The name surfaced on the third morning of her last week, and it came from the most unlikely source.
Eleanor had been permitted a visitor — her brother, George Boleyn, Lord Rochford, who was himself a prisoner in the Tower on the same charges and whose own execution was scheduled for the same week as hers. The guards had allowed it as a concession — a final visit between condemned siblings — and the man who sat across from Eleanor was not entirely the historical figure she would have been able to describe from memory.
He was more tired. More human. His hands gripped the edges of the wooden stool as though needing something solid to hold.
"You look better than I expected," he said.
"I sleep well," Eleanor lied. "How are you?"
