His mouth slants downward. “More talking?”
“Mm-hmm.” I fling myself all the way onto the mattress with a flying leap, using the element of surprise to my advantage. “Tell me about your earliest childhood memory.”
Henry’s mouth is agape at my barked-out question, and he labors in a startled breath when I suddenly roll down to the end of the bed, squeezing the foot of his uninjured leg in both my hands.
Feet are some of the most emotionally grounding parts of the body, and if Bessie’s sleeping draft doesn’t knock Henry out, then God help me, I will foot-massage the king into slumbering submission.
“Why... why would you want to hear about that?” he asks a little nervously.
“Because I do. I want to know everything there is to know about you.” I push my thumb up and down his instep. He groans in appreciation as his head falls back onto his pillow.
“I suppose one of my earliest memories is when I rode my first horse.”
“Tell me about it,” I urge.
“About the horse?”
I nod and twist my grip.
“It was brown,” Henry muses. “And much larger than I thought it would be. I was always a natural rider. Much more so than my brother, Arthur.”
That must be the brother who passed away. “Did you get along with Arthur?” I ask.
“Such a curious girl you are.”
I give his foot another squeeze, and his eyes roll back a bit in his sockets.
“I barely knew him,” Henry admits. “We lived separately most of our lives. When he died from the sweating sickness, I was suddenly the heir to the throne.” He pauses a moment. “I still keep some of his clothes in my wardrobe. It is not right for him to be forgotten.”
I’ll need to ask him more about Arthur in the future. “You seem to care very deeply about your health. Just how many physicians do you keep on call at the palace?”
Henry lets out a relaxed laugh. “Too many to count,” he says through a yawn. “Perhaps I will keep less now that I have you taking care of me. Already, I feel myself at ease in your presence. You are so calming, Catherine.” His eyes are beginning to flutter closed, and I pray, pray, pray that Bessie’s magic is working. I ease my steady strokes of his foot but don’t stop entirely.
“A husband should not sleep on his wedding night,” Henry whispers. “Come lay with me, wife. Let me hold you while we rest.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I tell him gently.
I move my hand to his ankle, squeezing and releasing the strained muscles. I’ve barely done it a second time before Henry is dead asleep. I keep my eyes trained on his torso, making sure that he’s not actually deadinhis sleep and find him breathing deeply.
He’s alive. He’s sleeping. I’m safe.
I carefully stand on the bed beside the king’s resting form. “Henry?” He doesn’t move or stir. I bounce the bed with my feet as I raise my voice a little higher. “Henry?” Still nothing. I do a big jump up and let myself fall onto the mattress. Henry starts to snore.
I look at the door, well aware that at least twelve noblemen perverts are standing on the other side to ensure that the marriage is consummated. I take a cleansing breath and roll my shoulders.
It’s showtime.
“Oh, Henry, yes!” I jump on the bed again, making sure to get the blanket extra rumpled. “Yes, right there! Ah!” I’m moaning like I’ve never moaned before, in part because I’ve never had superbly spectacular sex before, but also because I need those creepy door voyeurs to think that Henry is the most fantastic lover in the whole court.
I roll off the bed, and Henry rolls in the opposite direction, snuggling deeper into the pillow. My feet hit the floor and I charge at the doors like they owe me money, smacking my handsagainst the solid wood. I hear a startled collective gasp from the other side, and it makes me smile.
“Henry, ugh!” I body-slam the door a few more times for good measure before I notice a desk on the far side of the room. Moaning as I make my way over to it, I’m delighted to find a stack of paper, an ink bottle, and a quill pen stationed along the surface. “That’s it! Harder! Don’t stop!” I crescendo and pound my hands on the desk with a final violent smash.
I let the grand finale linger in the air before I take a breath, then calmly sit in the waiting chair. Setting a piece of paper in front of me, I dip the tip of the pen into the ink. Now that the necessary theatrics are over, I can get down to what’s really important.
Henry VIII, I am going to clinical note the shit out of you.
Chapter Nine
