My morning is plagued with a hasty, hollowed breath that when taken in through the nostrils, smells of waste and blood, as if it was stolen from death himself. I assume it is because of the streets being strewn with discard and splattered with blood from the latest bear baiting. My carriage bumps along the road, disrupting the fog that silently lays asleep upon the muddy path, like the beggars that slumber in the market places. My heart frolics in the cage of my ribs like a snowy rabbit being chased by the fiery dogs of the dementeds' own and I thank God for the little bit of oxygen I ever so happen to receive.  This, or course, is due to the corset clinging to my waist like a fiendish, starving child; the ones that I could behold if I happened upon the fancy to flick my eyes at the nooks and crannies of my domain. But, If I said that this was the only thing causing my hare heart, I would be lying. Most of the blame, I suppose, should be on the thing that waits for me at the courts.  My fan flaps rapidly by the hand of my flighty, plain servant as perspiration dots my upper brow; for I lack that which stops these transparent beads. “Stop, servant. I thank you for your duties, but alas, your arm does no good to my sweating brow.” She retreats like a wounded bird that's wing has been clipped by a hunters arrow; quickly, and on contact of my words. I turn my eyes from her obedient reediness. Observing my small, pale hand, I watch my ruby ring glint in the hazy sunlight that peaks through soiled clouds that ,thus, shines in through my fogy window and, alas, past the folds in my curtains. It gleams evilly like a blazing fire and looks of blood. Turning my gaze from this grim spectacle, I close my painted lids. Allowing light to violate the dark that strokes and hums awareness to sweet slumber, I think of how my mother used to do this same act of serenity. I used to gaze up at her with an admiration so strong, how angelic she seemed to my pure eyes, how beautiful! I vowed over my very life that I would be just like her one day, graceful, poised, strong. Little did I know that my greatly worshiped angel would soon fall from heavens great heights. My father, no, my warden, had taken her life like it was at his disposal, like he was God himself. How I hated that man and how I rejoiced as I placed a morning flower on his tomb.
“My Queen, it is time.” My maid says this softly, like a butterflies whisper, yet it shocks me out of my state so violently, that my heart almost fails my poor form. She has been admiring me, as her crimson cheek suggests; but, that is how I gain my subjects love I suppose, through beauty and cunning, cunning and beauty. From the second the coachman takes my hand, I turn to ice and steal and all things unfeeling and level headed; for today, I decide the bleak fate of my first cousin. I take a deep yet shallow breath of taxing air as I walk onward to meet my biggest test, power or love. I say power, because if I let this wretched girl live, it will make me seem week and the subjects will want a new Monarch. I say love, because this girl, this sharer of mutual affection,  is the only best friend I had as a youth. And she betrayed me. The large, elaborate doors swing open at the hand of wrinkled, yet brawny, servants, and I do all I can to focus anywhere but at the mangled and knotted hair  that hangs on the head of my dearest cousin. I nod to my subjects as they sit in the ring around me, all knelled to acknowledge me and waiting for the obvious and foretold fate of the Queen of the Scott's.“Good morrow laddies and gentlemen. I have come to decide the fate of this here...woman. What is your case against her?” When I state this, Marry looks up at me. Her face is swollen and purple, from where the guards must have handled her. She cries and sobs, and mouths, “Lizzie, please no.” I turn from her, my heart being stabbed time and time again by how innocent she looks, how young! She is on her knees, in a constant mercy stance and all they can see her as is a blubbering fool. Ah, but I see much more in this forlorn woman, my memories. She treated me like her equal, like no other had done in my youth, and I long to set her free!“Your majesty, she is charged on horrible treason. We have found that she has arranged to have you murdered, our punishment for her is death.” She sobbed yet again at this, and my heart cringed. With every word uttered, I feel pieces of my very soul break and fall to the ground with the weight of a thousand tons, as if it is shedding any feeling at all. The world around me goes black, my mind goes black, and I get the courage to look her in her countenance. She shakes her head so fast it seems like she is a dog ripping apart a chicken. I walk to her. Slow, graceful steps until my slippers are just of of her reach. “Marry Queen of Scot's, sharing the blood that runs through my very veins.... is what this man speaks of true?” When I state her name, my voice quavers in it's furry and every word I utter has the fire of a thousand Irish dragons, hot and straight off the tongue. “Did you, a trusted relation and good friend that I cherished, attempt to have me slain and laid out in my father's vault?” “God Bless the King!” is echoed throughout the chamber and I mouth it, not willing to praise him aloud. Inside I scream, yet I go and sit down in the throne that they had prepared for me. It shines in pale gold and crimson cushions. “No Elizabeth, no! The man lies, I would never! That's silly, preposterous!” She yells this with a sore, rabid tone and she finishes with a fake, feigned laugh, like this was all just a jest. A flash of us chasing each other in the courtyard, that same laugh echoing among the bushes. I squint and adjust my perch to the edge of my seat, “What evidence do we have against her?”
