by Diana Rubino
She hadn't seen the King in several months, and was barely able to conceal her shock upon entering his presence. He was seated in an enormous chair in his audience chamber, his ushers and gentlemen of the chamber all clamoring about him offering him more wine, more grapes, more pillows for his leg, another cloak to keep warm.
"Amethyst, I cannot rise easily, for my leg pains me so greatly, I can barely stand it."
"Of course, sire!" She approached him and he held out his huge hand to clasp hers. The Regal of France ruby was nearly embedded in the folds of his skin; he was so fat it was barely visible.
"Does the ring not bother you, sire?" she asked, at a loss of anything else to ask him, for she knew his body was a column of pain and burdensome weight.
"They cannot remove it without removing my finger along with it. Perhaps I can grasp a chicken leg with only four fingers, but why hinder myself any more than necessary?" he said, emitting a wheezing laugh that erupted into a coughing spell.
"Oh, Amethyst, I am not well," he admitted with a sigh.
"Is it the Queen?" she whispered in horror.
He shook his head. "Nay. Kate cares for me so well, I would be lost without her. But of course it is always a joy to see you."
"Thank you, sire," she said, trying not to weep, for no matter how much she tried to be cheerful, in her heart she knew that Henry's end was truly drawing near.
"Nay, it is mere old age, and my own sin of gluttony."
"Can you not try to er, contain yourself, sire, for the sake of your son. He is so young, not quite ready to be king. There is so much you can teach him, and well, at the risk of sounding selfish, my dear, well, you have been the one constant in my life ever since we met. I should be lost without you."
Henry looked so pleased, for a moment she could almost see his youthful vivacity shine through. Very well, I shall try. For you, my dearest love, I shall try. Nay, away with that food. I shall have naught for the moment save my lady's presence."
He kissed her hand, and she smiled through the tears. But even as she did so, she knew it was too little, too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Whitehall, January, 1547
Henry ordered his Esquire of the Body out of his dressing room and sat for a few moments, letting his leg drain, enjoying the blissful solitude he so seldom was able to attain. After a few breaths of fresh morning air in front of the open window, he summoned to his chamber Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, one of the few remaining nobles that he trusted. All the others were either dead, in prison or fallen into disfavor.
Brandon entered the chamber a while later, sweeping off his velvet plumed cap, kneeling before the King on bended knee, bowing his head.
"Rise, Suffolk. This is not a marriage proposal."
Suffolk stood, brushed off his knee, and placed his hands, and hat, behind his back. "What is it that Your Majesty would have of me?"
"Suffolk, I have been having nightmares, the worst of nightmares. Oh, Jesu..." He held his palms to his head, heaving deeply, causing the throne to shake as he coughed, sputtered and cleared his voice.
"What about, Your Majesty?" Brandon was trembling as he dreaded another of his king's fits of rage.
"Everyone...those who are gone from this earth, yet do not cease to haunt me. Anne...I can see her black eyes like two nuggets of coal boring into me in the darkness of my bed, in the dead of night, then Catherine's laughter. She and Culpeper continue to laugh at me from the grave. I can take it no longer." He sighed weakly as Brandon took a tiny step forward.
"Perhaps you should speak to Dr. Butts, Your Majesty."
"Bah! He has done nothing for me, nothing for my festering leg wound... Nothing will release me from this torture but death! I have endured so much, Brandon. I need to make my final peace with the Lord. But before I do, I must protect my son from any possible threats to his rightfully inherited crown. He must not endure what I did, fighting tenacious pretenders, defending my crown with my very life. Nay, Edward must never suffer the indignities of a usurped throne or even the slightest doubt that he will reign as true king until his own death. I must eliminate them."
"Who, sire?" Brandon's voice was just above a whisper.
"The pretenders! The ones who pose any threat to my son's rightful inheritance! They must die. They must be eliminated."
"Well, then, so they shall. But who would that be, sire?"
"Those two boys in the Tower. I want them executed immediately."
"Which two boys, sire?" Brandon cocked his head in surprise and confusion.
"Oh, you know..."
But perhaps he didn't, the King could see now. Even before Topaz had begun to fade into obscurity, the existence of any offspring had not been widely known, or considered, throughout the kingdom. Not until her letter writing coup on behalf of the eldest…. But the younger one could prove a viper as well…
"The grandsons of Warwick. Edward and... Oh, what is the other one's name?" He waved his hand about impatiently and pressed it against his forehead, not particularly wanting to tax his brain too heavily with such inconsequential trivia.
"Oh, those two. I believe the other lad is Richard, Your Majesty."
"Aye, the two of them. Now, this is not to be documented, nor is it to be signed as a formal act of execution. I want you to go in there at the stroke of midnight tonight and do away with them."
"How, sire? Do you wish poison to be dispensed to them?"
