Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn

by Nell Gavin

  Thus far, we have always forgiven and moved passed it. We will not be together again, I find, until I can forgive him once more, and he in turn can learn to control his fearsome temper. To meet before then would bring further damage to us both.

  “Is he not damned?” I ask hotly and with a small amount of hope. “I should think I would have no reason to meet him again at all.”

  The Voice speaks again: “He deserves your forgiveness.”

  I am very, very angry. I do not want to forgive. I cannot forgive, just as I cannot stop loving him. I am changed because of his cruelty and need to heal if I am ever to forgive. I must forgive because it is Law and I am as bound to the Law as anyone, but I will require lifetimes away from him before I am ready, and it seems a hard task.

  In the meantime, I want never to see that life again or think of that place and time or be reminded, and yet I must because the memories crowd inside me. It is what I must do. I vow that when I finish, I will place it all behind me, and never ever look back again. England is a dark and haunted place to me, and the era when I lived one that will have no appeal even after I reappear on earth and forget the reason I recoil.

  Time passes, how much I cannot say, and I am still here, forced to watch and examine. It is a long and painful process.

  Chapter 3

  •~۞~•

  All three of us had exceptional minds and a quick grasp of most concepts, but as females, Mary and I were first painstakingly tutored as proper ladies of a certain station, then dismissed as having thoughts of no consequence. We were taught that God had created us for no reason other than to breed and serve men, and we accepted it as one accepts the world one is born to. My thoughts, however, begged for release. My tongue was a quiver, and each opinion I held was an eager arrow in search of its target.

  I grew to have a mischievous preference for discourse with men, who were often taken aback by forceful attitudes daintily packaged in an attractive woman. I had beautiful eyes and smiled teasingly when I spoke to them, feigning maiden modesty between verbal jousts. I was mercurial and had a charming wit. I flattered, then teasingly insulted by turns, now smiling impishly, now lowering my eyes and blushing. Most of what I said was lost with the cocking of one of my eyebrows, and the man would press closer, changing the subject to my eyes. I had eyes that lit up with playfulness. There are men who cannot resist a tease.

  However, there were men—and of course, women—who were immune to me and actually heard the words. These words were often purposely scandalous and inflammatory, and only sometimes a reflection of my true feelings because I loved to argue and test my wits, and because I enjoyed tweaking the pompous, just a little.

  It was Emma’s influence, I suppose.

  Once I was under Henry’s protection, I said exactly what I wished to say. Prior to that, I sometimes spoke wickedly in private or succumbed to the temptation to engage in verbal battling, but most often I maintained a sense of place, and sought to please everyone I met. This changed when I became his mistress, and worsened when I was his wife. At times I felt irritable from the pressures imposed upon me and no longer bothered with self-restraint. At other times, I simply liked to play Devil’s Advocate. I tossed explosive comments about religion and politics into a discussion just to see how they would land and to see the reactions of the people involved. I was particularly irksome in this respect when speaking to those whom I disliked, and with these, I often took sides or expressed opinions simply to infuriate. It was a very, very risky and costly amusement.

  Even more costly was my penchant for gossip, and for unkind observations. I was not alone in this. I associated solely with idle ladies and courtiers whose main source of diversion was a generalized verbal viciousness toward their absent peers. Clothing, mannerisms, intelligence, rank, love partners, appearance and weaknesses all were subject to critique and contempt. I took an active part in the sport. Cruel comments I made in private grew to be public declarations once my opinions earned greater interest and respect. Words I spoke were universally heard, even when I spoke them thoughtlessly, intended them to merely be witty, or was provoked by a momentary personal irritation that had more to do with mood than real displeasure.

  It does not please people to hear secondhand that which they were not intended to hear about themselves.

  It does not please me to be reminded that this “harmless” amusement costs a hefty toll in the borrowing, and that the punishment for unkind words and scornful laughter against another is every bit as severe as for striking that person with murderous blows.

  “It is not what goes into a man’s mouth that defileth him . . .”

  It is what comes out. I have spoken and laughed myself into a tangled net of harsh punishment. It is not the first time I have done so.

  Henry himself was an incorrigible gossip, having to know all that went on with everyone, digging and prodding me for stories that might amuse him. He also applauded my verbal games because he loved a mental challenge. The more provoking the observation, the more it amused him (provided the subject was not critical of himself). I willingly accepted his encouragement, and thus placed myself in danger more times than I knew. It escaped me that some men viewed me with a seething resentment and would seek to punish me for besting them with my wits. There were others, men and women alike, whom I had infuriated that sought repayment. All of these bristled at my audacity, knowing I was taking advantage of a situation where they could not respond to me and risk the King’s displeasure. Still others found me amusing, and I suppose I thought they all did as a result. One sees one’s tactical errors clearly from this vantage point. I should never have underestimated the evil that can spring from bruised pride and wagging tongues.

  But, again, I jump ahead.

  Upon our return from France, Mary married, had a daughter she most properly named for the queen, and was installed at court as lady in waiting. After a span of time, Henry noticed her and chose her. Mary went to him with little self-examination or concern, either for her spouse or Henry’s.

