There is a crowd of likes which you have never seen before. The air is charged with righteous fury and you can hear loud shouting but cannot fathom any meaning from it.\n\n[[Approach and investigate.]]\n[[See to the business you came here for.]]

Of course! That is why you are mounted on your Hunter. You kick him and urge him on - you are sure your quarry is not too far in front.\n\nSure enough, you catch glimpse of the red hart bounding noisily in front of you. What sport!\n\n[[Urge your mount on.]]\n[[Try to circle around in front of the stag.]]

You decline their offer - you would rather not get too close to that woman.\n\nThough you crane your neck and stand on your toes, you can see nothing and hear nothing above the roar of the crowd.\n\nYou leave, equal parts disappointment and relief.

"Oh, the French whore thinks she is too good to have her head cleaved by one of us," one of the women says loudly. "A French swordsman has come - supposedly, it's quicker and more merciful. More's the pity!" She looks disgruntled.\n\n"Taking food from an honest Englishman's mouth. An idle sow to the end," another interjects. \n\nIt is clear now who is being executed - The Lady.\n\n[[You pity her.]]\n[[You are glad to see her gone.]]

His false reports have condemned you all. A soft boy of middling talent on the lute, you could not stand him or his caterwauling. He has condemned too, his own soul with his choice to lie, instead of singing the truth.\n\nOf all those who died yesterday, he deserved death best.\n\nAfter watching him die, you turned away from your window and saw no more - so the living paintings on your eyelids come to an end and you open your eyes. \n\nToday Anne dies. But you will not look. There is nothing you can do for her; there was nothing you could do for you friends.\n\nDeath tomorrow will not be your fate; you must simply wait in this cell until Cromwell, ever your father's friend, secures your release.\n\nRelease unto what? You do not know; only that world seems a sadder, dimmer place. Until then, you wait. And mourn.\n\n"And thus farewell each one in hearty wise!"

You loved her once, before she ascended and became unrecognizable and unknowable. It is too much to ask you to witness her death. You briefly wonder whether it was purposefully arranged for you to be able to see her die.\n\nYou slump to the floor, with your back to the window. You press your thumbs into your eyes, as if you could somehow erase all that you have seen, all that has happened.\n\n...but it doesn't work.

"How doth are you today, my friends?" You ask.\n\nSilence.\n\nEventually, the stones reply: "We are hearty well, Master Wyatt. We hear you like to hunt?"\n\n[[I do.]]\n[[Not anymore.]]

These bloody days have broken my [[heart]].\nMy lust, my youth did them, depart.\n\nIn [[Mourning]] wise since daily I increase,\nThus should I cloak the cause of all my grief;\n\nThere is written, her fair neck round about:\nNoli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,\nAnd [[wild]] to hold, though I seem tame.\n\n~Thomas Wyatt\n\n

The scaffold was slippery with blood now. Francis seemed more concerned with keeping the blood off his clothes then the axe's stroke.\n\nFrancis... you smile as you remember the sport was had with him - no man could outdo him. Even the King was often undone by his endurance of riding and steady bow-hand. His foul language made soldiers blush like maids, but he seemed well-loved wherever he went.\n\nYou were proud to call him a friend - how did it come to this?\n\n"In active things who might with thee compare?"\n\nLastly yesterday was Mark...\n\n[[Piteous boy.]]\n[[Craven.]]

Some instinct tells you that this doe is not to be killed. You place your bow on the ground and raise your hands, as if you were you surrendering and slowly shuffle towards here.\n\nThe doe turns her head towards you. Her coat reflects the light back into your eyes - it is soft and white. It reminds you of a spring snow, fresh, crisp, but not too cold. Her eyes are dark and endless, like the sea at night.\n\nShe opens her mouth and says, "Touch me not."\n\nYou clear your throat and reply, "I have no intention of doing so. Forgive me, my lady, but I had not thought to find you here - I think I can hear your execution happening now, outside. How is it that you are here?"\n\n"I am no more here than the egg you hold will turn red." \n\nYou raise the egg in your hand to your eyes and behold it turn blood red. You place it in your mouth and swallow whole. It tastes sweet and salty - as sweet and salty as the tears running down your face.\n\nYou are not sure whether the doe runs into the forest or whether the trees have simply crowded around her and swallowed her up. The earth beneath you shudders and turns itself inside out and you are once more in your cell and an ache in your throat.

