This isa short story I wrote for English, and my sister bribed me into posting it...so, here it is!

“The Most Happy”

“I’m innocent!” I scream at the cold gray walls and empty air, breaking the silence of the room in which I will spend most of the last hours of my life. I did not choose death, but I will face it without fear. “God is merciful, he will not deny my passage into Heaven.” It is a comforting thought, one I have come to believe since my trial. I will not speak ill of those who put me here, mainly my husband, but I am innocent of the crimes with which I am charged; adultery, incest, and treason against my king. If only I had borne a son.

“My beautiful little girl. What will become of my darling Elizabeth? Would her father care for her?” I remember the day she was born, September 7th, 1533. Her father, Henry, had wanted a boy; expected a boy, but was pleased nonetheless. I tried again to satisfy his wishes, to give him an heir, but the first was a miscarriage. The second, determined a boy, was stillborn. I wept at the loss of both, not only for their sake, but for my own as well. I knew my husband would think ill of this. I had not produced his much-anticipated son. I also began to notice his interests in a lady-in-waiting of mine. “Why does she receive his attentions whilst I get naught?”

It is just after dawn. I will soon be sent for. I begin to dress, trying to remain composed. My dress is one of dark gray damask trimmed in fur. Under this, will be a red petticoat, which will all be covered with a mantle of ermine. A lady-in-waiting comes into my room. She helps me finish dressing and binds up my dark brown hair under a coif of white linen and my usual headdress. This will be removed before my execution.

May 19th, my final day on this earth. My brother George was executed just two days ago on Tower Hill. Francis Weston and William Brerton were also beheaded, charged with adultery with the queen. “I will soon meet that same fate,” I think, disbelieving. I begged my husband to spare their lives and the life of my brother, but Henry was relentless, and there in now nothing more I can do. I know I shall be reunited with my brother in Heaven.

A Constable of the Tower comes to accompany me to Tower Green. He seems to be unsure around me, torn between the stoicism that is his duty and wanting to console me. Uncomfortable in the silence, I told him that I just wanted this thing to be done, and past my pain. “There should be little or no pain,” he assured me.

“I heard say the executioner was very good, and I have a little neck,” I replied with levity. My thoughts turn again to Elizabeth, and I pray that Henry will care for her and that God will protect her. “Will my three year old daughter, my only daughter, remember her mother?” That reflection saddens me.

As I walk out into Tower Green, flanked by my ladies-in-waiting and the constable, the brightness of the early morning and the vivid green of the grass seem surreal. I walk to the block; the executioner stands close. They say he is an expert swordsman from Calais, and that the blow of a sword is cleaner than that of an axe. I feel overwhelmed, in a moment, my life flashes before my eyes, but I am determined to appear tranquil. I turn to look at those who have attended my private execution.

“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 anything 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 he was ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord” I declare. I pause and turn to glance at my small procession. “And if any person will meddle of my cause, I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. O Lord have mercy on me, to God I commend my soul.” I turn once again towards the execution block and stare down at my fate.

I know that these are the last few moments of my life, but I am not afraid. I know that God will take my soul. As I kneel down at the block, my ladies blindfold me. My senses are heightened. I hear the caws of the ravens that have taken up permanent residence in the tower, the brush of clothing with each movement of the onlookers, a rustle as the executioner pulls his sword from the straw where it was hidden from my sight.

Knowing my time left on this earth is limited; I consider what I would like my headstone to read “Anne Boleyn, 1502 – 1536, ‘The Most Happy.’” I hear a slight ring as the sword slices through the crisp air of this May morning. “To Jesus Christ I commend my soul; Lord Jesu receive my soul.”