“Go from me,” said the King. “You have too high an opinion of yourself. You are a brash boy . . . nothing more. Take care. I am not yet in my grave remember, and the crown is not yet on your head. Go, I say. You offend me.”
The Prince retired with all speed. He was alarmed. He had felt the power of the King in that cold gaze and he was afraid that he was planning to take some action against him.
After his son had gone the King sat for a long time in silence, staring ahead of him.
The King’s health improved a little. The Prince was docile, making sure to obey his father in every respect. Nothing was said of that scene between them; but the two of them watched each other warily.
The King was too much of a realist not to admire his son. Henry had the makings of a king and he should be grateful for that. He would consolidate the House of Tudor. If he could curb his vanity, his extravagance, learn the true value of money he would do well enough.
As for the Prince he admired his father; he knew that he had been a great king and had labored under great odds. He disapproved of almost everything his father had done while at the same time he knew that his miserliness had enriched the country.
When my time comes, he thought, I will enjoy life. I will make the people happy. I will give them ceremonies and entertainments . . . jousts . . . tourneys and the conduits flowing with free wine. I will not be hampered by those old misers, Dudley and Empson. I shall know how to please the people.
The following June he would be eighteen years old; a man, and what a man—over six feet in height, towering above others, so handsome that women’s eyes sparkled as they looked at him—good at sport and at learning, a poet, a musician. He had everything.
He fancied that the whole country was waiting for that glorious moment when he should be proclaimed the King.
There were revelries at Court that Christmas and the King presided over them, seeming a little better. It was only in the clear light of morning that the yellowness of his skin was apparent. During the winter he suffered cruelly from his rheumatism and he was still looking for a bride.
The hard winter was at last over and it was April. But spring had come too late for the King in that year of 1509.
The Prince of Wales was summoned to the King’s bedchamber in Richmond Palace and everyone knew that the end was near.
Kneeling by the bed was the King’s mother—small and wizened, praying for the soul of her son.
She might have wondered how she would live without him who had been the whole meaning of life to her but it was not necessary, for she felt her own death was very close. It would be a gracious act of fate to take her with her son.
The Prince had come in. Oh, he was beautiful, she thought. Thank God for young Henry. This is not death when Henry is left to wear the crown, to populate the House of Tudor with illustrious sons.
The King was fighting for his breath, and thinking of his sins. There were many of them, he feared, but perhaps he had some virtues. He had killed . . . but only he could say, when it was for the betterment of England and if it was also for his own good, well then he would say that.
He would ask the Virgin to intercede for him and to plead that what he had done he had done for his country.
His mother was looking at him. She was assuring him that he had done well, that he had no need to fear death.
And there was young Henry . . . sad because death was sad. And yet there was a shine about him. He could feel the crown on his golden head now and that was satisfaction to him . . . as it had been to his father.
It was young Henry they should be praying for, not the old man. He was past praying for now.
“My lord.” It was the Archbishop putting his face close to the dying man’s. “The marriage of the Prince . . . Do you have any command?”
There was a brief silence. For a moment the King seemed to be more alive. His eyes sought those of his son. His lips moved. “The Prince will decide . . .,”he said.
That was how it would be. When he was no longer there, when Henry was the King he would do exactly what he pleased. He must not hamper the boy by making commands which he would disobey and then have to think up some elaborate reason to explain that he had not acted disobediently. Let him make his choice . . . freely . . . as he would in any case.
Moreover he had been cruel to Katharine. His conscience, which had been so quiet until now, was beginning to raise its head reproachfully.
He closed his eyes. They were watching him intently.
Then young Henry stood up. He knew that he was no longer Prince of Wales. He was the King.
King Henry the Eighth
hey were all coming to pay homage to the new King.
He detained Katharine for he said he would speak with her. She thought how handsome he was with his newly acquired dignity and his endearing delight in it.
He took her hands and kissed them.
