December 3, 1065, Queen Edith sat by the bed of the comatose King Edward. She had had his bed moved close to the huge fireplace and had the tinker and iron monger create a reflector for the firebox to throw some warmth on the old man. Pans of coals were located close to the bed. It was likely the warmest bed in England. She held her husband’s inert hand and listened to the manor house on Thorney Island. Wind whistled through the openings in the walls, pigeons cooed along the eaves, boards creaked, doors slammed and a broom swept. The house was more clearly alive than her husband. Out doors she could hear workmen calling as they plied their trade on West Minster.

“My Dear!” a weakened voice broke her concentration. Queen Edith jumped in surprise. The King squeezed her hand.

“Sire, you are awake!” She shooed a maid with her free hand to recall the doctor. She took his hand in both of hers. His eyelids fluttered and nearly opened. “My Lord, I’m so relieved!”

“Where a’ I? Why is it so war-rm?”

“You are in your own bed on Thorney Island, my Husband. I’ve had your bed moved near to the fireplace since you’ve been ill.”

The doctor rushed in. Edith , in no hurry, leaned over the bed and kissed her husband. Again he squeezed her hand. The doctor bustled about, listened at Edward’s chest, took his pulse and respiration and lifted his eyelids.

“Well, Doctor?”

“Forgive me, Sire. We were very worried about your health.”

“I’m going to rest.”

“Certainly, My Lord.” and the doctor drew back. He and Edith withdrew and conversed in hushed tones. “When did he regain consciousness, My Lady?”

“Just a few moments ago.”

“What did he say?” and Edith repeated the brief conversation. “Did he complain of any pain or disability?”

“He did just as I told you.”

“Yes, My Lady. We’ll keep him under close watch.”

“I’ll sit with him Doctor.”

“Yes, My Lady.” and she took the old man’s hand.

The following day the patient awakened at his normal rising hour. He opened his eyes and looked about. His lip drooped slightly on the right. His right eyelid straggled behind the left. Obviously, he had some paralytic disability. The Queen, who had just entered, took the nurse’s chair and offered the King a drink of water. The nurse propped the King up with pillows and he opened his mouth for the rim of the cup. The right side of his mouth betrayed him and water spilled out. The nurse was quick to comprehend and mopped up his chin.

“Than’ you,” he mumbled and the two women brought a thin oatmeal gruel with honey and worked at feeding him. His left hand found his wife’s fingers and he squeezed gently. She responded in like fashion.

A page tended the fire; a maid brought a basin of warm water and toweling; the nurse fussed about the bedding. When Edith finished his feeding, the nurse freshened him with a bed bath and straightened his hair before the doctor entered.

“Good morning, Sire,” and he administered the age old herbal medications, heart ease, ginseng, garlic and wormwood. He wanted Edward to eat spinach, but the King absolutely refused to open his mouth. The doctor was not convinced they did any good, but they didn’t do any harm.

“Are you in pain, My Lord?”

The old man moved his head side to side.

“Can you move your right hand, please.” The King stared at the hand as if willing it to move. There was strain on the invalid’s face.

“Doctor, his right thumb moved. I’m positive.”

“Thank you, My Lady. Very good, Sire. Now concentrate on your right leg,” and he threw the covers back from the scrawny body. “Move it, Sire.” There was the barest possible tremor discernible in the foot. Sweat was forming on the regal brow. “Very good, Sire. Nurse, keep my patient warm,” and she hurried to cover the King. “Massage his arms and legs gently; assist him in movement. Sire, you seem to be on the mend!”

“Yes, Docto’..”

The doctor took Edith by the arm and they retreated from the bed for another whispered conversation.

“My Lady, do not get your hopes too high. He may suffer another brain malady at any time.”

“Yes, Doctor, but I will give him the will to live.”

“Very well, My Lady. I leave him in your, and nurse’s capable hands.” Out the door he flew and Edith returned to the King’s side.

“Wha’?” he questioned.

“He said to Thank God for your speedy recovery, Sire.” He raised his left index finger and waved it at her. He was not going to accept that white lie.

“My Dear, he warned me that you are not out of danger yet.” The King nodded. Nurse brought some hot towels and wrapped the right arm and went to work massaging and manipulating his bony stricken leg and foot. The next lot of towels encased his leg while she kneaded and stroked his unserviceable arm. She handled him with care as the old skin tore easily. Edith stayed by his side until the treatment ended. Soothed and fatigued he closed his eyes and slept. Edith made certain he was breathing before she left him.

Will and Thomas rode into their parent’s lane.

“Who’s that on the porch?”

“That’s our father, Will.”

“My God, Thomas, he’s wasting away!”

“I tried to warn you, Will. He’s dying. Don’t let on you notice his state.”

They dismounted and tied their mounts to the fence. Mary had sensed them coming and was already bringing a bottle and four glasses.

“Mother. Father” and the boys embraced their parents.

“Don’t ask him how it goes!’ Thomas whispered.

“My Sons. Shall I pour some wine, Thomas?”

