“Neither he nor Richard,” she answered, “has been from my sight since you left me; but there has been much sickness in Bordeaux.” The tears overbrimmed her eyes and ran down her pale cheeks. “I have been watching him these two days without sleep,” she added.
Edward of Wales did not answer her; his hollow eyes were fixed upon his heir–that third Edward who was to carry on the splendour of England and the glory of Plantagenet.
The boy had always been next his heart; Richard, his second son, was not of so kindly a nature. His father did not see in him promise of his own qualities, but his eldest born was his own copy, beautiful, brave, at six a perfect little knight.
Jehanne glanced timidly up at his bitter, stern face.
“You must not grieve,” she whispered; “he will be well in a little while. Is he not strong, and will he not be running beside you in a few short days?”
Still Edward the Black Prince did not answer; he disengaged himself from her fond support and walked heavily to his son’s pillow, then sank on his knees on the bedstep and clasped his thin hands against the coverlet.
The little face so near to his was calm and proud, the flower of English beauty, gold and rose in tint, blunt featured, strongly made, yet delicate.
Save that he was deeply flushed and his hair damp beneath the tumble of silken curls, he might have been in perfect health. The weary, sick, disappointed, and defeated knight, with that dark day of Limoges on his soul, stared with a piteous eagerness at the child’s gracious innocency.
The child who would be King of England soon, surely; it was mere chance who would live the longer, the old King languishing at Westminster in tarnished glory at Alice Perrer’s side, or his famous son who had just resigned his commands and was coming home to die. Edward himself never thought that he would be King; he felt the sands of life running out too swiftly.