weak, gray light filters through the grimy window. Below, I can hear
the hammers and saws as they build the scaffold, my scaffold.
Tomorrow I will die. 'Prepare,' my gaolers say, but how can one
prepare to have one's head cut off? The answer?
Pray, pray to God Almighty to save my soul that has been defamed
through no fault of my own. Nothing will spare me now, Mary is
determined to kill me for if she doesn't dispose of me her
husband-to-be, the Prince Phillip of Spain, eldest son of the Holy
Roman Emperor, will not come to England and marry her. Killed for
nine days, unwilling days, as Queen, and for a marriage to a man I
did not love. You'd think Mary, of all people would understand.
After all, her mother was put aside for Anne Boleyn, but of course,
it comes back to one thing, I am a Protestant and Her Majesty is not.
Lord Almighty, help me. More to the point, help my poor lost cousin.
I die for minor differences in opinion, condemned by the Queen who
vowed to be merciful, condemned by my own cousin.