“I knew of your having vanished from Evesham Abbey,” returned Edward: “and thus knowing, I understood a letter, the writing of which had brought suspicion on Richard, and which was brought back to me when we were seeking into—”
“Into the deed of Simon and Guy,” said Henry. “Poor Henry! It was a foul crime; and Father Robert can bear me witness that I did penance for it, when that kindly heart of his was laid in St. Peter’s Abbey.”
“Then, Henry, thou own’st thy kinship to us still,” said Edward earnestly. “Give me thine hand, man, and let me embrace my lovely little kinswoman—a queen in her trappings. Ah, Henry! Heaven hath dealt lovingly with thee in sparing thee thy child!”
“You have children left!” said Henry quickly, and not withholding a hand—which, be it remarked, was as delicately shaped and well kept as that which took it.
Twice had the beggar received a dole at Westminster at the obsequies of Edward’s little sons; yea, though he and all his brethren of the dish had all the winter before had alms given them to purchase their prayers for the health of the last.
“Three—but three out of six,” answered Edward; “nor dare I reckon on the life of the frail babe that England hailed yesterday as my heir. I sometimes deem that the blight of broken covenants has fallen on my sons.”
“They were none of your breaking,” said Henry.
“Say’st thou so!” exclaimed Edward, looking up, with the animation of a man hearing an acquittal from a quarter whose sincerity he could thoroughly trust.
But Henry made no courtly answer. “Pshaw! no living man that had to deal with or for your father could keep a covenant. You were but the spear-point of the broken reed, good cousin; and we pitied and excused you accordingly.”
“Your father did,” said Edward hoarsely. He could brook pity from the great Simon better than from the blind beggar.