A story by Virgil Ice
Queen Abigail walked around a corner, hearing her shoes stomp and click across the carpeted cobblestone floor of the castle in a slightly calming, rhythmic tone. It was a familiar sound, a familiar place, a hallway she’d walked a thousand times before. It was one of the last times she’d walk that hallway. She looked up from her shoes to the walls of the corridor she was in, looking around at the familiar dim light and paintings of past kings and queens that came before her and her soon-to-be ex- husband, the king. She then arrived at her destination, a large, dusty wooden door with metal hinges. She walked in after a quick conversation with the guards, flopping down on her bed before noticing her lady-in-waiting sitting in a chair in the corner waiting to get her bathed and dressed for the night. It was the same night as always, the same routines. The same smells. Speaking of which, she could almost smell the icy air blowing past the window. After getting bathed, her lady-in-waiting helped her get into her night clothes, climbing into bed and pulling the covers up. It was to be one of the last times she’d do this.
She lay down, resting her head on the soft satin pillows, putting her legs on the already heated rocks in her bed, taking in the smell, trying not to think about what was coming in the next seven days. She drifted off into a very stressful sleep, her dreams terrifying her on what’s to come. All she did was “not grant him a son, but an illegitimate son with another man,” after which he demanded she be beheaded in eight days. That was a lie. She’d never cheated. He claimed she did after she exposed him for doing it to her. Tomorrow it was four. Four days. When she woke up the next morning, her maid was already standing in her closet picking out her dress and shoes. She told her to pick the one dress she hadn’t worn, one he had forbidden her to wear, a nice navy blue with sleeves that ended just above her wrists, hoping to make it all end sooner. She paired it with long blue silk gloves, a white neck scarf, a couple rings, some pearl necklaces with pendants on them, and a long brown coat for when she went outside. Her lady-in-waiting helped put on her corsets, petticoats, and a farthingale, as well as tights and landsknecht shoes.
After leaving the room, walking down the hallway and back around the corner, she reached the stairs, her ladies-in-waiting following close behind. She almost jogged down the stairs, reaching the great hall, and, stopping for a moment, prepared to enter, until one of her ladies-in-waiting ushered her ahead. “Your highness,” she said, hesitating for a moment before stumbling over her words. “Th-the king st-states you are n-no longer allowed to eat in the great hall with him anymore,” she stated, clearly nervous, before another lady-in-waiting interrupted rudely. “Instead, ma’am, you have two choices, eat in the dungeons on the lower floors, or eat with us ladies in the guest dining rooms,” she said, quite exaggerating the word ma’am with a cold stare.
“Maybe I don’t want to eat in those rooms,” Abigail said, standing up taller. “Maybe if I eat in the great hall against his wishes he will execute me sooner, and not later. After all, I am still the queen.” She was proud of herself for coming up with that on the spot. “Only for a week more,” she heard the third lady mutter under her breath. She turned a cold shoulder to the maids as she walked into the great hall, plopping herself down in a seat, the chefs coming and going, delivering food to the people at the table. “Abigail…,” she heard a cold voice mutter from the other end. “what are you doing here? I thought I demanded that you eat elsewhere,” the voice echoed, mad but calming at the same time. “And I thought I was the queen,” Abigail said, just as mad as him. “I will eat in here for the time being, until my death in one week,” she said, quite nervous now, but trying not to be. “Maybe,” the voice said, “it will be better…to do it before next week, as the new year is four days away.” She sighed, trying to convince herself it would be the best thing for her, to die sooner than later. “But,” the voice echoed, “that would take a proclamation, and the public is already awaiting next week, on the third.”
She sighed again, one that was sad, but also relieved. The chef came and brought her breakfast, placing it down in front of her and swiftly taking the top off. She sighed a heavy sigh, seeing that it was porridge with a bit of cheese mixed in. The chef must have heard their conversation, and given her the peasants’ meal. She looked to the right of the bow, seeing a bit of wheat bread. “Still better than nothing,” she thought, taking the spoon and beginning to eat.
