Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn

by Nell Gavin

  I finished the piece a third time and stopped to listen to some notes in my head. No, not my head. The new notes came, indeed, from my heart, for no real music is written with the mind. The song wanted minor keys. I hummed them and transferred them to the lute, then replayed the chords quickly, stopping, humming, replaying. Excited, I began the song again, incorporating the changes.

  Henry did not stop me. He was a musician himself and knew precisely what was happening. He fully understood, and sometimes spent his free hours in the music room watching other musicians work through this very process. It fascinated him and made his heart ache at the same time to be in the midst of us, for he felt that he could locate the portal to the source of the music himself, and learn to do what we did, if he just watched with enough sincerity. He took no offense to my lack of attention toward him. He leaned forward slightly, listening with concentration nearly as deep as my own. He sometimes nodded but he was not smiling. His mouth was slackened and his eyes were unseeing.

  “Aye! Yes!” I cried, after successfully playing it through. The melody had given me a signal that it was finished and my mind drifted back into the room with Henry. Melodies, I had found, seemed to create themselves without my conscious involvement and they always knew when they were complete (unlike painting, which for me always cried for one more, possibly disastrous, stroke of a brush). With an instrument in my hand and my mind tuned to that source outside of me, I became possessed. I could go for hours without food or drink, unaware that my bladder was full or that my leg had fallen asleep. It was as if I had two minds: one that lived within my body, and one that lived without. The mind that dwelt outside of me and within the music gave pleasure to others as it did to myself, inflicting goose bumps and involuntary tears on many who heard me.

  Even the worst of my enemies could not deny me that.

  When I snapped out of myself, I could not remember the steps I had taken to create a song. It happened to me again with this one, and I remembered every note but had no recollection of why I had chosen one note over another, or how long it had taken me to do it. Watching now, it appears as though the effort took me over an hour. It was an overlong time for a king to sit and patiently wait, yet he said nothing and showed no sign of irritation.

  This was not the song I had begun. It was a new one. I knew it was special, as if I had given birth to a favorite child.

  Beaming with pleasure I turned to Henry and gave a deep satisfied sigh. “I think I shall keep it this way,” I said almost to myself, turning back to the lute and caressing it. “It is much improved.” It was a conversation not unlike one we might have had in the music room.

  Henry said nothing, but was staring at me with an odd expression, head cocked like a child’s. He would not turn his eyes from my face, and they held an expression I had seen before. It was like seeing Hal’s face again. It was a respectful, probing look of wonderment.

  This was the moment he fell in love with me. This was the precise moment when the game became real.

  His voice, when he spoke, would sound soft, I knew.

  “Did it please Your Grace?” I asked, concerned. I remembered that the performance had been for Henry’s benefit, not my own. I came back to myself ashamed and a little frightened. The song that he had requested was not the song I had offered. It occurred to me that I might have angered him, for I had not consulted with him before changing it, nor had I asked permission before playing it through several times.

  What time had passed? I knew not, except my body told me I had a cramp from immobility that would not be there had the time been short. I had boldly and rudely indulged myself with him sitting there, and the realization of this made my face burn.

  “I apologize, Your Highness. I forgot myself. I am most humbly sorry.”

  “What do you call it?” he asked. His voice had not returned to normal. His eyes still had a distant look.

  “The Turtle Doves, sire.” It was what Hal and I had called ourselves.

  I shook my head, dissatisfied. This was a different song in need of a different name. It needed new words. I wished that Hal could read my heart and send them.

  “I hath not named it,” I corrected myself. “It is new, and Your Grace was the first to hear it.” I smiled. “It was given life, in fact, as you sat and listened. I daresay your presence may have been the impetus, Your Grace.” The last statement was pure flattery. One flatters a king. I would admit, however, he had played a part in creating the grief that gave birth to the song.

  “We will request it again, just as you sang it today, upon your return to court.” He smiled. “Until then we fear we shall be humming it daily. It catches itself upon the heart, somehow.”

  “Then it did please you?” I pressed eagerly, anxious for him to reassure me that he liked it. In the atmosphere of the music room, which we were recreating for a moment, the question was not forward, nor out of place. The music room leant an aura of near-equality to the players, among whom Henry was but one.

  Aye, me, but we were not in the music room, I thought. How dare I be so presumptuous? How could I be so familiar with my king? Servants had come and gone this long while, and I knew they came to watch, and left with intent to tell. I would hear about my behavior, loudly, before the day was through.

  I would be punished with good reason. I felt the fingers of embarrassment grasp themselves around my throat and felt a tightening in my chest. In entertaining my sovereign, I had behaved monstrously. I knew better than to behave in this manner toward my king. What had possessed me?

  He responded in a gentle, deferential tone, “It pleased us very much. We can think of no song we have ever liked more.”

  “Would you have me play another?” I hoped to redeem myself by being more agreeable.

