Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn

by Nell Gavin

  Sir Thomas Wyatt was the brother of a friend, and a man whom I had never viewed with interest, nor particularly liked. I was in fair form one night, flitting about from one man to the next and leaving them all staring after me when I came upon Sir Thomas. I dimpled at him, and feigned an interest in his stories, and laughed at his witty comments, and rewarded him with one of my mischievous sidelong glances during a dance. He was a married man. I felt such efforts would be safe with a married man, and learned soon enough to rein in my charm, for a wife was not a deterrent to Sir Thomas.

  I quickly made attempts to discourage him, but he interpreted my discouragement as coyness, and persisted in wooing me.

  Even though Henry was very publicly in love with me, Sir Thomas Wyatt began to make his intentions clear, not only to the court, but to Henry himself. The two of them faced off on my account more times than was necessary, since during that timeframe I wanted neither one. Their battles were pointless children’s fights, arguments over which of them I most preferred while I attempted to escape the attentions of them both.

  I often wondered why Henry did not merely squelch Sir Thomas. It is a mystery that can be explained in three words: They were men. The two of them met nose to nose over me as if they were equals, and not a king and his servant, because the issue, to Henry, had nothing to do with his power and his crown. His position, in fact, placed him at a disadvantage, for his objective was to prove himself intrinsically the better man. He needed to be chosen for himself alone, loved for himself alone, found attractive because of his personal charms, and desired for his skills as a lover. He needed to win me because I preferred what he was, not because he had ordered away all competition.

  Henry envied Sir Thomas his youth, his handsome face and beautiful physique, as well as his reputation as a sought-after lover among the women at court. He secretly perceived from the eyes of a man (without regard for what a woman might prefer) that the younger Sir Thomas was more attractive to the ladies than he, and hence stood the better chance of winning me.

  But surely Henry could prove himself more deserving of my love because surely he wanted my love more than did Sir Thomas. For this reason, he allowed the man to challenge him in competition, knowing he could win with one wave of his hand at any time, but never waving that hand because he wanted his triumph to be a pure one.

  I should have guessed from this that he was truly in love with me: he allowed me to make the choice myself. In allowing this, he suffered unparalleled anxiety and self-doubt, for my sake (though eventually it occurred to Henry that Italy must be in more urgent need of Sir Thomas Wyatt and his poetry than England was, so he sent him there for a time).

  Sir Thomas understood Henry and the terms of the skirmish, and faced him with a vain cheekiness he would not have dared under other circumstances. The two of them bragged and insulted like large bearded infants, with each of them claiming he wholly had my heart. Each of them lied himself yet believed the other, while I looked on amused and annoyed by turns. It was comical it its way (and in private I squealed with laughter), yet exasperating as well. For the duration of these joustings, I had nothing but disdain for either one.

  Sir Thomas was a man full of himself: full of his charms and wit, full of his handsome face—and full of tales about his adulterous wife. It seemed in questionable taste for him to tell these tales publicly. He seemed intent upon amplifying his supposed humiliation, subsequently raising questions in my mind about the reason his wife found the need to warm another man’s bed.

  I answered those questions myself. I found Thomas Wyatt abhorrent, and presumed his wife was as cognizant as I. He made my flesh crawl, well and truly, and I grew cold and terse toward him. Yet still, he wrote poems for me (most described me as “fleeing”) and fawned after me with a slavish devotion.

  I sent friends into a room before I entered, and had them wave me in only if he were absent. It was a tedious way to live.

  “I wouldst that thou could make him wear a bell and save me steps,” grumbled Emma who was most often sent in ahead. “The tinkling sound would warn us which wing to avoid, much less which room. And if we heard it coming toward us, we could leap to our deaths from a window before he reached us. What say thee to that?”

  “I do think the plan hath merit. Our epitaph might read, ‘Here Lie Anne Boleyn And Her Useless Servant Emma, Most Cleverly Avoiding Sir Thomas Wyatt.’ I am indeed inclined toward it.”

  “‘Twould be better in rhyme.”

  This went on for a period of time, with no amount of discouragement seeming enough for Sir Thomas. The vulgar, braying ass could not endure the thought that Henry might have won, and so concocted a story that placed me in his bed. He told the slanderous tale as often as he had charged his wife with adultery, to his later regret. He would pay for the lie with time spent in the Tower, and I would pay for the lie with my life.

  Men who speak loudly about their “conquests” most assuredly have little to claim. Had he truly been my lover, Sir Thomas—or any man—would have exercised considerable discretion knowing the stakes. The fact that he did not, the fact that he bragged so loudly should have been reason enough to acquit him of the charge. Sir Thomas had to speak long and earnestly, perspiring freely, and be the fortunate beneficiary of a well-timed bribe from his family, before he won his freedom and his life.

  It is hoped he also learned his lesson about telling tales.

  Sir Thomas had a view of the scaffold from his cell in the Tower, and saw my execution. He wept to his heart when I died. I did not know, but that “braying ass” had been sincere. He had truly loved me.

  I had so few friends at the time of my death. It is one of my regrets that I did not know sooner that Sir Thomas Wyatt would be one of them. I do think that, had I an opportunity to go back, I would be far kinder toward him . . .

