I stood on her grave

We all know the names. Henry VIII. Catherine of Aragon. Anne Boleyn. And Jane Seymour. She gave Henry his heir. Edward VI. Henry had tired of his previous wives. He wanted a male heir and they had provided him none. But Jane. Jane did. And then died. From a fever contracted during childbirth. For three years Henry wore black. He is buried next to her. It is said that she, of all his wives, was remembered most fondly. Either because she had given him his heir, or because she died before he tired of her. But he is, after all, buried next to her.

I was touring Windsor Castle. I was in St. George's Chapel. I was staring in awe at the heraldry present in the Chapel. There, hanging from the ornate ceiling, were the 24 standards and crests of the original members of the Order of the Garter. And I was not allowed to take pictures. But I was in awe, nonetheless. As the group I was with began to move forward, I looked down at my feet to see my next step - the floor in the Chapel is uneven. There, written in metallic script embedded in the marble slab, was the name 'Jane Seymour'. I was standing on her grave. I was that close to history. All the names I had seen that day on tombs and statues, all the things I had heard and seen did not prepare me to stand on the grave of Jane Seymour.

Don't ask me why. I don't know. I just know that that moment of my life will remain burned in my memory forever. I stood on the grave of Jane Seymour.