Chapter 29 #2
She retired to her apartment and knelt in prayer before her own small personal altar.
There was no point in praying for a miracle.
If there was going to be one, it would have happened by now.
Edward had been dying slowly for a long time, and now they had arrived at the dregs.
She asked God to give him a gentle end and an honourable one.
Just let him slip from sleep into death.
She could sense it would not be tonight.
His flame was guttering, but it was not yet down to the wick.
Edward was awake early after a restless night.
Jeanette arrived in his chamber, her head feeling as if it was full of wool, for she too had slept very little.
He was sitting up, looking out at the park on a dew-drenched morning.
‘I have been watching the dawn come up,’ he said, ‘and the deer with the sun on their backs. A buck in the first light is a wonderful sight. I do not know how many more sunrises I shall see, and I want to appreciate every one of them.’
Jeanette swallowed against a tightness in her throat and took his hand.
‘When I was on campaign I would rise long before dawn and I have seen many a magnificent one, but none as fierce in my heart as these recent ones.’ He raised her hand to his lips. ‘I suppose we must make ourselves ready for my father. Will you help me rise?’
‘Edward, you are not well enough to go to Westminster.’
‘My beloved wife, we had this conversation last night,’ he said patiently.
‘I shall do so because I must. I cannot cheat what is coming, and I will find strength enough. It is not so far. It does not matter where I lie when death comes, and Westminster is fitting. I will make my peace with my father – nothing will remain unsaid.’
Jeanette bit her lip, determined not to cry. ‘As you wish,’ she said, because it was his desire, and she would not fight a battle that would only make the situation harder than it had to be.
He had himself borne down to the hall in his litter chair and his physician attended on him, giving him his tincture and massaging his cold limbs.
His father arrived soon after, dressed for riding, although he sat down at Edward’s side to break his fast on bread and cheese.
His eyes too were painted with dark shadows.
‘While we are eating, the grooms will saddle the horses,’ he announced.
Jeanette looked at Edward in alarm and shook her head. Riding was out of the question.
‘It will be good to have you back at court,’ his father said, with a complete lack of regard. ‘I remember when you were a lad how much you used to enliven the days. I miss those times when your mother was alive . . . We were always busy.’
‘Yes, sire, we were,’ Edward said, ‘but it was long ago.’
‘As close as yesterday,’ his father answered, a haunted look in his eyes. ‘I wish we had them now.’
Having briskly finished his meal, the King was ready to be on his way, full of obtuse, bluff denial. ‘The horses are ready,’ he said, hitching his belt. ‘Come, ride with me as we used to.’
Making a tremendous effort, Edward struggled to his feet. ‘Today I cannot ride, sire. I am not well enough to sit a horse, and I would not want to fall.’
His father snorted. ‘I do not understand what has happened to you. You are a young man still – you give me twenty years.’
‘That may be so, and my will is as strong as yours, but my body does not answer that will, nor has done so for a long time.’
The King rolled his eyes and huffed with irritation. He turned on his heel and strode to the doors, and when the horses were brought forward to the mounting block he swung into his saddle and looked at his son with brows raised.
Edward swallowed and made his way painfully to the horse that had been brought for him, but even walking that short distance caused his legs to buckle and he had to be rescued from the ground by his horrified knights.
The King exhaled with impatience and dismounted. ‘Then we shall go by barge,’ he snapped, and stalked back inside.
Jeanette stooped over Edward and was relieved to see he had only half fainted and was slowly reviving. ‘This is madness,’ she hissed, but he waved her away.
‘If we do not go now, it will be never, and it is my will as much as his that we go to Westminster.’
Resignedly, Jeanette put on her cloak and commanded the servants to bring the baggage down to the jetty.
The King sat on board the barge, fingers tapping.
If Jeanette had not heard him the previous evening begging God to make Edward well, she would have tossed him overboard, but her disgust was tempered by pity.
Edward’s attendants carried him tenderly on to the barge and arranged his position as comfortably as possible, half sitting, half lying on cushions.
