‘I am only sorry our mother is not alive to see you, but she will be watching, I know.’
Silence stretched then, growing uncomfortable as the dozen earls could not leave for the hunt until they had been dismissed. Henry stared blankly at them, rubbing his forehead as a headache began. Some awareness seeped back into him slowly and he looked up.
‘I will see you all at the feast tonight, to toast the victor of the hunt.’
Earls and their men alike gave a great cheer at that and Henry beamed delightedly before going back into the castle. He was shivering and his lips bore a tinge of blue from the cold. The steward who had brought the cloak was pale with frustration, knowing he would hear all about letting the king stand in the rain.
In the lamplight, Henry shivered, feeling chilled. He had a blanket over his legs to keep him warm and he was trying to read, shifting uncomfortably in the armchair. Ever since his speech that morning, his head had throbbed with pain. He’d drunk a little wine at the feast, as well as picking at the great haunch of pork that steamed on his trencher. Richard of Warwick had been wildly drunk after his successful hunt. Through the pain in his head, Henry smiled at the memory even as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Edmund Tudor had taken Castor, to Warwick’s Pollux. Three dogs had been killed, opened from stem to stern by the boars’ tusks. Two of Warwick’s huntsmen had been gashed as well. They were being tended by Allworthy, stitched and dosed for the pain.
Henry had granted equal honours at the banquet, toasting the health of Warwick and Edmund Tudor from the head of the table. Margaret had squeezed his knee under the cloth and his happiness had been complete. He had worried for the longest time that his earls would bicker or even come to blows. They had seemed so very angry for a year or longer. Yet they had drunk and gorged themselves in good humour, singing along with the musicians and hooting at the actors and jongleurs he’d brought in to entertain them. The hunt had been a success, Henry knew. Margaret was pleased and even old Richard Neville had cracked his dour face in pride at seeing his son honoured.
Henry looked away from the page, preferring to rest his gaze on the dark forests beyond the panes of glass. Midnight had passed long before, but he could not sleep with his head pounding and pressure all around the socket of his right eye. All he could do was endure until the sun rose and he could leave his rooms. He thought for a moment of calling Margaret, but remembered that she would be long asleep by then. Pregnant women needed to sleep, he had been told. Henry smiled to himself at the thought, peering again at the page that blurred as he stared at it.
In the silence, the king gave a small groan. He recognized the footsteps approaching, tapping closer on the polished wooden floors. Henry looked up in dismay as Master Allworthy entered, carrying his bulging leather bag. In his black coat and polished black shoes, the doctor looked more like a priest than a physician.
‘I did not summon you, doctor,’ Henry said, with less than perfect certainty. ‘I am resting, as you see. It cannot be time for another draught.’
‘Now now, Your Grace. Your steward told me you might have taken a fever, walking around in the rain. Your health is my care and it’s no trouble for me to look in on you.’
Allworthy reached out and pressed his palm against Henry’s forehead, tutting to himself.
‘Too much heat, as I suspected.’
Shaking his head in disapproval, the doctor opened the bag and set out the tools and vials of his trade, checking each one carefully and adjusting their position until they were arrayed to his satisfaction.
‘I think I would like to see my wife, Allworthy. I wish to see her.’
‘Of course, Your Grace,’ the doctor replied carelessly. ‘Just as soon as you’ve been bled. Which arm would you prefer?’
Despite his rising anger, Henry found himself holding out his right arm. It took an effort of will to resist Allworthy’s chatter and he could not find the strength. He let the arm hang limp as Allworthy pushed the shirtsleeve up and tapped the veins. With care, the doctor laid the arm on the king’s lap and turned back to his preparations. As Henry stared at nothing, Allworthy passed over a small silver tray, with a number of hand-pressed pills resting on the polished surface.
‘So many,’ Henry murmured. ‘What are they today?’
The doctor hardly paused as he checked the edge of his curette, ready to be plunged into a vein.
‘Why, they are for pain, Your Grace! You’d like the pain to go away, wouldn’t you?’
An expression of intense irritation crossed Henry’s face at hearing the reply. Some deep part of him hated being treated like a child. Even so, he opened his mouth and let the doctor place the bitter pills on his tongue to be swallowed. Allworthy passed the king a clay cup containing one of his usual vile liquids. Henry managed one small gulp before he grimaced and pushed it away.
‘And again,’ Allworthy urged him, making the vessel clink as he pressed it against the king’s teeth.
A little of the liquid dribbled down Henry’s chin and he coughed, choking on it. His bare arm jerked up, knocking the cup away with a great crash as it shattered into pieces on the floor.
Allworthy frowned, standing completely still for a moment before he mastered his outrage.
‘I will have another brought, Your Grace. You want to be well again, don’t you? Of course you do.’
He was rougher than he had to be as he used a cloth to wipe the king’s mouth, making the skin pink around Henry’s lips.
‘Margaret,’ Henry said clearly.
Allworthy looked up in irritation as a servant against the far wall started into movement. He had not noticed the man standing there at silent attention.
‘His Grace is not to be disturbed!’ the doctor snapped across the room.
The servant paused in his rush, but only briefly. In a conflict of authority, his best course was to follow the king’s orders over the doctor’s. Allworthy tutted again to himself as the man vanished, clattering off down the corridors of the east wing.
‘Now half the house will be woken, I do not doubt. I will stay and talk to the queen; don’t worry. Give me your arm again.’
Henry looked away as Allworthy cut a vein in the crook of his elbow, squeezing the flesh until a good flow of blood was established. The doctor peered closely at the colour of it, holding a bowl under the king’s elbow that slowly filled.
Margaret came before the bleeding had finished, dressed in a sleeping robe with a thick cloak over her shoulders.
Doctor Allworthy bowed as she entered, sensitive to her authority, but at the same time certain of his own.
‘I am so sorry Your Royal Highness has been disturbed at this hour. King Henry is still unwell. His Grace called your name and I’m afraid the servant …’
Allworthy broke off as Margaret knelt at her husband’s side, giving no sign that she heard a word the physician said. Instead, she eyed the slowly filling bowl with disgust.
‘Are you unwell, Henry? I am here now.’
Henry patted her hand, taking comfort from the touch as he struggled against a weariness that had stolen over him.
‘I’m sorry to wake you, Margaret,’ he murmured. ‘I was sitting in the quiet and then Allworthy came and I wanted you to be with me. Perhaps I should sleep.’