Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn

by Nell Gavin

  “Yes.” I whisper. “We have to know.”

  “It is important that we know,” Henry agrees indecisively, rationalizing. He is suddenly hesitant.

  The couple is gone. I can kiss Henry now, and so I do.

  I am not often aware of how deeply I love him, but I know it with certainty now, and feel it coursing all through me, powerful and agonizing. I say to him solemnly: “I want it to fit.”

  Henry pulls my head to his chest in a tender hug. I hug him back.

  I see expressions on his face that I missed at the time. For a few seconds, he appears to be feeling guilty triumph, then fear. Then suddenly his focus is solely on me and he knows what to do. He lets his body do what his heart feels. His heart feels love with the force of a myriad lifetimes.

  ۞

  Love takes on a character that is almost physical, when viewed from here. I can reach out and nearly touch the love I see in Henry. It is an impressive, humbling love, and it is for me. I marvel: a soul is capable of feeling this for me. I would weep, if I were able. I cannot weep, but I can feel awe.

  This force the two of us have created between us cannot be easily undone I suddenly see—or am I shown? The love is strong, and it is very old, and it is real, shared equally between us. It can withstand attack and erosion, and will regenerate itself no matter how it is despised or ill-used, for it has been sorely tested over many lifetimes.

  I am made to flash upon the end of my last life, then am told the love is only bruised, not killed. I do not love alone, nor does he, and we have no power to change it. It almost exists separate from us, like a living thing that controls us, and over which we have no control.

  “Do you remember how it felt?” I am gently asked. “It is still there. Do you remember the love?”

  I jerk back from my reverie, defiant. I have been asked: “Do you remember?”

  I remember indeed.

  What I remember are my tears as I whispered “I love thee still.” I remember the sensation of a dagger being thrust into my chest, then twisted, when he responded to me by coldly snapping, “That is thy misfortune.” Then he ordered me to my death and let me die.

  I remember that. I remember sitting in the Lieutenant’s Lodgings in the Tower compound and sorting it through my head. I remember my efforts to confront the knowledge that everything I had once believed about him was untrue. He had never loved me. Still I could not fully believe that for, if I did, I would have to sacrifice one of the few things of value I had left. I would not give up that love, for whatever short time it had been true. I had sacrificed everything in my life to claim it. I had given up, or given away, virtually everything I had of worth. I would, in fact, give my life itself. I had to trust that, for a while at least, it had been real or all was lost and I had no pride at all.

  I remember watching my husband slip away from me, moving on to other women. I wondered, if the love had been real, which of my failings lost it for me? Where within myself did I begin to point the blame, and where did it end? I began to feel as if I had no worth, if I could not even hold the love of a man who once loved me so well. I felt humbled and chastened, wondering who in heaven or on earth could want me, if Henry’s deep love could turn to contempt? No one could, I reasoned. No one should. All England was right to scorn and revile me, for I had no worth at all.

  At the moment when I knelt before my executioner, finally knowing with certainty that Henry would not stop the sword from severing my neck, I grew angry that I, who had done him no purposeful harm, should have been made to feel so unworthy by comparison to him, who let me die. I vowed I would never allow Henry to hurt me again. I would never again allow myself to feel love toward him, for he is evil, and my enemy. I had sacrificed everything for a wisp of cloud, a dream. More the fool was I, even more a fool than ever I swore I never would be!

  Love? I once spoke aloud a vow to harden myself against him, then spoke it again within my heart, and I feel stubborn. I disbelieve the Voice for Henry does not love me. He said he did not, and behaved as if he hated me. I cannot be tricked in this manner.

  I cannot be tricked, and I will not believe.

  The Voice seems to sigh, and lets me watch as one thing leads to another in a forest long ago.

  ۞

  I cry out, for I am a virgin, and the noise calls attention to us. It is not the normal cry of a “forest spirit”, a warning to all who hear it that distance should be kept. It is unmistakably a cry of pain. My yelps draw two members of the troupe who had been searching for mushrooms nearby, and who push through the undergrowth out of concern that I am wounded.

