Queen elizabeth 1533's Stories
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| NAME: "What Have I Done?" (Part I / Introduction) |
| Cold and alone in the quiet unforgiving darkness I crouch, waiting for someone to save me. They must save me. Who ever "they" may be, I do not care a whit, as long as they come for me; as long as they free me from this insufferable prison of stone and death, this cold hard cell pulsating with the suffering of trapped souls, both alive and dead. I should not be here, not me. It is not my fault. I have done nothing but obey my mistress. I should not be here at all. I whimper helplessly, as I have done countless times in the past few days whilst I wait for word from His Majesty King Henry or my lady Queen Katherine Howard, saying that all is well, and I am forgiven. It must arrive soon. They cannot execute me, not as they executed Culpeper and Dereham. They cannot execute Jane Boleyn, Lady Rochford. I remember when I was one of the most powerful women at court. I remember when I had all the praise due a faithful subject who abides by all the rules of the kingdom, and helps relieve the country of those who do not. I remember when I hoarded the overflowing affection reserved for the favorite of a beloved queen. I remember the velvet and the jewels, the good wine and the golden plates, the marble ceilings and polished wood furniture. I remember living a life of luxury and pleasure, in a time not very long ago. Once I had everything my heart desired; now I have nothing at all. My wide, staring eyes suddenly catch something: an odd shift in the shadows, the only movement I have seen in days. I squint through the darkness, spying a writhing mass of black and grey huddled in a corner that moments ago only dust had occupied. To my utter horror, I discern the form of a man, crouching with me in my once-empty cell. |
| COMMENT: I am all eyes waiting for the next instalment! I really enjoyed it and it had me on the edge of my seat wondering....is it the ghost of George? You set the scene really well. BY MEMBER: Yddib | COMMENT: I like it sooo far pleasecontinuesoon! BY MEMBER: Clumsyxheart |
| COMMENT: I like your story plz continue it fast! and yes, is it the gost of George? BY MEMBER: Desilee | COMMENT: BY MEMBER: |
| NAME: "What Have I Done" (Part II) |
| “Oh God, oh God.” His agonizing moans fill my ears, echoing my own feelings of despair. “Oh God, what have I done to deserve this?” I manage to swallow my immediate fright. He is, after all, a fellow prisoner: stuck, as I am, in an impossible situation. The guards must have dropped him off during my long period of restless brooding, as I was wrapped up once more in my bittersweet memories and frantic hopes. “W-who are you?” I stammer, my voice unsteady after weeks of silence. “George,” he mumbles. At the name, an icy chill runs up my back, as always happens when I hear the name of my late husband. But he is dead, and has been for years now. I suppress him from my mind. “George what?” I press, inching forward a bit towards the man. “What does it matter? I’m going to die. No one cares for me now; certainly no one will care once I’m dead!” he wails, and his shadowy form curls into a ball. “What did you do to deserve this fate?” I inquire, scooting still closer. I lean against the wall beside him and watch him solemnly, his head buried in his knees. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I am innocent." "Then we are alike, for I, too, have done nothing." “How cruel life can be, to snatch the innocent away and leave the corrupt in peace, to die in their beds! What kind of life we must lead!” he cries mournfully, picking his head up and leaning it against the wall behind us. Through the darkness I can make out a full head of dark curls and a handsome face cast with shadows. He is pitifully thin, and trembling as though every breath is too much to handle. He is nearly dead already. “Aye. The young and the innocent are always the first to be pulled down.” I think of my lady the Queen. So youthful and pretty, with her delicate auburn curls and dazzling green eyes! She was the most charming little thing when she first came to court those few years ago. No wonder His Majesty King Henry fell for her at first sight. How could the King now punish her for her youthful ignorance and liveliness, when he had once admired it so? And how can he punish me for obeying her rather unwise orders when I was, and still am, bound by oath to comply with her every whim? "And to think that even the Queen shall fall! Poor, sweet, innocent girl! If only she had heed her uncle Norfolk's cautions against her coquetry when she was young, before it was too late." "The Queen, you say?" Is this poor boy, too, an accessory in the tangled web of love and betrayal that has me stranded in the Tower? "The Queen, indeed. She will be convicted. They have found the other men guilty, and they will find the same