Henry VIII is dancing. There’s a look of determination in his eyes as he shuffles sideways on the flagstone floor. His costume, his royal accoutrements, add to the solemnity. There is no music, just his dance. The music is coming from elsewhere, and only he can hear it. His gold chain glistens in the candlelight, his shadow mooches a few feet behind its master, elongated. Sidestep shuffle shuffle, sidestep shuffle. Henry VIII is dancing.

‘He hardly raises a sweat’, the Earl of Flinksborough said to me.

This was a lie, because His Highness was sweating profusely. Drops of moisture clung to his brow.

‘Ah, ’tis a sight to behold’, I replied.

The Earl of Flinksborough was not considered a part of His Highness’ inner circle. The hall where the feast had been held had an earthy smell.

Henry VIII wore a doublet festooned with pearls and gold-stitch embroidery. Henry VIII wore a velvet jerkin. Henry VIII wore a flowing robe. Henry VIII was dancing.

‘His trunk hose is exquisite’, the Earl of Flinksborough opined. ‘And as for his codpiece and his stockings . .’.

His stockings were made of silk.

‘Yes?’

‘They are magnificent and can only magnify his god-like serenity’.

His Highness had incorporated a shrug into his dance. Sidestep shuffle shuffle shrug shrug shuffle. The feathers in his bonnet quivered with his movements, each shrug sending their tendrils into waves as if the fronds of a willow tree in a midsummer storm. He didn’t once smile.

‘See how the feathers in his hat’, the Earl of Flinksborough said, ‘are without movement, such is the smoothness of His Highness’ dance’.

‘Motionless, eh?’

‘Not the slightest movement’.

I wanted to get away from the Earl of Flinksborough, but we were seated behind the tables on which the feast had been recently consumed. The main course had been swan. We’d also had deer, hedgehog, wild boar and badger. The last three of the fifteen courses had been more of a chore, but His Highness had tucked in and was in remarkably high spirits. Outside, beyond the walls of the hall, wolves were howling in the woods, and bandits patrolled the highways. Sidestep shuffle shuffle shrug shrug shuffle.

‘He really is quite amazing’, the Earl of Flinksborough said. ‘His stockings, his trunk hose, his velvet jerkin, his doublet, his bonnet, the feather in his bonnet, he’s just . . .’.

There were soldiers in the gloom behind us with their backs pressed against the brick walls of the hall. I knew that they were within earshot and because of this, I was feeling increasingly nervous. I could sense them behind me, listening in on our conversation. They stood with tall staves, shoulders back, chest out. They were wearing armour on their upper bodies.

His Highness had incorporated a pelvic thrust into his dance. Still, there was no music, just his eyes staring straight ahead, and his mouth unsmiling. Sidestep shuffle shuffle shrug shrug thrust.

‘His exquisite dance’, the Earl of Flinksborough said. Sweat was now rolling down the Earl’s forehead. ‘His magnificent dance . . His doublet festooned with pearls and embroidery . . His dance is not ridiculous in the slightest, it remains . . It demonstrates . . It’s not at all . . . Ridiculous . .’.

Sidestep shuffle shuffle shrug shrug thrust.

The soldiers conferred. I heard them behind me, whispering. They stepped forwards. My heart rate intensified. My heart was pounding in my chest. Sweat was rolling down my back.

His Highness stumbled, ever so briefly, hardly even noticeable at all. But I had noticed. And the Earl of Flinksborough had noticed.

‘His Highness’, the Earl of Flinksborough said, ‘has not once . . ‘. He swallowed, because he was conscious that the soldiers were immediately behind us. ‘He has not once put a foot wrong’.

They placed their hands on his shoulders. They gripped. They yanked him to his feet, he had to push his chair back. They dragged him away from the table. I didn’t even look. I didn’t even glance sideways. I just concentrated on His Highness as he danced. They dragged him away from the table and I could hear his heels scraping along the flagstone floor. Nobody else watched. Nobody else looked. We all pretended that he had not been there.

Henry VIII is dancing. No music, no expression. Nonchalant. The open sores on his legs were pungent. I had to catch my breath. Candles flickered because a door had been opened somewhere. Sidestep shuffle shuffle shrug shrug thrust, sidestep shuffle shuffle shrug shrug thrust. He likes to move it, move it. Outside the hall, the wolves were howling.

————

Robert Garnham’s short stories have been published widely in magazines such as Stand, Defenestration, Flash Fiction Magazine, Ink Sweat and Tears, and others, and his poetry in Acumen, Tribe, and the Broadsheet. In 2021 and 2022 he was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He writes a humorous newspaper column in the Herald Express. He performs comedy poetry all over the UK at fringes, festivals and TV, and had one of the funniest one-liners of the 2018 Edinburgh Fringe. He was recently featured very briefly on Britain’s Got Talent. In 2024 he won the Wergle Flomp poetry competition. Robert is based in Devon, in the UK.