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She breathed a quick prayer. The hold of her fingers was taut around the beads of the rosary, the gesture so foreign to her own hands and faith that it gave her no comfort at all. If anything, the cool metal of the cross at its end reminded her more and more of the cause of her plight by the second.
Two months. It had been two months since she had been brought here. Two months since she entered what so far had been her home as a traitor, two months since she had spent each day dreading if she was to be doomed to the same wretched fate as the previous occupants of the tower. Two months since she saw the heads of her supporters and Thomas Wyatt on pikes, lining the beautifully intimidating walls of the city like half recognizable decorations from hell, as the litter made its way in and her eyes refused to leave the sight no matter how much she willed them to.
It wasn't so much the place of her imprisonment that caused her discomfort than the uncertain nature of it. The charges against her were severe, and she didn't know if it was a blessing or a sick joke from fate that she had gone this long without an actual sentence.
A room this lavish was more than what she had expected from her sister, especially for an alleged crime like this, so looking around—at the magnificent fireplace, the small table pushed against the wall and the coffer next to the window—still never failed to evoke a sense of surprise and gratefulness in her, for God and for whichever guardian angel watched over her.
She did little but think these days. She thought of Kat, her kind face and gentle hands which had held her since she was four. She thought of Robert, his laughter, the easy manner with which he could make her comfortable, the one man in her life who hadn't let her down. She thought of her father, if only with resentment. How arrogant had he been, to not even contemplate the passing of his prestigious crown to his daughters, dying without determining a stable line of succession and leaving them all and the country a lifetime of strife, conflict and pain.
Most of all, she thought of her mother. Her mother, who she had little memory of except the small portrait enclosed in the gold circlet that sat heavy against her ring finger, a constant reminder of just how fatal the institution of marriage could be. Her mother, who had spent her last days alone and in agony in this very room, this very room which had been renovated by her father for her use as a gesture of his love.
Her end was what taught her what a fickle thing love was, made her vow to never hand over her heart to a man for safekeeping, taught her there was no surer way to make sure it broke into a thousand shards and pierced your very skin than to trust another soul with its well being.
In a rather amusing twist of fortune, it was also what had taught her to value love, to see when it was given freely and return it to an extent that befitted the receiver. To make allies rather than enemies, but ensure that you delivered swift justice to the few you did get.
The latter was difficult these days, for it seemed she was surrounded by enemies on every turn, every shadow reaching out towards her with a dark claw, ready to drag her back to either pitch darkness or her death. It wasn't like the silence made it any better, there was only so much you could say to servants you knew were there as spies, watching your every move and waiting for one mistake that led to your downfall.
It had been two months. It was also the anniversary of her mother's death. Today, of all days, had her most on the edge, her mind repeating the same thing over and over again.
You will end up like her. This is where you die. There is no salvation. England will burn, and you with it .
With all the authority she could muster using what she had learned from years of being a royal, if officially a bastard, Elizabeth spoke out,
"Leave."
All six heads turned to her, their expressions varying from discomfort to outright annoyance but each having the sense to address her properly,
"Your Grace?"
"I wish to be alone. Leave."
"But we-"
"I will not ask again, either leave or send for Sir Brydges, I will not be disrespected by servants of my own household.", she gritted out, patience running thin as she watched them fumble with their respective tasks before hurrying out the door one after the other, and she would have laughed if not for the tears behind her eyes burning and threatening to betray her icy composure.
It was after they left that she let them, and herself, fall. The rosary beads broke and spilled from her now slack grip, rolling on the stone floor in a cacophony of harsh tinkling sounds. She clutched the coffer next to her for some illusion of stability, letting the sobs rack her body and damning the world with all she had. It seemed even the sun was mocking her.
The room was bathed in golden rays alight with a million little dots of dust, falling on the ground and glimmering as if it was just an ordinary day, as if it was just a moment in another, completely different world where things didn't change and lives didn't hang in the delicate balance between happiness and destruction, as if her life wasn't an edge away from death.
She hadn't been completely sure when it caught her eye, one stroke of extraordinary shine in that sea of gold, just beside the askew carpet under her legs, one look away and it could have been missed. She wiped her tears, curiosity overcoming any wariness as she held out a hand at the spot, brows furrowing in confusion as it met cold metal.
A latch , to be exact. A latch, on the floor of the most secure building in England.
