With Good Acceptance Of His Majesty
Jan. 3rd, 2011 11:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
morgynleriWord Count: 9013
Chapter Warnings: Non-explicit sex, mentioned deaths
Characters Present:
The Chorus, James Stretton, Knight of Warwick
Henry of Monmouth, Prince of Wales
Blanche Stretton, mistress of Henry of Monmouth, later Princess of Wales
Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester
Robert of Stretton, a child
Thomas Beaufort, Captain of Calais, later Lord Chancellor, Earl of Dorset
Margaret of Lancaster, a child
Henry of Bolingbroke, King of England
Edward of Lancaster, a child
Maude, a servant of Blanche's
Henry Chichele, Bishop of St. David's
Thomas FitzAlan, Earl of Arundel
Henry Scroop, Baron of Masham
Thomas of Lancaster, an infant
Chapter Index ~ Previous Chapter ~ Next Chapter
With Good Acceptance Of His Majesty
This time when he approaches the bishop, he is not given audience as he had hoped, but instead brought into the presence of a man who is at least several years younger than he, though from the deference given him, someone of importance. It takes little to conclude this is Prince Henry that he'd taken his sister from her home to avoid his visits.
When he asks after his nephew, Henry only tells him that he's seen to the guardianship of his son himself, and that he has no cause to ask after the boy. If Blanche wishes to do so, she may come and ask herself, rather than James coming in her stead. There is nothing else the prince will offer, and he leaves with nothing more than he arrived with.
On his return to Warwick, his sister's easy acceptance of this news surprises him, when she's been so fiercely devoted to the son that is evidence of the weakness of a moment. Until his wife reminds him that Blanche has not shown any concern over the taking of her son since the day the prince rode away with the boy. It makes him wonder what part Blanche had in the boy's removal from his care.
Almost a year passes, and when he returns in the company of his lord in the autumn, it's to find his sister missing, with none present who know where she has gone, only that she left two months past to go up to the castle in reply to summons sent down by the countess. His liege will give him no answer, and he wonders if the earl even knows what his countess has done.
And a third visit to the bishop only yields the knowledge that his sister is safe in the care of those Prince Henry trusts also with his son, as so to allow the mother to once more have a hand in the raising of the boy. He may, as is his right, continue to see to the administration of his nephew's inheritance until the boy comes of age, but the boy and his mother will remain where they are.
His thoughts are morose as he returns to his home, thinking only that he may well have made things worse in his meddling. A matter which, even should God forgive him, he will have a hard time forgiving himself for. His sister deserves better, and he can only hope that he will have the chance to see her again.
~ ~~ ~
Blanche wakes as she always does, with the pale grey light of dawn filtering through the windows, though the room that greets her is still unfamiliar for all that she's been here nearly a month. When she goes to stir the fire on the hearth, an arm tightens around her waist, reminding her that she isn't alone in her bed. That Henry had come to her after dining with her hosts - his uncle and aunt, she's learned - and while he'd said it was only to speak with her, she had been little surprised when it became more.
It surprises her more that she feels little shame or regret for once more succumbing to the temptation that Henry provides her. Only a growing concern for what hosts might think of this, and if they might turn out her son as well as perhaps herself for her weakness. She does not care to return her son to her brother's care, and she does not wish to cause more difficulty for Henry on that matter than she already has.
Shifting again, Blanche squirms from under Henry's arm, pulling on her chemise before she pads to the hearth, stirring the fire to life, and adding some of the wood that waits nearby for just such a purpose. Going then to dress in kirtle and gown, aware that Henry's watching her as she does so, awakened by her leaving the bed, no doubt.
She hurries from the room once she is dressed, first to see to her son, and then to do what she will for the day in garden and still room, where she might ignore that Henry is still present. To discuss some matter or another with his uncle, perhaps; she doesn't have any care to know, save that he remains through the evening once more, and will remain the night at least before traveling on once more.
The door shuts quietly behind him when he comes to her room later, his tread nearly silent on the floor as he comes over to where she sits curled on a chair near the hearth. His hands are warm on her shoulders, through layers of linen and wool, familiar temptation that makes her blood heat in response. Blanche keeps her gaze on the fire burning low on the hearth, trying to focus on keeping herself from giving in once more, though she expects that's an impossible task.
"Would you have me leave?" His voice is quiet, the question lighter than she feels it ought be, and Blanche chews on her lip a moment. Thinking what is safest to answer, more than what she truly wishes, because that would be a foolish thing to admit.
"I would have you stay or leave as you chose, Your Highness." Blanche doesn't look away from the fire as she speaks. "So long as we remain chaste as we might in the company of others, it matters little that you are here, save what your uncle whom you have charged with the care of my son, and now of me, might think of your presence in my bedchamber."
"My uncle's opinion doesn't matter as much here and now as your own." Henry rubs his thumb against her neck, sending a shiver down her spine to pool heat in her belly. Temptation offered and accepted without a word, though she knows she ought not.
Leaning into his touch, Blanche turns her head to look up at Henry. Studying the familiar features, the scar that he took at Shrewsbury after that first night they lay together. She doesn't dare to think that she might have more than affection for him, or that he has ought but a fondness for her as mother to his son. For all that he might protest to the contrary if that thought were spoken.
Thought is something soon abandoned, the night remembered in sensation and pleasure that ends drowsing in her bed with Henry's arm wrapped possessive and snug around her waist once more. As if defying the world to tell him he couldn't have what he wanted on his terms, a thought that makes Blanche smile to herself as she drifts toward sleep.
~ ~~ ~
Henry woke to the sensation of someone watching him, opening his eyes to meet the gaze of his son over Blanche's shoulder. The boy is peering over the edge of the bed, watching him with curious eyes. He hauls himself up a moment later, though the bed is barely wide enough to allow him to sit on the edge, still watching Henry.
"Why are you in here?"
Robert's whispering, probably trying not to wake his mother, but Blanche stirs regardless, shifting under Henry's arm. He tightens his grip so she doesn't move too far and further limit the room for their son to perch.
"Because I slept in here." It's an obvious answer, but Henry provides it anyway, smiling a moment at Robert.
"Uncle says you have your own bed to sleep in." Robert tilts his head, his expression still curious. Wondering, likely, what his uncle means. "Why did you sleep here?"
"Because I wanted to." Because Henry knows Blanche wouldn't come to him, and he's enjoying the chance to once more explore her body and her pleasure as he had before. Though from the innocently repeated words, he expects his uncle is none too happy that he's done so in that worthy's home. Perhaps particularly since Henry's put Blanche in his care as much as he'd done the same with his son nearly a year before.
Robert watches him a moment longer before sliding off the bed, going toward the fire, and climbing into the chair Blanche had been sitting in the night before. Kicking his feet as he waits, and following Henry when he leaves the room. A constant shadow while he breaks his fast, conversation over the table with Thomas strained slightly because of Henry's choice of actions.
It is a conversation that doesn't end with his return to London and to his father's side, though it's conducted now in letters rather than in person. One that grows more heated as the season progresses, and news comes from his uncle that Blanche is once more carries a child. Another son, perhaps, or a daughter, it matters little which it is, only that it becomes harder to hide that he might have some fondness for her. If one that remains unspoken and unacknowledged for the most part.
The birth in June of a daughter is overlooked when he is recalled to London when his father is ill, another of the same illness which has struck twice before. The physician can only say that his father will recover as before, but for now, Henry must focus on the politics of his position rather than his campaigns in Wales. He draws his uncles closer, seeking their advice on this and that, along with that of his favorites, though he doesn't always heed what advice they provide him.
Blanche is brought to Farnham with her son and daughter when his uncle Thomas comes to London, left safe in the care of his uncle the bishop there. From whom he receives an admonishment that if would continue as he is with Blanche, he ought marry her and provide her with the safety of that status. A thought that remains in the back of his mind until a conversation with his father leads to the mention of the children, and a demand that the king be given a chance to meet these two.
Of their mother is made no mention, though Henry will not part them from her without her express wish, and so he sends word that she shall come with her children from Farnham to London. An easier journey than the one she made three months past at the end of summer, even with an infant to keep from the chill of the oncoming winter.
She is escorted first to his chambers, still wrapped in her cloak, with Robert trotting at her side. He'll take her and the children to his father himself, and says as much to the men who brought her to him, dismissing them from his presence.
"Is that why I have been brought to London?" Blanche looks almost frightened as she removes Robert's cloak to hang it by the hearth to dry. "I was not told why, only that you had sent for me to come, Your Highness."
"My father wants to meet my son." Henry helps her to remove her own cloak, garnering a brief smile of thanks, before he finally first sees his daughter. Dark eyes stare back at him, a faintly startled expression on the infant's face as she regards him for a long moment before looking back at her mother. "And my daughter as well. So he shall have to meet their mother, as well, for it would be ill to part them from you even for so short a time as this might be, I think."
Blanche smiles when he meets her gaze once more, her cheeks pink in a familiar blush that had been all but absent the last time he saw her. "A kindness for which I thank you," she murmurs, shifting her daughter to rest the infant against her shoulder, where she keeps her as he leads them through chill halls to where his father waits to meet the children.
A meeting at which his son demonstrates a boldness that he's shown since he began to toddle, meeting the king's gaze with a child's bravery, and telling him that he was that worthy's grandson. As though it might not be certain in the mind of the man who sits in a grand chair at the hearth, and the surety of a small boy might settle the matter. Staring at him with a determined expression and small head held high.
