Margaret started as a great shout went up outside, realizing that the gathered lords had gone out to see the squealing hogs released into the royal forest. The king’s huntsmen would chase the animals deep into the trees and then keep an eye on them while the hunters mounted and prepared their dogs and weapons. She could already hear the spurred boots of men clattering around downstairs. It was easy to picture the scene as excited nobles called and joked with each other, grabbing cold meats from the tables to break their fast.
Over the raucous tumult below, Margaret did not hear her husband enter the room. She jerked from her reverie when he was announced by his steward, rising to her feet with a slight gasp of effort. Henry was as pale as ever, though she thought he looked a little less thin. It pleased her to see there were no bandages on his left hand, where the wound had finally healed. A pink mark like a burn remained, ridged and hard compared to the smoothness of his skin elsewhere. There were still bandages on his right palm, a tight wrap of white cloth that was changed and cleaned every morning. Even so, she was pleased at any small improvement in him.
King Henry smiled to see his wife. He kissed her forehead and then her mouth, his lips dry and warm.
‘Good morning, Margaret,’ he said. ‘Did you sleep? I had such dreams! Master Allworthy gave me a new draught that brought the strangest visions to me.’
‘And I would hear them all, my husband,’ Margaret replied, ‘but the great hunt is beginning. Your men have released the boars and your lords are gathering to go out.’
‘Already? I have only just risen, Margaret. I have eaten nothing. I will have my horse brought. Where is my stable master?’
Seeing Henry was growing agitated, Margaret smoothed her hands across his brow, a cool touch that always seemed to calm him. He subsided, his eyes growing vague.
‘You are not well enough to ride out with them, Henry. You would risk a fall or an injury if your weakness came suddenly upon you. They understand, Henry. The boars are your gift to them and they are grateful for the sport.’
‘Good … good, Margaret. I was hoping to pray in the chapel today and I did not see how I could find the time.’
He let himself be guided by her to a chair at a long table. A servant held it for him to sit and he settled himself as a steaming bowl of soup was placed before him. He picked up a spoon, eyeing the soup dubiously as Margaret’s own servant helped her to take a seat at his side.
On the floors below, Margaret could still hear the loud voices of the lords, clattering about with their preparations. Outside in the drizzle, the baying of hounds was rising in intensity as the animals sensed they would soon be set free to race after the boars. During the night, half the earls she had invited had brought their best hounds down to the stables to take the scent of Castor and Pollux. From the resulting noise, the dogs had been driven almost to frenzy by the closeness of the monstrous beasts. Margaret had slept little with the din, but she had smiled as she dozed even so.
Margaret watched as her husband spooned the soup into his mouth, his eyes completely blank, as if he saw some other landscape amongst the cutlery and square wooden plates. The terrors that had almost destroyed him had lessened in the year after Cade’s rebellion. She had made sure he saw and understood that the city of London was safe and peaceful once again, at least for a time.
Henry put down his spoon suddenly, rising from his place.
‘I should go out to them, Margaret. As host, I should wish them luck and good sport. Have the boars been sent out?’
‘They have, husband. Sit, it is all in hand.’
He sat once more, though her sternness faded at the sight of him fiddling with his cutlery, for all the world like a boy denied the chance to run outside. Margaret raised her eyes, amused and indulgent.
‘Go then, husband, if you think you must. Steward! The king will need a cloak. Be sure he puts it on before going into the rain.’
Henry rose quickly, leaning forward to kiss her before leaving the room at something close to a run. She smiled then, settling down to her own soup before it grew too cold.
The gathering of earls and their servants at the castle entrance might have resembled the preparations for a battle, if not for the laughter and general goodwill. Under a great stone arch out of the rain, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, was discussing tactics with his huntsman and his father, while three more of his men readied four horses and a pack of savage, leashed dogs that snarled and barked at each other in their excitement. Warwick’s falcons were not present that morning. All his valuable birds were hooded and being looked after in his suite of rooms. He had no interest in fowl or fur that morning, just the two noble boars rooting around somewhere in the king’s five thousand acres of meadows and deep forest. The squires for both father and son were ready with their weapons and the dogs would bring the boars to bay, gripping on to their flesh and holding them for the kill.
Earl Salisbury looked at his son, seeing the flush on his face despite the cold day.
‘Is there any point in my telling you to be careful?’ he said.
His son laughed, shaking his head as he checked the belly straps were tight enough on his mounts.
‘You saw them, sir. The heads will suit my castle hearth, don’t you think?’
The older man smiled ruefully, knowing that his son was set on reaching the boars first, no matter the risk. When the king’s heralds blew their horns, they’d all be off, charging across the open fields and into the trees.
‘Keep an eye on those Tudor lads,’ his father said suddenly. He waved off one of the huntsmen and clasped his hands together to help his son mount. ‘They’re young and that Edmund is still so new an earl you can see the green on him. He’ll do his utmost to please the king, I do not doubt it. And watch out for Somerset. That man is fearless to the point of stupidity.’ Against his better judgement, he could not help adding another word of warning. ‘Don’t get between any of the king’s favourites and a boar, lad, that’s all. Not if they’re holding a spear to throw or have an arrow on the string. You understand?’
‘I do, sir, but I’ll come back with one of those heads or both of them. There isn’t a horse here to match my pair. I’ll be on those boars before the rest. Let them worry then!’
Some of the older earls would count the kill even if their servants brought down the boar. Warwick intended to make the thrust himself if he could, with one of three boar spears he had brought for the occasion. They stood taller than he was, with blades sharp enough to shave. His father handed them up to him, shaking his head in amusement to hide his worries.
‘I’ll be along after you, with Westmorland. Who knows, I might get a shot with my bow when you young pups have exhausted yourselves.’ He smiled as he spoke and his son chuckled.
Both of the Neville lords turned their heads as conversations halted all around and the servants knelt on the cobbles. King Henry came out into the rainy courtyard, with his steward on his heels, still trying to drape the king in a thick cloak.
Henry stood and looked around at the gathering of a dozen earls and their hunt servants, forty or fifty men in all, with as many horses and dogs making a terrible noise between them. One by one, the noblemen caught sight of the king and bowed, dipping their heads. Henry smiled at them all, the rain falling harder, so that it plastered his hair to his head. He accepted the cloak at last, though it was already dark and heavy.
‘Please rise. I wish you well, my lords. I am only sorry I cannot join you myself today.’
He looked wistfully at the horses near to hand, but Margaret had been very clear.
‘Good fortune to all, but I will hope to see at least one of those heads brought back by my brothers.’
The assembled men laughed, looking over to where Edmund and Jasper Tudor stood, proud to have been mentioned. When they had arrived at court from Wales, Henry had wanted to make both men earls, honouring the children of his mother’s brief second marriage. Yet half-French and half-Welsh as they were, there was not a drop of English blood in either of them. His reluctant Parliament had been forced to allow them the rights of an Englishman by statute before Henry could settle estates on his Tudor half-brothers. The sight of them brought the memory of his mother’s face to the fore. Tears came without warning to his eyes, washed away on the instant by the falling rain.