Disclaimer: Should be fairly obvious I don't own anything. Still belongs to Hirst, Showtime, etc., etc.
The church is empty, save for the priest puttering in the back, the choristers gone and the laymen out in the yard and away. Candles burn brightly, weak in the February dark encompassing the world. It has taken me too long to come here, and yet it seems that the journey has been but a moment. I pace down the long aisle, my stumbling feet assisted by my cane. The tapping of it, along with the swish of my robes, echoes up and around me as I walk. I am an old man now, where once I strode in and out of churches and castles with pride and strength in my youth. My bones ache, the chill penetrating the heavy cloth to encase me. I have come here to this church, traveling from Gloucestershire, weeks later than I should have.
I never did have a great sense of time, and now that I am old, I am more eager to make time bend to me and not I to it. But its will exerts itself upon me, and so the time has compelled me to this place.
Time and grief.
I find the monument, the great carving laid atop the casket. It is arrayed in the finest jewels and most beautiful clothes, as per His Majesty's orders. Henry always did like to wear his finest, even unto death, it seems. But what draws my eye is not the clothes nor the jewels. Not even the grand engravings surrounding his grave and effigy catch my glance. It is the likeness of the king's face that pulls me forward, forces me to stare. In death, he is young again, and so too do I feel young upon seeing it. Young and under the scrutiny of my sovereign lord, my dear friend.
His eyes are carved shut, though were he to have them open, I can imagine the reproachful look he would spare me now.
Where have you been, Anthony? they would ask, glaring at me as I kneel beside his body. Why were you not here? Why could you not be here when I requested you? Why did you desert me?
I was invited to the funeral, after all. Yet I did not come. Instead, I allowed my friend to be buried alone by indifferent counselors and his broken court. I should have come, but I did not. The thought of this sad betrayal pricks my eyes with tears. I cross myself, but I do not pray. Instead I just look at the effigy, and I try to come up with a suitable answer.
Yet what can I say to my king and my friend now? I have been gone from his side for seventeen years, save for my continued presence in letters and dispatches, and the occasional holiday at court where we'd never speak. And as the king of England, Henry VIII was always present in my life, no matter how silent he could be to me at times and no matter how far he remove himself. Everyone from the lowest servant to the highest counselor felt Henry make his imprint on their lives. And now, the print is beginning to fade. There is no more Henry VIII, and his son Edward instead will bring change to the lives of his people.
I fear for that boy, that little and long-sought-after boy, a man before his childhood had ceased. But I cannot turn my feelings to him for the moment. As ever, his father is the chief concern.
I grew up with the prince, the duke of York who would one day become my king. He and I, and William Compton and Charles Brandon, all of a certain age, all of a certain temperament. We would sport and sing and play the days away; we studied and worked into the evening hours. Wine, women, and song became our closest concerns in the days of our youth. Wine and women were more of my concern than anything else, but then, I did not run a country. Nor a dukedom. And by the time Henry and Charles were concerning themselves with their responsibilities, Compton had been called to his holy reward, so alone did I become. No, though a dear friend to a monarch, I managed only a knighthood for myself. That, and a parcel of lands granted to my upon my marriage. At one point I was discontent with my lot, but now...
Now, I am more than glad with it. For it means that though I am merely Sir Anthony Knivert, at least I am alive.
If only I could be living with friends, though. Compton has been dead for years, Charles passed a short time before Henry. If only, if only. I am the last of us lads.
But not the least. Not in my own eyes. I have my wife, Maud, still living, a woman I have come to adore despite the arrangement of our marriage. She is no Anne Boleyn, no Katherine of Aragon, but she is a kind heart and a dear soul, a companion that accepted my wild youth and sparse judgment with an even temper. Where I am passive, she is strong-willed. Where I can be lenient, she can be hard-nosed. But she has loved and cared for me withal, and I have done the same for her. I owed her no less. She was and still is my escape from the traps and entanglements that mire the English court.
I could claim that she wished me to stay home, to not travel in ill weather and worse health to Henry's grave, but the lie would stick in my throat. I can cite neither her nor our children for the cause. My children, two sons and a daughter, are all too old now to require the constant supervision of their father. My eldest, Katherine, is a wife herself, and the boys, William and Henry, are twelve and eleven, quite capable of their nominal standing as heads of the house while I am away. For years I had used them as excuses, and the maintenance of my lands, and my own father's illness to keep me out of London.
