VIII

hurry, the bending, the yelling – I pay for it now with a spasm of pain. For a moment I cannot move – can do nothing but grip Edward’s arm. Even in armour the limb feels fragile.
    When the pain subsides I release him. The horse has been subdued now – a groom is leading it back to the far end of the yard. I see Edward’s eyes darting to it with something like dread. He fears I will make him run again. I am uncomfortable, aware of wanting to make amends.
    “You like hunting?”
    “Yes, Father.”
    “Good, good. I will take you hunting, when… when this – I have a slight…” I wave a hand towards my bad leg. “I will take you hunting soon. I’d like to see you kill a buck. Have you been blooded yet?” I look round at the men. “Has he been blooded?”
    The men shake their heads; Edward says, “No, sir.”
    “I will do it myself, eh?” I say and, reaching out, I rub my thumb across his forehead and cheeks, as if smearing the animal’s blood there right now. He still looks sick. I turn to search for Kathryn’s arm; turn to go. “That’s right,” I say, patting him one last time. “That’s right.”

 
♦  ♦  ♦  IX   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    I often dream about a forest. I am on horseback – hunting.
    There is a dark-haired girl riding ahead. She looks back – the wind has blown a strand of hair across her mouth. She pulls it aside with her fingers – pale fingers, ungloved – and laughs. She laughs because she wants to be caught, but she won’t let me catch her.
    The forest seems important – the relief is intense, as if I have ridden into the cool shade out of glaring sun (though the time in the sun is never in my dream).
    Then I wake, and at first I don’t know where or who I am. The room around me takes shape slowly – the clutter, the hangings, the drifts of documents spilling out of my desk – but still the damp, brackeny smells of the forest are in my nostrils and I can feel the breeze on my cheek. I want to hold on, but I have learned that the dream disappears more quickly that way, so instead I try to still everything – just let the sinking-out-of-it happen as slowly as possible.
    I feel more at home in the dream than here. I belong there. It is like a trick of the light, except it is a trick of the years. One moment I am a young man, fit and healthy, able to ride for so long that I can get through eight horses in a day – the next I am young, still (aren’t I? It feels that way), but trapped in a body that no longer works. And there is a different girl beside me. Always a different girl.
    I turn my head. This girl today has hair that spills across the pillow like rich brown syrup. She has a gentle, grave face – even in sleep she frowns a little. How did I come by her? For a moment I cannot remember. Has she borne any dead children yet? They all do, sooner or later.
    ♦   ♦   ♦
     
    I have been dreaming. I open my eyes. The head beside me on the pillows is alarming. My vision is blurred. But the head is grey – that is wrong. And odd-shaped.
    I try to turn over. Figures are moving, speaking in an indistinct murmur so that I cannot hear them. They have strapped something around my ribs to hamper my breath. I am desperate to raise my head – I could breathe better if only I could raise my head. Or sit up. God, yes – someone help me to sit up! There is a weight on my chest as if a devil is crouching there.
    My eyes have shut again. Colours pop and swim against the darkness. Voices float and mingle on the air.
    “I have told the King he must prepare for his final agony.”
    “Did he hear you?”
    “I can’t say.”
    I drift. The dark is liquid; the current pulls me under. I don’t know for how long. And then, without warning, I surface – I can see light. The thing beside me on the pillows is not a head. It is a basin. Metal. Dull reflections move on its surface. They take all my attention, but they make no sense.
    After a time, I see something beyond the basin: a small, blurred shape. It is further away than the basin. It is a person. It is my son – standing against the wall.
    Thank God. Thank God he is here. He will watch what they are doing, the sinister figures that move and whisper about me. If they are poisoning me, he will see it.
    “The Archbishop has arrived – to hear His Majesty’s confession.”
    “I fear you are too late, my lord. The doctors say he is beyond speaking.”
    I say – or perhaps think, I cannot tell