Henry the Eighth was dying.  Bloated and noisome, he lay in his splendid bed at Westminster Palace.  The room was dim, the candle flames low, hissing and sputtering in their pools of melting wax.  The fire was crumbling to ashes, for no servants were allowed to tend it, and so the room grew cold.
      The figure on aching knees beside the bed felt the cold creep into his too long immobile body, but he could not let it sway him from his purpose.  Thomas Cranmer closed his weary, bloodshot eyes and prayed.  All he needed was a sign, any sign that the King would look to the New Religion that he had ushered into the country, and look to Jesus Christ at the end of his life.  He angled his body away from the three men huddled together at the foot of the bed, as they bent their heads and whispered.  He caught only the hissing murmur of their words and made no attempt to understand them.  They were courtiers, concerned only with themselves and the small world they bustled about in.  He, Archbishop Cranmer, he was trying to save the King's soul.  He squeezed his eyes tighter and continued with his prayers.
      Sir William Paget edged closer to Edward Seymour and spoke softly.  'Do you think the King will die?'
      'He must,' Seymour answered emphatically, his eyes never straying from the figure in the bed.  'The end cannot be far off now.  And when it comes, we must be ready.  You know what you have to do?'
      'We know,' Sir Anthony Browne assured him, leaning closer over his shoulder.
Seymour shivered as the warm breath tickled his neck.  'I will take the King's Will into my keeping.  As I have told you, it calls for a Council of sixteen men to govern while the Prince is in his minority.'
      'A foolish idea,' Browne scoffed.
      'A misguided one,' Seymour said.  'Too many men, struggling to be of the same mind.  It would never work and the country would suffer.'
      'You are right,' Paget agreed.
      'And as the Prince's uncle, I have a right,' Seymour continued heatedly, 'no, a duty, to help him when the time comes.  But I will need your support, for I will meet with opposition.  The Court is full of ambitious men.  In order for this to work, I must be the first to the Prince when the King dies.'
      'You will have our support,' Browne promised.  'Lord Protector?  It's a title that will become you.'
      'It's a title I deserve,' Seymour snapped as the dying man in the bed began a feeble struggle with life. 
      The massive chest heaved, and great gulping noises came from his throat, as the King tried to fill his lungs with the air they craved.
      'Your Majesty,' Cranmer begged softly, clutching the King's heavily jewelled hand in his own, 'you will soon meet your Maker.  Please him by dying, believing with your soul, in the true faith of Jesus Christ.'
      The King turned his head, his face creasing in pain. His small, beady eyes stared glassily at Cranmer, and his mouth puckered as if he would speak.  His bottom lip trembled, but a spasm shot through the swollen body, and the hand Cranmer held gripped tight, then relaxed.  A blissful, contented smile rounded the Archbishop's cheeks.  This was the sign he had waited and prayed for.  He needed nothing more.
      'God be praised.  The King has shown me that he trusts in the Lord.'  He pushed himself up from the floor, his bones cracking.  He stretched a little and looked down at the dead man.  A single tear dropped from his eye.  'His Majesty has yielded his spirit to Almighty God.  The King is dead.  Long live the King.'
      An elbow nudged at Seymour's ribs and he looked round.  Paget jerked his head towards the door.  Remembering himself, Seymour muttered 'May he rest in peace.'  Bowing to the dead King, he exited from the chamber, followed by Paget and Browne.  'To our horses,' he said.
      'Where is the Prince?' Browne asked, hurrying to keep up.
      'At Ashridge.'
      Along corridors and down stairs they hurried, through all the intricate turns of the palace.  At last they reached the stable yard.  A waiting servant handed Seymour his cloak.  Throwing it over his shoulders, he pulled Browne close.  'Once news of the King's death spreads, others will be making for the Prince.  We cannot afford any delay.  Do not spare the horses and take no ease.  Our future depends on our getting to the Prince first.'

      Robert pulled the heavy bed hangings together, wincing as the curtain rings clacked and threatened to wake Thomas, asleep in the opposite bed.  He stacked two of his books to make a stand for his candle, opened a third and sunk back into his goose feather pillow.
      A crunch of gravel made him look up.  Tossing his book on the bed, he threw his legs over the candle and whipped the curtain aside.  He listened again.  Another crunch.  Padding across the cold, bare floorboards, he pressed his nose against the window glass.
      Aided by the moonlight, Robert could make out a dozen or more horses below.  Most of their riders remained in the saddle, but two men in dark, heavy cloaks with feathers in their caps, had dismounted and begun pounding on the door.
      'Who's making that noise?' Thomas moaned into his pillow.
      'Come and look.'
      Thomas threw back his bedclothes, chafing his arms to warm them.  'Will the porter ever answer that door?  They will kick it down soon.'
      His entreaty was heard, for at that moment, the two men disappeared inside.  Robert and Thomas scampered to their door, eased it open, tiptoed into the hallway and bent down to look through the banisters.
      'Who is that in the green?' Thomas whispered.
      'Edward Seymour,' Robert recognised with surprise.  'Why in the devil's name is he here?'
      'Who's that with him?'
      'I cannot tell.  They must have come to see the Prince.'
      'At this hour?  Are we in any danger, do you think?'  Thomas knew enough of his country's history to be afraid of daggers in the night.
      'No.  They would be armed and with men behind them.'
      'They have men outside.'
      'Exactly, you numbskull, outside, not in here.  Quick.  Someone's coming.'
      They hurried back to their beds, Robert managing to kick over his candle as he jumped into his.  Cursing, he scrambled to snuff the flame before it could catch on the blanket when the chamber door burst open.  Sir Anthony Browne stood in the doorway, a swinging lantern held high.
      'Ah, good, you are awake.  Rise and get the Prince's belongings packed.  The household is moving to Hatfield at once.  Make haste.'  He pulled the door shut with a bang.
      'Come on,' Robert said, reaching for his hose.  'Tom, did you not hear him?'
      'Ay, I heard him,' Thomas said, slowly climbing from his bed.  'Why are we leaving?'
      'How should I know?'
      'And why now, in the middle of the night?'
      'Confound me, I don’t have all the answers.  Maybe the Prince is in danger and will be safer at Hatfield.'
      'I doubt it,' Thomas said.  'They would have made a fortress out of this place, rather than risk him out on the open roads.'
      Robert sat down on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots.  'Maybe the King is dead.'
      'No, he cannot be,' Thomas gasped.
      Robert shrugged.  ' He can.  My father wrote that he was ailing.  And it would explain why Seymour's here.  Damn, I wish I could get word to my father that we are being moved.'
      'Perhaps you will be able to when we are on the road.'
      'Ay, perhaps.  Oh, come on, Tom, hurry up or they'll be going without us,' he chided as he exited the room.
      'But why go to Hatfield?' Thomas called after him. 'What's there?'
      Robert was hurrying along the corridor.  The answer was simple and he shouted it with delight.  'Elizabeth!'