Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

I am Jane, Queen of England.

I think I preferred it when I was a mere Seymour girl. Being married and being queen is nothing like how I imagined it to be. The lies, the deceit. The constant trying to please everyone around me, particularly my fickle husband. What started out as a fairytale has soon turned sour and now I am regretting the day I ever managed to capture the King's eye.

He is not the man he used to be. He is not the man that I fell in love with. How could he have changed so much in the space of a year. I remember his eyes, those sapphire eyes that was capable of making my heart stop beating. They were kind, gentle, thoughtful even. They made me believe that he was not the majestic King that everyone else saw him as, but a sweet, tender hearted man. My Henry. How he used to be so kind and honourable towards me. He would oblige me with chaste kisses and gentle embraces as he whispered sweet nothings in my ear. How times have changed. His eyes are cruel now. Insincere. Hardened as though he had suffered some great ordeal. There are no sweet whisperings any more, only harsh words whenever I dare to voice my opinions. No gentle embraces either. He is rough with me now. His kisses sting my skin and bruises my mouth. I feel as though I have displeased him some how but do not know what I have done to make him resent me so. I have long learnt not to question him or say what I think. Only a fool would dare to express their opinion at court these days. I fear a demon has possessed him and taken over his body, for he is certainly not my Henry any more.

The thing that disturbs me most though is not my husband. He is as changeable as the wind. One minute he is lavishing me with gifts and attention, calling me his darling heart, the next he is cold and distant, acting as though I never existed. I try to cope with it as best as I can and simply savour the good and ignore the bad. It is the only way I will ever survive this life. But the one thing that I cannot endure is the thought of her. When I am alone my mind wanders and her image plagues my thoughts. I have nightmares about her. Of her headless corpse covered in a blood stained sheet lying on the cold, wet ground. Whenever I get to close to her she rises from the dead and her mangled body grabs my ankle and pulls me down to Hell with her.

I used to think she was guilty. How could she not be? Everyone knows how she was. She mastered her eyes as finely as any craftsmen would master his tools. She knew what she wanted and she always got it. Seduction at an eye pace! Of course she was wicked, how she treated my dear Queen Katherine, God rest her soul, and her poor child. She seduced the King for his crown and did not care who got in her way. The way the King fell for her could only have been the result of witch craft. What man would leave his loyal, loving wife for someone little better than a harlot? No, she was a wicked whore who used her body to gain favours and power.

But the more I think about it, the more I cannot help but have some doubt about her guilt. Surely even she knew that she was on dangerous ground towards the end of her life. Would she really have done something so stupid, so treacherous as to sleep with other men just because she wanted to satify some perverted lust? Would she have knowingly endangered her own life as well as that of her daughter? Deep down inside my heart I know that she would not. Call her what you will but her love for Elizabeth was strong and pure. I would wager she would have willingly died for her well being.

But why then would the King have her executed if she was not guilty? I have heard rumours that he and Cromwell sent for the swordsmen before the verdict had ever been decided. I tell my doubts to my brothers but they just simply laugh at me and remind me that she was found guilty by a court of men who were well known for their upstanding reputations. But if the King wanted something he would have it. Their marriage was proof of that, as is ours. If he wanted her found guilty, then she would be found guilty. My only friend, my only true friend at court is Lady Rochford, and I confide my secret thoughts to her as though she were my own personal diary. She too thinks I am being silly and reminded me that the woman had a wicked reputation and that they might have called her sister a whore but she had seen things between the Queen and her brother that would shock the Devil himself. But it was well known that Lady Rochford hated her husband, the late Queen's brother, who shared her fate on the scaffold.

Now that I am Queen, no one gives me an honest word. They all flatter and compliment me so that I will grant them favours. They seem to forget that I have a long memory and remember that they once used to ignore me. How I wish for honesty. If just one person shared their doubts about her guilt then I would know that I was not the only one, that there might be some truth to my suspicions, but no one dares speak about it. Even Cranmer will not contradict the King and refuses to speak to me in private.

I am worried. Not only for my immortal soul, for if she was innocent my presence helped condemn her, but for my mortal body too. If the King can divorce one wife and kill the other, what fate lies in store for me? If I anger him and remain childless, will he have me found guilty of some crime and have the axe waiting for me? I am constantly walking on egg shells. I just remain quiet and smile lovingly at him as though his presence does not make my skin crawl. I will do my duty and hope he finds me pleasing.

For I am his Queen and I must submit myself to him completely.

Next Chapter: Jane discovers Anne's secret diary