It was time. He could feel it. He had been feeling ill for weeks now, constantly struggling with the pain in his ulcerous leg, the feebleness of his limbs and the bitter knowledge of his own inexorable aging.
He did not know when exactly he would die, or how, but what he knew for sure was that there was not much time left. That's why, but a few days ago, he had said farewell to his wife, Queen Catherine, and his children, knowing that he would not live long, and willing to take his leave in a dignified manner.
Sitting idly in a chair by the fire in his private chambers, an old, tired Henry VIII thought of the recent events.
He had taken farewell of his son and heir, Edward, alone and in private, pulling the boy into his lap and whispering words of love and encouragement into his ear. Edward took it rather well, or so Henry assumed, for there had been neither tears nor screaming. It was a calm, gentle goodbye.
Rejoicing one last time in the child's sweet features and excellent manners, Henry had stroked the small smooth cheek affectionately, thinking for the hundredths time how much the boy resembled his mother. And then, suddenly pained by the thought of having to part from this sweet child who was so much in need of his father, Henry could not take it any longer and called for Lady Bryan to walk the Prince out.
He had pressed one last kiss onto the golden locks and turned away, unable to face his son as he whispered "Goodbye, your Majesty" in his childish voice. When the door to the chamber fell shut, Henry couldn't help wondering what would become of the boy, inwardly praying and hoping that he would be a great king one day, when he was grown and no longer bound to the will and advice of his chaperons.
It was painful to leave his only boy, the son of Jane, behind, but it turned out to be a thousand times harder to take his leave of his wife and daughters.
Receiving them in his privy chamber, he looked into their anxious faces and whished to God that he was ten years younger, that he had some more years to be with Catherine and help Mary, to watch Elizabeth grow. But it was not to be.
He had to say goodbye, and he would not falter. It was painful enough to realize one's mortality and become reconciled to death, a death that was inevitable. There was no use in delaying things.
So, he approached Mary first, asking her to look after her brother who would soon be left in the world a helpless little child with unimaginable responsibility. It was his duty and desire to ask this favour of her, for he knew of her strength and the love she felt for the prince.
But then she looked at him, breathing heavily and, trying to hold back tears, begged him: "Please father, do not leave me an orphan so soon."
And he forgot Edward completely and focused on her alone, perhaps seeing her, his own daughter, truly for the first time in his life. She had suffered so much. When she was but a child she had been deprived of her mother, her title and her hopes, and he, the king, who should have loved her as a father ought to, had neglected her. Only years later, after he had married Jane – God bless her – his relationship to Mary improved.
Raising his hand, he stroked her face tenderly, whispering "Oh, Mary… Mary", wishing that he could turn back time and make it up to her. If he could, he would let her know that he was proud of her. That he loved her. That he did not, nor had ever, hated her mother.
Yes, he would take better care of her if only he could turn back time. But he could not.
And so, he had no choice but to turn away from her teary eyes, to leave her to her own devices in a cruel, mad world. He wished her happiness.
"Elizabeth" he said, smiling a little as he approached his younger daughter. She was rather calm and composed, even now, the very opposite of Mary who was still sobbing quietly. No, weakness of such kind was unknown to this pretty red-haired girl.
He asked of her, too, to look after her brother, despite her youth.
"Yes, your Majesty" she replied, graciously. "I promise."
Henry smiled at her confident reply and the way she carried herself. Here was a girl who was, in all things, the way a king's daughter should be. A chip of the old block, a true Tudor.
She had never done anything but make him proud, and he wanted to tell her that, wanted her to know that he loved her, too, even if he had not always been able to show it. But he did love her, her cleverness and subtle grace, her boldness and zest for life. She was the epitome of a perfect young girl, the embodiment of female sophistication even at her young age, but Henry was not surprised – she was Anne's daughter, after all.
He wished he could tell her how proud he was. He wanted to embrace her, press a kiss to her brow. He wanted to do a thousand things, but he didn't. And so, he put all his love and appreciation for her in one single sentence, praying for her future:
"Bless you child… bless you."
He held her gaze longer than Mary's before turning away, locking the image of her forever in his mind. And it seemed to him as if she found in his eyes what he wanted to convey: That he was sorry. That he believed in her, knowing perhaps that of the three of his children, she was the strongest.
He saw Anne in her eyes and for once, the image did not unnerve him. No matter who Anne had been, this was their daughter and she was marvellous. And perhaps one day she would preside over empires.
Then he held out his hand to Catherine, and, seeing the distress in her eyes, his heart broke.
"The time has come for us to say farewell. It is God's will."
He was unwilling to leave her, for she had been to him a kind, loving and faithful wife. He was grateful to her for the things she had done for him and his children, and he could honestly say that he had been truly happy with her in the end. From the beginning he had liked and respected her above all people, for never had there been a more gentle nor a more generous queen.
