Anne Boleyn sits upright on her narrow cot, her hands folded in her lap, eyes red-rimmed yet resolute. The heavy oak door creaks as a gentle breeze carries the distant sound of church bells, signaling the day’s grim importance. On the small table beside her, a locket containing a miniature of her daughter rests, its golden surface dulled by sorrow.
"Elizabeth, my precious girl, may you remember me kindly," she whispers into the silence, her voice laden with both love and regret. The footsteps of the guards approach, each echo a reminder that time slips away.
Lady Kingston, matronly and soft-spoken, enters carrying a simple grey cloak and a coif. She helps Anne Boleyn dress, her hands trembling as she secures the final button.
"You hold yourself with such courage, my lady," she murmurs, unable to meet Anne's gaze. Anne manages a bittersweet smile, her thoughts drifting to her daughter once more.
A wooden scaffold stands at the center, draped in black cloth. Anne Boleyn emerges from the archway, walking with measured dignity despite the trembling of her hands. The murmurs of the crowd hush as she passes, her gaze unwavering.
"I come here not to accuse any man, nor to speak what I think of them that have brought me hither," she declares, her voice clear and unwavering even as tears glisten in her eyes. Sir William Kingston, the Constable of the Tower, stands nearby, his expression mournful yet resolute.
Anne Boleyn closes her eyes, her lips moving in silent prayer for her daughter, Elizabeth Tudor, left behind in the palace nursery. The crowd looks on, faces etched with grief, fear, and awe.
"O Lord, have mercy on me, to God I commend my soul," Anne whispers, the words carried away on the hush of the wind.
With practiced precision, the sword flashes through the morning air. Anne Boleyn's life ends in dignified silence, her body crumpling gently as petals fall from a cut rose.
A collective gasp ripples through the onlookers, and a somber bell tolls in the distance.
A governess kneels beside Elizabeth, brushing a lock of red-gold hair from her brow. She does not know her world has changed forever, that her mother’s legacy will shape her destiny.
"Mama?" she asks softly, gazing out a sunlit window, as if expecting a gentle voice to answer.
