*At dawn,' he said. 'Come, let us retire now. The night is too short.'
So they retired but during the night he became very ill and she knew that he could not travel at dawn. He fought off the lassitude which overtook him and called for his armour.
Although he could scarcely stand he was dressed and ready to ride out, and set out at the head of his men for Melun, while the Queen went back to Rouen.
But as he neared Melun it was borne home even to him that he could go no further. It was no use pretending that nothing was wrong.
They prepared a litter for him and he was taken back to Senlis.
Henry knew that there was little time left to him. He believed he had displeased God in some way for he was only thirty-five years old. It was young to die and his work not completed. He had come farther than any English King before him. He had been himself a greater warrior even than Edward the First and Edward the Third. His people loved him; the crown of France was almost in his grasp and now he was to die.
His conscience smote him. He had caused his father great anxiety. In his youth he had lived without thought of anything but his own pleasure. John Oldcastle had expiated his past follies; he had died a martyr. But he, the King, what had he done? He had all but won France but for some divine reason he was not going to be allowed to complete the task.
He wanted to ask forgiveness of all those he had wronged. He wanted to know where he had failed.
He remembered his stepmother suddenly. Joanna who had been accused of witchcraft—not because there was any evidence against her but because he needed her money to help prosecute the war.
He must make amends. He must do it at once while there was time left to him.
All must be restored to her.
He sent for his scribe. He must write as dictated. All must
be restored to Queen Joanna and she must be released from captivity. He knew that she had been wrongfully accused.
'Let that be done without delay,' he commanded.
He felt better after that.
He sent for his doctors. 'Tell me, am I dying?' he asked.
'There is always hope, my lord,' they answered.
*I want the truth,' he answered. 'Do not think to spare me. I want to know how much time is left to me.'
'Sire,' was the answer, 'you must think of your soul for unless it is the will of God to decree otherwise you cannot live for more than two hours.'
Two hours, he mused. Only two hours left to me. What of my son ... a baby still? 'Send my brother. Send my uncle Exeter.'
They came and stood by his bedside.
'John,' he said, 'you have been a good brother to me. Be as good a friend to my son as you have been to me.'
'I will,' said Bedford.
'And my good Uncle of Exeter. You must be Regent of England and guardian to my son. As you love me care for him.'
'You may trust me,' said Exeter.
'Is that Warwick I see there? Our good cousin, be the governor of my son. Teach him what he should learn. Do this in memory of me, I beg of you.'
Warwick fell on his knees. 'My dear lord,' he said, 'if this must be then I will serve him as I served you.'
'I have good friends,' said the King. 'John,' he went on, 'you must comfort my Queen. She is young; she is the most afflicted creature living. Care for her.'
'I swear I shall do as you would have me,* said Bedford.
'Then there is no more for me to do but to die in peace.'
And so he died.
Katherine was stricken with grief. She was twenty-one years old and looked younger in her melancholy.
The King's body was placed on a chariot drawn by four horses and with a cavalcade of mourners was taken to Abbeville. It was an impressive procession for round the chariot rode four hundred men at arms in black armour, their horses covered in black velvet and their lances held with the points
downward. The rest of the mourners were clad in white and they walked slowly carrying lighted torches and chanting funeral dirges.
They passed from Abbeville to Montreuil and so to Calais. When they reached Dover they were met by processions of bishops and priests and so they brought the King home to his capital city.
He was buried in the chapel of the Confessor in Westminster Abbey and a chantry was endowed in his honour.
As soon as the funeral was over Katherine hurried to Windsor to see her child.
He had been nine months old when his father had died.
She took him at once to London and rode in a carriage through the streets with him seated on her lap. They had curled his little hands about the sceptre but they could not put the crown on his baby head.
It did not matter. The significance was plain. Henry the Fifth was dead and the disastrous reign of Henry the Sixth had begun.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Armitage-Smith, Sydney Aubrey, William
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Gairdner, James
Green, John Richard Guizot, M. (Translated by
Robert Black) Hume, David
McFarlane, K. B.
Ramsay, Sir James H. of
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Lee, Sir Sydney Strickland, Agnes Wade, John Waugh, W. T. Wylie, James Hamilton
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National and Domestic flistory
of England The Medieval Foundation Henry the Fifth The Last Plantagenets The Pageant of England
1377-^4^3 King Henry IV
England Under the Angevins
The Chronicles of England,
France, Spain etc, Lollardy and the Reformation in
England History of England History of France
History of England from the Invasion of Julius Caesar to the Revolution
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Genesis of Lancaster
English Society in the Middle
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Biography Lives of the Queens of England British History The Reign of Henry V History of England under
Henry the Fourth (Four
Volumes)
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(Continued from front flap)
Dominating the court was Harry of Monmouth, his fingers itching to take the crown, his reckless conduct causing scandal since he frequented disreputable company in the low-class taverns of East Cheap with his crony Sir John Oldcastle.
There came a time when the disease which had caused the King to hide himself away claimed him and Harry became King Henry the Fifth. The change was miraculous both for him and Oldcastle. The licentious youth became the great King, and the rake Oldcastle turned into a religious reformer. Oldcastle ultimately was a martyr to his cause and Harry became the conquering hero of Agincourt.
The star of Lancaster was in the ascendant. Harry had brought France to her knees and married her Princess. It seemed that the long war was at an end. But a greater enemy than the French awaited Harry, and the rising star of Lancaster was finally to depend on a nine-month-old child.
Jean Plaidy is the pseudonym of a well-known author who resides in England and has captured the world with her writing.
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