‘He could barely ride when he left here—he was too weak in spite of his insistence,’ John continued. ‘We travelled to Vincennes by river in the end, which was easier. Henry tried to ride the final miles into camp but it could not be.’ John passed his tongue over dry lips. ‘He was carried the last distance in a litter.’
‘And that was three weeks ago.’
‘Yes, my lady. On the tenth day of August. He did not leave his bed again.’
But…it made no sense. He had been so ill that he could not ride a horse for three weeks? For a moment I closed my eyes against what I now understood…Then opened them and fixed John with a stare, for I must know the truth and I would not allow him to dissemble.
‘My husband was bedridden for three weeks.’
‘Yes.’
‘Who was with him? At the end?’
‘I was. His uncle Exeter. Warwick. His captains. James, of course.’ His eyes slid from mine. Dear John. He knew exactly what I was asking. ‘I think there might have been other members of his council, and of course his household. I forget…’
‘And what did you speak of?’
‘What use is this?’ my mother demanded, still at my side, her hand still gripping mine. ‘What use to know what he said? I swear it will give you no comfort.’
I shook her off, stepping to stand alone with a bleak resolve. ‘I need to know. What did you discuss in all those three weeks, John?’
‘Matters of state. Government affairs, of course. The direction of the war…’
‘I see.’
Henry’s brother, his uncle, his friend and captains had all been summoned to his side, but not his wife. They had discussed matters of state, but nothing as personal as the ignorance of a wife who had not been invited to attend her husband’s deathbed. His
‘Did he speak of me at the end?’ I asked, my voice perfectly controlled, knowing the answer by now. ‘Did he talk of me or of his son?’
‘Of his son, yes. It was imperative to consider the position of the new king.’ John’s eyes were full of misery as his gaze met mine. I admired his courage to deliver that blow so honestly. I needed honesty beyond anything else.
‘It was not imperative to consider my position. He did not talk of me,’ I stated.
‘No, my lady. Not of you.’
I took a breath against the dark shadows that hovered. ‘What did Henry say at the very end? Did he know he was dying?’
‘Yes. He said that he wished he could have rebuilt the walls of Jerusalem. He begged forgiveness for his sins. He said that he had wronged Madam Joanna.’ John smiled grimly. ‘He has released her. You will be relieved to hear that, I know. She never deserved her imprisonment.’
I laughed harshly, mirthlessly. At least he had remembered Madam Joanna.
‘That was all he said, until he committed his soul to Christ’s care.’ John took my hand. ‘Forgive me, Katherine. There was no easy way to deliver this catastrophic news. I cannot imagine your grief. If there is more I can tell you…’
There was really nothing more to ask. Nothing more for me to say. But I did, because the dark clouds were rent and the true horror had struck home.
‘Why did he not tell me that he was near death? Why did he not send for me?’
It was a cry of anguish.
Shamed, because there was no answer that could be made, I covered my mouth with my shaking hands. And walked from the room.
I did not weep. I could not sit, could not lie down on my bed. I stood in the centre of the floor in my chamber and let the realisation wash over me as the sun covered me with its warm blessing from head to foot. I did not feel it. I was shocked to ice, blood sluggish, my heart nothing more than a lump of frozen matter. How could the sun be so warm on my skin when all feeling, all life seemed to have drained from me?
Eventually I discovered that I was sitting on the floor, staring at the barred pattern made by the light and shadow on the tiles. Bars, such as those making a prison cell of a well-furnished room. But now the bars for me were open and for the first time since I had stood before the altar at Troyes I allowed myself to see the truth in all its rawness. I could pretend, I could hope no longer. Henry’s death had written it plain.
My life with Henry had been built on a swamp, all its footings unsure except for the legal binding in the eyes of the church. I had worshipped him, been blinded by him, made excuses for his neglect.
And had he not drawn me into the mirage? He had treated me with such chivalric respect when we had first met and he had wanted to woo my consent—not that he had needed it—but perhaps it had pleased him to acquire a besotted bride. Henry had enjoyed being lauded on all sides, and requiring unquestioning obedience had been part and parcel of his life.