She removed the rest of the carpet before prying open the wooden plank underneath the latch carefully as it creaked from being out of use. Her fingers were dark from the dust covering its upper surface when she pulled them away. She wasn't sure what she had been expecting, tools for an escape, bones of some soul long gone, a weapon, but it certainly wasn't a neatly bound stack of papers, black ink over them in a hurried yet elegant scrawl.
Elizabeth pulled them out with hesitant hands, not sure if what she was doing counted as looking at someone's private correspondence before she reasoned with her conscience, this was the tower of London, surely whoever left these here will not be coming back for them.
She untied the small piece of silk holding the stack together. The owner had been someone of importance. She sat back, the papers a welcome distraction from her already dreary day, and started reading.
Dearest George,
My Lord Kingston has been kind enough to fetch me some ink and a quill, you know more than anyone how restless I feel at which hour I have nothing to do. I have settled well in the quarters His Majesty the King, mine own Lord Husband did so graciously provide for me, it is more than what I could have asked for considering how I have wronged his person.
I know not how many days it has been since I have been here. Night and day seem to bleed into one another since I came to this lodging. Perhaps has been a day. Perhaps it has been a month. I do not know, since I did see you and all others who have been sentenced so unfairly for my sins.
Elizabeth's face paled as she felt bile rise up in her throat, the realization of the identity of the hand that wrote the letter hit her like cold water poured over her head, the roaring of her own blood obnoxiously loud as her eyes scanned the page, taking a deep breath and blinking back the fresh tears before moving down,
None shall ever read this letter, I know it. But I fear as if I shall be rendered mad if I do not write this, if I do not say what I could not while we still had time.
I cannot take this, dear brother, this slander, these accusations that have no basis in reality, I know his Majesty feels as if I have done him wrongs, but the only one I know of is an occasional lapse in judgement, certainly not those vile things, certainly not those abhorrent accusations about anything akin to incest about us.
Every day I sit here waiting for either reprieve or a quick death to embrace me but it never does. It gets worse and worse every day. I am kept away from mine own daughter. They have taken you from me. I am kept hence from the one person who swore to love me all my life. I cannot survive another day, brother, I desire wherever thou art, God is shining his love unto thee. If He wishes, I shall soon join you.
You are in mine thoughts each day.
All my love,
Anne.
She wished to God she could stop, but she couldn't, neither the tears nor the movement of her eyes as she took in every word, wondering how had she ever thought she knew her mother, had known the woman who survived the most fearsome man she knew long enough to love him.
Dear Mary,
I know I have not been the most wondrous sister, Mary, but I love you and I pray every day that the perfect life you have built for yourself stays that way. You were right to marry for love, I thought I was too.
Mother always said at least one of us had the temperament to invite all kinds of chaos. Forgive me if I have been too hasty for claiming that burden for myself. Take care of my Bess, I do beseech you, and take care of yourself, stay hence from court, there is no more place in all of Christendom more infested with lethal snakes. Stay hence from court and stay joyous.
Do you remember when we replaced father's wine with water? I have never seen him so lost for words, gaping at us like a fish and wondering when his daughters became brave enough to pull jokes on him, but at the same time I could see pride and happiness, one I haven't seen him express in what does feel like forever. I wish we could be happy again.
My ladies have been dismissed, in their place I have the Master Secretary's eyes and ears, they surround me all day like hounds looking for blood, staring at me when they think I can't see. I had a trial, and my only hope was that I justified the truth, that I have been a lot of things, but never aught but a dutiful and faithful wife to His Majesty the King, but it was not enough.
I shall be leaving anon, dear sister, I shall be dead. I have been tried for my crimes, and heard my sentence read by our uncle of Norfolk. Be happy, dear sister, I am sorry for any way I have ever hurt you, I shall atone for it, and love you as I always have.
All my love,
Your Nan.
Every letter was getting more and more messier, blots of ink over the paper and the writing getting more fanatic and slanting. Elizabeth couldn't do anything but read on, the silence in the room suffocating as she took in just how similar another stay in this very room had been, no more than twenty years ago.
Dear Papa and Mama,
I do not know if you both know this, but it was you who made me believe in true love. Papa, it was the way your countenance did light up whenever Mama spoke that made me believe I could someday have that too. I thought I did.
I know you thought that too, I cannot shake the memory of you at my coronation from my mind, how you looked so proud, I am sorry I have to let you go through this alone, to make you lose two of your children at once.