of me, in time. She will not escape it. We are doomed, both of us." "I know the charge against the others, but what of you?" "The same. Adultery, but of a far more grievous nature." Alas, another man! I find it odd, however, that Queen Katherine has never mentioned him. She had no qualms in gossiping about her and Dereham's shameful activities back at Lambeth when she was young, and made no secret of her affection for Culpeper when she chatted with us ladies and even ordered him to be brought to her rooms time and time again. How is it that she never thought to mention this handsome stranger now sitting beside me? Though I suppose she had so many other good-looking men to giggle about, he must have slipped her mind. "How can it be more grievous than the affairs of the other men?" I ask, though I am more curious about what he knows of the Queen, and whether I am to be forgiven for my complicity in the matter. "Her Majesty and I are of a close affinity." "Surely you are not closer than cousins?" She and Culpeper are (or, rather, were) cousins, and I wonder that God did not strike them dead during their various clandestine meetings behind the locked doors of Queen Katherine's bedchamber. No, from where I was positioned outside her door, standing guard, I heard no crack of lightening or ominous roar of thunder, though I listened intently every night for any such sign of God's displeasure. He shakes his head, and his thick curls brush my cheek. The scent of his hair is vaguely familiar, though I cannot quite place it. Perhaps it is the faint trace of a popular perfume at court, or maybe it is only the musty odor of the Tower clinging to his curls. But in a moment it is gone, and my senses return to take in his low, choked voice. “We are much closer than that. Brother and sister, in fact: the closest of siblings.” I let out a gasp that reverberates against the damp stone walls. “You did not…” “I am innocent, I told you! I am most wrongly accused, and I will be falsely condemned. O dear sister, poor, sweet Anne! To be slain because of the wicked accusations of one evil, bitter woman, envious of our deep affection. To be put to death for loving a sibling, and turning it into a shameful, unnatural love! How ever could God make such a creature, one that acts upon its jealousy and hatred to ruin the lives of those who strive only to live by God’s commandment?” Before I am able to add my piece to the rant against the evil of humankind, I am struck dumb. Something he had said wasn’t right. Something didn’t fit. Perhaps he had misspoken, tripped up by his furious flow of impassioned words. “Your sister Anne, did you say?” “Aye, Anne.” “Don’t you mean Katherine? Queen Katherine?” He turns to look at me, a little annoyed. “No, Anne, Queen Anne Boleyn, my sister.” |
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| NAME: "What Have I Done" (Part III / Conclusion) |
| I push away from him at the sudden impact of his words. “Y-you’re not…” My words fall unformed from my lips as I gape at my cellmate in a new light. That little scar above his eye from when he had fallen off his horse almost ten summers ago…the long, thin nose I had always teased him about…and the hair, the mop of dark brown hair that nearly covered his eyes…how could I have missed it? How could I have forgotten the wide brown eyes full of passion, which would rend my heart miserably when I realized that passion wasn’t for me; eyes that reflected his innermost thoughts, revealing his absolute hatred of me and his loving concern for his beautiful raven-haired sister. Those eyes that now narrowed with a look of confusion and distaste as he saw me scramble on my hands and knees to the opposite wall. He is not a lover of this unfaithful queen: he was the lover of the last one. Oh George, George! My husband has come back to haunt me. “Why have you come to me? Why do you torture me so? You know I love you, you know I always cared for you…” “What are you talking about? I don’t know you.” “You were guilty. I thought for sure you were guilty. The way you looked at her, the way you smiled at her, your hushed conversations…” “Are you all right? What’s the matter with you?” “I just wanted you to love me! Just once to look at me as you did her, to smile at me with the same sincerity and adoration. If you loved her more than your own wife surely there must have been something more between you. Surely you must have done something, to have loved her so!” “My wife? Jane? Jane! It’s you! With alarming agility he leaps to his feet, and in two strides is before me, his hand wrapped around my neck. “How dare you! How could you murder your own husband?” I claw at his hand in a vain attempt to free my neck, but his grip is strong, and I struggle to find enough air to speak. “I-I thought for sure you had broken the law of God. You were t-too close, closer than ever you were with m-me, your wife. What was I to think?” “And so