rose from his chair and crossed the room. The bed—large, carved, and draped in fine linen—waited untouched.

He sat, then lay back with a quiet exhale. "You may leave."

"Your Highness?"

"Go," he snapped.

She rose at once. "Of course. Good night, Your Majesty."

The door closed softly behind her. Silence followed. Henry stared up at the canopy above his bed, its embroidered patterns blurring as his thoughts wandered once more—unruly, uncooperative things that refused to remain where they ought.

A prayer book. Of course she read a prayer book. What else had he expected? A knock sounded.

Before he could respond, the door opened slightly and Stephen stepped inside, bowing as he entered.

"Your Highness... are you well?"

Henry turned his head just enough to look at him. "Yes."

Stephen hesitated, then stepped further into the room. He had served long enough to recognize when sothing was... off, even if the king refused to na it. He cleared his throat carefully. "Do you require... any assistance, sire?"

Henry raised an eyebrow. "Assistance?"

Stephen shifted his weight. "There are certain herbal preparations," he said cautiously, choosing his words with care, "recomnded by court physicians... to restore vigor, should Your Majesty feel—"

Henry pushed himself up on his elbows, staring at him in disbelief. "My vigor?"

Stephen imdiately lowered his gaze. "Yes, sire."

"Would you like to lose your head?" Henry asked.

"I am rather fond of it where it is, sire," he replied carefully, bowing his head. "But, my lord... I worry."

"Good night, Stephen."

Stephen bowed deeply. "Good night, my lord." He withdrew at once, closing the chamber doors quietly behind him.

With a resigned breath, he turned and made his way once more through the dim corridors toward the Queen Mother’s chambers.

Theodora had only just managed to settle back into her bed when her maid gently shook her awake again. "Your Grace..." She opened her eyes with a sharp inhale, already irritated. "What in the world now?!" she snapped, pushing herself up against the pillows.

"My apologies, Your Grace," the maid said quickly. "But the royal valet insists—"

"Send him in," Theodora cut in, her patience wearing dangerously thin.

Stephen entered monts later, bowing deeply. Theodora fixed him with a look that could have withered a man.

"Well?" she demanded.

Stephen straightened cautiously. "I believe sothing is wrong with His Highness."

Theodora stared at him. "Yes," she said slowly, "you have made that abundantly clear by waking

multiple tis in one night. What, precisely, is wrong?"

Stephen hesitated. "I... do not know, Your Grace."

Theodora’s eyes narrowed. "You are the royal valet," she said. "You attend to his person, his habits, his needs. How is it that you do not know what troubles him?"

Stephen swallowed. The question was not unreasonable. "Your Grace, I—"

"Do you wish to test how far my patience extends?" she interrupted sharply. "Because I assure you, Stephen, it has limits. Very real ones."

Stephen dropped his gaze imdiately. "No, Your Grace."

"Good," she said coldly. She leaned forward slightly, the candlelight catching the sharp intelligence in her eyes. "Then you will find out what troubles the king."

Stephen nodded quickly. "Yes, Your Grace. Forgive , Your Grace." He bowed again, deeper this ti, before retreating from the room with considerably more urgency than he had entered.

Theodora leaned back against her pillows once more, though sleep now felt like a distant luxury.

*****

Nicholas Beaumont stood at the foot of the narrow, rickety bed Livia shared with another servant, his arms folded across his chest, his expression already sour with impatience. The small room slled faintly of damp wood and stale air, the single window letting in only a sliver of grey London light.