For three days his death was kept a secret. They wanted first to have everything arranged, and to fill up the void which his death must make. They wanted, when they spoke to the people of the dead king, to show them also at the same time the living king. And since they knew that the people would not weep for the dead, they were to rejoice for the living; since they would sing no funeral psalms, they were to let their hymns of joy resound.
On the third day the gates of Whitehall were thrown open, and a gloomy funeral train moved through the streets of London. In dead silence the populace saw borne past them the coffin of the king, before whom they had trembled so much, and for whom they now had not a word of mourning or of pity—no tears for the dead who for seven-and-thirty years had been their king.
They were bearing the coffin to Westminster Abbey to the splendid monument which Wolsey had built there for his royal master. But the way was long, and the panting horses with black housings, which drew the hearse, had often to stop and rest. And all of a sudden, as the carriage stood still on one of the large open squares, blood was seen to issue from the king’s coffin. It streamed down in crimson currents and flowed over the stones of the streets. The people with a shudder stood around and saw the king’s blood flowing, and thought how much blood he had spilt on that same spot, for the coffin was standing on the square where the executions were wont to take place, and where the scaffolds were erected and the stakes set. As the people stood gazing at the blood which flowed from the king’s coffin, two dogs sprang forth from the crowd and, with greedy tongue, licked the blood of King Henry the Eighth. But the people, shuddering and horror-stricken, fled in all directions, and talked among themselves of the poor priest who a few weeks before was executed here on this very spot, because he would not recognize the king as the supreme lord of the Church and God’s vicegerent; of that unfortunate man who cursed the king, and on the scaffold said: “May the dogs one day drink the blood of this king who has shed so much innocent blood!” And now the curse of the dying man had found its fulfilment, and the dogs had drunk the king’s blood. [Footnote: Historical.—See Tytler, p. 481.]
When the gloomy funeral train had left the palace of Whitehall, when the king’s corpse no longer infected the halls with its awful stench of corruption, and the court was preparing to do homage to the boy Edward as the new king, Thomas Seymour, Earl of Sudley, entered the room of the young royal widow. He came in a magnificent mourning suit, and his elder brother, Edward Seymour, and Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury, walked by his side.
With a blush and a sweet smile, Catharine bade them welcome.
“Queen,” said Thomas Seymour with solemn air, “I come to-day to claim of you the fulfilment of your vow! Oh, do not cast down your eyes, nor blush for shame. The noble archbishop knows your heart, and he knows that it is as pure as the heart of a maiden, and that an unchaste thought has never sullied your pure soul. And my brother would not be here, had he not faith in and respect for a love which has preserved itself so faithful and constant amidst storms and dangers. I have selected these two noble friends as my suitors, and in their presence I will ask you: ‘Queen Catharine, the king is dead, and no fetters longer bind your heart; will you not give it me as my own? Will you accept me as your husband, and sacrifice for me your royal title and your exalted position?’”
With a bewitching smile she gave him her hand. “You well know,” whispered she, “that I sacrifice nothing for you, but receive from you all of happiness and love that I hope for.”
“Will you then, in the presence of these two friends, accept me as your future husband, and plight me your vow of truth and love?”
Catharine trembled and cast down her eyes with the bashfulness of a young girl. “Alas!” whispered she, “do you not then see my mourning dress? Is it becoming to think of happiness, while the funeral lamentations have scarcely died away?”
“Queen Catharine,” said Archbishop Cranmer, “let the dead bury their dead! Life also has its rights; and man should not give up his claim on happiness, for it is a most holy possession. You have endured much and suffered much, queen, but your heart is pure and without guilt; therefore you may now, with a clear conscience, bid welcome to happiness also. Do not delay about it. In God’s name I have come to bless your love, and give to your happiness a holy consecration.”