Summary: It's past midnight on May 19, 1536. Anne Boleyn, a prisoner in the Tower of London, accused of crimes with fabricated evidence, spent her last hours in silent contemplation of her life. The rise and downfall of her life revolved around only one person: her husband.

Disclaimer: I've done my research on the mentioned historical figure, and all aforementioned historical facts are accurate.

Tower of London

May 19th, 1536

It is well past midnight, and the candle flickered slightly; its eerie glow dancing on the walls. I shivered slightly and pulled my cloak closer about me despite the warm May weather. As I write tonight, I chanced a glance at the sleeping forms of my ladies: Lady Kingston, wife of my jailer, Constable Anthony Kingston, and my aunt, Lady Margaret Shelton, mother of the beautiful Madge Shelton. I laughed bitterly as I thought about how fervently they had prayed for my downfall.

As I calmed a little, parts of my life began flashed in front of my eyes. Little, insignificant Nan Bullen, second daughter of Thomas Boleyn, dark as gypsy, and younger sister of Mary Boleyn who was branded the English Mare by King Francois Premier.

I, the exotic and mysterious Anne Boleyn who had captured and captivated the King of England's attention and desires for six long years. I, whose stylish design on my gowns found my styles imitated by every ladies of the court. I, whose charms, quick wit and intelligence enthralled men of the court, and the King himself was no exception. I, who single-handedly destroyed Thomas Wolsey, and Katharine of Aragon, the proud daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain.

This is the tragic story of Anne Boleyn whose rise to the King's favour had been as quick as the downfall to follow.


My husband, the King, was my lover, my greatest friend, my enemy, and my murderer. I remember the very first time I saw him in the gardens of the Hever Manor on a warm spring day. How enamored and persistent he had been in his animal-like pursue of me. How passionate and ardent his love had been—and how quickly it had cooled when I failed to five him his longed-for son, like my predecessor.

How he showered me with rubies, French silks, and priceless gowns—as he had always found his greatest pleasure in hearing my squeal of delight. How I loved the jewels! And of course, my title as Marquess of Pembroke.

My rising star was showered in wealth and attention as Katharine wasted away, in the end, at Kimbolton Castle. How we'd been the perfect lovers and partners—headstrong and stubborn. How jubilant we were upon hearing Katharine's death, and our sorrow at Elizabeth's gender.

Elizabeth. My little Bessie. My sweet, little daughter. On how I tremble for you! How I wished you had been a stillborn so that you won't have to face your father's wrath, and disappointment. What will your monstrous father do? Will he destroy you as he did the Lady Mary? Will you live with shadows of the axe hanging over your shoulders? Sweet Jesu! Please keep my daughter away from harms way. I will miss those big, black eyes, her crown of fiery red hair, and her charms.

The wind howled chillingly outside of these walls. I thought of George and the five other men executed yesterday: Norris, Weston, Smeaton, Brereton, and my handsome brother, George. Oh George! He didn't deserve to die…

Jane Rochford was the shrew, and treacherous wife who had betrayed us in her jealousy. I remembered hearing the statement that she wrote and signed while she was questioned. I have no doubt now that that parchment contained—lies about George's and my relationship and the witty companions I kept at my court.

Our sibling love was pure—we both shared the wit, charms and charisma that attracted the court to us. Jane on the other hand, lacked all that would've made her more attractive. She was slow and extremely dull—a stark contrast to what George and I were.

I am not afraid. My only regret is to leave my beautiful Bess alone, motherless like the Princess Mary, and that my brother had died because of me.

I welcomed death—rather, I embrace death. I long to join my brother, where I know he awaits me. Those innocent five men and myself—we'll be together in Paradise where there will be a lot of dancing, and none of the prying and jealous eyes of the King.

I smiled contently. In a few hours I will die. I have prepared my speech—I will blame no one, speak ill of no one.

I will depart this world in peace.

Signed,

Anne Boleyn,
Prisoner of King Henry VIII

- The End -


A/N: Second part of the Tudor story collection. Written about Anne Boleyn, who displaced Katharine of Aragon as Queen of England (See Flower of England-Katharine of Aragon)