  We hence are discovered in that position: two flaxen-haired children mating like dogs, skirts up, breeches down, pressed together groin to groin.

  It is a surprise for all concerned.

  We are dragged by our ears back to the encampment, fiercely scolded and soundly flogged, then told we will be forced to marry when we reach the next church four days later. That suits us anyway. It seems good fortune that we should not wait another two years. We both agree after our second—and less painful—attempt that he fits me quite well indeed, that I am neither too small nor he too large, and that we should marry after all. Married, we will be free to indulge in this new kind of play without frowns and scoldings any time we like, and we like it very much.

  We like it a mere hour after the flogging, in fact, ignoring warnings to keep apart until the wedding. We both pretend we are answering a call of nature, which in fact we are. We signal each other with whistles, then meet and resume the interrupted act. Nothing we had ever experienced compares to completion of that act.

  We stumble out of the woods, disheveled and disoriented, holding hands. We are seen, and had been heard but this time we were not stopped, and now, not even scolded. A conference of parents has ascertained that there is no way they can keep us apart, for they have neither locks nor doors to hold us in. They cannot tie us down, for we need to walk with the rest of them. They have no access to a chastity belt until we reach the town, and no means of controlling us except through guilt and heavenly threats, for to flog us again would be to spoil us for the next show.

  Our parents soon realize there are no words they can say even to cause us guilt. Nothing has an impact on our behavior. They can do nothing at all except wait grim-faced and angry for the church spire to appear in the distance ahead of us, and to quicken the pace of the troupe in its direction.

  Our parents blame themselves, though they are not to blame. This has nothing whatever to do with them, and what they have or have not taught us.

  I am a lovely young bride, and Henry a handsome young groom, in our hastily borrowed, ill-fitted wedding clothes. We receive a special dispensation at the request of our desperate parents, and are not forced to wait three weeks for Banns to be announced. A priest steps forth within minutes of our arrival at the church and, upon hearing that rapidity is of the utmost importance, hears our confessions, assigns heavy penance, then gives a stern Mass and fierce looks to us both without wasting more than half an hour in the process. When he asks if anyone among us has any objections, my father shouts “No! Get on with it, sir!” and the priest finishes up the ceremony with words spoken so fast they run together.

  And so we are wed, firmly and forever, till death us do part.

  The troupe ever drew attention to itself, and not surprisingly its appearance at the church attracts the notice of people in the village, who gather around outside to watch us come out. The entire village comes to the feast we hold afterwards in a meadow, all strangers attracted by the music and the merriment, and the joy of celebrating the good fortune of the newly married. They bring mead and stout and food, and leave coins for us with their wishes for our happiness, knowing us not at all. Their kind wishes will all be amply realized, and we will live as happy a life as anyone ever hoped for us.

  ۞

  Life was brutal for most who lived in those times. However, I did not know it was brutal when I was part of it. I ate and I s
lept and found comfort in the warmth of a rough blanket, or a pile of hay on cold nights. I found joy in my husband and the people who surrounded me. I found happiness in the birthing and raising of children. I found pleasure in my recorder, and harp, and lyre, and the applause of an audience, and the coins that were thrown to me. I had a strong, healthy body. It was a good life.

  I sift a life’s worth of memories and images through my fingers, and caress each one. There is no need to pry my eyes open to watch. I am home. I linger on reminiscences, referring back to them at times, and I forget how sour things turned in the lifetime just past. I want to stay here in this life and, in the absence of that, want to keep remembering, as if memories can erase what is to come afterward.

  It is not a coincidence that in Flanders I do not miss wealth, and I do not long for power. It is not by chance that my happiest life is one that places me far from either. There are more important things, and I see them here. Now that I have a basis for comparison, I will know what to pray for and strive for, when I return again.

