by Nell Gavin
But there is so much more to see and I am eager to see it.
I see Hal lumbering along, hiding within a hooded cape as much as he is able, even though the day is warm. He feels safer in his hood, and unseen, though he can hardly be missed, he is so large and ugly and fearsome. I see myself fall in step with him. I play a familiar tune on my recorder, and he responds by singing nonsense in a loud, booming voice, which he then switches to a falsetto trill. He makes me giggle and I can hardly hit the notes.
Emma and the Princess Mary have their heads together, as usual, whispering and laughing. The day will come when the three of us are close and inseparable friends, but as of yet I am too young to be welcomed as their equal. Even still, my later knowledge of them tells me that this particular pitch of laughter indicates they are discussing either Emma’s husband, or Princess Mary’s suitor. Princess Mary’s eyes lose some of their amusement and dart uncertainly toward a young man who blushes and looks away. It is the suitor. Knowing her present fears from stories she will tell me later, I would like to say to her through time: “Be not so wary of his heart and his intentions. He will marry you.” Looking again at his thick, long hair I could then wickedly add: “And he will lose it all!”
Emma has pulled away from Princess Mary and jumped up onto the cart to join the children’s puppet show as a nasty witch. One of the children is hers. She pulls him onto her lap before producing a new puppet from her pouch. This one has green skin and a long hooked nose. It cackles and threatens evil magic and harm to the other puppets who scream in unison with feigned terror. The cart driver throws back his head and laughs.
Emma performs as a puppeteer with Hal, her brother. Hal and Emma were originally to follow arranged scripts for their performances, but found it too difficult to restrict themselves to the same lines again and again, when each day they thought of new ones. Now their performances are improvisations, each improvisation has a different theme, and each time they perform, the rest of us drop what we are doing to listen. They are perfectly paired for the task and perfectly suited to the job, for they convincingly become the puppets, and the puppets are more convincingly real with them than with anyone else.
And, of course, they are more comical. Both Emma and Hal have a way of knowing just what to say, and how to say it, and how many seconds to wait before speaking in any language. They are so in tune that they each know how the other will respond to a quip, even though each skit is new. They feed—and feed off—each other. Their audience laughs until tears form, shouting and stomping, and clapping louder for them than for any of the rest of us.
I am allowed to randomly view one of their performances and watch them, just for the pleasure of it. I marvel once again at how gifted and remarkable they both are.
Princess Mary is a dancer and musician, and Henry’s sister, older by five years. She is a mild-tempered woman with a penchant for animals. She has with her three small dogs with ribbons around their necks. One of these is in her arms, and the other two nip at her feet and play. She has taught them tricks and shown them how to walk along a high strung rope, and to jump through hoops, and how to dance by whirling in circles on their hind legs.
She is a jolly woman, friendly and generous. I love her much, and pause for a moment in anger over the power and circumstances that will cause her character, as Henry’s daughter, to shift so radically that she will one day be known as “Bloody Mary”. I grieve over the events that will make her my enemy in the court of Henry VIII and I pray that, next time we meet, her soul will remember more of this than of what is to come, for the loss of her friendship is painful to me, and unfair.
I turn my attention toward Henry, tall and gangly with long blond hair that hangs in his eyes. I catch him in one of his moodier moments, and know his conversation thus far has consisted primarily of whinings and complaints. Now he is walking some distance behind Hal and me, off by himself again, tossing pebbles in my direction to get my attention. I ignore him until, frustrated, he purposely sharpens his aim and catches me on the elbow. At this, I turn and shout at him to stop. He scowls at me and falls even further behind the rest of us.
Henry lets a few minutes pass, then runs up and joins us. He still has nothing to offer in the way of cheerfulness or good humor I notice, no more than he has had for most of the afternoon. He tries to take my hand in order to lead me off. I impatiently pull it away from him. He provokes me with an insult, and I toss my head and glare at him. I am irked with him, this day. He was often an exasperating lad.