"Any way you wish. Smother them in their sleep, dunk them in a butt of malmsey like their great-grandfather met his end, do whatever you want. Just do it quietly and non-violently. No blood-letting, no bone-crunching, no skull-bashing.
"After they have ceased to breathe, lay their bodies out upon the beds in which they sleep. Then go to their mother's cell and inform her that the King has granted her wish. She is finally to see her sons."
"After they have been... After they pass away, sire? Do you not want her to see them alive?"
He bristled in anger. "No, I do not! That is the whole point! Is your memory that short? She tried to kill me and usurp my throne, you dunce! The only reason she is alive is... Just heed my wishes and be done with it! I told her I would let her see her sons, and she shall see them. I did not specify, however, whether they would be alive or dead. Her wish was simply to see them, and see them she shall. Then..."
He reached over, took a swig from the goblet at his bedside, and scowled, spitting the liquid back into the cup. "This is water, damn it all! Bring me some wine! What do you fools think I am, a bloody infirm? Bring me some Verney, and make haste! Then...what was I saying—"
"She shall see her sons' corpses, sire," he said dryly.
He glared. "You need not put it that way. 'Tis not as morbid as it sounds. I could easily have dragged them off to the scaffold like their father and whacked their heads off into a bloody basket for the pretenders that they are, just as I did all their other relatives. I want this incident to be kept quiet. Let her see them, as she so plainly requested. Keep her restrained, however. Lead her out with four guards, one at each arm, one in back and one in front.
"After she is finished gazing upon her beloved sons peacefully sleeping in the throes of eternity, as long as you keep her restrained and do not let her go too wildly into hysterics, toss her back into her cell. Quietly. Sedate her if need be. Dispose of the bodies in an equally surreptitious manner. I must rid the earth of them. I cannot let my son go through what I have. They are dangerous and must be eliminated."
"Aye, sire. It is done." Brandon began to position his knee for the exiting sweep downwards.
"I am not finished. Now for the disposal of the bodies. Bury them somewhere decent. Do not simply cast them into the Thames. It will be necessary to get grime under your nails, which should appear as a hardship to you, not being very fond of dirt, but I do believe it is a desirable alternative to blood.
"They must be buried—they must vanish from the earth without a trace. When it has been ascertained that t
hey have been adequately and unquestionably disposed of, come back here and I shall grant you a small but sufficient token of reward."
"Aye, sire! Is there anything else you wish, sire?"
"Only some bloody wine!" Henry held out the chalice and flung its contents out the window.
"I shall summon your Lord Steward, sire. I shall report back to you after midnight." He bowed again and again, bowing himself out of the chamber.
Henry sighed. "Now they are all dead. All the pretenders to the crown are gone. With the exception of Topaz, but I must keep my promise to Amethyst. 'Tis a pity the way history must repeat itself, 'tis such a pity. Poor Matthew. But he has other sons who will not threaten mine. It must be done."
At two o'clock the following morning, four guards stopped in front of Topaz's cell and opened the iron gate. They approached her bed and one of them shook her awake. She turned over, and the torch glaring in her face startled her. At first she didn't know whether she was still dreaming or if they had come to drag her off to her execution, or...
"What!" she screamed, scrambling under the covers. "No, I do not wish to die! Bring me to the King, bring me to him!" she yelled, cowering.
The guard yanked the blanket off the trembling figure. "We come to bring you to your sons," the guard said. "The King has granted your request."
She lowered the blanket and took several gulps of air. "What, now? In the middle of the night? Are they sick? Are they ill?"
"Nay, they are not ill," the guard in the far corner replied. "They are quite restful, my Lady."
"Lord Jesu, what is the idea of this then. Why do you come barging in here like barbarians, to scare—"
"Do you wish to see your sons or not?" the front guard thundered, flailing the torch about wildly.
"Aye! Why would I not, having waited all these years."
She climbed out of the bed and pulled on a robe. Two guards each seized an arm, and the other two walked in back and in front. They led her out of her cell and down the winding stairway out to the courtyard. She was barefoot and the grass was moist. She allowed herself the pleasure of the dewy earth under her feet for the first time in years, as her heart soared at the prospect of seeing her beloved boys at last.
They led her into the Beauchamp Tower and up another staircase to the stuffy room where the boys had spent the last few years of their lives. She could see, by the light of the torches in their flambeaux, the two boys lying in their bed at the far end of the room, side by side, quietly.
She tried to break away from the guards to run up to her sons, hug them, kiss them, throw herself into a tearful, emotional reunion, but they restrained her.
"We shall guide you," the one at her left said, and she struggled again.
"I am capable of walking to my sons' bed myself. Let me go, you monsters!" she spat, keeping her voice low as not to wake her two sleeping angels.
"We have orders to restrain you," the guard said, and by then they were nearly upon the bed.