“We have all her conspirators confessions, your Majesty.  We also have reports of her talking to the men who tried to execute you.”
“How do we trust these conspirators, sir?”
“Wholeheartedly Your Majesty.”  I take one last look at her. She shakes and cowers down, begging me to spare her. She begs me to spare her for her husband, for her subjects, for our friendship. I repress a sob of my own. Power and trust in the land that loves me, or mercy to the one that tried to kill me? The crowd leans in, wild blood lust in their eyes, wanting me to hurry in my decision. I can not provide them with enough of these executions. “Sir, do tell me if we have any plea from the King of the Scots himself?”
“No, your Majesty. No.”At this, the girl goes wild, thrashing, beating her hands on the ground, begging even harder than ever. I bite my anguish down and blink the tears out of my eyes. I chose those that love me, not those who hate me. “Then take her. Let her taste the deadliest poison in all of England. I will shed not her foul blood on my beautiful, pure ground.” As I proclaim this,  she falls on her face, weeping like the clouds in spring. The crowd jeers at her, spitting, shouting curses and biting their thumbs. I feel a hand clasp my arm, turning quickly, shocked in the moment, I see it is only good Robert. He smiles a quick, knowing smile, and making sure no one is looking, he wipes the single, small tear that I could not suppress of my white cheek. Ah, Robert, a good friend of mine here of late. He is the only person I believe I can truly confide in, the only one who actually recognizes that behind this queenly mask I am a true human being. I whisper to him, “What a sad day is this!” And he nods in agreement. “Might I walk with you, My dear Queen?” As I assent, he links arms with me and we saunter to watch the spectacle of her death, as custom to traders. The longest carriage ride of my life leads us to the city circle, where the man in black brings her liquid death in a capsule. They hold her down with strong arms. A flash of us playing dolls on the windows sill. The men force her trashing form to open her mouth. Us reading a fairy tale, dreaming of the gallant night in shining armor. The dreary liquid enters her system. Picking flowers with her in the royal garden for our mothers. She convulses and shakes on the wasted floor, a foam leaking out of her mouth, her eyes looking straight through my soul. I grip Roberts arm with all the will power I have as I see us practicing a silly little country dance. Finally, her soul leaks out of her body and the crowd breaks out into thunderous applause. “God bless the Queen!” They shout out in their crazed glory, toasting wine and other substances in my honor. I turn at this, feeling Robert guide me back into my carriage, and as the doors close I look him deep in the eyes, and I hope that he reads the message there. He dismisses the maid to go celebrate with the crowd, leaving us alone. “Shall we go take a dinner at the castle, my dear Robert?” I ask him and he thanks me graciously as yet again we bump down the road. Silence is my salvation as we gallop along to our destination, the castle. Silent tears stream like silk out of my eyes, ah me,  my own friends blood on my own stained hands! My mothers words ring loud in my ears and I relax into every word uttered, “Sometimes, we must make sacrifices for the greater good. Only a proud, strong monarch knows that.  If I have my wish, you shall be a monarch and on those days, I know that you shall always chose logic over emotion my dear.”  Sighing, I look over and smile at my companion. I made the right decision, this I know. My mother whispers to me once again, “You may not be a lion, but you were born with the heart of one.”