At first you are shocked at how much older she appears, but you wryly wonder to yourself how you much you have altered in the preceding years. Even with age and childbirth, she is still handsome and there are shadows of the girl you once glimpsed.\n\nShe is gay with her ladies and even the executioner - you would not have known that she has come hither to die. She ignores the roar of the crowd and the screams of "Witch!" and "Whore!". You allow yourself a small grin - only in England, would they mistake joie de vivre for the work of the devil.\n\nYou note with satisfaction how bravely she kneels and the fashionability of her hood as it is removed. She strikes a fine figure on the scaffolding, even as her head is struck off by your countryman.\n\nSuch a pity. It strengthens your belief that beauty is the work of God and to destroy it is to the devil's work. As the crowd yells its approval, you think to the load of books you will be smuggling back to France. Perhaps she will be your first martyr.

Henry, who came still shouting his innocence. None who knew him could seriously believe he would have committed adultery with Anne - he did not have the manhood to do so.\n\nYou cannot think of whom he offended to have become entangled in this intrigue - he was a wet and simpering man at best. But he was often with Anne and her ladies and a whisper (or scream?) from Mark has been enough for him to lose his head.\n\n"Ah! Norris, Norris, my tears begin to run."\n\n[[Then Francis...]]

Where are the dogs, you wonder. No matter, you do not have the time to find them. You press your horse on, determined to chase down the hart.\n\nYou throw your head back and let your hair stream behind you. You laugh with pleasure. The chase had always exhilarated you - there was nothing you loved better. \n\n...Was? Why did you use the word "was"? Is there something else that you should remember? You slow the chase for a couple of seconds. \n\nNo matter. You shrug. Probably just a slip of the tongue. Oncemore, you spur your mount on after the red hart; made redder still by the sun on the horizon that never seems to set or rise.

The executioner grabs her head away from you and holds it up, striking the blindfold from her face. At first, her eyes move to her body, which has slumped forward, seemingly trying to comprehend her state. Then her eyes lock once more with yours and her lips move again. She can make no noise, yet you think you can make out a little of what she is saying:\n\n"..for now I die."

You are not interested in history and history is not interested in you.

"Excellent. I know where there is a hind - shall we pursue?" The stones question.\n\n"I do love a chase," you reply. You find yourself on a steed you've never known before, riding through an unfamiliar forest. You raise your hand to protect yourself from the blinding whipping of the branches.\n\n"I cannot see our quarry - are you sure we're headed in the right direction?" you ask.\n\n"Your quarry is just ahead, stay your course and you will find her," the stones answer.\n\nThe trees seem to close in as you ride. Soon, the forest is so dense, you feel you can hardly breathe, let alone see.\n\nSuddenly, the trees part an there is a clearing with a pond.\n\nYou do not remember dismounting, but you move into the clearing on your feet, with your bow in your hand.\n\nThere, by the pond, is a beautiful white doe. She seems to be staring at her reflection in the pond.\n\nYou notch an arrow and pull your hand back. You think you see something glint around her neck.\n\n[[Loose the arrow.]]\n[[Put down your bow.]]

She is just a woman caught between the capriciousness of men. His Majesty has practiced precious little mercy of late and she has made too many enemies who hold sway with the throne.\n\nNot that you are foolish to voice these thoughts. These are dangerous times and no man, woman or child may be unguarded of tongue. \n\nYou nod your assent to the women, without actually voicing your agreement and slowly edge away from them. After a few minutes, you are able to leave the crowd without anyone noticing and return to your inn. \n\nTonight, before bed, you will pray for God's Mercy for her soul. And perhaps, many nights after...

His sword is beautiful and you cannot but help a quick intake of breath when you see it. It glints in the sun and looks like it is on fire. It is the type of sword you had always imagined an Angel would bear.\n\nYou are puzzled when he hides it in some straw on the platform. A strange thing to do - must be one those French affectations. Surely she knows she comes hither to die - why hide the requested instrument of death?\n\nShe slowly proceeds from the Tower to the scaffold, all the time your eyes stay on the lump of straw. \n\nAfter she finally arrives, she and the swordsman go through the ritual of begging forgiveness for performing the execution and absolution being granted. It is normally a quick affair but he seems to enjoy making a spectacle out it, crying and moaning.\n\nShe kneels and is blindfolded. You are thrilled to see the swordsman yank his sword from out under the straw. He swings the sword around his head, once, twice and on the third time strikes her head cleanly off. \n\nThe sword has splatters of blood on it. Such a pity that something so beautiful should be covered in blood.\n

She has divided a formerly unified country and meddled in God's affairs. Surely this is God's justice, as well as the King's.\n\nAs you turn to the platform, you can see the executioner ascend and wait for the Lady to be brought out.\n\nThe crowd quiets. Eager? Afraid? \n\n[[Watch the Lady die.]]\n[[Watch the executioner.]]

