by Nell Gavin
Despite my physical and temperamental failings, my parents dearly loved me. I learn this with amazement for, while my father’s affection was preoccupied and dismissive, I see it was strong, and my mother, the mother with the heart of ice, appears to have felt toward me a love of surprising depth. It is amazing because I never knew they felt love at all. I cannot even formulate a question, yet I am in need of reassurance that what I see is truth, for I am inclined to disbelieve.
Where in the heart of the mother who pursed her lips at me, or inside the father who used me and abandoned me at my death was there love? It was not visible. I am certain of that.
I am reassured the love was there, or they would never have tolerated my temperament and nature to such a degree in that time and place. Had they loved me less, they would have cruelly beaten me into submission, as they had been taught to do. Instead, my parents even allowed me some say in decisions that concerned me. They were, by comparison to others in our time and against their better judgment, remarkably lenient and indulgent toward me.
One has to step back sometimes, and having done so, I marvel that I missed what I could not see at the time.
I made my parents laugh, and amused them with stories and songs, and assaulted them with endless effusive displays of affection even in the face of their own detachment. My tongue was never still, and my eyes were always darting about and crinkling over some small joy. I could not help loving them with boundless energy, and that kind of love is a flattering thing. They first pitied me, and then I made them laugh, which is the surest way for a child to carve room for herself in a parent’s heart. I now find I gave them more pleasure than they ever allowed me to see. I wished with all my heart that they could love me as much as the others, and in truth, they did. Yet I was never certain of their love, and never felt worthy of it.
Would I have been different had I known?
I would think of my parents when I accepted Henry’s hand, and feel I had finally succeeded in making them proud of me. That belief gave me joy almost equal to the joy I felt in being loved by Henry. It is a moment I would freeze in time, for it was by far my happiest, and a moment for which I paid most dearly.
It was a moment my mother and father did not wish for me or for themselves, knowing Henry. They did not fully share my joy, yet still, I thought they must. I thought I was giving them a gift.
Chapter 2
•~۞~•
When we were children, our cuddles came from nurses and servants, as did the swats that landed on our bottoms. Our parents were careful not to spoil us with kisses and affection, as it was commonly thought that such parental weakness brought harm to a child’s character. They maintained in the spirit and popular wisdom of the times that children must be brought up sternly, distanced from their parents whom they revered and respected, rather than openly loved. They wanted what was best for each of us, and the widely held belief was that cold harshness and parental distance were best. They settled for criticism, parsimonious praise and material gifts as a means of expressing themselves and their love for us.
Father and Mother (or “Sir” and “Madame”, as we publicly addressed them) were godlike creatures who came when we misbehaved, and administered verbal instructions to the nurses on how to handle us. Then they retreated, leaving the care and handling of the three of us to others. However in secrecy, the nurses disobeyed orders that they should distance themselves from us as well, so they held and snuggled and nurtured us without our parents ever suspecting. It was the scoldings Mother and Father saw, never the hugs.
I was too boisterous for a girl, tumbling down the stairway with my brother George, while our shrieks rang out in the hall. I often hurled myself into cartwheels, even attempting flips behind garden hedges, tearing my skirt on thorns and having to account for it later. “Pure wickedness,” I was told with clucks and fiery glances. “A lady doth not fling her skirts to the breeze with her limbs in full view of God and man! Thou art tempting Satan! Such sinful immodesty!”
From the moment I toddled upright, I was drilled for hours in walking like a proper lady, and so I walked as a proper lady walks. “A lady doth not gallop; she doth glide. Head erect, chin proud, small steps—small ones, Mistress Anne. Move only the lower portion of thy limbs as much as thou mayest. Mother of God! Heed me, thou wicked girl. Straighten thy back. Arms bent up at the elbow lest the blood move to thy hands and make them as pink as the hands of a kitchen maid. Up! Up and stay up!” The words were punctuated with smacks from a wicked long switch. Two steps out of view of anyone, however, I broke into a giggle and a giddy run.
I liked games that called for movement and running. I also liked games of pretend, and played the beautiful maiden while George harassed me as a fearsome dragon or a highway robber. When Mary joined our play, she would insist upon being the beautiful maiden herself, and my role became that of the handsome prince who would save her. George was ever the villain, for he loved to roar and make noises to frighten us into scrambling out of the nursery and into the hall. I would cast magic spells on him to make him die upon the floor where he would twitch and moan in gleefully dramatic agony. Always, the nurses would scurry toward us scolding and upset that Father or Mother should hear us outside the boundaries of our playrooms. We slid down the banisters, and ran from room to room to escape them, hiding in wardrobes or under bedsteads in dusty, muffled concealment while they called to us and threatened us in dangerous tones. Once found, we were separated and spanked, or punished with isolation, or denied treats or, in particularly bad instances, turned over to Father whose punishment was more severe.
If he was at home and not traveling in service to the King, Father always came with his whip when I misbehaved or threw fits of temper, lifted my skirts and thrashed me.
