Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn

by Nell Gavin

  “I wish thee happiness, Hal,” I choked through tears. I gave him that. He deserved that. I stood and looked at him, still chewing my knuckles, still hugging myself with one arm.

  Hal nodded and left for a roadhouse for the night rather than prolong the parting by remaining at Hever. We would not speak again except in the most formal of circumstances, and then only briefly. In time my heart would hardly break at all at the sight of him. For the duration of my life, we would both be careful to ensure our eyes never met.

  Chapter 3

  •~۞~•

  Hal’s marriage, as expected, would be miserable and loveless. His wife did not understand, as most people did, that Hal was to be gently kept, so she bullied and criticized and publicly humiliated him. In a short time his spirit began to buckle. He could not endure confrontation or discord, and was living in the midst of it with no hope of escape. He faded into a quiet state of wasted years, nursing very real stomach ailments and complaining of other, imagined disorders of the body which then were manifested into real illness, with ready assistance from excessive drink. His health would decline sharply, and he would die young, just months after I would die.

  Until then, his humor grew more caustic, and his view of the world grew less naive and less forgiving. He developed a talent for biting sarcasm he was hitherto unknown to have. His tongue became cruelly sharp with unkind wit, and the butt of his humor was marriage. He developed a deep long-lasting distaste for the institution, and will retain his strong feelings toward it, even when we next meet.

  Our problems are not over in our having paid our debts this life. I will greatly fear marriage and he will deeply hate it when we meet again. Our challenge will be to love so well that we can overcome this and continue the business we started together.

  In the years subsequent to the end of our courtship, Hal followed my progress closely, devoting long stretches of time to self-pity when I fell in love with Henry. He had somehow counted upon me to ward off the King—and every other man—forever, and was the only one not surprised that I held out as long as I did when Henry first pursued me. He drank for two days when word reached him that Henry and I had finally consummated our relationship, and drank for another two when word of my pregnancy was made public.

  He did not drink on the day of my execution. He simply sat in the dark and stared. His thoughts revolved around my final accusations before he left me, and of how our lives would be had he acted differently.

  He blamed himself for my death, overlooking that he had left me to prevent his parents from taking steps to bankrupt and ruin my family under clandestine pressure from the King. The plan had to do with the wording of a contract my father had once signed, that Henry was going to produce if I continued to see Hal. Hal’s father served the King and felt he had no choice. He would be the one to enforce the damaging clause. If he disobeyed, or if I were found in Hal’s bed, the King would retaliate.

  Hal was publicly told only that he would be disinherited if he married me, but the real threat had been described to him in private, and he had followed his conscience by leaving me. His fear was not of his father’s anger toward himself, but of the damage he could bring to me and to everyone in both families. He saw abandoning me as an act of love and indeed, it truly was.

  When Henry began calling shortly afterward, my feelings toward him, not even knowing the full extent of his meddling, were murderous. He was offering himself to me after killing everything that mattered in my heart. His attentions came about so soon afterward that I could not help but understand the reason approval of my marriage was denied. He was expecting me to be grateful, and was bewildered by my coldness and refusal to accept him.

  “Manipulative,” the others said of me.

  It matters not what any of them said. It matters not.

  Publicly, it was announced that I was now being sent away from court for my rash behavior. My fury at this statement could not be measured, for in addition to the injury, I was to be further shamed before the court and held up to it as a fool.

  In truth, I had gone to Queen Katherine when I was able. I had been stunned and hysterical for days, bedridden for the most part, and spoon-fed by servants I mostly waved away. I finally roused myself from my weeping long enough to request of her more time to weep and stare and stay in bed. I reported to Katherine and begged her leave for an undetermined period of time.

  “A personal matter,” I explained. The queen knew what that matter was, as did everyone at court, and in her eyes was a glimmer of compassion I would see little of, elsewhere.

  Disgrace, like ill-fortune, carries with it a stench, and elicits more self-satisfied, triumphant glee than empathy. Of all the persons I knew from court, Katherine was the one who offered me empathy.

  That one look from Katherine, and my heartfelt gratitude, cost Henry eight years of courtship to win me. I had Katherine’s permission to stay away as long as necessary, and was henceforth indebted to her for her kindness.

  Queen Katherine’s eyes had followed Hal and me on many occasions, misty, pleased and nostalgic.

  “Love makes Mistress Anne very pretty,” she had once said in proprietary fashion. She had occasionally smiled in our direction, and had remarked in flattering terms about the other to each of us. We pleased her, yet she was aware of our bloodlines and their disparity.

  She was not behind this, nor was she in concurrence with the decision. The queen had not influenced the King to nullify our betrothal, even with my sister only recently tossed from Henry’s bed. I knew this then, and now.

  Henry walked in as I was leaving Katherine’s sitting room, and accepted my stiff curtsey with a slight twitch around his lips. He watched me leave. He could not know what fearsome invectives I was silently flinging toward him, nor did it occur to him that I might be angered, or that my pain and Hal’s might be more than a superficial, passing disappointment. He presumed I had agreed to marry solely in order to better myself, and was pleased with himself for having found a way to proffer a far better bargain, he thought, than Hal. He did not agonize over the ethical points inherent in his actions, having rationalized them away. His path was clear, and that was all that mattered. He would arrive at Hever on Tuesday fortnight, and would summon me.

