Four Trains to Windsor

At the Earl’s Court tube station in Central London, my new best friend, the underground worker, explained (speaking with that adorable British accent) how we would reach Windsor Castle. We would travel on four trains! It would take 90 minutes (one way) but it would be worth it.

On some level, I think I traveled all the way to England to see where Henry VIII was buried, and he was buried in St. George’s Chapel at Windsor Castle.

I couldn’t say that I was technically a fan of Henry’s, but I knew he was a complex character; self-absorbed, religious (!), ambitious, frightened (that he would leave the world without a male heir, which he did), and cruel. I’d read enough about him to want to see his final resting place.

Well, we really did take four trains; some under the ground and some regular rail trains. As we chugged our way out of London, both the landscape and the look of the riders changed.

I realized we were traveling through England’s “suburbia,” with its not-as-charming blockish housing and more disheveled-looking citizens. Still, the loudest and most obnoxious rider on the 4th train was (very proudly) from Chicago! Naturally. God bless America.

Finally, the fully packed train (and this was December!) pulled into the station in the village of Windsor. Windsor was the end of the line and we jumped off the train and followed the crowd. As we turned a corner, one end of the castle wall came into view, trimmed with a chunky turret.

The ancient, buff-colored wall loomed before us as we made our way to the entrance. Windsor Castle dates back to 1160 and has been used as a royal residence until now (it’s still used as a royal residence).

During the time of the Bubonic plague, Queen Elizabeth I moved her court to Windsor and had gallows constructed at the castle. Anyone seen coming from London was hanged!

As we presented our tickets to enter the castle grounds, I saw a sign (to my utter dismay) that said that St. George’s Chapel was closed to the public. It was Sunday, and the chapel was only open for services.

A little desperately, I asked the woman behind the counter if there was any way to see the inside of the chapel. Henry VIII was buried somewhere in there and I had come a long way to find the spot.

She said the only way to see the inside of the chapel that day was to attend the Anglican service, which we were happy to do. She glanced at her watch and said the service (the only one!) started in ten minutes and we’d better hurry.

I felt dizzy with relief. After riding four trains in different directions, it was purely a miracle that we had arrived in time to attend the only service in the chapel that day. If we’d arrived ten minutes later, it would have been too late.

We made our way to St. George’s Chapel and clustered around the door, waiting to be admitted for the service. I had to remind myself to breathe; I was so anxious to get in there. At last, an elderly woman unlocked the heavy wooden door and we filed in, one at a time.

Since I was there for the service, I was painfully conscious that I could not behave like an ogling tourist, so I turned my head just slightly, trying to take everything in at once. The walls seemed to be carved out of ivory. I saw dozens of Christian figures and perfect, geometric designs on every wall, all leading up to an impossibly high ceiling and more carvings.

This was a chapel?? It was a chapel that would rival the Vatican.

We filed in and were directed toward a back altar, where dark, carved, wooden choir seats lined the two side walls. British monarchs had sat in those seats for hundreds of years, and now I would carefully select the second row and take a seat myself.

To our left we had a full, robed choir that was singing in Latin! To our right was the altar with its ornate and impressive ivory-carved backdrop. The minister processed in and immediately started singing too. The service was called a “sung Eucharist” and the minister and the choir took turns singing the parts in Latin. The minister sang beautifully and I contemplated becoming Anglican.

The old man next to me, without comment, took my hymnal and replaced it with the one we were actually using for the service. So droll!

Of course I behaved reverently, but I still had to find Henry’s tomb. I worried that they’d stuck him in one of the side chapels, and then I’d never find him because we wouldn’t be allowed to walk around.

I took a deep breath and tried to follow the service. I imagined all the monarchs over the centuries who had sat in that room. I was stunned into silence; the whole experience was so moving.

Then it was time to receive the Eucharist and we were directed to get in line. Here was my chance! I stepped down from the choir seats and took my place in the aisle, waiting to approach the altar. I directed my gaze one way and another, in a wild but clandestine manner.

It was almost my turn to approach the altar. In despair, I dropped my head and stared at the floor. I felt desperate and sad, and I was running out of time.

And there, just past my own toes, I read the words “In a vault beneath this marble slab are deposited the remains of Jane Seymour, Queen of King Henry VIII, King Henry VIII, King Charles I, and an infant child of Queen Anne.”

I gasped and then had to pretend I hadn’t. The vault was under the floor and I was standing on it! My kids were subtly trying to motion that the vault was in the floor. My husband gave me an exasperated look that said, “Do you realize you’re standing on it?”

I was ecstatic beyond words but still had to make my way to the altar to receive communion. Somehow I managed it without shouting with glee, then walked sedately back down the aisle, stepped carefully over Henry’s tomb, and took my seat.

I couldn’t believe that I was sitting a few feet from the remains of King Henry VIII, husband to six wives (he only killed two of them), and father to the great Queen Elizabeth I.

The choir continued singing its melodic Latin verses and the sound dipped and swirled all around us. I knew beyond a doubt that choirs had sung the same verses in this chapel for centuries and the experience would have been the same in the 16^th century as it was for me at that moment.

I felt intensely grateful that despite all the stumbling around I’d done in my life, I’d managed to be there to experience that moment.

The service ended and we processed back out. I paused at the plaque one more time to say good-bye to Henry. “You were a terrible man, Henry--arrogant and ruthless,” I admonished him. “But you changed the course of history.”

Then I had no choice but to follow the others out. If I’d had my way, I would have stayed longer, but I was grateful to have found him, and grateful they put him in the middle of the aisle instead of in some obscure corner.

King Henry VIII held all the power during his lifetime and he inspired terror in almost everyone. He was a man who reordered the ways of the whole world. It was difficult for me to think of him reduced to an untidy pile of bones.

But despite all the mayhem he caused while he lived, it struck me that he was exactly that. All that was left of him were a few bones (the right number to make up a human being), rattling around a too-big vault, and stored under the main aisle in St. George’s Chapel, at Windsor.