.

HENRY INJURED

Setting and Plot:

After the death of Katherine of Aragon, Henry VIII finds himself in a state of emotional turmoil. Infatuated with a new lady, his patience with his own wife, the fierce and controversial Anne Boleyn, is waning. Anne, desperate in the face of her empty womb and the threat of Jane Seymour's presence at court, fears for her marriage and her title as Queen. She seems doomed to fail, when something happens that will change her life forever ... and that of everyone else involved.

Main characters: Anne, Henry, Jane Seymour and Mary Tudor. Many others make an appearance.

Changes: Anne is NOT pregnant as the story unfolds.

AND SO IT BEGINS ...

Prologue

Death of a rival - Part one

Wiltshire, England, 24th of October, 1537

"Please, Father, Doctor Green," the young man opened the heavy wooden door and made way for the priest and the old doctor to enter the dimly lit room.

The windows were shut, and as he stepped forward Father James noticed that the chamber had been heated to the point of insufferableness, according to the popular belief that a cold room and fresh air would bring a quick, sudden death to the patient. Some candles were burning, tender lights in the semi-darkness, illuminating the expensive furniture and striking colours of the fine tapestries. On the wall across from the entrance, a great bed loomed ominously, its curtains drawn, hiding the patient from view.

Father James approached the bed and startled a little when a woman stepped out of the shadows looking at him with tranquil, tired eyes. She was slender, almost too thin, as if she had not eaten anything for weeks. In her gaze there was an anxious pleading accompanied by slowly vanishing hope. Recognizing her, he smiled and put a hand on her shoulder, blessing her before meeting her stare with a silent question in his eyes.

She shrugged apathetically, holding back tears. "I don't know. I don't know what's going to happen. My sweet child… "

"Hush, my daughter," he patted her shoulder. "You must pray God for help."

Letting him by, she sobbed, and then began to pray silently in the background, leaning into the young man who came to her side and embraced her. Father James walked to the right side of the bed.

There, woeful and diseased, lay the still form of a young woman. Her blonde hair was tousled, her brow sweaty, the flawless skin seemed ashen pale despite the warm glow of the candlelight. Her alms lay motionlessly on the white linen sheet, which was crumpled and drenched. In her feeble hands she held a silver cross. It was a miserable sight, the image of a weak broken flower subdued by fatal illness.

She had been sick for two weeks now, suffering from a dreadful fever and fits of pain in her whole body. The doctor had been summoned from London to examine her, and the man had not left the house since his arrival. Green had tried everything – bloodletting, medicines, exotic concoctions – but the woman's condition was still unchanged. Sometimes she spoke deliriously, arching up in the bed, tossing and turning. At other times she was completely conscious, her eyes clear and undimmed, and she would ask for nothing but water and another cool cloth for her brow. This constant change of condition held the household in turmoil and fear, for no one could ever be sure what would happen next. By now, the mother was desperate, the doctor helpless, and the maids unsettled and frightened. They were defenseless before these ever-changing symptoms of illness and the fear that crept into their own bones, making them wonder whether or not the patient would survive the night. Every day the priest came to the house, they would greet him in a most devout mood, and then pray for hours and hours under his guidance beside the sickbed. The mother was the most uneasy of them all, for in her youth she had enjoyed some instruction in the basics of healing, and knew very well that a fever like this could go hand in hand with death.

The priest felt the doctor step up to him, and shook himself out of his reverie.

"My child," he addressed the woman soothingly, holding a hand to her brow.

He was shocked when he found it burning with the heat of a scorching flame. She opened her eyes and smiled as she beheld his familiar face, muttering something inaudible. Her eyes were glazed and red-rimmed, the lids heavy, and a disturbing frailty accompanied even the smallest movement she made. Looking at her feeble hands, the yellowish stain around her nose, and the dark circles under her eyes, he knew beyond doubt that there was no hope. He had seen too many people die to make a false diagnose now, seen too many who had lain beneath sweaty sheets like this, spiritless and exhausted. The strength of life was leaving her, weakening her limbs and poisoning her mind. There was no doctor, no remedy that would safe her now.

