We may race and we may run;
We'll not undo what has been done
Or change the moment when it's gone.
I'm sick of hearing my own lies
And love's a raven when it flies.
Meet me on the other side –
I'll see you on the other side…
Honey, now if I'm honest, I still don't know what love is.
David Gray, "The Other Side"
Henry the Eighth was dying; dying as he had lived so many years of his life: thinking of his children. Some kings, like Francis across the Channel, had a great brood of sons and daughters, especially if they had taken more than one wife. He, on the other hand, had fought for years to get a Prince of Wales for the sake of England, to spare England from civil war and foreign invasion, and though he had finally gotten his prince, not all was well.
Thinking of Edward, his boy, brought a smile to his face. The boy was a good boy, pious and intelligent, with the makings to be a tall, handsome man someday. When Harry saw him, he was reminded of Edward's mother. Jane, sweet, good, beautiful Queen Jane! She had been his true wife, true queen, beside whom he would shortly be buried.
The only problem was that Edward was, indeed, just a boy. He was nearly four years Elizabeth's junior, and she was only – what was she, now?
Elizabeth. Thinking of her made Henry's head ache. He loved her, of course, the red-haired prodigy of a girl, but she looked and acted far too much like her mother. On first glance, it was harder to see; she was so very much a Tudor. There could be no question. Yet if Henry looked at her more closely – if he looked in her eyes – he knew, and he had to turn away from her. He had to turn away from the very thought of her.
For all her gifts, her sweetness, and her charm, Elizabeth was as good as a ghost to Henry. She was the ghost of her condemned mother. Because he would not tolerate having that woman control his life as she had done for nigh a decade, he saw Elizabeth as little as possible.
As for Mary…Henry had not known what to do with Mary since she had been a child. Then, she had been his "pearl of the world" without trouble, but all the while, every year that passed, every time he saw his daughter, every time she grew taller and more articulate and more intelligent, Henry was reminded that she was not a boy and indeed that there would be no boys – not from Katherine. She, unlike Elizabeth, had given him such a lot of trouble when he had finally attempted to do something about his false marriage to the Dowager Princess of Wales, and though he still loved her, it infuriated Henry to no end that his child would not bow to his will and do as he commanded, as both her father and her King.
She had finally capitulated, and since then, things had been better between them. He still loved her, but she, too, reminded him of her mother. Part of him knew that he ought to have found her a husband by now – but what man would want the King's bastard, a girl who was willful and stubborn just as Katherine had been, and whose dowry would hardly be enticing to anyone, Englishman or foreigner?
It did not escape the dying King that he had not done by right by his daughters at all times. Their mother's fates were not their faults, though thank God Elizabeth's mother could had not been given the opportunity to poison her young mind against her lord father, the way Mary's had done.
If Elizabeth resented that she had grown up without a proper mother, she had never said a word.
She had never behaved as though she knew she had any mother but Henry's subsequent wives; she had always been good, sweet, obedient, and always made him proud.
Did she ever wonder about her mother? Had she asked others of her? She was far too intelligent to have asked anyone at court, and if she had asked Mary she was not as intelligent as he liked to believe. Of course, she must know, by now, how her mother had died. Did she resent him for it? He would never know. Though she had never again called him "my Papa" as she had as a small child, he could see that affection in her eyes…when he dared look in her eyes.
Since she must know, did she believe it? Could this girl who may, but surely never truly would, become Queen believe that her mother had been a traitor…even a witch? Did she wonder, then, about herself, and if she, too, was destined by blood to betray the crown someday?
No, he doubted she even thought about it. She was a bright child, brighter than most, but he could not imagine such morbid thoughts occupying his younger daughter. As he conjured an image of her in his mind, her face was sunny and contented.
He must stop! He must banish thoughts of Elizabeth and her cursed mother.
He would not meet the Lord with a harlot and her bastard on his mind.
He willed himself to think of Jane instead. Jane – her face, even after all this time, was etched into his mind with perfect clarity. He could see her brilliant smile, her alabaster skin, her eyes pale as the sky at dawn…he could hear her soft, soothing voice: "I am with child." His heart swelled with pride and joy as it had then; a boy, at last; his boy, England's boy!