I will recover, and we will be off together soon, as we always are, bickering and inseparable. Until then, Henry is feeling lonely and excluded, and I feel that he deserves to. I have no reason to feel this way, other than that I am annoyed with his gloominess and tired of his moods for the moment. My annoyance never lasts and it is due to lift shortly, but for now, it pleases me to punish him.
I rejoin Hal who has wandered over to Emma and Princess Mary, and the four of us begin singing a round while Henry circles us, glowering, and kicks at clods of dirt in the road.
۞
Seeing Henry again, in this place, I feel my heart weep with longing for him. Then I stop myself, and remember that I do not wish for him at all. Is this not the same Henry I want never to see again? He will prove himself in time to be heartless, will he not? Worse than heartless. He is a killer and a monster, merely disguised in this setting as something benign.
I pity the young girl I see here, for she adores him and will spend her life with him, never suspecting the villain he truly is.
۞
We often insulted one another and fought, sometimes even coming to blows when we were small, yet Henry and I did not fight cruelly. I had only to grow serious for a moment, and Henry would instantly turn into my concerned and sympathetic confidant, probing to see what was wrong and what he might do to help. That part of him was never far from the surface and could always be called upon even in the midst of arguments so ferocious it might be thought we would never speak again. We, each of us, fought knowing this.
He was ever aware of me, conscious of my speech, and my reactions, and my feelings, even as he looked away and was engrossed in something else. From this attentiveness, he knew precisely how to wound me, and so he only very rarely wounded me and always grieved for it afterward. His tongue could be sharp, but I never knew him to turn me away when I was in need of him. If one of his barbs hit too close to my heart and tears rose in my eyes, he would hug me and abandon the fight.
He seemed to know that it was not manly to act toward me in this way, and never allowed anyone to see. In private though, he would listen and console me over something that worried me, never trivializing it or me, even when the problem was, in fact, trivial. He would meekly give in to me if I pouted, and wipe my tears if I cried. Our fights and squabbles had no impact on his loyalty or his sense of being my protector—it was his role in the relationship and I trusted this, and trusted him. He was a rare man, for all his faults, and a treasure.
۞
“You saw him as a treasure?” The Voice interjects, aware of the direction my thoughts have taken.
“I misperceived him,” I answer, remembering that I am only playing a game with myself to momentarily quell the pain. “He was less a treasure than I thought, as this last life has proven. Or else grew to be something less than he once was.”
“Could you not have misperceived again?”
“I think not,” I snap in response.
I choose, at this time, to focus on Henry’s faults. It unnerves me that I should have been caught feeling tender thoughts toward him, and would like to make my position quite clear . . . but clear to whom? To my mentor? Or to myself?
I have no use for him. He is self-absorbed, and has a poisonous, sometimes violent temper. He over-punishes people for fancied slights. He reacts childishly and selfishly, whatever the provocation. He is lazy and a procrastinator, and will do nothing without a preamble of nagging and a long string of excuses unless it is somehow to his per
sonal benefit or provides him amusement. Yet when he wants something and is set upon it, he will pursue it stubbornly, insistently, without regard for the impact his actions have on anyone else, expecting everyone else to make sacrifices in order to accommodate him. His “truth” can, at times, be absurd, yet he will tenaciously defend that truth as a fool would.
That is the Henry I see here, and that is the Henry I most recently knew. I cannot imagine why I should feel so much more tenderly toward the one I find here except, perhaps, because I know that this Henry would have killed, or been killed, before allowing any harm to befall me. He would have never initiated the harm, even during one of his rages.
He could not control his anger. If I am to be truthful though, I must add that his fights were always honest ones, and his fury was never physical toward the children, or toward me. When he hurled something in anger, his otherwise perfect aim was always off, no matter what the provocation. I could face this man’s fury with trust, and without fear.