He let go of her heated skin, and, lifting himself up turned to the doctor who was standing motionlessly by his side. Green nodded at the silent question in the priest's gaze.

"I've tried everything I know," he whispered, "but she continues to weaken. I'm afraid there's nothing left to try."

Father James nodded, crossing himself, "God have mercy on her."

Doctor Green cast a subtle glance at the mother and the young man standing in the background, who were trying to hear what they were saying. "I must go and tell them. There's not much time left."

He walked past the priest and took the lady by the arm, gently guiding her out of the room. The young man followed. A moment later, a cry could be heard from outside, followed by the clatter of swiftly approaching feet. The doctor's smooth voice rose and fell like a comforting chant.

The priest sat silently on a stool next to the bed, watching the fluttering of the patient's lashes, the occasional twitching of her mouth. He thought what a pity it was that this sweet young woman was to die, a female in her prime, who had thought to live for another twenty or thirty years. He had known her a long time, from childhood on, and he remembered how she looked the last time he had seen her, a few months before her illness – healthy and strong, beautiful in a turquoise dress, the golden hair like a halo, setting off her flawless skin. She had been happy then, full of hope. Her current state, this weak and dishevelled piece of human flesh, was but a parody of her true appearance.

Muttering a prayer for her soul, he bent his head in woeful silence. Suddenly, he felt her touch his folded hands. He looked up in surprise when he heard her weak voice, "Father… is it… true? Tell me…" Sh licked her parched lips. "Will I …" There was no fear in her eyes, no sorrow, just plain questioning.

"My daughter," James said tenderly. "You must make your peace with God."

She did not stir, nor reply in any way, but there was a queer look in her eyes, as if she had known, had long ago reconciled herself with the possibility of her own death. With shaking hands she reached for the pendant upon her breast and pressed it to her lips, her eyes closed. There was something so honest and brave about this gesture that it sent a shiver down Father James' spine, and he frowned at the injustice of life.

But then, as the noise outside the room became louder, he remembered his duties and removed himself from his chair. Everything must be prepared.

"My child," he said, leaning over the bed, "prepare yourself for Mass." She nodded faintly, never letting go of the cross in her hands.

The room was filled with hushed noises as Doctor Green and the closest family members entered the room – the lady's mother, worn and weary, tears in her eyes. She could rely on nobody – her husband had died a year ago. Following her was the dying woman's husband, walking slowly, overwhelming sorrow contorting his handsome face. Some maids, clothed in black, gathered in a corner of the room.

The young man sat down to take one of his wife's hands in his own. "My darling," he mumbled, pressing a kiss into her palm. "I'm here, my own love."

Lady Seymour, walking over to Father James, gestured to one of the maids to come over to them, and whispered into her ear. The girl left the room. A few moments later she returned with a small bowl and a finely made goblet, and a pitcher of wine. She put the items down on a commode, sobbing. Father James removed a small pouch from his belongings that contained the bread for Mass. He put the small rounds into the provided bowl and blessed them. They would be needed for Holy Communion later. Bending down again, he produced a heavy bible from his stuff and opened it. He made the sign of the cross with his right hand.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."

And thus Holy Mass began, according to the traditions of the holy Catholic Church, as it had always been in this house. It was soothing to hear the familiar words, the voice of the priest ringing out to those present in the room like a benediction, blessing them, comforting them, silencing their cries.

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis…"

They joined him, reciting the ancient verses that gave so much hope.

"Sanctificetur nomen tuum, adveniat regnum tuum, fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra… "

It went ever on, the priest's hands rising and falling in the sign of the cross, the mumbled replies of the audience, the faint, almost inaudible whispers of the sick woman in her deathbed. Then, later, the Confiteor, soothing in its serene beauty, and the patient's lips moved with more strength as she beat her breast three times in a row.

"Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis, et vobis fratres: quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opera: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa."

Death was drawing nigh, the feeling was unmistakable.

The young husband, so unlike his usual self, was now knealing beside his wife, desperately massaging her hands. His barely stifled weeping was a torment to everyone's ears, so pitiful it sounded. The mother, head bent, prayed devoutly, folding her hands so tightly that the knuckles turned white. They prayed the rosaries, beseeching the Holy Virgin for help.

"Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."

„Amen," the woman in the bed whispered, louder than before, pressing the cross to her lips.

Later, the priest ushered them all out to hear her confession in privacy. They left but hesitantly, unwilling to leave their beloved one behind, turning back and looking at her still form with anguish in their eyes. When the door had closed behind them, Father James approached the bed. Taking a seat next to it, he addressed the young lady calmly. "My child. Do you have a confession?"

She looked at him, her pale lips quivering as she made an attempt to speak. "Yes," she answered.

Nodding, the priest waited patiently for her confession. It was a strange moment – the light of the candles illuminating the woman's face as she prepared herself for the final admission of her sins, the heavy lids closing for a fleeting moment as if she needed to strengthen herself for her next words. A silence fell, the harbinger of death, for it was obvious now that she was weakened beyond healing.

Eventually, she managed to speak, looking at him with truthful eyes that were, even in this dreadful hour, as clear and blue as two flawless aquamarines.

"I confess to God Almighty… that I have sinned against many in my life… in word and deed… and in my thoughts. I confess that I have not always borne towards God... our merciful Lord… the submissiveness and worship that we all owe Him… Him who is everything, whereas we – we are nothing. I have sinned against Him, and I have sinned against many a man and woman here on earth… I often forgot that we're all bound to serve… serve and obey. I confess that I have sinned against my parents, my brothers, my sisters… even my own husband… and against my own conscience, wherefore… I beg God for forgiveness."

She halted a moment, as if thing she was about to say burdened her greatly.

"As for the King, my lord… I solemnly swear on the damnation of my soul… that I have never willingly offended his Majesty. I do not say that I always bore towards him the humility which I owed him, considering… the kindness he showed me… and the great respect he always paid me. But God knows and is my witness, I have never wished him anything but happiness… nor ever sinned against him in any other way."

The priest was stunned. He knew little of the things that had happened between her and his gracious Highness.

"I pray God… in His mercy… to forgive me my shortcomings and guide me… to eternal life."

She lay still as Father James made the sign of the cross on her brow. "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. May God in His infinite mercy and grace keep and protect you. Through Christ our Lord."

She gazed up at him. "Now… would you please fetch my mother and husband… so I may say farewell."

"Of course, my lady," he replied and swiftly made his way to the door.

Darkness was falling over world outside when, finally, it was time for Holy Communion.

Mother and husband had spent an hour or longer in the room, hovering beside the sickbed and taking farewell of the one they loved. But now – now it was time for the final benediction, the body and blood of Christ, broken and shed for God's children. On a commode, the necessary utensils had been prepared, and Father James blessed them before he took one piece of bread and put it into the woman's slightly opened mouth. "The body of Christ, broken for you." She swallowed with difficulty, but as she closed her eyes a look of most serene piety came to her face.

He took a great goblet from the commode and filled it with the smallest amount of wine. He went over to the dying one and, guiding the vessel to her lips, said: "The blood of Christ, shed for you." Her husband held her head as she drank.

"Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper,et in saecula saeculorum. Amen."

Crossing themselves, the people in the room stifled their sobs as the priest put the goblet aside. The weak voice from the bed announced: "Mother… you must write a letter for me. I can't do it myself."

The lady, distressed and upset, yet still impeccably attired and coiffed, took a seat next to her daughter. A maid handed her a small portable desk, which could be positioned on her lap, then paper, ink, and a feather. A gloomy silence fell as the woman waited for her child to speak.

"Write… to the King's most gracious Highness: I am Your Grace's most humble and loyal servant… even in death. I pray God send thee long to reign over England… for a better nor a more merciful prince was there never… and to me… thou were ever a good, a gentle, and sovereign lord."

The scratching of the pen was ominous and unnerving, sending a chill down their backs, but they listened carefully. Father James noticed that a queer look came to the husband's eyes at the mentioning of the King.

