Henry was pleased with life. He refused to see the trouble all about him. Somerset fretted about York and declared that he was fomenting trouble. Henry did not believe him really. Henry liked to feel that men were good though now and then a little misguided perhaps, but he could not accept the fact that his kinsman of York meant any harm to him. Margaret, of course, agreed with Somerset. She was always telling him that he must not be so gentle, so ready to believe the good in everyone. Margaret was so fierce at times—only because she was fond of him, of course, and cared so much about the prosperity of the country.
This summer they were taking a long progress through the land. Henry liked to visit the monasteries and abbeys and colleges as he passed through the countryside and promised himself that he would build more. He was glad that they were getting out of France. Let others deplore their losses if they would; he thought that when they no longer had anything to fight for in France, it would be so much the better.
He felt rather strange now and then, so listless that all he wanted to do was to be alone with his books. Then he would sometimes find himself half asleep in the middle of his reading. Sometimes he would awaken with a start and wonder where he was and for some time be unable to recall.
He was delighted to see Margaret so contented now that she was to have a child. It was what she had desired more than anything.
‘At least now,’ she said, ‘they won’t be able to criticize me for my barrenness.’
He tried to tell her that they were not really criticizing her. They were merely anxious for there to be an heir to the throne. It was love of the country that made them sad about there not being one. Now it would be very different.
They were at Clarendon in the New Forest. Margaret was happy here. She loved to hunt but she was dispensing with that pleasure now for she was six months pregnant and growing larger every day. Some of the wise old women said that the way she carried the child indicated that it was a boy.
How contented they would be if that were so. But a child of either sex would be welcome. It would at least show that they could get children. Although of course everyone would be wanting a boy.
Well, they were at peace here at Clarendon. Henry had been feeling very tired of late. The long day’s riding had been more exhausting than usual. They would stay a little while at Clarendon.
The next morning when his attendants came to his bedchamber they found him lying very still, his eyes wide open, staring ahead of him. He did not seem to see them. When they spoke to him, he did not answer. He lay very quietly and did not seem to be able to move his limbs.
They went in consternation to the Queen, knowing that she would be angry if not informed at once of the King’s strangeness.
She stared at him lying there supine on the bed. He looked different somehow—like a corpse.
She took his hand. It fell from hers without Henry’s seeming to be aware of it. He did not appear to see her. He just lay— unseeing, unhearing, unthinking.
‘Call the doctors,’ commanded the Queen.
They came but they could neither make him see nor hear. He responded in no way.
‘What is it?’ demanded the Queen impatiently.
‘It would seem that the King has lost his reason.’
Margaret stood up, her hands on her body. She could feel the child moving. The King losing his reason. What nonsense! She must send for Somerset at once.
She faced the doctors. ‘Say nothing of this...as yet,’ she commanded. ‘This may pass. We do not know yet what ails the King, but I do not wish to let loose disturbing rumours.’
The doctors said that they would say nothing.
Somerset cam riding with all speed to Clarendon and Margaret at once took him to see the King who was still in a form of coma, although he appeared to be conscious. His eyes were open; he was breathing; but apart from that he might have had no life at all.
‘Edmund, my dear friend.’ she cried, ‘what calamity is it that has fallen on us?’
‘The King, the doctors appear to think, has lost his reason.’
‘I fear that may be so. But there is a possibility that he will recover.’
Somerset nodded, ‘it came upon him suddenly. It may well be that it will depart in the same way.’
‘And in the meantime?’
Somerset said: ‘We should wait a while. Let no one know of this until we are sure what it means.’
She nodded. ‘So thought I. I have commanded the doctors to say nothing.’
‘‘That is well, but there are spies everywhere, you know. The servants...’
‘I think I can trust them.’
‘You can never trust servants, dear lady. However we must hope that nothing of this reaches the ears of the people until we understand what it is and plan what we can do about it.’
‘My child is due in three months.’
‘If we can keep this quiet until the child is born...and if the child is a prince...’
‘Oh, Edmund, how glad I am that we think alike. We will wait until the child is born and by that time Henry may have recovered. But what can this condition mean?’
‘I fear he may be losing his reason.’
She looked at him in horror.
‘You know who his mother was. That means that he could, I suppose, take after his grandfather.’
‘The mad King of France! I have heard gruesome tales of him.’
‘He was of a different temperament from Henry. Henry is so gentle, so peace-loving. The malady – if it be the same – has affected him differently. It has just robbed him of his senses. Charles the Sixth was a raving lunatic at times violent, wreaking havoc wherever he was so that none dared go near him.’
‘Pray God it does not come to that.’
‘Not with gentle Henry. But it is a calamity none the less. All we can do is wait. We do not want this to come to York’s ears.’
‘God forbid. He would want to set himself up as Protector or Regent or some such post before we could plan anything.’
‘York must not know. It may well be that it is a temporary stage. How long has he been like this?’
‘Since his attendants went to his bedchamber and found him, so only a few days ago.’
‘We will wait then. Keep the matter as secret as possible and you should make your way to Westminster where the child should be born. You cannot remain at Clarendon. That would most certainly give rise to gossip.’
‘It will not be easy to convey him to Westminster without it’s being noticed that there is something strange about him.’
‘We will do it as best we can and I suggest that you begin to make the move as soon as possible.’
‘I will do it, and I thank God that you are beside me.’
Margaret lay in her bedchamber in Westminster awaiting the birth of the child. This should have been the happiest time of her life and instead it was fraught with uneasiness.
In nearly three months Henry’s condition had changed little. He could move his limbs now; he could eat; he slept; but he did not speak and he was completely unaware of what was going on around him. She had tried to speak to him about the child and he, who had been .so overjoyed at the prospect of becoming a father, clearly did not know what she was talking about.
She had summoned the doctors William Hacliff, Robert Warren and William Marschall to his bedside because there were none in England to equal them for skill, but they shook their heads and conferred together. The King had lost his reason, they had to admit. The malady could have descended from his grandfather even though it had attacked him in a different form. They were with him constantly. I hey concocted syrups and potions, baths, fomentations and plasters. The King took them all patiently and lay or sat quietly saying nothing, hearing nothing and not responding in any way.