April 30, 1536.
Mark was arrested today. So was George.
I suppose I shouldn't be shocked. The King had been wrenching with that Seymour sheep for quite some time, and during it she probably convinced him to end me. How long did it take her? One month? Two? Or perhaps she has been there all along, a third pawn in the game Katherine and I played, ready to play the winner of the game. In any case, Henry, no, his majesty, has begun to tire of me. No, begun is the wrong word, for he has been tired of me for a very long time. He loved me for a while, though I despised him. And for one day, I loved him. One day where we were both happy and in love. But now I despise him once more. I despise him because I knew exactly what game he was playing, and yet had no choice but to throw the dice. I gambled on a son that never existed, and I lost.
I suppose I deserved what I got. But not my loved ones. It is a shame, for Mark Smeaton is the greatest musician at court, and such talent going to waste is saddening. George has no talent, but I am depressed about his death regardless.
God save the Queen.
May 2, 1536.
I have not written in this wretched book for a long time, but I suppose I should now. I was arrested today, for no reason. Incest, they tell me. Adultery. They tell me it was treason to be unfaithful to the king, saying I was with 100 men though that is all lies, and now I'm locked up in this dreadful place, waiting to know if I die a heretic's death by burning or a Queen's death by beheading. They tell me the marriage was null and void, and I tittered at that. They thought I was mad for laughing so, but I was being reasonable. I was unfaithful to a marriage that was never there? More over, how could I be unfaithful in the first place? How could one not scoff at such idiocy? Even the people thought the charges ridiculous, and they all hated me. I knew it was Cromwell's doing, for one could not be so stupid as that man. Perhaps I will receive pity from God. They have placed a crucifix in my room, so I may pray for my wretched soul, and I feel eyes on me, watching me from his eternal post on the cross. They follow me. And I act as I normally would, saying, 'this is who I am, like it or not. Forgive me for I am cursed because the King chose me.'
May 15, 1536.
They put me on trial today. Nobody bowed when I entered. George and Smeaton were there as well. Poor Smeaton, broken by torture. He has no nails, his knuckles gnarled like an old man's because of the things they did to him. Racked, corkscrewed, the evidence of his suffering was all there. I remember, I said, "Smeaton, I know fair well they lie to you, promise you your life. But you will die with me. Would you die a liar?" He would, for he denied that all we had was friendship. I worried he had begun to believe the things they told him, that he began to hate me, and so I began to hate him. But upon taking one look at his dirty face as he was dragged from court, I forgave him, and he me.
It did not matter that I was innocent, that the proof against me was scant. Every one of those jurors said guilty, even Uncle Norfolk. It was to be expected. I was a pawn of the devil, and I got my due. They too, would get their due, I knew. Lady Rochford, Uncle Norfolk, Henry, they would all suffer as I did. I would haunt their dreams and drive them insane. But I didn't dare show any of my thoughts. I kept my mouth shut. For these last days, I could keep my mouth shut, for that was what had brought me down in the first place, my screaming and hollering. And now I am paying for it.
May 16, no, 17. No, I don't know what day it is. I don't care to. All I know is I was to die today, in this ermine coat. I was to be beheaded, I learned, which was better than burning, but not by much. I was to end my suffering on this day, whatever day it was, but they tell me the executioner has not arrived from Calais. What foolishness! They lie, I know that. The putrid king hates me, and wishes to make me lose my mental state of mind before losing my head. I suppose I should take the blame. I helped the lion recognize his power, and now he wishes to have me broken. But I will not shatter. I shall not! Not if he racks me to within an inch of my life. I am Queen of England, mother of the Elizabeth who will rule the world one day. Oh, Elizabeth. My poor, sweet girl. I miss her giggling as she sat on a pillow beside me, her constant gurgling speech. I miss her in general, and now I worry she will suffer as Katherine's daughter suffered. Katherine's daughter, Mary, who hated me. I will not blame her. In fact, I have asked for her forgiveness, but received no reply. I do not blame her for that either. I would do the same. But poor, foolish girl. I cannot help the thought that she does not have any good left in her life because of my control on her once-loving father, and though I scold myself, it does not leave.
But Elizabeth is strong, I tell myself. She is my daughter. She will not falter, as Mary did. My Elizabeth will be Queen, and my blood will have been well spent.
I die today.
I am no longer writing this on paper, but in my head, for god to hear and whoever else. I recall my life as I march to the scaffold; I recall my days in Hever, before court and when father loved me. I recall France, and I recall Thomas Wyatt, the poet who loves me above all things. I recall my dear Elizabeth, and the times I was cruel, and the times I was compassionate. I recall my miscarried sons, never given a chance in life. I remember not minutes ago, telling the guard, 'I have only a little neck.' And my happy laughter afterwards. I remember all of this as I stand upon the scaffold, as every eye lay upon me, jeering or blessing me. I care not. All I know is I must speak, before I die, or my legend will die too.
"Good Christian people!" I boom. The crowd falls silent. "I have come here to die, according to the law, and therefore will speak nothing against it. I have come here to speak against no man, nor to speak anything of that for I am accused to die." Of course I will not, for Elizabeth will suffer if I do. "I pray God save the king and send him a long reign over you, for he is the greatest prince on the face of the earth, and has always treated me so kindly." I pause, sucking in one of the breaths that will be my last. I hurriedly continued, for fear the people would speak and I would not be heard, but they were respectively silent. And then I say the part of my speech that I feel is most important. "And if anyone should take up my case, I ask them only to judge it kindly."
My ladies are at my shoulders then, removing my coat, my jewels and earrings, and placing the hood upon my hair that will keep it off my small neck. And now I stand, in front of my enemies and my friends, with nothing but my simple dress on and gable hood. I begin to kneel, but stop. I am not finished. "And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me." And now I kneel, closing my eyes and praying to god to redeem my soul.
Then something surprising happens. My eyes open, just for a moment, and I see a sight that I would die many deaths for. It hits me like a heat wave, the overpowering love and respect from the crowd, and they all kneel, with words of "God save your majesty." Yes, god save me, for I am due to die now. I feel the wind at my throat from the sword, though it does not register the blow will sever my head. The memories hit me in a flash, my life flying before my eyelids, and I catch a last glimpse of a falcon taking flight into the sky, soaring off into a world unknown.
And then it is over.
Fin.