Mama, I am sorry I could not see you before I die, for I am dying, it is set to be in a day, and as I sit here counting every hour, I can think of nothing else but my daughter, prithee keep her safe, the lady is a princess by birth, her father's daughter and a true Tudor, going from that to being called a bastard does not come easy. She shall need all the love she can get, and I hope I can rely on you to provide that. God be with you and keep you safe.
Writ by your very humble and very obedient daughter,
Anna de Boullan.
Some part of Elizabeth had resented Anne for many years, whether it was anger at leaving her alone or sadness at having to go through a life like this without a mother was hard to tell. This feeling was always elusive, a moment it was there, the next it was not, sense taking over her emotions and dismissing the thought ere it began. She has exhausted her tears for the day, hands now moving on their own to flip to the next letter, the first line making her breathe sharply,
To His Majesty,
Dear Henry,
I suppose I do not have the right to call you that anymore, for I was informed our union, sworn before God and your church, is now null and void. I have said all I can to you in my last letter, but I would apologize a thousand times more if need be to make you believe that you are the only one I love, though I suspect you know that fully well. Take care of our daughter, my love.
She is yours, and she shall make you proud. Think of me when you look at her and remember to love her as you once did me. I am thankful for the generosity Your Majesty has shown me in having the method of mine own death be a quick sword rather than a brutal axe.
However, as I told my lord Kingston, I thought to be at this time dead and past my pain, but my execution is to be tomorrow. I cannot stand this delay, my love, for I had steeled myself and thought myself ready until now, but having to wait longer only increases my misery. I do thank you for loving me, Henry.
Your ever loyal and humble subject,
Anne Boleyn.
She hadn't felt rage like this in her life, not when she faced Thomas Seymour, not when she was brought to the tower, it consumed her like a smouldering fire that finally caught a spark, hot and heavy around her heart, forging into it a mark of hatred and anger. To live up to the legacy of a great king was a difficult task, to do so when you knew the man behind it all was a hateful hypocrite, was impossible.
Elizabeth,
Mine own heart,
I am sorry. I am sorry for leaving you alone, and I am sorry I shall never see you grow up into the strong beautiful woman I know you are. Have heart, my love, this is not the end, not for you, I may be gone but that does not make you any less a princess.
Hold your head high but know at which hour to bow down. Your father be a hard man to please, sweetheart, but he loves you and as do I, wherever I am, I shall spend each moment taking care of you. I love you, and I thank God everyday for the most wondrous thing in my life, to have you. Tomorrow I walk to my death, but I hope I get to see you one more time before that. I will miss you so very much.
Your first words, your first steps, they have such a special place in my mind and I cannot cease thinking about it. Do not despair, dear daughter, whether or not things are good, you are a Tudor, and you are going to recover from anything life puts in your path.
So small and you have already braved so much no one else could have.
They will tell you I died for my arrogance, for my sins, know it is not true. I have been faithful in my devotion and steadfast in my life, and the only thing I am guilty of is being offered the world and daring to take it. I am sorry for leaving you like this. You are a woman but you have the heart as brave as any man I have ever known, be true to it and to yourself.
Mama loves you.
Your mother,
Anne Boleyn.
She folded the last letter and slipped it into the sleeve of her gown, one shaking hand returning all others to their previous place, fixing the carpet, and the other clenching her skirts where she could feel her nails drive into her thigh.
Semper Eadem. Always the same.
That had been her motto. A promise to herself that she would hold determined in the face of strongest winds of change. And she had. To the best of her ability, she had.
Now it did not matter if this revelation was a positive change or not, only that it was.
The irony wasn't lost on Elizabeth when the door of the solar opened, in front of it Sir Brydges flanked by two men wearing her sister, the Queen's livery.
"Your Grace."
She stood up hastily, not wanting to give away any hint of vulnerability to the man who wore a sneer on his face and contempt in his mind.
"My Lord."
"You are to be escorted to Woodstock palace and are to remain there until it pleases her Majesty, the place allowed for your use would be within the palace grounds."
In her heart, she almost fell to her knees with relief. Her face did not betray her when she gave a curt nod instead, knowing very well she could be assassinated on her way, but too tired to care.
As she walked, along the same dark halls through which another woman walked to her death twenty years ago on this very day, head held high and the weight of the ring on her finger now lighter than it had felt in years, she found herself truly recognising the person inside it, her mother, Anne, by the grace of God, Queen of England.