Before she is blindfolded, you think she inclines her head and sees you at the window - is that a smile on her lips?\n\nThunder cracks. The day started out fresh, but has now turned stormy.\n\nWith a swish, the sword cuts through her fair neck. Her ladies rush forward and cover her now-corpse. This is the last time you will see her...\n\n"And wilt thou leave me thus?\nSay nay! Say nay! for shame\nTo save thee from the blame\nOf all my grief and grame."

History is like the sea - the safest course is to stay out of it.\n\nYou leave and resume your business without a backwards glance.

This cell in the Tower has been your home for some time now. All there is to look at is the door, the impenetrable walls and the window. You do not want to look out the window.\n\nEven the face of the faithless shrew, your wife would be welcome now - but she is not here and you cannot sleep for all the noise below. You must look at something.\n\n[[Look out the window.]]\n[[Do not look.]]

The crowd is beginning to gather around the scaffold. You see that they are covering the scaffold with fresh straw, but they make no attempt to hide or clean the dried blood from the executions of the four men, yesterday.\n\nIf you hang out the window and look to the left, you can see the long trail of the procession that leads the Queen to her death. Two hundred guard's spears sparkle in the light. They are moving very slowly. You allow yourself a little smile - the Queen always loved to be the centre of attention. She will be making the most of this, stopping every few paces to distribute to the poor or murmuring platitudes to the masses. Oh, yes, she will be enjoying this very much.\n\nThe executioner climbs onto the platform and takes his place. All jovialness leaves you.\n\n[[I cannot watch this.]]\n[[I must watch.]]

Yes! That is it!\n\nYou lift your head and sniff the air. You can smell no trace of your hunter, but when you swivel your ears, you think you can hear the faint baying of hounds behind you.\n\nYou have a head start and are determined to use it. With a flick of your tail you begin to run. And run.\n\nAll around is a blur, as you gracefully weave between trees and bound above fallen logs. You relish your agility and the sense of freedom you feel - you almost forget that you are being chased. \n\nThe only thing that mars your joy is the feeling that there is something cold around your neck. As you run, you can feel it getting heavier and heavier. You must stop in this clearing.\n\nYou can smell and hear no danger. You think that you must have outrun your pursuers. Nearby is a small pond. You are very thirsty.\n\n[[Take a drink from the pond.]]\n[[I am not safe here.]]

Your legs feel too heavy to sustain you anymore and you fall to your knees. \n\nHer head is struck and is held up by the swordsman; but you do not see this, for her head is raised above a sea of people whose heads are bowed.

Something tells you that there is still danger lurking near. You turn and run once more. \n\nIt seems as though days, weeks, months, years pass - but you still run, the ground inclining ever so slightly.\n\nEventually the trees melt away, the air grows thinner and the ground becomes steep. You keep running.\n\nAhead of you, there appears a bright light. You are frightened of the light - you realize that it was what you have been running from all this time. You whip around, determined to run away from the light - but no matter which way you turn, it lies ahead of you. \n\nIt seems you have no choice but to approach the light. You cautiously advance until the light surrounds you. It is bright beyond reckoning and warm. \n\nYou collapse to your knees in exhaustion. You can feel the light pulling you apart; dissolving you into itself. Your last thought is: "I did not need to be afraid."\n\n

One of the women leans in and shouts into your ear, "She's a tiny thing isn't she?"\n\nShe is pale, but calm. Her ladies are crying, taking the cross and Bible she held away.\n\nAs she kneels, her eyes seem to meet yours and her lips begin to move. You cannot hear anything for the roar of the crowd, but think she must be praying.\n\nHer ladies take away her foreign headdress and jewels about her neck and blindfold her. Even through the black slip of cloth, you feel the burn of her eyes as she seems to still stare at you.\n\nQuickly - it seems like only an instant - and the sword has flashed and there is blood and her head rolling towards you.\n\n[[Keep watching.]]\n[[This is too much.]]

