The Red Rose of Anjou - Plaidy Jean - Страница 48

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‘Sometimes I think you are as much my physician as the King’s,’ she told him.

It was a few days before Christmas. Margaret went into the King’s room. Her heart leaped for the King smiled at her.

‘Margaret,’ he said, and held out his hand.

She went on her knees by his bed. She could not bring herself to look at him. She feared she had imagined she had heard his voice. She believed that this must be some dream.

She felt his fingers on her hair.

‘Margaret,’ he said. ‘My Queen Margaret.’

She lifted her face. She could not see him clearly for her tears were blinding her.

Then she said in a small choked voice: ‘Henry...Henry, you are going to get well.’

She could not wait for more. Her emotions, which she had kept so long in check, were breaking free. She went into her room and for the first time for months she wept.

###

Margaret went to William Hately. She looked at him in bewilderment.

‘I know,’ he told her. ‘I have seen the King.’

‘He is well. He is recovered. He is himself again.’

‘My lady, let us go gently with him. His mind will be delicate as yet. It has been dormant so long.’

‘You are right,’ she said. ‘We must go carefully. What of our baby? He has not seen him yet.’

‘Wait awhile. He is as a man coming out of a long sleep. Let him awake slowly. It is best for him. Do not let us overburden his mind with any matter which could distress him.’

‘Our child would delight him.’

‘It is true but it would remind him that there is the heir to the throne. I think we should not let him think of his kingly duties as yet.’

Margaret was ready to follow the doctor’s advice.

‘At least,’ went on William Hately, ‘let us wait a few days. Let us see what this cure really means.’

So they waited. Margaret sat with him. He talked a little and then slept for long periods. Margaret was terrified when he fell into one of these long sleeps that when he awakened he would be as before.

But this was not so. He continued to improve.

He knew that it was Christmas.

‘At Christmas,’ he said, ‘it is my custom to send an offering to the shrine of St. Edward the Confessor.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Margaret. ‘He was always your model. You always said that you would rather be like him than any of your great warrior ancestors.’

‘I did and I meant it. And I would send to Canterbury to the shrine of St. Thomas a Becket.’

‘Your wishes shall be carried out. I shall see to that.’

He took her hand and kissed it.

Christmas was celebrated quietly at Coventry Castle but there was a great hope in Margaret’s heart. The long months of anxiety were at an end.

She and the doctor decided that the time might be ripe to present Henry with his son.

She carried the Prince into his bedchamber and held him out to Henry.

‘Henry,’ she said, ‘this is our son.’

He looked from her to the baby and memory came back to him. Yes, she had been pregnant before the darkness descended on him. That was long ago. This child was now a year old.

‘Our child, our Prince,’ he said wonderingly.

‘The same, my love,’ said Margaret, her emotion threatening once more to overcome her.

‘What did you call him?’ asked Henry.

‘Edward. 1 thought it was a good name. I thought the people would like it.’

‘I like it,’ said Henry.

Then he put the palms of his hands together and began to pray.

Young Edward looked at him wonderingly and was not sure whether he liked him. He turned to his mother and looked as though he were about to cry until the jewelled necklace she was wearing caught his eyes. He seized it and so great was his interest in that that tears were avoided on his first meeting with his father.

Afterwards Margaret sat with Henry and he told her that he remembered nothing of what had happened since his illness overtook him. He had not been aware of anyone or anything.

‘I have been with you these many months,’ she told him. ‘I have nursed you myself I did not trust anyone else.’

She did not explain what was happening immediately. On the advice of William Hately she would do so gradually.

York was in control. The people seemed to like him. He had established a certain order throughout the country. Their dear friends Somerset and Exeter were captives.

‘They must be released,’ said the King.

‘It is the first thing we shall do when we are in command again. We shall dismiss York and his friends and bring back our own.’

Henry looked a little tired and closed his eyes. William Hately said: ‘Do not talk too much of State affairs to him. Let it come gradually. He has recovered but he is still weak.’

Let him recover gradually!

Impatient as she was for action, Margaret could see the wisdom of that. For the moment the affairs of the country must remain in York’s hands, but not for long...

Bishop Waynflete and the Prior of St. John’s came to Coventry to see the King.

He was delighted to receive them and he was happy praying with them.

He has not changed, thought Margaret.

Soon we must leave Coventry. Soon we shall take over the reins of government.

###

That was a happy Christmastime. Every day Henry showed some improvement and began to take an interest in his surroundings.

The choice of Coventry had been a wise one for it had always been a favourite of his. He wanted to visit the churches of the town. There were three which had been standing there for years. Henry delighted in them, particularly that of St. Michael which had been built long ago in the reign of the first Henry and had been given to the monks of Coventry by Earl Randulph. Then there was St. Mary’s Hall which he himself had built. It had an intricately carved roof with figures which were almost grotesque, a minstrels’ gallery and an armoury. The enormous glass windows were a treasure in themselves. Henry delighted in it and his enthusiasm showed from his eyes as he talked of it with Margaret. In this hall was a tapestry which Henry had ordered to be made and which had been hung only a few years previously. It was thirty feet by ten and Henry had helped to design it. The colours, he pointed out, showed what advances had been made in dyeing and they really were exquisite.

It was wonderful to see his excitement over these things, but Margaret wished he could be equally so with regard to State matters. He did not seem to wish to discuss those. Whenever such questions were brought up, a film would come over his eyes and he would put his hand to his head as though he were tired. It was too dangerous as yet to insist for Margaret had a horror of his lapsing once more into that lethargy which bordered on idiocy.

What she would have to do was to bring his friends to him. Let him talk to them. Let him see that he was loved by many. Then they would set about ousting arrogant York from the Protectorate and bringing Somerset back.

One day there were visitors at the castle and Margaret received them warmly for she knew very well that there could not be stronger supporters of the Lancastrian cause. Their prosperity would most certainly depend on it, and that was the best reliance one could have on friends. A cynical observation, some might say, but it was nevertheless true and even if there was real regard it must be strengthened by expediency.

The visitors were brought in to the King and when he saw them his pleasure was obvious.

‘Can it really be...Owen?’ said Henry.

Owen Tudor was on his knees before the King.

‘Your servant,’ he said.

‘Owen Tudor.’ The King’s eyes were glazed with emotion. I remember you well, Owen.’

‘My lord, your mother and I talked so much of you, thought so much of you...When we were together... before they parted us we used to say how happy we could have been if you were with us.’

‘Yes, I should have been happy too. I remember being impressed by you all and feeling a certain longing and a resentment, too, because I was the son of a King. Oh, Owen, how good it is to see you and recall those days when you taught me to ride my pony. I fear I was a timid pupil.’

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