The Grove of Thorns

by thecrowreturns

When Catherine Howard is crowned queen, she is forced to leave behind her one true love. King Henry VIII discovers their secret liaisons, and devastated, has her sentenced to death. However, deciding the executioner is not good enough, he takes up the ax himself. A poem of love, loss, passion, and pain, I hope it resonates with all those who are fascinated with the Tudor genre.

Near the castle, by the lake,

A grove of flowers, one I take,

A rose without a thorn,

A lover she will make.

Taken from my home,

My true love forsaken, alone,

I become a queen of a nation,

Yet sit on a hallow throne.

More beautiful than any ocean pearl,

I give all of my sparkling jewels to my love, my girl,

And yet as I lay next to her, looking upon my joy,

Somehow I feel my stomach begins to twirl.

I say to Henry there might be no other will but his,

But here alone with Thomas, I long for only his kiss,

I know I am wrong, to sing a different love song,

But as I feel his touch, I fall deeper into the mist.

She grows distant by the day,

Where does she go, I wonder, I pray,

Word comes, it cannot be,

My young flower has with another, lay.

Not true, though I wished to,

I banged on his door, I beg of you,

To listen, to hear, to let me be near,

But taken away was I, into the blue.

So angry, so betrayed,

So filled with passion and with hate,

I take up the pen, like with Anne Boleyn,

And set her execution date.

In a dungeon, so cold I can hardly talk,

I place my head again against the wooden block,

Thoughts fill my head, from my childish, wild heart,

Starting to pray for salvation, before I walk the walk.

I open the door where the axmen stood,

Sharpening the blade, but not nearly that good,

I took the weapon, and ordered him to leave,

Taking up the task of the masked, obligingly, I would.

The lights of early mor'n, fall warm upon my blouse,

Low-cut, black velvet down my neck, though not meant to arouse,

The guards rush in, and the time grows scarcely thin,

As I am led before lions, I stay quiet as a mouse.

I stand, dark masked, looking out, looking in,

As she walks slowly, beautiful even in sin,

Could I have forgiven, could I still forget,

Too late, as the sun above the clouds came in.

My speech falters, yet my words are lace,

My voice falls upon the crowd, they upon my face,

As finished I turn to look, right into his eyes with a shock,

I say to my husband the headsman, make it quick, my grace.

I help her down, holding her for the last time,

Still in love, still in agony, oh what a heinous crime,

She raises her head, just once more, to see and touch the sky,

Then she places her beautiful neck, precisely upon the line.

I loved, I laughed, I shouted, I cried and cried,

My heart too big to love just one, though I promise I tried,

I close my eyes, and hear the wind, in the grove for the very last time,

Yes, this rose did have thorns, but at least I never lied.

I raise the heavy ax, into the cold, winter air,

The shadow of the blade between her collarbone and hair,

I hold my breath, and hardly looking, the chop slowly descends,

The thud of silence marking the death of my lady, my Queen Catherine fair.

Near the castle, flowers burn red by the lake,

The most beautiful rose there, I did behead, by fate,

Yet in mourning, still in love, I tend to a plant nearby,

A rose without a thorn, forever my best mistake.