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...
The Marquess of Pembroke, I place my trust in my mother. I hold no resentment towards her decision to leave Whitehall in pursuit of help. Despite the challenges of this difficult path, I believe that God has a purpose for me. Life has not unfolded as I expected, yet I always knew I was destined to shine brightly. My heart remains bright and full, and I am determined to warm the King's bed once again, even though his desires do not align with my own.
I cannot forgive him for the lack of remorse in my brother's death; he is a bad man. As his lawful wife and the head of the Church, he harbors a sense of vanity, considering himself a god on earth. Despite the fond memories of Henry writing me letters, it was my uncle, the Duke, who urged me to lie with the King. I fell for him, and I acknowledge that it was my fault, a manifestation of my sinful nature. However, that matters little now as I feel reborn.
The carriage ride is long, and part of me half-hoped for some form of release or catharsis. I yearned for the blackness to take away my pain as I leaned against the carriage window. Resting my head, my mother pulled me close, and I found solace on her shoulder, drifting into a deep sleep. This life has caused me profound pain, raw and wretched, but I must endure for the sake of my daughter Elizabeth. I feel my mother's protective arm around me, holding me close and unwilling to let go. The scent of her perfume envelops me as I sleep through the entire journey.
I am stirred awake by voices, hearing my mother conversing with an old woman. The Crone offers her a potion, a concoction that promises to deliver me my freedom. With this potion, I believe the King will be mine forever, and I will ascend to become the Queen of England.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I hear the exchange of coins between the two. My mother willingly parts with riches to secure a better life for me. Outside the carriage window, a bright torch casts light, revealing the shadows of the old woman. I avoid looking at her directly, averting my gaze. My mother glares at me with strong, bright eyes.
Once the potion is collected, there is no further exchange of words between the two. My mother hands me the potion as the old woman departs, and darkness returns. As the carriage prepares to leave, we make our way back to Whitehall Palace, ensuring no one notices our absence. I don't want Henry to worry.
During the journey back to Whitehall Palace, I examine the potion—a red liquid. I wonder about its ingredients. The bottle is of medium size, and I hold it in my grasp before tucking it into the pocket of my cloak.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Safely back at Whitehall, we navigate the palace's tunnels to reach my apartment unnoticed. My mother has discreetly compensated the servants to maintain our secret departure, and we remain shadow makers in the night. The evening is pleasant, and my mother, perhaps guided by a divine vision, sees something in my face. Regardless, I am certain that I will become the Queen of England, carrying a child in my womb before the next year.
As we enter the chamber, I remove my cloak. The absence of my ladies in the apartments indicates they are resting in their own chambers tonight. My Lady mother also discards her cloak, draping it over a plush sofa. The chamber is dimly lit, with the roaring fire providing the only illumination. Walking to the fire, I reach into the pocket of my cloak, holding the potion that holds my future. The flames cast a glow on the vial, and my eyes fill with curious wonder, contemplating the possibility of its success. Thankful, I believe it will elevate the King to heavenly heights, blooming heaven inside him, and the crone will receive rewards beyond her dreams.
I observe Anne examining the vial, acknowledging her acceptance of the offer. Lives are at stake, and I refuse to live without my children. The loss of George weighs heavy on my heart, and this becomes an act of war. The King will pay for spilling the blood of a Boleyn. Anne, vibrant and full of life, glances at me with a smile as she sets the vial on the mantle before walking toward the fireplace. Our eyes meet, and I am grateful to see her on board with the plan. I thank God for sparing her life, knowing that He will punish the wrongful.
As the hour grows late, I bid my daughter goodnight and offer my wishes for pleasant dreams. She is ready to execute the plan soon, believing that a child must come from this union, and I am confident that God will bless Anne Boleyn.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I cast one final glance before departing to my own chambers. I observe her gaze fixed upon the fire. Is it a vision sent by God himself that captivates her? She appears entranced.
