“For England, the year 1536 could not have begun more auspiciously enough. On the 7th of January, during a particularly bitter afternoon frost on the More, Catherine, the abandoned and betrayed wife of King Henry VIII, breathed her last while held in the arms of her oldest and dearest friend, Mary, Lady Willoughby. Writing to the King on her deathbed, she entreated her husband to be a good father to their daughter, to whom she left her furs and her Spanish cross, requested that all her servants be duly recompensed, and asked that five hundred Masses be said for her soul and to be buried in a convent of the Observant Friars.
Rumours of poisoning, said to have been slipped into the Welsh ale she so loved, soon abounded, as the embalmer who was tasked with preparing Catherine for her final rest was said to have ‘found all the internal organs as healthy and normal as possible, with the exception of the heart, which was quite black and hideous to look at.’ Today, however, we might diagnose this as a cancer of the heart.
At court, however, celebrations of her death were loud, almost garish. Courtiers were told to dress in a merry shade of yellow, while the King was said to have shown off little Elizabeth and afterwards danced the night away in Anne’s arms. The threat of war was over, Anne was secure on her throne, almost certainly pregnant with a prince. Henry’s golden reign was sure to begin anew.
Or so they thought.”
– Edla Kirkbride, Humble and Loyal: Catherine of Aragon and her reign
“Two weeks later, on the 24th, still high on the celebrations of Katherine’s death, the king organized a joust at Greenwich. It proved to be his final performance, as at the tiltyard the king was unhorsed by an opponent. Toppling to the ground as the horse sped away, his full steel armour collapsed on top of him, breaking his neck. By the time the royal physicians were able to tend to him, Henry had already slipped into a coma.
Despite all the prayers and vigils of his court and all of England, the king never regained consciousness, slipping away from this mortal coil several hours later, in the wee hours of the 25th of January at the Palace of Greenwich. So passed Henry, the eighth of that name, King of England [1].”
– Alastair Goodlowe, Henry Rex
“The Duke of Norfolk, ever vigilant about intrigue, was the first to arrive at the Queen’s bedchamber, telling his niece the news himself. Anne, who was kneeling on her prie-dieu to fervently pray for the life of the King, was said to have swooned and wept in the arms of her uncle at the news of her husband’s death, but not before her hand ‘flew protectively to her goodly belly, for if the child she was carrying was lost, then England would be sure to follow.’
Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, was nowhere to be found, however, slipping away undetected as a lone rider still wearing jousting armour during the pandemonium caused by the king’s fall. Even while the king breathed his last, Suffolk did not return, although he later said that it ached his heart not to be at the side of the friend he’d known since boyhood at the time he’d him needed the most.
As dawn breaks upon England, a weary rider brings his tidings to a grieving court: the King’s daughters, bastard and legitimate, were nowhere to be found, disappearing from Hatfield whilst the ladies of the household were unknowingly drugged at dinner.”
– Immaculata Applegarth, Intrigue at the Tudor Court
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[1] And here is our POD: Instead of merely losing consciousness after a nasty tumble and possibly a concussion during the joust, Henry instead breaks his neck during the fall, dying way earlier than scheduled.
