By: Anne Boleyn
Date: 17th Sep 2021
When oneís head is about to be cut off, a bout of blubbering simply isnít the thing to do, not if you want to be remembered with some semblance of dignity. Executions are spectacle and spectacle means nothing without anticipation. Make an announcement, set a date, book a venue and leave the crowd to froth until the big day. The pre-decapitation hype provided me with ample time to pen a proper speech, more exit-with-class than out-like-a-boss, but what I felt the situation called for.
ĎGood Christian people, I am come hither to die, for according to the law, and by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I am come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak anything of that, whereof I am accused and condemned to die, but I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never: and to me he was ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord. And if any person will meddle of my cause, I require them to judge the best. 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.í
Historically speaking, I kept my dignity and lost my head. The dignity didnít do me much good after but Iím especially proud I stuck to my guns instead of wailing oh please, please in the name of God donít decapitate me today, tomorrow would be so much better.
It was really the best exit I could expect. Tragic. Violent. Final(except for the part where I woke up in 2021 with a splitting((Ha!)) neck-ache). So wonderful to have a fresh start.
When one is accused of infidelity, conspiring against oneís nation, fucking oneís own brother, itís so very important to maintain whatever crumbs of self-respect they can.
While my sexual escapades were notably lacking in incest, I canít imagine a reasonable person begrudging any marital infidelities on my part while my husband, His Limp-Dicked Grace, was sticking his cock in every hole from Sunderland to the Isle of Wight in the hopes that a son might pop out. I shudder to think of the half-human, half-animal chimera plaguing the countryside just a gestation period after Eight graced whatever backwoods township with his presence, and invariably, his seed. Fathers, lock up your daughters. Farmers, lock up your goats. The novelty of eating something after he fucked it wouldíve delighted him; perverted, portly shit that he was. As ye olde saying goes, itís good to the king but it fucking sucks for everyone else.
Not that Iím blameless, of course. I fancy myself a woman of cunning, my serpentine social skills forged in the conspiracy-laden courts of Europe. Playing maid of honour to the ever-frigid Catherine of Aragon was just the opening I needed. A few pointers from my sister helped, since she spent some time as one of Eightís many, many, many mistresses. I just had the good sense to force him to buy the cow before getting any milk for his cookies. Not that Iím slut-shaming. The inside scoop was invaluable. Love you, Mary, but if you held out longer then maybe you wouldíve been the one to pump out a queen of legend.
Iíll save the grim and gritty on our actual marriage for later. Back then, a woman having opinions was enough to get her burned as a witch. My impassioned stances made me an enticing potential side-piece, but the responsibilities of a queen involve quite a bit of tongue-biting and polite conversation. Glaring weaknesses of mine. Among otherÖ disagreementsÖ the marriage was destined to fail spectacularly. But when I think back to that unnaturally chill(perhaps the weather, perhaps the overwhelming terror) May morning in 1536, when I addressed that crowd with queenly composure and Amazonian boldness, Iím ever so proud of the fact that I kept my head held high.
Until it was rolling through the dirt, of course. If I had it to do over, I wouldíve made only one change. A minor addendum, so that I might close out the speech with my exact sentiments.
Suck my dick, Eight.