Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn

by Nell Gavin

  We did not live in isolation. We did not speak to each other, or embrace each other, or quarrel in isolation. From the first moment we were intimate, the time we spent coupling was measured and the outcome remarked upon. It is difficult to maintain harmony in such circumstances, difficult to accept that one is being watched by all for signs of monthly bleeding, or for sickness that portends an infant, and to know there are those who would wish both you and the infant dead. It is difficult to love a man no one would have you love, and difficult to know that powerful advisors are cautioning him against you. It is most difficult to be hated when one only seeks to please.

  Every word I spoke henceforth was heeded, and repeated, and changed either in its tone, or its intent. My sense of humor had always leaned toward irony. I suddenly saw my ironic comments taken literally—oftentimes with the exact opposite of my intended meaning—and found myself judged by these, and my entire character reshaped in the eyes of all who did not know me, and some who did. My mistakes were announced everywhere, and continue to be retold and embellished throughout history, through all time. I was forgiven for none of them, and with each retelling my ill-temper or my bad judgment, or my “vicious scheming” grew worse.

  As for “history”, or rather that accumulation of hearsay commonly thought to be the true representation of the past, I have some knowledge of it here. I do not recognize the woman they call “Anne Boleyn” either in her temperament or in some of her actions. I certainly do not recognize the motives, thoughts and intentions attributed to her. The historic “Anne” is not much loved, whereas I was loved much, and might have been for the span of my normal life, had I not “demanded” Henry marry me.

  That one misspoken, insincere demand was the beginning of a period of humiliation and soul-crushing loneliness that continued through the entire remainder of my life, even during those times when I had unprecedented honor and tribute bestowed upon me. It caused me anxiety, and took a sharp toll upon my temperament. This created an even greater backwash of anger and disapproval from those who were on the receiving end of my moods until there were far more who wished me harm than not. In retrospect, they had good reason: I became a shrew.

  Henry’s love had a very high price.

  Chapter 5

  •~۞~•

  Henry wanted a woman who could challenge him, to whom he could talk, and with whom winning an argument was a true triumph. He wanted an equal partner. He did not feel himself henpecked—not at first. He felt exhilarated by the parrying between us, and proud that I had intelligence enough to force him to think as he defended his position when we disagreed.

  We liked to argue. Henry liked me to argue. It made his eyes shine when we disagreed, and made him cross when I sat silent, or calmly reasoned with him as Katherine had. He would bait me endlessly to get a reaction from me, and would sulk if he could not.

  “Good God, woman!” he would bellow. “Hast thou no ears? Hearest thou not what I just said? By Jove, I know she has a tongue!” He said this drolly, affectionately.

  Once in answer to that, I stuck out my tongue at him and made a face. He broke into a smile, then grew fierce again as he resumed his pursuit of a disagreement. I was obliged to join him lest he grow truly ill-tempered.

  “By my troth, you speak gibberish,” I would often say with mock condescension. “Speak sense and I will happily give thee my response.” Then I would assail him with the reasons his logic was faulty. He would pace back and forth as he rationalized his position and I would sometimes concede, sometimes not. As he spoke, he often looked at me for approval. Was I coming around to his thinking? When he sometimes saw that I had not, he would change the direction of his logic to be more in line with mine, and would then take credit for having “convinced” me.

  As suddenly as the argument had begun it would be over, and Henry would be purring into my ear. Those who spread their comments throughout the court never mentioned the purring, or the smiles, or the personalities involved. What they observed was that our relationship was “volatile” and “fraught with conflict”.

  Henry would be irksome or tired and would snap at me, and across England it was said that he was preparing to forsake me. He had a terrible temper, and was prone to rages. I was not afraid, and sometimes shouted back. This meant only that he felt sure enough of me to show his anger, and I felt sure enough of him to stand in his path. In normal conversations, once Henry grew less uncertain of me, we would snap and parry and quarrel in perfectly good temper. We could not do this without witnesses, and editorials, and interpretations of what he meant and what I had done to provoke him. He could not accept a playful verbal jab from me without raised eyebrows and the word “henpecked” being whispered. These observations would get back to me and, from nerves and strain and anger over being hated and misunderstood, I subtly grew shrill.

  I was poorly suited to the notoriety. I was bred for a life as nobility, not royalty. There is a difference, reflected in my lifelong inability to handle pressure. Daily I faced situations I had grown up never expecting, nor wanting, nor been taught to face. I was high-strung and nervous by nature, and suffered from a shortage of confidence originating in my appearance and my hand, and in my mother’s habit of finding me lacking. My level of confidence lessened further, when public examination of my family history revealed me to be inferior, then sunk even lower when it became a common topic of discussion that I had no appealing attributes to attract any man, much less a king.

  One cannot successfully face an enemy while one is questioning one’s own worth, and presuming the enemy is worth more.

  I suppose I was fair game, but I did not have the inner strength to maintain my poise in the face of it all. There are dangers in court and in politics, and I was only safe as long as Henry loved me. Public opinion might sway him. He was daily advised to cast me off. I grew frightened and depressed for, as I had feared, I had lost myself and my heart once again. I pressed Henry for safety nets, first a marriage and then a coronation. He gave me both, and neither saved me in the end.

