Johan of Lancaster entered; he whispered to the doctors, then came lightly to the bed, walking as softly as a woman for all his great stature and bulk.
He glanced at the child, he glanced at his brother, then touched the kneeling priest on the shoulder.
“He will not die,” said the Prince; “in a little while he will wake and be well again.”
The priest rose and left the room.
A long swell of wind lifted the Eastern tapestry on the floor, fluttered the long curtains and stirred the aromatic scents and the clouds of incense that hung in the air.
Jehanne of Kent stood rigid, staring down at the pillow; her yellow hair had slipped and hung loose in the silver caul.
And her face showed hollow in the fluttering candlelight.
The little Prince turned from side to side, catching his breath in his throat.
“Seigneur …” he gasped, “let me … mount the white horse … the great horse.…”
He began to cough, and his small fingers pulled at the pillow; he stared straight at his father.