From Chapter 47:
Whitehall Palace, 1547
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?"
Read
More >