𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓼 𝓞𝓯 𝓘𝓷𝓷𝓸𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮

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I hear the wind rustling outside my window, and the fragrance of blossoms seeps into the chamber. I am confined. The once-flowing power within me is no more. A woman's seduction now holds sway over me. I awaken alone, without Lady Anne. I miss the comfort of her presence and the dark magic she possesses in her gaze. The resolve within me crumbles under her influence. Had I married Jane Seymour, my life would have taken a different path. I would have had an obedient wife, one who did not interfere in the affairs of men. Regret fills me for the demise of Thomas Cromwell, a loyal servant to England and his sovereign.

Facing reality, Anne Boleyn is labeled a harlot, though she portrays virtue. The court despises her, and I question whether I should permit her the luxury of the Crown. She failed to fulfill her duty as Queen of England and is deemed a witch by some. Our shared friendship and devotion caused a rift in England. The obsession for a male successor occupies my thoughts. The woman I loved has fallen short, and my longing has brought destruction upon England. The Tudor age will perish with me.

The missing piece of the puzzle before me is a woman, one who can grant my one wish and finds joy in seeing me suffer. The court is in turmoil, filled with self-disgust and halfheartedness. Thunderous steps approach my door, and it bursts open to reveal the Duke of Suffolk, Charles Brandon. Though I am seated up to greet him, my leg pains me, and I do not rise. Confident steps bring Suffolk toward the edge of my bed, and my grooms follow to warn him that I am not yet ready. With haste, I receive Charles, who stands at the foot of my bed with something on his tongue.

There is no coherent plan, and I cannot explain myself. Charles questions my intentions, urging me to reconsider making Anne Boleyn Queen. He emphasizes the suffering of the people and suggests taking Jane Seymour as a wife. He implores me to think of the well-being of the country instead of my personal desires. The exchange becomes heated, with Brandon expressing his concern for the consequences Anne Boleyn may bring upon England. As he lashes me with words, I feel a shift in my bed, and my weakened state prevents me from rising as I did before. The weight of finding a male heir to succeed me weighs heavily, and thoughts turn to my bastard son as a potential successor. Despite Brandon's criticism, I show mercy and refrain from ordering his death for marrying my sister without consent.

"It is God's will that I forgive Anne. I love her, Charles," I confess my feelings to him. We are alone in my chambers, and I draw back the sheets. Blood fills my bed as I look down. Charles freezes before leaving the room, barking orders to the grooms and calling for physicians. I do not feel pain. This is it, our last conversation. I am certain I will die, having failed my father and England. Losing blood shakes me, and everything becomes a blur. "Henry," I hear a distant voice, silky in texture, reminiscent of my mother Elizabeth. I close my eyes, feeling no pain as everything fades out.

Urgently, a servant comes to Anne Boleyn. I sit with my mother for hours, ignoring the King's summons. He may be the King of England, but he is not my master, and I am not his breeding horse. Henry Tudor should have gone to the Church, and I refuse to bow at his feet. I am neither his pet nor his dog. In my chambers, I hear my virtuous ladies squealing with girlish excitement, discussing the latest poem of Thomas Wyatt. I lead by example, allowing scandalous works in my private space, where bold and thoughtful women thrive. As the doors open with force, a servant enters, visibly frightened by what he has seen or heard. The air becomes peculiar, prompting me to close my book and rise from my chair.

The conversation grows quiet as I step forward, asking, "What is wrong?" My mother, the Countess, turns, and her curiosity stirs. The servant, my ladies, all turn to face me. In a monotone voice, I inquire, "What is wrong with the King now?" My mother responds with a solemn tone, "The King is dying, my daughter. He asked for you. You must go to him now." I suspect it might be a trick or a sick joke, but my mother encourages me to go to him.

The petition for me to go to him is ludicrous. The priceless expression of concern on my mother's face speaks volumes. "Go to him," she informs me of my duties to the crown, taking me by the hand with aspirations clear in her eyes. However, I don't want to give her false hope. The king is dying, and it's his own fault. All eyes are on me, and I could choose to be cold-blooded, just as he has been. The King has hardened me.

As I look at the king's servant, pleading with his eyes to deliver good news to his grace, I acknowledge my flaw. The enticement is over, and I've given my answer to the king's servant. A nod from me is taken as a signal that I will come at the King's desire. There's still passion between us and unresolved issues. I have a desire to avenge my brother, George Boleyn. If the King dies, England will be without a male heir, and I cannot leave the country without a successor. I believe my daughter, Elizabeth, could succeed her father and become a worthy Queen of England, ushering in a new age. For now, I must appease the king.

I will not have his death stain, my soul.