I see Father now, sweeping into the room with iron fury, larger than life, made larger by rage, voice booming, eyes coldly examining me upon his approach. As he draws ever closer, I grow ever smaller, weeping, contrite and terrified, too frightened even to beg for mercy knowing I would receive none from my father or his whip.
Frequently berated for “wickedness” and “willfulness”, I routinely confessed myself to be “wicked and willful” when I asked forgiveness from the priest. There, admittedly, were episodes of violent emotion if I did not get my way. I believed from my upbringing that I should have my way, and so I demanded it. However, mine was frequently less a display of will than of volatile temperament, and my demands often less self-centered than a manifestation of strained nerves. I grew ill-tempered when excitement or pressure stretched me past a very tenuous endurance.
I was forced to test that endurance daily. Both our parents and the nurses made it clear that none of us was ever to draw attention in public. They warned and forbade us, but the strong desire to appear in control and to please was within me as well, so I obliged. I was aware of always being watched and assessed. Each time we ventured out, I was expected to be silent and to behave with impeccable decorum. I wanted approval, so no one could ever find fault with me when it was necessary for me to behave, and I would always hold the excitement of the outing within me until I was once again safe in my home. There I would explode into a tantrum as my only means of releasing my feelings, and fall exhausted into sleep.
Emotion affected me to the extreme and would result in my becoming feverishly agitated. When I was happy, I would be overcome by a happiness that always seemed to be far happier than that which others felt, and hence unseemly. Then my emotional reserves became entirely spent on this emotion and I would violently snap, collapse into tears, and fling myself until I was drained.
Grief was always over-felt and even more exhausting than happiness. I could feel it for days or weeks with no decrease in intensity. The dismissal of a servant, the departure of a favorite visitor, the death of a robin I had unsuccessfully attempted to nurse, or—God forbid—the death of one of my little dogs, each had the effect of leaving me prostrate and hysterical while I mourned and missed them. I was in
consolable at such times, and refused any pleasures.
Impatience and exasperation with me prompted whippings that sometimes had the effect of taking my mind off the grief and placing it elsewhere. For this reason, my parents viewed these as necessary and beneficial. Each time a tragedy struck, I was called aside and whipped. I grew up expecting to be rightly punished for misfortune.
It is difficult for an adult to make the distinction between will and emotional upset. It is even more difficult for a child. The reason for my tantrums was of little interest beyond the fact that they occurred and must stop. I should have control over my behavior, yet I felt possessed by the Devil himself when the hysteria overcame me. I cringed with shame and remorse at the passing of each episode, and accepted the whippings with a sense that I had failed.
Always, I sensed the difference between others and myself in the power of my emotions, and felt ashamed that I was less calm than Mary, and less able than George to view matters with level-headedness. It was so difficult for me. I was too easily carried away and wished to hide this, for expression of feelings always drew frowns or gasps, and was generally viewed as something base and common, as well as inappropriate. I prayed often that God might make me good.
I never learned to feel less intensely. I knew not how to change it. I never learned to control the hysteria either, except by degree. However, knowing that one simply does not express emotion, I was able to repress my feelings in public with such a force of will that I appeared cold. I could not cry or shout or misbehave before outsiders; I had too much pride and was too aware of my station and of the inevitable fury I would incur to ever indulge in such antics. In public, I was a perfect little girl. I was a credit to my parents. Inside, I was churning with emotion, and was always on the verge of erupting.
The little girl grew into a woman, and did not change so very much.
It should not be thought that I spent my entire childhood in fits of hysteria or subsequent punishment. In truth, the household considered me the “sunny” child and, though I did not know this, it was I, not Mary, who was the favorite of the nurses and the servants. I was gregarious and precocious. It was I who was first to give hugs and kisses, and who grew wildly ecstatic over the return of a nurse from her visit home, or at the birth of a servant’s child. I knew the family histories and medical complaints of all of them, brought treats to the babies, and kept company with the old ones and sick ones as they lay abed, prattling as ever to all who would listen. In return, they loved me as their own, despite the scoldings I cost them when I blurted out some truth they wanted hidden.
I did not distance myself from underlings, except when I wanted them to serve me. I knew proper protocol, and the servants expected it of me when they were on duty. I could be quite demanding and cold if I was ill or hungry or feeling bad-tempered. Otherwise I merely ordered them about with self-centered impatience and expectations that were sometimes selfish and unreasonable.
Even so, I was not as bad as most in my station. I fully knew our servants were beneath me, but I loved them. They were my world, and as much my family as Mary and George. When I was ill tempered or spoke harshly, they forgave me and served me with parental patience and good-humor. I grew up expecting to be forgiven my moods. I grew up expecting to be understood.
I was never to entirely disabuse myself of the illusion that all servants, and later my ladies, loved me as I loved them because of the servants I had in my earliest years. Toward the end, virtually none except Emma was a friend, yet I thought them so, and spoke too much or spoke to them harshly expecting, once more, to be forgiven.
Aye, but then, I could never hold my tongue. I never could, poor wicked wench.
