The Bewitched Heart by, Amber L.

She deserved to die. I knew she was a witch from the moment I saw her. She tore me from my family and humiliated me in all possible ways, and yet, when her head was on the chopping block, it’s said she begged for my forgiveness. However, I could not forgive her.

I was born on February 18, 1516 in the Palace of Placentia in Greenwich to Catherine of Aragon and King Henry VIII. As an only child, I was betrothed to the dauphin, the eldest son of the king of France at only two years old. I do not remember much, except the fearful face of Cardinal Wolsey, the king’s main advisor and errand boy, as he placed the large gold engagement ring, encrusted with a majestic gem, upon my insignificant finger. In the years afterwards I remember being carried around the hall on my father’s shoulders as he proclaimed to the world, “Ista puella nunquam plorat!”(This girl never cries). I knew my father was proud of having such a tough daughter, so I didn’t cry, at least, not in public. If only my father knew how much I cried alone in my room. However, at only 6 years old, my father broke off the engagement, having decided it was no longer in England’s best interest to marry me to the dauphin.

After several other failed engagements, my father decided to crown me Princess of Wales. This was a momentous occasion, as it meant I was to be the next ruler of England. My mother and father stood next to each other and I was proclaimed, Mary, Princess of Wales, the next ruler of England. While everyone was happy and cheerful, I felt as though a cloud hung over the ceremony, and though I smiled, I knew that something terrible was about to happen. I could tell that, even then, when my parents stood next to each other, smiling with their hands clasped, my father’s love for her was draining and flowing to another.

Her name was Anne Boleyn, and, even though she is long gone, her name still sends shivers of disgust down my spine. She was the daughter of England’s ambassador to the French court, and, having grown up in France, had a very different appearance than all of mother’s other ladies-in-waiting. She spoke with a very cheerful, almost mocking voice, and her laugh rang shrill whenever something pleased her. Her attire was always black and white, to match her hair and skin. Her hair was truly her crowning glory: it flowed like raven’s tresses down her back in one solid mass. It shone like onyx and was as smooth as silk, even rivaling the king’s own garments. However, these features only existed to conceal what she really was. A witch! I knew from the first day I saw my father talking to her that she had some kind of curse put over him. I heard the kitchen staff discussing in hushed tones the necklace she always wore. “She wears it to cover a cyst on her neck,” I heard them whisper. “She needs to conceal the place where a demon might suck,” they claimed. I knew these rumors to be true, for I had seen the hunger in my father’s eyes as he danced with her, and I knew it could not be anything but witchcraft.

One day, as I sat in my chambers, calmly sewing an ornamental handkerchief, Cardinal Wolsey came in, his bulging mass barely fitting through the door. The chief advisor to the king, I knew he despised me. “A letter for her majesty,” he sneered, a devilish grin upon his face. I opened the letter quickly upon seeing the king’s engraving marked in the red wax. I scanned it silently never showing any emotion. As I came to the letter’s end, I folded the rough paper and bent to kiss Wolsey’s ring, hoping to make him leave. As he wedged himself through the door, he turned back to me and said, “You must go, your father, the king, wishes it.” As soon as he had left and was out of earshot, I sat on my bed and began to sob. Sending me away from court? Mother could not come with me? How I hated those words, your father, the king, wishes it. Did my happiness mean nothing to him? Little did I know that Anne Boleyn’s poison was much closer to his heart than I ever could have imagined.

After that, I spent several lonely years in Ludlow Palace, at the very edge of Wales, only seeing my mother and father on holidays and special occasions, and sometimes, not even then. There came a time when I received no correspondence from either my mother or the king for several months. I had begun to suspect something was not right, when I received a letter telling me to come to court. As soon as I could, I packed my bags and set off. The journey seemed dreadfully long, and I could not wait to see my mother. I could picture her in my mind’s eye, her light brown hair tied up in a neat bun, her smile, as bright and happy as dawn, and her eyes, with an irreplaceable twinkle. Upon my arrival, I leapt from the carriage and practically ran down the hallways to greet my mother. I opened the door to her room, expecting a beautiful image of loveliness, but my eyes were instead fouled by the horrendous sight that lay before me. My mother smiled, but only with her mouth, her eyes saddened and cold. She wore a shabby, ill-fitting gown with her hair covered by a coif. I ran to her, a frown befalling my face. I knew in my heart that Anne Boleyn had cursed my mother, forcing her to grow old before my very eyes.

After several months, I heard from my governess that my mother was being taken away to a swamp. That day I cried and cried. My mother, my one companion, gone. I knew that I would never see her again. I did receive many letters from her, and, as they grew desperate I realized that something was amiss, though she could not tell me. A few months later, she died. Her final letter to me told me she was poisoned. She had come to peace with her death, and her only wish was to help me ascend the throne. She told me to not despair for long, trust no one, and focus my entire being on becoming queen. I was not allowed to attend her funeral.

I was declared a bastard and called to attend my father’s wedding to Anne Boleyn. Even though I used to be a princess, I was placed with the commoners at the ceremony. She caught a glance of me and her hateful smile grew, seeing me in despair. After the wedding, I was told that I would serve as a maid in the king’s court. Every day I was put through torture when Anne called me to her chamber, throwing anything around her in my general direction. During those days, my heart was filled with such rage and disgust that I knew I would never call her queen. Soon it was announced that Anne Boleyn was with child, something that would bring her even closer to the king. I was still her favorite target, more so now that she was pregnant. I would go to her room and perform my duties as quickly as I could, and back away slowly, as one might leave a lion’s den. Every sign in the world proclaimed that the child would be a boy, and, for a while, the king rejoiced as he prepared for his new son. As the day grew closer, the king prepared a large banquet for his new son. The day he was set to arrive, an uproar flew through the castle, spreading the unwelcome news that the queen had birthed a girl.

I soon heard the rumors of Anne being cursed, saying that was the reason she had a girl even though the stars predicted otherwise. I could have stopped these rumors and spared the queen’s life. Instead I turned a blind eye, and let the rumors consume her. When the rumors finally reached the king, the king flew into a rage. Things moved quickly after that. The queen was accused of adultery and witchcraft and sentenced to beheading. I couldn’t believe my luck. The day I had long awaited had finally arrived. My fatal enemy was to die. On the fateful day, I woke from my slumbers and dressed in my finest garments, awaiting the sound of the axe as it crushed her neck. I was allowed to watch the spectacle, and, as I arrived, I saw her being marched out, wearing her signature black and white. She stood tall, even in her final moments, gazing solemnly at the crowd. She lay her head down on the executioner’s block and, staring up at the sky, murmured something under her breath. The glinting silver of the axe hung high above her head, and it fell, like chopping a log, as a single tear rolled down her face. Her head rolled off of her body, blood spurting everywhere as her skin became even paler than snow. The executioner closed her eyes, and left, allowing us to contemplate the death we had just witnessed. Later I was told that merely an hour before she died, Anne Boleyn had begged for my forgiveness. Could I forgive her? Could you forgive someone who tore your family to shreds? Could you forgive someone who killed everyone who loved you? Could you forgive someone who made you live your life in terror? I am no saint. I could never forgive her and yet, I regret nothing. I hope she burns forever.

Works Cited

“Mary Tudor Biography.” The Biography.com, A&E Television Networks, 15 Feb. 2018, www.biography.com/people/mary-tudor-9401296.

Meyer, Carolyn. Mary, Bloody Mary. Harcourt Inc, 1999.