Henry had been a prince then, and wild with the conviction that he did not want the crown. He had meant to tell his father he would not be made heir over graves.
Stephen had followed him through the passages, wholly terrified. Stephen had chased after him all the way to the king's chambers only to find the king gasping for breath.
The letter had drifted beneath the bed. Stephen often thought that was the mercy upon which England's peace had balanced.
Stephen had found the letter later. Luck? Maybe. Divine will? Probably. Had it fallen into the wrong hands, the kingdom might have drowned. He folded it again.
The king knew enough to hate his mother. But did he know the whole of it? Stephen doubted it. Henry tortured himself daily for sins that had not been his. He wore his brothers' graves beneath his skin. That was Theodora's cruelest trick: she had murdered obstacles, made a king, and somehow left her son holding the guilt.