What will she say - beg for mercy, proclaim her innocence, denounce her enemies? Your curiosity is piqued and you prime yourself to remember her words, so that you may carry report of it evermore.\n\nIt is difficult over the roar of the crowd, but you can make out some phrases:\n\n"...hither to die... I am judged...God save the King...good, gentle...meddle of my cause...the world...pray...mercy...my soul."\n\nYou heard enough - you can fill in the gaps when you write it down later. You do not stay to watch the stroke of the blade - the field has already been sewn - why stay and watch the crops grow when there is work to be done in other fields?

You explain to them in your best English that you are a merchant from France and had not heard any news of their fair country since leaving port.\n\n"Your whore is getting what she deserves", one of the women hisses.\n\nWhore? Mine? It takes a few moments before you understand who she means.\n\nAh, yes - word was that she would be pardoned. It seems not. You had glimpsed her and her sister a couple of times when you visited court many years ago - they were beautiful then. You wonder if they still are. You think it is a pity to kill anything that is pretty in the world - it is almost rejecting God's grace - but you keep these thoughts to yourself.\n\n[[Leave - it is no business of yours.]]\n[[Stay and watch the proceedings.]]

You cannot look away - you must see what happens to Anne. Anne... it seems strange to say her name. For so long, even in your mind's eye, you had not dared to refer to her by name - only Lady Boleyn, or the Marquess of Pembroke or the Queen... but it does not matter now.\n\nShe is on the scaffold now, dressed the black and red colours of a martyr. She never was very good at subtlety. She makes a short speech - you had half hoped that she would scream of the innocence of her and the men who died before her, but she seems determined to play her part in this farce.\n\nHer ladies slowly strip her of her finery, her fur cloak, her hood, her rings, necklaces and all else. Only her dress remains. Her hair is pinned up, so that the sword may slice through her neck unhindered.\n\nShe kneels.\n\n[[She looks at you.]]\n[[She does not look at you. ]]

Anything is better than staring at the God-Damned wall. \n\nAnd waiting for when they will come for you. Or imagining what is happening below your cell window.\n\nYou shut your eyes, enjoying the removal from your surroundings - but then your mind begins to paint images upon your eyelids. You have been many places, travelled Christendom, but your mind can seem to only show you one event: what you saw through the window yesterday.\n\n[[No!]]\n[[Watch and remember.]]\n\n

You drink heavily. Once you are finished, you gaze at your reflection.\n\nThe cold thing around your neck is a golden collar. There is something written on it. You drop your head closer to the water, so that you may read the inscription: "Caesar's I am".\n\nCaesar's? Many faces swim before your eyes; you cannot remember their names and only vaguely their connection to you. Father, brother, lover, poet, priest, King - were one of them Caesar?\n\nThwack! Whilst you were contemplating the collar, your hunter has found you and loosed an arrow in your heart. You fall.\n\nAs the hunter towers over you, you realize you recognize him. You loved him; you feared him. He must be Caesar. You close your eyes and drift into nothingness.\n\nWhen you awaken, you are in a forest and somewhere behind you is a hunter who is searching for you...

You fall to your knees, drifting off into a faint, unwilling to see anymore.\n\nThe last you remember of that terrible day, is seeing a splash of blood and thinking it resembled a stag. How foolish of you.

He cried and wailed his way to death. Though, part of your hardens, for his words has condemned three innocent men and one lady to death - but you know his confessions would have been made under duress and has doomed his own life as well.\n\nYou also cannot hate him for embroiling yourself; for out all the players in this farce, you believe that you alone carries guilt in his heart, if not in action.\n\nMany times you have known Anne - in your heart. Even now, you can see her dancing across your eyelids, before all pictures fade and you open your eyes.\n\nIf you were to look out the window now, you could see her die and squint further still, see the heads of the men who died yesterday. But you would rather remember her as the girl you once pursued before she became the King's.\n\nNow there is nothing to do but practice the speech you will give the crowd below - you want to be ready, for who knows what the morrow will bring.\n\n"Pray for the souls of those be dead and gone."

