*Except for Aunt Boleyn, the other ladies-in-waiting are fictional.
The Last Moment
Anne gazed out of the window. Outside the air was crisp, birds chirruped merrily and the sky was clear of any signs of rain. Lovely day to die, she joked to herself with not a trace of bitterness allowed to be in it. She was roomed with Aunt Boleyn and two other ladies with whom she hadn't spoken to since the day she arrived.
I tried of course, she reasoned to herself, but they simply won't budge. Anne's aunt wouldn't even look at her. Which is a shame really, Anne thought, she's the only family I had time to talk to.
Today the ladies were as solemn as ever, Aunt Boleyn had cornered herself as far as she could from her niece, sewing something she thought would make her look busy. Katherine Jorge, a young lady with fair locks of hair was muttering profanities to herself. She was once known to be a great follower of Catherine Aragon, the King's first wife and hated Anne Boleyn with a passion. To this very day, she still was not at all pleased to be in the presence of the woman who was the reason of the demise of Catherine.
The last and perhaps the youngest of the three was Florence Edmund. She was a very timid girl of seventeen and secretly believed in Anne's innocence. Of course, for the sake of her reputation (and perhaps, life) she did not show or speak of it. Florence was sitting next to Katherine, flinching as Katherine's profanities worsened.
Anne hadn't slept all night. Her olive skin had gone thin and pale from the countless days of not being able to eat or think in a sane way. Her dark curls were swept up in a very careless bun. But what probably made Anne look the most different were her infamous dark brown eyes, the eyes that started this all, the eyes that allured King Henry in the first place, those eyes had circles and pain embedded on them-perhaps permanently.
Her hands shook as every second ticked away. Her face was anything but composed, Anne caught her breath everytime she thought she heard a knock on the door. A knock signifying the end of her life.
Anne strode out of her lodgings, her heart hammering against her chest. Her stomach was tied up in a thousand knots and her brain was flashing some signals. Run, run, run...
That's what it said. But of course Anne was too stubborn and blatantly ignored her brain's desperate requests. Her knees buckled against each other as they all passed the great hall. Anne felt as if time was purposely trying to speed her death, out of sheer mockery.
Anne and her ladies-in-waiting continued down Cole harbour gate and along the western side of the White tower. Anne felt a headache coming along. Oh it will cured very, very soon, She joked once again. Anne found her joke so amusing that she even giggled. The ladies shot each other puzzled looks.
And soon they reached the dreaded scaffold. It was black-draped, ugly, cruel, mocking. Unfamiliar faces jeered, poked and shoved Anne as she passed them. That only made her stick her chin out more.
I have nothing to be ashamed of, she thought, push all you want but I know I don't deserve it. I never did.
She walked up the steps of the scaffold with the help of Sir William Kingston and her head begin to spin as she caught sight of the person who was to end her life. He had grey eyes, she noticed. And they bore no emotion. At least it will be fast, Anne thought as she stood beside the executioner.
"You may say a few words to the people, Lady Anne." Sir Kingston murmured not daring to look in to Anne's eyes. She nodded but kept her eyes fixated on the crowd. They consisted mostly of men and hardly any children, the crowd looked somehow smug and almost triumphant. Especially Thomas Cromwell. The man behind it all.
Anne did not react to her greatest enemy, who was smirking with a look of utmost pride. Of course she was coursing with anger but she knew she had to create an impression that would stay afresh in every single person's minds after her death. Her main target; Thomas Cromwell.
With a sigh, she spoke. "Good Christian people, I am come hither to die, for according to the law, and by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I am come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak any thing of that, whereof I am accused and condemned to die, but I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never; and to me was he ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord. And if any person will meddle of my cause, I require them to judge the best." Anne swallowed " And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me."
She gave one curt nod and Katherine stepped forward and unclasped the english style gable hood Anne was wearing. Aunt Boleyn, close to tears, helped her put on the crisp white cap. Anne was ready. "Mind you I have a little neck," she joked to the executioner, laughing dryly.
She gave a golden puch, bulging with 20 pounds to the executioner. Before she could kneel down the executioner he grabbed her hand and bowed.
"Pardonne-moi pour ce que je dois faire." He whispered, carely in admiration at the ex-queen's bravery. Anne nodded, "You are forgiven"
She kneeled down and clasped her hands together, her lips murmuring in prayer. "To Christ I commed my soul, Jesus receive my soul..."
I am sorry my darling sister Mary, for how I treated you. And I am sorry to my beautiful step-daughter Mary, child of Catherine of Aragon, to whom I realize have done a great wrong. To Henry, my husband for not being able to conceive you a son. And my Elizabeth...I will miss you, child. I'll miss those darling freckles and your fiery red hair. I love you.
Tears spilled down her face, splashing to the ground. The ladies who had shunned her were now weeping, weeping for Anne. Everyone had kneeled themselves down, finally realizing of her innocence. The executioner raised his sword and immediately put it to contact with Anne's flesh.
At the last moment, Anne saw Elizabeth. Elizabeth, the queen of England.
© Copyright 2016 KatzieWhatziz. All rights reserved.
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