Chuckling, Henry's father smiles. "You certainly have the same determination the world will shape itself to you that my son has." He studies Robert for a long moment, though what he's searching for, Henry isn't entirely sure. "And much of him in your features."
"Because he's my father." Robert crosses his arms, all but glaring at the king. Willing him, perhaps, to believe what he's saying.
"As he has told me." Leaning back in his chair, the king looks from the boy to Blanche, though she doesn't meet his gaze long before looking down at the floor. "This would be your mother than, child?"
Robert nods. "My mother and she has my sister with her. My sister's name is Margaret, like Uncle Thomas's wife, and my grandmother. And my name is Robert, for my other grandfather."
Beckoning Blanche over, Henry's father looks over the tiny girl as well, Margaret looking back at him with a solemn expression on her face. As if less certain than her brother what to do with this stranger in front of her, though it's little surprise in so small a child. She cranes her head to look back at her mother a moment before looking at the king again. Until Blanche is waved away, and her daughter with her. Less concern for a girl child than for the boy who still watches the king with a stubborn expression.
The rest of the evening is uneventful, though Henry thinks his father and his son reach some sort of equilibrium. Certainly there's a command that the boy ought to be brought back again, as he thinks well of the child. There is further conversation once Blanche has been settled into a room for the night with the children, with the same thought brought up as had been suggested by his uncle, though it's now Henry who voices it.
That Blanche isn't of royal blood matters little to him, only that she is fair and English and that she has proven she bears children well. And if there is question of a royal marriage to secure any alliance or treaty, Robert is certainly more of an age with the marriageable French princess, at least, and that would be the principal kingdom with whom securing a treaty would be of concern. That he has some fondness for Blanche as well goes unsaid and unthought, as it's not an argument to be made.
Blanche returns to Farnham in the morning, to continue to reside in the custody of his uncle, to pass the winter there while Henry argues with his father. Though it's his step-mother who proves able to talk the king around in the end; to convince him that to give his consent to this marriage between Henry and his mistress is the best course to take. Perhaps the recurrence of illness he suffers in January also serves to push his mind in that direction, but Henry cannot be certain of that.
~ ~~ ~
"Why?" Blanche stares at Henry, all too aware she's in her oldest kirtle and smock, with dirt clinging to her hands from tending to the corner of the garden the bishop has granted her. She's never imagined that Henry might do more than provide some small income for the care of her and her children. That he's asked her if she would consent to marry him is a surprise, though perhaps more of one than it ought be. "Not that I would not, for I find it difficult to refuse you anything, even what I ought. Only that I do not understand why you would make such an offer to me, who has nothing of royalty in her blood, and little enough of nobility, if any there be."
"Your blood matters nothing more to me now than it did before." Henry paces from where he'd been waiting for her near the hearth, across the floor to the window that overlooks the garden she tends. "I am fond of you, that much I can say, though if I love you, I do not know, as I do not believe I have loved before, save that which a child gives to those who are closest to them. That you are fair of face; that you are strong and loyal, features I would greatly want in a wife, that too I can say. Two children you've borne me; a promise I made to your father before he died."
He turns from the window to meet her gaze, his expression oddly open, almost vulnerable. "All of these are good reasons to make you my wife, if you would have me to husband. I cannot promise to remain close, any more than I have since when I first came to your father's home. Nor can I promise I shall be more than fond of you, or give you more than children for your trouble, for I cannot know what the future will hold. All I might promise you is that you would have a loyal husband, and all of England would be yours."
Washing her hands in the basin on a small table that is there to do so, Blanche keeps her attention on them for a long moment. Trying to think past the astonishment and the desire to merely accede to what has been asked of her, to think what she might truly wish. Certainly she can return that fondness Henry's mentioned, and that he promises her little doesn't matter much to her. She'd been happy with the home her father had provided, though she'd wished for a husband and children.
And he's offered her that - and promised her his loyalty in the bargain, which she has no doubt is a promise he will keep. There is little reason for her not to follow the wishes of her heart and give him the answer he waits for. Only that this feels sudden and she doesn't know what has driven his thoughts to this conclusion.
"Though I would say I freely give my consent, I am not entirely at liberty to answer for myself. For all that you have seen me safely delivered into the care of your uncle, still my brother would be my natural guardian, and must be asked as well to give his permission for me to wed." Blanche turns to Henry, drying her hands on a towel. "If he should allow it, then yes, I will consent to be your wife."
To be his wife, and to shoulder what responsibilities come with that office, as she's sure there is more to it than merely what she had learned as a girl to run a household the size of her father's. What that might mean is a question that she quietly asks of his step-mother when he leaves her in the queen's company later that week, no little bewildered by the changes that have been wrought on her life.
From there it's a whirlwind, with new gowns, and paying close attention to the instructions of the women who will be her relatives all too soon. Only seeing her daughter because the infant fusses when she's out of sight, and seeing her son but rarely. Though he, she knows, has taken to following his father around once more, Henry's constant shadow. She worries more than a little what it will mean as he grows, if he continues to follow in his father's footsteps at every chance he is given. If she might lose him at a young age because he follows when he should stay home.
In March, her brother arrives in London, to give his blessing in person, and to ask her to forgive him all he has neglected to do for her. That she tells him there is nothing she thinks ought need be forgiven, so long as he has not neglected the home which she grew up in, seems to surprise him, as does the quiet invitation to stay. At least until the wedding, which is little more than two months from his arrival, and for all that she doesn't know him well, he is still her brother and all the family she has left save her own children.
~ ~~ ~
That he is asked to give his permission for his sister to marry the Prince is unexpected, and it's a long month before he takes it on himself to travel to London. Leaving his wife to care for the house as he does so often, so he might grant his permission to his sister himself, though he has little doubt she will do as she wishes, if he will or no. That fiercely possessive child grown into a quietly determined woman, doing all she might to hold onto what she has. Protecting their father when he abandoned them both, and finding herself a husband she can hold onto, though some part of that latter may simply be the hand of God in directing her meeting of Prince Henry.
Her invitation to stay is a surprise, but one he accepts gladly, seeing a chance for penance for his mistakes, even if only in some small fashion. Though he has little chance to see his sister, busy as she is preparing for the wedding, a ceremony that for all that it is subdued in splendor, is something more complex than he recalls his own wedding to be. That it includes her becoming Princess of Wales is perhaps no small part of that complexity.
And though he returns to Warwick and his family after, it is not without the promise that he shall do what he might for his sister yet, for all that he has given over her care to Prince Henry. For she's still his sister, and there's still some remnant of the girl he left behind as a child.
~ ~~ ~
Though she's had to learn new manners and to accept that there are matters she is expected to leave to the servants, being a princess seems little different to Blanche than she remembers running her father's household to be. Though the estates that are Henry's are run by stewards, and he has ultimate authority over what might be done, he encourages her interest in the running of them. After all, as Henry reminds her with quiet murmurs as they rest in his bed of a night, they are the makers of custom, and what changes they bring the world shall learn to accommodate.
And so she keeps herself busy with tasks much like those she tended to before her father's death, with Henry promising to accompany her if she should wish to see the estates that he controls. She thinks perhaps the following summer, as he is concerned more now with establishing himself in his father's council and government, and she has enough with learning all she will here to keep her busy.
As summer wears into autumn, it becomes clear she is once more with child, keeping her ever close to the palace at Westminster, tending to gardens as she wishes, and to her children and learning what she might that she had not before. Watching her Henry, as he draws his father's government to him and leaves the ailing king with little true power come midwinter.
Her second son is born as the year turns, amidst women who've only recently become more than strangers, screaming his outrage at being expelled into the world with a comforting vigor. A son who shall be as healthy as his brother, she hopes, and perhaps a little more inclined to study than to imitating his father in every warlike aspect as Robert is.
She sleeps, and Henry is there when she wakes, crouched next to the cradle holding his sleeping son. His expression is difficult to make out in the shadows that shroud the corner of the room, but Blanche watches him watch their son for a time, until Henry looks up to meet her gaze.
"A son, my lord." Her voice is quiet, as she's still tired, but it's loud enough for him to hear even in the corner where the cradle rests. "What shall he be named?"
Henry reaches out a hand to gently touch the infant's face with a fingertip, looking back down at the boy for a long moment. "Edward, for my great-grandfather, I think." A smile is just visible, amusement at some unspoken thought as he takes his hand away again. "My uncle would baptize our son himself, as soon as all is ready." He looks up at Blanche again. "His godparents are waiting, as well."
Blanche nods, a smile crossing her face once more. "Than go, and see him baptized." She draws the blankets a little closer as she watches Henry pick up their son, hoping only that it isn't too cold for the infant. She sleeps again, and this time she wakes to the wail of her son, no doubt hungry, though she barely has had time to push herself upright before Maud is there with little Edward.
"Your own dinner is waiting as well, mistress, once you've seen to your son." The older woman's settled in well, running Blanche's small household, though it's her granddaughter who's Blanche's usual maid servant. "He had a fine opinion for the bishop when he was baptized," she adds with a chuckle as she goes to bring the tray with Blanche's dinner over. "A strong boy, that one, and like to be another to follow after His Highness, no doubt."
Settling Edward at her breast, Blanche smiles at the thought of her son's reaction to his baptism. "So long as he lives, I shall be content whether he is warrior or scholar or priest." She strokes his downy hair, watching him for a long moment before she turns her attention to her own meal, eating one-handed so she might keep her son supported.
"He's a strong boy, and God willing, he'll live to make much of what's been granted him." Maud moves about the room, doing what needs done to keep it warm and safe for Blanche and her youngest. Adding another log to the fire, and looking over at Blanche again. "He'll live, m'lady. You've two fine strong children already, and this son is no less a hearty one than they were."