If only God had not claimed her so soon afterwards. If only she could see what a boy Edward had become. If only she had had the opportunity of the less-deserving, less-triumphant women who had come before her, to ride out to visit her Prince, to cradle him in her arms…if only.
Now he would join her.
Oh, to hold his darling in his arms again! They would be together – young and healthy, young and beautiful – in the Kingdom of God, from which they could observe their son come into his own and rule his own, earthly kingdom. He had once feared death; now, though Edward was just a child yet, he welcomed death. He wanted to rest. More than anything, he wanted to ease his desperate loneliness. He wanted Jane. He had long waited for this day!
"Jane," he whispered. None of the attendants heard, or else they did not dare disturb the King's deathbed thoughts.
"Jane…"
If he closed his eyes – if he extended his hand just so – he could almost brush the golden silk of her hair with the tips of his fingers…
His eyes opened again, abruptly, and Henry wondered if he had not been merely a dream, his thoughts of Jane and her closeness. Perhaps…he had the strangest feeling, as though Jane herself could have been a dream. How odd, the way his memories flitted across his mind. They were shadowy things, and their reality seemed dubious. It was overwhelming. Yet at the same time, they were memories indeed. Despite feeling – physically – changed, as though he was a young man again, Henry knew that his old age had not been a mere dream. He knew, but how he knew it, he could not have said.
If this place was the Kingdom of God, he could not help but feel disappointed. He had not as much awoken as arrived in a garden, rather like the maze of dirt paths and flowerbeds at Whitehall. It was not Whitehall, of that he was certain as well, though nonetheless lovely.
There amidst the roses was a lady with porcelain skin and pale flaxen hair. She wore not silk nor damask, but a simple country gown. The cold, pale blue of the gown reflected the color of her eyes. He knew somehow that he had longed for this moment. Now that it was here, however, his heart did not leap. He did not desire to hurry to her side and to take her in his arms.
He approached her all the same. She sank into a deep curtsy at once. The rough-looking material of her skirt pooled around her like water. Strange that he had once thought her so fine, Henry thought, watching her rather skeptically. He knew the woman before him was Jane Seymour, but she was hardly the Helen of his memory. She was merely a girl…the girl he had longed for at one time, and whose death had nearly ruined him.
"Your Majesty, it warms my heart to see you once more," she said when he did not raise her up.
Jane, Jane – she looked so common. Why? Where was his shining, golden Queen? His heart was sinking. His dreams all these years…had they been only that – dreams?
His beautiful wife, had she been a dream?
Was this truly the Jane to whom he had been married, the Jane he had called his beloved, beautiful Queen?
"Jane," he said finally, for want of better words of greeting.
"Our son is the King," Jane murmured.
Edward. His pride was stirred then, and he forgot the sinking feeling that had nearly overwhelmed him upon seeing Jane again. Edward – he would surely be a good King. He had fought for Edward's existence for such a long time, and good Jane had provided him at last. It had cost her her life –
But Elizabeth had cost Anne her life as well.
And Mary, Katherine's…
"Yes," Henry replied, and at least offered Jane his hand, the back of which she kissed gently.
When she stood, he found himself still unmoved as he gazed into her laughing face. He still had no words for her, but he need not have worried. Jane threw her arms about his neck, laughing aloud now, after a long moment of staring at him, as though she barely knew him as he found he barely knew her. Clearly she was pleased to see him, however changed he was. Or was she merely pleased to know that a boy of Seymour blood was now sat on his throne?
Jane had rarely been anything but sweet and good and, with few exceptions, obedient. When he had been desperate and tired, he had found perfection in such qualities. She had never questioned his choices, nor challenged how he chose to live. She had never claimed to be hurt by his actions, whether or not she truly was. It had been a relief to him in those days.
In life and thereafter in his memory, Jane had been the ideal wife and Queen: pure, quiet, and angelic.
Yet though he was now dead, he was no longer the old King whom Jane had married. He was no longer ill and aging and weary. He was at last freed of the prison of his decaying body and somehow was restored to a youth in which Jane had never known him. He had never discussed with her music, literature, theology, or indeed of anything at all apart from family matters – that was the only topic which Henry would, in truth, tolerate. Yet this girl had wooed him with her simple goodness. AS for the lady from whose side he had been wooed…
He missed her. He had always missed her to some extent – hated her, loved her, longed for her all at once, when he allowed himself to think of her. The anger and pain and guilt had been too crushing to allow anything but fleeting thoughts of her to cross his mind, and he told himself each time they did of what she had done to him. He, Henry, was not to blame, he told himself; she had failed. She had miscarried. She had sinned against him and her God.
