It was the year 1536 and I am King Henry VIII. I am the King of England, son of Henry VII. I dismount my house in the courtyard. I am currently in a political struggle with my French allies, a religious struggle with the pope as I built the Church of England, and royal trouble with my lack of a male heir.

I am 46 and recently married to the terrible Anne Boleyn, the 6 fingered mole-covered witch. A young lady-in-waiting I have taken a liking to, Helena. Her youth & beauty made me feel like I could recapture my lost youth.

I spoil her in nicknames and many, many gifts, dogs, dresses, jewellery, fans, palaces. She shall be my queen. Anne is well aware of my lust and desire for her young lady in waiting, I can tell. There is a fury of jealousy and hatred it Annes eyes when she looks at Helena. In my eyes, Anne is the black swan, and Helena is the white swan. One a symbol of poison and viciousness, the other a symbol of femininity and innocence.

I am sat with Anne beside me as we watch the royal jousting. She is staring at me, well aware that I am no longer hers. I see Helena walk into the arena and my face beams. I get up and rush over to her

“Ah, there thou art, at long last come unto me”