I dreamed I was, literally, the Queen of England in the midst of intrigue and murder. My secretary was bustling me from room to room, sometimes hiding me in closets. At one point, one of my closest advisors was alive, talking with me one moment; I turned my back and turned around to speak with her – and she was dead, stabbed in the back with a knife, still standing over the desk she was working at.
I was furious that this petty intrigue was unraveling around me, as I needed my advisors, I had serious affairs of state that I was trying to deal with, and didn’t have time to worry about possibly being assassinated. As I tried to deal with those really important things, my trusted advisors and loyal servants continued to try and keep me from harm’s touch.
The dream was so vivid and so real, when I awoke I could still feel the texture and weight of the heavy brocade gown I wore, the rich colors of the tapestries and furnishings, the dark wood paneling in the small rooms within the castle. I also vividly remember that the smell of candles permeated the dream; and I remember the small sounds of the rustle of parchment and
quill pens scratching. There was also a strange feeling throughout the dream of anxiety about being killed, and pushing away the anxiety so I could do my real
work.