In truth, though, somewhere – somehow – he knew she had done none of the things he blamed her for, that he had seen her executed for.
She had made a poor wife, but a good enough Queen and a fine mother – simply not the mother of a son.
Now, here, knowing that he had breathed his last, safe in the knowledge that his son was now the King of England, he wondered how important that quest for a son had been in the first place.
Despite his affection for Katherine, he remained convinced that they had lived in sin together. The annulment had been necessary for the sake of their souls, and that of their daughter. He had never meant to hurt her. In truth, he had always loved her, or else deeply admired and respected her. She, however, was not the woman whose memory haunted his dreams and woke him in a cold sweat. It was not her daughter he could barely bear to see for fear of being reminded of the overwhelming passion he had once shared.
When he looked at Elizabeth, he could remember the night of her conception so distinctly that he felt genuine pain.
When he looked at Elizabeth, he knew that she was better prepared to become Queen than her brother was to become King.
When he looked at Elizabeth, he was reminded of the enormity of the wrong he had done her by ridding himself of her mother.
"Oh, Henry, you do not know how long I have waited for this day," Jane murmured, slipping her arm through his. "You look so well, and now death need never part us."
Overtop of her sweet words came another sound, one which was unnervingly familiar – if only he could place it. It was pealing laughter, different from Jane's – it was a young, carefree sound, yet it pierced his heart. It came closer with every moment, and though Jane looked as though she would walk further in these gardens, Henry remained immovable, listening. He finally knew the sound – but now he would have given anything not to know it.
For though he now longed to see her, how could he face her?
What would she say?
He had to wait only a moment. As the slender form and dark head of Anne Boleyn emerged from behind a hedge, he caught his breath. She looked much as she had the first time he had seen her. She was dressed in green and without a hood, letting her black curls spill down her back. She turned her head, still laughing, and caught sight of them.
The laughter in her face died along with the sound. The change was so abrupt as to be chilling, and Henry barely kept himself from shuddering. Even from where he stood, perhaps ten yards from her, he could feel the heat of those eyes that had once enthralled him – the same eyes that she had given to their daughter.
"Anne – " he choked out, and stretched out one arm to her.
"Nan!" came another familiar voice, ringing through the air far more loudly than Henry's. "Nan, stop dawdling!"
Anne stood for a moment more, staring at the man who had condemned her, her face set and immovable. Was she thinking that, save for him, she and her brother may yet be alive – the Dowager Queen and the new King's uncle? Or even the lady of a simple country estate, surrounded by her children – did she think that now?
"Nan!" George cried again from somewhere in the distance.
She lowered her head to him, but did not deign to curtsy before she collected her skirts and was gone again, calling, "George! George!" gaily as she went.
"Anne, wait – don't go – Anne – "
Henry's words broke and became a dry sob. His hand fell to his side and his body, though young and strong once more, crumpled like an old man's beneath him. He hit the ground hard with his knees. Jane gasped and was at his side, murmuring his name softly – Henry, Henry – over and over, but he could not hear her. He could not hear, even, the beautiful laughter of Anne and her brother as the sounds faded into nothing.
He heard, rather, the cries that had once fallen on deaf ears, the cries that he had once buried as deeply in his memory as he could –
Your Majesty! Your Majesty, I beseech you! Your Majesty!
He had denied her "one more chance." He had walked away from Anne – and their daughter – as though they were nothing.
The chance he had denied her then was a chance she would never grant him now.
"Anne!"
Her name had been but a suppressed whisper in his memory for years, but it was torn from his throat now – a broken, desperate sound. The only arms that comforted him, the only hands that wiped away the tears that fell unbidden from his eyes, were the cold, pale hands of the woman who had replaced Anne in his heart – in his bed –
And, it seemed, even in death.
Author's Note: This ficlet was born with the (very biased) idea that the wife with whom Henry would truly like to be reunited with upon his death was the woman with whom he had shared the longest and most consistently passionate love – you can argue that this was Katherine, but in my opinion, the great love of Henry's life, if indeed there was one, was Anne.
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