  PART 5

  The Value of Children

  Flanders, 1101 AD

  Chapter 1

  •~۞~•

  I now see my favorite life. I am consumed with excitement, so pleased, in fact, that I do not immediately wonder why I should be shown these events. I enter into a pleasurable state of nostalgia and joy, re-experiencing the life as if I am there again, and in the process, my misery is quelled. I have not felt so at peace for a long, long time.

  I see us traveling in the vicinity of Flanders in a caravan, making a noisy, gaudy procession through the countryside. There are long miles before us, and trees dominate the landscape on all sides, rustling and beautiful in autumn colors. We are on a road of sorts, a path, meandering along in our ribbons and costumes like bright splashes of color on a beautiful canvas. Even the carts are brightly painted in many colors, and the horses have ribbons, bells, and flowers tied to their harnesses.

  The path winds through woodlands, and fields, and farmland, and is familiar to me, for I have traveled this road in this caravan since infancy. I see each portion of it at the same time of year, and think of this as the “autumn” stretch of road. I have never seen this countryside in any other season and can only imagine it in springtime. Spring occurs for us only in Holland, and summer is only spent in Belgium.

  There is a saying among the adults that “there is no marriage in Holland”. I do not know what that means yet, but will learn in time that precautions are taken in the spring to not conceive a child that might be born in January. We have yet to have a January baby live its full first year. It is merely coincidence that none of the infants lived; their odds for surviving a winter birth are admittedly lower, but not insurmountable. We have become superstitious. We blame the cold, and the smoke from the fires, and think there is something about the bitterness of the month that must be the cause.

  The village turns somber, when a woman expects her birthing to occur in January, and people grow especially kind to her. I think of this now, because one of our party is gamely placing the thought from her mind, convincing herself that she miscalculated—she is certain she will have the baby later. I watch her walking somewha
t behind the rest of us, belly distended as she enters her sixth month of pregnancy. She has already lost three children, and never had one that survived.

  Poor Genevieve. She will lose this one as well.

  I am told I was a Holland baby, and that Henry was born in Belgium. We do not know our birthdays. Instead, we celebrate our annual arrival at the stretch of road where we were born, and count our age by the number of times we have passed it. I have passed through 13 times, and Henry counts 15.

  When I was small, I believed we had to travel in order to find the seasons, and that we left our village to escape a perpetual winter and go where it was warm. It seemed strange to me, that we should choose to live for so long in a place where it was winter, since life was harsh during that season. Would it not be simpler to stay in Flanders? I always loved the colors of the leaves in Flanders. It would be my choice to live there. But there were more urgent concerns than what I preferred for myself.

  “Can we live in Belgium?” I asked my parents when I was seven. My grandfather was old, and I was often concerned for him. The old only died in the village where I believed it was always winter, and winter routinely brought with it illness or death. By living where it was summer, I thought we could keep my grandfather alive. Flanders had too much of a nip in the air for his lungs, I reasoned. I would make the sacrifice for him.

  “No,” they told me, and were bewildered when I cried and would not be consoled. It had never occurred to them to explain the seasons to me, or the rhythm of life and death. These things they presumed to be self-evident. It was finally Henry who told me that seasons change of their own accord, and are not driven by the country we pass through. He discovered this when he was 10 and was forced to remain in the village throughout an entire year in order to tend to his pregnant mother, who was showing signs of distress at the time the caravan was packed to leave. He found that the seasons that occurred in the village after our departure were the same as those we had always encountered on our route. He found also that babies can die as easily in spring as in January.

  He was given credit for having passed his birthplace, and he earned the extra year, even though he stayed behind.

  There is a workhorse pulling a large wagon that is packed with supplies and covered with a bulging tarpaulin of thick, oiled cloth. Four small children sit up front with the driver, giggling and waving hand puppets at each other while the driver whistles and occasionally shouts encouragement to the horse. Often he turns and speaks to the puppets, which sends the children into shrieks of laughter and prompts the puppets to speak back in high-pitched childishly disguised voices.

  A second wagon packed with more supplies follows behind. Genevieve occasionally rides with that driver when she tires, but the bumpy ride makes her uncomfortable. Generally she prefers to walk and, since she has walked her whole life day upon day upon day, the strain is not too much. Being pregnant on the road is only a minor inconvenience to the women in the troupe. They are built to withstand it. Those who are not stay behind.

  Henry and I follow behind the slow-moving horses and wagons, along with a group of about 20 adults. Our entire group is still dressed for the acts and skits we performed earlier that afternoon in a town a few miles past. There was no point in hauling out the sacks of clothes and dressing properly with only a short distance to go. We each have only one change of clothing anyway. Wearing the appropriate one is far less important than arriving at our destination before nightfall—and there is also another town nearby. It serves us best to be costumed when we approach a town.

  I am an acrobat, and cannot perform in my skirts, so I am wearing a pair of wide trousers that are gathered at the ankles, bright vermilion in color and embroidered with yellow flowers. With this I wear a green bodice over a yellow shirt. Henry is wearing a similar pair of trousers, blue with white stars like the night sky, and a vest of black with tassels of red. The others are also wearing brightly colored clothing: dancing skirts, or flowing capes and peaked feathered caps. The children are all dressed as little fairy nymphs, with reddened cheeks and gauzy wings.

