Another oneshot in my Tudor Musings series, this one deals with Anne Boleyn the night before her execution. I'm not sure about this one as it was written in a rush, but thought I'd post it anyway. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated.
I own nothing
I have destroyed myself, my family, and my husband's love. I have confined my daughter to years of neglect, hardship and strife as she struggles with 'illegitimate' status. She will pay the price for my mistakes for years to come. I have stolen her father's love from her.
My name is Anne Boleyn, and I will die tomorrow. Do I deserve it? That depends on who you ask. My husband, and half of England, thinks I do, and so I must die, for my husband is sovereign ruler of England, and his word is quite literally law. My women and some of my family think I am innocent of all charges and am only being executed because it's the quickest and easiest way to get rid of me.
I say that I deserve to die, but not for the crimes I will die for. I deserve to die for ruining the life of a good woman, and breaking her and her daughter's hearts. I deserve to die for the tearing apart of a nation and for setting free the tyrant that is now King Henry VIII of England. I deserve to die for ruining the lives of five innocent men: Mark Smeaton, my lute player, was an innocent who was so racked with confusion, pain and fear that he confessed. Henry Norris, a good man and my cousin's betrothed, William Brereton and Francis Weston were all innocent courtiers, in a world where flirtation is the order of the day and everyone knows it means nothing. And George Boleyn, my younger brother George. How could they claim I'd had incestuous relations with him? I have only ever loved him as a brother, and he has only ever loved me as a sister. It would indeed me against the laws of God and man to do otherwise. They are all dead, because of me. Had I never been Queen, these 5 men would still be alive now. So yes, I deserve to die.
I have not been a good wife to my husband – he who gave me so much, who raised me from just a courtier's daughter to become a Marquis in my own right and the Queen of England. I should have treated him better, I should have given him a son. That is the real reason why I am to die: I miscarried a baby boy. In Henry's eyes, I killed his son, so he will kill me. Except everyone forgets that MY boy died that day as well. I was not allowed to grieve as the King was, I had to go back to my role of pleasing the King, something I'd long since lost either the ability or the desire to do. His other women had killed my love for the King, and yet also somehow made it stronger. The more he strayed, the more jealous I became. I tried to get him to stop, but I did it in the wrong way. I should have taken a lesson from my predecessor. She merely looked the other way when her husband established me in her household. Could she have known, I wonder, what would happen? Or did she assume I would go the way of the others – into the King's bed and then swiftly out of it when he got bored. Did she think I would be like my sister, the older, more pliable Boleyn girl? IF she did, that is why she lost. People have always assumed Mary and I are similar: in fact, we could not be more different.
I wonder what will happen to my family now. They will lose their position, of course, their hard-earned status will vanish in the night. The King will only have Seymours round him now, not Boleyns. Our reign of power is over, and how could it not be? My brother the heir, is dead, and I, the shining star, die tomorrow. But I have so much left in me, if the King could only see past Mistress Seymour's fine form. Surely he will recover his love for me. He pursued me hard and fast for 8 years, why has our love turned bad so soon? Had he treated me better, I would have been a better wife. Had he not given me cause for upset, we would have a son and heir now, and he would be able to rest easier. Had all this happened, I may even be carrying yet another child by now. After all, of all the things they can and do say about me, one thing they can never accuse me of is infertility. Three pregnancies in three years is something to be proud of, or it would be if I'd carried those children of mine, children I will never meet on this earth, safely to labour. Maybe that is truly why I must die: My body killed those innocents, hence my body must die. An eye for an eye.
Whatever the reasons, whatever is truth and whatever is a lie, this single, sole truth remains: Tomorrow I die, and so I must make my peace and not dwell on what could have been, what might have been, or what should have been. I do not want to spend my last night on earth fretting over regrets.
Please tell me what you thought of that, or if anything could be improved. The next musing will, I think, be from Catherine of Aragon's POV.