As they came closer, she could make out their features, Richard's blond hair falling over his forehead, Edward's face more matured by the years but still unmistakable, though his complexion was paler than she'd ever remembered...
"Do you never let them see sunshine?" she murmured, as she held her hand out to brush Richard's hair off his face, the guard holding her steadily by the elbow. "They sleep so deeply, they always did," she whispered, to the uncaring guards, then touching Richard's cheek. "Richard, honey."
She was cooing softly, her hand moving down, fingers extended to rouse her beloved son from sleep. "Mother is here." She felt the smooth young cheek, but far from warm and tender, it was cold, the skin hard and waxy, unyielding to her touch. She shivered in the chill room, then gave the cheek a gentle pat to waken him.
"Richard, my dear." She registered nothing, no movement. For a moment there was just outward confusion as her mind blanked.
"What's wrong here?" she began to shout, thrusting out the other arm, the guard now holding her by the waist as she leaned over and shook him by the shoulders, the still, lifeless body not moving, not breathing.
"Edward!" she shouted to the other boy, also still and quiet, his body stretched out stiffly upon the sheet, hands at his sides. "Richard! Edward! Wake up!"
She shook the boy violently, tugging at his nightshirt, causing the head to lift off the pillow. Yet the eyes remained shut, and she dropped him back down again, letting out a high-pitched scream that made the guards loosen their grip in surprise.
"No! You've killed them! You've killed them, you bastards!" she wailed, backing away from the death bed, falling into a dead faint, her body spilling to the floor, bringing the guards down with her.
"Oh God, no! No! My boys! My sons! Dear God, what have you done to my sons!"
Warwick Castle
The message arrived just as Amethyst and Matthew were leaving for Kenilworth. They'd stayed at Warwick for almost the entire month of January, for Emerald had gone into her confinement here, as she'd insisted she wanted her first baby be born at their ancestral home. She had insisted equally adamantly that her sister be there.
Now that baby William was nearly a week old and mother and child were thriving, they were readying their servants and horses for the journey back home.
Both the royal messenger and his mount, caparisoned with the royal livery, breathed puffs of steam into the misty air. She commanded them to wait while she broke the seal and read the message.
It was from the King, but it was not in his hand. He wanted to see her immediately, for he was gravely ill and wanted her by his side.
"I must go, Matthew. He needs me."
Matthew let out a sigh of frustration, unable to go against his king's wishes, yet resenting the King's frequent summoning of his wife.
"Must you go running to court every time he calls you?" Matthew grabbed her wrists and placed her arms about his waist. "Just this once, tell him you've other things to do."
She could feel her heart fluttering under her heavy velvet cloak. Then she shook her head.
Matthew was wrong. She knew Henry wouldn't summon her this way unless it was of the gravest importance. It was then she felt sure this was the most important visit she would ever pay the King in her life.
Some primitive instinct that forewarned of death, one of the body's natural defenses, perhaps, the ability of the brain to send a preparatory signal in order to guard against the inevitable shock and grief that would follow, alerted her.
Henry was dying. He was nearing the end and wanted her there with him during his final moments.
She broke free of her husband's grasp and looked up at the royal messenger, breathing warmth into his cupped hands, rubbing them together against the cold. "Tell the King I shall be there as soon as I can and to wait for me. I am on my way."
"Aye, Madam." Without another word, he spurred his horse on and galloped back down the frozen road to London.
"Amethyst..." With his cocked head and pleading eyes, Matthew looked so much like their son that she resisted the urge to reach out and pat him on the head.
She tried to appease him. "Let me go to him, Matthew. He needs me. This is the longest I've ever gone without seeing him. I must go."
"He's got his wife. What does he need you for?"
She could never explain to her husband the special bond she and the King shared, the knowledge that each would always be there for the other, no matter what the reason. She simply could not refuse Henry his last dying wish, after all they had meant to each other.
She did not bother trying to explain it to Matthew. What she and the King shared, although common knowledge throughout court and a fact even his wives had learned to accept, had been of the most intimate and personal manner, behind the closed doors of his private chambers, known to no one but each other.
"I must go. The end cannot be long, I am sure." With that, she turned and headed for the stables to saddle up Lady for the ride to Whitehall.
She arrived on the
evening of the twenty-seventh, having made as much haste as possible on the wintry roads. The guards hastily led her straight into his bedchamber. The air was musty and close and smelled of sickness, dried sweat, and the stinging stench of vomit. She took tiny breaths in order to accustom herself to the foul odors as her eyes adjusted to the dimness.
Although it was barely sunset, the velvet drapes were pulled shut and the eerie glow of the candles about the chamber pulsated angrily and let up thin streams of smoke as she swept by. A fire roared in the hearth, its orange tongues flicking at the charred bricks around it.