"I know." Blanche leans back against the pillows a bit more. "They've not been a trouble this last day, have they?"
"Not a trouble, though young Margaret's been wanting to come to you since His Highness came to fetch your littlest for baptizing." Maud comes over to move the tray when Blanche is done with it. "Your oldest has been a fine boy, keeping his sister company so she doesn't make too much of your absence. Though he tends to forget, I think, that she is a girl, for all that he's careful not to hurt her. She's not as careful of him, yet he's not complained the once for all she's left him a few bruises. A good lad, he is."
Blanch smiles, a soft chuckle escaping her. She'll have to remember to seek a playmate for Margaret, so she'll have another girl to keep her company, rather than just her brother. A matter she later asks for help with, busy as she is simply trying to keep up with her children as raw weather of early spring gives way to milder weather. Even with nurses to help with Robert and Margaret, she still prefers to care for them herself as best she can around her youngest. It's a relief that Edward is soon asleep through the night, rather than waking her at all hours as his brother and sister did for far longer.
Still, the days when Henry ignores matters of state for the sake of spending them with his older children are precious, giving her the time to tend to her garden and the still room. A nurse always accompanies her to help with Edward, to keep him from trouble or fretting, and it gives her that bit more freedom, for all that she enjoys the care of her children. Some days she even follows along in the wake of the rest of her family, Edward balanced on her hip as she watches Henry teaching Robert to ride, or spinning Margaret as the little girl giggles with delight.
~ ~~ ~
Henry smiles to himself as he takes Margaret from Robert, settling the two-year-old in front of him as she chortles with glee. She's been watching him teach Robert how to ride a horse with a pout on her face for the last few months, and while he's not willing to let her sit on the horse alone, he's willing to indulge her desire to learn. He folds his hands over hers as he gives her the reins, glad for the patient nature of the particular horse he's on at the moment.
It's a few moments more before Robert is settled on his own pony, controlling it well enough to keep it alongside Henry's horse as they ride through the grounds of the palace. Henry shows Margaret how to steer the horse, though he doesn't let her have the reins entirely to herself; she's still too young to truly control even her own pony such as Robert has, much less the horse he's on. Still, it makes her smile, and wrap her arms around his neck when they return to the stable.
His uncle is waiting there for him, and Henry raises an eyebrow at him, handing Margaret down before he swings down himself. "Pressing news, uncle?"
"None of which I am aware." Thomas settles Margaret on his shoulder, a delighted expression coming to the girl's face at the chance. "Though my brother is in London, and would like to speak with you, when you might see him."
Henry keeps half an eye on Robert as his son climbs down from his pony, nodding to his uncle. "I shall send word to him that I will." And take the children back to Blanche for the rest of the day, as the conversation is one he would not have them overhear. Too many questions asked when some of what he's been talking to his uncles about is more idle speculation than thought of action. "And you shall remain too, uncle, as I would speak with you as well."
Margaret pouts when Henry takes her and Robert back to Blanche, rather than continuing to entertain them himself, but she's soon enough chasing her brother across the garden Blanche is tending. Much to the exasperation of their nurses, Henry's certain, but he smiles indulgently a moment before turning away, his smile fading as he mulls over the potential conversation with his uncles.
If indeed it is the same as one they've had before, they'll merely chase thoughts around like mice trapped in a barrel seeking an outlet. One first brought up January two years past now, when he'd been merely a large part of political life in his father's court, rather than the true power behind the throne as he is now, for the most part. His father's steadily recovered from that fit, though, and Henry's reluctant to bring up the matter of abdication to him when he's well enough to take interest in what Henry's doing with the ruling of the country.
Shaking his head, Henry summons a page to go to his uncle the bishop, and convey him to Henry's apartments. He'll talk to his uncles there, and remind them of the reasons he's not yet ready to force such a step on his father. No matter that it might better reflect the true balance of power for Henry to be king now, rather than his father, such an action would taint his claim to the crown. He'll not risk that, and the constant rebellion that it would bring with it.
His uncles soon arrive, the page dismissed after he's brought wine, and some bread and some of the last apples stored through the winter. Silence reigning only a short few moments until they're all certain there is no one to overhear the conversation, for all that they have and will do nothing but talk.
"He is not well, and the physician cannot be certain he will not have another of those same fits as he's had before." Thomas pushes himself from his seat, preferring to stand near the hearth, goblet abandoned and forgotten on the table. "An ailing king does little good for the stability of a kingdom."
"Of that I am aware, uncle." Henry sips at his own wine, watching his uncles. "Still, I would not suggest such an action to my father, nor wish it to happen save that he think it a proper thing without another to plant the idea in his mind."
"Your Highness has done well in keeping the kingdom from trouble despite His Majesty's illness." The bishop takes up the thread of conversation instead of Thomas, shrugging one shoulder when Henry lifts an eyebrow at him. "It is merely a thought that it would do well for the people to see a king who is capable of keeping a firm hand on the reins of his court and nobles."
"One which you have suggested more than once, and I have told you my answer." Henry scowls a moment. "Perhaps you might have arguments you have yet to give, or have newly thought of, rather than circling the same thoughts again? For my answer to such is unchanged."
"Then the conversation need not go further." The bishop shrugs again, taking a sip of wine, and looking over at Thomas. "Come, Thomas, sit back down. There are, no doubt, other matters which ought to be tended to. Perhaps the matter with France."
That is a conversation that is far more comfortable, and the rest of the afternoon is less fraught with the tension of the first moments. Discussions of what impressions the ambassadors lately to France have returned, and how best to handle the situation between Burgundians and Armagnacs. If to stand aside, or provide their support to one or another.
In the end, it is thought best to wait, and see what the two parties might do, and perhaps draw from them both bribes to remain neutral - or, perhaps, to support one over the other.
Still, the earliest part of the conversation weighs on his mind through the rest of a summer spent between his children and the rule of England in all but name. His father improves, to be certain, but there is always the fear that he will be struck down by another fit, despite the careful care of his physicians. It is enough a fear to drive his thoughts to what might be best for England, both now and when he is duly made king when his father dies.
Word reaches him in the winter that Burgundy and Armagnac have signed a treaty, though Henry suspects it will not last. He sends ambassadors to the courts of France and Burgundy in the spring, and to the Count of Armagnac, to assess the factions and political situation as much as to make it clear he's willing to offer assistance if provided sufficient incentive. Or even to remain neutral, should that be the expressed desire that comes with what offer either faction is willing to offer. Playing them off against each other to enrich the coffers of England, to good effect.
~ ~~ ~
When he hears of an expedition to France, he asks leave of Warwick to join those who will follow the Earl of Arundel and Bishop of St. David's to Burgundy's aid. Perhaps in so doing, he might earn some honor and some good will in the eyes of Prince Henry. If his valor is noted by the prince at all, among the others who have likewise joined this expedition.
Though there is little enough of valor to be won, a march on Paris and fighting against Bretons which seems to do nothing to truly change the balance of power, at least that he can see. Something of the matter, though, is of note, he thinks, as the earl and the bishop spend much time closeted on the return to England, and depart immediately for London upon landing, though evening is falling, and it is unlikely they might reach London before night closes in.
~ ~~ ~
"Take time to tend to your wife and your children instead of my government." At least the argument isn't taking place in front of the rest of the council, though Henry is still stung by his father's dismissal. Particularly after the public thanks for all he's done to keep his father's rule from collapsing along with his health. Health which is precarious, for all that he's regained strength. "And I would not have you speaking so closely with certain members of my council behind closed doors, away from my sight."
"You've not always been well enough to participate, and your physician has scolded all about you for providing too much excitement, which would risk Your Majesty's health." Henry meets his father's gaze with ease. "Nor were some of those conversations fit to bring up with Your Majesty when they were naught but idle thought firmly diverted before they could become more."
"Your uncles' wish for me to set aside my crown for you." His father gave him a sharp smile that faded quickly. "I know you would not ask that of me, though there are others who would think you agree with your uncles more than you do. Still, there were matters which you should have discussed with me before you acted in my name."
Henry's almost certain his father is referring to the expedition that returned just three weeks before, from the successful aiding of Burgundy in his march on Paris. Aid his father no doubt hadn't wished to lend, and an argument he'd avoided beforehand simply by doing what he thought was best for England.
"I gave aid as I thought was right, to one who would prove a better ally in France than the other. Or would you have me abandon the claim you may make on the crown of France?" And with it, his own claim to it, something he has no intention of doing.
"You did so without my permission, a permission which I would not have granted to such an expedition." The king frowns at Henry, his expression darkening with annoyance. "For all that you thought it best, you are still not king, and still must abide by my wishes. And thus, tend to your family and leave me tend to my kingdom."
It takes an effort to keep from retorting, and Henry bows stiffly before leaving the room, Scroop falling in beside him once he's in the hallway. Waiting for him, as he'd been instructed, watching Henry for a long moment before he speaks. "What did His Majesty say, if I might ask, Your Highness?"
"You may ask, but it is not a discussion for here." Henry doesn't intend to make his father's admonishments to him any more public than his father clearly intended, though the one shall be known soon enough when he doesn't attend upon his father's council as he has for these last several years.
"As Your Highness wishes it." Scroop remains silent as he follows Henry through the palace back to the apartments that belong to Henry and Blanche. Making no suggestions nor asking further questions until Henry's had a chance to vent his frustration in words and pacing, merely listening.
