The Other Henry VIII

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

Reeling from a summer of uncertainty and an autumn of scandal, the royal court took great pains to forget what had passed those many months. Upon the arrival of a new year and clean slate, they deluded themselves that the time for disarray had indeed passed. Perhaps, at a first glance, one would assume it had: the King and Queen were reconciled; a successful summer harvest led to a fine wealth of dishes throughout the cold season; the Duchess of Suffolk, supposedly the sole chink in an armour of loyal God-fearing courtiers, was well and truly gone. And as for the King's ramshackle reformation, his eldest daughter was to be wed to a powerful Protestant nation within a matter of months. On the surface at least, all was well.

Then, swept away by one bitter night in February, the Duke of Wiltshire died. "Quietly, peacefully and honourably," declared Lumley, rising from the deceased's bedside with a heavy sigh. "He felt no pain at all." And just like that, the illusion shattered.

Now Edmund knelt upon St George's Chapel's cold marble floor before a coffin at which he could not bring himself to look. Knees racked with pain, he sank back onto his heels and, searching for a harmless place to settle his gaze, examined the minute crack in a tile absent-mindedly. Rising to his feet was out of the question, of course. To begin with, his legs were locked so stiffly in their bend that any attempt to budge would surely result in an untimely grunt. Most inappropriate, given the circumstances. But even if that were not the case, Edmund would not stand. Why?

Because as soon as he did, everything become real: the murmurs of guests filing into the chapel; the whistle of a brewing windstorm outside; the near-silent tears of his sisters. The freshly-woven cloak of responsibility on his shoulders, heavy as a keystone. For now, the future was a blur of black and white — easier to forget, on the whole. Lifting his head, standing up, would throw it all into sharp, vivid relief. And Edmund knew he could not cope with that.

His father ought to have been buried in Wiltshire. He belonged there — all Westover's did. Laid to rest in the idyllic chapel grounds at Dashwood, where wild daisies sprouted through fissures in every grave, lilies lined the weathered cobble path and apple trees blossomed weeks late but never bore fruit. Where the world seemed to waver, just for a second. Beside his wife, outside the chapel where they had wed, once upon a time. Edmund remembered his own first wedding, how he and his bride had passed by the grave in pouring rain and imagined they themselves might lie there together one day. What an absurd notion that had been. There was an empty spot beside his mother, in the shade of the grandest apple tree with boughs thicker than a fattened pig; now it would never be filled. The King had said Windsor, and so Windsor it would be.

Someone knelt beside him, silk skirts forming a pool of mourning-navy atop the weary white slabs. Like Dashwood Lake at midnight, though Edmund fondly. As a child he used to slip out of bed and scamper across the grounds to find it, braving the wind in nothing but his nursemaid's threadbare shawl. Then, breathless from the run, he would sit on his haunches like a watchdog and let the icy water lap against his toes. Barefoot, naturally — for what intrepid little boy would remember shoes when such magic awaited him? Sometimes he would stay there all night, entranced by the moon goddess and her Cimmerian mirror.

Once his father, returning late from court, had caught him quaking beside the bank. Most men might have beaten such fancifulness out of their child there and then before an explanation had even passed their lips, but the Duke did not. Quite the opposite. Instead, he crouched beside his son upon the clammy grass and offered no reaction but a warm fur-lined cloak. And oh, how Edmund had needed that. He needed someone to tell him, show him, that he was loved. Scrawny for his age, a lone boy in a myriad of daughters, shy and wistful to the point of oblivion, he had always felt inadequate. But that night, he had finally felt like he was enough.
For countless hours, the father and son sat there together by the silent lake, and listened to its silence. That was the night his mother died.