“I thought he would be forgiven,” said Sir David, his eyes bright with tears. “He must have given offense once too often. It’s a lesson for us all.” Whether he was shaken by the loss of a fellow Scot or the arbitrariness of the King’s justice, I could not tell.

14

Only in November did storms and fierce winds break the summer’s hold. I was busy with new commissions for the Princess’s wedding to the Elector of Palatine; so many guests were expected that the King had banned the wearing of farthingales and women were anxious about how to display their family’s wealth on so reduced a canvas. I was tired after a night disturbed by drinkers, celebrating the King’s deliverance from the Powder Plot. Barbara and John were nearly always in the household of Baron Ellesmere and I missed them and their help with the younger ones. The drafty house made the candles burn down fast and the latest batch of syrup I had made for Mary’s cough was too thin. The summer seemed to belong to another life.

I had just persuaded Mary to take a nap when Arthur walked in. I was so startled that I cried out, but he paid no heed at all. He took me in his arms but all the while stared about as if looking for a lost and most beloved child. We had not spoken since our quarrel. He sent notes with our monthly stipend, explaining why I should apologize, but I had not.

“Arthur? What is it? Have you a fever?”

“It was the swim at Richmond,” he said, holding me at arm’s length but not looking at me. “The doctors say he ate too many oysters beforehand. They put pigeons on his feet.” I led him to a stool onto which he dropped, head in hands. Our children came to the door and he beckoned them in, hugging each of them fiercely. “He had beaten us all at tennis, he was hot and spent an hour in the river.” He shook his head back and forth, like a horse bothered by flies, and I gently shooed the children out of the room. “They shaved off his hair.” I stroked his back as he talked, raved almost. It was a good while before he calmed and leaned his weight against me. He put his arms around my waist and his head against my belly, as he had done when I carried his babies. Then he was still for so long I wondered if he had fallen asleep, as children often do after a storm of weeping.

“Arthur?” I whispered. “What has happened? Is it your father?”

He looked up at me then, confused. “My father?”

“Someone has died?”

Arthur let go of me and looked down at his hands as he clasped and unclasped them.