What does one think of in one's last hour? I think briefly of my own sins, forgiven, awaiting punishment.
I think of my brave children, alive, dead, all witnessing for Christ and His Church in their own manner.
I think of younger days, but that is a waste of time, as all eternity faces me.
I should think of my Christ, my God, for Whom I shall die, and for this strange country, one I love, but one which I know longer recognize.
My own queen, removed, gone from me, as I shall be gone from all others soon.
My own godchild, this spoiled man, who thinks he rules a country when he cannot even rule himself.
My own heritage, the Plantagenets, good, bad, never mediocre.
Some already call me The Last, as the blood of the ancient Eleanors flows in my veins.
That blood will darken a small place in a few moments, the blood of the Plantagents stopped by the Tudors.
But, this is no time for thoughts of pride.
I face the greatest test of my life, not the block, not the blade, but the time I stand before pure Innocence, pure, absolute Goodness and plea for mercy.
There has been no mercy here, none, nor love.
So, my thoughts must be on Another's Blood, the Blood of Him Who died for me. I shall die for Him.
Long has it been since I have tasted His Body, been to the Sacrament of Sacraments. Now, all sacred times and places are ending for me.
This hour is my short Agony, how I can muse on the sins of those who I thought cherished me, like Christ in the Garden, seeing the entire sins of the world, especially of those who said they loved him, played out, like a drama before His Holy Eyes.
Shall I think of those sins against me while I am facing the debt of my own? Nay, I need only see my own failings.
I pray my dearest son remembers me at Mass, so far away, safe from the monster's hands.
I pray that the Plantagenets forgive me for being the Last, one so weak, so worn out with fighting.
Yet, I shall inscribe my true innocence against this king while I can write, as after a few minutes voice, pen, thoughts will end, or rather turn into something else.
I pray, Dear God, my feeble soul fills the sky with praise to Your Holy Will.
And, Dearest Lady Mary, help me to be brave and stand with me in the courtyard as you stood by Your Son at the end. The block is not my real end. I shall fight the falsity of their cries of "traitor". One last stand against the Lies of the Age.
Only those who love God truly love this England.
Ah, I hear people coming. I shall write quickly:
