Beside him stood a man Livia had never seen before. He was older. A leather satchel hung at his side, and his sharp eyes moved over Livia with assessment.
Livia's wrists were bound loosely to the bedposts with rough cloth: Tears slipped silently from the corners of her eyes, trailing into her hair.
"I need to know if she remains untouched," Nicholas said bluntly. "It's time I start earning from her before she decides to give it away for free."
The sleazy physician hummed thoughtfully, stepping closer to the bed. "I know men who would pay handsomely if she is," he said. "Pounds, even. If you're interested."
Nicholas waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, yes, we'll talk about that later. Just do what you came to do."
The physician glanced sideways at him. "Do you have to be here for this?"
"You want me to leave you alone with her so you can have your wicked way?"
The man scoffed. "I am a professional." The physician set his satchel down on a nearby stool and moved to the small basin in the corner of the room. He poured water from a jug and washed his hands carefully.
Livia watched him, her breathing uneven. Her heart pounded so loudly she could hear it in her ears. "Please…" she whispered. "Please don't…"
Neither man answered her. Livia squeezed her eyes shut. In that moment, she wished for dignity.
For the kind of life where her worth was not something measured, priced, and sold. A fresh wave of tears slipped down her face as the room seemed to close in around her.
"Shhhh… don't move. You will just make this difficult." the doctor said, and proceeded to hold her thighs apart, putting two fingers inside her.
Livia's body went rigid. Her fingers curled against the rough cloth binding her wrists to the bedposts, nails digging into her own palms as if she could disappear into herself. The ceiling above her was cracked, stained from years of damp and neglect. She fixed her eyes on it, forcing herself to stare, to focus on anything that was not what was happening to her.
Tears slid down her temples into her hair. The doctor worked quickly, like a man inspecting goods he neither owned nor respected enough to pretend otherwise.
Livia bit down on her lip, hard enough to taste blood. Moments later, he pulled his fingers out and stepped away. He walked over to the basin, rinsing his hands in the water.
"Well?" Nicholas asked impatiently. He hadn't moved from where he stood, arms folded, eyes fixed on the doctor like a man waiting for the price of livestock.
The doctor dried his hands slowly before turning. "Yes," he said. "She remains untouched. Do you want to have that discussion now?"
Nicholas grinned. "Bring your offers. I'll take the one with the highest bid."
The doctor nodded, businesslike. "Very well." He picked up his bag and walked out of the room without sparing Livia another glance.
Nicholas laughed. "I am finally going to make a profit of you," he said, stepping closer to the bed, looking down at her. "I heard the men like them young nowadays."
Livia said nothing. She couldn't. Her throat felt tight. Her eyes burned, but she refused to close them now.
Nicholas turned and walked out, just like that. Leaving her there. Livia stared up at the ceiling again, but now it blurred, her vision swimming with tears she could no longer hold back.
*****
When Lionel arrived the next morning, the king was already dressed. Henry stood before a tall polished mirror framed in dark oak, adjusting the fall of his doublet. The fabric was rich—deep burgundy velvet, embroidered subtly with gold thread at the cuffs and collar. On the table beside him rested the crown.
Lionel stepped in and bowed. "Your Majesty."
Henry acknowledged him with a slight nod. Lionel remained near the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
The rumours had spread quickly. Courts thrived on whispers the way taverns thrived on ale. And the past nights'… events had provided more than enough material.
Lionel cleared his throat. Then stopped. Then cleared it again. Henry finally reached for the crown.
"Lionel," he said calmly, lifting it and settling it onto his head, "if you have something to say—say it."
Lionel straightened. "Well," he began carefully, "word around court is that the king has some…" He hesitated, searching for a phrase that would not cost him his position—or his head. "…some issues." He coughed lightly.
Henry met his own reflection in the mirror, adjusting the crown by the slightest fraction. "That would be correct."
"Your Highness," Lionel said quickly, stepping forward a fraction, "this is not something that should be gossiped about. If there is a concern, it can be handled discreetly. Shall I summon the royal physician?"
Henry turned then, one brow lifting in mild confusion. "Lionel," Henry said, "do enlighten me. What exactly does the court believe is wrong with their king?"
"Well, I am sure it is a temporary thing," Lionel said, trying—and failing—to sound reassuring, "but it may be wise to address it before it… worsens."
"What, precisely, is meant to get worse?"
"The… issue," Lionel said carefully.
Henry stared at him. "The issue," he repeated flatly.
Lionel's eyes, traitorous things that they were, flickered downward—just for a second—toward the lower half of the king's person.
Henry followed the glance. Then closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled. "What," he said slowly, "is this gossip?"
Lionel shifted his weight again, wishing very much to be anywhere else. "They say," he began cautiously, "that Your Highness is… unwell. In your… you know…"
"In my what, Lionel?"
Lionel swallowed. "Your… manhood, sire."
"I dismiss two women," he said, "and suddenly I am the subject of medical speculation?"
Lionel hurried to respond. "Four, Your Majesty."
"Four?"
Lionel nodded, now fully committed to his own demise. "Yes, sire."