Chapter 18 Angoulême, Aquitaine, late September 1368 #2
Jeanette frowned. She had been worried about him for some time, despite his protests that he was hale and hearty.
The struggle to hold Aquitaine together in the face of an ever-increasing threat from France and growing hostility and antipathy from the people themselves was putting him under great strain.
He was desperate for funds, with no way of finding them save by raising taxes and selling what surplus they could afford to lose without looking threadbare and weak.
It was taking its toll without respite. He was Aquitaine’s prince, and the rule succeeded or fell with him.
‘It may be nothing,’ she said firmly, ‘but you should rest, at least until the morrow.’
He gave her a wan smile, but at least it was a smile, and he was aware. ‘Yes, my lady,’ he replied, and then his face clouded. ‘John . . . I must write to John.’
‘Enough for now. I will see that a letter is sent – indeed, you can dictate it, but tomorrow is soon enough. There is no time left to send a messenger today.’
He nodded and looked relieved. ‘Will you come to me later then? I shall look for you. I shall be better in the morning, I swear.’
‘Of course, and of course.’
She kissed his brow and squeezed his hand before curtseying to him and taking her leave.
Although she had smiled and given him encouragement, her stomach was knotted with worry.
He could not afford to be ill. They both knew it, but God determined a person’s lot in the world.
They were at His mercy, and God had not been merciful when He took her beloved Thomas.
‘Is Papa going to be all right?’ Maud asked, wide-eyed. ‘What is wrong with him?’ She looked at her mother with anxiety that pleaded for reassurance.
Jeanette was shaken and desperate for reassurance herself.
‘Yes, of course he is going to be all right,’ she said, hugging Maud and then Joannie, who was sucking her lip.
‘He spoke to me just now and all he needs is a little while to rest. The physician will give him something to make him sleep and he will soon be better. There is nothing for you to worry about, either of you.’ Which was true. The worry was all hers.
That night she joined Edward in bed as he had asked and lay down beside him, but after acknowledging her and asking her to hold his hand, he fell asleep, still propped up to ease his breathing.
He had asked for the night candle to remain burning, and when Jeanette looked at him, the play of light and shadow made hollows in his face giving it the aspect of a skull cast in bronze.
In the morning, he was slightly improved but still breathless.
He insisted on dressing but had to conduct business from his bed.
He ate some bread and cheese, drank wine and joked with his knights and lords, but struggled to project his voice and now and then would lose the thread of what he had been saying and had to be reminded – which made him querulous.
He spent some time at prayer with his chaplain and consulted his physician, and in between he slept.
At one point when he was awake, Jeanette brought his sons to his side.
Little Edward sat on his bed as good as gold and presented him with a sticky sweetmeat he had saved especially for him.
Edward accepted it solemnly and promised he would eat it later.
Richard wanted to run around the room like a buzzy small fly, refused to sit still for a moment and had a tantrum when his nurse tried to stop him.
Edward shook his head as Mundina carried him off, kicking and screaming. The sound of his wails echoed away down the stairs. ‘Do not tell me he takes after me,’ he said.
Jeanette wrinkled her nose at him. ‘Well, only in that he will grow up to be a man,’ she said.
‘He is overwrought and needs to sleep. He can be very loving when he chooses and charm everyone in sight. It is like having two sides of a coin, and when you flip the coin, you never know which side is going to fall uppermost.’ She tousled her older son’s hair. ‘Now this one is the same both sides.’
‘Good as gold then,’ Edward said, smiling.
Jeanette kissed the boy’s cheek. ‘He is indeed.’ She stood up. ‘To business. I shall write condolences to John about Blanche, and you shall add whatever you wish, and we shall seal it together.’ She sent a servant to fetch a scribe.
Edward grasped her hand and rubbed his thumb over her wedding ring. ‘I will be well soon,’ he said. ‘It is but a small malady. Before you know it, I will be whole and strong.’
‘Of course you will, my love.’ She gave him her warmest smile while they looked at each other with mutual fear in their eyes, trapping the unsaid words.
The scribe arrived, and Edward focused on deciding what to say to John.
And then there was another letter to his father about Aquitaine, a letter that made no mention of his sudden debilitation.