  The mystery is not why I waited so long to welcome Henry’s advances. The mystery is how I ever came to welcome them at all. I have no answer except to explain that the love was already there, dormant and waiting, and had been there since beyond memory.

  I also never fully knew in life what Henry had done to Hal and to me.

  Henry could have waited one lifetime more. He should have left me with Hal and stayed with his wife. I most bitterly reflect upon this at times.

  But at such times I venture into nonsense. Had I not suffered then, it would have been later. Now that debt is paid and that lesson is learned, and it is behind me.

  And with my Elizabeth, Britain got a fine strong queen.

  Life most assuredly goes on.

  PART 4

  Bait

  1523—1530

  Chapter 1

  •~۞~•

  I was alone, abed, when word came. It was well past noon, and I had not yet risen, nor had I any intention of rising. I was lost in my thoughts, and lacked any interest in diversions or healthy pursuits. I fully intended to grow old and to die in my bed, and rarely left it. So, settled in and waiting as I was for the end of my life, I found the interruption and the information relayed to me both jarring and unwelcome.

  A servant hurried into the room and advised me that the King would be calling in two days. Mother had ordered her to help me select a suitable gown for the occasion, she said, and even as she spoke of this, she was already poking through the garments in the wardrobe while I angrily sat up and watched her.

  “There is no need,” I snapped. “I will not be coming down. Go.”

  “Your lady mother doth insist,” she answered, hesitating. Deciding to obey my mother rather than me, she turned back to t
he gowns. Another servant swept in to assist her and the two of them discussed between themselves which gown was most becoming, and which headpiece should be worn with it. A third servant ran to my bedside and began, against my will and with harsh objections flung at her, to pull my nightgown over my head. I twisted to get away and hurled myself face down upon the bed.

  “I will have thee flogged!” I shouted, bursting into tears, pounding my fists.

  Mother walked in upon the scene and coldly ordered me to behave.

  “I shall not see him,” I answered softly, defiant, not quite meeting her eyes. “He hath no business with me. It is Father he comes for.”

  “His Highness has expressly requested thy presence at the audience. Thou wilt obey.” She waved the servants over and had them fit me with a gown. The three servant women pulled me from the bed and stood me upright, stuffing my arms and head into the outfit while I let out muffled sounds of outrage and Mother watched. I wrestled through the fitting with tearful protestations, snapping at the servants for pinching me when they examined the fabric for stains and wear.

  “I know what business His Highness needs to discuss with me,” I shot toward my mother. “‘Tis the same business he had with Mary. I will have none of it.”

  My mother responded by walking up to me and slapping my face.

  “Thou hast not grown too large for the whip,” she hissed.

  He came.

  The servants had spent the morning pressing cold cloths to my face in order that I might appear presentable before the King. Mother repeatedly threatened me against more tears lest I undo their work and spoil my features, and walked in often to see that she was being obeyed. My stays were fastened, my gown was brushed, and my hair and headpiece were arranged.

  My mood was foul, but I was ordered to work my mouth into a smile, and so I did. The smile had not reached my eyes when I glided down the stairs, through the hallway, and into the study where Henry and my father awaited me.

  I gave a deep, respectful curtsey, and sought a chair at an awkward angle from Henry, where he could observe me only by twisting his head. It was a carefully calculated gesture that could not be technically viewed as defiant, since women were expected to remain silently in the background. However, both Henry and my father were immediately cognizant of the distance I had chosen to place between them and myself. My father in particular was outraged, although he could not speak of this before the King.

  I could determine from the way in which my father sat and smiled at me that I would be facing the gentle whip before the day was over. He did not know how else to deal with me. Heretofore my misconduct had always been the result of mischief or over-excitement; Father had never once before confronted mutinous insubordination.

  This meeting was an opportunity for Father to negotiate for a better position at court—every audience with the King was a possible stepping stone to more titles and wealth—and his position was particularly fortunate in that he had me as bait. His intention was to dangle me temptingly with one hand while he begged with his other. My failure to cooperate in this ambitious endeavor threatened Father with a lesser position, or no position at all, and such a threat was not to be withstood.

  “Aye me,” I thought and crossed my hands at the wrist in my lap. I pressed my mouth into an insipid smile, and tried to appear as if I had no thoughts and was somewhat dim, as women were expected to be. I looked out the window at a robin and awaited further instruction.

  Henry twisted around to face me while continuing his conversation with my father, and found the position uncomfortable. He sighed impatiently. He rose his hand in the air.

  Seeing the movement from the corner of my eye, I looked sharply in his direction, and quickly lowered my eyes.

  “Sir Thomas, please invite Mistress Anne to join our discourse. She shall sit here.” He waved to the empty chair next to him.

  Father nodded and stood, turning toward me. With a frozen smile and a controlled movement of his eyes, he ordered me to rise and approach him, then took my arm and helped me into the chair beside Henry. I settled my skirts while they resumed their conversation, which I was not, after all, invited to join.

