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Friday, May 18, 2018

Similarities Between Henry VIII and Prince Harry/Anne Boleyn and Meghan Markle

Has anyone noticed how much Prince Harry looks like Henry VIII in his youth, how closely Meghan Markle resembles Anne Boleyn in description, and how many parallels they have in their lives?

Henry VIII was 6’2” tall; Prince Harry 6’2” tall. Henry was a “ginger”; Prince Harry is as well. Anne Boleyn had long, dark hair with dark eyes; Meghan Markle does also.

Henry VIII was a second son; Prince Harry is a second son. Henry VIII’s elder brother’s name was Arthur; Prince Harry’s elder brother Prince William’s second name is Arthur; Anne Boleyn had one brother and one sister; Meghan has one brother and one sister.

Henry VIII led his armies in battle; Prince Harry served in the military as an officer. Anne Boleyn had a following before she met Henry VIII due to her style, talent and panache; Meghan has a host of fans for the same reasons.

Henry VIII was just shy of his 12th birthday when his mother died; Prince Harry was 12 when his mother died; Anne Boleyn’s parents were alive when she married; Meghan Merkel’s parents are alive.

Henry VIII was known as a “Hail fellow, well met”; Prince Harry has the same reputation. Anne Boleyn was known for her musical performances and skits; Meghan Markle is an actress.

Henry VIII was known as the “handsomest Prince in Christendom”; Harry has been called the most eligible bachelor in the world and is celebrated for his good looks. Anne Boleyn was known for her fashion sense; Meghan Markle is a fashion icon.

Henry VIII was athletic and powerfully built; Prince Harry has an athletic physique; Anne was slender, exotic and loaded with charisma; Meghan is slender and exotic and is also charismatic.

Anne was beheaded on May 19; Meghan and Harry will marry on May 19.

Amazing! Could this be Henry and Anne’s second chance?

On his death bed, the entity that came for him was no other than Anne Boleyn.


Soon to be in Audible!

Based on historical facts, Circle of Time weaves the story of timetraveler Bridget Littleton, Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn, and Bridget's ancestor Sir John Lyttleton, into a dramatic and fascinating tale of love and betrayal.

A student of Tudor history for 50 years, author Debra Shiveley Welch tells the story of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn as she truly believes they were, and unravels the complexities of Henrician politics.

When 21-year-old Bridget Littleton decides to borrow her father's yacht and sail off of the tip of Florida toward Bermuda,she discovers that the legends about the Bermuda Triangle are true. After seeing a face in the ocean waves, her next memory is of spinning water and blackness. She awakens in the town of Bristol England in the year1532.

Rumors of her beauty reach the court, and soon Bridget,known as Bridge, finds herself in the court of Henry VIII and Lady in Waiting to none other than Anne Boleyn.
Will she get out alive?Will she accidentally change the course of history, or is she indeed apart of the history she has studied since she was a little girl?

Monday, March 5, 2018


Bridget Littleton is thrown back in time to the court of Henry VIII:
a fascinating tale of love and betrayal.

Available on Amazon and Most Online Stores


Torches nested in brackets along the wall and did a surprisingly good job of lighting the hallway. Bridge followed meekly, terror half closing her throat. She noticed the way Jane walked and corrected her own, fighting the desire to mimic her guide in an exaggerated manner. Fear often brought out the clown in Bridge, but she suppressed the impulse and mirrored Jane’s demeanor as precisely as she could. Shoulders back, head high, hands folded in front, she walked slowly and with as much dignity as she could muster under the terrifying circumstances.
Jane Seymour – destined to be the king’s third wife, came to court to attend Catherine of Aragon and was now one of Anne’s ladies. Talk about a front row seat! Bridge concluded. This could turn into such a mess if I’m not careful! Knowing what she knew, Bridge would have to walk on proverbial eggshells. One misstep and she could be in serious trouble and possibly face the stake, or the chopping block. She tried to clear her mind and focus on what was happening at that exact moment.
Bridge decided to concentrate on the sounds of the swish of silk fabric against brocade, the report of their wooden heels against the floor, the play of light on the jewels of Jane’s cap. Eventually, she heard music, very lively and accompanied by laughter. The hallway brightened, and she was there. Jane promptly deserted her.
She couldn’t believe her eyes! Here she was, little Bridget Littleton, standing in the great hall of Hampton Court, and there before her eyes was none other than Henry VIII. He was magnificent! Resplendent in cloth of gold and ermine, jewels flashing as he moved his hands to eat, drink or in conversation, the first thing she noticed was how extremely handsome he was. He reminded her of someone, but in her present state of agitation, she couldn’t bring to mind who it was. His portraits did not do him justice. Perhaps the painter’s goal was to accentuate his stance, robes and jewels. Or maybe his mouth was made to look smaller because he was supposed to look stern, and his painted eyes, bereft of eyelashes and brows pencil thin, made his face look rather plain and porcine-like. From where she stood, she could see a well-formed mouth, the lips pink with health; she wondered what they would feel like upon hers.
Shaking herself inwardly, appalled that such a thought should speed through her mind like a bolt of electricity, she failed to see that the king was looking at her.
Leaning forward and signaling to a tall courtier with dark hair, he spoke to him abruptly. The young man turned, pinpointed Bridge, and strode over.
Watching him approach, Bridge felt a moment of panic. Her heart bouncing against her rib cage like a captured bird trying to escape, made her feel giddy. Her breathing became labored, encased as it was in stiffened cloth and whale bone, as the frantic organ’s beats hit her esophagus, causing her to gasp and choke. Her blood, akin to a river of ice water, ran through her veins as frantic fear settled upon her, and she was suddenly very cold.
A dream-like quality settled over her, like a mantle of thick cloth, muffling the music and laughter. The young gentleman stepped before her. Offering his hand, he simply said,
“M’Lady, the king awaits.”