Mary and I were close as children, and remained so, even as years pulled our interests in different directions. I concentrated on music while Mary liked to paint; I chose the Church, and Mary chose young men. We maintained our intimacy up to the time Henry came between us and forever strained our relationship. While still children, though, we whispered and plotted, and planned our grand lives, and slept in the same bed (I could not endure to spend the night alone, and crept down the hall and into Mary’s room), hugging each other during cold nights. Mary told stories of the great man she would marry and the grand house she would have, whereas I fantasized myself into sainthood and told stories of that. We made up frightening tales about the things to be found in the woods, or the fantastic magical spells cast by an old beggar woman we often passed in our carriage when we went out for air, then went to sleep pressed close for warmth.
George sometimes crawled into bed with us until he grew too large and proud to be with his sisters. Our nurses slept soundly, and they were country women raised three or more to a bed themselves, so even if they woke and checked in on us, they did not mind or waken George to send him back to bed alone. He feared the darkness and liked the company. He would weep, if forced to leave on those nights when the very villains he often pretended to be himself were lurking in his wardrobe or hovering outside his window. He outgrew the need by the age of six or seven, and would look fierce if anyone mentioned that he had once scurried into bed with his sisters from fear and need of comfort. When I think of us though, I think of us that way: three little poppets nestled sleeping and intertwined while the nurse snored softly in a nearby room. That sweet time swiftly passed for us.
It was George to whom I turned as we neared ages 9 and 11, and Mary, at 12, was less interested in childish play. We chased one another while Mary looked up from her needlework with patronizing boredom or conversed in soft-spoken, well-mannered phrases with the older women in the household. George was a companion as wicked as I, and as prone to mischief. We often recruited Emma, a servant’s child, to join us in devilish pursuits that led us upstairs and down, inside and out, with nurses threatening us from all directions. Without Mary’s restraining influence, the number of whippings for each of us increased.
I missed George’s companionship, when he went away to school and I left home to live on the Continent. When I came back, he was a man, and I was a woman, and he was concentrating on his career and his fortune at court. We had much to say at first, and the intimacy was still evident, but we had lives apart from the family now, and found our opinions had diverged over those years. George was very serious and intense about his future and his prospects. I was more flighty and carefree, content to attend feasts and masques, and to chatter among the women at court about the women who were not present in the room. We each experienced exasperation in the company of the other, and heard word of each other mainly through George’s wife, who carried messages back and forth between us.
Meticulously well-informed, George was opinionated about the subject of politics and liked to discuss it at length, whereas I had no opinions except to comment on the personalities involved, what they wore and whom they had bedded. At first, I politely extricated myself from his conversations when they turned to current events. Later, I sought him out and grilled him endlessly, not only for information concerning that which was taking place now, but all things that had led up to it, and his speculations as to where an event might lead. The result was a huge surprise to both of us: I had a head for it, and a mind sharper than that with which I had thus far been credited. George viewed me differently afterwards, and spoke to me with more respect and less condescension. Over the course of several months, it lessened his habitual annoyance with me somewhat, but alas, did not erase it entirely. His wife still formed our strongest link to each other.
I spent a good portion of my time in George’s company after my duties required that I obtain a better grasp of politics within and outside the court. He assisted me with an understanding I had previously neglected to develop, and his coaching spared me some embarrassment. In pursuit of the goal of educating me for my duties as Henry’s wife, we spent many hours together before and after I wed, giving neither Henry nor anyone else cause to believe we were engaging in unnatural acts. Henry once caught me affectionately kissing George’s
cheek, and at the time had smiled. He had also smiled at the stories I told him about our sleeping all to a bed as small children.
From those two things (and from fanciful suggestions from George’s by-then-unhappy-and-embittered wife, whose comments Henry had encouraged) Henry concocted his charge of incest.
۞
I pause here at the thought. I feel outrage strongly enough to kill. I whirl into a frenzy of anger while words come to me, calming me, soothing me, attempting to reason with me as I reel about in pain and affront.
I move ahead too quickly, I am told. Fury keeps me picking at a sore I would be wiser to leave alone. There is much time here to dwell on anger, but it serves no purpose. I must stay with the task at hand.
“Calm yourself. Calm yourself . . . ”
In time I do, and I move forward.
۞
During the years we were growing up, Henry’s brother Arthur took Katherine of Aragon as his bride. Arthur, a weak sort, died soon afterward leaving a wife and a throne he had not lived long enough to claim. His younger brother Henry laid claim to both. That Henry should ascend the throne was never questioned. That he should also claim a woman as part of the inheritance was looked upon by some in askance.
When Henry was 14, his father made him publicly declare the arrangement of his marriage to Katherine was not of his choosing in order to shame the Spanish crown over some passing political peevishness, but in fact, the marriage was of his choosing. On first sight Henry, at age 10, had wanted Katherine and would stop at nothing to have her. From his perspective, the death of his brother was a convenience that confirmed what he knew to be true: God intended for her to be his wife.