V for VENDETTA

Jane Seymour: "I have no greater riches in the world than my honour, which I would not injure for a thousand deaths." – Or would she?

Setting and plot:

May 1536. Anne Boleyn is dead. Jane Seymour, England's new Queen consort, is expected to provide the King with a male heir and live up to her reputation as Henry's most virtuous and gracious wife. Thomas Wyatt, shocked and bewildered at Anne's death, vows to avenge his great love and bring down those who sealed her fate. What will happen when he moves against Jane? It is when aspects of the past she's been trying to conceal come to the surface that the new queen finds herself in a dire situation, which soon turns into a struggle not only for the throne, but life itself. Mostly Thomas' POV.

PROLOGUE

May 19, 1536

"I pray… and beseech you all, to pray for the life of the king…"

He watched her from afar, his friend, his beloved. Pressed to the stone wall that shielded him from view, Thomas Wyatt clung to it for dear life, the cool bricks the only steady thing in a world that was slipping away.

There she stood on the scaffold, so brave, so graceful. She had never been more beautiful.

Her hair – how often had he marvelled at it flowing down her back like dark velvet? – was arranged in a simple style. Her face was pale. She wore a gown of grey damask and a thick mantle lined with fur, and Thomas could see that she held a small prayer book in her hands. As she spoke and turned her head to look at those who had gathered to watch her die, her pearl earrings danced from side to side giving her an almost dashing look.

She had chosen her attire carefully, making sure every piece of clothing and jewellery was of the highest quality. And indeed, she looked so very elegant and sophisticated as she made her final speech, pausing only occasionally to draw a deep breath or wait for the audience's reaction. Yes, she would die every inch a queen - and yet she looked so pure, so vulnerable with her hair tied back and her face so white, all alone on the scaffold for all eyes to see.

He thought he had never seen her so highly impressive, so composed, and yet so broken. The end had come and she knew there was no way out.

"Wherefore I submit to death with a good will… "

His heart went out to her, and it ached. Oh how it ached. His only consolation was the manner in which she handled this, and he was proud of her. She was doomed, but she carried herself with such dignity and grace that no one who saw her now would ever forget it.

"… humbly asking pardon of all the world… "

Was she thinking of him, too, even if only for a second? If so, then she must now that he forgave her and pardoned her everything, that he had always loved her. He still did. But soon death would rip her out of his life, and the thought was unfathomable.

Realising once more that this was the last time he would ever see her alive and breathing, he felt tears of anger and despair run down his cheeks. He clung to the wall next to him, weeping for her. She did not deserve this bloody death, this agony. She was innocent.

He watched as she removed her mantle and jewellery, and now her face was so sad it broke his heart. She said farewell to her sobbing ladies and then stepped forward to address the crowd one last time.

"And thus I take my leave of the world… and of you."

It was to him as if she spoke only to him, and all the years he had loved her flashed before his eyes. Anne, Anne, Anne… He wept bitterly, his body shivering in the morning breeze.

"Bless you," he whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from her. God, this could not be real.

He held his breath as she knelt down waiting for the executioner to strike. Her lips moved rapidly as she beseeched God to receive her soul, to have mercy on her.

A tear ran down her cheek and it was his undoing; he slid down the cool stone wall and for the first time in many years spoke a genuine, unselfish prayer. For her, and the safeguard of her soul. She deserved to be happy in another world… the most happy.

"Boy! Fetch my sword!"

The executioner's voice tore him out of his reverie. He perceived the peculiar swishing sound as the heavy sword moved rapidly through the air, and before he knew it he saw it slice through Anne's little neck, cutting her head from her body.

A gush of blood and nothing but blood was the last thing he noticed before his eyes glazed over, an attempt of his brain to shield him from a sight that would otherwise break him forever. He leaned his head against the wall, completely exhausted. It was over.

A merciful feeling of apathy engulfed him, blocking out the pain and the noise, even the noise of Anne's severed head tumbling onto the wooden scaffold and coming to a halt next to her lifeless form. He saw nothing, he heard nothing, and he was glad, for he knew this feeling of nothingness, this void, would not last long.

It was only temporary, just as severed limbs are numb with shock before their agony begins.

How he dragged himself away from the place of her execution and out of the Tower, he would never be able to recollect in later years.

The memory of how he lived in the days after her death would always remain shady, incomplete.

