He said: “The King has been forced to leave the army. He could go no farther.”

“I see. Can he be brought up to the bedchamber?”

“At once, my lady.”

They carried him up. He lay on the bed…breathing deeply.

The tall bearer said to me: “My lady, you should send for a priest.”

I knew then how ill he was.

He was in fact dying. It seemed incredible that one so strong, so seemingly invincible, could be so suddenly struck down.

I said to the bearer: “We will nurse him back to health.”

He looked at me rather sadly and with such pity that I was deeply touched.

It was some hours before I could convince myself that this really was the end.

Henry had suffered from dysentery for some time. It was the soldier’s disease and taken for granted, so was lightly brushed aside. Now he seemed to have some disorder of the chest, for he coughed a great deal and his breathing was difficult.

The physicians shook their heads gravely, implying there was little they could do.

The Duke of Bedford left the army and came to his bedside. I was glad of his presence. He was the one of Henry’s brothers whom I had always trusted most.

“Be of good cheer,” he said to me. “He will recover. He always achieved what to others would seem impossible.”

I tried to smile, but it occurred to me that this time he was fighting a more formidable enemy than the French.

The confessor was with him. Henry managed, between gasps, to ask forgiveness for his sins. What were his sins? Those peccadilloes of his youth? Or the blood which had been shed on the battlefields of France? He did not mention that.

His confessor was reading the seven psalms. He came to the phrase “Build thou the walls of Jerusalem” when Henry feebly lifted a hand as a sign for him to pause.

He said between gasps: “When I had completed my conquests in Europe…it was always my intention…to make a crusade to the Holy Land.”

I wished that these thoughts would not enter my head at inopportune moments, but I could not help wondering whether he thought a crusade to the Holy Land would compensate for the misery and bloodshed he had brought to my country.

The harrowing bedside scene continued and I felt I could endure it no longer.

I whispered to the physician: “He will recover, will he not?”

The man did not speak; he just looked at me as though begging me not to demand a direct answer.

“I would like the truth,” I insisted.

“My lady…it will be a miracle if he lasts for another two hours.”

Henry asked for his brother Bedford, and the Duke, who was already at his bedside, came forward and took Henry’s hand.

“I am here, brother,” he said.

“John…you have been a good brother to me.”

“My lord King, brother…I have always sought to serve you.”

“I know. You were the one…I always trusted. John…now it will be for you. You must hold what I have gained. There is my son…a baby. There is Kate…my wife. Comfort Kate, John. She will be the most afflicted creature living…so young…and the child, John …”

“I will do all you wish. I will do as you would.”

Henry nodded and closed his eyes. He looked as though he were at peace.

We stood at his bedside in silence, and into my mind came the strange prophecy I had heard. “Henry of Monmouth would reign a short time and gain much.” The first part had come true.

I was filled with a sense of awe and deep loss. I had one thought: I must get back to my son. He had lost his father. He was not yet a year old and he was King of England.

I tried to look ahead, but the future seemed dark, mysterious and foreboding.

Looking back now on those days at Vincennes, I realize that for most of the time I thought I was living through some evil dream. It was hard to accept the fact that Henry was dead. He had been so vital. If he had been killed in battle, it would not have been so unexpected. But to die like this…in such a short time…seemed impossible.

There was a great deal to be done. He must be given a worthy funeral. The people of France must be made to understand that the death of the great conqueror did not mean that the English grip on the country would be lessened. He had brothers to carry on with his great schemes of conquest.

I wondered what effect this was having on my parents at the Hôtel de St.-Paul. I could imagine that my mother was busily scheming. As for my poor father, he had long given up hope of regaining the crown and I was not sure that he would want it if he could. His only pleasure nowadays was keeping away from conflict.

John of Bedford was a great help. Deeply grieving as he was, he took over the arrangements for the funeral and, oddly enough, it was the tall squire who had helped bear the litter to Vincennes who gave me the greatest comfort.

