“Enough,” he said, and I was aware of the look of irritability in his face. “I am as well as ever. It is late, is it not?”
“You have slept longer than usual.”
He leaped out of bed. “Why did you not wake me?”
“I have only just awakened myself.”
“And wasting time contemplating me and coming to the conclusion that my looks do not please you.”
“You need rest,” I said.
“I need rest as much as I need an assassin’s knife. For me, Kate, there is no rest until there is peace throughout this land.”
“And then I doubt not you will have other plans for conquest.”
“No. I plan to go on a crusade.”
I stared at him.
“I’d take you with me,” he added.
I did not answer. I knew that would never come to pass.
That very day there was news. My brother Charles, the Dauphin, was on the march. He was going to attack the enemy, the Duke of Burgundy.
Burgundy was now Henry’s ally, and when he heard the news he said: “I must go to the aid of Burgundy. It would be a disaster if he were defeated by the Dauphin.”
“Need you be involved?” I asked.
He looked at me as though I were foolish.
“But of course I’m involved. The Dauphin had a victory when my brother Clarence was killed at Beaugé. That gave the enemy hope, and hope is something we must not let them regain. You do not understand these matters. I shall have to leave at once.”
“Could you not send your army and remain for a while?”
“Remain here…when my army is on the march! What are you thinking?”
“Just that at this time you seem to be in need of rest.”
“I? In need of rest! When there is an army to lead?”
“So…you will go?”
“Kate, sometimes you ask the most foolish questions.”
“I would you could stay behind.”
He turned from me impatiently. But a few seconds later he turned back and took me into his arms.
“Fret not,” he said. “I will be back with you ere long.”
“I pray that you will,” I said.
I went with him as far as Senlis.
There he decided I might be too close to the fighting. “Better,” he said, “that you go to Vincennes.”
I said: “I shall be close to you here.”
I saw the impatience in his face. “You will go to Vincennes immediately.”
So I left for the castle in the woods of Vincennes and he went on to Senlis.
It was only a few days later when I heard the sounds of shouting below my apartments in the castle. I looked down from my window and I could scarcely believe what I saw. Some men were carrying a litter and in it lay Henry.
I hurried down. He was very pale and half-conscious. It would be useless for him to attempt to hide his condition now.
One of the bearers spoke to me. He was tall and very good-looking and spoke English with an accent I did not recognize.
He said: “The King has been forced to leave the army. He could go no farther.”
“I see. Can he be brought up to the bedchamber?”
“At once, my lady.”
They carried him up. He lay on the bed…breathing deeply.
The tall bearer said to me: “My lady, you should send for a priest.”
I knew then how ill he was.
He was in fact dying. It seemed incredible that one so strong, so seemingly invincible, could be so suddenly struck down.
I said to the bearer: “We will nurse him back to health.”
He looked at me rather sadly and with such pity that I was deeply touched.
It was some hours before I could convince myself that this really was the end.
Henry had suffered from dysentery for some time. It was the soldier’s disease and taken for granted, so was lightly brushed aside. Now he seemed to have some disorder of the chest, for he coughed a great deal and his breathing was difficult.
The physicians shook their heads gravely, implying there was little they could do.
The Duke of Bedford left the army and came to his bedside. I was glad of his presence. He was the one of Henry’s brothers whom I had always trusted most.
“Be of good cheer,” he said to me. “He will recover. He always achieved what to others would seem impossible.”
I tried to smile, but it occurred to me that this time he was fighting a more formidable enemy than the French.
The confessor was with him. Henry managed, between gasps, to ask forgiveness for his sins. What were his sins? Those peccadilloes of his youth? Or the blood which had been shed on the battlefields of France? He did not mention that.
His confessor was reading the seven psalms. He came to the phrase “Build thou the walls of Jerusalem” when Henry feebly lifted a hand as a sign for him to pause.
He said between gasps: “When I had completed my conquests in Europe…it was always my intention…to make a crusade to the Holy Land.”
I wished that these thoughts would not enter my head at inopportune moments, but I could not help wondering whether he thought a crusade to the Holy Land would compensate for the misery and bloodshed he had brought to my country.
The harrowing bedside scene continued and I felt I could endure it no longer.
I whispered to the physician: “He will recover, will he not?”
The man did not speak; he just looked at me as though begging me not to demand a direct answer.
“I would like the truth,” I insisted.
“My lady…it will be a miracle if he lasts for another two hours.”
Henry asked for his brother Bedford, and the Duke, who was already at his bedside, came forward and took Henry’s hand.
“I am here, brother,” he said.
“John…you have been a good brother to me.”
“My lord King, brother…I have always sought to serve you.”
“I know. You were the one…I always trusted. John…now it will be for you. You must hold what I have gained. There is my son…a baby. There is Kate…my wife. Comfort Kate, John. She will be the most afflicted creature living…so young…and the child, John …”
“I will do all you wish. I will do as you would.”
Henry nodded and closed his eyes. He looked as though he were at peace.
We stood at his bedside in silence, and into my mind came the strange prophecy I had heard. “Henry of Monmouth would reign a short time and gain much.” The first part had come true.
I was filled with a sense of awe and deep loss. I had one thought: I must get back to my son. He had lost his father. He was not yet a year old and he was King of England.
I tried to look ahead, but the future seemed dark, mysterious and foreboding.
Looking back now on those days at Vincennes, I realize that for most of the time I thought I was living through some evil dream. It was hard to accept the fact that Henry was dead. He had been so vital. If he had been killed in battle, it would not have been so unexpected. But to die like this…in such a short time…seemed impossible.
There was a great deal to be done. He must be given a worthy funeral. The people of France must be made to understand that the death of the great conqueror did not mean that the English grip on the country would be lessened. He had brothers to carry on with his great schemes of conquest.
I wondered what effect this was having on my parents at the Hôtel de St.-Paul. I could imagine that my mother was busily scheming. As for my poor father, he had long given up hope of regaining the crown and I was not sure that he would want it if he could. His only pleasure nowadays was keeping away from conflict.
John of Bedford was a great help. Deeply grieving as he was, he took over the arrangements for the funeral and, oddly enough, it was the tall squire who had helped bear the litter to Vincennes who gave me the greatest comfort.
I singled him out among the others. It might have been because he had a kindly face which showed at the same time a strength of character. I liked the lilting way he spoke English. My own was less than perfect and I had often found it difficult to follow those who did not speak the language in the way Henry and the people around me did. He was from Wales, and the Welsh accent was musical and pleasant to listen to. I was glad of Bedford’s efficiency, but he was not a man to whom one could talk easily, and this man had a soothing manner which might have been due to his voice.