Getting on her coat and hat, she went out into the courtyard, smelling the roses and walking around in the snowfall. She wondered, while walking, what she could do after. She didn't have any work to do, and she certainly couldn't go into town--she’d get attacked; she’d fallen out of favor. She supposed she should write a letter back to France, to her family, who still didn’t know she was about to be executed.
She soon headed back inside, the courtyard getting too cold for her. She went by that same hallway, quickly flopping down on her bed, laughing, actually having fun for the first time that December. She stripped off her coat and hat, closing her door and getting to work writing that letter.
Dear mother and father, I regret to inform you that the king, my beloved, states I shall be executed this day next week at three. The reason for this execution is since I have not delivered to him the son that he desires, and an illegitimate son with another man, which is not true. I hope that his next betrothed shall find him as beautiful and kind as I have in my short time with him, and be a wonderful replacement for me. Sorrowfully, I, Abigail Tudor.
Abigail sighed, staring at the blank ceiling, very tired. She’d barely got any sleep last night, and hadn't had that good of a dinner, hunger contributing to the sleepiness. Her body was cold, the rocks by her feat and under her pillow for her head having lost their heat a few hours before. She pulled the warm wool blanket over her head just before her eyes, still freezing from the under-zero temperatures outside her window. She knew she couldn't call for more rocks; they’d take an hour to warm up and almost everyone in the castle was asleep, as it was most likely around three a.m. She reached out to pull the fabric curtains around her bed closed, trying desperately to make it warmer, though it didn't help much. She knew if she didn't get warmer soon, she’d catch a cold, and she didn’t want any more torture just days before her execution.
She got out of bed, walking out her door, shivering in the cold halls of the castle. She quickly found a linen closet, grabbing the thickest blanket she could find, and racing back to her room as quietly as she could. She closed the door behind her, climbing back into bed with both blankets, and closing the curtains around her, finally warm. She fell into a better sleep, even though it wasn't going to make up for the last, lost five hours of sleep. She woke up the next morning to find she was VERY warm under both blankets and the sun shining through her window despite it being January first. She pulled her curtains back to find her maid had already picked out a dress and was waiting to help her into it. It was a deep purple, one she’d worn a thousand times. She then realized she had two days left, but quickly locked that thought out of her mind. After eating breakfast, he finally decided to go into town. She didn't care anymore. She had two days. She put a scarf over her face and her coat on, gloves, another layer of socks, and a cape with a hood. She walked into town, knowing the carriage drivers had probably heard about her execution. The whole of England was going nuts. She was the queen, and about to be beheaded, so why wouldn't they be?
She arrived in town, realizing this might have been a bad idea. The whole of England would recognize her. She sat down on a bench nearby, hesitating whether or not to go back to the castle. She decided to go into the china shop--not that she would buy anything. There were beautiful plates and tea cups and vases as well. She left a few hours later, nothing to bring back. She had been wrong. No one had recognized her. She walked back, the cold biting at her face. She got back to her room, lighting a fire by herself and taking a cushion from her bed to sit on. After warming up, she went down to the king’s suite, the one that she used to stay in, probably being the last time she’d see this room. She was going to demand he let her go instead of beheading her.
“PUT ME DOWN! NOW!” She yelled, the guards dragging her down to the dungeons after the king yelled that they take her. “NO. THE KING DEMANDED WE TAKE YOU. WE LISTEN TO HIM, NOT YOU,” they yelled, throwing her onto the cold stone of the dungeon floor, her shoulder blades hitting it with such force that she could feel what felt like a break. The cold rushed in through the tiny window, hitting her face like she was jumping into a bathtub of ice. She had been in here for what seemed like an eternity, though it had probably only been a day. She was lying on the floor, shivering under the thin blankets. She knew she was probably going to die tonight. The night was cold. She was peaceful, finally accepting this was it. Her shoulders ached, her body cold, but strangely warm. Then everything went black.
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