Rose with Thorns

The Path to Death

In the morning they came, but it was not the name of the king who Catherine cried out for.

One after the other the men filed into her holding cell to escort her to the last place she would ever see—Tower Green. Beheading would be her method of execution, the same as her lover. Given her former title, she was awarded a more private execution than most, but that didn't alter her grim fate in the slightest, and it did nothing to comfort her grieving heart as they led her towards the Thames.

They helped her down the stairs as she walked with as much dignity as she could muster, but her frail legs trembled at the knees. Still, her black dress flowed regally about her ankles as she descended the stairs, and to all who watched, she raised her chin as if her crown was still fastened firmly atop her young head.

The prisoner's barge sat swaying on the River thames. It was a tiny boat crafted specifically for the purpose of escorting traitorous royals such as herself to their dying places.

Carefully, one of the men hoisted her onto the barge, and another tied her hands to the center post. She'd never understood why criminals were tied to the boat, but in that moment it was clear. Throwing herself into the Thames became most desirous as she floated down the cold river.

Catherine had often seen the barge from a distance, floating down the lonesome river to the place of execution. Never had she thought that she would see it from the inside. Never had she imagined that her life would come to such a violent and abrupt end.

She felt the card shift lovingly against her breast, reminding her of her thorns. In an instant she composed herself, steeling her emotions against her enemies and focusing on her goal of a dignified end.

She'd heard whispers through the night of how the man she'd loved so much had breathed his last. He'd been void of fear, and an eerie calm held in his blue-eyed gaze even after the second stroke that succeeded in separating his head from the rest of him. And his final words, she'd heard, were fearless.

"For treason against the king, I am most guilty," someone had been gracious enough to whisper outside her cell in the dark of night, relaying his final words. "For treason against the heavens, I am most guilty. But for loving another with all my heart, you execute an innocent soul."

She played the words again and again in her mind, committing them to memory so that she might carry them into whatever afterlife awaited her. He may have been a fool in the king's court, but in their most secret moments, he was the love of her life.

London Tower loomed ominously in the distance as they reached the overpopulated London Bridge. She raised her chin higher and pointed her gaze straight ahead as passersby paused in their business to look down scornfully—just as she had before she'd fallen from grace—at the condemned soul that passed beneath them.

Their silent judgement rained down on the crown of her head and pressed heavily on her shoulders, but she refused them the satisfaction of catching even a glimpse of her misery. She met each twisted and spiteful scowl she could find in the crowd with a stern and confident glare of her own. Not one face wore an expression of pity or sorrow. Not one ounce of grief rested on the faces of her observers.

One feral expression, however, caught her eye just before she disappeared beneath the shadow of London Bridge—a scowl turned upside down in a most mischievous of smirks. It came and went as if it were a ghost. A trick of her tired mind it must have been, for Catherine could've sworn she'd just seen a cat with a grin.

† ♥ † ♥ † ♥ †

The bridge could not hide her for long, and soon she was once again subject to the judging faces. So many faces. Then another odd expression far unlike the first, a face that loomed high over London Bridge, grabbed her full attention. It was a face most unrecognizable yet familiar. His face.

The blood drained from her gaunt cheeks, and all breath escaped her. She had wished to see her love once more, but never in such a state—his tar-dipped head, severed and hollow, skewered on the great thorns of London's bridge.

How great a sin it was to fall in love.

Despite the grotesque sight, Catherine held his lifeless gaze until she could no longer turn to see him. When her eyes finally broke free of him, she didn't look back at the other faces who watched her intently. Instead, she looked onward to the growing tower, facing it with a defiant bravery she hadn't felt before.

The barge sailed steadily towards the tower and through the infamous Traitor's Gate, a gate Catherine had done nothing worthy of entering.

But for loving another with all my heart, you execute an innocent soul, Catherine recited, refusing to acknowledge herself as the traitor the rest of the kingdom deemed her.

The gate closed behind them, and the barge continued on, away from the public eye, until it reached a flight of stone steps. For the briefest of moments, Catherine considered throwing herself off the barge the minute they untied her hands, but the thought of her lover dying so valiantly convinced her to remain orderly. She, too, would honor him in death, just as he had done for her.

She allowed her escorts to lead her up the steps, leaning heavily on their arms for lack of her own strength, and into Tower Green. They came to a halt in a dimly lit room and waited just outside of Tower Green, the place of execution, and Catherine was left alone with her thoughts.

What if it takes more than one swing to end it? She thought. What does one say before dying? Who will collect me when it's done and see to my burial? Will my head be mounted on a thorn, too?

Her thoughts threatened to drown her in panic, but the sound of metal cutting through flesh and closing soundly on stone pulled her back to the present. Hushed sobs rolled out then, and she knew why she was forced to wait.

She wondered who'd just met a fate similar to what she was soon to experience. What had been their reason for execution? Who cried for their soul? Who would cry for hers?

Catherine wasn't alloted the luxury to ponder another's fate, for her own was suddenly at hand.

The wooden doors opened before her and bright light poured into the space. She didn't shy away from the stinging light, knowing she should soak in as much of it as she still could. In the distance, five women walked towards the chapel cemetery carrying a woman wrapped in a white cloak with fresh red stains.

She looked down at the hem of her own black, velvet gown, grateful that she hadn't worn white. She didn't want to go to her grave with such visible and disgraceful stains.

Catherine's hollow gaze found the scaffold, freshly covered with blood, and noted the hooded man there. She'd been to enough beheadings in her short time at the palace to recognize the large scar on his left shoulder. He was skilled at his job, having successfully beheaded a number of men and women in a single swing. Relief didn't describe what she felt at that thought. It was closer to a final agreement with fate, an acceptance as to what would happen next.

With a gentle shove, her feet carried her along the path to death, and she knew that in a few short moments, the entirety of her life would come to an end.

She squeezed her eyes shut and said a silent prayer, asking the heavens to make the axe's blade sure and swift.