He ate little and spoke less, shutting himself away and drinking heavily. The shock of his own imprisonment, the events that followed, the execution of George, Mark and the others, and finally, the death of Anne, had left him shattered and broken, and he did not know what to do.

At times he was nearly sober and thought that maybe he would learn to live in a world without Anne Boleyn, never to forsake her memory. But then the realization of her cruel end would hit him once more, and after hours of drinking himself into a stupor to dull the pain he would lie down on his bed and shed bitter tears of sorrow. A sorrow that went so deep and was so all-consuming it sucked him dry.

Once, in a moment of nostalgia, he rummaged around for the locket necklace that contained a miniature portrait of Anne, her dark hair framing her face. A smile graced his lips when he found it, but as he opened it his hands started to shake, and at the sight of Anne's face he let out a muffled scream before hurling the locket against the wall of his room. It fell to the ground, shattered into two pieces, but Anne's image remained intact. He picked it up and pressed a kiss to it, his lips quivering.

She was dead. Dead, dead, dead. He would never see her again.

She was dead!

Henry sighed with relief as the trumpets sounded. With the Harlot dead, nothing stood in his way.

He let out a sharp breath he had been holding ever since he'd risen two hours ago. From now on, everything would be different. He would be young and merry as before.

Tomorrow, at the first light of day, the royal barque would carry him to Whitehall, where he would meet his darling Jane and become engaged to her. At the thought of her sweet face he smiled a gentle smile. His dream was coming true – by tomorrow they would be celebrating their betrothal and all would be well again.

The Whore would soon be forgotten, utterly and completely. Already the memory of her face was slipping away, buried in a dark place of his soul. All he wanted to do was see Jane and begin their new life together, and never had the prospect of marriage been so hopeful and vitalizing.

He felt cheerful, excited, reborn.

In a few days Jane would be his wife and they would live together in peace, caring for each other. A new chapter was about to begin, a chapter of love and harmony that would surely lead to the birth of a Prince, a son to be the living image of his father.

Yes, all was well again – all was mended.

May 30, 1536

When Thomas Wyatt received the news of the king's remarriage, he stood in silence for a moment, torn between disbelief and seething rage.

So this was how Henry VIII honoured Anne Boleyn's memory. This was the respect the king paid to the one who had loved him, born his child and died an innocent traitor. It was preposterous.

Of course, he had been aware of the king's growing affection for Jane Seymour, whose star had risen as quickly as Anne's had fallen. He had noticed that something was going on, that something was about to happen, though he'd had no idea what it might be.

Now he was much wiser, and knew with bitter certainty that he would hate himself forever for being either unable or not brave enough to save Anne. He should have appealed to Cromwell, should have pleaded with the King, he should have moved heaven and earth… It was too late to save her, but the nagging feeling remained. After days of drinking senselessly, of weeping and screaming over the unfairness of life and the death of his one true love, he was finally capable of thinking straight again.

He was as guilty as Cain for not doing more to save her life, but no tears of his would bring Anne back. She deserved to be remembered and bemoaned, and the deep sorrow he felt would never truly abate. But he could not go on like this, wailing in self pity. He would pay her respect, mourn and honour her, but he would not bury himself anymore.

After spending the first days after Anne's death in London, he had fled to Allington Castle, the Wyatt family home in Kent, where he shut himself from the world and found comfort in nothing, not even speaking to his family.

It was now, upon a spontaneous visit to Hever Castle, home of the Boleyns, that something in him was beginning to change.

Seeing the old Boleyn, who had returned to his manor after the execution of his children, turned out to be a fatal disappointment. Thomas had ridden to Hever in the hope of finding comfort in the presence of those who'd been close to Anne, but Elizabeth, Anne's mother and now an old woman, was dismayed and bewildered at the death of her son and daughter, and of no much help. The relationship between her and her husband was irreparably shattered, and Thomas Boleyn himself was a lost cause.

He was cold and aloof, completely lethargic. Wyatt sensed that, deep down, Boleyn was broken and had nothing left to live for. The great cause of his life, rising to power and wielding that power accordingly, was gone, for he had been deprived of his titles and banished from court. The death of his children was a thing he was obviously trying to block out, but it was of no use. He knew very well that he had as good as killed them with his ambition, and there was no remedy now, no comfort to ease the pain of their passing.

No, there was no comfort to be expected from these two.