"I do not know that I would even remain in London, if my father wishes me to keep from his affairs, for to stay is to be tempted to take interest once more. Which shall do naught but cause frustration." Henry reaches for a goblet of wine, taking a long sip. "Perhaps it might be best to take Blanche and my children to see other residences of which I have the use."
"Your Highness would do well to make such a journey, though your progress no doubt shall be hampered by the coming winter."
A simple agreement, Henry thinks, to placate an angry prince. One that does well to soothe his ruffled feathers, and he chuckles, setting his goblet down once more. "I should, though, perhaps ask Blanche if she is inclined to such, and if our youngest might be suited to a trip with winter coming on."
In the end, though, they leave Edward in the care of his nurses and under the guardianship of Henry's step-mother, as not to risk his health with the winter weather. Henry nearly thinks to leave Margaret behind as well, with that thought, save he doesn't care to think what she will do in long months left without either of her parents to watch over her. Or how she might sulk when they do return.
The journey is slow, traveling first to Clarendon, where Henry takes Robert out on the boy's first hunt, though the hunting is not ideal in the winter months. A few days there, in close company with family and Scroop, and a handful of servants, is enough to ease some part of his frustration with being forced to leave his father's council.
From there, to Monmouth, where he leaves his children to the care of the rest of the party, taking the time to focus on Blanche instead. Joining the others for dinner, and sometimes an evening of entertainment, but more often retreating to the rooms he's sharing with his wife.
Exploring every inch of familiar flesh once more with fingers that seek out points that make her gasp and whimper, memorizing changes wrought by three children; some changes that will only last until the birth of the next. A fire kept blazing on the hearth, and candles lit so he might explore with eyes as much as with fingers and mouth. So he can watch the expression on Blanche's face as he slides into her slowly, driving her pleasure with gentle patience. Or perhaps so she might see him as easily, to read in his face and eyes and movement what he doesn't know how to say.
Read the emotion in his keeping her close as they sleep, arm wrapped tight around her waist to prevent her easily slipping away even if she wished to. To understand that same emotion is displayed in his dance of careful courtesy to her, his attention and devotion for these few months while he bides his time until his father recalls him to London. If his father recalls him to London, a matter which he's not entirely certain of.
They move on from Monmouth in the spring, when he hears his father's sending his own expedition to France, in the charge of his brother Thomas. Henry sends the messenger who delivers his father's wish for him to accompany the expedition back with the reply that he is attending upon his wife and children, and has little time for playing tutor for his brother's first command. Perhaps not a politic response to his father, but the insult is not one he's willing to let go unanswered.
It does, though, draw him back to London, particularly when his brother returns to report only failure. Too many rumors that draw on conversations that should have remained private, and his own careful removal of his father from effective power before, and he can't defend himself from them if he's touring the country with Blanche.
Only the birth of a third son in September distracts him briefly from the political mess that all has become since the previous November, and his choice of name for the boy mollifies his brother's wounded pride, at least. Though Henry had thought little of his brother with the choice, and more of the uncle who's supported his choices for years now, for the most part.
~ ~~ ~
The thin wail from the cradle nearly draws an answering sob from Blanche's own throat, though she hears movement from the nurse who has slept in the room as well since Thomas was born. Her youngest is too often ill for her to be able to care for him as well as she would wish without the other woman's assistance. Still, she's not slept properly, nor been able to provide as much of the care for her children as she ought.
At least this time he quiets quickly, the only sounds the soft sweep of his nurse's skirts over the rushes as she continues to walk, to keep him quiet and asleep. Quiet sounds that lull Blanche back to sleep, waking only to the morning sun creeping through the narrow windows. She gives a quiet murmur of thanks that her fretful child has slept the rest of the night, though it may well be because his nurse remained awake to carry him in her arms. He sleeps better when held than when laid in his cradle, much to Blanche's frustration.
"Your son is like to demand his breakfast soon, Your Highness." The nurse comes over as she sits up, Thomas still cradled in her arms. "Shall I have your own brought up as well?"
"If Maud is not already bringing up such, or has sent her granddaughter with the same, yes." Blanche takes her son from the nurse, cradling the boy close, stroking the tip of a finger over his face. Too thin for an infant, and ever paler than she thinks is right. Though as yet, he lives, and she prays God he might continue to do so. That he might grow to be as healthy and strong as his brothers and his sister.
"I shall see to it, Your Highness." The woman dips her head a moment before leaving the room to put action to word, as Blanche settles her son at her breast. Looking up when the door opens once more, giving Henry a small smile when he slips in. No doubt having waited until he saw the nurse leave to enter, as it would be sign enough that she's awake.
He comes over, settling at the edge of the bed to watch his son for a long moment. A faint hint of worry on his face that no doubt has its origins in the same concern as her own. "Did he sleep last night?" Henry asks, his voice quiet so not to disturb their son.
"Only once his nurse took him up from the cradle, and carried him on her shoulder. Like as not, the night through." Blanche keeps her own voice as quiet as Henry's, leaning against him after a moment, and he shifts so he might better support her. "At least Robert shall have his tutor to keep an eye on him, and Margaret and Edward their nurses, or I fear I would have difficulty containing them as well as keeping Thomas from fussing."
"You would manage, even if you'd no more than my meager help with the children." Henry smiles, leaning in to press a kiss to her temple. "And you've a whole household at your call that you manage with the same ease I might command a battle."
Blanche smiles, letting her head rest against his shoulder. "And yet, three children who all have your stubborn nature, my lord, have proved they might have the better of us both, if they think to work together."
"It will prove a benefit to them, and a frustration to the enemies of England when they are older. Though I think Margaret will prove as much a frustration to England if she were allowed." Henry traces a light finger across Thomas' face, drawing the infant's gaze to him. "She follows me when she might, as much as Robert did when the same age. With Edward in tow behind her."
"You indulge her by allowing it." Blanche shrugs, shifting Thomas around to her other breast. "Though she is easier to manage after a chance to follow at your heels than she is on days when she is confined to garden and rooms by her nurse and me."
Henry chuckles, and she can feel the smile on his face. "Then I will indulge my daughter as far as my conscience may allow."
"As you will, my lord, so long as she learns what she must, as well as what she would wish to in thinking to learn all that her brothers will." Blanche smiles to herself, though the expression fades a moment when a knock on the door precedes the entrance of her maid-servant with breakfast, and Thomas' nurse once more. Henry moves from the bed once she is settled against the pillows again, leaving her to her meal and her servants with a murmured promise to join her for dinner.
~ ~~ ~
Henry's glad to have the comfort of his family close at hand as autumn fades into winter, and his father once more takes to his sickbed. The illness is the same as others he's endured in the past, but this fit seems to be a greater blow than those before, leaving the king barely able to care for himself, much less for anything greater. It leaves Henry and his brothers to settle any arguments they might have among themselves, and to find some harmony while their father still lives.
Perhaps there is also that his son is ill in the cold weather that makes Henry want peace with his brother Thomas more than he wishes to hold any sort of grudge. Worry for the infant that is a constant nag at the back of his mind, and saps some small part of his energy. It is a worry that's well-founded, and blossoms into cold fear as the tiny boy is gripped by a fever late in February.
All he might do is pray that he survive, that some remedy might be found for the illness that makes him struggle for breath and burn as warm as any hearth-fire. Prayers that go unanswered, and leave him with bewildered children and a grieving wife and a son to bury. And perhaps it is grief at the loss of his grandson that drives the king's last illness, the fit that steals his life away barely a month after they've laid Henry's infant son to rest.
The ascension to the throne he can take in his stride, already of firm mind of what he intends to do now that he is king. Even the funeral of his father bothers him little in its details, though the grief for him lingers faintly in the back of his mind, overlaid with the persistent sorrow for his son, and the need to establish his rule.
Twenty days after his father let out his final breath, Henry looks out at the snow storm that has descended on London with a brief smile before he turns back to the hall where they are gathering for the procession to Westminster. Blanche and Robert are accompanying him, while Margaret and Edward remain with their nurses for the day. It's the first time the younger two have been out of Blanche's sight since Thomas died for anything save the night's sleep, though Henry expects it will only last until she returns to the palace.
Indeed, if he'd not made it clear he intended to have her crowned queen consort as he is crowned king, he thinks she might have remained in her rooms with their children kept close. Keeping them where she might know that they live and are well after a winter spent struggling to keep their youngest from succumbing to one illness or another, only to lose him in the end.
He draws Blanche to his side for a moment before the procession, murmuring reassurances that Margaret and Edward will still be well and waiting when they return. Trying to soothe the worry he can see in her face, so that it doesn't show as they make their way through London. He thinks it succeeds when she relaxes against him, though the moment is soon over as those who are part of the procession finish gathering. The handful of miles through the snow are enough to chill him even through the cloak he's wearing over his finery, and he has no doubt the rest of the party are likewise chilled.
It's not enough, though, to make him shiver as he enters Westminster Abbey, pausing only for a moment before starting down the nave, the ceremony remembered from being present at his father's coronation fourteen years ago. Though he doesn't remember the sense of power that comes as he looks out over those who are now his subjects, hears their recognition of him as king. That had been his father's, then, and it makes him understand a little more now why his father held so tightly to it.
The familiar words of communion wash over him, and he allows himself to be helped from one set of robes to another, rituals keeping him focused even as they imbued him with the power he'd tasted three years earlier. The sacred oil against his skin as he's anointed, the new robes that he's dressed in, the crown on his head, focuses of the power he wields now.
