She's been causing trouble since she got here. Ever since she captured his heart with those eyes and that smile and those slender fingers that used to brush his cheek as they sat together under the shade of an ancient oak tree. She's been causing trouble ever since she could talk. But no, the poet considered, that's not quite right. He muses in his cell, struggling to find the words to fill this piece of thin parchment he has been given. The pencil they gave him is blunt, the candle burning out and the blanket thin and worn. The weak light that forces its way through the tiny window does nothing to aid his eyesight and the cold breeze that accompanies it is as unwelcome as the guards outside his door. Perhaps this is my punishment, he wonders to himself, my punishment for simply loving a girl. For loving her long ago, before she was promised to any other man.740Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoxyivuUnqb
He no longer has any inspiration. She was his muse; she was his muse and now to even whisper her name would earn him his head on the block. He truly tried to hate her, to blame her for what had befallen him. Every time he was questioned, he would dutifully damn the harlot to the burning flames of Hell, where surely she belongs. But even as those words would leave his lips, he would utter a silent prayer in the back of his mind, praying to any deity that could hear him. Lord, he would say, keep her from these men that seek to harm her. Protect her from the venom they spit and be her antidote in her time of need. Allow no man that speaks against her to escape with his life.740Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiRmOYxCNon
The poet glances again at his parchment. She is as innocent as I, he says to himself. My only crime is loving another in a life so long ago that neither of us can remember it truly. He remembers long, lazy summers spent in the grounds of some large, sprawling castle. He remembers her laugh as it was carried on the wind with the smell of some sweet flower. He remembers her dresses stained green from lying too long on the damp grass and he remembers her sadness as she left for France, as she left him behind. He cannot recall the words of the many poems he wrote her. He forces himself to forget her anger and her bitterness and her jealousy. 740Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5a4FBOIyWL
"You cannot be here Thomas. You need to leave. And tell no one you spoke to me, tell no one you have seen me. You must tell them that we were childhood friends once, a long time ago, but that you would hardly recognize me should you see me again."740Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVreNcKyWsN
He would recognize her anywhere, after any number of years. Those eyes that sparkled so mischievously, her butter-soft skin that he longed to kiss just one more time. She's been causing trouble for him ever since he first saw her. He glances wistfully at the sky outside of his window and is startled by a knock at his door.740Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOY6LJeJEPw
"Wyatt," The guard outside announced loudly "Visitor."740Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEEgDdSX6RG
The poet scrambles to his feet and attempts to tame his hair and iron out the creases in his clothes with his hands. His visitor is a cold and calculating man, the man who orchestrated the false charges against him.740Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOuOkmoi3jJ
"She is to die. As is her brother, three other men and the musician."740Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLko2rTxC6g
"And I?" He asks, his throat closing and his mind drifting. She is to die.740Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfjEnqp4Xry
"You shall go free. I have pulled as many strings as I can. You shall live, Thomas Wyatt."
He was permitted to watch her execution. She was a graceful and as regal as she was when they were younger. He watched her take her last breath, and he watched as those eyes took their last view of the world. Dear heart, he thought as the swordsman raised his arms, I would gladly have died in your place.
A/N - In case it isn't obvious, this is about Thomas Wyatt (the poet) and Anne Boleyn. Thomas was the only man accused of adultery with her that escaped with his life, largely because he was a friend of Thomas Cromwell.
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