“He is dying,” Leicester said. “Prince Henry will have his throne within the year.”
“Yes,” Fulk said.
Of them all, only Prince Henry seemed full of energy, his red hair bristling, his face flushed. Fulk lifted his reins. A familiar sluggishness dragged at him; he had often felt so, since Rannulf had died, dull and uncaring. The keen wind stung his face. Winter was coming.