It's a far briefer ceremony to have Blanche crowned as his consort, before they receive the homage of clergy and nobility, fealty given and accepted with ease. And before they return to the palace itself, that Robert at least might escape the rest of the pageantry of the day, Henry invests his son with the titles he himself has less than a month laid by to take up the role he holds now.
Chapter Warnings: Non-explicit sex, mentioned deaths
Characters Present:
The Chorus, James Stretton, Knight of Warwick
Henry of Monmouth, Prince of Wales
Blanche Stretton, mistress of Henry of Monmouth, later Princess of Wales
Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester
Robert of Stretton, a child
Thomas Beaufort, Captain of Calais, later Lord Chancellor, Earl of Dorset
Margaret of Lancaster, a child
Henry of Bolingbroke, King of England
Edward of Lancaster, a child
Maude, a servant of Blanche's
Henry Chichele, Bishop of St. David's
Thomas FitzAlan, Earl of Arundel
Henry Scroop, Baron of Masham
Thomas of Lancaster, an infant
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This time when he approaches the bishop, he is not given audience as he had hoped, but instead brought into the presence of a man who is at least several years younger than he, though from the deference given him, someone of importance. It takes little to conclude this is Prince Henry that he'd taken his sister from her home to avoid his visits.
When he asks after his nephew, Henry only tells him that he's seen to the guardianship of his son himself, and that he has no cause to ask after the boy. If Blanche wishes to do so, she may come and ask herself, rather than James coming in her stead. There is nothing else the prince will offer, and he leaves with nothing more than he arrived with.
On his return to Warwick, his sister's easy acceptance of this news surprises him, when she's been so fiercely devoted to the son that is evidence of the weakness of a moment. Until his wife reminds him that Blanche has not shown any concern over the taking of her son since the day the prince rode away with the boy. It makes him wonder what part Blanche had in the boy's removal from his care.
Almost a year passes, and when he returns in the company of his lord in the autumn, it's to find his sister missing, with none present who know where she has gone, only that she left two months past to go up to the castle in reply to summons sent down by the countess. His liege will give him no answer, and he wonders if the earl even knows what his countess has done.
And a third visit to the bishop only yields the knowledge that his sister is safe in the care of those Prince Henry trusts also with his son, as so to allow the mother to once more have a hand in the raising of the boy. He may, as is his right, continue to see to the administration of his nephew's inheritance until the boy comes of age, but the boy and his mother will remain where they are.
His thoughts are morose as he returns to his home, thinking only that he may well have made things worse in his meddling. A matter which, even should God forgive him, he will have a hard time forgiving himself for. His sister deserves better, and he can only hope that he will have the chance to see her again.
Blanche wakes as she always does, with the pale grey light of dawn filtering through the windows, though the room that greets her is still unfamiliar for all that she's been here nearly a month. When she goes to stir the fire on the hearth, an arm tightens around her waist, reminding her that she isn't alone in her bed. That Henry had come to her after dining with her hosts - his uncle and aunt, she's learned - and while he'd said it was only to speak with her, she had been little surprised when it became more.
It surprises her more that she feels little shame or regret for once more succumbing to the temptation that Henry provides her. Only a growing concern for what hosts might think of this, and if they might turn out her son as well as perhaps herself for her weakness. She does not care to return her son to her brother's care, and she does not wish to cause more difficulty for Henry on that matter than she already has.
Shifting again, Blanche squirms from under Henry's arm, pulling on her chemise before she pads to the hearth, stirring the fire to life, and adding some of the wood that waits nearby for just such a purpose. Going then to dress in kirtle and gown, aware that Henry's watching her as she does so, awakened by her leaving the bed, no doubt.
She hurries from the room once she is dressed, first to see to her son, and then to do what she will for the day in garden and still room, where she might ignore that Henry is still present. To discuss some matter or another with his uncle, perhaps; she doesn't have any care to know, save that he remains through the evening once more, and will remain the night at least before traveling on once more.
The door shuts quietly behind him when he comes to her room later, his tread nearly silent on the floor as he comes over to where she sits curled on a chair near the hearth. His hands are warm on her shoulders, through layers of linen and wool, familiar temptation that makes her blood heat in response. Blanche keeps her gaze on the fire burning low on the hearth, trying to focus on keeping herself from giving in once more, though she expects that's an impossible task.
"Would you have me leave?" His voice is quiet, the question lighter than she feels it ought be, and Blanche chews on her lip a moment. Thinking what is safest to answer, more than what she truly wishes, because that would be a foolish thing to admit.
"I would have you stay or leave as you chose, Your Highness." Blanche doesn't look away from the fire as she speaks. "So long as we remain chaste as we might in the company of others, it matters little that you are here, save what your uncle whom you have charged with the care of my son, and now of me, might think of your presence in my bedchamber."
"My uncle's opinion doesn't matter as much here and now as your own." Henry rubs his thumb against her neck, sending a shiver down her spine to pool heat in her belly. Temptation offered and accepted without a word, though she knows she ought not.
Leaning into his touch, Blanche turns her head to look up at Henry. Studying the familiar features, the scar that he took at Shrewsbury after that first night they lay together. She doesn't dare to think that she might have more than affection for him, or that he has ought but a fondness for her as mother to his son. For all that he might protest to the contrary if that thought were spoken.
Thought is something soon abandoned, the night remembered in sensation and pleasure that ends drowsing in her bed with Henry's arm wrapped possessive and snug around her waist once more. As if defying the world to tell him he couldn't have what he wanted on his terms, a thought that makes Blanche smile to herself as she drifts toward sleep.
Henry woke to the sensation of someone watching him, opening his eyes to meet the gaze of his son over Blanche's shoulder. The boy is peering over the edge of the bed, watching him with curious eyes. He hauls himself up a moment later, though the bed is barely wide enough to allow him to sit on the edge, still watching Henry.
"Why are you in here?"
Robert's whispering, probably trying not to wake his mother, but Blanche stirs regardless, shifting under Henry's arm. He tightens his grip so she doesn't move too far and further limit the room for their son to perch.
"Because I slept in here." It's an obvious answer, but Henry provides it anyway, smiling a moment at Robert.
"Uncle says you have your own bed to sleep in." Robert tilts his head, his expression still curious. Wondering, likely, what his uncle means. "Why did you sleep here?"
"Because I wanted to." Because Henry knows Blanche wouldn't come to him, and he's enjoying the chance to once more explore her body and her pleasure as he had before. Though from the innocently repeated words, he expects his uncle is none too happy that he's done so in that worthy's home. Perhaps particularly since Henry's put Blanche in his care as much as he'd done the same with his son nearly a year before.
Robert watches him a moment longer before sliding off the bed, going toward the fire, and climbing into the chair Blanche had been sitting in the night before. Kicking his feet as he waits, and following Henry when he leaves the room. A constant shadow while he breaks his fast, conversation over the table with Thomas strained slightly because of Henry's choice of actions.
It is a conversation that doesn't end with his return to London and to his father's side, though it's conducted now in letters rather than in person. One that grows more heated as the season progresses, and news comes from his uncle that Blanche is once more carries a child. Another son, perhaps, or a daughter, it matters little which it is, only that it becomes harder to hide that he might have some fondness for her. If one that remains unspoken and unacknowledged for the most part.
The birth in June of a daughter is overlooked when he is recalled to London when his father is ill, another of the same illness which has struck twice before. The physician can only say that his father will recover as before, but for now, Henry must focus on the politics of his position rather than his campaigns in Wales. He draws his uncles closer, seeking their advice on this and that, along with that of his favorites, though he doesn't always heed what advice they provide him.
Blanche is brought to Farnham with her son and daughter when his uncle Thomas comes to London, left safe in the care of his uncle the bishop there. From whom he receives an admonishment that if would continue as he is with Blanche, he ought marry her and provide her with the safety of that status. A thought that remains in the back of his mind until a conversation with his father leads to the mention of the children, and a demand that the king be given a chance to meet these two.
Of their mother is made no mention, though Henry will not part them from her without her express wish, and so he sends word that she shall come with her children from Farnham to London. An easier journey than the one she made three months past at the end of summer, even with an infant to keep from the chill of the oncoming winter.
She is escorted first to his chambers, still wrapped in her cloak, with Robert trotting at her side. He'll take her and the children to his father himself, and says as much to the men who brought her to him, dismissing them from his presence.
"Is that why I have been brought to London?" Blanche looks almost frightened as she removes Robert's cloak to hang it by the hearth to dry. "I was not told why, only that you had sent for me to come, Your Highness."
"My father wants to meet my son." Henry helps her to remove her own cloak, garnering a brief smile of thanks, before he finally first sees his daughter. Dark eyes stare back at him, a faintly startled expression on the infant's face as she regards him for a long moment before looking back at her mother. "And my daughter as well. So he shall have to meet their mother, as well, for it would be ill to part them from you even for so short a time as this might be, I think."
Blanche smiles when he meets her gaze once more, her cheeks pink in a familiar blush that had been all but absent the last time he saw her. "A kindness for which I thank you," she murmurs, shifting her daughter to rest the infant against her shoulder, where she keeps her as he leads them through chill halls to where his father waits to meet the children.
A meeting at which his son demonstrates a boldness that he's shown since he began to toddle, meeting the king's gaze with a child's bravery, and telling him that he was that worthy's grandson. As though it might not be certain in the mind of the man who sits in a grand chair at the hearth, and the surety of a small boy might settle the matter. Staring at him with a determined expression and small head held high.
Chuckling, Henry's father smiles. "You certainly have the same determination the world will shape itself to you that my son has." He studies Robert for a long moment, though what he's searching for, Henry isn't entirely sure. "And much of him in your features."