You approach the mass of people, seemingly all straining forward to fit themselves in the square. The stench is overwhelming. You cannot see anything except a glimpse of scaffolding. \n\nExecution, then. But where are the gallows?\n\nYou turn to a group of women near you trying to pummel their way to get closer to the stage.\n\n[[Who is being killed?]]\n[[Where is the executioner?]]\n

You, too, are eager to see this woman who has caused your country to be cut off from the Grace of God. With the women at your sides you manage to push through the hundreds of people to the front. By the time you have reached the scaffold, the speeches are over and you are so close you could touch the lady's shoes.\n\n[[Strive to take a souvenir.]]\n[[Watch the execution.]]

You break off from main path and attempt to cut off the hart's path. \n\nAt first, you think that you must have miscalculated, but then you find yourself in a clearing and see it lying down by a pond. \n\nYou dismount and you see that it was not a red hart that you chased, but a white doe. It lays beside the water with its head cleaved from its neck.\n\nYou are filled with sorrow and try to repair the damage done. Alas, there is nothing you can do for the doe. You fall to your knees and weep.\n\nWhilst you are weeping for the doe, you remember what it was that you had forgotten - and now you weep for yourself.

She does not look at you - not a glance. Why should she? Anne has been dead to you for a long time. Yes, you loved her once, but it had long turned to bitter ashes in your mouth. \n\nShe had lied, plotted and gotten her way at all costs. In her folly, she destroyed the lives of many men - not just those who died yesterday.\n\nAnd now, with a swift stroke, she is truly dead. Let her death be a warning to all who are not satisfied with what God has granted them and instead scheme to rise above their station.\n\n"The fall is grievous from aloft.\nBear low, therefore and give God the stern."

"Lost your taste for blood?" The stones laugh, "You didn't seem so squeamish yesterday..."\n\n"I took no pleasure in watching those men die!" You shout.\n\n"You forget to whom you are talking to Sir. I heard you composing sonnets even before their blood had stopped pumping. Have you no shame?"\n\n"It was not done in disrespect. I am a poet and meant only to honor them, to immortalize what happened to them-" You are cut off by the stones.\n\n"Hey nonny nonny, it's the tragic poet! I am sorry, I don't remember ever reading your work - have you ever been published? How well your elegy shall sit beside your other works of chasing beneath many a woman's skirt."\n\n"Stop," you command.\n\n"Oh, our Lord Poet is too high and refined to talk to me anymore. Especially when you have so many other friends to talk to now."\n\nBelow, you can hear the crowd roar like thunder.\n\n"Sounds like you just lost another one of your friends."\n\n"Stop," you plead.\n\n"And you were such a good friend to her, were you not? Could have warned her, could have done something, could have said something to your other great friend, Master Cromwell."\n\n"Please, stop," you cry through your dry, cracked lips.\n\n"Stop? But we are such good friends. I thought that later you could scratch some poetry on me. Oh well, as you will - but no one is coming. We are stuck together for eternity - or at least until you die - so we might as well get along."\n\nFinally, there is silence and you are alone - with yourself.

First came Thomas. He tried to be brave, but in the end his legs failed him and they had to pull him up the steps and force his head to the block. If he had perhaps been less triumphant in his and his sister's rise and made fewer enemies at court, then perhaps they would have been less eager to listen to the spurious tales that cunning bitch, his wife, spun.\n\nYou reflect that Jane Rochford and your wife are not so dissimilar. Briefly, an image of them conspiring like witches in a coven is projected onto your eyelids. You laugh. Now there would be justice - those two burnt for witchcraft, though your wife deserves it less then Jane.\n\n"It is great loss that thou art dead and gone."\n\n[[Next came Henry...]]

"You don't know?!" They eye you suspiciously. "Not a foreigner, are you?" She spits.\n\n[[Assure them.]]\n[[Explain.]]

No, no, no, no - you cannot, will not relive that again. You must not dwell on in it. If you are to go to your own execution with dignity, you cannot think of theirs.\n\nYou bury your head into foul straw, trying to scrub from your eyes the bloody images. \n\n"Thus should I cloak the cause of all my grief."\n\nMuffled, you can hear the scream of the mob below - delighted? Horrified? You cannot tell.

