Forward the Red Dragon - The Cup of Sorrow
It was on the top floor of the White Tower, in the Tower of London, that the Queen chose for her lying in and, in a chamber adjacent to the Chapel of St. John, on a night of February in 1503, a hard labour finally took Elizabeth. She delivered of a sickly baby girl, and was left herself in but a poor state of health. It was not long until the king was called…his wife was dying.
“It can’t be…” he murmured to the physician as he hovered by his wife’s bedside; her face was so pale, beaded with globules of sweat, and her body trembled with weariness and fever.
“She is very ill, your majesty,” the physician replied with regrettable honesty, “I am sorry.”
He knelt by her side and took her weak hand in his, caressing it between his palms, “And my daughter, how is she?”
It was no use keeping the inevitable from the king, “She is weak, my lord… very weak,” the doctor continued quietly.
Lines of weariness and stress etched Henry’s own face from his years of service as the monarch of England and Wales, but nothing from those years could prepare him for this loss.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured.
She seemed to come back to herself a little, and managed to open her heavy eyes a fraction to behold her husband, “My lord…” she sighed, “Forgive me…”
He smiled with disbelief, “Forgive? My lady, you have nothing to regret…”
“Our child…?”
“She lives still,” he assured her, “A pretty little lass.”
“But not a prince.”
He rubbed her hand again, “Nay… but we have our Henry. We have one fine prince that God hath elected to preserve.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes again, “I’m sorry, my lord… I prayed for a prince, another lad like my Arthur...”
“Do not think on it, my lady…” Henry rushed to comfort her once more, “If it is God’s will and want to take our issue from us, we cannot dispute it. We have fine children - a fine son who has fine sisters, for whom I thank you for giving me. You promised me a fine brood, and I find that pledge fulfilled completely. Arthur and his siblings, whom the Father wished to take from us, may no longer be here, but they will always live in our hearts... Always.”
The room fell to silence and the king felt himself tighten his grip on his wife’s hand, trying to hold on to her as long as he could; “Elizabeth, don’t leave me,” he whispered, “Don’t go where I can’t yet follow…Please.”
“I’m sorry, my lord,” she responded softly; Henry felt the queen’s hand strive to tighten about his, though her grip was so very faint, “It is the will of God…”
“Elizabeth…”
“I go to my boy, Arthur, and all our children in the heavens.”
“Elizabeth, don’t go!”
“I love you, my lord…”
“Elizabeth!”
Her grip fell limp in his hand, and her body lay still; she had passed on, her spirit returning to those of her brood also departed.
The king’s head fell by his wife’s side, his eyes welled up and he let out rare tears of grief to his consort, and to his love, whilst the present physician behind removed his felt hat and bowed his head in respect…
Adieu! mine own dear spouse, my worthy lord!
The faithful love, that did us both combine
In marriage and peaceable concord,
Into your hands here I do resign,
To be bestowed on your children and mine;
Erst were ye father, now must ye supply
The mother’s part also, for here I lie.
Where are our castles now? where are our towers?
Goodly Richmond, soon art thou gone from me:
At Westminster, that costly work of yours,
Mine own dear lord, now shall I never see,
Almighty God vouchsafe to grant that ye,
For you and children well may edify;
My palace builded is, for lo! here I lie.
* * * * *
Prince Henry looked to his young seven-year-old sister, Mary, and placed his arm about her shoulder. Their mother was dead, a mother they hadn’t seen as much as they would have appreciated, but it was a life royal protocol had demanded of them… Now they would never see her again.
Also, their youngest sister, Catherine, had lived but a day beyond her mother before she too had passed away. Now all that was left of the royal Tudor household was Henry, Margaret, Mary, and their father, the king.
“She’ll be in heaven now,” the young Henry assured his younger sister as they placed the white lilies and roses from the funeral into the river Thames and watched them float away.
“With baby Catherine?” Mary enquired.
“Yes,” Henry replied, “And with our other brothers and sisters.”
“We’ll be there one day too, won’t we, Henry?” she went on, looking up to the red-haired prince expectantly, “Won’t we?”
“Yes,” he again replied, “We’ll all be together again one day.”
* * * * *
“The monarchy is not secure, your highness… you have but one son. If anything were to happen to Prince Henry -”
“If anything were to happen? You cast clouds over the future with such prophetic talk.”
“I suggest nothing, your highness, it is just the truth that I wish to emphasise - surely you must understand this?”
“I understand that I still have two fine daughters and a son. Prince Henry will be king after myself.”
“But another son would be good for the security of the realm, and you are still capable of fathering children…”
Henry sighed, tightening his gaze on his minister and tapping the desk with the tip of his quill, “And you think any free princesses in Europe will want to marry me, an aging monarch?”
“To wed a king is an honour, your majesty.”
Henry smirked wryly, “An honour, yes - but not an enjoyment.” He placed down his pen and paused for a moment’s thought, “I will dwell on the matter.”
The minister bowed, “Yes, my lord,” and took his leave.