  A few moments passed. My father was looking increasingly smug, I noticed, convinced he had just persuaded the King to present him with a coveted appointment.

  Then, seemingly startled by a sudden thought, Henry appeared as if he just this instant remembered something important. With feigned urgency, he sent my father out with a cryptic message for one of the royal servants. It was a message that could only be delivered in person, Henry said, and Father was to return with a response.

  Neither Father nor I had any doubt that he would not find the servant in question.

  Father left unwillingly with resurfacing anxiety about the appointment. (He would get it, and more. Henry simply had no patience for Father’s tactics, with Mistress Anne in the room.) He feared what I might say to the King without a parent’s cold stare to remind me of my duty, and made every effort to locate the servant he had been sent to find. He was nursing a small hope that the message was real so he could finish the business of delivery, then return to the task of chaperone and wheedler of wealth.

  He unhappily discovered there was no such person in the service of the King. This did not, however, surprise him. He dared not reenter the room and resume his discussion with Henry after receiving this intelligence, for it clearly indicated he was unwelcome and had been ordered to leave. He waited in his sitting room and fretted, periodically dispatching servants to quietly observe and report to him. He had had the foresight to send one in just as he had left us, fearing the worst, and that servant made a quiet but annoying attempt to hover nearby without being noticed.

  Once he had succeeded in removing my father from the conversation, Henry turned his attention toward me.

  “Your presence has been missed, these long weeks,” he said with interest that appeared only polite and negligible. I would discover later that Henry had a remarkable capacity for hiding his feelings when he chose to, and his seeming indifference was evidence of this self-control.

  Two weeks was not an overly long spell. I was also in disgrace and officially awaiting his approval of my return (unofficially I was under Katherine’s kind command), so the conversation was a pretense. I had no patience with pretense under the circumstances. I wished him far away from me and, perhaps, engulfed by flames.

  I responded with a weak smile. “Thank you, Your Highness. I have been unwell.”

  “Nothing serious, we trust?”

  I gave him a long, quizzical look and raised one eyebrow. “I cannot say, Your Grace. If Your Grace might first kindly condescend to define the word ‘serious’ within the context of the question so that I understand the meaning, I might form a reply.” I smiled at him and dipped my head in a slight bow.

  The servant cocked her head at my words, then slipped within my view to fix upon me a long, hard stare of exasperated warning as she passed. She floated out of my sight, and busied herself with some ornaments behind me, still carefully within earshot.

  Taken aback for a moment by a remark and demeanor that could be construed as impertinent, Henry’s eyes began to twinkle. He was remembering our meeting at the dance and was charmed instead of angered.

  “Forgive us. Your health is not in danger? That is what we meant.”

  “I am in no danger.”

  “We are pleased.”

  “Your Highness is most gracious to be concerned.” I dipped my head again.

  Henry caught the hint of irony in my slight emphasis of the word “concerned”, and cleared his throat. I flashed him a sweet smile. He smiled back, slightly confused, sensing insult but taken in by the smile. He cleared his throat a second time, and attempted another topic, one in which we had a common interest.

  “We were pleased by your performance in the music room, shortly before your departure. You sang a song that has haunted us since. A song about birds, was it not?”

 
“I know a song about birds, Your Highness. Yes.”

  “Who was the author of the piece?”

  “I composed it myself, Your Highness. A friend wrote the words.”

  “We would have you sing it for us now.” He smiled and waited expectantly.

  It would have pleased me to strangle him. It was a melody I had written for one of Hal’s poems. What would happen now, I knew, was that Henry would assume ownership of the piece and have his musicians learn and perform it. They would all change parts of it to suit their tastes, replace the words, and the song would no longer be mine. It would no longer be Hal’s. It would belong to the court.

  I had the lingering servant bring me my lute, and I unhappily fingered the strings. I had not played for days and the weather had been damp, so the instrument was out of tune. I took an overlong while to put it to rights again, then plucked the strings softly, as if hoping Henry could not hear. It was a happy song and I did not feel up to singing it in the quick, playful, lilting tones that had captured Henry’s attention back at court. I did not feel I could. I played it in a lower key than I normally would, and made the song sad. I hoped he would think I mis-remembered which song, dislike my delivery, and leave it alone.

  Part of the way into the song I became lost, as I often did. I had no control over my muses; they came unbidden and they chose to visit me at this moment with Henry in the room. He was no longer of any concern to me. My eyes became unfocused and I was transformed into a conduit, drawing music from some source outside of me, pulling the notes into my heart and then pushing them out through my fingers and throat. I felt familiar shivers all throughout, and tears rose in my eyes. Music affected me most profoundly.

  Sadness suited the melody, even more than did joy. It suited the feelings in my heart. What had started out as a jig was now becoming a ballad, and I knew in my soul it was beautiful. I grew more and more absorbed and sang it, not once, but twice so I could impress upon myself exactly how the song should sound. I barely remembered Henry, so deep was my concentration. I was again dedicating the song to Hal only this time it was not with happiness. I felt Hal in my heart and thought of that more than I thought of the music. I let the melody seek me out.