I stood there in my lodgings, specially made out for me and full to the brim of majestic elements. Fur-like, lush velvet cushions, stitched by the genius Master Thornburgh, and to lay my head when fatigue hit. The finest wine throughout the country, placed in a jug made of pure solid gold, to be drunk at my pleasure. The expensive gown, embroidered with jewels that sparkled like the evening star, trinkets that dazzled the eyes of even the wives of the most powerful men in the land, and charms that represented every aspect of being stately, bought by his majesty, out of compassion.
All these gifts were given to me through acts of kindness.
The only problem was the man they came from.
The man who gave me those lush velvet cushions, in colour red to remind me of the anger and hatred he felt for me. Who would believe that it was a gift? The finest wine, sitting in that fine gold jug, to symbolise the divine punishment I was to endure for loving a King, as a civilian is suppose too. And that expensive gown, with its fine jewels and trinkets and charms, that would soon be tainted with my blood; the blood of supposed traitor, arrested for treason.
In my eyes, I was a martyr.
He was the man who sentenced me to this chamber.
He was the man who called me all those horrid names and spun those rumours.
He was the man who sentenced me to death.
He was the King…and he was my husband.
———-
Can you guess which infamous historical figure this is about?
Or from which who’s point of view this is written from?
