Richard knocked on the door of the state bedchamber and waited to be called in.
John’s heart raced when Richard turned the handle.
The red and gold decoration in the room was subdued by the low light. Just two candles were burning: one on either side of the bed, casting shadows. The canopy towered above them, and long curtains fell to the floor at either side, screening his grandfather from view. But John could hear his laboured breathing, and the chamber had the putrid smell of sickness.
His grandfather’s valet stood across the room and another man was beside the bed. The physician?
“Your Grace, I have brought John.” Richard moved forwards.
John followed.
The Duke of Pembroke was propped up on pillows and his head lay back, as though he could not lift it. He was extremely thin, a ghost compared to the statuesque giant who’d intimidated John as a child. He was unrecognisable. His skin was grey and his cheeks sunken. His hands, which rested on the red cover, were skeletal.
The old man took a breath, which looked painful, and lifted his hand an inch from the bed. He breathed John’s name and then it fell.
John passed his uncle, moving to take his grandfather’s hand. He pressed a kiss upon the bony knuckles. “Your Grace.”
“My… boy.” The words were barely audible as he fought for breath.
“John.”
John turned to see Richard had brought a chair for him. He sat, still holding his grandfather’s hand, and rested an elbow on the bed, leaning forwards.
“Grandfather, I was sorry to hear your situation.”
A condemnatory sound escaped the old man’s lips “Because… it… meant… you… must… come… home… Sayle.” The Duke was the only one who called him by his token title, the Marquess of Sayle.
“Because it meant you were dying,” John corrected. “I do not relish that, Your Grace. True, I do not hunger for the reins of the dukedom, but nor do I wish to see you gone; you are my grandfather.” It was probably the most honest statement he’d ever made to the old man. It was about bloody time he spoke truthfully.
“Unlikely… But… now… you… are… back… I… may… go… in… peace.”
“And that is equally unlikely.” John smiled as he met his grandfather’s gaze. The old man’s body may have been weakened, but his direct gaze and the mind behind it had not.
“Enough… of… your… cheek.”
John smiled more broadly. “So do you wish to know what I have been up to in my absence?”
“I-know… your… mother… has… read… your… letters… to… me—” the Duke’s words were cut off by a painful-sounding cough.
John rose and pressed a hand on his grandfather’s shoulder. “Perhaps I ought not disturb you.”
The Duke’s fingers lifted from the bed. “Stay,” he breathed.
John sat again.
“I… have… waited… for-you. You-must… speak-to… Harvey… about… business—”
“I am sure I shall manage, Grandfather.”
“I… know… you… shall.”
John smiled again. That was possibly the only compliment he’d ever heard from this man.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Richard said. The Duke’s gaze reached across John’s shoulder, then John heard the door open and shut.
As soon as it did, the Duke’s hand moved and touched John’s forearm, which rested on the bed. “But… you… must… promise-me… one… thing. You… will… not… wed… beneath… you. You… must… choose… a… wife… to… preserve… the… bloodline.”
John felt his face twist in disgust. Even now, even on his deathbed, the old man sought to cast orders and manipulate John’s life. Still, when the time came to set up a nursery, John would have plenty of choice from those in his own class. With a self-deprecating smile, he nodded. What did he care, it would not matter who he picked.
“You swear,” his grandfather pressed on a single breath.
“I swear,” John answered, his smile falling. He knew the old man’s game but chose to play.
“Now… talk … to… me… of… what… you… have… done. I… will… listen.”
John smiled again and leant back in the chair, folding his arms over his chest and stretching out his legs.
He spoke of Europe, of what he’d made of it, the things he’d seen and done, and he made his stories humorous and even caused the old man to express a muted laugh. It ended in another visibly painful coughing fit, at which point the old man’s valet stepped forward to plump the pillows and make the Duke more comfortable. John would have left, but his grandfather once more bid him stay.
John changed his subject to his true passion, to Egypt, and began talking about the place and people, about the amazing artefacts and architecture of that ancient world. He talked of the finds he was shipping home.
While John spoke, the old man smiled and shut his eyes, his chest rising and falling with each rasping breath.
It was strange watching him thus – this ogre who’d dominated John’s life – as a man and not a child. His grandfather was just a man too, with human frailty.
John felt a heavy sense of regret as he continued recounting a pointless search he’d set out upon once.
A sound of humour escaped the Duke’s lips.
If John had returned in better circumstances, he wondered if they’d had more time, man to man, whether the past could be put straight between them.
His grandsire’s physician stepped forward a while later, advising His Grace to rest.
John rose and laid a hand on his grandfather’s shoulder. The old man opened his eyes.
“I… do-not… want… your… pity… Sayle.”
John laughed. “You’ll not have it, Grandfather. But you will have my admiration.” He bowed, slightly. “Your Grace, I’ll leave you to recoup.” He had never spoken so openly to the old man in his younger days.
John’s hands slid into his pockets as he walked back along the hall, his head was full of drifting thoughts. He wondered now if the perceptions he’d held as a child would have changed with an adult’s view. Possibly? Probably. But it was too late to know now.
“John!”
Looking forward, he saw a slender, strikingly beautiful young woman. She had ebony hair and pale-blue eyes, like his own. A beam of joy lit her face, and then she caught up her skirt and ran at him.
Good God, was this Mary-Rose, his sister, all grown up?
She hugged him fiercely, her arms about his neck, and he held her loosely. “John! Oh John! I am so glad you’re back.” His baby sister was not even a child anymore. She’d been about ten years old and not much taller than his midriff when he’d left. Now she was as tall as his shoulder.
He lifted her off her feet and twirled her once, smiling, before pressing a kiss against her temple. “Mary-Rose, my not-so-little-anymore sister.”
Her fingers gripped his coat sleeves and she leant back, grinning as she looked him over. “You are no different, other than a little older, and no one calls me Mary-Rose anymore, it is just Mary now.