suaviola

John is not a surgeon of men’s souls, but he knows what he sees.

As a young man John had witnessed the meeting of two Christian kings in a field outside Calais – like two planets in conjunction, late King Richard and old King Charles, only he’d been young then and shining like glass in furs and pearls. The Prince of Wales will be king one day; he will fashion himself after his father’s pattern or fall short and founder. Who would forbid two kinsmen to kiss?

It passes so quickly it might not have happened at all, but John has a keen eye for the shape of the body, and what passes from inside to outside. King Henry crooks his hands into half-fists against his son’s back, and the Prince of Wales must stoop, though his father is not a small man. The gesture draws him down.

To kiss, yes, but to linger mouth to mouth? With tongues? The young prince stiffens, but does not withdraw.

John is only a spectator here, a symptom-seeker. The king, his patient, is dominated by that which is cold and dry: poor harvests and starvation winters, hard eyes and high forehead. When he passes his tongue into his son’s mouth, it can only be in pursuit of a narrow hot place, a hot wet medicine to remedy what it lacks.

Creeping back on his heels, the Prince of Wales tugs down his hood and raises his head. In him all signs point to a great youthful predominance of blood – flushed and damp, insolent and fiery – but when he withdraws his face is white.

Whatever has passed between them, the king has come away the better for it. King Henry’s face is turned away, and it is impossible to tell whether he frowns or smiles.