In all this time Henry had not shared my bed for even an hour, which in itself was a source of anxiety for me. One son left a throne weak. I would imagine that Henry would want more, and that this would be too good an opportunity for him to miss. How many more days could we guarantee that we would be together? But he did not. Fine drawn, strung with nerves, Henry avoided me, and I knew better than to suggest any of Alice’s nostrums. I dared not. The tension around Henry was sharp as his goshawk’s talons.
I dared not, not even when Henry came to my room that final night, when I least expected it, when I had given up hope. As I was kneeling at my
‘Henry…’
It was the first time we had been alone together since I had returned to France. Unnerved, I stood and I stretched out my hand, my mind suddenly flooded with compassion. Where was the pride, the stern composure? Here was a man suffering from some terrible weight, but whether of mind or body I did not know. Instinct told me that he needed me, and I would respond with all the generosity in my heart, but would he tell me what troubled him?
‘Forgive me,’ he said softly.
For what I was uncertain, neither did I ask when Henry took my hand and led me to the bed, where he pushed me to sit on the edge. I would allow him to do as he wished if it would bring him relief from the pain in his clenched jaw and tired eyes. He sat beside me, his actions spare and controlled, and, leaning, he pressed his lips where my pulse beat at the base of my throat, his hand pushing my shift from my shoulders. When his kisses grew deep, almost with desperation in them, I clung to him. Then Henry groaned against my throat, becoming still. His eyes were closed, every muscle braced.
‘Henry?’
He flung away, to lie supine beside me. Then: ‘Before God, I cannot do this.’ And turned to press his face against my hair. ‘I can’t. Do you know what it takes for me to admit that?’
Despite the nerves that were clenched hard in my belly, compassion ran strong through my blood. There was some problem here, one even greater than I had feared, that Henry could not control. My hands, holding tight to his shoulders, becoming aware of the sharpness of bone and sparseness of flesh, told their own story.
‘You are unwell,’ I murmured. I slid my palms down from his shoulders, along the length of his arms where the muscles had wasted. I pushed the robe away from his chest, and I could see his collarbone stark beneath his skin. ‘What is it?’ I whispered, horrified.
His attempt at a smile, perspiration standing out on his forehead, was a poor one. ‘The usual soldiers’ disease—a bout of dysentery. But I’m on the mend—although this seems worse than I can ever recall.’
‘But you are not on the mend,’ I observed carefully, fearful of driving him away in a bout of pride. ‘It has gone on too long, hasn’t it? I think we should send for your doctor from England.’
He stiffened. I thought he would refuse, then he capitulated, which said much for his state of mind. ‘Yes. I can’t say no, can I?’
‘I will send for him. To come here—or to Vincennes?’
‘Here—to Senlis. I will come back here after the next battle. It shouldn’t be long.’ His voice was a mere thread, the old scar on his face standing out, angry and livid.
‘I don’t think you should go,’ I remonstrated, but again gently. Henry was in no state to be harangued, even if I thought it would do any good. ‘You are not well enough. You drive yourself too hard. You should stay here and recover your health.’
His response, on a laboured intake of breath, was predictable. ‘It has to be done. I’ll fight your brother at Cosne, and defeat him.’ He kissed me, a perfunctory brush of lips, on my brow. ‘God will give me the strength I need. I’ll deal with the rebels and then I’ll come back here.’
‘We should go home.’ I tried to keep the distress from my voice. ‘You should see your son.’
‘Yes. You’re right, of course. I’ll leave John in command here.’ He kissed me again. ‘I can’t rest…I can’t sleep.’ I had never seen him so close to despair.
‘Stay,’ I said, as I had so many times before, but now with a difference. ‘Stay and sleep.’
And he did. For the first time Henry spent the whole night in my bed. Restless and plagued by dreams, he found little healing, but I stayed awake at his side in an anxiety-filled vigil, trying to quell my mounting fears. His flesh was heated, his hands curling into claws as his head thrashed on the pillows. As I covered Henry once again with the disordered bed linens, all I could see was a man driven beyond endurance by some monstrous assault.
