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...
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The King's hunger gnaws at him, and I decide to prepare a presentation for my visit to him. It has been several terms since I last went to the village, and I find solace in this routine. Whispers circulate in London about the sweating sickness, and the King, concerned for the court's safety, announces a move to Greenwich Palace outside the metropolis, hoping to escape the affliction. Despite moments of remorse and shame, the yearning within him drains away.
His ailing leg adds further strain, and I am poised to play the perfect widow when I place my son on the throne of England. I envision rewriting the Tudor biography with Tudor blood, ensuring my offspring ascend the hierarchies as effective soldiers fit for the lingering feud. Dissatisfaction with the monarch is growing among the English, with stories of revolt and lives heated with resentment toward the crown.
The King, in his desire for treasures, plans to move his treasuries, even considering taking from the parish, which I find objectionable. I believe the money should be used for a beneficial purpose instead of attempting to purchase the hearts of courtiers. The King is wary of anyone, especially a woman, intruding into his affairs.
My reverie is interrupted by a courier summoning me to the King's apartments before our departure to Greenwich Palace. The idea of freedom to travel is shattered as we will continue our journey until the sweating sickness subsides. The Tudors, it seems, are regarded as a jinx, a sentiment I expressed when Henry's father arrived from France with artillery that carried an ominous glow. Bitterness toward the Tudors prevails in England.
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The King desires my presence in his bed, a predictable expectation. His wish extends to the intimate details, anticipating the sight and taste of my small breasts. He will miss them, his lips devouring my nipples, his tongue swirling over them as he suckles. The act continues as he explores my mound before thrusting his large member into my channel, fueled by the anticipation of breeding many sons with me. However, I have not yet administered the potion that will bring an end to his excitement. The King will once again become my obsession, working to please me first. For the night, he will be my consort, and his seed will fill me, thick and heavy. I hold it within my walls, riding him for my pleasure before his second climax.
Being a woman of cruelty, I remain in bed until the afternoon, having hidden the vial before retiring. The whispers of my virtuous ladies reach my ears, and I value their maiden modesty, aspiring to teach them the art of flirting without causing scandal at court. My goal is for them to aim high and secure fine marriages, for they are not whores but women of noble birth. The Kingdom is in an uproar over the death of Thomas Cromwell, a welcome event. Imagining his decay in the ground, his bones turning to ashes, brings a sense of satisfaction.
In my visions of Queenhood, I see England in anger, with enemies hanging from spikes, their blood fresh and devoured by crows. The crows peck at their eyes and flesh, a poetic downfall for those who rose high only to fall into the depths of hellfire. The King's bounty and love are vast, but the court fails to understand how to control it, torn between love and hatred for him. The King, reveling in his ego being stroked, finds no favor from me unless it benefits me. As the door opens, I remain in bed, unwilling to rise until I am ready to go to the King.