  There is no word for us, exactly. The word sometimes used to describe us is “jongleurs”. In time, in English, a word “circus” will be invented. However, a roughly equivalent term is used in our language, which is a pidgin combination of French, Flemish and Dutch. The term can also mean “gypsy” or “beggar” or “troubadour.” In our case, we are a little of each.

  We live upon the “charity” of the townsfolk, one could say, although we do not feel as if we are needy. Our benefactors certainly do not view us as pitiful. They welcome us wildly as we approach, spilling out by the dozen to greet us after their first spotters dash back to the village shouting, “They are coming!” We are one of their very few diversions, aside from holy feast days, so they excitedly line up along the road on either side and watch us as if we were a parade.

  We become a parade for their benefit. Among us are jugglers, acrobats, fools, dancers and actors. Musicians perform, and dancers dance past the crowd. The little dogs flip backwards head over tail, again and again. Henry carries me on his shoulders so I can somersault to the ground, and the horses lift their heads and walk with a lighter step.

  Our stage is any cleared area in the middle of any village, perhaps the steps of a great building, if there is one, or the area beside a church. We are not “acceptable” in a social sense, but are most certainly not driven out as the gypsies are. We are akin to beggars but are better loved, for we give pleasure in return for our pennies. We invariably draw entire villages out to see us, including the old, and the sick, and the lame who are often carried to the show. Work ceases for the duration of our visits, and smiles greet us wherever we go, so my perception of life thus far is that it is always a holiday, and that village people always smile and laugh as we do.

  The townspeople do not begrudge us our coins or feel resentment in tossing them our way, though it seems at times we must cost them dearly. In return for their sacrifice, we put on skits, and play music, and sing ballads about the distant towns we have been through, and about people we have met. For a short time we bring them some color and music, and we make them forget. It is for this that they happily pay us.

  When we are far from a town, the travelers we meet along the road smile, wave and shout to us. In response, there are always some in our party who will produce juggling balls to entertain them in passing. Sometimes Henry and I do shoulder stands and flips. Whenever we spot a figure in the distance, we prepare as if for a show, and often earn extra coins for our efforts, or fresh-killed game, or in Flanders where the textile makers are, lengths of fabric we can use for costumes. It is certainly worth the effort to perform, although most of the group would gladly perform just for the applause (I am certainly one of these. Henry is perhaps the worst.).

  We have a greater level of freedom and self-determination than most. We exist on the outskirts of “normal” society, so we are not constrained by its rules, and can decide upon our own direction and goals. The men tend toward unfurrowed brows and an ease of temperament, for they have not the burden of toil, nor of servitude.

  The women tend to be less submissive, and more outspoken and headstrong than their village counterparts because they are not chained to hearths and gardens, and because the success of the troupe depends equally upon them and their skills. Everyone knows and accepts this, including their husbands who sometimes jump at their voices, unabashed and unashamed.

  Such freedom is a gift, and such a gift is a blessing, although some who live on pennies and exist on society’s fringes might view their lives as cursed. Like wealth and royalty and most other things, it can be experienced as either a heaven or a Hell.

  It is a year during the Crusades. A fervor seems to have overtaken everyone. There are soldiers moving through the country to or from their Holy Quest, and textile workers hauling carts of cloth, and farm wagons sharing the road with us, all busy and purposeful. In addition to the usual travelers, we pass holy pilgr
ims on the road who threaten us with eternal damnation for our frivolity. We juggle for them and receive somber stares in return, as well as a barrage of shouted scripture and curses. They do not tempt us with their sincerity. None in our party leaves to fight the Infidel, and none of us except Katherine leaves to join the Holy Church as a servant of the Lord.

  At this moment, though, Katherine has not even joined us. We will see her in two years, and she will not even stay an entire season with us. However, she will make an impression.

  In my eagerness, my mind flits through a span of 51 years touching on one fond memory after another, but the focus is on the most meaningful of these. I am not allowed to flit about for long. I am returned to the scene I was initially shown and I know I will have to watch as it plays itself out.

  An uneasiness fills me as I suddenly recognize the landscape. I know the significance of this particular stretch of road, and this time. I am not feeling discomfort over the event that will soon take place, but over the reason why I should have to see it. There can be no purpose to this except to cause me further anguish over what I feel I have lost.

  I am forced to it, but do not really object for long. I want to reach into the memories, and stroke faces and hug these people just as they are now, on a road toward Antwerp. The children in the cart, God bless them. Two of them shall die of a fever three years hence. It will break our hearts, all of us. I stare at them now with an emotion akin to happy tears. They are precious, pretty little winged fairy nymphs, alive and laughing. I forget for a moment that they were very firmly alive in this past life. One of these children was my father, and the other my sister Mary. This knowledge does not dim my pleasure in seeing dappled sunlight on their hair as they wave their puppets in the air and speak for them. They are frozen in time, here in the Memories. I want to remain frozen with them.