"Because he's my father." Robert crosses his arms, all but glaring at the king. Willing him, perhaps, to believe what he's saying.
"As he has told me." Leaning back in his chair, the king looks from the boy to Blanche, though she doesn't meet his gaze long before looking down at the floor. "This would be your mother than, child?"
Robert nods. "My mother and she has my sister with her. My sister's name is Margaret, like Uncle Thomas's wife, and my grandmother. And my name is Robert, for my other grandfather."
Beckoning Blanche over, Henry's father looks over the tiny girl as well, Margaret looking back at him with a solemn expression on her face. As if less certain than her brother what to do with this stranger in front of her, though it's little surprise in so small a child. She cranes her head to look back at her mother a moment before looking at the king again. Until Blanche is waved away, and her daughter with her. Less concern for a girl child than for the boy who still watches the king with a stubborn expression.
The rest of the evening is uneventful, though Henry thinks his father and his son reach some sort of equilibrium. Certainly there's a command that the boy ought to be brought back again, as he thinks well of the child. There is further conversation once Blanche has been settled into a room for the night with the children, with the same thought brought up as had been suggested by his uncle, though it's now Henry who voices it.
That Blanche isn't of royal blood matters little to him, only that she is fair and English and that she has proven she bears children well. And if there is question of a royal marriage to secure any alliance or treaty, Robert is certainly more of an age with the marriageable French princess, at least, and that would be the principal kingdom with whom securing a treaty would be of concern. That he has some fondness for Blanche as well goes unsaid and unthought, as it's not an argument to be made.
Blanche returns to Farnham in the morning, to continue to reside in the custody of his uncle, to pass the winter there while Henry argues with his father. Though it's his step-mother who proves able to talk the king around in the end; to convince him that to give his consent to this marriage between Henry and his mistress is the best course to take. Perhaps the recurrence of illness he suffers in January also serves to push his mind in that direction, but Henry cannot be certain of that.
"Why?" Blanche stares at Henry, all too aware she's in her oldest kirtle and smock, with dirt clinging to her hands from tending to the corner of the garden the bishop has granted her. She's never imagined that Henry might do more than provide some small income for the care of her and her children. That he's asked her if she would consent to marry him is a surprise, though perhaps more of one than it ought be. "Not that I would not, for I find it difficult to refuse you anything, even what I ought. Only that I do not understand why you would make such an offer to me, who has nothing of royalty in her blood, and little enough of nobility, if any there be."
"Your blood matters nothing more to me now than it did before." Henry paces from where he'd been waiting for her near the hearth, across the floor to the window that overlooks the garden she tends. "I am fond of you, that much I can say, though if I love you, I do not know, as I do not believe I have loved before, save that which a child gives to those who are closest to them. That you are fair of face; that you are strong and loyal, features I would greatly want in a wife, that too I can say. Two children you've borne me; a promise I made to your father before he died."
He turns from the window to meet her gaze, his expression oddly open, almost vulnerable. "All of these are good reasons to make you my wife, if you would have me to husband. I cannot promise to remain close, any more than I have since when I first came to your father's home. Nor can I promise I shall be more than fond of you, or give you more than children for your trouble, for I cannot know what the future will hold. All I might promise you is that you would have a loyal husband, and all of England would be yours."
Washing her hands in the basin on a small table that is there to do so, Blanche keeps her attention on them for a long moment. Trying to think past the astonishment and the desire to merely accede to what has been asked of her, to think what she might truly wish. Certainly she can return that fondness Henry's mentioned, and that he promises her little doesn't matter much to her. She'd been happy with the home her father had provided, though she'd wished for a husband and children.
And he's offered her that - and promised her his loyalty in the bargain, which she has no doubt is a promise he will keep. There is little reason for her not to follow the wishes of her heart and give him the answer he waits for. Only that this feels sudden and she doesn't know what has driven his thoughts to this conclusion.
"Though I would say I freely give my consent, I am not entirely at liberty to answer for myself. For all that you have seen me safely delivered into the care of your uncle, still my brother would be my natural guardian, and must be asked as well to give his permission for me to wed." Blanche turns to Henry, drying her hands on a towel. "If he should allow it, then yes, I will consent to be your wife."
To be his wife, and to shoulder what responsibilities come with that office, as she's sure there is more to it than merely what she had learned as a girl to run a household the size of her father's. What that might mean is a question that she quietly asks of his step-mother when he leaves her in the queen's company later that week, no little bewildered by the changes that have been wrought on her life.
From there it's a whirlwind, with new gowns, and paying close attention to the instructions of the women who will be her relatives all too soon. Only seeing her daughter because the infant fusses when she's out of sight, and seeing her son but rarely. Though he, she knows, has taken to following his father around once more, Henry's constant shadow. She worries more than a little what it will mean as he grows, if he continues to follow in his father's footsteps at every chance he is given. If she might lose him at a young age because he follows when he should stay home.
In March, her brother arrives in London, to give his blessing in person, and to ask her to forgive him all he has neglected to do for her. That she tells him there is nothing she thinks ought need be forgiven, so long as he has not neglected the home which she grew up in, seems to surprise him, as does the quiet invitation to stay. At least until the wedding, which is little more than two months from his arrival, and for all that she doesn't know him well, he is still her brother and all the family she has left save her own children.
That he is asked to give his permission for his sister to marry the Prince is unexpected, and it's a long month before he takes it on himself to travel to London. Leaving his wife to care for the house as he does so often, so he might grant his permission to his sister himself, though he has little doubt she will do as she wishes, if he will or no. That fiercely possessive child grown into a quietly determined woman, doing all she might to hold onto what she has. Protecting their father when he abandoned them both, and finding herself a husband she can hold onto, though some part of that latter may simply be the hand of God in directing her meeting of Prince Henry.
Her invitation to stay is a surprise, but one he accepts gladly, seeing a chance for penance for his mistakes, even if only in some small fashion. Though he has little chance to see his sister, busy as she is preparing for the wedding, a ceremony that for all that it is subdued in splendor, is something more complex than he recalls his own wedding to be. That it includes her becoming Princess of Wales is perhaps no small part of that complexity.
And though he returns to Warwick and his family after, it is not without the promise that he shall do what he might for his sister yet, for all that he has given over her care to Prince Henry. For she's still his sister, and there's still some remnant of the girl he left behind as a child.
Though she's had to learn new manners and to accept that there are matters she is expected to leave to the servants, being a princess seems little different to Blanche than she remembers running her father's household to be. Though the estates that are Henry's are run by stewards, and he has ultimate authority over what might be done, he encourages her interest in the running of them. After all, as Henry reminds her with quiet murmurs as they rest in his bed of a night, they are the makers of custom, and what changes they bring the world shall learn to accommodate.
And so she keeps herself busy with tasks much like those she tended to before her father's death, with Henry promising to accompany her if she should wish to see the estates that he controls. She thinks perhaps the following summer, as he is concerned more now with establishing himself in his father's council and government, and she has enough with learning all she will here to keep her busy.
As summer wears into autumn, it becomes clear she is once more with child, keeping her ever close to the palace at Westminster, tending to gardens as she wishes, and to her children and learning what she might that she had not before. Watching her Henry, as he draws his father's government to him and leaves the ailing king with little true power come midwinter.
Her second son is born as the year turns, amidst women who've only recently become more than strangers, screaming his outrage at being expelled into the world with a comforting vigor. A son who shall be as healthy as his brother, she hopes, and perhaps a little more inclined to study than to imitating his father in every warlike aspect as Robert is.
She sleeps, and Henry is there when she wakes, crouched next to the cradle holding his sleeping son. His expression is difficult to make out in the shadows that shroud the corner of the room, but Blanche watches him watch their son for a time, until Henry looks up to meet her gaze.
"A son, my lord." Her voice is quiet, as she's still tired, but it's loud enough for him to hear even in the corner where the cradle rests. "What shall he be named?"
Henry reaches out a hand to gently touch the infant's face with a fingertip, looking back down at the boy for a long moment. "Edward, for my great-grandfather, I think." A smile is just visible, amusement at some unspoken thought as he takes his hand away again. "My uncle would baptize our son himself, as soon as all is ready." He looks up at Blanche again. "His godparents are waiting, as well."
Blanche nods, a smile crossing her face once more. "Than go, and see him baptized." She draws the blankets a little closer as she watches Henry pick up their son, hoping only that it isn't too cold for the infant. She sleeps again, and this time she wakes to the wail of her son, no doubt hungry, though she barely has had time to push herself upright before Maud is there with little Edward.
"Your own dinner is waiting as well, mistress, once you've seen to your son." The older woman's settled in well, running Blanche's small household, though it's her granddaughter who's Blanche's usual maid servant. "He had a fine opinion for the bishop when he was baptized," she adds with a chuckle as she goes to bring the tray with Blanche's dinner over. "A strong boy, that one, and like to be another to follow after His Highness, no doubt."
Settling Edward at her breast, Blanche smiles at the thought of her son's reaction to his baptism. "So long as he lives, I shall be content whether he is warrior or scholar or priest." She strokes his downy hair, watching him for a long moment before she turns her attention to her own meal, eating one-handed so she might keep her son supported.
"He's a strong boy, and God willing, he'll live to make much of what's been granted him." Maud moves about the room, doing what needs done to keep it warm and safe for Blanche and her youngest. Adding another log to the fire, and looking over at Blanche again. "He'll live, m'lady. You've two fine strong children already, and this son is no less a hearty one than they were."