He pressed her hands to his lips, a final gesture of love. His farewell.
Henry slumped down in his chair, starring into moodily into the fire.
God, he was old. And alone, utterly alone now that he had bidden farewell to his family. There was no one with him now, and truth be told, there was no one he wanted to see. Even Charles, his closest friend, was no more.
What was there to hold on to, anyway? He was an old man past his prime, he had lived 55 years on this God-forsaken earth and if it be the Lord's pleasure, he was ready to let go.
He had been thinking about his past a lot during these last days, and in a way, had reconciled with his conscience. He had never been one to linger on in darkness and in doubt, regretting what he had done or what had happened. He had always been one to move on.
And yet, lately, he had been haunted by many memories and faces of the past.
Most of all, his wives. He had faced them, first Katherine, then Anne, then Jane.
When Katherine had come to him, he had been shocked, thinking to himself that he was finally descending into madness. But then, when he had felt Anne's presence in the darkness, he was not even surprised. It seemed only logical to him when Jane 'visited' him the next day.
Yes, he had faced all the queens he had had children with, and each one of them had brought with her the memories of times long past, and the bitter realization that nothing was forever. That he, Henry, was not flawless. Far from it.
A wave of nostalgia hit him as he faced Katherine. He was instantly reminded of how he had loved her before she failed to give him a son and before Anne Boleyn arrived on the scene. But his nostalgia soon turned into anger and bitterness when she accused him of discarding her and of not treating Mary the right way.
"… abandoned by her father…"
"…you sent me away before… though I loved you…"
The feelings of guilt he had been trying to suppress for years still lingered beneath the surface, but he could not think of that now. It was too painful.
He wouldn't think of Anne, either, but as always, she found a way to creep into his thoughts like a venomous, irresistible poison.
Upon seeing her, he was reminded of so many things. The passion he'd once had for her. The love he had borne towards her in his heart. What she did to him.
"I did nothing to you. I was innocent."
He refused to believe it. He couldn't. Believing it would imply that he had sent an innocent woman to a bloody, horrible death. No, no, it couldn't be. She betrayed him with all these men, did she not? He had to believe it or he would eat himself alive. And yet, a nagging feeling remained.
In a way, he hated her. The relationship with her had come with so many sacrifices, so many deaths. But still – when he saw her standing there in the shadows, he couldn't help thinking how beautiful she had always been. How brave and able. How very desirable.
"All the accusations against me were false…"
The thought that maybe, just maybe there was some truth to her words was terrible enough, but then she spoke of something that simply tortured him.
"Poor Katherine Howard. She lies in the cold ground next to me…"
He wanted to scream at her, tell her that he did not want to think of Katherine and how young and naïve she had been. How powerless…
"We were like two moths drawn to the flame… and burned."
Was she right? Was he, the King of England, responsible for the deaths of two innocents? He hated Anne for comparing herself to Katherine, for it made him, Henry, sound all the more guilty.
Yes, facing Anne was hell on earth, and yet, when she left, he couldn't help sobbing.
Somehow he didn't want her to go…. but why that should be he did not know.
"How is my son?"
He remembered how relieved and pleased he had been when he had heard Jane's voice in the dark. Sweet Jane. His own darling.
He had expected her to soothe and comfort him, but she had done no such thing.
Never, in the short span of their marriage, had he seen her so angry, so accusing. So bitterly hurt. And the things she'd told him about their son… he refused to believe that what she'd said was true.
"My poor boy… my poor child… you have killed him."
He had cried over her words, hoping that Edward would be a good king and live long. After all, what else could he do but hope? Hope that Jane was wrong, that she only wanted to take revenge for the way he, Henry, had treated her. Had he ever told her that he'd loved her not only because she'd given him a son, but because she had been a good, gentle and gracious woman?
He had not, and the thought killed him.
"Your Majesty, Master Holbein awaits you in the Chapel" announced one of his grooms. Henry looked up, trying to push away all these unwelcome thoughts and the dream he'd just had of being beheaded by a corpse on a white horse.
Ah, yes. Today, Holbein would reveal the new portrait after presenting that shame of a painting the other day. Of course, Henry had refused to accept it. It did not look like him at all. He wanted the world to remember him as a great and virtuous king, not as an old, frail and dying man.
He dragged himself into the dimly lit chapel, leaning heavily on his stock. Holbein bowed his head as the King hobbled past him.
Henry, somewhat stunned by the chapel's atmosphere, coughed several times, cursing his age and weak body. His eyes wandered.
Near the altar stood an enormous painting, hidden by blue cloth. Curious how it might look, Henry motioned for Holbein to reveal it.
