VIII

chapel balcony, I watch as my father kneels with difficulty, helped down by his men. He casts off his hat and crawls along the aisle towards the altar, his grey hair hanging over his face. I can hear in his rasping breath the effort it costs him. His gnarled hands press into the carpet; if a king is to abase himself and crawl to receive communion, he will crawl on the finest carpet he has.
    My lip curls; I turn away. The sight disgusts me, but it is no surprise. I have already heard that now he sees death coming, my father is performing penance for his sins. I have heard that he weeps and sobs for three-quarters of an hour together. I have heard he tells his servants repeatedly that if God will send him longer life they will see him a changed man. So much for his strength. So much for being able to live with his hard decisions.
    The spring is wet and squally. Birds nest and cats lie in wait in the long grass for their fluffy-feathered young. The world carries on with no regard for a thin old man who dreams of hellfire every night.
    It is an April morning when Compton comes to me in my chamber at Richmond and says he has heard that my father, today, cannot rise from his bed.
    I make my way to the King’s bedchamber. It is busy with doctors and councillors, with basins and cloths and hushed conversations, but when they see me the conversations stop, and the nearest men fall back to clear a path for me to approach the bed.
    There, beneath a crimson satin canopy, I find my father lying on his back, his arms laid out on top of the covers. His nose seems bigger, sharper: a hook of bone and old skin.
    It’s a moment before he becomes aware of my presence; then the eyes roll slowly towards me. “Henry.” He frowns. “It’s too soon.” Silence; he’s breathing shallowly. “You don’t know enough. Don’t try to…” It is an effort to swallow. “… rule alone. My councillors… keep them close. Listen to them.”
    His eyes slowly close. I hover, wondering whether he will open them again and say more. But he doesn’t – he seems to be sleeping.
    Hours pass; I am still in the chamber, and I find myself keeping something of a vigil, as my father slips in and out of sleep and the doctors whisper in corners, holding flasks of scant and foul-coloured urine up to the light.
    Late in the afternoon he sees me, though I am at some distance across the room. He opens his mouth to speak, and I hurry to the bedside, as his attendants move deferentially away. I slip my fingers under his hand where it lies on the bedclothes, limp and clammy. As I watch, his mouth twitches and strains, but the attempt to speak comes out only as a breath, a wheeze, a terrible column of stinking air from inside a body that seems half rotten already.
    Then the limp hand clutches mine and he manages at last to say, painfully slowly, “How… will… I… be… remembered? Am I… loved?”
    I lean in to his ear. I am a fiery angel, delivering God’s judgement. For a moment I could almost think there are wings on my back. I say softly, “You are hated by your people. You will be remembered only as my father.”
    As I straighten his eyes lock onto mine – fierce, afraid – but he cannot respond. I smile down at him. The councillors and servants around me smile too. They think I have given my father loving words of comfort.
    Later still I am at the window. I have parted the curtains to look out into the night. Occasional lights show on the river, as here and there a lone boat heads towards the City. Below me, the walled Privy Garden is an arrangement of neat, dark shapes – hedges and paths and carved decorations. Spilled torchlight from the guards stationed at the doorways picks up glints from the eyes and talons of gilded beasts, crouching on poles and holding painted shields. In the wing of the building opposite, a small light winks along the windows of the gallery; someone is walking there. I think I catch a glimpse of a fair-haired young man. He stops at one of the gallery windows, and looks out – directly, it seems, at me.
    At that same moment, a voice behind me says, “Your Grace—”
    I turn to the room. On the table by the bed, a twist of smoke drifts from a burned-out candle. Everyone has turned to face me; everyone is kneeling. On the bed, my father lies motionless, in shadow. His mouth is ajar and, from a faint glistening, I can see that his sightless eyes are fixed on the canopy above. The King is dead.
    Long live the