FRANCIS SPENT NEARLY every waking moment with the King from October 1546 onward. The court moved to Whitehall Palace and then to Oatlands in November, where Henry fell ill of fever again. Dr. Wendy described the bout as colic, but those close to the King knew better.

Once he somewhat recovered, the King moved on to Hampton Court and then Greenwich, and finally back to Whitehall, where he once again took to his bed.

Francis tried to entertain him by reading aloud Chaucer poems or urging him to play a few hands of Primero, their table surface comprised of the King's bed covers.

"Did you talk with the Queen yet?" Francis asked one afternoon as a snowstorm raged outside the window of the King's bedchamber.

Henry nodded. "I told her, along with my children." He sighed. "Mary seemed to be the most upset. She is my most sensitive of children, easy to cry, much more so than Edward or Elizabeth. I regret the years Mary and I were at odds . . . so much time was wasted on trifles. Edward didn't cry, but he looked frightened. And Elizabeth - well, she was typical Elizabeth. I've yet to see anything move her to tears."

"All of your children are exceptional, Sire."

"I instructed them to leave Whitehall on Christmas Eve," the King continued. "I told them to go to Greenwich because I wished to convalesce alone. In truth, I want to die without sniveling dramatics."

"Understandable, Sire."

"But you will stay, my lord?"

"I will stay as long as you have need of me, Hal."

* * *

THE KING SPENT Christmas in seclusion, with only Dr. Wendy, Anthony Denny and Francis allowed into his chambers. Henry vacillated between chills and high fever, so Denny kept a fire roaring in the grate at all times. Francis took to sleeping on a trundle bed in the King's room at Henry's urging, leaving Robin alone in Francis' large rooms at Whitehall.

Francis often laid awake in the night, listening for the King's even breathing and light snoring. His nerves were taut with emotional tension, fearing the day when he no longer heard the sounds of a living man.

Members of the Privy Council continually requested an audience with the King, but he denied them. Instead, he sent Francis to them with a message. Councilors regarded him frostily in the council chamber at Whitehall, as if he was an underling overstepping his bounds. Francis had little use for any of them, but did as the King had bid him to do.

"His Majesty has instructed me to tell you that his will has been set, and he has no desire to change it. He feels there is nothing left to discuss with any of you, and asks for your good graces in leaving him alone to cope with his malaise." He shrugged. "Do what you will with his order, but it would probably be best if you obeyed him at this point. He is quick to anger nowadays, so there is no telling what he may do if you deny him."

"Who are you to direct us?" The Earl of Hertford asked with blatant hostility.

Francis gazed at him, cold ice glittering in his eye. "I am the King's servant, the same as all of you. I suggest you remember it, or rue the day." Then he turned on his heel and left the council chamber.

Whitehall became fairly deserted after that, with courtiers now in their own homes and very few councilors remaining.

On one January afternoon, Francis went to his rooms to take a bath and consume a quick meal, aided by Robin, before returning to the King's chamber.

He came back to find Denny whispering in the King's ear, whereupon Henry sat upright and cried aloud. "No! No!"

"What is this about, then?" Francis asked angrily, taking a menacing step toward Denny.

Denny appeared frightened but said nothing.

"No man alone should wield power," the King panted, his eyes wide with alarm. "My will is clear. The Council of Regency for my son stands as it is. On this, I will not be budged."

Francis grabbed Denny by the scruff of his collar. "Tell me what you just said to the King," he snarled. "Or I will take great pleasure in breaking your neck with my bare hands."

"Hertford asked me," Denny stammered with fear. "He asked me to suggest to His Majesty that he be appointed as chief counselor for Prince Edward when the time comes."

Francis flung Denny from him, landing him on the floor. "Tell the bloody bastard Hertford to go to hell," he raged. "And you, get out. Never let me see your face near the King again."

Denny scurried from the room.

Francis looked to the King, who had collapsed against the pillows on his bed, his face gray with pain.

"Hal?"

"Thank you, Francis," the King managed to say. "There are serpents surrounding me at every turn now. Am I to have no peace, even in death?"

"You will from this point forward," Francis replied grimly. "I will make certain of it."

Henry sighed and closed his eyes, secure in the knowledge Francis would do just that.

