Thomas Boleyn, Duke of Ormonde, former Prince Consort of England and Anne’s most beloved father, tossed and turned restlessly, murmuring incoherently through cracked, parched lips. Against all advice, Anne sat at his side, one hand resting on his, the other tight around a damp cloth she was running over his cheeks and forehead in a vain attempt to bring his fever down.
“Come on, Papa,” she begged, “Stay with me, please. You’ve fought this before. Do it again. I need you to live.” Her voice cracked, and she had to turn away for a moment before she could continue, voice uncharacteristically vulnerable, “I’ve only just buried Mother, I can’t lose you too.”
Tears burned in her eyes and she had to force them back. Daughter or not, she was also Queen of England and she could not afford to cry.
