----
January 28, 1547
-AFTER WHAT seemed to be centuries, after terrorizing everyone with his might, cruelty and tyranny, after suffering from paranoia, obesity and vindictive rages...Henry VIII lay dying after fifty-five years.
He stared up at the ceiling from where he lay on his velvet bed. Henry had forbidden anyone from uttering the word death. To think of the King dying...to even utter it, was treason. You paid for it with your life.
As much as he hated admitting it, even the stubborn Henry knew his time had come.
It certainly had been quite a ride. His belly, humongous and making the mattress sag, towered before him. His lame leg stunk of sickness and pus; his stomach and back and other leg littered with disgusting ulcers.
What happened to that handsome, golden-haired youth of thirty years ago? That young man was everyone's icon, every woman's dream, every man's inspiration. That man was all play and no work, he was jovial and cheerful and in good spirits and loved everyone and everything and was convinced of his own rightness.
What happened to him?
There had been one, two, three, and now there were six. Henry would laugh if he didn't know it would hurt. Six women, with many in between. It was quite a feat.
Henry remembered all of them, and now that he was laying on his bed, alone, they drifted past his mind, as vivid as if they were dancing before him.
Katharine of Aragon with her piety and stubborn persistence she was the true Queen; Anne Boleyn with her dark beauty and flying tempers; Jane Seymour and her shyness and submissiveness; Anna of Cleves and her stuttering English, the quiet way in which she held herself; Kathryn Howard's little, pretty head, and the way she'd swing around the dance floor, all eyes on her; and dear Catherine Parr, responsible, mature, and strong-minded, sensible.
Henry groaned. He'd had his fill of strong women. All six of them were, even stuttering Anna of Cleves and foolish Kathryn Howard. He just wanted a male heir...male heirs...was that too much to ask?
He had done so much, for the benefit of his kingdom...and himself, too, sometimes...and now England's King was at his life's end. Henry missed the old days, when everyone actually looked upon him in true wonder, awe and admiration. Now, they laughed at him behind their hands, tittered about his weight and lame leg. They were afraid of him, but no longer admired him. He was no longer the golden King, the handsomest Prince in all of Christendom.
Henry closed his fatigued eyes, wanting to rest.
He began to dream.
----
It wasn't hazy and foggy like his other dreams; dreams which he didn't remember by morning. This dream was very vivid, alive...
Real.
In it, Henry saw a little lion cub rolling around in the waving green grass. He was in a sprawling meadow, the green sea of waving grass stretching as far as the eye could see.
Behind the cub were Henry's parents.
He wanted to cry out to them. It had been so long since he'd seen them...in fact, it was his father Henry VII's birthday that day; he would have turned 90 had he lived that long.
Henry VII stood behind the growling little cub. He looked the same as Henry remembered him; tall, thin and lanky, pinch-faced and clad in humble robes. Henry VII didn't look like a King at all. He did well for his Kingdom, and was very able, but he never looked the part because of his tight-fistedness.
YOU ARE READING
The Six
Historical Fiction'Divorced, beheaded, died; divorced, beheaded, survived." In this way, the six wives of Henry VIII were remembered not for how they lived, but in the way they died. It is impossible to know exactly what they were thinking or had to go through, in h...