  Mary was pretty and charming and eagerly sought him physically, all qualities Henry preferred in a mistress. He was well-pleased by her company for a time. However, Mary was vocal about her love for him and made demands, and often burst into tears over real or imagined omissions in the sincerity of his attentions.

  Henry did not love her, and viewed her need for him as cumbersome. When she found herself with child, he saw no further use for her, and sent her back to her husband who would keep her and the infant in a household at a distance from court. As if to make a point about the line she had attempted to cross in his affections, and because of his convenient doubts of the child’s actual parentage, (even though he had Henry’s red hair), Henry never acknowledged her child as he had Bessie Blount’s.

  While Mary was still Henry’s mistress, I was sent to court myself. I watched the scenes unfold, then ached for Mary who seemed broken by the King’s abandonment. I heard the talk at court, and all the clucking remarks about her behavior. How could the young lady be foolish enough to imagine that a king would want her for love? She might have learned from Bessie Blount, who had retained the King’s attention for quite some time, that love was not his interest and was not to be expected. He had a wife, Katherine, who fully owned his love. He did not want love from a silly girl. That “silly girl” had a husband, which made her behavior even less to be endured. Henry wanted a playful but sensible woman who tended to his needs and then retreated, satisfied with money and gifts and, if necessary, a respectable arrangement of marriage to someone else.

  I remembered those comments and felt pain for Mary that she had earned such pitying contempt. I prayed I would never look like such a fool.

  I let her weep and shout out her anger and betrayal and her hurt to me. I gave her what comfort I could, and counseled her, not knowing how. Mary’s pain was real, and my heart truly broke for her. I hid the talk and the sneers from her, and was angered at Henry even knowing, as I did, that he could
not have done things differently. The blame for such foolishness was Mary’s alone, for in truth she had been foolish, but Henry’s coldness angered me nonetheless.

  Life was not as we had planned, when we were children. For Mary, it turned out to be tolerable. Her husband eventually died, and she then fell in love with a soldier. She had no wealth, but was blissfully wed, and was quite content with her lot, particularly after seeing the dangers she had escaped by not winning Henry’s love. She outlived all of us, and had a fair life, overall. She was deserving of it.

  Chapter 4

  •~۞~•

  From my first breath, I was taught duty and honor. Raised to be petulant and demanding, I was also trained to fear God, and to love those whom I served, and to serve them loyally. I served Queen Katherine, and I loved her. Having finally met the fairy tale princess, I found her to be tedious and self-righteous and inclined toward vicious, secret vengeance while always maintaining a façade of sanctimonious piety. However, I loved her still. It was my duty, and a nearly lifelong habit. I suffered through her company, not admitting to myself that her company was insufferable to me, so proud was I to be in her circle. I overlooked her shortcomings and the boredom I felt in her presence, and tenaciously felt love toward her because she was my Queen and it was my duty to love her.

  The hatred I came to feel for her was as strong as the love, and Henry the cause of it. Beneath it all, I wished her no harm. I never did. I only spoke so out of anger and hurt, and never acted upon the words—or meant them. Throughout everything, all of it, I had a childish desire for her to love me, but knew not how to make it come about. And so I hated and punished her because she had spurned me, and because I wished to hurt her, and I could. I neither screamed for her blood at any time, nor encouraged Henry to kill her. There was no subterfuge and secret plotting. There was no poison, nor talk of poisoning as her supporters vehemently accused. I did not hide my hurt and anger behind a veil, or act upon it in secret. I hated her openly for all to see, and bespoke a hatred even stronger than the strong one I felt.

  I also loved Henry. I had fallen in love with him as a child when I had seen him, tall, handsome, young and glittering at the festival following his coronation, while I stood in the shadows with the other children. He was already a man, 18 years old, enormously tall, with red-gold hair and broad shoulders. Most strikingly, he had an air of vibrancy and energy, and a very infectious laugh. He turned and saw me for a moment—I thought he did—and my heart skipped. He became the man against whom I always compared the others. I saw Henry often in my daydreams through the years, even after he grew thick about the middle and lost the appeal of his youth. After becoming one of Katherine’s ladies, I hated the disloyalty toward her I knew my daydreams signified, and often considered them a crime against God, thinking in that way about a man who was married to the woman I served. I feared punishment. I forced myself away from the daydreams as much as I could. However, the love was already there when Henry first decided he would have me, and had been for many years. It was my secret, and no one guessed.

  I felt painful jealousy, when Henry chose Mary as his mistress. Too proud to show it, I pretended I found Henry’s company to be tedious, and his person to be unappealing. I paid him only the barest compliments and attention when he appeared in the music room, and grew increasingly solicitous of Katherine in whose eyes I could see a shadow of reproach when she spoke to me. Already. Even then—even when it was my sister, not I, who held his interest.

  Perhaps it was my haughty disdain that fascinated Henry after I first caught his eye. He expected attention from women, and indifference preyed at his pride. More likely it was my singing voice and my skill on the lute, for I was an impressive musician. Henry earnestly aspired to be one himself, as music was his very greatest passion. However, he gave no indication of an interest in me, even after he had discarded Mary and I continued from loyalty toward her to snub him as much as I dared.