He was about to leave when Boleyn, who was standing by a near window, said quietly without turning around: "Maybe you haven't heard of it yet, Thomas? Today, but a few hours ago, the king married Jane Seymour in the Chapel Royal. And to think that I told Anne once that if we acted quickly, we would hear of the Seymours no longer." He laughed bitterly, a sound that shocked Thomas to the core.

So the king was married again? But ... how could he?

He was confused. He needed to be alone. Mumbling an excuse, he fled from the house. He thought of returning to Allington Castle immediately, but then decided against it. Sort out his thoughts he must, and so he went for a stroll through the gardens at Hever.

It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining and, strange though it was, he found peace in walking the paths Anne had walked in the days of her youth. He strolled idly, grateful for the refreshing breeze after half an hour in a sticky room with too desperate old people he had sought out for comfort. He thought of Anne and saw her everywhere, and the memories were so bittersweet it tore at his heart. Would the pain ever end?

Finally, Thomas reached the tree under which they had once lain, before Anne went to court. He remembered leaning over her, memorized every contour of her face. He remembered her playful smile as she asked him: "Women and poets are always free with their hearts, are they not?"

He had feared then that she would leave him, and his foreboding turned out to be true. For she had left him, and everything fell apart.

He sank down to his knees, clutching the grass in his right hand in a feeble attempt to make himself believe that she was still here, that he could still touch her. Here she had lain, so alive, so full of hope for her future.

"Never, if you value your life, speak of me to others, do you understand?"

He had not. He would never have betrayed her. Only once had he forsaken her, in the days before her death when he should have done everything in his power to save her.

As he hovered there, bound to his grief under the great tree with its long branches that swayed lazily in the wind, he vowed that he would never betray her again. Glancing behind him at the castle, he smiled mirthlessly. He thought of Thomas Boleyn and all the others who had played their part in bringing Anne down, people who had acquiesced in her execution, and some of them had not even felt remorse.

He would not go so far as to say that Thomas Boleyn felt no sorrow at all over the demise of his daughter. But there were others, and three people came to the fore, who were guilty of either plotting, wanting or exploiting her downfall and death.

Cromwell, Henry, Jane.

This way or the other, Thomas saw these three and their desires as the main factors that had led to Anne's end.

There was Cromwell to whom he owed thanks, for the Secretary had saved him from the block. They had been friends, or at least allies, for a long time. Thomas had admired Cromwell as a "coming man", a man of ambition and great talent. But the recent events, and the part the Secretary had played in bringing Anne down for fear of losing his own position and influence, had changed Thomas' opinion of him. Cromwell was as guilty of murdering Anne as was the King himself.

He had never truly loved Henry as a subject should love their king. He had respected and obeyed him, yes. But true love and admiration? No. Not only was the King the man who had taken Anne away from him forever, even winning her love, he was also the man who killed not only Anne, but also George Boleyn and Mark Smeaton, two men Thomas had always regarded as good friends, Mark even more so than George. No, he had never loved the king and he sure as hell never would.

And, finally, there was Jane Seymour. Perhaps the news of her marriage to the King had not come as the greatest of all surprises, but still, it was a shock. Now that Thomas knew what this woman had been up to all the time, all with the ultimate goal of ascending to the throne, he felt nothing but hatred. She had presented herself as pure and innocent, and even he had been fooled. He remembered Mark saying, "Ah she is pretty, the Lady Jane Seymour…"

And she was pretty indeed. The perfect image of an English rose, almost angelic with her pale skin and blonde hair that surrounded her face like a halo. He saw her before his mind's eye, the sweet smile, too sweet. The gentle eyes, her golden head always demurely inclined.

To Henry, she must have been everything that Anne was not, and Jane Seymour had used that fact to her advantage.

Motivated and pushed by her ambitious brother and father, she had acted in a cold and calculating manner, no matter how sweet and benevolent a façade she had presented to the world. Coolly, patiently, she had stood by as Anne struggled for her life and her crown, and finally, even before the queen's blood had dried, Jane had risen to the throne and paid no heed to her predecessor's agony and death.

Now she was queen, and probably proud of herself. What a whore. She was the true concubine, the one who had washed her hands in the blood of Anne Boleyn. Maybe she would even give Henry his god damned Duke of York, a royal Prince, and the king would rejoice in her purity and benevolence. Thomas led out a snort at the thought. It was all so ridiculous, and yet so cruel in its absurdity.

