"Your Majesty?" Livia questioned, glancing at their joined hands.
Henry leaned slightly toward her, his voice lowered for her ears alone. "Oblige me."
Her brow furrowed.
"Be my strength as I walk through Whitehall," he murmured. "I do not want my mother knowing about the shooting."
Livia nodded and together they began to cross the courtyard. Behind them came Lionel, watchful as ever, his hand never far from his weapon. Stephen followed. Tabitha walked near the servants carrying Livia's cases from Covent Garden, her eyes moving over Whitehall as if she were already measuring where danger might hide.
The court saw them, of course. How could it not? The king of England walking through Whitehall with Livia's hand held openly in his own. It was a declaration.
A foreshadowing.
