In a corner waited several gentlemen of the bedchamber. With them were members of his Council—the Seymours, Lord Lisle, Wriothesley, and Sir Anthony Denny among them.
They whispered together.
“He cannot last the night.”
“He has never been in this condition before.”
“He should be told. He should be prepared.”
“Who will dare tell him?”
All were silent; and then the King’s voice was heard calling.
“Go,” said Hertford to his brother. “You go. He has a liking for you.”
Sir Thomas went into the chamber and stood by the King’s bed.
“Who is there?” asked Henry, peering before him. “Who is it?”
“Thomas Seymour, my lord. Your humble servant and your friend.”
“Friend Thomas… friend Thomas… My arms are burning stumps of fire. My legs are furnaces. My body lies in the grip of deadly pain.”
“Rest, Sire. Speak not,” said Seymour, “for speech doth bring out the sweat beads, big as grapes, upon thy brow.”
“An we wish it, we will speak,” growled the King. “We will not be told, by a subject, when to speak.”
“Your Grace’s pardon. I but feared for you.”
“How goes the hour?”
“Creeping on to midnight, Sire.”
“I hear the bells in my ears, Seymour. I seem to be walking on soft grass. I think I ride in Richmond Park. I think I am up the river in my state barge. I think I sit beside my Queen, watching the jousting in the tiltyard. But…I lie here… with furnaces for limbs… adying in my bed.”
Two members of the Council had come into the chamber. They stood by the hangings and whispered together concerning the King’s condition.
Henry heard them. He tried to lift his head, but fell back groaning.
“Who whispers in the shadows? ’tis Surrey…’ Tis my lord Earl.”
Seymour bent his head and murmured: “Nay, Sire. Your Grace forgets. Surrey laid his head on the block nine days ago.”
“Surrey!” muttered the King. “Surrey…a poet…a handsome boy…a proud and foolish boy.”
“A conspirator against the Throne, Your Grace.”
Henry’s voice was more distinct. “’ Twas Surrey who first wrote blank verse. I remember it. He gave us the sonnet. A poet… but…a proud and foolish boy.”
“He plotted against Your Grace. He displayed the royal arms on his own. Your Grace forgets. Surrey thought himself more royal than royalty.”
The King had become confused. “Buckingham!” he shouted, but his voice immediately fell to a whisper: “To the Tower with Buckingham. To the block, I say!”
Seymour reflected that it must be thirty years since Buckingham went to the block. Now the King remembered. Was his conscience, so long subdued concerning Buckingham, now rousing itself uneasily? The case of Buckingham had been similar to that of Surrey; both had been noble lords obsessed by their nobility.
The King was muttering again. He had returned to the present. “Seymour…are you there? Thomas…my friend…you spoke of Surrey. He has gone, has he? What was his crime?”
“He would have made his sister your mistress, Your Grace. Your Grace was enraged at such a suggestion.”
A leer, which made the bloated face more horrible, now curled the King’s lips. “Howard’s girl…a comely wench… and saucy…”
Seymour felt nauseated. He turned from the King, thinking with amazement: On his dying bed he contemplates his bedtime pleasures! And Kate… my poor Kate… she was married to this man; and this is the monster who planned to send her the way he has sent others; who was planning, if rumor be correct, but a few weeks since.
“Thomas …” cried the King suddenly. “There are men in our chamber. Our enemies whisper and conspire against us.”
“Nay, Sire. They are but your Councillors. They come to inquire of your health.”
“Is Norfolk there?”
“Nay, Your Grace, Norfolk lies in the Tower, awaiting your signature to his death warrant.”
“We’ll give it. We’ll give it. To the block with these Howards… father and son.”
“Your Majesty must preserve his strength.”
“There’s strength enough… I’ll sign it. Surrey…a foolish boy. A comely wench, thy sister, Surrey. A drink…a drink…my throat is scorched by fires. Douse them, Seymour. Douse them, my friend. What whispering goes on about me? Come forth! Come forth! Ah, I see you there, you rogue. What news, eh? Why do you look so smug? Am I going to die? Is that what you would tell me? Come…. You there, Denny. What news? What news, I say?”