* * *

THE KING FELL seriously ill again on January 1, 1547, when Dr. Wendy cauterized the wound on his leg. Nine days later, Queen Catherine and Lady Mary returned to Whitehall, but Henry refused to see them. It wasn't until January 22nd that he instructed Francis to escort the Queen to his chambers.

"It is God's will that we should soon part," the King began before her outburst of tears stopped him. He tried to continue. "I commend you for your great love, obedience and chastity of life being our wife and queen."

Catherine's wails grew louder as she held her head in her hands.

Henry glanced to Francis, who stood nearby. "Escort the Queen back to her chambers, my lord. She is overwrought."

Francis bowed, and then gently led the weeping Queen from the room by her elbow.

* * *

IT DAWNED COLD and gray on the morning of January 27, 1547. The King slept peacefully as Francis ate a platter of eggs bathed in butter, keeping his eye on Henry at all times.

The King hadn't eaten in two days, turning his head away from food when it was offered to him. He was ashen, clearly near his end. Francis was saddened, unwilling to lose the one man who had defined him to date. The past years flashed through his mind. Their nearly instant rapport, the trials and tribulations of mistresses and wives, the births of all his children - alive and dead - victories in battle and political finesse, legal wrangling and leisure pursuits such as hunting, jousting, games, revelry, music and dancing.

It was all about to end with a firm resoluteness.

Francis was sitting in a chair by the fireplace in the King's chamber, sipping wine and intermittently glancing at Henry.

"My end is near, Francis," the King mumbled as he stared at the ceiling from his bed. "And I am alone in it."

"I'm here, Hal. I won't leave you."

Henry sighed. "I was chosen by God to be King, but in the end I am much the same as all mortal men." He swallowed with visible struggle. "My one consolation is I will be able to see those I love again, but my dreams are haunted by those I sent to their deaths, or contributed to as such."

"Sire?"

"The Duke of Buckingham, Thomas More, Cardinal Wolsey, Anne Boleyn, George Boleyn, Mark Smeaton, William Brereton, Henry Norris, Francis Weston, Nicholas Carew, Robert Aske, Thomas Cromwell, Katherine Howard, Thomas Culpepper, Francis Dereham, Margaret Pole, Anne Askew - so many others - none of them deserved to die as they did. I was a monster in the throes of my power, which could not be denied in the moment." A look of fear came across his face. "What if I go to the other place, Francis? What if I reawaken in hell rather than heaven?"

"There is no need to torture yourself with such thoughts," Francis protested, knowing he could not refute Henry's claims. "What's done is done, Sire. There is no turning back the clock for any of us, no matter how much we may wish it."

"I desire to see Charles Brandon and Anne Boleyn again above all others," the King continued faintly. "Charles was loyal and true until his own end. And, no matter how her life ended, I always loved Anne and it never changed. Jane wasn't my true beloved - Anne was. Yet my pride was damaged when she could not give me a son, and I took my rage out on her fair frame. The world had to know it was her fault, not mine. She understood what I was about, but she loved me regardless. I was a fool for forsaking her as I did." He sighed again. "I suffer with great grief over the injuries I have done to her and our daughter."

Francis felt helpless. "Hal, do you wish me to fetch a priest?"

The King closed his eyes. "I will first take a little sleep, and then, as I feel myself, I will advise upon the matter."

"Very well, Sire. I will be right here if you need me."

Henry had been sleeping for more than six hours when he suddenly sat up straight in the bed, just before two o'clock in the morning on January 28th.

Francis leapt to his feet. "Hal, what is amiss?"

"All is lost, Bryan," he gasped before falling back onto the pillows.

Francis stared at him, then leaned closer to try and detect the King's breathing. There was none. It was finally over - the mighty Henry VIII was dead, God seeing fit to take him in the middle of the night with no warning. He lay in the bed, eyes open and sightless. Francis reached over and drew his eyelids down gently, and then turned away.

He walked back to his chair with leaden feet, sitting down with a great exhale of air. Hal was gone, along with his protection and possible hope for salvation. Francis swallowed, tears streaming down his face. He was almost the last of his generation, having lost so many in the process. It was incomprehensible.

He knew, instinctively, that the world would never see the likes of Henry VIII ever again.

Next > (Chapter Forty-Nine)