The woman breathed heavily before she went on. "I beseech Jesus to save your Majesty's wife, Queen Anne, who has been so good to me … and treated me so well. I pray God send her long life and happiness, for a more deserving lady is there not… nor a gentler or more gracious queen in all the world." Rapidly, the mother's fingers flew over the yellowish paper, the thin, unadorned hand a product of her haste. "I pray, also, for the life of your Majesty's blessed children… Prince Edward … the high and mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth - and the Lady Mary Tudor. May God keep them… through Christ our Lord."

A great fatigue came over her, and her mother assisted her as she signed the letter with trembling fingers. When it was done, she collapsed back into bed.

"It's time," Doctor Green whispered to the priest. The man of God, seeing the obvious signs of quickly approaching demise on the patient's face, took his bible from the commode and began to recite more familiar verses that he thought would be a comfort to all of them. In the background, the maids sank to their knees, lips moving in silent prayer.

The dying woman's husband knelt beside the bed, covering his wife's left hand with his own. Her other hand still clasped the cross pendant. Noticing his presence, she smiled. "My own darling. Don't be troubled for me." Her voice was stronger now. "I'm going to a better place… I'm not frightened." She lead their entwined hands to her mouth and kissed the back of his hand.

"Don't go," he breathed. "Please..."

She pressed his palm, her eyes rolling back in a fit of pain before they returned to his desolate face. "I commend unto you… all that is in my personal possession. My love, don't be troubled for me. Nothing of this is your fault. You're so brave… so strong… have always been so good to me –"

He wanted to cry out loud, scream and sob like a child, protest wildly against the unfairness of life, but he held himself back, for her sake. He kissed her hand again and again, savouring the feeling of her soft flesh against his lips. How could he live without her?

The voice of the priest echoed through the chamber as he recited those hopeful verses, those ancient words, which had accompanied so many at the hour of death.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul…"

As the psalm went on, the young husband and the lady of the house leaned down towards the woman in the bed, whose voice was now rising and falling in a final prayer. "Almighty and everlasting God… I beseech Thee… save those I love and keep them in Your mercy. I pray You… save me from the fires of purgatory… guide me to heaven… to Thee I commend my soul."

The candles seemed to burn with more intensity than before, small bright lights in the darkness, warm and comforting like a divine touch, a greeting from Heaven. Soothing as an angel's was the priest's voice, melodious and ever the same.

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death… I fear no evil, for you are with me."

Death was near, she felt it as she lay there, weak and diseased, beneath the linen sheets. She knew it, and she was not frightened. A calm surrender took hold of her, easing the pain in her body. Her skin was burning like fire, but it did not matter now. Nothing mattered, nothing but the safeguard of her soul, the forgiveness of God. A great sadness overcame her as she beheld her husband hovering next to her, tears running down his smooth skin. The love she knew he bore her was beautiful and sacred, the only true blessing life had ever granted her. They had had so little time together since their reconciliation, and yet these last few months had been the happiest of her life. Oh, how bitter it was to leave him behind, in this cold, mad world, to be on his own. But God had called her to Him, He had taught her how to die, and He would strengthen her faith. She was too weak now to make an effort. She had reconciled to her own end, for there was no remedy. And so she prayed with all that was in her, beseeching the forces of Heaven to guide her, forgive her, save her.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God… blessed Virgin… pray for me now at the hour of death. I confess my sins…. and pray for absolution. Oh Lord God have pity on my soul… to Christ I commend my soul." She pressed the cross pendant to her quivering lips as if she kissed the Holy Grail, closing her eyes in a most pious gesture. Her heavy breathing filled the room, the candles set her waxen face aglow. "Lord Jesus receive my soul… to Christ I commend my soul."

The priest made the sign of the cross, and his voice died down with the last verses of the psalm.

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life… and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

The woman opened her eyes, peering at the bed's ceiling, and then turned her head slightly to look at her mother and husband. She watched them tenderly as they stood there, so stricken, so desperate.

With the last of her strength she whispered, "Don't you despair. All is well again… all is mended."

From the young husband's chest a cry emerged. It rose into the air like a bird, flying out of the window and into the darkness, where its echo startled many a midnight stroller.

A million stars loomed against the black of the sky, sparkling with the intensity of diamonds – bemoaning the death of Jane Seymour.