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burn; Tag; William Parr
Topic Started: Jan 1 2011, 09:20 PM (137 Views)
Anne Bourchier
Unregistered

Mid January 1512

Over the holidays it seemed that she, Anne Bourchier-Parr, had caught some kind of sickness, though no doctor seemed to be able to proclaim the proper cure. They looked her over worriedly, unsure that they would be able to help her. In every corner of the room she had moved to, lest she be contagious and give it to William, there was death. She could feel it with every shaking breath. It pressed down on her eyelids and made her appear as though she was already dead, despite the halting rise and fall of her chest. She was terrified, but spoke calmly. It might have been because she had neither the energy nor the will to do much more.

Hours turned into days and days turned into weeks, making Anne lose count all together. This particular morning she had felt that this must be it; no bleeding or anything was making improvements. She was ready to give up, so that she was no longer a living corpse. Her doctor, upon questioning, admitted there was nothing else he could think of doing and that she best send for her husband and a priest. Anne dismissed the notion of a priest as she already made her peace with God and needed no one to act between them.

She ordered the room to be dusted and aired out, not caring when the maid said the air might sicken her further. What did it matter now? She was at death's door. All she needed was to speak to her husband and somehow then she would be able to let go. She knew she could find her way if she was able to tell him everything. This must be her retribution for living in sin and having a child with a man not her husband, so she would be honest and without seduction or trickery, not that she could pull off seduction in her state.

Limp brown curls hung down and her eyes were glassy, already facing death. Her slim frame was decimated to only skin and bones as she was unable to keep anything down. The room reeked of illness, but she had the maids perfume every inch of it and wash her down. If he thought to kiss her goodbye, she didn't want him to pull away in disgust. She even managed to get into her most favorite gown, one he had specially made for her when they had been lustful and content. He wouldn't remember it and it hung off of her at strange angles, but that was all right.

Turning her eyes to the door, she lay on the too white pillows and waited. William would come, she was sure, because he was given reports on her health. Up until now, he had avoided her and she doubted it was because of her illness. In fact, she knew it to be because of their hasty and passionate coupling. Even so, deep down, she knew he would not turn from her.
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William Parr
Unregistered

Was that guilt he felt? Perhaps. William had heard his estranged wife was ill, but he had not inquired after her health. It was cruel of him, but he did not care; he had other things to worry about, having been stuck in the Tower earlier in the month, released, although now it seemed to him everyone was watching his every step, wondering if he was a heretic or not, watching him during Mass where he carefully observed every movement, from crossing himself to staring at the raising of the Host for the Eucharist. He wanted no more scandal to besmirch his name. With the Duke of Norfolk's help, God willing, nothing else would.

Nothing else but Anne Bourchier.

Once he was called by the priest, that her time on this earth was ending, William had that familiar pang of guilt seep into his chest. He had ignored her. Despite his dislike--not actual hatred, as he had thought, in spite of all she had done to him--it had been a callous thing to do. Although they were married, in his eyes, they were not; simply in the eyes of the church and the law. Stepping into the dark room that smelled of death, he briefly remembered once when they were happy, or some semblance of happy. How fleeting it had been. How stupid their families had been, to force them into a union that was doomed from the start.

Hesitating at the door, his movements tentative, William cleared his throat, staring at the gaunt woman before him that bore little resemblance to Anne. "You sent for me?" he asked quietly, for once no vitriol in his voice, his tone flat, not knowing what else to say to her. Was this the end? Would he be free of her? He couldn't think that way. Not here, not now. He had to be compassionate, dig for it somewhere within him to offer some pity to his dying wife.
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Anne Bourchier
Unregistered

His voice sounded odd and disconnected to Anne's ears, but she supposed he was usually that way with her, the wife he no longer considered such. Hungrily, she ran her eyes over him to memorize and remember. There was once a time where those eyes were bright and beautiful for her. It didn't last, but for Anne, it was truly the best time of her life. Despite their recent romp together, she could only think of the night that attributed to their poor dead child. A child she hoped to reunite with as this world melted away. She saw this child in William's face and could feel tears brimming in her tired, aching eyes.

"I did," she said, voice weak and so unlike her, "yes. Thank you for making such haste here. I do not have much more time. I suppose you are happy; you will be rid of me in hours and able to marry any new lady of your choice. Perhaps the mistress you spoke of."

It hurt to think of William with his mistress who Anne believed was kind and charming as she was beautiful. She was glad she never met the woman in her short time living in William's chambers. Who knew what might come over her? You left first, a pesky voice in her mind reminded her. No, he did. she protested inwardly. He left me alone in this world.

"There is much to say in so little time, William." she continued, taking a shallow breath. "Oh, the things I must say to you before I leave this world ... I do not know if I even have the energy. Even if I do, I do not know if my wasted body can take it."

Briefly she wondered what he saw when he looked at her and what he felt. Triumph? Guilt? Sadness? Happiness? Would he and his beloved wear yellow to celebrate her passing? No, William would not go so far to do that to her, that she was certain of. I hope my Mary forgives me. Oh, poor sweet child ...

"I know you have nothing but dislike for me and for the daughter I bore to another, but I have a request concerning her before I go on." Another shallow breath. "I would like for you to take all my gowns and other possessions, except those you gave to me in happier times if you wish to keep them, and sell them off so that Mary may have some fortune. Perhaps keep a necklace or a ring to present to her."

