What if Bessie got the measurements wrong? What if it doesn’t work? What if it works more than it should? What if Henry tastes the difference and has me hanged or tortured for attempted royal murder?
If I’m going to do this, it has to happen now. Yes or no. In or out.
Fuck it.
I dump the draft into the cup down to the very last drop. I pour the wine in over it with my other hand next, slipping the empty vial back into my pocket in the process. I swish the cup in a circular motion as I face Henry once again.
When I cross the room to return to him, my insides feel like a broken elevator that’s plummeting to the basement. I offer Henry the cup, and I’m close enough that I feel his breath between us. The rise and fall of his chest is inches from my face.
“I hope you like it,” I tell him.
“What a sweet little wife you are.” He takes the cup with a tender grin and lifts it up in a toast. “To you, my lovely Catherine.” Bringing the cup to his lips, he takes a sip as his gaze drops to mine. I wait on bated breath until he sighs. “This is delicious.”
Like about-to-kill-you delicious or normal delicious?
He downs the rest of the drink, and I lock my jaw to keep it from dropping. It is entirely possible that I just poisoned the king of England.
Henry hands the empty cup back to me, then rests his palms on my shoulders. “Are you ready to lie down, my heart? I have thought long and often about our wedding night.”
My mind goes blank. Bessie said the draft would take a few minutes to kick in. I need to stall him until then, and somehow I forgot to plan for it.
“Sure,” I answer weakly.
Henry is all smiles as he makes his way over to the colossal bed. He takes the side that’s farther into the room and stands just off from the mattress. He unfastens his robe and drops it to the floor with his eyes trained on mine. It’s the striptease that no one asked for.
He lowers himself down with a tired groan, stretching his injured leg out on the mattress. When I eventually reach my side of the bed, I unfasten my robe slow enough to enrage a sloth. I ease the material from my shoulders, and Henry’s eyes trail up and down my gossamer nightgown. As they do, I notice the bandage wrappings on his injured leg. The dressing is damp with yellow stains, and this is only on the outskirts.
“When did you hurt your leg?” I ask, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. I’ve only ever seen him limping, and as I breathe in, I catch the smell of rotting flesh and a stronger scent of men’s perfume emanating from around the wound.
“It’s an old injury. I was unhorsed in a joust many years ago, and the results were quite severe.”
I pause. “How severe?”
The king sits up straighter against the pillows, settling himself in the center of the bed. “I was told that I was unconscious for more than two hours. Many believed I would not survive it, but I proved them all wrong.”
Unconscious for several hours? He could have a brain injury. There’s no way to know the full repercussions of his accident without an MRI, but there’s a good chance that the damage was severe.
“And your leg?” I inquire next.
“It never healed correctly and remains putrid. The surgeons keep it open for fear that if it closes, the infection will spread throughout the body.”
I’m no orthopedist, but that doesn’t sound like a sound course of treatment. “So, you’ve been in pain like this for years?”
“It is nothing I cannot bear.”
Intense chronic pain can take a massive psychological toll. Couple that with an untreated brain trauma and absolute power—and it’s a lethal hotbed for disaster.
“There must be something that can be done,” I tell him. “What do you do to fight the infection?”
Henry waves off the questions. “Don’t worry your pretty little mind over any of that. I have more doctors than I know what to do with. All you need to worry about is being my loving wife.”
I sit back farther on the mattress. “I’m sure your doctors are doing what they can, but if you don’t mine my saying...”
“Enough, Catherine.” He snaps the words out. It’s the harshest he’s ever spoken to me. His eyes have an unfamiliar streak of resentment, and I watch as the cutting glint flares then dissipates. A moment later, he paints an easy smile on his face as he reaches his arms out to me. “Come here, darling. I wish to hold you.” He softens his voice, but he’s reminded me of what lurks below the surface. I know what he’s capable of, and the truth of it sets a nervous knot in my gut.
As my anxiety rises, I know that it’s time to shake things up.
“Before we do that,” I tell him, “let’s talk just a little bit more.”
