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After Agincourt, Hal took a peculiar liking to the palace gardens. The space itself was tranquil and provided a brief respite from the demands of court, from being King Henry V. He paces steadily through the greenery, past grandiose shrubs and plots of lilies and roses, then rounds a corner as the familiar words of the Hail Mary are uttered by a dulcet-toned voice.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…”
Hal stops and takes in the view of the woman who remains unaware of his presence before her. A demure vision sat in one of the garden’s alcoves. She wears her long hair down, pieces of it falling at the front of her bowed head. Her feet are crossed under her and she clutches a rosary in her hands, constantly running the final bead in between her thumb and index finger. His Queen of England.
“…Now, and at the hour of our death.”
She finishes the prayer with the sign of the cross.
“If I do recall, I am quite certain that I ordered your ladies-in-waiting to follow you around the palace.”
She gasps, eyes snapping open and dropping the hand that was suspended in front of her shoulder just a moment ago.
“Your Majesty—”
She stops fiddling with the rosary in her lap. Hal looks around at the landscape for a moment before he begins pacing around the woman.
“You gave me a fright,” she starts.
“I, too, enjoy walking these gardens,” Hal offers.
“They remind me of my home.”
“Which?”
“Bath.”
“Hm,” he retorts pensively. “You do not miss Agincourt?”
“It served its purposes, but I am afraid I did not form any attachment to it…”
He’s been easy on her. It’s no easy feat to be a spoil of war, a political transaction – to be married off to a stranger, come to a new place, and make a life with a king. At the same time, though, France had been her birthplace and her place of residence for only three years of her life, while England had been her home for twelve years. She knew Somerset like the back of her hand, having grown up living with the Hungerford family. In fact, the young man she thought of as a brother, Sir Walter Hungerford, had fought alongside the man she now calls her king.
“It is a bit strange – not being from here nor there,” Hal posits.
“In some ways, I suppose…” she says. Hal nods and stops once more in front of her. “But I have brought a piece of my life in Bath with me.”
“Your chambermaids?”
“Not only my chambermaids, Your Majesty. My cards – le tarot.” Henry offers a look of both confusion and interest.
“Will you show me?”
She nods and Henry holds out his hand to help her up from the stone bench.
***
The queen leads Hal up a large flight of stairs and down a long corridor. At the end of the corridor lies a dark passageway with a narrow, stone spiral staircase, its steps worn from the many footsteps taken over the centuries. At the top of the stairs, she lets Hal pass in front of her through the doorway and into a chamber lit with sunlight.
Hal looks around. He hasn’t been in here before, not as a child and certainly not while he traipsed around Eastcheap. It’s small, cozy. A large Persian rug sits at the center. There’s an open book laid on top of it. A chair is pushed into one corner, clearly out of commission. There’s a long mahogany table running along the back wall, with quite the assortment of flowers and other, more leafy plants laid atop it. Along with the plants are many candles. Bound books sit along a wall.
“This is where I usually come to do my practice.”
“It is beautiful.”
She steps over to the table, running her fingers along the leaves of a basil plant, before reaching for the deck of tarot cards laying in a neat stack.
“What do you know about divination?”
“Erm…very little. It is magick, is it not?”
“In some ways, yes. It is used to determine the future. I mostly use it to pass the time, but I do believe there is some truth to it.” Hal chuckles, but it comes out more like a puff of air than a true laugh. The queen hands her king the tarot deck. “Hungerford gifted these to me when he returned from one of his trips to Italy,” she adds.
“Well, let us hope its magic is not black and unholy.” He examines the cards, flipping through the first few one-by-one. It’s a set of Visconti Sforza tarot cards, ornately decorated, cryptic, and mysterious.
“I could read for you, Your Majesty. If you would like.”
“You may speak plainly. Call me Henry. Or Hal. Whichever you prefer.”
Hal moves to sit at the table as the queen does the same. She holds out her hand expectantly. He hands the deck back to her.
“Now that the cards have your essence on them, we may begin. Draw three cards and lay them on the table.”
Hal follows her instruction. William Gascoigne, chief justice of England and advisor to the king, peeks through the door that was left ajar, eyebrows furrowed. He watches as Hal lays the second card down. The Queen reaches to flip it over. William gets a glimpse of the King of Pentacles card, his eyes widening slightly. He weighs staying and watching the king and queen as they divine or returning to the king’s other advisors. William stays put. Hal draws his final card and the queen turns it over, revealing an emaciated figure, not quite a skeleton and not quite flesh, riding atop a horse and carrying a long staff. William’s eyes go wide. What a cursed image! This cannot be the work of the Lord. No, this woman is cavorting with evil!
