He lay, not lifting his head for it felt so heavy. He had slept seven times that morning. Waking only to groan and roll over. He could not get comfortable. He had stopped vomiting that morning. He had smiled at his wife at what he thought could have been six that morning, though as easily it could have been eleven. Time had meant nothing the last day or so. Anne had herself been the one to look after him, emptying piss pots of vomit so his servants did not see him weakened so. Now she lay, stroking his hair as his head rested gently on her breast. “Hush my love.” She soothed as he groaned, his stomach felt queasy again.
“Have you sent for mummy?” He heard Anne smile. He had never truly called his mother mummy, unless he was ill. Only when he had been a child with childhood ailments had he ever asked his nurse for his mummy, only to be told that his mother was much too busy to tend upon a poorly child.
“I have darling.”
“When will she come?”
“She has not sent word, my darling.” Anne kissed his forehead. “But she would need to come across London. I am sure she will come though. My poor sweetheart.” She rubbed his shoulder gently as he nuzzled into her.
His eyes were about to close as the door opened. His heart jumped as he thought it would be his mother to hurry toward the bed, instead he saw it was Cecily, his sister. “Oh Dick!” She did not bother to remove her cloak. It flew out behind her as she ran, sitting on the edge of the bed. “What is wrong with you? What ails you? I heard you were sick and I did not waste a second. News is at court that you’re very ill.”
“He dined too heavily on chicken, I told you.” John Tiptoft spoke with a smirk on his face as Warwick groaned.
“Do not remind me you swine. There was something wrong with that chicken.” He barked, hurting his own head.
“Yes, but there’s no need for the drama. You’re hardly likely to die.”
“I could though.” Warwick whispered petulantly.
“Perhaps.” John shrugged. “I’ve seen one man in my years die from eating something bad. Putrid fish, and he was in his eightieth year.”
“Well.” Cecily put a hand on her brother’s forehead. “That settles it. You dined too heavily?”
“Then get up, we shall go for a walk.”
“Oh I couldn’t possibly.”
“Nooo.” John chuckled.
“Oh Dick! Stop being so soft. I have seen George behave better when he has a stomach upset.”
“You did not have to empty pitchers of vomit last night.” Richard sat up suddenly alert. “You’d understand if you had. Anne was a darling.”
John made a vomit gesture as Warwick rested his head against his wife’s breast once more, grinning as she kissed him.
“Oh like you can talk John Tiptoft.” Anne barked. “This is the only time I have ever seen Cecily out of your arms.” John shrugged.
“Darling.” Warwick whispered. “Hush.” He pointed at his head which pounded.
“Oh poor darling.” Cecily said somewhat sarcastically. “John, shall we? You said he was fine and I did not believe you. My brother is more pathetic than I thought he may be to a mild
Richard sat up again. “I’m not being pathetic...”
He cut off as the door opened and Alice, the last person he thought to see in that second, walked in. “Now, Richard what is...” she looked over him. “Have you dragged me across London to tell me you are recovered.” John spluttered into laughter as Richard laid back down, head firmly on his pillow this time.
“Oh mama, I am so ill.” He saw his sister roll her eyes, jumping from the bed, she took hold of her husbands arm and both stopped by Alice.
“Good luck mama, he is so very ill.” Cecily grinned as their mother looked quite positively perturbed.