"What does it have to do with me?" Madeleine snapped back. "I did not kill her child. I did not place grief in her hands and tell her to tear at my skin with it. Her sorrow does not make my blood less royal."

"No," Henry said, his patience thinning. "But it should make you less eager to see her head on a spike."

"I asked for justice."

"You asked for execution."

"After she attacked me!"

"And I apologised for that."

"Your apology does not mend the insult."

"No, but her death will not mend your pride either."

Madeleine’s eyes flashed with hurt before anger quickly swallowed it. "Is this because she is your favourite?"

He knew she had been wronged. He knew it. But something in him recoiled from the cruelty she wanted, from the neatness of turning Bella’s madness into a sentence. "I would think as a woman," Henry said, voice rising despite himself, "you would empathise with her situation. But I am guessing you have no idea what it means to lose a child."

"A child isn’t a maid that can be replaced!!!" Henry snapped.

"Forgive me, my lord," Madeleine said. "Forgive me for caring about the respect of myself and my country first. Respect to your future queen."

Henry’s face hardened.

Madeleine pressed on anyway. "What precedent are you setting for the other mistresses that litter your court? That they can throw themselves at me, accuse me of witchcraft, draw blood from my face, and be sent away to rest with their mothers?"

Henry’s jaw worked. "Princess—"

"You speak of grief as if it gives her rights over my body. As if her loss grants her permission to humiliate me before the court. I am sorry for the child. Truly. But I am not sorry enough to become a scratching post for every grieving woman in England."

"Enough!!!" Henry thundered.

The shout struck the room so hard even Theodora went still. Then, slowly, a very, very proud smile curved across her face.

Her son looked in that moment, like the man she had birthed. Angry, commanding, impossible to ignore. He was standing his ground.

Henry approached Madeleine, stopping inches from her. "If you will not have the slightest pity for a person’s grief," Henry said, "if all you care about is yourself, your pride, and how every wound can be made into a banner for France, then maybe you are not fit to be queen of England."

Theodora’s smile deepened. Madeleine’s breath caught.

Henry leaned closer. "Maybe we should return you to France now before it is too late."

She lowered her eyes, measured the wound, and remembered the hand that delivered it.

Madeleine looked down at the king’s anger as she had been trained to do. "Of course, Your Highness," she said quietly. "But I will be informing the King of France about this."

"Do whatever the hell you want." He turned away from her then and headed back to his seat, completely done with the conversation.

Madeleine bowed once more. Then she turned and left the chamber. The queen mother followed.

The moment the doors shut behind them, Theodora turned to her with a wicked smile.

"When you got here," Theodora said, "I warned you that the king had a mind of his own. My son is funny, witty, brilliant, kind, and gentle," she continued. "A little too gentle at times, if you ask me. But he cannot be easily swayed. Once Henry makes up his mind, he sticks by it."

Madeleine said nothing. Her face remained composed, but her nails pressed into her palms beneath her sleeves.

"But you refused to listen to me," Theodora said. "You thought I was your enemy. You may think the alliance with France will give you a free pass to do whatever you want," Theodora continued, lowering her voice, "but France stands to gain just as much from this alliance as England. Do not flatter yourself into believing your father sent you here as a gift without expecting profit."

"I know why I am here."

"Then act like it. A clever woman knows when to swallow fire and smile while it burns."

Madeleine’s eyes flashed.

"And I would hate," Theodora added, every word sweetened with poison, "to inform your mother that you are making a mess of it all."

With that, Theodora turned and walked away. Madeleine stood in the corridor, breathing hard and giving Theodora’s retreating back a murderous scowl.

When I become queen, she thought, I’m going to make you so miserable, you’ll beg for death.

Back inside, Henry could not sit still. He sat, stood, paced, sat again, then rose before the chair had even accepted his weight.

He needed news about Livia, and he needed it now. All the other noise in Whitehall sat at the background now, he just needed to know which girl died.

His answer came in the form of Stephen. The man had branched off to Pudding Lane on their way back from the Tower of London.

Stephen entered, cloak still dusted from the street. Henry got to his feet instantly.

"Well?" he demanded. 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

Stephen bowed. "Your Highness..."

"Do not Your Highness me into madness, Stephen. Speak."

Stephen lifted his head. "The girl lives."

The breath left him. He pressed one hand to the edge of the table, lowering his head briefly as relief hit him.

"She lives," he repeated quietly.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Henry closed his eyes. Livia was alive. The word did not fix anything, but God, it gave him enough ground to stand on. He had not realised until that moment how close he had been to falling apart entirely. Somewhere inside him, the worst had already started burying her. Already imagined her cold, still, gone from him like every other bright thing that dared come close.

He opened his eyes again. "But she is missing, right?"

Stephen’s mouth tightened. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Henry’s hand curled against the table.

"They say she ran away to avoid getting in trouble for the death of the one she was in a fight with."