  I began to sense it would not end well for me. I could not fight the world forever. I had nothing to cling to but Henry’s love for me. Even the smallest sign that I might lose it made me frantic and ill-tempered toward those who could not answer back to me.

  At the very basis of my insecurity was the knowledge that Henry had a wife whom all but Henry—and Henry’s God—considered to be his true wife and his queen. While I had to make a public show of support for Henry’s position that his marriage was false, I also secretly considered Katherine to be his true wife, and I acknowledged her as queen.

  I was consumed by guilt and discomfort over my own more tenuous position. I was the most-loved woman, but I was still the “other” woman. I was a threat to the country and the wellbeing of Katherine, whose subjects loved her greatly. I was of childbearing age and so threatened their beloved daughter and her claim to the throne, should I produce a male infant. Few of my countrymen viewed me with sympathy or came to my defense, and perhaps my position was indefensible. I would have happily avoided being in that position at all.

  Sudden silences fell over groups of people, when I approached, and unkind remarks were carelessly flung in my hearing. Few ever knew this; I hid it well by holding my head up and feigning cold indifference, but I was sensitive, and words or snubs stung me like nettles. I grew more and more withdrawn as time passed, and grew more cold and demanding in my public demeanor. I developed a habit of displaying a haughtiness of manner to hide my trembling lip and palpitating heart, for I was too proud to show that they could reach my feelings and hurt me there.

  I perhaps focused more on the snubs and sneers of the English subjects outside the palace and the Spanish faction within, than I did on the sudden race among the others to win my favor. Some sensed the wind now blowing in favor of Anne Boleyn would continue for some time to come, while others insisted their careers were safer if they showed more loyalty to Katherine. There was no possible way for a lady o
f the court to overthrow a queen, they said. Common sense told them my days were numbered.

  I was fully aware of the choices being made, and was stabbed to the heart by some who chose to side against me.

  Once again, as in my childhood, my public image did not reflect my behavior in private. When I felt hurt, my petulance took hold and I turned childlike. I stopped reasoning as an adult, and knew only that someone must take away the pain. I did not know how to endure, or to fight. They do not teach “endurance” in the French or English courts. Since I was female, fighting political battles was a lesson I had never heard discussed by my tutors or at my parents’ knees. I had learned Latin and music and sewing. I knew how to handle lazy or thieving servants, and to run a household. I was skilled at directing my maid servant in arranging my hair. I was taught to speak fluent French, and to interpret conversations at court, and I knew what colors were most flattering when selecting fabric for a gown. I was not brave and strong under siege, and knew not how to be. I had no examples except for Mary, and she had handled her crisis with Henry by breaking Mother’s Venetian crystal (retaining enough presence of mind, I cannot resist observing, to break Mother’s rather than her own) and crying for weeks. When distressed, I could not measure my actions as Katherine could, nor weigh my words with care, and it is here that one can pinpoint exactly where my downfall originated. I became a child under stress.

  For the love of God, I swear I did not want to break up Henry’s marriage. However, once spoken aloud the thought of marriage to me had germinated in Henry’s mind, as did thoughts of a legitimate male heir.

  I was powerless to stop him, and concentrated instead on chiding him to speed up the process. Once we were married, people would stop being mean to me, for I would be his wife, not his whore. I was obsessed with this. I wanted everyone to stop being mean. The talk and the accusations, the rumors and the vicious comments all tore at me. It wounded me that the masses of people all throughout England knew my name and hated me. I could not leave the palace walls without hearing them scream insults and tauntingly shout my name as I hid within my carriage, hands pressed over my ears and eyes shut tight. It humiliated me that I was being called a whore when I had worked so very hard to retain my respectability and God’s eternal grace.

  In private quarters, away from prying eyes, I would “retire from nerves” and succumb to hysterics.

  “Make it stop!” I would demand of Henry, over and over again. I screamed and cried until my face swelled, agonizing over another list of hurts and insults I had accumulated since the last bout of tears. I mourned losses of friendship, and shuddered with pain from each successive broken trust and unflattering rumor. Henry would sit helplessly, holding me, thinking of what he might do, soothing me as well as he could while I clung to him sobbing.

  I sometimes threatened Henry by saying I would leave him because I could not endure the strain. During those episodes, the terrified little orphan would surface and begin to weep and plead with me. My heart would break, and I would comfort him and promise him no, I would not leave. I could not anyway except by death. I can truthfully say that, had he been stripped of his riches and his crown and been banished in shame to an island of rocks, I would have followed him there. I would have had no choice. I was tied to the man like a dog.

  People do not understand simple love.

  One after another, good friends were turning coldly polite.

  Others were feigning friendship they had never thought to cultivate before. I knew not whether I was being used for my influence or to provide them with gossip or both, and knew not which of them to trust. Lies were being spoken as truths, and were carried throughout the palace and beyond. I could not be certain who was the source of them. I made guesses, sometimes incorrectly, and alienated some who had done no harm out of suspicion that they had. I grew closer to, and confided in some who were, in fact, the source of the lies, not suspecting.