“Certainment.”

“William?”

“Mais oui.”

Mary dropped something in her husband’s glass.

“What’s that woman?”

“Your medicine! A little pain killer.”

“Marde! That stuff makes me light-headed. I’ll tell you when I need it!”

Behind Thomas Senior’s back Mary threw up her hands in exasperation. The boys snickered and their father turned quickly, but his wife’s face was a clean slate.

“Ca va, Pere?” and Will nearly bit his tongue, Thomas scowled at him.

“As well as can be expected. The pain killer takes the edge off the chest pain and the wormwood helps my appetite—your mother says. It’s nasty stuff. Et Vous?”

“We’ve been very busy Mon Pere. The Duke has us training. We fence; we joust; we loose hundreds of arrows.”

“Trivett arrows I hope?”

“Naturellement!” and they all smiled.

“I will check on the fletching business now.”

“Yes Thomas.” Thomas headed for the arrow shop.

“Have you done anything with your land, Will?”

“Father, I am a knight!”

“Not to me, you lazy oaf!”

“I’ll do something when I have the time, Father.”

Will did have time to assess his father’s state. The old man’s color was gray, a sort of death mask. His eyes lacked the sparkle of life. He must have lost forty pounds and his clothes hung about him and were cinched up by a belt. He lacked the strength to gesture with his hands. Will was appalled.

“How goes the sales, Father?”

“How goes the sales with any good product! Bien, certainment! Your older brother has cleared all but our personal stock of white and red. It was a good year; rain, sun, and growth in the right proportions for a superior wine.”

‘Ces bien! And how is the fletching business?”

“Your mother let Thomas direct it when I got ill. Ask him. No, that sounds bitter. My men are good fletchers. They make a stick a missile and Thomas is the quality control. Your brother can’t create an arrow, but he knows when they are perfectly made.” The old man nodded off almost before he finished the sentence. Will waited anxiously. He searched his mother’s face. She gave him a hand signal and they moved silently away from the sleeping man. They spoke in hushed tones.

“Mother, he’s wasting away!”

“Yes, Mon Cher, He’s slowly dying.”

“Is there nothing we can do?”

“Keep him comfortable without pain, and let him know he is wanted.”

“Is that what the doctor said?”

“No, that is what your Father said.”

“What are you two whispering about?”

“We thought you were asleep, Father.”

“Sit down and have another wine. I want to talk to you about your land.” Will obliged him and listened to a long lecture on land development and land potential. Will listened intently and promised to begin work as soon as possible. To his father the only good land was productive land. Will accepted the long harangue and vowed to visit more frequently. When Thomas returned, Will wished to escape and made excuses about training. The knights made their affectionate good-byes with special hugs of feeling for their mother. Before they had mounted their father had fallen asleep.

In two weeks Edward the Confessor had made remarkable progress. It may have been the necessity of viewing his life’s work, West Minster, or that his cerebral damage was not so acute. It was damaging enough for a man of his age, but the paralysis seemed to be abating. His voice had returned even though his lip sagged somewhat. He had regained partial use of his leg and his upper limb was much improved. With assistance he was up, and with a wheelchair he was mobile. His advisors and members of the Witan were allowed to visit: Harold as Under King more than the others.

“Well?”

“Sire,” the Subregulus began, “England has had a good year. The Scots have been too involved with the death of Macbeth and the ascension of Malcolm to worry our northern border. Our incursion into Wales has settled the Welsh rebellious attitude for the present. Norway has made sporadic raids on Denmark in Hardrada’s never-ending war, so Viking raids have been minimal. Our trade with Europe seems to be in our favor. They want tin from Cornwall for example and we are really self sufficient.”

“So.”

“Sire, it appears Tostig is going to be troublesome.”

“That is your fault, you fool! I told you to put those rebellious thanes down. Instead you sided with them.”

“But Sire, it is the law.”

“Law! Law be damned! I am the law!”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Now what will happen?”

“My Lord, Tostig is trying to raise a force. He has been to Hardrada’s court, William of Normandy, and Count de Boulogne of Flanders seeking assistance to regain Northumbria.”

“Which I gave him!”

“Yes, Sire.”

“And you disobeyed me!”

“Yes, Sire.” The old man was determined to make Harold kowtow.

“Sire,” cautioned the doctor, “do not excite yourself.”

“Tostig has had no luck , Sire. I do not think he would attack England as long as you are King.”

“I should think not! I’ve been a father to that boy.”

“Yes, Sire. The Witan, Sire, has worried about succession when you were so ill. We would appreciate your direction in this matter if you have some thoughts.”

“Succession is none of your business! I’ll give you direction when I’m ready.”

“Yes, your Majesty. I will inform the Witan.”

“Waiting for me to die, he is,” but Harold ignored the jibe and bowed his way out of the room.

“Oh never, Sire. My Brother was just informing you of the Witan’s worries.”

“Humph!”

“My Dear, you had us so worried. Not just the castle, the Witan, but all of England. You mustn’t put yourself in stressful situations. The doctor says it is best to remain calm.”