you betrayed me, turned me in to Cromwell, and will see me die,” he snarls, squeezing my neck tighter. “No, no! You are already dead!” I gasp. He pays no attention to the import of my words. His eyes are blazing with fire, and he breathes heavily as his fist heartlessly squeezes all air from me. “My only consolation is that you shall die, too, and forever burn for your sins!” he bellows. “She was innocent, and you will forever have Boleyn blood on your hands!” Crimson blood bursts from his neck, sending a stream of the dark, vile stuff over my hands and arms. I scream and push him, but his grip does not loosen from my neck. “Have mercy, George! Have mercy on me, please!” His eyes are as red as his blood as he looks at me with incomparable rage. “Oh, spare me!” The metallic clang of keys rattling at the cell door slices through the thick air, and in a whoosh of icy wind my husband is gone. “Lady Rochford, are you all right?” a guard shouts, peering into the darkness. “I heard shouting in there.” I raise my hand to me neck and feel the deep red welts burned into my skin. My mind is whirling with all that I have done in the past decade: all the people I have wronged, all the lies I have told, all the innocents who have died because of me. I cannot get my eyes to focus on the guard crouching in front of me, trying to get me to answer him. I am in a fog, unable to move or get my thoughts in line. There is only one thing my lips can gather the strength to say: “What have I done?” |
| COMMENT:hey, good one girl I will try I am not much of a writter. I'm going to have to think about it. I'd rather you write it your good that way. I was alway wondering what anne felt when she was locked up thinking how her and henry loved for so long and how KOA felt after she took her husband away from her in the same way jane did from her. i just don't know how to put it in word the way you do. you did such a good job. I could picture it all. but I could try if you don't mind. BY MEMBER:Desilee PS miss you on chat room come back. | COMMENT: BY MEMBER: |
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| NAME: "The Boy Who Wouldn't Be King" Part 1 |
| His whole life, Edward had been told he would one day be the King of England. From the time he was born, he had been primped and pampered, luxuriously adorned with the trappings of royalty, and looking utterly ridiculous while he was paraded around in jewel encrusted baby gowns and fawned over by bowing, reverent nurses and servants, as though he were a King full grown instead of a babbling, oblivious infant. For the first few years of his life, Edward was hardly even aware of his own name, for he was always greeted with a solemn, “Your Majesty,” and was known by all as “the Prince.” By the time he was seven, he was thoroughly sick of being a prince. He was tired of the cooing servants, fussing over him as if he were still an infant. He was tired of the restrictions, the extravagance, and the ceremony. So he made up his mind: he did not want to be a prince anymore. He resolved to tell his father at the first opportunity. That opportunity was fast in coming. King Henry VIII had determined to visit his beloved son that very month. As he rode up to the palace where Edward was staying with his large retinue, Edward could hardly contain his excitement. “Father is here!” he cried, eagerly running to the window to catch a glimpse. “He is here, at last!” King Henry threw open the door to Edward’s room, sending the Prince’s servants into a flurry of panic. “My son! How are you, dear Edward?” He caught his son in his arms and hugged him hard. “I am well, Father. How are you?” Edwards muffled voice found his way through the velvet and fur of his father’s clothing. "Fine, fine!” the King boomed, releasing Edward from the bear hug. “And what is new with you, boy? Been studying hard, have you?” "Yes, Father. But there is something that I wished to speak with you about, if it please Your Majesty--" "Takes after his father, he does. Why, I was quite the model student as a child. Yes, brave, bright, athletic, talented, and good-looking, if I do say so myself. You come from good stock, my boy. And with your mother's good nature and sweet heart, you shall make a fine King someday, no doubt!" "But Father, I--" "Yes, you shall continue the noble line of the Tudor dynasty, you shall make England the world-power it deserves to be. You will do all this and more, for you're my son, and no less is to be expected. By God, the day you were born was the happiest of my life. I knew, right then and there, that you would be the greatest King that England has ever known, save myself of course." King Henry smiled, thinking about his present reign and reveling in all that he had done for his country. |
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| NAME: "The Boy Who Wouldn't Be King" Part 2 |
