The Lie in a Raven's Croak(Rosie) Although it is a warm, May morning the hairs on my arms stand tall from the chill that is holding onto me, and has been since I bore witness to the crimes which have summoned me here. My chest is heavy, making it hard for me to breathe and my stomach seems to be trying to fold itself inside out. The pools of sweat in the palms of my hands do not seem to want to dry out, no matter how much I let the cool air from the morning breeze in through the clenched balls in which, I have subconsciously made them. The sharp morning sun which would normally be warm and friendly was now too bright for my eyes. Even the grass whose green would normally invite you to tread on it with bare feet now seems to be an ominous grey as if it knows the events of today and what is to be carried out on its very soil.

A harsh croak makes my heart leap into a beat which I have never known possible. A Raven. It is said that if the Ravens are to fly away, the whole Tower will fall. I fear its power and the Raven must sense this, as its dark, knowing eyes find mine and lock. It is as though it is looking straight through me and deep down into my soul and I am transfixed.

But the creature does nothing and if a powerful being as this does nothing, then I am doing the right thing.

A small touch on my right arm breaks me from the ravens spell. There is my sister-in-law, Mary, looking expressionless, a shadow of her former, cheery self. ‘We’ll get through this together.’ She whispers. I curtly nod as I am unsure if I can speak. I go to clear my throat but stop as the sound of drums begin to sound.

I instantly go quiet as She comes into sight. Her black damask robe which is covered in an ermine mantle of white, flares out behind her. Her usual tall French headdress which would normally be worn in the Queen’s court is replaced by an English Gable Hood. Her confident strides make me stop breathing in astonishment. How is she so calm whereas I such a wreck? She steps up onto the scaffolding which is covered unusually heavily in straw and does something that I’m sure will stick with me and haunt me until the day I die. She smiles at us. All of us; warmly.

The drums stop and the priest steps forward to touch her shoulder and whispers in prayer. The constable of the Tower steps forward with a scroll open and reads confidently: ‘We all be here, to witness the execution of a traitor to King, Henry the Eighth of England. The charges stand as: Witchcraft, Adultery, Incest, Slandering the Royal Issue and Conspiracy. There is a considerable amount of evidence against the traitor and the execution stands as beheading.’ He pauses, his hoarse voice covering the crowd in a coat of shock stricken silence. But this coat seems to suffocate me further than before he started speaking. I dig my nails into my hands to try to keep myself under control but I know that this will not keep me. ‘If there is anything the traitor wishes to say, they may do so now but must keep in mind that anything said now, cannot change their fate so it is in their best interest to keep their dignity. In the name of God:’ He stops and takes a step back, letting Her have her time to talk.

She nods her head in thanks and steps forward with poise. She looks upon us – the crowd – with an expression of pity and opens her mouth to speak. ‘Good 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. Nor will I speak against those who bear false witness against me, as God has seen this, and thy Lord will permit to those as he wishes.’ Her dark brown eyes met mine, knowingly, as the Raven’s did. Those few seconds that we stared at each other lasted for eternity. Her look calmed me and made my hands stop shaking. She is right and I have done no wrong. I stared at the traitor straight back and my sister-in-law beside me collapses in complete body wracking sobs. That is when our eye contact breaks and I go to comfort the woman beside me. As I bend down I look back up to catch her eye sight again to show her that I am no coward and that her last words mean nothing to me. That I have won this endless battle. But it is too late, she is blindfolded and on her knees, ready to put her head on the execution block. I stand up again as she places her head gracefully onto the block. The executioner, with his face hidden, bends down and uncovers from the hay the most beautiful sword I have ever seen, even better than my late husbands. She then puts her head up and says, ‘O Lord have Mercy on me, to God I condemn my soul.’ Then she smiles wickedly and says heartily ‘I hear the executioner is very good, and I have a little neck.’ She chuckles to herself as my mouth drops in disbelief. I stare round at the small crowd of Nobles and they are the same. The shock and bewilderment is clear on everyone’s face. The wreck of a woman still on the floor next to me screams and covers her ears hysterically. The traitor then puts her head down and the sword is raised. Just as the sword looks like it is going to be dropped, her possessive, unexpected screams make everybody jump backwards in fear. ‘I may have lost my life and my dignity today! But you lost a husband, a title, and England has lost its Queen!’ the executioner then swipes the swords down as hard as he can and her head falls into the basket below, silencing her. It is held up for us all to see and I wait for the cheer of the watching crowd to calm the same sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that was here before She spoke to me, but there is none. Everyone in the crowd gasps and many cry and bow their heads. Unusual. The woman on the floor next to me lays silent. My hands shake. My throat tightens. My heart beats uncontrollably. Then, I notice it. The thing people are clutching their crosses and praying for.

Even though the head is no longer attached to the body, the lips of the mouth are still moving by itself. Fear clenches me and I cannot bear to look at the head of Queen Anne Boleyn any longer for I fear that she is speaking to me, even in her death. I turn away and run. Run from the darkness. From the screaming crowd and the miasma this dreaded day has caused. Run for the clean air that I so much need and run away from what I have done; from what I have caused. Run away from who I am, Lady Jane Boleyn, Viscountess of Rochford, the woman who has had her husband and his sister, the Queen of England, killed because of her own jealousy and lies. She is right; I have no husband, title, and now no God.

As he will not forgive someone who has sinned so. I run away from Tower Green as fast as my legs, dress and tall headdress would take me. But what am I running for? Am I hoping to find my old, un-deceitful self whose name was Jane Parker and await the fate that may become mine as God punishes me for murdering his Queen? I fall to my knees and pray as the Raven that smelt my lies earlier lands in front of me and stares accusingly. I cry and gasp as I have realised that this being will haunt me forever as will its croak like an omen of death. As its old lying reassurances seem to hit my body at the shock of what this week has brought me. Or what I have brought this week? Reminds me of the life royalty has brought me and the trust Anne, George and Mary Boleyn, myself, God and that Raven had in me and how I have used it and ended with nothing. All of the lies told by everyone, myself, to get my husband back, Mary’s lies of getting through this and the croak of the Raven that has lied to me, and lied to me it has surely done…

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