The Execution of Lady Jane Grey by Madeleine Armstrong
Lady Jane gropes for the chopping block, her hand as small and delicate as my son’s, only
his is hot and sticky and hers looks cool as porcelain.
His fingers tighten on mine. “Is she scared?”
“It’s just a painting.” I keep my eyes on her bright white blindfold and the dress that shines
out of the gloom. That way I don’t linger on the panic in the line of her mouth, or the axe lurking at the edge of the canvas, or the fox-furred man who guides Lady Jane to her doom, gently, perhaps with a whisper in her ear that it will be quick, if only she can be brave.
“What’s she thinking?” my son asks.
I’m thinking that I shouldn’t have let him pick whatever he wanted in the overpriced gallery
café, because of course he chose hot chocolate with squirty cream and marshmallows, and a pastry as big as his head. I’m thinking about my wife’s face, soured with disappointment, when I own up to my crime.
My wife, who grabbed my arm this morning, her lips pursed tight like Lady Jane’s, and
hissed that she wanted a divorce.
My son’s bouncing, his hand jiggling against the cage of my fingers. “Is he really going to
chop off her head?”
He’s on the edge; it’s the sugar, or the hushed atmosphere, or the shiny floor that makes him
want to run and slide, or maybe he overheard us this morning, or maybe he just knows – kids
always do.
I shake my head, even though there’s a plaque next to the painting saying that Lady Jane
was executed, aged 17, after just nine days on the throne.
Beside me, my son stills. He rests his head against my waist and I put my arm around him,
feeling the heat coming off his little body, which I helped to make, something that will always be true whatever happens next. I focus on his scent, sun cream and sweat, and the soft wheeze of his breath as we both stare at the luminous Lady Jane. The only thing that matters is this moment, before the axe falls.
Author's Note:
I’m really terrible at relaxing, but I’m trying to get better at it. One of my favourite self-care activities is running – I can get into an almost meditative state, whereas any attempts at actual meditation just make me feel itchy. The painting in this story, Paul Delaroche’s The Execution of Lady Jane Grey, is on display at The National Gallery in London, and it’s one of my favourite pieces there. I can lose myself in the folds of Lady Jane’s dress, and the way the light hits her lonely figure.
Madeleine is a Pushcart Prize-nominated author who has won the Hammond House short story prize, and been published in mags including BULL, Frazzled Lit, Hooghly Review, Literary Garage, Mythic Picnic, Punk Noir, Temple in a City, Trash Cat, Underbelly and Urban Pigs. She lives in London. Twitter/X @Madeleine_write; Bluesky @madeleinewrite.bsky.social
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