By the end of the session Edward’s lids were drooping and his complexion was chalky, with grey shadows beneath his eyes.
Jeanette motioned the scribe away and told him to make full copies of the letters and prepare them for sealing.
Tom arrived as she was finishing her task and enquired after his stepfather.
‘He is very tired,’ she said. ‘The physician believes his humours are unbalanced. He says he should be bled again, and his diet adjusted.’ She shook her head.
‘He has not been himself since your return from Castile. He should never have gone, but there is no point in belabouring him with that opinion, for it does not help us and is nothing we can undo. But I am worried for him – for all of us.’
Tom set a comforting arm around her shoulder and Jeanette swallowed tears.
She must be strong for everyone – she could not put the burden on her eighteen-year-old son.
He might be an accomplished young warrior, and he had learned much of the political court under his stepfather’s tutelage, but no good would come of making him the parent and herself the child.
She patted his hand and lifted her head.
‘With God’s help and our own wits, we shall survive. ’
‘I do not doubt it, mother,’ he said. ‘You are formidable, and I will watch out for my stepfather.’ He kissed her temple.
‘I know you will – you’re a good son.’
He made a rueful gesture. ‘I try to be,’ he said.
Over the next few weeks, Jeanette watched Edward make a tentative improvement.
One day he was bright and eager, even visiting the stables and riding one of the more sedate palfreys for a short while and conducting business from his chair.
But the following day he had to take to his bed again and pay for the energy expended.
He conducted a few desultory pieces of work but was forced with exhausted frustration to delegate the rest.
Autumn advanced; the leaves on the trees turned to mellow gold; the chestnuts were harvested, with cartloads delivered to the castle gates. The new wine was full and sweet, tasting of pulped grapes.
Edward forced himself to dress, to show himself in public in the great hall, but had to use a stick to walk or be supported to reach his chair.
It was a choice of two evils – whether to remain bedridden in his chamber and not appear at all or be helped to his seat in the hall and preside with everyone witnessing his difficulty.
Each day Jeanette went to prayers at dawn before visiting him to see how he fared.
The results were variable, and he was exasperated by his condition, having always been an active, vigorous man accustomed to riding long distances, governing, making decisions and socialising with his peers and his soldiers; seeing to the education of his squires, playing with his children, and enjoying the marriage bed with relish.
Much of this was no longer possible or only in increments, and at a time when his rule in Aquitaine was collapsing.
Each day brought fresh news of rebellion, or incursions by the French.
Letters to his father yielded tepid results, and requests for aid elicited vague promises that did not materialise.
‘It is Fortune’s wheel,’ he told Jeanette one morning in early November.
He was dressed today and sitting in his chair, drinking wine while Jeanette and Alys attended on him.
‘At the pinnacle a man has the world at his feet, but in a moment, he is cast into the abyss. It is a long drop, and never far away.’
‘Even if you fall, you must rise again as the wheel turns,’ Jeanette replied steadfastly. ‘You said that in essence when you courted me. Do not now tell me it was false!’
He lifted the cup of tisane prepared by his physician. ‘Perhaps not, but I do not know what section of the wheel I was on when I spoke, and it makes a difference.’ He sipped, then grimaced.
Jeanette stood up. Dear God, this was too much to bear. ‘I must go and see what my ladies are doing, but I shall return in a moment.’
‘You see,’ he remarked with dark humour, ‘my good fortune deserts me, and so does my wife.’
He tried to smile but she saw his pain and it sharpened her own.
‘I will never desert you. I swore to be at your side in sickness and in health, and I meant every word – and while faith binds me to that oath, so does love. But I really do have to talk to my ladies and attend to my own correspondence. It is not an excuse, and you should rest for a little while. I shall return soon.’ She kissed his brow and then his lips and took her leave.
Once beyond the door in safety, Jeanette closed her eyes and leaned against the wood, swallowing hard, struggling not to break down and sob her heart out. Alys, who had followed her, gazed at her in consternation and rubbed her arm. After a moment Jeanette rallied and stood tall.
‘Not a word of this to the others,’ she warned. ‘I trust your discretion. He must never know.’