That is how he set me up for the fatal blow, instilling trust in me. And that is the source of my pain now.
Betrayal of trust is, by far, the very cruelest sin of all.
۞
As Henry was always there for me, neither could I have turned from him. He had only to ask, and I was at his service. His needing me gave me the greatest pleasure, and I could never have declined or found excuses, no matter what he asked of me.
I will prove this once again within 24 hours.
Our main focus was the other, for each of us. It had always been this way, from the time my mother held me new in her arms. Henry had waved at me, sensing already in that small baby a great friend. He followed my mother and insisted on helping tend to me, and it was toward Henry that I went when I took my first step. We were always together, and our perception of the world was filtered through the other’s perceptions from the beginning of that life until the end.
It was clear that Henry and I were destined to marry. We seemed always to have taken it for granted, for we had been raised together in the troupe, handily provided for each other, the only children surviving within a span of several years and hence each other’s only friend. Our marriage was first spoken of by our respective parents as a wistful possibility then, as years passed, was treated as an event both factual and inevitable. Neither Henry nor I had any objection to it, except when we had somehow infuriated each other in a childish game.
“I would never marry you!” we sometimes shouted to each other in anger. I sometimes elaborated on the insult by declaring I would marry any drooling, toothless, dog-faced troll, before pledging my troth to the likes of Henry. Henry’s standard response was to claim that, compared to me, he preferred an old hag with a crooked nose, or a leper with no nose at all.
We both knew however that we would be married. Had either of us found the other objectionable or fallen in love with another, the rejected one would have been well-wounded, for we belonged to each other and we knew this. Neither of us gave thought to any other sweethearts, for the road was there before us waiting, and we loved each other truly, and like family.
It is difficult to pinpoint when these plans shifted from wishful thinking to accepted fact. It is easier to pinpoint the circumstances that led to our becoming lovers, and the event that hastened our wedding. These circumstances take place just a few miles up the road, and one day later than the scene I view with such pleasure now.
Even in those times, a 13-year old girl was somewhat young to become a wife, and a 15-year old boy was not really ready to be her husband. We were still darting about the meadows chasing butterflies, and I was not yet even ripe for bearing children; I was a several months away from that. It was planned that I should be 15, and Henry 17, when we took our vows. Our parents felt that that would be an appropriate time for us to wed. They had not counted on their matchmaking to be quite so successful, and did not ever guess that we would not be able to wait that long. They saw no hint of this until it was too late.
Maturity hit Henry first. His beard grew early, a shocking black in contrast to his yellow hair, and his voice grew deep in a matter of days, it seemed. He was suddenly tall. He played with me as he always had, but grew sullen at times, and moody. He looked at me differently, sometimes surreptitiously staring at my chest where two modest bulges had appeared, sometimes pretending he had stumbled upon me by accident, when I indignantly shouted at him for peering at me from a distance as I lifted my skirts behind a tree. During tumbling practice, he would catch me as he was supposed to, but would often wait a few seconds before releasing me, always giving me a probing look as if I were supposed to understand what he wanted, or know about something he would not tell me. Sometimes he would willfully catch me wrong so that his hand might run over my chest. No one noticed any of this or we might have been separated into different troupes, with stern precautions taken during our winter layovers in the village for the next few years.
Children always grow faster than their parents’ image of them.
I would scold Henry for his strange behavior and roll my eyes, and he would grow angry and dark for a time. Then he would return to himself again and we would rollick with each other in the tall grass as we always had, shouting and arguing, or would try to outdo each other with high flips, or would act out skits we had made up between ourselves. Often we would lay in companionable silence and watch the clouds. He sometimes took my hand at those times and held it in his, or absently twirled one of my braids between his fingers.
