Henry VIII - Memories of Youth - Chapter One

To be a King

The story of Henry the VIII

(In his own voice)

Chapter One

I lie here, and although my head tells me I am young and fearless, my poor bloated body tells me otherwise. Oh, how I wish I could ride and dance, or make love to a maid. All of the pursuits of my youth, which I did not know pertained to youth alone; for if I did, I would have savoured them the more. And yet, I still glance at the passing maids and imagine what their youthful flesh will feel like under my soft touch. And I still feel my foot tap to the sound of the lute, although the movement sharply reminds me of the poison canker which was once my strong and sturdy leg. The pain alone is enough to make me weep. And yet lately, it is the thought of all that I have lost, and that which I will never regain, which causes tears to sting my eyes. Of course, I never show this weakness. I am the King, I am above the law, I rule over my empire, and I am the protector of the faith. I cannot, and will not, allow my weakness to become apparent. And so I must sit in pain; a young man locked inside an old man’s body, and suffer in devout silence. Thus, I must find solace in my memories. They are the memories of man, but above a man - a King.

Where do I start? I cannot start on the day of my birth, the day my father, King Henry the VII; got his spare, for that is how it is termed is not – ‘An heir and a spare’. Well I was that spare. I was the second son; a bonus, but not entirely essential. Thus, I will start by way of the event that changed me, and installed in me the want to be King, igniting within me, a vexing jealousy towards my brother Arthur.

I was but twelve years old, albeit, that I was a mature and handsome boy, and already apt to fondle the young maids of Eltham. It had been decided that I would escort Arthur’s betrothed, Katherine of Aragon, into London and deposit her at the Bishops Palace. This order gave me a feeling of importance. For up until this time my life mostly consisted of lessons with my mentor, Lord Mountjoy. I was rarely allowed to visit court, or mother and father, and so it is not difficult to imagine the excitement this task aroused in me.

However, I had not planned on my reaction to Katherine of Aragon. She was beautiful and regal, and I instantly desired her. Her hair, which shone dark with a shimmering red hue, captivated me. Her eyes were a huge and dark, and startling in comparison to the milky white flesh of her face and bosom. And she was plump, but small and delicate. To me, she was the perfect vision of womanhood – and I wanted her. But, of course, I could not have her, for she was to wed my brother in two days hence. How I hated him at that time. So much so, that I prayed for his death. It is a prayer which haunts me until this very day, because just five short months later, my brother Arthur was dead.

However, on that day I did not know that my wish would come true. And so instead the jealousy, which I have since discovered to be the vilest emotion in the world, took over my life. Even when I returned to Eltham, my head was filled with visions of Katherine’s loveliness. And I think it was at this time that the real understanding of what it meant to be the second son, struck me. I realised that as long as Arthur was alive I would always be the one who was overlooked, and the realisation evoked a feeling of bitterness to rise within me. Thus, I knew that to be noticed that I must be the best, and so I studied, rode and jousted, harder than I ever did before. I was determined that the next time she was to see me, Katherine of Aragon, would regret that she married the prince Arthur, and not the dashing, and much more handsome, Prince Henry. But the truth was that when I met the princess Katherine again, it was not to dance and sing, but to be in attendance at my brother’s funeral.