Bleeding Heart [prologue]

They are coming for me.

Oh, of course they think I do not know, for though they call me crafty I am yet dim-witted in my craft. They think I am stupid, and witless; that I cannot see what goes on right before me, simply because I now spend most of my days locked up in this dark chamber with a flickering candle as my most cherished companion.

I am not as dull as they believe—I have seen the trembling of the maid as she turns my bedsheets down—her face is as transparent as the clear day—the nervous looks, the whispering of the noble shrews that echoes off the stony walls but stops when they catch my soft footsteps coming down the corridor.

They are all too cowardly to say anything, even my most trusted—ha! I almost forgot the word—trusted advisor, but the whites of their eyes are enough confession. They are petrified, and ashamed, and cannot admit to themselves that they are wrong, that my blood is on their hands. They are coming for me—they are planning my death for me, and the eulogy is written. If they do not come tonight, then tomorrow night, or perhaps in a week, when they have stacked the wood on the pyre in preparation for me.

They—you, for if you are reading this you have doubtless had a part in my execution—you have condemned me to death for the sake of a pretty lie, and you go along, a sheep holding a torch in a misshapen cloven hoof. You think you know all about me, don’t you? You’ve felt the scratchy wool she pulled over your eyes, but you don’t know what it means—you think you have such clear vision but you were blinded from the beginning.

In some ways, but not all, it is the fault of the young princess who is leading you, even now, hastily and sweetly, towards hell. She was the ringleader of the game, the inciter of the flames—once things began he stood back and watched Rome burn. I tried to teach her, when she was younger, how to play the violin, but she resisted me. Perhaps the metaphor is complete, even if she has to play the harpsichord instead.

She always had such a straight face, and lied without blinking. Couldn’t you guess, in all this time, that she was acting for the crowd? I never wanted anything but the best for my people, no matter how great the personal cost would be. It was my duty to protect and serve you, as much as I served my lord and king while he lived. The plated crown they placed on my head in the cathedral one bright spring morning was not, to me, meaningless, but precious and sacred.

I do not yet consider myself wise, for I am still young, but I think that you would have had a good queen in me, if you had only listened to your head rather than the wind as it blew this way in one moment and that way in the next. That you have followed her and trusted her instead of the leader of your country is a tragedy.

She lied about me, and her followers spread the lies—their sly whispering has left me heart-broken. The king was hardly cold in his coffin, and my eyes not yet wearied of crying, when they began. I died when he died—the moment when I laid my cheek on his and felt the warm breath leaving, I commended my soul to God, and I commend it all the more when I know that death is nearing my window to take me.

I could not truly live without him—was not completely whole before he came to me, and was left with even less than I had before when he left me—but I tried to live a half-life. After his strong love left me, I was only a shadow. I was a widow queen.

I still wear the velvet black I wore that day, with a veil pulled dark over my eyes so that they cannot see the tears slipping down my face or the bloodshot eyes from which they spring. I’m still afraid to look at myself in the mirror because I’m afraid of the demons I know are sitting on my shoulders, whispering in my ears.

One of them is my own stepdaughter, who treated me from the first as if I were some base creature, something to be despised, and lurks still on the threshold of my chamber when I sleep. I did not deserve this; may I be forgiven for my conceit. But I did not hit her, or attempt to instill fear in her to establish my position of authority over her. I meant only kindness, and the love she never received from her birth mother.

I wonder sometimes, when I am all alone, particularly on dark nights when the darkness changes shapes and casts shadows of things I cannot see, how such a demon could have come out of the seed of a man so saintly as her father. I tried to love her, though I was not the one who birthed her—yet she hated me from the first moment she could lift a finger in blame. I gave up, but I was always faithful to the commandments of my God; I never gave her hate in return for hate.

The moment the king died, she turned and began whispering her wicked untruths to the ones who were closest to me, encouraging them to turn their backs one by one, like a game of dominoes children play to pass the rainy day.

She started with my closest friends, saying things that could not ever be proven but sounded as true. Eventually, it didn’t matter what she said. The dark queen murdered her husband out of spite and greed. Power-hungry bitch, she hissed, spitting poisoned malice on my face. She wants me dead—can’t you see she wants me dead?

And the beautiful girl with pale cheeks and lovely eyes was so precious to them—to you, I say, for I know your eyes are darkening in hateful remembrance of me even now—that they believed things that they could have seen to be untrue if only her charisma had not overtaken them.

This is my story, and it is true. The girl was so charming, though—I know it too. It took me a long time to realize what she was. But the difference between you and me remains: that I did realize it, eventually, and still do not sleep peacefully at night. It is true, still, that she had a smile that could melt the frostiest heart—as long as you didn’t look too carefully—and her speeches brought tears to the eyes and inspired flames of passion in the soul—as long as you didn’t listen too well.

She said that anything I said could not be trusted, laughing about her own hypocrisy. When she said come, you followed her, snatching pitchforks and torches along the way.

I have so little time left now, as I have spent so much time praying and hoping that it would not come to this; that I would have the chance to speak these words aloud, rather than leaving cold words to be found and misinterpreted and twisted into something they were not meant to be. Yet every word remaining is precious, so I must write until my time is up.

When they burn me and leave my bones to be picked dry by the crows, may this story remain for you to read and understand; may there be just one of the faithful left to remember me as the person I really was, until her lies weighed on me like Atlas and brought me screaming to the stake.

May God at last absolve me of my sins through this confession and bring me the eternal peace for which I have waited so long.