“Ah, Death,” the queen remarks. Hal silently sucks in a breath and glances quizzically at the card before shifting his eyes back to his wife. “Do not worry, it is hardly literal, Hal.” The king sighs, relieved.
William is now seeing red. He storms away from the chamber. His footsteps echo in the staircase vestibule, causing both the king and queen to turn their heads toward the noise coming from the open door.
“Is someone there?” Hal calls out. There’s no response, save the wind whistling through the trees outside the window.
“We may continue later if you have other obligations—”
“No, let us continue,” Hal urges, placing his hand on top of the queen’s.
***
A group of men sit around the king, all offering their advice and conjecture on what shall be the fate of France. Hal has his arms crossed, displeased with the orders masked as suggestions that his men offer. He looks over to John Falstaff who is also silent. Hal raises his eyebrows at the man. Falstaff returns the king’s look with little more than a smirk. He never liked council meetings anyway. As Hal starts speaking, the councilmen’s voices lull to silence.
“Perhaps we shall adjourn this meeting for the day, gentlemen.” Hal rises and his councilmen follow before exiting the chamber. William stays put, standing not too far from Hal. Falstaff is one of the last out of the door. Almost.
“Sir John,” Hal calls. Falstaff whips around. “I would like if you stayed back a moment.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” John obeys, offering a nod.
Hal turns his attention to William.
“William…Is there something you need?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. There is a matter I would like to bring up with you.” He pauses before moving his eyes over to Falstaff. “In private.”
“Anything you wish to say to me may be said in front of Sir John,” Hal challenges. William exhales loudly, perhaps gathering the courage to continue.
“I am afraid there may be…witches…among us.”
“There may be? That is a serious accusation, William.”
“And I concur.”
“What makes you say this?”
“Your Majesty…it is…our queen.”
“I would choose your next words wisely.”
“I saw it with my own eyes, Your Majesty. Just the other day, in her bedchamber – I was looking for you and assumed you may be there, but I was mistaken. She was there sitting with her ladies-in-waiting…sliding her hands across their palms.” He recalls the memory, the queen sits at a small round table holding one of the girls’ hands, examining it intently. “Voici ta ligne de coeur…et ici c’est…” she explains to them. “She read cards for the other girl. Telling her about her past, present, and future, ha!” William exclaims. “It must have been those girls who started this and pulled your dear queen into their witchcraft!”
“That is enough.”
“You must do something about this, Your Majesty! With your permission, I could speak to the archbishop on your behalf—”
“That won’t be necessary. I will confer with the archbishop myself. You may leave now.”
“But this is a most urgent matter! Your Majesty, I would not advise seeking…erm…wisdom through these means. Your Highness, this is the work of the devil!”
Falstaff lets out a large yawn, drawing it out comically. He cannot have William outdoing him for dramatics, can he?
“And what would you advise, William? Shall we stroll to the chapel, peruse the Scriptures for a while?” Hal suggests ironically.
“She has gotten to you too—used her sorcery on you. How dare she compromise a king in such a way! Burn the witch!”
“Enough!” Hal shouts as he bangs his fist on the wooden council table. William flinches at the king’s exclamation, but rage and desperation burn behind his eyes. Falstaff stares at Hal. Hal steps away from William and walks over to the fire place before turning to face the men once again. “Who am I, William?”
“King Henry V...Your Highness,” William answers shakily.
“And tell me, what does that mean to you?”
“Erm…You are the Sovereign—”
“That is correct,” Hal interrupts. “I lead men. I rule men.” He steps away from the fireplace, closer to William. “I’ve fought a war for men.” William breaks Hal’s gaze, looking at the floor, a brief reprieve from the King’s penetrating stare. “I have trusted your counsel, confided in you.”
Hal steps even closer to William, only footsteps away from him now. “I once thought of you as my friend…Now you not only question me, but disrespect my queen. I put my life in all of your hands for the sake of this kingdom!”
Hal raises his hand, pointing his finger into William’s chest. “I AM ENGLAND! And it is I who will decide whose head to have, whose body to burn!” Falstaff looks at the pair of men in front of him, eyebrows raised, clearly impressed by his young friend.
“Your Majesty—”
“I did not give you permission to speak. The queen…she knows this country…this land…this realm. I respect that. She is my true advisor, apart from God, of course. I will not let my participation in a silly divination rite or your allegations that I misjudge which direction to lead this country have any impact on my rule. You are my counsel. But I am king. I have the last word in this council chamber. And God has the last word in all that is. Are you willing to doubt Him? Do you doubt me?”
“Of course not!”
“Well then let us consider this matter settled,” Hal steps away from William and places one hand in his pocket. “The queen is no witch. She is a woman passing her time in one of the few ways that she may.” He runs his hand over the queen’s rosary beads laid inside. “You may leave.”