That night he dreams the death of Anne Boleyn, in panels. In the first he stands watching as she walks to the scaffold, wearing her clumsy gable hood. In the second she kneels in a white cap while the Frenchman raises his sword. In the last, her severed head, smothered in linen, bleeds its image into the weave. He wakes as the cloth is shaken out. If her face is imprinted, he is too dazed to see it. It is 20 May 1536.