There are many back home who will want to know today's happenings.\n\nYou move away from those who are insulting your homeland and clamber onto a nearby abandoned cart. Though you are far away, your view is unhindered.\n\nSoon, the lady is led up onto the scaffold, dressed in gray with red flashes from her petticoat. You chuckle to yourself. There were whispers about her and her sister even as young girls - she was said to be wild, but tame to hold.\n\n[[Strain to hear her speech.]]\n[[Study her.]]

Your eyes study the stones in the wall. Each has become an intimate companion. Every groove, crack and speckle as familiar to you as the fetid smell caused by the moldy straw in your cell that fills your lungs with every breath.\n\nPerhaps companions is not the right word...silent sentinels? Wardens?\n\nYou shudder and not just from the damp.\n\n[[Close your eyes.]]\n[[Engage the stones in conversation.]]

The arrow flies true and pierces her straight in the heart. The doe collapses quickly without uttering a single sound. \n\nYou run quickly over to your prey. The glint you saw was a golden collar, now sprayed with her blood. Inscribed are the words "Caesar's I am".\n\nHorrified, you drop to your knees. You know the penalty for killing a royal deer... death, at the very least.\n\n"I didn't know, I swear I never touched her! I am innocent!" You scream into the sky.\n\n"Innocent?" The stones mock. "Did you not know what would happen when you released your arrow? Is that not the King's property at your feet? Is that not blood on your hands?"\n\n"There is blood on my eyes, blood on heart, blood on my brain, blood on my chest, blood on my feet and my breath - but there is no blood on my hands. I didn't kill her - it wasn't me!"\n\n"Ah, but she is dead anyways. Go look out your window and see for yourself."\n\nSuddenly, you are back in the Tower, alone with the window and the cold, silent stones.

Only one who was possessed by the devil could be so calm. You will not fall under her spell and kneel. Let the fools weep for evil; you will not make that mistake.\n\nAs her head is struck off, you are glad that you happened to witness the destruction of one more of the devil's tools. You are a little disappointed that the executioner does not hold her head up, as is traditional, but instead that her ladies rush forward and cover her. Satisfied, you turn to leave. Suddenly, the wind rises and you hear a woman's laugh and the whisper of words: "...at least it wasn't fire...".\n\nYou shudder and cross yourself. She was a witch afterall - Heaven's Help Us! You hurry away to your priest, fearful that you have been cursed.

You assure the women that you live in the country and have only just arrived to the city, having heard no news of late.\n\nThey relax a little. "It is the French witch!" More spitting. "I hear she has eight fingers on her left hand." \n"And a third tit!" \n"No wonder the King was bewitched!" They laugh bawdily.\n"I want to get a better look at her before they cleave her head."\n"Come join us!"\n\n[[Join them.]]\n[[Stay where you are.]]

You are in a forest. The earth is rich and moist. Every breath you take is filled with the smell of pine.\n\nYour heart is beating quickly - in fear? Or excitement? You do not know. \n\nThere is something you know that you should remember...but strive as you might, you cannot. \n\nOr maybe it is that you are -\n\n[[Being hunted.]]\n[[Chasing your prey.]]

A piece of history - why not? At worst it could be sold to feed your family.\n\nYou focus your eyes intensely on her shoes. Pointy and probably silk. Why wear such expensive shoes to your own death? Who was she trying to impress - God? The King is not here.\n\nIt doesn't matter. You tense yourself, ready to spring, shutting out the frenzied shouting and ignoring the comments the women are making to you.\n\nYour sight of the shoes are broken when the lady kneels. A spurt of hot blood slashes across your cheek, but you pay it no attention. There is no need to lunge, as the crowd pins you to the stage. Fighting for breath, you snake your hand past the swordsman's boots and wrestle one of the shoes off the lady's feet.\n\nYou duck under the platform, thrust the shoe under your tunic, crawl out the otherside and run. And run. And run. And hope none ever catch you.

It is strange, she seems cheerful. In contrast, her ladies could not be more distraught. \n\nShe gives out alms to the poor and makes a pretty little speech. Nothing you hadn't heard before at executions, except for the plea to think well of her henceforth - there is no chance of you doing that - she has already done too much damage. Strangely, though, you feel pinpicks at the corners of your eyes. Even stranger, you hear muffled sobs around you.\n\nAs she kneels, you see the Mayor kneel near the scaffold with her. Others follow - to your far left you can see fat, old Cromwell struggling to his knees. Suffolk and Richmond stay standing tall.\n\n[[Kneel.]]\n[[Stay standing.]]