ANNE BOLEYN : a collection of short stories

May2, 1536                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     The waters of the Thames ebbed and flowed, bringing in its tide the fate of a queen. A strange thing, fate. Fate was unpredictable. It took turns. It flew on wings of time, letting those born to raise go low, and those born low, rise. But fate did not affect water. Water would continue, it would go on, unaware of the people who lived, breathed, and died on the soil it fed. Water would flow in the endless cycle of time, bathing and cleansing all. That is the way of water. But not people. People are volatile. People make mistakes. People change. And change is rapid, as rapid as my life. What had Mary once said? “You have risen high, Anne: Risen faster than a star at dusk. But you will fall. And when you fall it will be spectacular.” I had laughed it off. Those were the golden days of my youth, when I had a country at my fingertips. How foolish. To forget is to lose. Knowledge, relationships, love. Life. I had lost everything, everything that matters. Mary had gained everything, and she was the wife of a soldier! Was it destiny that I lost and she won? Is it destiny that I am riding a tide to death while she lives? No. I don’t believe so. Destiny and predetermination is a belief for the weak. It is a vehicle with which to blame one’s misfortune. And it cannot be true. Everything happens form someone’s will. Someone’s misfortunes are the result of another’s decisions. Are the Benedictines correct in their belief that the will is the source of all pain?  It follows then for none to show will and surrender their life to follow God. What a philosophy. Without will there is no order. No life. Someone must make decisions. Someone must take control. Someone must have power. But what is power? Power is what all, secretly or publicly, aspire to. Power, in tangible, or in unseen influences, was operated by one rule, one word, in my world: Henry. It was Henry who made me what I was.  It is Henry who is taking all from me. But how else could I gain power? How else is one woman to guide her life?  It has been said that I am an exceptional person. But how is that so? It was Henry who caused everything in my life. It was Henry who fell in love: Henry who waited. It is Henry who is great. Greatness grows in one. It is not born. And I am incapable of looking at myself without prejudice. And I do not know the end of my story. I cannot look without an indifferent eye at my life. Nor can any who know me.  Am I great? That will be posterity’s grapple. Posterity shall decide if Anne Boleyn was exceptional. And posterity may be kind.