ambassador from Calais arrived. The ambassador was slow and soft-voiced and Margaret, seeing that the King appeared to be half-asleep, herself descended from the dais to take the dispatches offered. In her high-waisted gown and with her proud carriage, the presence of the royal babe was very evident. Her belly, said Jacquetta, burgeoned like a ship’s prow. Foolishness even to mention this, for all knew of the joyful condition, none more than the King. Yet there had been a sudden starting up from his chair, that familiar pointing finger, quivering and stabbing at the Queen. All had heard the King’s shrill cry, broken off short.
‘Forsooth! …’
Forsooth what, Our Blessed Lord only knew, for the King had sunk in a rapid swoon, falling headlong across the steps of the dais, his black robes hitched about his lean thighs, his dusty head and hands suppliant, down-pointing. Folk rose in dismay to succour him.
The King came to himself after a few minutes, when it was discovered that he could not speak. Stricken and mute, he looked uncomprehendingly at whoever addressed him. He was carried to bed, where he lay, his head turned to one side, gazing at the floor. The court was frantic. Master John Faceby had no rest for days and nights on end, desperately brewing simples or studying the planets’ courses for a reason for the King’s malady. Doctors were summoned privily from all over Europe; even a filthy wise-woman was consulted. This was August, and by Christmas the King had not uttered one word, nor had he lifted his eyes, even to survey the new Prince, England’s heir.
‘They carried the babe to him over and again, so that he might bless it,’ said the Duchess. ‘But it was useless. The King only moaned a little, and kept his eyes down. It was a terrible malady, a madness, carried in the blood. The King’s grandsire, Charles of France, was likewise stricken.’
The disaster was so close kept that half England remained in ignorance of it. Yet the agents of York and Warwick were no less vigilant than in times past. That very Christmas a deputation headed by Warwick arrived at court with the time-honoured, sardonic request to know how the King prospered. There was no help but to reveal Henry to them, and the secret was no more. One look at that face as empty as a dry well, those quivering drooping eyelids, coupled with his silence, and they knew then that the King wandered in some private world, alone among shadows.
‘There was naught to be done,’ murmured the Duchess. ‘Cursed York and his claim … he was appointed Protector of the Realm, being the nearest of the blood. A great triumph for Warwick. The Queen was nearly demented.’
‘Yet she had her son,’ said Elizabeth softly.
Out in the pleasaunce the birds were singing louder. Elizabeth dreamed of Bradgate, and folded her hands over the slight mound clothed by her green satin gown. Soon she would hold her own babe. She thought of John. He had ridden north to Groby to oversee some of his deceased father’s estates; he was bound for London soon, to join her. A little smile curved her mouth. ‘The fairest man, that best love can!’ Fairer than fair. The memory of all their days and nights together laid a veil over Jacquetta’s alarming narrative. All this talk of policy meant little, it seemed like the jousting of knights, spectacular but harmless. Lancaster had worn the crown for sixty years. What if the line did come only from Edward III’s fourth son, John of Gaunt? What if York, as he was ever at pains to stress, did descend directly from Lionel of Clarence, the third son? Lancaster was supreme – Agincourt had proved it. She sighed, and stroked again the little roundness below her narrow embroidered girdle. She could see her reflection in a sunlit pane of the oriel. Fair, I am fair. She cast a little sly smile at her mother. Fair enough to grace the ramparts of Lusignan! Then she said, dutifully:
‘And when did the King recover from this
‘Forsooth! …’
Forsooth what, Our Blessed Lord only knew, for the King had sunk in a rapid swoon, falling headlong across the steps of the dais, his black robes hitched about his lean thighs, his dusty head and hands suppliant, down-pointing. Folk rose in dismay to succour him.
The King came to himself after a few minutes, when it was discovered that he could not speak. Stricken and mute, he looked uncomprehendingly at whoever addressed him. He was carried to bed, where he lay, his head turned to one side, gazing at the floor. The court was frantic. Master John Faceby had no rest for days and nights on end, desperately brewing simples or studying the planets’ courses for a reason for the King’s malady. Doctors were summoned privily from all over Europe; even a filthy wise-woman was consulted. This was August, and by Christmas the King had not uttered one word, nor had he lifted his eyes, even to survey the new Prince, England’s heir.
‘They carried the babe to him over and again, so that he might bless it,’ said the Duchess. ‘But it was useless. The King only moaned a little, and kept his eyes down. It was a terrible malady, a madness, carried in the blood. The King’s grandsire, Charles of France, was likewise stricken.’
The disaster was so close kept that half England remained in ignorance of it. Yet the agents of York and Warwick were no less vigilant than in times past. That very Christmas a deputation headed by Warwick arrived at court with the time-honoured, sardonic request to know how the King prospered. There was no help but to reveal Henry to them, and the secret was no more. One look at that face as empty as a dry well, those quivering drooping eyelids, coupled with his silence, and they knew then that the King wandered in some private world, alone among shadows.
‘There was naught to be done,’ murmured the Duchess. ‘Cursed York and his claim … he was appointed Protector of the Realm, being the nearest of the blood. A great triumph for Warwick. The Queen was nearly demented.’
‘Yet she had her son,’ said Elizabeth softly.
Out in the pleasaunce the birds were singing louder. Elizabeth dreamed of Bradgate, and folded her hands over the slight mound clothed by her green satin gown. Soon she would hold her own babe. She thought of John. He had ridden north to Groby to oversee some of his deceased father’s estates; he was bound for London soon, to join her. A little smile curved her mouth. ‘The fairest man, that best love can!’ Fairer than fair. The memory of all their days and nights together laid a veil over Jacquetta’s alarming narrative. All this talk of policy meant little, it seemed like the jousting of knights, spectacular but harmless. Lancaster had worn the crown for sixty years. What if the line did come only from Edward III’s fourth son, John of Gaunt? What if York, as he was ever at pains to stress, did descend directly from Lionel of Clarence, the third son? Lancaster was supreme – Agincourt had proved it. She sighed, and stroked again the little roundness below her narrow embroidered girdle. She could see her reflection in a sunlit pane of the oriel. Fair, I am fair. She cast a little sly smile at her mother. Fair enough to grace the ramparts of Lusignan! Then she said, dutifully:
‘And when did the King recover from this
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