"I know." Blanche leans back against the pillows a bit more. "They've not been a trouble this last day, have they?"
"Not a trouble, though young Margaret's been wanting to come to you since His Highness came to fetch your littlest for baptizing." Maud comes over to move the tray when Blanche is done with it. "Your oldest has been a fine boy, keeping his sister company so she doesn't make too much of your absence. Though he tends to forget, I think, that she is a girl, for all that he's careful not to hurt her. She's not as careful of him, yet he's not complained the once for all she's left him a few bruises. A good lad, he is."
Blanch smiles, a soft chuckle escaping her. She'll have to remember to seek a playmate for Margaret, so she'll have another girl to keep her company, rather than just her brother. A matter she later asks for help with, busy as she is simply trying to keep up with her children as raw weather of early spring gives way to milder weather. Even with nurses to help with Robert and Margaret, she still prefers to care for them herself as best she can around her youngest. It's a relief that Edward is soon asleep through the night, rather than waking her at all hours as his brother and sister did for far longer.
Still, the days when Henry ignores matters of state for the sake of spending them with his older children are precious, giving her the time to tend to her garden and the still room. A nurse always accompanies her to help with Edward, to keep him from trouble or fretting, and it gives her that bit more freedom, for all that she enjoys the care of her children. Some days she even follows along in the wake of the rest of her family, Edward balanced on her hip as she watches Henry teaching Robert to ride, or spinning Margaret as the little girl giggles with delight.
Henry smiles to himself as he takes Margaret from Robert, settling the two-year-old in front of him as she chortles with glee. She's been watching him teach Robert how to ride a horse with a pout on her face for the last few months, and while he's not willing to let her sit on the horse alone, he's willing to indulge her desire to learn. He folds his hands over hers as he gives her the reins, glad for the patient nature of the particular horse he's on at the moment.
It's a few moments more before Robert is settled on his own pony, controlling it well enough to keep it alongside Henry's horse as they ride through the grounds of the palace. Henry shows Margaret how to steer the horse, though he doesn't let her have the reins entirely to herself; she's still too young to truly control even her own pony such as Robert has, much less the horse he's on. Still, it makes her smile, and wrap her arms around his neck when they return to the stable.
His uncle is waiting there for him, and Henry raises an eyebrow at him, handing Margaret down before he swings down himself. "Pressing news, uncle?"
"None of which I am aware." Thomas settles Margaret on his shoulder, a delighted expression coming to the girl's face at the chance. "Though my brother is in London, and would like to speak with you, when you might see him."
Henry keeps half an eye on Robert as his son climbs down from his pony, nodding to his uncle. "I shall send word to him that I will." And take the children back to Blanche for the rest of the day, as the conversation is one he would not have them overhear. Too many questions asked when some of what he's been talking to his uncles about is more idle speculation than thought of action. "And you shall remain too, uncle, as I would speak with you as well."
Margaret pouts when Henry takes her and Robert back to Blanche, rather than continuing to entertain them himself, but she's soon enough chasing her brother across the garden Blanche is tending. Much to the exasperation of their nurses, Henry's certain, but he smiles indulgently a moment before turning away, his smile fading as he mulls over the potential conversation with his uncles.
If indeed it is the same as one they've had before, they'll merely chase thoughts around like mice trapped in a barrel seeking an outlet. One first brought up January two years past now, when he'd been merely a large part of political life in his father's court, rather than the true power behind the throne as he is now, for the most part. His father's steadily recovered from that fit, though, and Henry's reluctant to bring up the matter of abdication to him when he's well enough to take interest in what Henry's doing with the ruling of the country.
Shaking his head, Henry summons a page to go to his uncle the bishop, and convey him to Henry's apartments. He'll talk to his uncles there, and remind them of the reasons he's not yet ready to force such a step on his father. No matter that it might better reflect the true balance of power for Henry to be king now, rather than his father, such an action would taint his claim to the crown. He'll not risk that, and the constant rebellion that it would bring with it.
His uncles soon arrive, the page dismissed after he's brought wine, and some bread and some of the last apples stored through the winter. Silence reigning only a short few moments until they're all certain there is no one to overhear the conversation, for all that they have and will do nothing but talk.
"He is not well, and the physician cannot be certain he will not have another of those same fits as he's had before." Thomas pushes himself from his seat, preferring to stand near the hearth, goblet abandoned and forgotten on the table. "An ailing king does little good for the stability of a kingdom."
"Of that I am aware, uncle." Henry sips at his own wine, watching his uncles. "Still, I would not suggest such an action to my father, nor wish it to happen save that he think it a proper thing without another to plant the idea in his mind."
"Your Highness has done well in keeping the kingdom from trouble despite His Majesty's illness." The bishop takes up the thread of conversation instead of Thomas, shrugging one shoulder when Henry lifts an eyebrow at him. "It is merely a thought that it would do well for the people to see a king who is capable of keeping a firm hand on the reins of his court and nobles."
"One which you have suggested more than once, and I have told you my answer." Henry scowls a moment. "Perhaps you might have arguments you have yet to give, or have newly thought of, rather than circling the same thoughts again? For my answer to such is unchanged."
"Then the conversation need not go further." The bishop shrugs again, taking a sip of wine, and looking over at Thomas. "Come, Thomas, sit back down. There are, no doubt, other matters which ought to be tended to. Perhaps the matter with France."
That is a conversation that is far more comfortable, and the rest of the afternoon is less fraught with the tension of the first moments. Discussions of what impressions the ambassadors lately to France have returned, and how best to handle the situation between Burgundians and Armagnacs. If to stand aside, or provide their support to one or another.
In the end, it is thought best to wait, and see what the two parties might do, and perhaps draw from them both bribes to remain neutral - or, perhaps, to support one over the other.
Still, the earliest part of the conversation weighs on his mind through the rest of a summer spent between his children and the rule of England in all but name. His father improves, to be certain, but there is always the fear that he will be struck down by another fit, despite the careful care of his physicians. It is enough a fear to drive his thoughts to what might be best for England, both now and when he is duly made king when his father dies.
Word reaches him in the winter that Burgundy and Armagnac have signed a treaty, though Henry suspects it will not last. He sends ambassadors to the courts of France and Burgundy in the spring, and to the Count of Armagnac, to assess the factions and political situation as much as to make it clear he's willing to offer assistance if provided sufficient incentive. Or even to remain neutral, should that be the expressed desire that comes with what offer either faction is willing to offer. Playing them off against each other to enrich the coffers of England, to good effect.
When he hears of an expedition to France, he asks leave of Warwick to join those who will follow the Earl of Arundel and Bishop of St. David's to Burgundy's aid. Perhaps in so doing, he might earn some honor and some good will in the eyes of Prince Henry. If his valor is noted by the prince at all, among the others who have likewise joined this expedition.
Though there is little enough of valor to be won, a march on Paris and fighting against Bretons which seems to do nothing to truly change the balance of power, at least that he can see. Something of the matter, though, is of note, he thinks, as the earl and the bishop spend much time closeted on the return to England, and depart immediately for London upon landing, though evening is falling, and it is unlikely they might reach London before night closes in.
"Take time to tend to your wife and your children instead of my government." At least the argument isn't taking place in front of the rest of the council, though Henry is still stung by his father's dismissal. Particularly after the public thanks for all he's done to keep his father's rule from collapsing along with his health. Health which is precarious, for all that he's regained strength. "And I would not have you speaking so closely with certain members of my council behind closed doors, away from my sight."
"You've not always been well enough to participate, and your physician has scolded all about you for providing too much excitement, which would risk Your Majesty's health." Henry meets his father's gaze with ease. "Nor were some of those conversations fit to bring up with Your Majesty when they were naught but idle thought firmly diverted before they could become more."
"Your uncles' wish for me to set aside my crown for you." His father gave him a sharp smile that faded quickly. "I know you would not ask that of me, though there are others who would think you agree with your uncles more than you do. Still, there were matters which you should have discussed with me before you acted in my name."
Henry's almost certain his father is referring to the expedition that returned just three weeks before, from the successful aiding of Burgundy in his march on Paris. Aid his father no doubt hadn't wished to lend, and an argument he'd avoided beforehand simply by doing what he thought was best for England.
"I gave aid as I thought was right, to one who would prove a better ally in France than the other. Or would you have me abandon the claim you may make on the crown of France?" And with it, his own claim to it, something he has no intention of doing.
"You did so without my permission, a permission which I would not have granted to such an expedition." The king frowns at Henry, his expression darkening with annoyance. "For all that you thought it best, you are still not king, and still must abide by my wishes. And thus, tend to your family and leave me tend to my kingdom."
It takes an effort to keep from retorting, and Henry bows stiffly before leaving the room, Scroop falling in beside him once he's in the hallway. Waiting for him, as he'd been instructed, watching Henry for a long moment before he speaks. "What did His Majesty say, if I might ask, Your Highness?"
"You may ask, but it is not a discussion for here." Henry doesn't intend to make his father's admonishments to him any more public than his father clearly intended, though the one shall be known soon enough when he doesn't attend upon his father's council as he has for these last several years.
"As Your Highness wishes it." Scroop remains silent as he follows Henry through the palace back to the apartments that belong to Henry and Blanche. Making no suggestions nor asking further questions until Henry's had a chance to vent his frustration in words and pacing, merely listening.
"I do not know that I would even remain in London, if my father wishes me to keep from his affairs, for to stay is to be tempted to take interest once more. Which shall do naught but cause frustration." Henry reaches for a goblet of wine, taking a long sip. "Perhaps it might be best to take Blanche and my children to see other residences of which I have the use."