  ۞

  Each spring we start out from our village five days west of Antwerp, travel north to Holland then down toward Brussels, over through Flanders then up toward Antwerp again. The life is lived on a winding road through miles of forestland, thinly peppered throughout with knots of cleared space where farms or villages have grown. Through the span of my life, the forests grow thinner then, after my time, disappear altogether as if they never were. I would in time, as the child Anne en route to the court of Margaret of Austria, travel a portion of that same road again and find it markedly changed beyond all recognition. I would have no sense of having been there before at all.

  There are three troupes in all, each numbering in members between 20 and 30. The other two troupes move in other directions, one traveling west toward the North Sea, and the other moving further into Holland and remaining there. We each cover a circle of about 100 miles, visiting about 10 to 12 towns along the way.

  We travel with the troupe we are born to. People who were not born to a troupe choose according to their language skills, or in the direction, or with the group that most suits their tastes.

  Our troupe has the strongest skills in French but we cover territory where each of the languages is prominent, and some like Hal and Emma, are completely fluent in all of them. The other two troupes speak primarily Flemish or Dutch, though we all know each of the languages to some degree, for we all converge again in winter.

  Each year we follow the same road, departing only occasionally from our route. We are not hunted by road thieves who prey upon the wealthy, so our travel goes safely and our nights are spent soundly. The pace is leisurely because we are not expected, and we have no obligation to arrive. We find our audience along the way and in the towns we visit, or else we do not. We perform whenever there are people present, and spend the rest of our days traveling for five to eight hours in one direction, slowing on occasion while the men prowl with their bows in search of game. We stop and set up camp while the men move into the forest, if there is one, with traps to catch food for the morrow, or to gather whatever they can to supplement the evening meal. If we are entering an unwooded stretch of road with little game to kill along the way, we barter in the last town before it, and carry our meals with us.

  Our expenses are limited to road tolls and fabric, musical instruments, boots, paint and wagon repairs. We sleep when the sun sets. When it rains we continue until the mud stops the horses, then take shelter in our tents, or in hovels we have built and placed at strategic distances over many years. Sometimes we beg for a night’s stay at farms we pass.

  During the winter, we live in huts like village folk, although our village is deep within a forest, and is populated only by our own kind. Its population is thin during the warmer months, swelling to over one hundred during the winter when the troupes return. There are some who live in the village year round because they are too old, lame, or ill to travel anymore. Some are pregnant women with a history of difficult births or stillborn babies, who want not to risk the strain of travel. Some are merely tired of travel, and choose to stay in one place. Among these, there are some who have taught themselves skills like farming, animal husbandry, spinning and weaving, curative herbs and smithing, so we go to a place with all the trappings of a real village.

  We even have a small church, presided over by a monk who once entertained a dream of living as we do. He justifies himself by calling us “lost souls” and in need of him, but he knows how to juggle, and he eagerly plays a reed flute whenever we gather to practice our music. He issues mild penance, when we confess our sins, and views us all with a tolerance and understanding uncharacteristic of most men of the cloth in those times.

  The people there are not like village people. All who live there can perform some feat for an audience, and most days are spent working on new acts or new songs. It is a fairy tale place, with much laughter and dancing. It is an open-minded place where much is accepted, and much is overlooked. People like Hal, who would not find love elsewhere, are embraced and important. We welcome all.

  I look forward to going to our village, just as I look forward to leaving in the spring and sleeping on the ground. It is my home, and does not seem strange to me. Other villages seem strange, where folk walk about with tired and drawn faces most times, toiling for naught but short lives filled with more toil. They seem only to smile when we perform for them, and our stays with them are always short. I have grown up enough now to have learned that their lives are not the holiday that mine is. I have heard the stories from new members who escaped that life. I was shocked and dismayed by the discovery, and more determined than before to be good at what I do for the sake of all those who smile when I do it.

