Chapter 41
The light of summer lies soft upon these ancient stones, yet in my heart there is only winter.
Today I walked beside the river which winds around the meadow near the house.
The wild roses spill their fragrance in heedless abundance as nature blooms in defiance of sorrow.
The crops grow, the trees shimmer with fresh leaves and the physic garden is a riot of bees, scents and abundance.
Life continues, fortune’s wheel turns, but my children, Anne and George, will never again feel the sun on their skin, smell the sweet perfume of a perfect flower or laugh in the golden light of a summer’s day.
Despite his words, the king’s desire to blame me is wrong.
What he has done is not love, it is hatred, it is madness.
Henry has never experienced love, he has never known such constancy of joy with another person.
I pity him the shadows of his heart, the cold anger of his path, turning ever in circles of despair.
Yet he is king, and he will command the tale.
My children shall be painted his villains, while he remains the paragon of virtue, the true king, the voice of God on earth, when he is the devil incarnate.
To protect Mary, we have made a public show, my husband and I appearing to banish her from our lives, when, in fact, she is our angel, our happiness, as are her children.
This house, Cerensthorpe Abbey, is where we meet.
It shall be left to her when I die, Thomas has promised me this, for my days now are few.
My body ails and my heart pleads for release.
A mother cannot live when her children are buried.
Yet before death claims me, this confession must I write. My words, wrought from grief and fury are what? A curse, a prayer or both. Henry wears a poisoned crown, the foundations of his house are destroyed. In striking down my children, he has struck at his own blood, though he perceives it not.
If these lines should endure, let them stand not as complaint, but as witness: love proved stronger than fear, and sorrow deeper than silence. Remember us not for how we died but for how we loved.
And if this be my last day, I go to my eternal rest with their names upon my lips and with the hope that, beyond the reach of kings, we shall be gathered together once more in love.
Thus endeth the Mother’s Tale: the king who crowned himself with blood hath sown his throne with ashes; his seed shall wither and his house shall know no peace.
Lady Elizabeth Boleyn