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WHITEHALL PALACE
JANUARY 28, 1547
KATHERINE PARR SAW THAT THE END WAS APPROACHING. ONLY a few more days remained, maybe a mere few hours. She’d stood silent for the past half hour and watched, as the physicians completed their examinations. The time had now come for them to deliver their verdict.
“Sire,” one of them said. “All human aid is now in vain. It is best for you to review your past life and seek God’s mercy through Christ.”
She stared as Henry VIII considered the advice. The king, prone in his bed, had been uttering loud cries of pain. He ceased them and lifted his head, facing the messenger. “What judge has sent you to pass this sentence on me?”
“We are your physicians. There is no appeal from this judgment.”
“Get away from me,” Henry shrieked. “All of you.”
Though gravely ill the king could still command. The men quickly fled the bedchamber, as did all of the frightened courtiers.
Katherine turned to leave, too.
“I bid you, good queen, to stay,” Henry said.
He seemed to steel himself.
“If a man fills his belly with venison and pork, with sides of beef and pasties of veal, if he washes them down with floodtides of ale and wine that never know neap.” Henry paused. “He will reap his tares in a black hour. He will be none the happier for his swollen estate. That, my queen, is how it is with me.”
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