Though I was to be a child in the true sense for months to come, my thoughts had begun to shift to the curve of Henry’s body and the feel and smell of his skin. Just as he crept up to watch me when I slipped behind a tree, I did not avert my gaze when Henry performed that same business himself. I would scowl at him for catching me wrong at practice, but would secretly be pleased that he should want to touch me, and was sometimes disappointed if he did not try. I liked the few moments when I was lifted up in his hands, or close to him in a movement that called for him to hold me on his shoulders. We appeared to still be acting out our children’s roles of competitive adversaries, so we had not yet drawn notice from our parents, but we were moving into new territory swiftly. The dam would not hold for two more years.
It started as a game we had played since early childhood. Henry would wrestle me down to the ground, shouting boasts of his own superiority that I would angrily challenge, pinned as I was beneath him. He would then make me agree to whatever he said or he would not let me up. If I held stubborn against him, he would tickle me into submission. I would always say what he wanted, eventually, and he would let me go. Then I would run away calling names and laughing at him, tormenting him from a distance, and he would chase me until we both tired of the game.
In a twinkling, things changed. He seemed to watch me more now, scowling should I turn and catch him at it. Then he would fly at me, grab me from behind and pull me down on top of him while I kicked and squealed. He would roll over until I was beneath him, and hold his face within inches of mine.
Instead of forcing me to admit my inferiority at tumbling or music and his own expertise in those skills as he always had, he now would be still, and would look at me in the eyes for a few long seconds before gruffly letting me go. He would raise himself from the ground, and reach down to help me up. Then he would speak to me gently and lead me back holding my hand, or would say nothing and wander off by himself waving at me to stay behind.
The wrestling episodes suddenly increased in frequency—he seemed always to be looking for an excuse to pin me to the ground—and the seconds we looked at each other grew longer. He would be close, pressing me down and looking at me, and I would fall into his eyes as if they were a place, not just two orbs of blue. His eyes held a very peculiar look, probing me. My own eyes would be locked in his, but I did not know why they should be. I did not know how Henry’s eyes managed to control me as they did. Often we would lay there, just looking and saying nothing and at those times,
I felt a queer sensation in my stomach.
Sometimes I responded by curling my lip and forcing myself to look away because I felt so queerly and uncertain of him when he stared at me. I knew not who he was anymore. More frightening, I knew not who I was.
Sometimes I would simply look back, feeling weak.
I see Henry do it to me now, lightening quick. He pulls me away from Hal and Emma, and pushes me up against a tree. The caravan keeps moving and no one even glances toward us, for we have always stopped for horseplay. He is pressing against me, wordlessly, with a strange, intense look on his face.
“Stop it,” I hiss. “You’re hurting me. Let me go.”
He does not speak, but looks at me in his strange way.
“Let me go!” I twist and squirm and cannot move from his grasp. I make a noise of frustrated anger and I glare at him.
His fingers are iron but his expression does not change. He says a strange thing to me in a musing, conversational tone of voice. His voice is at variance with his actions, which are controlling and forceful. He is taking advantage of his strength, and I cannot get away from him. He asks thoughtfully, pleasantly: “Do you think I am handsome?”
I curl my lip at him.
“Because I think you are very pretty.” Then he releases me, and walks back toward the wagon.
“Yes!” I call after him.
He turns. “Yes what?”
“Yes, I think you are handsome.” I blush. I look down at my feet.
He cocks his head and narrows his eyes, waiting for the rest. Handsome for a pig? Handsome for a frog? Handsome for a hairy, hump-backed, one-eyed ogre?
I say no more but poke my chin into the air, and turn away from him with mock disdain. I toss my hair. I watch him from the corner of my eye.
Henry turns away and walks toward the wagons, looking back at me once. When he does, I see that he is smiling to himself.
۞
I am now shown the day following: the day I did not want to see. I recognize everything, for in years to come we will privately count our passings through this stretch of road in the same manner as we do our birth sites. It is a wooded area, still, though the forest will grow thinner through the years as farms spread out to claim the land. The forest is off to our right as we head north, and to the left are fields of flax.