When the cloth dropped to the floor with a loud thud, and Henry raised his eyes to the painting, his heart constricted.
He stood still, transfixed, staring motionlessly at the great portrait of himself. It was a giant picture, a monument, a painting that would never be forgotten.
Holbein had portrayed him as a powerful, impressive and sovereign lord. This painting was vibrant, alive, presenting Henry VIII as a monarch who was larger than life, in every way.
This was how he wanted the world, the generations that would follow, to remember him – a golden prince of Christendom. Head of the Church of England. Defender of the faith. True servant of God. Ruler over all England.
It was marvellous.
Staring at it, unable to move or say anything, Henry felt as if this painting triggered in him a myriad of emotions. It told of so much. It was the story of a man, a man who had not been born to be king, but had risen to the throne of England and become more powerful than any English monarch before him. A man who had lived life to the fullest.
As he stood there in the chapel, gazing at the image of himself, it was to him as if for a moment the world fell away, leaving only him and this painting behind.
And he could not stop the memories from washing over him like a bittersweet, powerful wave.
The years rolled back.
He saw himself, kissing his son, Henry Fitzroy.
The palace, playing tennis with Charles. How young they had been then. How hopeful. He was in the bloom of his life then, a great ruler with a multitude of visions for England and his own destiny. God, he missed those days.
Images of Mary flooded his mind. Sweet Mary. He remembered picking her up and swirling her through the air, pressing a kiss to her velvety soft cheek. She was the pearl of his world.
Katherine. Gracious, stubborn Katherine. They had been happy once. God rest her soul.
Himself, riding across the planes, wild and free.
And then, a memory that was more bittersweet than all others. A moment that changed his life forever. He could still see it all before his eyes as if it happened just yesterday. He was standing in the great hall at Hampton Court, clothed in a fancy outfit, a mask on his face. He was Honesty. She was Perseverance.
How beautiful she had been. A dark, dark rapture. One look into her eyes and he was lost, lost in a sea of longing and desire and love.
Oh Anne. Beautiful, headstrong, tragic Anne. His great passion. Why had it all ended in tears?
Bitter memories of Thomas More. He surely was in God's hands now…
He saw himself, in prayer. Dieu et mon droit.
And then Anne, again... even in his memories she wouldn't leave him alone… Was he doomed never to forget those eyes of hers? Images of the two of them, kissing each other fiercely in the woods. The two of them, dancing. God, he'd never forget the passionate feelings only she could kindle in him.
Wolsey. Once his faithful servant.
Charles. The best friend there ever was.
Elizabeth as a child. What had Anne said about her? 'She's so clever.' Yes, he expected great things of her and he would not be disappointed.
Anne… their estrangement. His carelessness.
Mary as a young girl. She was beautiful, desperate.
Cromwell. 'Mercy, mercy, mercy…' He'd hate himself forever for putting him to death.
Then, things he'd never forget. Jane, washing her hair. Jane, reconciling him with Mary. Jane in his arms at night. Jane, the milk of human kindness. The light in his dark, dark world…
Jane, clothed in white, lying in the Chapel Royal. Gone forever.
'My own darling. One day I shall lie with you again… I promise. And we shall sleep together for eternity.'
Anne of Cleves, playing cards. Tender, honest Anne. He had come to like her. Oh yes indeed.
His rose without a thorn, dancing for him. 'Poor Katherine Howard…' God have mercy on her.
The battle for Bologne. A lifetime of war and struggle.
Edward…. his most precious jewel.
He saw himself, walking down the aisle. Supreme Head of the Church of England. More powerful than ever. King of kings.
The flood of memories stopped as abruptly as it had come.
One last time he had looked back.
One last time he had seen all the people he had loved in 38 years of being king of England, this way or the other. He had loved them all and lost most of them, and with each one of them a piece of him had died.
And now his life was coming to an end.
A life so grand and splendid, so tragic and bloody, so controversial and magnificent it would never be forgotten. He was sure of it. In years and years to come they would remember him and what he did in his lifetime.
From Katherine of Aragon to Catherine Parr, from Anne Boleyn to the breaking with Rome, from being a young prince to being a king of great renown.
They would remember him through the ages, Henry VIII, the ruler, the visionary, the believer. The warlord, the master, the punisher.
The lover. The husband. The father.
He was legend.
Some would praise him. Many would despise him for the things he had done, he was sure of that.
But nevertheless they would know his name and his story, and they would wonder: who was this man, who broke with Rome, defying the Pope himself? Who was this long-gone king who wielded more power than any before him?
Who was he, the man who married six wives and had two of them executed? The man who was father to Edward, Mary and Elizabeth?
What did he feel?
And surely, they'd never understand. They would never know.