His father cleared his throat, looked at him, then glanced away.
‘You will be well,’ he said. ‘Westminster will be good for you I know it. A change is all you need.’ His throat jerked as he swallowed hard, once and then again.
‘Yes, sire, I am sure it is,’ Edward replied blandly rather than using precious energy to argue.
The crew took up their oars and sculled out into the water. Richard had brought his new lute, and he played it for his father as they made the crossing to Westminster. The King watched Jeanette put her hand over Edward’s and again, after a moment, he looked away, his eyes glistening with moisture.
* * *
Edward’s chamber at Westminster Palace overlooked the river, and from his bed near the window he could watch the water ripple under wind and tide and observe the bustle of the busy port.
It comforted and soothed him to see the tide ebb and flow, even knowing he would never again ride it.
Now was the time for preparing his soul and making farewells.
He had been sleeping more these last few days, and his dreams had been so vivid that it seemed impossible they were mere imagination.
In them he was young and unfettered, riding a powerful horse, vigorous and able.
Fighting on battlefields where the sword was the song, and he was invincible, and there was no death except of enemies.
Tournaments where his lance took the prize every time.
Feasts and mirthful entertainments with Jeanette, young and beautiful, dancing in her red shoes and laughing.
The scent of her in his arms and longings assuaged leading to even greater longing.
A beautiful blond-haired boy at his bedside, stroking his hand before leading him out of the door and into a sun-dappled orchard.
He didn’t want to return from that one, but people were calling him, pressing a cup to his lips.
Waking him to change his soiled linens. Jeanette’s anxious face leaning over his.
‘I shall come back later,’ she said. ‘There is nothing for now that need trouble you.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘It seems you were in a better place.’
‘I was,’ Edward said with a weary smile. He dozed, and when he awoke, his father was with him, watching him with haunted eyes.
‘How are you today, my son?’ he asked.
From somewhere, Edward found the strength to speak. ‘Shall I say I am well, sire? Or perhaps that I shall soon be very well indeed . . . I am not in pain, but you can see the bones I shall very soon become.’
His father gripped his hand. ‘I was remembering today when you were a little boy riding upon my shoulders, using my hair for your reins. And when I knighted you, and all of France lay at our feet.’
Edward smiled weakly. ‘Those are good memories, and I am glad we have made them, but we must deal with what is to come. We are both dying, and there are matters to be accomplished and overseen – but you have longer to live than I do, and so you must do them, for I cannot.’
He gazed at his father, trying to pierce through the clouds that were inexorably enveloping the older man’s faculties.
Somewhere within that mist was a great king with the wisdom and experience of decades, and that wisdom had to be somehow kindled and harnessed for however long the flame would burn.
‘I have not always pleased you as a son. I know I have disappointed you sometimes, but let that go. That time is past. I do not want to die with anything other than love and knowing between us.’
A muscle clenched in his father’s gaunt cheek, and his voice was ashy when he spoke.
‘I would not have you die at all, but if God wills it, then even a king can do nothing. Whatever you have thought of me, I am not a fool, rather call me a lonely old man who shall be more so soon when I no longer have you. Of course there is love and knowing between us. How could there not be? You were born when I was little more than a boy myself.’ He squeezed Edward’s hand.
‘Tell me your will while you still have the strength, and I shall try to find my own strength and acceptance.’
Edward motioned to the cup at his bedside, and his father helped him to drink.
He swallowed and lay back. ‘I ask you to ensure that everyone I have remembered in my will receives what I have left to them. Look after my son Roger, since he is your grandson too, and let him receive all that I would have given him if I had lived.’
‘Of course, it shall be done.’
‘And I ask that you pay my debts and reimburse those I owe – the small folk as well as those in positions of power. That is most important to me.’
‘Again, it shall be done.’ Grim humour quirked his father’s lips. ‘That barrel of “sturgeon” you were offered by Richard Lyons that you refused?’
‘Yes, what of it?’