This narrative revolves around Queen Anne Boleyn, the second wife of Henry VIII of England, whose reign was shrouded in intrigue and speculation. Some portrayed her as a sorceress who enchanted the king, leading him to break from his marriage to Cat...
CROMWELL IS DEAD. I've taken the life of my closest friend, and I feel no remorse. The Marquess is the center of court gossip, stirring up trouble soon after gaining freedom. Yet, I remain indifferent. I am determined to have my way, and the promised prince will come from Anne Boleyn. I find solace in the Marquess; despite the recent events, she serves as a source of comfort. The hours have passed, and a new day is on the horizon. To avoid Charles Brandon's questioning, I remain in my apartments, anticipating his inquiries about the motive behind Cromwell's death. Even though Cromwell deserved his fate, he served as a sacrifice for my continued existence. Cromwell is no more, and his wealth will return to the Crown.
Charles enters my rooms, crashing in with urgency. "Why did you do that, Henry?" he questions me. I meet Charles' gaze, my oldest friend. "Suffolk, I do not want the burden of his mouth. He elevated himself too high. Now, he lies low in the grave," I explain to him.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Astonishment fills the air, evident in his expression. "Suffolk - Leave me," I request, desiring solitude, but Charles refuses to comply. "You have changed, Henry. Anne Boleyn has poisoned your soul," he asserts. Unwilling to compromise, I feel my leg sore, and anger begins to well up within me. I resist the urge to lash out; the word of the King is final. As a King, I must secure a son to follow in my footsteps. God forbid my leg does not heal; an heir must still come forth. Fears of the outside world linger, with the air thick with venom. I am determined not to fail; the Tudor Dynasty will have an heir, and curses shall not deter it. Charles observes me, eager to pose more questions. "I wish for your well-being, your grace. If you need to talk, I am here for you, as your friend," he offers. I look up and nod. "Leave me," I command, and he bows, departing as instructed—though it bothers me. Now, I must find a new Lord Chancellor, someone of worth to appoint.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
THE MARQUESS REMAINS IN HER CHAMBERS. As the mother of the next heir, destined to grow in my womb when I lie with the King, I find myself unprepared for such intimacy. The thought of laying with him is unimaginable; my body recoils at the idea, rejecting his touch. I steadfastly refuse his gifts, avoid speaking to him, and resist spending time with the King. My sole desire is to see my daughter, Elizabeth, and be with her. Holding my babe in my arms, I want her to feel my presence and know that she is mine, not belonging to the King. Elizabeth emerged from my womb, yet I refrain from indulging in sentimentality, deeming it beneath me.
The King has inflicted wounds with his disrespectful words, lies, and false truths. My life has become unexpectedly simple, a stark contrast to my expectations of death and joining my brother George in the cold ground. The King remains unapologetic for the unjust death of my brother under false pretenses. In his twisted belief, he thinks he is doing me a favor by keeping me confined to the tower, which has become my tomb. The desire to return lingers, but the King will never allow it. I sigh, seated at my desk, contemplating whether to write to my sister. Longing for my family to be close, I struggle to find words for Mary, despite the love I hold for her. The words seem elusive within me.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I spent the night in solitude. The touch of the king did not consume me, and his presence was absent from my thoughts. I am keenly aware of the ladies serving me and the watchful eyes of my new household. They are like hawks and crows, ready to emerge from the shadows and betray me. However, I am prepared to face my fate with pride. The King attempts to prove his worthiness, but he is not deserving of me or the Crown of England. Henry Tudor's selfishness will not go unpunished; he will pay for his treachery. I choose to let God handle his judgment, refraining from wishing death upon the King. My path is clear, and when the time is right, a son will reside in my womb. I sense it in my bones. England will be blessed with a prince, ensuring the continuation of the Tudor Dynasty.