Should the son of Jane Seymour succeed Henry VIII to the throne? What of Elizabeth, the goodliest and smartest child anyone could ever imagine? She had been discarded and bastardised, and Thomas knew it would break Anne's heart to learn of the ill treatment of her beloved girl.

God, there was nothing he would not do to turn back time, to gain some supernatural power and make it all undone. But what was there to do?

He sighed and sat in the grass. The soft breeze and the many noises of spring quickly lulled him in, and he closed his eyes. Birds were singing; the warm air of the afternoon touched him tenderly.

And in this rapt sensation, it was to him as if he heard a voice. A familiar voice.

"Thomas…"

He opened his eyes. No. No it could not be. It could not be her voice. He was hallucinating.

"Thomas…"

He did not know what was going on, but in spite of himself he whispered hopefully: "Anne?"

"Yes. It's me."

Oh good Lord. It was her voice. Undeniably. But he could not see her.

"No," she said as if reading his mind, "you cannot see me."

"Why is that?" he asked, rising slowly from the grass and looking around frantically.

"It's because I'm living inside you."

Thomas bowed his head. So she knew? She knew he'd never forget her, would forever be haunted by her?

"Haunted? No… I'm not haunting you. I'm living inside you. Don't you understand? I am a part of you." Her voice was tender. Why could he not see her? Suddenly he longed to see her face, look her in the eyes.

"Oh Anne," he said, suddenly desirous to relieve himself of the burden he'd been carrying. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I did not do more to save you. I should have – "

"No," she breathed, and it was like a caress. "It was not your fault. You believed in me, you never betrayed me. You loved me more than Henry ever did."

She sounded sad now, bitterly sad. But then, as if she was unwilling to think of the King, she asked: "You were there, weren't you? At the ... execution. I sensed your presence although I didn't see you."

Realizing what she meant, he nodded. "Yes. I was there. Oh, Anne. I'm so sorry. Forgive me. I know you were innocent…"

"If it means so much to you, then yes, I forgive you. But there is nothing to forgive. None of it was ever your fault, Thomas. Please know that. I should be asking you for forgiveness. I was cruel to you. I failed you. And for this sin I shall forever atone, as for so many others…"

Her voice was fading, and startled Thomas turned around, for he felt a movement. And there she was. She saw her before his eyes, just a few feet away. So very beautiful, so very desirable. He smiled.

She smiled too, reluctantly.

He held out his hand, and her smile widened, but she shook her head.

"No… I must go… "

"Where are you going? When are you coming back?" He moved closer to her but it seemed to him as if she was moving backwards. She was fading away, and he wanted so badly for her to stay.

"Anne, please! Don't go!"

She heard her pearling laughter. It was balm to his wounds.

"I'll always be with you, Thomas."

"Anne, please! Don't leave me!"

And when she faded even further away as if by magic, he held out his hand to her and screamed: "Anne, I will avenge you! I promise!"

He began to run after her. "I will take vengeance, Anne, I swear to you! They will pay for what they did to you. I will not rest before your name is cleared; I owe this to you. Do you hear me? I will avenge you!"

He reached out to touch her, but there was nothing. He heard her laughter, like silver bells, fade as he looked around.

She was gone.

Burying his head in his hands he sank to his knees. God, he loved her. He missed her so much. Perhaps this had been but a trick of his imagination, but it brought to life once more all the feelings of loss and sorrow and despair.

Had this been real? If so, then she had decided to come to him. She'd wanted to let him know that she did not deem him responsible for anything. Her forgiveness was what he had needed, he knew that now. His beloved Anne. She had come to him, smiled at him. Perhaps he was going crazy, but he did not care. It had been so real. And it did not strike him as a surprise that she would show herself to him here at Hever, where they had been together so often.

He knew now that he would never be free of her, and he did not want to. He would keep her memory forever in his heart, knowing that she had loved him too, in her own way.

And, by God, he would never let go of the promise he'd made. He would avenge her.

Seeing her before him had opened his eyes to a startling truth. It was his mission, ordained by a higher power, to avenge her and clear her name. It had not been in his power to save her from death, but it was in his power to take vengeance on her behalf. He had to do this for her, for her daughter, and for himself.

He would investigate, he would plot, he would move heaven and earth. And if he had to pay the highest price, gain the most loss, he would do it all. For her. There must be a way to destroy those who destroyed her.

And if it is the last thing I do… I shall avenge her. I shall.