  As anyone else, I wanted to be liked, and loved, and understood. Instead, I was England’s most detested female villain. Nothing would change that, except perhaps a marriage. If I were married and legally under Henry’s protection, they would have to stop attacking me, and so I pushed, and Henry pushed, and Katherine and her supporters pushed back with tenacious, bitter strength.

  In the end, the Roman Catholic Church in England would be replaced by the Church of England with Henry at the head of it, Katherine would be disgraced and exiled, Henry’s daughter Mary would be declared a bastard and I would become Henry’s second wife.

  Through all this, Henry fought like the devil for me. He was so proud of me. He elevated my status to ridiculous heights, often pulling me into roles for which I was not suited, and he listened to me when I spoke on matters of state (I chose my position from conversations with my brother George) giving far more weight to my opinions than they deserved. He defended me, and rewarded those who would show respect while punishing my critics. He gave me more power than I wanted or was capable of handling, and the manifestations of that power were heavily influenced by my insecurity, hurt and anger. I learned that power could be used to spite people. I learned that power could silence and punish.

  It is here that I get into trouble. Here in the Memories, my shame comes not from love for Henry, but from misuse of power. I find my punishments will come from spiteful acts made possible by the large power Henry foisted on me, and even from the small power each person has to make others feel loved or unlovable. I misused the small power as well, most often with my tongue.

  Ironically, it is my love for Henry that will soften that punishment. I will gain for having tried for so long to protect his wife and my family, and will be forgiven in large part for succumbing to him because my intent was not selfish, nor was it frivolous. It might have been punishable under other circumstances, but these are considered, and weighing largely in my favor were my conscious efforts and reluctance to bring anyone pain. Also considered was my strength against the strain of loving him without holding him; I held out for just as long as I could and still be human in the face of his persistence and my need of him. Given greatest weight was the force of pure love that in the end caused me to bring harm to so many people. The love far outweighed any ill-intent toward anyone.

  Love in any form is salvation to the soul, I learn, and when punishment is meted out one’s capacity for love is taken into account. I will be punished less severely than I would, had I gone to Henry and sought power solely from ambition rather than tempered the ambition with duty and love. My misuse of it was the sad result of a situation I proved too weak to handle. In this it matters little what people said about my motives. God was taking notes.

  ۞

  Elizabeth I, the Virgin Queen, was conceived on a table amid muffled grunts and moans, and furtive, rushed gropings, while a French diplomat waited for Henry to complete some Urgent Business in the library. She was there inside of me when I smoothed my gown, and tenderly straightened Henry’s robes and sent him back to the diplomat with kisses and titillating promises. She joined us that evening when I made good on my promises, and left Henry seemingly without bones or muscles or will to do anything but breathe. It is odd that she would never herself know the sort of pleasure she had such intimate involvement in, when she first came to be. I find that odd, and sad. I have always felt sorry for Elizabeth.

  ۞

  Trying not to wake Henry, I was on the floor, hovered over a chamber pot, retching. He heard the sound, and was immediately awake, grinning, watching me. He was speechless with joy. He would have a son! He climbed from the bed and squatted beside me, and gently wiped the perspiration from my brow. I heaved and vomited, to Henry’s unending delight. He was thoroughly charmed. I smiled at him weakly, then heaved again. He clapped his hands together and kissed the top of my head.

  “It could be bad pork,” I chided him, somewhat recovered.

  “Yes, it could,” he answered beaming.

  “Or a distressed intestine.”

  “Or that. It
could indeed be that.”

  “Or I could be with child. Dost thou not even consider it might be a child?” I snapped at him playfully, smiling.

  He had stood up, and was filling a goblet with water to hand to me. He also dampened a cloth with which to wipe my face, and was turning to me with an expression of stern importance, although his eyes were twinkling.

  “With child? No, I had not given thought to that, but I will certainly consider the possibility when I have time. Right now I am too busy to think about an infant. Matters of grave importance and all that. I am an important man.”

  “Thou art in thy night shirt, speaking to a woman whose head is in a chamber pot.”

  “As I explained, I am a very important man. It is an important nightshirt, she is an important woman whose head I love most dearly, and–“

  I finished with him, knowing how he would end the sentence “—and it is a very important chamber pot.” He laughed, delighted at how well I knew him now. He gave me a look of such tenderness I still shiver to think of it. I accepted the water, and drank carefully lest it sicken me further as Henry gently pressed the cloth to my cheeks. He then set both the cloth and the goblet upon the floor beside me.

  He helped me to my feet, and lifted me gently to the bed where he sat down and held me in his lap. He buried his face in my hair and was silent, holding me.

  “I love thee, Rex,” I said simply.

  “I love thee, Anna,” he answered, then drifted again into silence.

  When I turned to look at him, his face was raised to the ceiling and two tears glistened in the corners of his eyes.