show to foreigners that England was wealthy, because wealth meant power.
He turned back to the task before him. He had decided that all those who had been imprisoned in London for debts of under forty shillings should be discharged.
He was beginning to be tormented by remorse when he contemplated the extortions, which Dudley and Empson had committed in his name; and now that his conscience was beginning to worry him on this score, he realized that he was a very sick man indeed.
There were cowslips in the meadows near Richmond and the blackthorn was in blossom. The air was enlivened by birdsong, and all this meant that it was the month of April and spring had come.
But in the Palace the old era was ending and the new one had not yet begun.
The fifty-two-year-old King lay on his bed and thought of his subjects; he wondered ruefully how many of them would shed a real tear at his passing.
Fifty-two. It was not really old; yet he had lived a full life and there was so much of it that he wished he had lived differently. He had recently pilgrimaged to Our Lady of Walsingham and to Saint Thomas of Canterbury, and there he had sworn to build a hospital for the sick poor.
Time! he thought. I need time. He hoarded time as once he had hoarded gold; he was fighting with all his strength to hold off death a little longer until such time as he could make peace with himself.
But death would not wait.
Mary came to his apartments, planning what she would do and say. She would go to his bed and put her arms about his neck. “I will not call you Your Highness, but Father,” she would tell him. “Oh, Father, we do love you … Henry and I. We understand that it was necessary for you to be stern with us. We love to dance and play and we often forget our duty … but we want to be good. We want to be the sort of children of whom you can be proud.”
Did that sound false? For false it was. Neither she nor Henry wanted to be anything but what they were.
“It is the Lady Mary,” said one of the pages to another.
“I have come to see my father.”
“My lady, the priests are with him.”
Holy Mother, thought Mary, is it then too late?
His body had been taken from Richmond to Westminster, but not with any speed for, although he died on the 21st day of April, he was not moved until the 9th of May.
There was reason for the delay. An image of him in wax must be made ready to be clad in his robes of state and placed in the coffin, and remain there during the funeral, holding the ball and scepter in its hands. The chariot which would hold the coffin had to be covered in black cloth of gold; and all those noblemen who lived far from Court must be given time to arrive for the ceremony.
It was to be a grand funeral. The King had left money to pay for masses which were to be said for his soul, as he asked, for as long as the world should endure. He had become very uneasy during his last days on earth when he had realized that he would not have time to make all the amends he had planned.
The new King had already left Richmond for the Palace of the Tower. That was well, because he found it difficult to hide his elation. His father was dead and he had been a good father; but what a stern one! And had he not treated his son as though he were a child?
Freedom! thought Henry VIII, dreaming of his future.
And Mary, while she prayed for the soul of her father, could not prevent her thoughts wandering as she considered what a change this was going to make to all their lives.
It was a great occasion when the funeral cortege passed through the capital. At London Bridge the Mayor and the City Companies received it and merchants mingled with apprentices in the crowds which followed it to St. Paul’s.
As was the custom with the dead, people remembered virtues rather than failings.
And when all was considered, his epitaph was as good as any king could hope to achieve.
“He brought us peace,” said the people.
Yet never had they cried: “The King is dead. Long live the King!” with more hope, more exultation than they did in those spring days of 1509.
The sorrowing Countess of Richmond sat with her grandchildren. She had an arm about the girl but her eyes were on the boy.
“It was your father’s wish that I should continue to guide you, Henry,” she explained. “My dear grandson, you will find the task before you not always a glorious one. There is more to kingship than riding through streets and listening to the cheers of the crowd.”
“I know it well,” answered Henry, not as coolly as he would wish, for he was still in awe of his grandmother.
“So I shall always be at hand to give you my counsel and, remembering your father’s wish, I trust you will consider it.”
Henry took her hand and kissed it.
He would always remember, he assured her.
And Mary, seeing the shine in his eyes, knew that his thoughts were far away in the future. He was looking at freedom stretching out before him—glorious, dazzling freedom. He was eighteen and King of England. At this moment he was too much intoxicated by the joy of being alive himself to think of anything else.
Oh, thought Mary, it will be wonderful now he is King! England will be merry, as she was meant to be, and all