It was asking too much of him.
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William Parr
Unregistered

This all seemed very odd to William, standing there listening to Anne speak in such a weak voice. He felt as if he were outside himself, watching somewhere else, as they communicated, her in bed, him standing uselessly, like automatons moving thanks to the hands that controlled them. It was better for him that way, to listen but be completely uninvolved, shoving whatever feelings he had--both good and bad--away, to be considered later.

Briefly he opened her mouth at his words. Then he shut it. "That is unseemly," William said plainly. While a part of him was joyous at this, Anne's undoing, he could not truly rejoice. Could he ever? he wondered. He did not know. But he would not rush off to marry Ursula the moment Anne Bourchier took her final breath. Always anxious to his reputation and how others viewed him and his behavior, something like that would not make him favorable; but not just that, it was just cruel, and he could not muster himself up to it. Not now. Not like this.

"I shall do as you wish." Not entirely surprised the direction the conversation took, for it would be William's job to provide those Anne willed it with gifts, tokens, and other things that had been hers once her life was over, he just nodded. Her request would be honored. He would keep nothing he had given her. It would all be sold; he had no need for it, nor did anyone else, but the money at least could be used for something for the child who would be without anyone in this world. William Parr was not completely heartless. Had he been, he would have walked out the moment he saw Anne in this state, wanting nothing to do with her. Just as the child would, by his insistence, inherit nothing of Anne's--none of her titles, her money, all of that would go to him, her husband--the poor thing would at least be provided for with Anne's goods. "I assume you have a will so such things will be done as you would like, so others have no control over it."

Whatever her thoughts of him and his reaction, William's voice remained completely detached, speaking in a flat undertone, pushing away any kind of emotion. He did not want to rage at her, for it was not the time; he had done enough of it. As much anger as he harbored towards her, she did not deserve to hear it when she had her final moments on this earth. Then whatever her suffering was, it would be over, he would be free. "What else is it you would want me to do?" Speaking of it as if it were a business matter to be considered helped him keep any inkling of intimacy at bay.
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Anne Bourchier
Unregistered

The tears were now making their way down her face, but they weren't of sadness. They were of relief. To provide for her young daughter was why she had come in the first place, but as she lingered, she realized what she wanted most in the world was reconciliation. All thoughts of John and the love he had for her vanished, replaced by an incredible longing for what she could have had if she shoved away her pride and came along. Had she not been so sour, she might have him at her side whispering comforting things while holding her hand. Even if there was an absence of love, perhaps their marriage would have been companionable and she might have happily turned away if he'd taken a mistress.

But she had done the unforgivable. She had Mary, a child. A healthy child who would live a long life, Anne expected. She would be sending a letter to John, along with one for Mary that would tell her how sorry she was and to be strong once she was deemed old enough by her father to understand. She didn't like to think of the trials her daughter would face. If she ever came to court, she would likely be treated poorly.

"One more thing, about my Mary," she said quietly, "if it is all right. She will one day be a young woman and would, I think, like to come to court. If you are here, if you do not mind, will you please watch over her? You are well-respected. You could make life here for her bearable."

Anne saw resistance, but would take it as it came. Did he really owe her anything? No. Did she owe him? Yes, and that was an explanation. A confession. She already gave one to God and now it was time to tell her husband. The words lurked on her tongue; she was uncertain how to proceed, how to begin. Above all, she didn't want him to scoff at her and leave before she was given the chance to explain.

"William," she murmured now, "I believe I should give you an explanation. Is that not what one does on their deathbed?"
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William Parr
Unregistered

Had she gone utterly mad during this illness, whatever it was that had befallen her? Anne Bourchier must have known that an illegitimate child--daughter of a noble lady and a prior--would have no place at court. None whatsoever. William certainly wanted nothing to do with the child, though it wasn't her fault that she was born of an adulterer and a man who conveniently forgot his holy vows. He stared at his wife, unmoved by her tears or her words; his face was completely apathetic, granting her nothing, not even sympathy. Not with this.

"She would not come to court," he said flatly, telling her what he believed she must know, somehow, in her fever addled mind. "She is a nobody. She deserves to have a quiet life, not one here, where everyone knows who her parents are." William knew he was being cruel but he was also straight-forward. He would not lie to her trying to make this easier simply because she was dying, despite the uncertainty roiling about in his chest, whether or not he ought to feel anything but glee at the situation before him. "But otherwise I will do as you ask and make sure she is provided for."

Speaking of Anne's child, recalling the boy that was theirs who died so long ago, made him angry. As when he always thought of it, he wondered why God had done such a thing. Now was not the time to think on it.

A brow raised slightly at her talk of an explanation. What explanation? William kept where he was, standing paces from her bed, not sitting with her as a caring husband would have for he was not that. "I need no explanation for your behavior," he told her flatly, not wanting to hear it. He had heard it before. She felt unloved, so she ran away with another man. He knew all she had done; he did not need to be reminded of it, rubbing salt into an old wound. Not even while she was dying did he want to hear of it. "You have told me enough as to why you did what you did and now you shall answer to God for it, but I am sure in His mercy, you will get more than you deserve."
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