“Edith, I know. However, I always have the feeling Harold, the Raven, is like a scavenger bird awaiting my death.”

“My Lord, he has worked hard in your illness.”

“All right, Edith, I suppose I was unfair to him. I just hate being an invalid and I hate it when he disobeys my orders.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Sire, it is time for your massage and exercise,” Nurse declared.

“Oh shit! Someone else to order me around,” he submitted nonetheless.

With Christ’s birthday days away, Thomas Trivett Senior was so weak he was confined to bed most of the time. Mary insisted that Thomas Junior kill a goose for a Christmas meal. He trapped one of the smallest young ganders in the flock and took it to the chopping block. Thomas dispatched the bird with one blow of the axe and the headless body flopped wildly. Thomas held the neck to avoid destroying the down with blood. Flight feathers went to the fletchers for arrows and down went to Mary for bedding.

Mary knew her husband would have little interest in the food, but she ignored that. Keeping busy, taking her mind off Thomas’s imminent death was important. The children were coming as Sir Richard’s brood was large enough without Thomas and Jo-Anne. Besides, it was Thomas Senior’s last Christmas. Mary dug in the sand of the root cellar and retrieved carrots and parsnips from the dry sand. She had dried peas aplenty and apples and pears from the great bin. It may coax Husband Thomas to eat. Maybe dumplings would be a treat.

The king was able to gain his feet. He insisted he observe the weather vane mounted on the cupola of West Minster Abbey. It was the completion of his life’s work He couldn’t attend the ceremony, but he could watch from the palace. The workmen atop the dome knew he watched and they stood and saluted the old man when the job was completed. Tears runnelled down the wrinkles of the old King’s

face. Maybe he realized his job on this earth was finished. He was determined to see the job completed. It may have been too much excitement and on Christmas Eve he was confined to bed again.

Nevertheless, on Christmas he hosted the banquet in full regalia and the King Edward Crown. The guest list was extensive for the Witan was in session: two archbishops, eight bishops, five earls, eight abbots, and the kings thanes and advisors. They didn’t come alone as each had their own retainers: the King’s household servants, his resident armed force, the Queen’s attendants, the monks and workmen of the abbey. *

It was too much for Edward. He was confined to bed and on the twenty-eighth of December the Abbey was consecrated without its benefactor. He suffered another hemorrhage and lapsed into coma. It was not a sublime sleep. He raved delirious and restless. On January fourth he suddenly awoke. He called for his court and began to prophecy, relating a dream that had contributed to his delirium. Suddenly, his mind cleared with great cerebral effort.

Thomas Senior did his best to be cheerful at Christmas. Sir Thomas, Jo-Anne and

Sir William came after mass. Mary had Thomas Junior say grace. “My Lord, we thank you for the food before us, sanctify it to its intend use, and we to thy service. Thank you for the love of family we share. Bless this table on Christ’s birthday and extend our love to all mankind.”

Mary’s meal was without question fit for a king. Everything was done to perfection. She could have fed her whole family rather than just her two babies, Will and Thomas. Even Thomas Senior actually ate a small portion and stirred the rest around his plate. The three young people left in the late afternoon and Thomas returned to his bed.

“Mary, could I have some of the pain killer, please.”

“Certainment, My Love, and she brought some wine laced with opium. As the drug took affect, the pain subsided and Thomas’s eyes became glassy.

“Mary?”

“Yes, My Dear.”

“Mary, I want you to know how much I love you. Our fifty-five years together have been a great joy to me. My only regret in dying is that I will lose you. You have been my life.” and he slept.

Mary wept and leaned over and kissed him. He only wakened thereafter in pain. Mary kept him under the drugs influence. Occasionally he spoke.

“My God! why does it take so long to die!’ and on January fourth he brightened to say,” Mary, I love you!” and drifted into death.

“Being of sound mind I, King of England, pronounce my final decree:

Do not mourn for me, but pray to God for my soul and give me leave to go to him. He who allowed himself to die will not allow me not to die.

Be not afraid my Queen, for by God’s mercy I will die but become well again. May God reward you for your devoted loving service—a devoted servant to me, always at my side like a beloved daughter.

To you, Harold, I commend this woman and all the kingdom to your protection. Serve and honor her with faithful obedience as your lady and sister, which she is, and do not deprive her, as long as she lives, of any honor she had received from me. I also commend to you those men who have left their native land for love of me and served me faithfully. Take an oath of fealty from them it they wish, and protect and retain them; or send them with your safe conduct across the Channel to their own homes with all they have acquired in my service. *

I wish to be buried in the sanctuary of the nave of West Minster surrounded by the House of God,

* Ibid.

not in pride, but in humble devotion. Make known my passing so that England may pray for mercy on this sinner.”

Exhausted, the King sunk deep into his pillows and shortly thereafter was again unconscious. His last effort in life’s wishes had been his first step in death’s surety. Canterbury and York shared the last rites and the King gave up the ghost.