For with the coming of Anne Boleyn, the twilight of my youth also came. Me and Henry. With the world I had known fading away, I could do nothing but either absent myself to survive or stay and drown. And I would drown, that I knew. Christmastide, Easter, Michaelmas, I have returned for those festivities, but with my star fizzling, I have stayed in the background, merely observing my most royal friend.
What I saw him become made me weep. Once he was called the handsomest prince in Christendom. A scholar, a world-class jouster, a masterful musician and theologian, that was Harry. He was merry, he was...Harry. That's what he liked to be called in private. Harry.
But then Anne Boleyn came into the world, and Harry became Henry. And then upon the murders of More and Fisher, the deaths of Katherine and even Anne herself, he became Henry VIII. My companion became a stranger to me, though at moments he would peer at me, his tired blue eyes flashing with some half-forgotten memory, and I would see Harry again. And he aged, aged terribly. The jousting wound sustained in the old days turned him into an old man before his time, stealing the power from his form and hardening his heart. His trust and love in the old days melted away in the glare of the new religion, the new queen, the new world that opened up before him as he tasted his might and enforced his will.
They tell me he was crying at the end. He, who never shed a tear before me, was crying in fright and sorrow as he recognized his end was upon him. He had no real friend with him, save Archbishop Cranmer. He, who had been the shining light of the court, with numerous friends and wives, with three children who would comfort him in grief, had but one man to stand at his side. And a more timid, changeable man I have never met, is Cranmer. Still, when it counted, he was there when I could not be.
A secret missive had been sent to me, requesting my presence.
I could not go. Though sorrow racked me, I could not will my legs to run to his side. I had already been mourning Henry for over ten years; I could not tolerate another evening spent wallowing in sorrow and regrets.
I regret much now. I regret not speaking up for Katherine when she had no support. I regret not attempting to save Master More, who always treated me with great humor and civility. I could not save him, nor Fisher, not even Anne Boleyn, though she would not ever have contacted me for any help. Cromwell, Wolsey, many others I had the chance to stand up for and yet I stayed hidden in my house and behind my family. I supported no rebels, yet never begged for mercy. Supposedly I still had my monarch's favor after all these years, but I never sought it out after my knighting. I feared the consequences. For my friend was king, and my king became a tyrant. To challenge him would mean death to not only me, but all my family and acquaintances.
And what I despised myself for the most was not saving him. For before anyone else, I think, I saw him turning into a monster, and instead of reaching my hand out to him, I let him fall. I let him drown in his own filth and choke on his own ambitions. I had not the will nor the means to pull him out of the deep waters of his own delusions. Instead of bearing the burden and offering myself to save my friend, I let him die, slowly and painfully.
Because I was too afraid to do otherwise.
Why did I not come? Oh, for a million reasons, I suppose, I muse as I continue to kneel. Which would anger you less, my lord?
Finally learned discretion, Anthony?
At my age, one hardly bothers with discretion anymore, Harry, but I do know better than to put my foot in my mouth.
I can almost hear his laughter and I feel his ghostly eyes roll at that. I would hope so.
I smirk to thin air, the candles shimmering around me as I rest back upon my heels. Perhaps I stayed away because of fear, and anger...and possibly, of love.
For you see, Your Majesty, I did love you as a brother once. We grew up together, learned our lessons and jousted and played at running the country. And then we...grew apart. Perhaps I wanted to remember you as you were, and not be reminded of what you have become. Not remind myself of what I have become.
And what have I become? An old man, alone in a church, saying good-bye to a friend already dead because I was too terrified to see him die before me. Alas, alas.
I am here, though, and I will stand my vigil for the night, and I will pray for my friend and brother's soul, for Death makes equals of us all, and every man deserves a good turn from his friends.
A/N: I know, I know: how dare I show my face back in this corner of the site when I have declared my story for this section on hiatus and should probably be working on that? Well, to be honest, this little oneshot has been hanging out on my computer for a few months now, and I figured now was a good a time as any to post it. Still won't be returning to E. Somerset anytime soon, and I'll still be hanging around, working on another story, but I wanted to get this one out in the ether. Because, frankly, Anthony Knivert really got the shaft in the show, and he deserves some sort of resolve for his character, in my opinion.
Hope you enjoyed it, leave a review if you so choose, and I'll see you all around.