Freezing cold. Too cold for a new spring day.
Looking around me at the solemn faces, maybe it's not the weather that's making it so cold. Maybe it's the horror that has tainted the air.
A gusty breeze weaves through the crowd, and ruffles my skirts away from my ankles. 15 and growing, my favorite gown is already too small.
The tall, thick man on the raised piece of stone is sharpening his sword. He's been sent all the way from France to do his job. To behead the queen.
Rumor has it that this French-man is a final gift from the king to the queen, Anne Boleyn. Horrid present, if you ask me. But I'm only a girl, a young girl. No one would ask me.
Suddenly, the slight murmur coming from the crowd ceases, and I look towards the Tower of London's entrance, and see the queen coming out. 3 of her ladies follow. The women following her have expressions that are as cloudy as the sky above, but Queen Anne is different. Lacking better words, I must say she seems...joyful.
Despite the current situation, a tiny smile teases her lips. The whispering in the crowd starts up again.
Then Anne Boleyn is at the tip of the stone platform. She gestures to the crowd.
"Good people, I come here to die, for I am sentenced, therefore shall not speak against anything. I haven't come here to accuse one, nor beg for mercy, because I am condemned. I hope the Lord does save the king, let him rule over you for long and good. There has never been a fairer prince in this land. And now I shall give myself to my Lord, and pray He has mercy on my soul."
She takes off her French hood (a fading fashion in the king's court), her necklace made of only the finest jewels, and lastly, her signature Boleyn pearl choker.
Then the queen smirks at the man holding the sword and looks slyly up at him with those dark eyes. "Pardon my thin neck, sir." she jokes. That's Anne Boleyn, never fails to entertain.
The groups of people come to watch chuckle. With that, she kneels. I bow my head, a final token of respect. Anne begins muttering a prayer, as the swordsman begins to count. When he reaches two, he swings the weapon. Though I am not looking, I can hear the late queen's head hit the ground with a sickening thump. A quick death. One try.
The crowd begins to part, their daily entertainment over with. At last, few people remain. I glance over to see who stays, and notice Mary Boleyn, Anne's older sister. I walk slowly towards.
"Contrary to popular belief...I think Anne was a great lady." I inform her.
Mary stares at me. "For that I thank you. But you do put yourself in great risk speaking to me."
"I know." is all I need to reply.
She nods, and turns on her heel. The last Boleyn to ever grace the king's castle.
So I follow her lead, and walk away. Back to the warm halls of the castle, the flirting people of the ballrooms, and the haunting memories of Anne Boleyn.