I singled him out among the others. It might have been because he had a kindly face which showed at the same time a strength of character. I liked the lilting way he spoke English. My own was less than perfect and I had often found it difficult to follow those who did not speak the language in the way Henry and the people around me did. He was from Wales, and the Welsh accent was musical and pleasant to listen to. I was glad of Bedford’s efficiency, but he was not a man to whom one could talk easily, and this man had a soothing manner which might have been due to his voice.

I was able to ask him how the King had been at Senlis before he had allowed them to remove him from the army.

“It must have been a difficult decision for him to make,” I said. “I am sure he did it with the utmost reluctance.”

“With the utmost, my lady,” replied the Welshman. “He had been fighting against the disease for some time.”

“You were close to him, I believe.”

“Yes, my lady. I was with him at Agincourt and ever since he has kept me near him.”

“He thought highly of you, I expect.”

“I was honored to serve him.”

“Tell me about him. He was much loved by his men, was he not?”

“It is my belief, my lady, that he was loved more than any king before him, and I doubt that any who follows him will be loved more.”

“You cared for him very much.”

“All his men cared for him. There was no one like him. He was the greatest soldier who ever lived, in my opinion, my lady. All who have been privileged to know him should be proud.”

“He was friendly with his men, was he not?”

“He was always kind and generous. His men knew what was expected of them—which was absolute devotion to duty…as he always gave himself. His decisions were quick. He always knew what should be done. ‘It is impossible,’ he would say. Or ‘It shall be done!’ We all knew exactly what to expect, and it never varied.”

“You make him sound almost impossibly perfect.”

“He was as near perfection as a man can be. He was just. Some would say he was stern. He was, it was true. He made his laws and expected absolute obedience to them. That is the way of great rulers.”

“Sometimes I wonder …” I began. “Sometimes I think…of the cries of women and children who have lost their men and their homes in battle. Such cries haunt me.”

“I know,” he said. “I understand.”

“And I cannot help thinking…why should there have to be war?”

“The King believed firmly that France belonged to him. He planned to bring better rule to that land.” He paused, remembering, I supposed, that he was speaking against my family.

I smiled at him and then began to ask myself why I was talking thus to this man. I could not understand myself. I was, of course, in a highly emotional state, and he had such a kind face, such a sympathetic manner.

I wanted to hear a vindication of Henry. I wanted to forget those terrible doubts which had come to me. I thought of him on his deathbed, when it had not occurred to him to ask forgiveness for the sufferings he had caused to so many innocent people.

“My lady, the King considered his men as he did himself. He was never vengeful to an enemy, never vindictive. He was always merciful. He forbade pilfering and disrespect to women. He shared the hardships of his soldiers, he gave them example after example of his own bravery.”

“You make a hero of him.”

“He was a hero, Madam.”

I smiled, I had been greatly comforted by my conversation with this man.

I said to him: “I do not know your name.”

And he answered: “It is Owen Tudor.”

They made an effigy of Henry. It was life-size, constructed from boiled leather and painted to make it resemble his living self. On the head was set a crown, in the right hand a scepter and in the left an orb. The effigy was put upon a carriage and we set out.

It was an impressive cavalcade, with noblemen such as the Duke of Exeter and the Earl of March carrying the banners of the saints, and 400 men-at-arms in black armor riding with the bier. I followed at some distance.

Our first stop was St.-Ivian in Abbeville, where we rested for a day and night, and all through that day Masses were sung for the saving of his soul.

At length we came to Calais.

It seemed long since his death, for it was at this time October 12 and he had died on the last day of August.

There followed the journey across the Channel, and how relieved I was when I saw the white cliffs looming ahead. I thought of my child. It was nearly five months since I had seen him. Would he know me? I wondered. How foolish! Of course he would not. He had been too young to know me when I had left. But he would have been safe in Guillemote’s care. But what would happen now that he was King?