"Your Highness would do well to make such a journey, though your progress no doubt shall be hampered by the coming winter."
A simple agreement, Henry thinks, to placate an angry prince. One that does well to soothe his ruffled feathers, and he chuckles, setting his goblet down once more. "I should, though, perhaps ask Blanche if she is inclined to such, and if our youngest might be suited to a trip with winter coming on."
In the end, though, they leave Edward in the care of his nurses and under the guardianship of Henry's step-mother, as not to risk his health with the winter weather. Henry nearly thinks to leave Margaret behind as well, with that thought, save he doesn't care to think what she will do in long months left without either of her parents to watch over her. Or how she might sulk when they do return.
The journey is slow, traveling first to Clarendon, where Henry takes Robert out on the boy's first hunt, though the hunting is not ideal in the winter months. A few days there, in close company with family and Scroop, and a handful of servants, is enough to ease some part of his frustration with being forced to leave his father's council.
From there, to Monmouth, where he leaves his children to the care of the rest of the party, taking the time to focus on Blanche instead. Joining the others for dinner, and sometimes an evening of entertainment, but more often retreating to the rooms he's sharing with his wife.
Exploring every inch of familiar flesh once more with fingers that seek out points that make her gasp and whimper, memorizing changes wrought by three children; some changes that will only last until the birth of the next. A fire kept blazing on the hearth, and candles lit so he might explore with eyes as much as with fingers and mouth. So he can watch the expression on Blanche's face as he slides into her slowly, driving her pleasure with gentle patience. Or perhaps so she might see him as easily, to read in his face and eyes and movement what he doesn't know how to say.
Read the emotion in his keeping her close as they sleep, arm wrapped tight around her waist to prevent her easily slipping away even if she wished to. To understand that same emotion is displayed in his dance of careful courtesy to her, his attention and devotion for these few months while he bides his time until his father recalls him to London. If his father recalls him to London, a matter which he's not entirely certain of.
They move on from Monmouth in the spring, when he hears his father's sending his own expedition to France, in the charge of his brother Thomas. Henry sends the messenger who delivers his father's wish for him to accompany the expedition back with the reply that he is attending upon his wife and children, and has little time for playing tutor for his brother's first command. Perhaps not a politic response to his father, but the insult is not one he's willing to let go unanswered.
It does, though, draw him back to London, particularly when his brother returns to report only failure. Too many rumors that draw on conversations that should have remained private, and his own careful removal of his father from effective power before, and he can't defend himself from them if he's touring the country with Blanche.
Only the birth of a third son in September distracts him briefly from the political mess that all has become since the previous November, and his choice of name for the boy mollifies his brother's wounded pride, at least. Though Henry had thought little of his brother with the choice, and more of the uncle who's supported his choices for years now, for the most part.
The thin wail from the cradle nearly draws an answering sob from Blanche's own throat, though she hears movement from the nurse who has slept in the room as well since Thomas was born. Her youngest is too often ill for her to be able to care for him as well as she would wish without the other woman's assistance. Still, she's not slept properly, nor been able to provide as much of the care for her children as she ought.
At least this time he quiets quickly, the only sounds the soft sweep of his nurse's skirts over the rushes as she continues to walk, to keep him quiet and asleep. Quiet sounds that lull Blanche back to sleep, waking only to the morning sun creeping through the narrow windows. She gives a quiet murmur of thanks that her fretful child has slept the rest of the night, though it may well be because his nurse remained awake to carry him in her arms. He sleeps better when held than when laid in his cradle, much to Blanche's frustration.
"Your son is like to demand his breakfast soon, Your Highness." The nurse comes over as she sits up, Thomas still cradled in her arms. "Shall I have your own brought up as well?"
"If Maud is not already bringing up such, or has sent her granddaughter with the same, yes." Blanche takes her son from the nurse, cradling the boy close, stroking the tip of a finger over his face. Too thin for an infant, and ever paler than she thinks is right. Though as yet, he lives, and she prays God he might continue to do so. That he might grow to be as healthy and strong as his brothers and his sister.
"I shall see to it, Your Highness." The woman dips her head a moment before leaving the room to put action to word, as Blanche settles her son at her breast. Looking up when the door opens once more, giving Henry a small smile when he slips in. No doubt having waited until he saw the nurse leave to enter, as it would be sign enough that she's awake.
He comes over, settling at the edge of the bed to watch his son for a long moment. A faint hint of worry on his face that no doubt has its origins in the same concern as her own. "Did he sleep last night?" Henry asks, his voice quiet so not to disturb their son.
"Only once his nurse took him up from the cradle, and carried him on her shoulder. Like as not, the night through." Blanche keeps her own voice as quiet as Henry's, leaning against him after a moment, and he shifts so he might better support her. "At least Robert shall have his tutor to keep an eye on him, and Margaret and Edward their nurses, or I fear I would have difficulty containing them as well as keeping Thomas from fussing."
"You would manage, even if you'd no more than my meager help with the children." Henry smiles, leaning in to press a kiss to her temple. "And you've a whole household at your call that you manage with the same ease I might command a battle."
Blanche smiles, letting her head rest against his shoulder. "And yet, three children who all have your stubborn nature, my lord, have proved they might have the better of us both, if they think to work together."
"It will prove a benefit to them, and a frustration to the enemies of England when they are older. Though I think Margaret will prove as much a frustration to England if she were allowed." Henry traces a light finger across Thomas' face, drawing the infant's gaze to him. "She follows me when she might, as much as Robert did when the same age. With Edward in tow behind her."
"You indulge her by allowing it." Blanche shrugs, shifting Thomas around to her other breast. "Though she is easier to manage after a chance to follow at your heels than she is on days when she is confined to garden and rooms by her nurse and me."
Henry chuckles, and she can feel the smile on his face. "Then I will indulge my daughter as far as my conscience may allow."
"As you will, my lord, so long as she learns what she must, as well as what she would wish to in thinking to learn all that her brothers will." Blanche smiles to herself, though the expression fades a moment when a knock on the door precedes the entrance of her maid-servant with breakfast, and Thomas' nurse once more. Henry moves from the bed once she is settled against the pillows again, leaving her to her meal and her servants with a murmured promise to join her for dinner.
Henry's glad to have the comfort of his family close at hand as autumn fades into winter, and his father once more takes to his sickbed. The illness is the same as others he's endured in the past, but this fit seems to be a greater blow than those before, leaving the king barely able to care for himself, much less for anything greater. It leaves Henry and his brothers to settle any arguments they might have among themselves, and to find some harmony while their father still lives.
Perhaps there is also that his son is ill in the cold weather that makes Henry want peace with his brother Thomas more than he wishes to hold any sort of grudge. Worry for the infant that is a constant nag at the back of his mind, and saps some small part of his energy. It is a worry that's well-founded, and blossoms into cold fear as the tiny boy is gripped by a fever late in February.
All he might do is pray that he survive, that some remedy might be found for the illness that makes him struggle for breath and burn as warm as any hearth-fire. Prayers that go unanswered, and leave him with bewildered children and a grieving wife and a son to bury. And perhaps it is grief at the loss of his grandson that drives the king's last illness, the fit that steals his life away barely a month after they've laid Henry's infant son to rest.
The ascension to the throne he can take in his stride, already of firm mind of what he intends to do now that he is king. Even the funeral of his father bothers him little in its details, though the grief for him lingers faintly in the back of his mind, overlaid with the persistent sorrow for his son, and the need to establish his rule.
Twenty days after his father let out his final breath, Henry looks out at the snow storm that has descended on London with a brief smile before he turns back to the hall where they are gathering for the procession to Westminster. Blanche and Robert are accompanying him, while Margaret and Edward remain with their nurses for the day. It's the first time the younger two have been out of Blanche's sight since Thomas died for anything save the night's sleep, though Henry expects it will only last until she returns to the palace.
Indeed, if he'd not made it clear he intended to have her crowned queen consort as he is crowned king, he thinks she might have remained in her rooms with their children kept close. Keeping them where she might know that they live and are well after a winter spent struggling to keep their youngest from succumbing to one illness or another, only to lose him in the end.
He draws Blanche to his side for a moment before the procession, murmuring reassurances that Margaret and Edward will still be well and waiting when they return. Trying to soothe the worry he can see in her face, so that it doesn't show as they make their way through London. He thinks it succeeds when she relaxes against him, though the moment is soon over as those who are part of the procession finish gathering. The handful of miles through the snow are enough to chill him even through the cloak he's wearing over his finery, and he has no doubt the rest of the party are likewise chilled.
It's not enough, though, to make him shiver as he enters Westminster Abbey, pausing only for a moment before starting down the nave, the ceremony remembered from being present at his father's coronation fourteen years ago. Though he doesn't remember the sense of power that comes as he looks out over those who are now his subjects, hears their recognition of him as king. That had been his father's, then, and it makes him understand a little more now why his father held so tightly to it.
The familiar words of communion wash over him, and he allows himself to be helped from one set of robes to another, rituals keeping him focused even as they imbued him with the power he'd tasted three years earlier. The sacred oil against his skin as he's anointed, the new robes that he's dressed in, the crown on his head, focuses of the power he wields now.
It's a far briefer ceremony to have Blanche crowned as his consort, before they receive the homage of clergy and nobility, fealty given and accepted with ease. And before they return to the palace itself, that Robert at least might escape the rest of the pageantry of the day, Henry invests his son with the titles he himself has less than a month laid by to take up the role he holds now.