  In the troupe and the village there are many whom I will meet again. Katherine has recently joined us. Hal and Emma, of course, are among us. Seven familiar souls from the music room at the court of Henry VIII are here. Two of Henry’s court jesters are here in this place, including my darling soon-to-be born son Peter who will return as my own dearest fool. I see Sir Thomas Wyatt. Princess Mary. Servants. Ambassadors. Henry’s court will be partly recreated from those who surround me in this place, and among them are some who will one day be my enemies. Most, however, are destined (or doomed) to retain their affection for me, for it is from this life that I draw my most loyal and passionate allies.

  At the moment, we are all one in purpose. Despite squabbles, personal irritations and personal preferences, we have strong ties and strong loyalty toward one another.

  All of us but Katherine.

  Chapter 2

  •~۞~•

  The next scene I am shown is two years after the wedding. It is another autumn, and again we are heading toward Antwerp and home, but at this moment have stopped to rest. The jugglers practice while Henry and the other actors rehearse their lines a short distance away. I play upon my flute with three other musicians, and Emma plays chase with the children.

  We rest frequently for my sake, for I am heavily with child. The going is slow, and we must make it to our village before winter sets in. We have fallen behind even the loose schedule we keep, and are shortening our stops along the route.

  None of the children traveling with us is mine, as yet. I am carrying my first, a son, who will be born in two weeks’ time under a tree with Princess Mary and Emma attending the birth.

  I am now 15 years old, and Henry is 17. Our parents have chosen to remain in the village, and no longer travel with us. We are hoping and praying that we safely arrive to present them with a living grandchild, whose existence was not evident when we started out in the spring.

  We are too young to seriously consider that Henry might return alone, as some husbands have before him. Still, as the birth draws nearer, Henry has grown more reflective and more solicitous toward me, and there are traces of fear in his eyes. He awakened screaming on two occasions this past week, startling everyone. Most in the encampment then stayed tensely aw
ake and prayed for him as much as for me. He will shriek in the night several times more, while we await the birth.

  We do not have the same relationship we had as children. Our roles changed the instant we knew each other as man and wife, that day in the woods. We still bicker and argue, but we are each here only for the other, and know this now. We sleep together in our tent with our limbs entwined, stripped of clothing so we might feel each other’s skin, sometimes giving in to the temptation to couple in the encampment despite the fact that, out of consideration for others, it simply is not done. We do it with hands over each other’s mouth, furtively, silently wrestling, swallowing the sounds. And we do it facing each other, each moving into that place in the other’s eyes where we meet and rise above ourselves. It somehow makes the act more potent for us, and harder to be silent.

  After the birth of this first child, though, we will be forced into the woods again, for the children will sleep with us when they are small, and there will always be small ones. We will even find moments when we are certain of privacy and can hang our clothing on a bush. This is a scandalous and sinful way to perform the marital act, for God is watching, but we do it anyway, praying He will momentarily avert His eyes and quell His displeasure, for we truly mean no harm and we cannot help the wanting.

  ۞

  “Do you remember?” I am asked. “It was the same again for you last time in the beginning, was it not? In the form it took for the two of you, it was more than bodies needing bodies. It was a soul needing one particular other soul, and needing it truly. It was not false.”

  I say nothing. I think nothing. Had I teeth, I might gnash them.

  ۞

  The birth scene appears, and I watch with anticipation. He is coming! It is pure pleasure to see my son as an infant once again.

  I will try and birth the baby at a distance so that Henry cannot hear my screams, but he will hear them, and will sit upon the ground with his head in his hands, sobbing. The others will attempt to drown out my noises by singing and pounding drums. In addition, Henry will be numbed by Sir Thomas Wyatt, his best male friend, who will pour strong spirits down his throat to stop his weeping and his fears that I will die. With astute and affectionate foresight, Sir Thomas procured a jug in the last village to force upon Henry, who will vomit and lose consciousness, to everyone’s relief. He will discover only in the morning that he still has a family, and that all is well.