  For a time, he seemed not to notice that I was snubbing him. That chafed me. I increased my attentions toward other men when he was present, and watched Henry from the corner of my eye.

  Even after I met Hal, I viewed Henry’s acknowledgment of my attractiveness as a prize to be won. It was a secret wish of mine that he find me as appealing as he had Mary. It was only partly competitiveness. A part of me had always felt impatience toward him for looking right through me when I was beside my sister. It was I whom he should see. I knew not why I thought so, but it was a sense deep within me, that Henry should recognize and acknowledge me. I brushed these thoughts away as imagination and confessed them as pride to a priest, yet watched him still for signs that he had noticed me, expecting it. Waiting.

  Vanity, infatuation and a little too much mead overcame conscience and resolve one evening when I saw my opportunity to steal Henry’s attention for a moment. Finding myself near to the King at a court dance, I coyly looked across at him and caught his eye with an expression I now know to be that of an Egyptian prostitute. I tempered it with English modesty so as not to be crass, but the look still was one universally understood by men. I looked at him in this way for just a split second before my mouth twisted into a half smile, and then a full grin that even exposed my teeth (which one tried never to expose).

  Having grinned so improperly (Henry thought: “delightfully”), I turned away from Henry to face my partner. We circled in opposite directions, men on the outside, women within, and the two circles stopped. Henry had elbowed and manipulated his position so he could be across from me. I curtseyed, and looked up at him shyly, lowering my eyes with blank, well-bred English innocence, then darted him a quick glance, the prostitute, prompting Henry to throw back his head and laugh.

  “Bewitching Mistress,” he whispered as he took my hand and led me around the circle. “When might we see more of you?”

  In a dangerous breech of decorum, but with mead-blunted senses and the somehow certain knowledge that I would not anger him, I blinked at Henry three times maintaining well-bred English innocence. In a low, shocked tone of voice I asked, “More? Of me? Your Highness, I show you as much as I would allow any man to see of me. I fear I dare not show you more and still retain my reputation. Please do not ask again, Your Grace.” I gave him the stern frown of a humorless tutor then, laughing, I broke away for the start of the next movement and danced away with someone else.

  He followed me in the circle with his new partner, then leaned over and whispered “Impudent!”

  I cocked my head feigning a failure to understand his meaning, and whispered back playfully: “Quite so! Your Grace most certainly is impudent!” Then I twinkled and dimpled at him to soften the insult and danced away with my glance meeting his a few seconds longer than necessary. For the first time of many, his eyes followed me and the sensation was electrifying. It is a heady feeling, being noticed by a king. It is thrilling to be noticed by a man you have always secretly loved.

  It was a game. I was compulsively flirtatious, another legacy from Egypt, and often toyed with men in that way (while keeping them always at arm’s length). I did not really want Henry at that time; I simply wanted him to notice me. Having succeeded, I was ready to return to my comfortable obscurity and occasionally flirt with him when the situation presented itself. I had no desire to bed him, for I was promised to Hal Percy. This infatuation for Henry was a totally separate thing from the love I felt for Hal, and was being played out in my imagination rather than in my heart. I did not know there was a deep well of real love beneath the surface. I was merely giving a gift to a dark, plain young girl who once parted her lips in awe over a glance from a handsome man. That is how I saw it.

  That is not how Henry saw it.

  Eyes followed his, always, and rested upon me. Within minutes, everyone knew whom the King now viewed with interest and, even then, tongues began to wag. The speculation would die down when nothing came of it, and I would think my life could go on as I had planned, but Henry would not forget me. It would just be some while
before he would take action. He would spend the ensuing months watching me, thoroughly assessing the situation, and putting all the pieces into place while I unwittingly prepared for my life with Hal.

  The first indication that a harmless flirtation had proven harmful occurred when Hal Percy asked for permission to marry me and Cardinal Wolsey refused him following instructions from the King. The reason given was that a woman of my lower status was not suitable for a man of Hal’s position. There was also the matter of a marriage arranged for him when Hal was a child, and this marriage was now to be forced upon him, much against his will and most bitterly against mine. No worse misfortune could have befallen us. We were wondrously paired, and should have lived a long and contented life together. We both grieved, as we had chosen each other for love.

  I blamed Henry for this, and resented him deeply. I grew silent and melancholy. I slept and cried and stared at the ceiling. I withdrew for many months to home at Hever, and stayed there nursing my spirit and my grudge until my mother prodded me back to court. She was alarmed by the length of time I could maintain that level of despondency, and was anxious over the time I was wasting.

  During my absence from court, the King began appearing at our door for this or that—some minor business or another—and would request that Mistress Anne be present. It grew quickly into a situation of unmanageable difficulty for me. At first merely stubborn and angry over my broken marriage plans, I eventually found my emotions complicated by our growing familiarity. I found myself fighting with my conscience as I grew ever more flattered, then interested in Henry’s appearances, and ever more interested in charming him. My love for Hal forbidden, I found I had an outlet for it elsewhere, in Henry. There were fewer and fewer days when I thought of nothing but Hal and my grief. There were more and more when I knew exactly how long it had been since the King had last visited, and when he was likely to come again.