The Embrace of Eternity

Tudor Ghost Story Contest 2015 – Highly Commended

The Embrace of Eternity

By Katherine Stinson

Of all the things Henry VIII expected to see on his deathbed, hearing his father harangue him about his bedsheets was the last thing he would have surmised. The founder of the Tudor dynasty glided around as he had in life, miserly and without empathy for his dying son. “What sort of example are you setting with such a horrid excuse for a bedchamber?”

Henry replied with what little strength he had.

“You sound like your mother.”

That stopped the annoying shade in its tracks.

Henry’s father unceremoniously threw off the sheets covering him up, leaving his festering leg wound exposed for all the world to see.

And smell.

“I told you jousting was a sport for reckless brigands.”

“Not when I was supposed to be a monk.”

There was a knock on the door. Henry attempted to grab his father’s hand to prevent him from answering, but was met with a handful of empty air. The king of England didn’t even have the strength to express the rage he felt at his father’s untimely visit.

“Have you only come here to harass me?”

Another figure had appeared, unbeknownst to Henry.

“Well that sounds rather fun you simpering sop.”

Arthur Tudor looked vastly different than the last time Henry had seen him.

“Weren’t you sixteen when you died?” He asked his older brother, who now appeared to be in his mid-thirties, handsome, a vision of the king he might have been.

Arthur laughed, but his words were serious. “Weren’t you supposed to be married to only one woman?” Henry wondered if it was physically possible to murder a ghost.

“I wanted to ensure that the Tudor dynasty could continue after my death.”

Somehow he felt the full force of his father’s slap.

“Foolish boy! You’ve completely emptied my coffers, destroyed countless lives, and destabilized the whole of England due to your recklessness. I entrusted you to carry on the Tudor name and make it one of glory and renown. Instead, you have tarnished the throne with the blood of your wives and sullied the Tudor crown with the remnants of your lust and greed for power.”

Even Arthur was rendered speechless.

Henry was too weary to argue or defend his reign. All he wanted to do as his life was nearing his end was to listen to his dear Kate read to him one last time. Edward would take his stead after his death and grow into a marvelous king worthy of the English crown. Mary and Elizabeth would be married off to wealthy English lords and not interfere with state affairs the way their wretched mothers were so fond of doing.

How he hated to look into the eyes of his daughters.

“Anne says hello by the way. She was wondering if you had any remedies for a dreadful headache she just can’t get rid of.”

Arthur was clearly jealous that he never had a chance to become king. In life he was far too sickly. Henry had always thought God had taken his brother to His Kingdom early for a reason.

“How is Jane?” Henry asked, genuinely curious.

“Constantly worrying about the state of her son’s upbringing. She is normally as meek as a mouse but mention Edward and I believe she would raise armies to ensure his happiness.”

His sweetheart. The only woman worthy of his affection. He could still recall the way her whole face lit up whenever he entered a room. Henry looked forward to spending eternity by her side.

Arthur apparently had spent his eternity bottling up his rage at his younger sibling. “How could you treat Catherine so terribly? Abandoning her like she was no better than the mud beneath your boots? You were the luckiest man in the world to have that woman by your side!”

Henry shook his head in disagreement. He was the luckiest man in the world for not having Catherine raise the whole of Spain against him in revenge for his year long quest to divorce her. Deep down he had always hated her for effortlessly winning the love of the English people, a feat he still desired that day on his deathbed.

That was all he had ever truly desired. To have the eternal love of his people. To be remembered as the glorious golden Tudor lion. The way Thomas More had described him at the beginning of his reign.

What had More said that day at his coronation? Had he not called him a “king who is worthy not merely to govern a single people but the entire world”?

Would his zealously pious Catholic advisor still say that today? It mattered not. More had died his servant, but God’s first.

Henry knew that his death would be met with sighs of relief across the country. Was it better to be a feared or loved monarch? Damn that Machiavelli for daring to ask that question.

“I owe you no explanation for my actions and the choices I made. You cannot turn back the clock and undo my reign. Although I know you would do so without hesitation if you had that power.”

Arthur opened the windows with a clap of his hands. His physicians who feared that they would let sicknesses inside and in the sacred body of the king. The sunlight that filtered in felt rather comforting on his clammy skin.

“I am sure,” Henry said, his breath getting shorter with each word, “that most of the people walking the grounds are counting down the hours until I depart this Earth.”

His brother glared at him with the same expression he used when they were children. It was a frustrated look that always occurred when Henry snitched to their grandmother that Arthur wasn’t praying enough. Or when Henry had eaten all of Arthur’s favorite sweets.

“At least they will remember you.”

Another familiar voice replied.

“How do you wish to be remembered Henry?”

Finally someone totally loyal to him, even in death.

“As I was in life, a king who loved his people and who wanted England to prosper above all else.”

Thomas Cromwell rubbed his chin. That man was a master of concealing the mechanisms of his thoughts. Henry still found himself aching to ask the lawyer for advice.

He stopped himself. To ask him now would be an admission that he had been wrong to sign his death warrant. Henry could not afford to be weighed down by regrets or he would never be able to move on.

Henry’s former councillor, cleverly sly as ever, picked up on his hesitation. “I heard you were married to that young Howard girl the day I was executed. Was it something I said?”

“I read your letter.”

Cromwell’s face betrayed him for a split second. Clearly he hadn’t expected the king to read the letter he had written while imprisoned begging Henry to spare him his life. The two men just looked at each other, a lifetime of questions being asked without saying a single word.

“I believe the closer you come to death the humbler one becomes. I had believed that I would approach the scaffold as bravely as Anne did, and meet God himself with no regrets. How wrong I was.”

“So how’s Hell? I imagine the King of France is quite popular there?”

Henry had successfully made his ghostly guests laugh. He hadn’t noticed his Father was missing. Arthur noticed his confusion. “I imagine Father is doing his best to rearrange the portraits out in the long gallery. You know how persnickety he was about every picture being perfectly straight.”

The father of the Tudor dynasty glided through the door, as if he’d been hanging on their every word. “You are going to die soon my son.” He told Henry, his face growing grave.

Really? Henry thought to himself. What gave that away? He mused, glad that his sense of humor hadn’t been lost in his leg wound.

“We have come here to show you a glimpse of your legacy. Think of it as a parting gift.”

Suddenly the shadows left by the sun’s rays morphed into several shapes. A small boyish hand scratching away at the will Henry had just signed. A woman who looked like his daughter Mary, riding into the Tower at the head of a great army. Thomas Cranmer, burning alive on a great funeral pyre.

A large group of men bowing their heads in fealty to his Elizabeth, her red hair shining in front of a great oak tree. Elizabeth again, resplendent in golden coronation robes, with the bells of England’s churches ringing in celebration. The shadows turned dark, and Henry saw the outline of a multitude of ships dotting the English coastline.

“What happened to Edward?” He asked, confused, terrified, and rather intrigued. But he was asking his question to empty air.

The three ghosts of his past had already disappeared, leaving him all alone. Henry no longer cared. He was tired. Jane was waiting.

Death couldn’t come fast enough.