“You have been a good father to your children, Henry.”

But he was sad. A sign that he was growing more and more infirm. He was remembering certain acts which had taken place during his reign, and was wishing they had not. He even regretted some of the methods by which he had extorted money from his subjects. As if it had not been important to build up a rich exchequer! thought his mother. As if he had not taken all for the glory of his country and never for himself! How much had he ever spent on fine raiment? Had he ever frittered away one golden crown on senseless pleasure?

She was thinking of this now as she picked at the stitches in Mary’s woeful work. Mary watched her in silence, sensing her mood and half understanding what had inspired it; but she could not help thinking: But if my father dies there will still be a king of England. And it was so much more pleasant to picture young Henry, resplendent in purple velvet and ermine, than old Henry, withered with disease.

“Mary, my child.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“The King suffers much in health.”

Mary nodded.

“He loves you dearly. Why do you not go to him and show a little tenderness?”

Mary’s lovely blue eyes were wide with astonishment. “Go to the King!” she cried.

“Forget he is the King for a while. Remember only that he is your father. Go to him, and when you have knelt and kissed his hand, put your arms about his neck, tell him that you have ever loved him dearly and that he has been a good father to you.”

Mary shrank away. Was her grandmother serious? Was she raving? One did not go to the King and put one’s arms about his neck. Even his favorite daughter could not do that.

“He would be a little startled at first,” went on her grandmother, “and then he would be so happy. Mary, your father is a great king; he took this bankrupt kingdom—which was his by right—he took it from the usurper Richard, and he made it rich and strong. Such a task was a great tax on his energies and he had little time to laugh and frolic. Perhaps this has made you feel that he is over-stern. But go to him and tell him how much you love him.”

Mary was pensive. It would not be easy, for she, who was always spontaneous, would find it difficult to play a part, and in truth she had no great love for her father.

Her grandmother put the embroidery into her lap and rising, kissed her. Then she went away as though in a great hurry.

Mary paused outside her father’s apartments.

“My lady,” said the page, “His Grace is with his ministers.”

Mary turned away relieved. She had been rehearsing what she would say, and it sounded false to her; she was glad the need to say it was postponed.

The King asked who was at the door, and when told it was the Lady Mary he smiled.

She had some request to make, he thought. What does she wish? Some new bauble? She grows more like her brother every day.

Yet he had a yearning to see the pretty creature; and if it were a new gown or even a jewel she wanted he would perhaps grant her her wish; but he must impress upon her the need for sobriety and explain that all the extravagant display, which had accompanied her nuptial celebrations, had not been for personal vainglory but to show to foreigners that England was wealthy, because wealth meant power.

He turned back to the task before him. He had decided that all those who had been imprisoned in London for debts of under forty shillings should be discharged.

He was beginning to be tormented by remorse when he contemplated the extortions, which Dudley and Empson had committed in his name; and now that his conscience was beginning to worry him on this score, he realized that he was a very sick man indeed.

There were cowslips in the meadows near Richmond and the blackthorn was in blossom. The air was enlivened by birdsong, and all this meant that it was the month of April and spring had come.

But in the Palace the old era was ending and the new one had not yet begun.

The fifty-two-year-old King lay on his bed and thought of his subjects; he wondered ruefully how many of them would shed a real tear at his passing.

Fifty-two. It was not really old; yet he had lived a full life and there was so much of it that he wished he had lived differently. He had recently pilgrimaged to Our Lady of Walsingham and to Saint Thomas of Canterbury, and there he had sworn to build a hospital for the sick poor.

Time! he thought. I need time. He hoarded time as once he had hoarded gold; he was fighting with all his strength to hold off death a little longer until such time as he could make peace with himself.

But death would not wait.

Mary came to his apartments, planning what she would do and say. She would go to his bed and put her arms about his neck. “I will not call you Your Highness, but Father,” she would tell him. “Oh, Father, we do love you … Henry and I. We understand that it was necessary for you to be stern with us. We love to dance and play and we often forget our duty … but we want to be good. We want to be the sort of children of whom you can be proud.”

Did that sound false? For false it was. Neither she nor Henry wanted to be anything but what they were.

“It is the Lady Mary,” said one of the pages to another.

“I have come to see my father.”

“My lady, the priests are with him.”

Holy Mother, thought Mary, is it then too late?

His body had been taken from Richmond to Westminster, but not with any speed for, although he died on the 21st day of April, he was not moved until the 9th of May.