Winner of our write Anne Boleyn Competition!

I am delighted to share with you the winning entry of our ‘Write Anne Boleyn’ competition!

Jessica Pringle has written a very moving fictional account of Anne’s last moments on the scaffold. I greatly admire the courage Anne displayed and I have often wondered about what Anne’s thoughts were in these final moments.

I ask you to join me in congratulating Jess and I hope you enjoy her work as much as I did.

O death, rock me asleep… by Jessica Pringle

Anne Boleyn in the Tower

‘Good Christian people, I am come hither to die, according to law, for by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I come here only to die, and thus to yield myself humbly to the will of the King, my lord. And if, in life, I did ever offend the King’s Grace, surely with my death I do now atone. I come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak anything of that whereof I am accused, as I know full well that aught I say in my defence doth not appertain to you. I pray and beseech you all, good friends, to pray for the life of the King, my sovereign lord and yours, who is one of the best princes on the face of the earth, who has always treated me so well that better could not be, wherefore I submit to death with a good will, humbly asking pardon of all the world. If any person will meddle with my cause, I require them to judge the best.’

I take a small step backwards, the scaffold creaking softly beneath my feet. It all feels like a dream, strange and surreal. How did I get here? Had anyone told me on the day of my coronation that it would all lead here, to this, I’d never have believed it. It still feels slightly absurd, even now. It was never supposed to end this way.

Lack of sleep has made the edges of the world blur, and the faces of the people in the crowd before me melt and dissolve until it seems that they are nothing but one entity, ebbing and flowing like waves on a stormy sea. I can no longer distinguish the cries of blessing from the hateful jeers, and so I allow the din to wash over me and become nothing more than a distant humming in my ears, muffled by my own indifference.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, the cool morning air filling my lungs. How many May mornings have I seen in my lifetime? Hundreds of hours spent gathering flowers, picnicking in the sunshine, handing out favours at jousts and tournaments, whispering in Henry’s ear, his laughter booming out over the festivities as the promise of summer floats on the breeze. My early childhood at Hever, my years in the Netherlands and France. All those thousands of moments reduced to one instant, racing before my mind’s eye. To think that this is the last time I shall ever breathe in the sweet spring air, that never again shall I be Queen of the May, Queen of Henry’s heart and of England; Anne the Queen. I half expect to feel my eyes prick with tears, but there are none left to shed. I have cried enough to fill an ocean these past weeks, for sons never born, for a discontented husband, for executed friends and a slain brother.

I daren’t let my mind wander to Elizabeth, not yet three years old, soon to be motherless and doubtless shortly to be declared as illegitimate as Katherine’s daughter. I fear my heart will break and all composure will be lost if such thoughts are entertained, and so I push my princess, my one living child in a sea of miscarriage and despair, from my mind and remain stolidly calm. I brace my shoulders against the warmth of the morning sun and allow my eyes to reopen.

‘And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. O Lord have mercy on me, to God I commend my soul.’

The crowd, so boisterous when I first appeared before them, has fallen quiet in the wake of my words. Countless eyes gaze up at me intently and I resist a sudden, inappropriate urge to laugh. How peculiar that only now, at the moment of my death, have the English people set aside their taunts and hisses. After the malicious whispers, which followed Henry and I through the towns and villages on our summer progresses, down the country roads and laneways, the hatred of the people infecting the very streets of London itself, it seems almost comical that I should finally gain some form of appreciation in my last moments. If only Henry had known in the beginning the lengths it would take for the people to have some semblance of respect for me…

I gaze steadily out over the upturned faces. My father is conspicuous only by his absence, and I feel my heart contract momentarily at the realisation of his utter abandonment of me. My hopeful eyes continue in vain to search for him for a long moment until a muffled sob bursts over the crowd and my concentration is broken.  One of my ladies in waiting, having remained so composed, has succumbed to the full horror of this dark day and is crying in earnest as they step towards me and begin to remove my ermine mantle. The breeze lightly brushes my exposed neck and I resist the urge to reach up and touch it, as though the very act of wrapping my slender fingers about it would shield it from the sword. In an attempt to distract my now trembling hands I gently push the nearest lady from me as she reaches for my hood, and I determinedly remove it myself. With a slight shake of my head – a force of habit I cannot break, even now – my dark mane of chestnut hair cascades down around my shoulders, gleaming in the morning sun. Once nothing but a subtle toss of my hair would draw the attention of every man in the court, yet now every eye was fixed upon me regardless. How the younger me would have revelled in the attention, under different circumstances. Those days feel like a lifetime ago, now.

The lady who I nudged aside now steps forward and hands me a plain linen cap. I look down at it for a lingering moment before I gather up my long hair and hide it within the crisp white fabric, with only the slightest trace of reluctance. To think that the hair Henry had delighted in running his fingers through, the hair he had worshipped for so long, the hair which had been my crowning glory, will never again be warmed by the sun or admired by all who see it is unfathomable. I tie the delicate ribbon under my chin to secure the cap as the executioner takes a tentative step forwards before falling onto one knee before me.

‘Madam, I crave your Majesty’s pardon, for I am ordered to do this duty,’

‘Willingly,’ I hear myself answer him steadily. It is, after all, not his fault in the least. Yet is there point in laying blame on anyone now? I have long since given up any hope of a reprieve; Henry will not appear on the river on the great royal barge and issue pardon. To blame…who? Cromwell? The Seymours? Henry himself? seems utterly futile now. I have protested my innocence long enough. What is left to me but death? All hope is wholly lost.

‘I beg you to kneel and say your prayers,’ the executioner murmurs, and even I can hear the note of distress through his charming French accent.

As though in a dream, I feel myself drop. The scaffold is hard against my knees, the layer of straw doing little to cushion them. Instinctively, I reach and arrange the folds of my grey damask gown neatly about me, as though I am kneeling to receive the King’s favour, Queen to the last.

One of my ladies steps forward and secures a blindfold over my eyes and at once I am plunged into darkness.

I feel my heartbeat accelerate in my chest. The time is drawing near, and for a moment I am afraid that I will collapse in a fit of panicked tears, but I remain composed, nothing but my quickened breath giving away the hint of fear.

‘Madam,’ I hear the executioner say, ‘do not fear. I will wait till you tell me.’

I try to heed his words, but dread tightens in my chest.

‘O Christ, receive my spirit,’ I whisper urgently. ‘My God, have pity on my soul. To Jesus Christ I commend my soul.’

I can hear my ladies sobbing behind me. It is too fast. It is too soon. I had no time for a last glimpse of the sky, to savour the sun on my face and wind in my hair. Time slips away before I can prepare myself.

‘My God, my God, have pity on my soul. To Jesus Christ I commend my soul. My God, have pity…’

I am muttering the prayer over and over, faster and faster, and quite suddenly, quite unexpectedly, the gasp of the crowd and the sound of a sword slashing through the air meet my ears.

O death, rock me asleep, bring me to quiet rest…

– Jessica Pringle, 2011