It was a somber morning, and King Henry’s eyelids were trying to force themselves open, but there was very little success. Perhaps it was the tremendous amount of beer he drank last night, and every night before it, that caused the awful daze now impairing his body. This addiction was reminded to him every morning with the massive tumor-like lump of a belly that interfered with the line of sight to his toes. Usually, he was proud of this sign of wealth, but not today. As he guided his unseen toes and soles to make contact with the wooden floor, he let out a sigh, and then stood up. He walked down the hallway with a dragging limp, one from a recent jousting injury; the leg was barely operational. The hallways were decorated with England’s finest oriental rugs, most of which were plated with gold, and candles sat in candelabras and lanterns like little pockets of fire. The castle was incredibly grand, and so, you see, getting from one end of the castle to the other was a long journey, and it would no doubt be made even longer for anyone crossing paths with Henry, as he was yet to put any clothes on. 

Finally, arriving at the castle’s prison, kept specifically for holding citizens accused of the highest forms of treason, King Henry headed to the cell of the cook who tried to poison him a few days prior. Upon seeing the hulking man, the cook closed his eyes and began to mutter, perhaps praying. Scared for his life, I believe the cook was awaiting the guillotine. But nothing came.

“Expeditur.” King Henry stated calmly to the guard nearby, causing the cook’s eyes to light up with newfound hope. 

“But…but…Your Highness!” The guard’s eyes cried as he held back his thoughts. 

“Stop staring like that! And you…I will make sure you get a monitio, as long as you ride today to tell your French bastards that it will take more than a lousy cook to kill me. And take care to tell them you French aren’t too good at cooking after all.” 

Maybe old King Henry was tired of hunting, and perhaps, he wanted to be hunted himself. He turned to the young boy next to the guard and addressed him curtly. 

“You will assist him, boy, and get him on his way.” 

“No, please, no, Your Highness, not today. It is the coldest day of the year.” Again, another powerless soul pleaded with merely the look on his face, as he knew he had no say.

“You understand? You’re not a curate, you’re a servant, and this isn’t an offer, it’s an order.” King Henry stated. The boy scuttled away, but not before the king placed a final order.

“And, boy, bring me my robe.”

Now fully dressed in lavish robes handcrafted by him, fitted with the most precious stones, he stepped outside into the cold, cold world. The heavy door slammed back behind him, as the wind was unbearably strong, causing a hollow crashing to run through the ground. The cold whistling and the wind’s strength, which now exceeded that of a whip slashing against leather, were going to make it torture for the French, a cold, cold lesson. Henry trudged slowly in the face of this beating of the elements down to the chancel, where the bishop awaited him. 

“I think it’s time for me to confess my sins.” He told the bishop. There was something so very odd about how weathered the King’s face looked, so tired; but he had slept well that night. It was something internal, perhaps.

The bishop nodded as they made their way inside the high-ceilinged Church, grand and cold. With only the outline of his face visible in the dim light, King Henry began to confess. 

“I regret not doing enough. I regret not fighting for enough, and I regret the weakened mindset of our people, how complacent I have made them. But one thing I do not regret is my contribution to God, for now, he can take me.” He stated as he stood up rather suddenly, looking around the chamber once more before making his way outside. 

“Would you like to attend churching today, Your Highness?” The bishop desperately yelled. 

“No, not today, not today.” He whispered, already gone. 

It was undeniable now, King Henry was unwell, barely getting himself on his bed and dropping his head onto his pillow as he did so. People started to swarm inside, fearing the end of a legendary King but still morbidly curious about the whole thing. A servant asked the King about his preferred bishop or other advisors of God, someone to be by his side, but then, all too quickly, the citizens became distressed and all began to ask loaded questions about the future of the Kingdom, its people, its conquests…it was all such a blur…

“I will first take a little sleep, and then, once I feel myself again, I will advise upon those matters.” King Henry replied, closed his eyes, and, in an instant, one of England’s greatest king’s reigns had come to a cold, cold end.