The Other Henry VIII

Epilogue

28 January 1547
Midnight. King Henry VIII of England opened his eyes — though he had not been asleep — and counted the chimes. Nine, ten, eleven. Twelve. He would never hear them strike again.

Leia was at his side. She faced him, her narrow shoulders rising and falling gently as she slept. Her hair, still long and lustrous, was a mane of gold and silver silk across the pillow. She stirred often, eyelashes flickering against her cheeks, and when she did Henry smiled weakly. Even in sleep, his wife was never truly at rest.

He had sent the children away tonight. All of this week, they had visited faithfully, ensuring he was never alone, bringing trite conversation or wine or a deck of cards — though always the same pitying smiles they thought he could not see. Their company had stifled the pain for a time, but tonight it devoured him, a constant knot pulsating beneath his ribs, drawing his limbs taut with agony. Henry knew the end was near. He had told no-one, of course, for what proud king could allow witnesses to such a feeble death? He still had his pride, after all. Leia, naturally, did not need to be told.

Henry shifted his mind back to his children, for in them joy could always be found. There was a satisfaction, he discovered, in leaving behind an heir fully grown, with offspring of his own. Edward turned twenty-one last month — an age still wholly perplexing to his mother, who had declared herself far too young to have an adult son — and was as tall, fair-haired and handsome as his father before him. If he had not been married at sixteen and parent to three royal heirs, he might have been the most eligible youth in Christendom. But still a part of Henry did not rest easy. Everyone knew what happened to weak kings, and there was a softness in Edward, a shyness which he was yet to grow out of.

Arthur, on the other hand, had inherited his mother's sharp tongue and his father's penchant for swordplay, which saw him locked in fierce duels more mornings than not. He often gave the impression of utter disinterest in others, except perhaps for a round of cards, but possessed the kind of rugged charm that won court's admiration nonetheless. The only person capable of understanding him was his sister Isabel, who rarely spoke yet always appeared to know precisely what to do. She was the sort who spent her days in the grounds collecting flowers to place by her father's bedside, who snuck him sweet treats from the kitchens and knew every servant's name. Henry always looked forwards to her visits.

His eldest three were, of course, across the Channel. Henry regretted their absence now, having sent them all over Europe to wed and bear foreign heirs, for he doubted he would see them again. Eleanor was three years gone, deep in Germania and likely setting them all to rights. Then Lizzie, Dauphine of France and mother of five at the last count, reputedly as bold and bright as the day she arrived. If only he had outlived Francis — in fact, it felt rather like the French king had won. Henry would have liked to see Lizzie on the throne.

And Clara. Oh, Clara. More than fourteen years since they last spoke, and yet still he thought of her daily. He missed everyone — his sisters, his parents, his friends, every person he had loved and lost these past fifty-five years — but her most of all.

Once, years ago, Leia had turned to him and remarked, "Have you noticed how our children seem to come in pairs? I wonder why that is."
"Well, my dear, perhaps we should put your theory to the test," Henry had replied archly. Even a dozen years later, he still remembered the spark in her eyes.

And so came the final two: Harry in 1536, and Katherine eighteen months in his wake. Sunny, spirited children born into peace and prosperity, safe within the confines of a happy marriage. For they had been happy, reflected Henry with another smile; not what one could call smooth sailing, certainly, but that was part of the fun. Now here they were in the winter of their lives, together as no-one could tear them apart. He took her hand, though it pained him, and laid his forehead gently against hers. He would not wake her. She deserved to be spared this moment.

Henry closed his eyes and leafed through his memories like a book, before settling on the one made that very night. How Leia had climbed into bed beside him, knees tucked against her stomach as always, and instructed him in a very firm, very solemn voice not to die; or, at the very least, to alert her if he planned on doing so. He had chuckled hoarsely, chest wheezing in protest, and replied that he would not dare.

"Good," she had said, resting a hand on his cheek. He remembered how his skin still blazed at her touch. How she had gazed at him unflinchingly in the candlelight as he replied, "Loving you has been my privilege," and kissed her with the last of his strength. How she had whispered that she loved him too, that she had always loved him, and fallen asleep with those precious words upon her lips. He had wondered, then, how heaven could match this, how anything could be better than Leia curled at his side. Perhaps now he would find out.

The knot in his chest was constricting again, and this time he would let it.