The king claps, delighted.
Squinting into the dazzling summer sky, he follows the flight of his prize hawk, its prey in its talons. The master falconer, leather-gloved hand outstretched, whistles the bird down.
The king turns at the sound of running. His squire.
Panting, the young man quickly genuflects and says, “Your treacherous bird is dead, Sire.”
The king whirls around, perturbed.
Hooded now, the hawk sits on the falconer’s gloved hand.
“No, Your Majesty,” the squire says, noticing the king’s frown. “Your Boleyn bird. A quick death. Queen Anne never saw the blade coming.”
The king claps, delighted.
