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...
A gnawing pain resides within my gut. The gaze of God has graced me, and I stand as the sovereign ruler of England. I am the King, steadfast in my reign until my earthly journey concludes. I am committed to fulfilling the vision of my father, Henry VII, a man who sought to unite England by merging the Red and White Roses into the emblematic Tudor Rose—a symbol of progress, the Age of Man, and prosperity.
I DECLARE MY KINGSIP!
I AM THE KING OF ENGLAND, AND ALL SHALL WITNESS MY MAJESTY!
God's retribution has befallen me for my vanity and the concealment of my true sentiments about my union with Anne Boleyn. I parted ways with my deeply beloved wife, Catherine, with a love so intense that few can fathom, as they remain unaware of the intricacies of my mind. As an Englishman to the core, my blood pulses with the essence of England. I have undertaken drastic measures to bring England to its knees, eradicating the stain of the Catholic Faith. The world will one day comprehend that my actions have fortified England against impending challenges, though I may have sacrificed much.
I have, at times, compromised my principles for the sake of God and the Crown. As the Head of the Church of England, no dissenting voice shall sway me.
THEY SHALL NOT DARE EXPRESS THEIR OPINIONS! I am England personified, inseparable from its Crown. I stand as THE HEAD of all things, for God has ordained me for this purpose, witnessing and absolving my sins. I am untainted by the common folk who serve my meals; I spit, and they clean. It is Anne who has fulfilled her promise—a promise grounded in reality.
A SON! A SON! A SON!
Named Henry, he is destined to be KING!
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I have endured a year of waiting, a year fraught with pain and sorrow that eludes my grasp. Henry, who once promised me the Crown, deceived me by returning to his paramour. She, the woman who bore him a prince, while I am left with naught but ashes. A letter from the Duke, the King's loyal hound, delivers the bitter news. I can still vividly recall the day he came to my chambers, asserting that Anne would not face death. I had prayed for her demise, yearning for the glory befitting a Queen, yet God denied me that right.
"Sister," my brother calls. "It is time to leave the palace. The king has decreed our banishment. It is the Queen's will." I scoff in defiance. "No. She is not the Queen. The Council deemed her unfit to rule with Henry, and I shall not depart. Drag me out in a box before I abandon Whitehall." I approach the window, spotting Anne Boleyn in the gardens with her attendants and the young son she bore the King. I silently pray for her downfall. "I hate her," I confess. Thomas shakes his head, "Sister, you cannot harbor hatred; it goes against God's will." I gaze at him defiantly, "God's will has nothing to do with it. Anne is the devil, and the King is her servant. She has ensnared him once more, evading the consequences."
He whispers, "Your day will come, but now is not the time. Speaking ill of her, especially after bearing the King a son, is not wise. They hold power, and we do not. After Richmond, God has favored them, blessing the Boleyns with influence. We must bide our time." Though I longed to confront Anne for her deeds, the consequences loomed—my head on a plate for dinner, a macabre jest to mock my demise. They shatter my heart. I harbor hatred for Anne Boleyn and the Boleyn family.
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He dressed me in regal attire, addressing me with the reverence befitting a queen. Henry shall face retribution for his transgressions and the actions of his paramour.
