'Very well, Sir.'
'Then we may continue our walk if you wish.'
'As you will, Sire.'
'Off you go, then.'
I paused and stared up at the West Tower. It was many, many months since my thoughts had returned to this room, which had never, in truth, been a proper room at all, but only a vacant space. Now I noticed that on the three window ledges were clustered some white birds.
'Fantails,' said the King. 'Very pretty, I think. It might be that, from time to time, you may decide to open a window and let them in.'
'I beg your pardon, Sir?'
'Into your room.'
'Let the birds into the room?'
'Into
'My room?'
'Yes. I am giving you the room. It is yours. Until my reign is over and another age comes. Until then it is restored to you – in return for the life you saved and in return for the man you have become. It is your room and you can come and go from it as you please, and I will never take it from you.'
Do you see me now?
I am in the room.
I am standing in the white room in my torn white nightshirt.
Merivel. Just as he was. Do you see him? He has no wig on his head. His hogs' bristles itch. He puts a hand to his cheek and discovers a cake crumb.
But I am not thinking of him. What has returned to my mind, in this high white space, is Margaret. I hold her in my arms and take off her bonnet and put a soft kiss on her fiery curls and she squeaks and kicks and blows bubbles into my face and then reaches out a fat little hand and takes hold of my nose.
I laugh and remove her hand and carry her to one of the windows, where we can hear the pigeons murmuring. I hold her up and show her the great expanse of the park that I once saw as wild, undisciplined lines of yellow and green, and dark splodges of brown and purple, and above it the sun which, in the absence of any device by which to measure time, tells me that it is mid-day on the fairest April morning of my life.
I do not know how long I remain in the room. Perhaps, when you glimpse me for the last time, the dusk is already falling. I wrap Margaret more tightly in her shawl, for it is getting cold now, and together we move towards the door.
'Tomorrow,' I tell her, 'I must go on to Whittlesea. But one day soon – before you have learned to walk, before I have grown too frail to climb the stairs – I shall bring you back.'