| "Father, I have something to say, if you please." "Well speak up, then, my Edward! We would hear you talk." Edward drew in a breath. "I have no desire to be King. I would much rather pursue my studies, perhaps become a priest or a monk. If it please Your Majesty, I should like to withdraw my claim to the throne." What followed was a silence so still, it was as if time had frozen them all the spot. Lungs ceased to breathe, sun beams ceased to shine, even the ants stuck in place, as if frozen in mutual horror at what the boy had said. Edward held back a cry of terror as his eyes locked on those of his father. King Henry clenched his jaw, his fists closing in a death grip. "It pleases me not," he growled, his blue eyes narrowing menacingly. "What of your duty to me, to England? Who do you expect to rule after I am gone? Do you want to send this country to the brink of civil war?" As he spoke, his volume mounted, until he was shouting at the boy. With nowhere to cower, no one to shield him, Edward stayed rooted to the spot, frozen stiff in his terror. "I meant no offense to Your Majesty. But could not my sister Elizabeth rule? She is clever and brave, and is far more suited for the throne than I--" "Enough! I will hear no more of this foolish nonsense! You will do no such thing. A monk, bah!" Red-faced and fuming, King Henry stormed from the chamber, shoving aside those who got in his way. Edward frowned, thinking through what had just happened. His nurse ran up to him, concerned and angry. "What were you thinking, poor boy? A monk? Devoted only to your studies? You are lucky you got away with no other punishment that a scolding!" "Maybe you are right, dear nurse. After all, Father must know what is best. Perhaps religious devotion is not the path suitable for me, after all." "Thank goodness! You shall be a King after all!" "A King?" Edward laughed as if she had told a funny joke. "Hardly. I think I shall become a dancer, instead." |
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| NAME: "Elizabeth's Stepmothers" |
| A long white face, red lips, and hard black eyes. This was her mother, this was all she would ever know of her mother. Gazing at her portrait on the wall, Elizabeth saw a woman completely unknown to her, alien and frightening, but unmistakeably beautiful. A long white face, red lips, and black eyes. Thin neck. She had lied. She did know more about her mother, although she tried to pretend as if she didn't. Existing only as a portrait on the wall, her mother was pretty, innocent, and unreal. But she was more than a face, lips, and eyes, she was more than a neck even, although to Elizabeth that seemed something most important. She was more than that, and Elizabeth knew. She knew, of course, that her mother was a bad woman. That had been drummed into her from the start, because her father had denounced her as bad, and Father was never wrong, even if he was. She also knew that her mother had been executed. Her father must have sensed the importance of her neck as well, for he ordered them to chop it in two. She knew all of this, and more, enough to make any schoolteacher marvel that a little girl of barely eight could know so much. But she knew nonetheless, and would not soon forget. Her father's first wife had been bad, too. Not so bad as her own mother, perhaps, but bad enough for her father to get a divorce. Elizabeth's older sister Mary was the daughter of this first wife, and Mary always said her mother was good, but Elizabeth didn't believe her. Her father was never wrong, even if he was. Elizabeth's mother was next, but then her father had found out that she was bad as well, and had to get rid of her. His third wife was good, her father always said, so everyone else said it, too. Poor Father, she died giving birth to Elizabeth's brother Edward. And poor Father yet again! His fourth wife had been bad enough that her father had decided he had better not be married to her either, although she was not so bad that she was killed or exiled. She was just not good enough to be queen. Even the lady, this fourth wife, had agreed, for Father was never wrong, even if he was. Yes, poor Father, always to be surrounded by those who are inferior, who are corrupt, who are rotten! Elizabeth grieved that she, too, was a burden on him. For he had decreed that she was bad, too, and her sister Mary, and he was most gracious to let them live, despite their evils. Most gracious, indeed. Her father's fifth wife was bad, too. Evil, in fact, just like her mother had been. So evil, her father had no choice. He would see to it that her neck was cut in two, as well. Tomorrow was the day. It was rather sad, but her father had said she was bad, so there should be no tears. By tomorrow, her stepmother would only be a white face, red lips, and black eyes, staring mournfully from a portrait on the wall. Beautiful, unknown, and unreal. Father was never wrong, even if he was. |
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