To my surprise he sent for me. I had heard how ill he was but I must confess to surprise—I might say horror—when I saw him. He lay in his bed, his eyes scarcely visible in the folds of unhealthy-looking flesh. Some of his color had gone now but I could see the network of veins where it had been; his mouth looked slack; his beard and hair were white. I would hardly have known him for the King; and the contrast with that grand and handsome figure of my childhood was tragic indeed.
His lips formed my name. “Mary…my daughter.”
“Your Majesty, I heard you wished to see me, and I came with all speed.”
“All speed,” he murmured. “That was well. Daughter, come closer, I cannot see you. You seem far away.”
“I am here, Your Majesty.”
“Fortune has not gone well with you. I have not given you in marriage … as I desired to. It was the Will of God. Daughter, the Will of God… perhaps the state of my affairs…your ill luck…Understand… it was the Will of God.”
“It was the Will of God,” I repeated.
“And now …you are no longer young… and there is not much time left to me. There is your brother. He is little yet. Take care of your brother…a little helpless child…be a mother to him. Be a mother…”
“I will, Your Majesty, I will…Father…”
He nodded slightly.
One of the doctors came and laid a hand on my arm. He led me to a corner of the chamber.
“His Majesty is failing fast,” he said.
Royalty cannot die in peace. Death is like birth. The important men of the day must be sent for to see it happen.
So they were coming to see the King die. Members of the Council. I recognized the Seymours…Lord Lisle, Wriothesley, Sir Anthony Denny. The Queen was not present.
My father half rose in his bed and with a cry fell back on the pillows.
“What news?” he growled. “Why do you stand there? What do you say? My legs are on fire. What do you? Will you let me burn?” Then he said a strange thing. “Monks…who are these monks? They cry to me. Why do they cry? They look at me with their wild eyes. I like not those black-cowled monks. What news, eh? What news, Denny?”
Denny came to the bedside. He said, “Your Majesty, there is nothing more that can be done. Your doctors can do no more. You should prepare to meet God. You should review your past life and seek God's mercy through Christ.”
There was a look of disbelief on his face. Death…so close. All his life he had refused to think of death; he had hated sickness; he always wanted to shut himself away from it; now here he was, face to face with death and there was no running away this time.
“Review your past life!” Did I detect a note of triumph in the words? “You, who have had great power, of whom we all went in fear and trembling, must now face One greater, more powerful than yourself. How does it feel, Sir King?”
Oh no! Denny's face was a mask of sympathy. But the King had made them all tremble for their lives at times.
They told him he must see his divines, but he started up and said he would see no one but Cranmer.
Cranmer was at Croydon, and they sent for him to come right away. We wondered whether he would arrive in time, for the King was in delirium. He seemed not to know where he was and why so many people had crowded into his bedchamber. It was uncanny. He was seeing ghosts, and through his eyes one saw those figures from the past who were there to watch him as he died, to mock him for the power he had once had over them, to remind him that he had none now nor ever would again.
“Anne …” His lips formed her name. I could almost see her, her black hair loose, her flashing eyes, that quick tongue that cared nothing for any… not even him.
“Witch,” he murmured.
“Anne, you're a witch. Had to be… Sons for England…”
So even at the end he was making excuses.
“Cardinal… what do you, sitting there? Why do you regard me so? I like not your look, Cardinal. Too clever…knew too much. You died. I was sad to see you die, Thomas. Can you see her there? Tell her to take those black eyes from me. Witch…sorceress. Blood… blood everywhere. The monks are there. Monks… monks. Monks.” His voice rose to a scream.
One of the doctors gave him a soothing drink.
“Ah,” he murmured. “Better… better. Who is that by the door? Tell her to go away. Who is that screaming? Catharine. She is young…very young. Led astray. Stop her screaming. Where is the Queen? Kate. Kate. Such gentle hands. There she is … that one. She is coming closer. Her hands are about her neck … I can see the blood there … and she is laughing … mocking. Send those monks away. I like them not. What time is it?”
“Two of the clock,” said Wriothesley.
“Shall I live through the day?”
No one answered. None believed he would.
“The boy is young yet…Take care of him. Watch over him. He will be your King. Such a little boy… not yet ten years old… not strong…”
“Your Majesty should have no fears,” he was told.
“Your ministers will do all that has to be done.”
By the time Cranmer came, the King could not speak. He placed his hand in that of the Archbishop. Then he closed his eyes.
The King was dead.
HE LAY IN STATE for twelve days in the chapel of Whitehall. A wax figure had been set up beside the coffin. It was uncannily like him, dressed as it was in jeweled robes of great magnificence. The body was to be taken to Windsor for burial and placed beside that of Jane Seymour, the mother of his son.
The procession was four miles long, and the wax effigy was put into a chariot and rode beside the coffin. At Sion House they rested awhile, and the coffin was placed in the chapel there.
It was at Sion House, where Catharine Howard had spent some of her most tortured hours while she was waiting to be taken to the Tower, that a most gruesome event was supposed to have taken place.
It was said that, when the coffin was removed, beneath it was seen blood on the stone flags of the chapel, and it could only be assumed that it had seeped through the wood of the coffin. Then some man said he saw a little dog come in and lick up the blood.
Whether this was true or not I cannot say. But if it was not, it was an indication of what was in people's minds. They would remember those two murdered wives; one might say three, for my mother's death had been hastened by his treatment of her. Katharine Parr had come near to losing her head, and barbarous torture had been inflicted on the monks. People would remember handsome Surrey. Norfolk, by sheer good luck for him, was still in the Tower, the King having died before he could sign his death warrant.
It was remembered that Friar Peto had likened the King to Ahab and had prophesied that the dogs in like manner would lick his blood.
Perhaps it was this prophecy which had prompted the man to imagine he had seen the dog in the chapel. One could not tell. But it did show that the people were aware of the blood which had been shed, and there could not have been one man in the country who would have liked to take on the burden of guilt which must be the King's.
And so to Windsor, where the coffin was buried next to Jane's under the floor of the chapel. After it was lowered by means of a vice, sixteen Yeomen of the Guard of his household broke their staves of office over their heads and threw them down onto the coffin.
De Profundis was said, and Garter's voice rang out to tell everyone present that there was a new king.
“Edward the Sixth, by Grace of God, King of England, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith and Sovereign of the most noble Order of the Garter.”
Gardiner caught my eyes. There was speculation in his. He must be feeling very uneasy.
He knew that the new King had leanings toward the Reformed Faith and that he would be in the hands of his uncles—and Gardiner was a staunch Catholic.