  “No,” Henry quickly answered. “Upon hearing another melody we would lose that one. We prefer to continue to hear it in our mind for a while. If you would play anything at all, please let it be that song, again. Once more for us now, just as you did before.”

  I played it again, and then another time at his request. I was now polishing my delivery. Henry nodded and listened with closed eyes. He had no better expression of admiration for a piece. I knew this.

  But his behavior became odd, and it frightened me.

  When the song was complete and my fingers stopped, Henry shook himself back, then stood and abruptly left the room looking distracted and distant, speaking few words to me and barely glancing in my direction. He sent word to his party to prepare for departure, then climbed the stairs to his room.

  I did not know what to make of it, but knew it could only bode ill for me.

  When the time came, I went to the castle gate to bid my farewells. While Henry was preparing to mount his steed, I spoke briefly to a servant, and Henry turned sharply upon hearing my voice. I curtseyed, and he stared at me with a look of bewilderment on his face as if he were attempting to place me, as in fact, he was. He had not the means to determine how though, for he could not remember past his own birth. He seemed slightly shaken, or shocked, or deep in serious thought. I did not know how to read him yet, and could not decide what his emotions were, nor could I determine what had affected him so profoundly since there had been nothing unusual in our conversation, except my neglect of him.

  I thought: I have offended him. I hung my head, near tears.

  I did not realize it was me who was affecting him, and that he was not offended.

  “We have enjoyed this day,” he said quietly and sincerely to me. My parents, also standing there, exchanged quick looks.

  I bowed my head.

  “We shall come again if it doth please you.”

  “Indeed, sire.” I lifted my head and looked at him hopefully. He did not appear to be angered or displeased with me. Perhaps he would not complain to my father, who would be certain to punish me twice: once after Henry’s departure, and later upon receiving the complaint.

  Henry’s eyes met mine, and I saw them flicker. I did not look do
wn as I should have, nor did he turn away. He leaned forward, slightly, as if to study me more closely, and I, feeling weakened, looked back. The look lasted just a few moments, but I felt it in my heart. There was a man beneath the robes and jewels. I saw him in those seconds.

  “Indeed, we shall.” He hoisted himself onto his steed and rode away with his party following. I watched him leave thinking of how thrilled I would have been as a little girl to have this very scene played for me, and ambivalent as I was toward him, felt a small flutter in my stomach. I told no one of this, and retired to my room where my thoughts danced.

  Over several weeks Henry would practice until he could play my song himself, and in one or two years’ time and with some assistance from a poet, would write new words for my benefit. He, graciously, did not tamper with the melody. He would sing it to me in private beginning: “Alas my love you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously . . . ” By the time the song was given back to me thus, I would view it less as a theft or an intrusion than as a gift, and I would love him for it. But as I first feared, the song would no longer be mine or Hal’s. It came to be sung everywhere and the official credit for authorship was given to Henry. He called the song “Greensleeves” as a jest, referring to the scurrilous rumors that had spread about my morals (the term applied to women of low character) and insisted it be played at every gathering.

  In the years to follow, it was never mentioned where the song began. Women, it was thought, could not compose music with such proficiency. It was not my place to disagree, nor to step forward and say the song was not composed by Henry. He had been present when it was created, helped select the words, had chosen the title, and had brought it to the attention of the court, so his contribution warranted the recognition he received, he felt. Henry wanted very much to be respected as a musician, and was pleased that his name was associated with music people listened to with delight, rather than from duty. I allowed him that pleasure, for I loved him.

  In subsequent years, as his reasoning grew faultier, he came to fully believe the song was his own. I was no longer there as a reminder, and those who knew any truths on any topics were not anxious to correct his self-deceptions.

  He came again bringing his own instrument and, again, I sang for him. He played some songs of his own composition, which I politely learned from him, inwardly wincing. I played another of mine for him and, in the process, lost it as I had Greensleeves. This time I was careful to select a song I did not much like. I was also careful to restrain my muses and try not to lose myself in his presence, for one never knows what sort of song is forthcoming during its composition, or when it may want to be born.

  Sometimes when he had tired of music, we would play word games, or dice, or chess or cards. It was in game playing that we uncovered the snapping, arguing banter we would be known for as a couple. I was not competitive and did not mind losing, but enjoyed pretending that I did, or that he was cheating or taking unfair advantage. Henry delighted in my “anger” at his successes, knowing I was merely teasing. He also took delight in my successes, applauding me with as much pleasure as if the triumph had been his own.

  Over the ensuing weeks, I came to playfully insult him during the games, and to make comical threats that encouraged Henry to threaten me in return, although he could never insult me as I did him. There was always laughter in the room where we had set up to play. It was the laughter that softened my hatred toward Henry. I could never resist a man who was able to make me laugh, nor could I remain long angered. In the process of playing with this man, I found forgiveness where I had thought there would never be any found.

  If the weather was fair, we would sometimes walk the grounds, or go riding, or hunting, or hawking, or sit beneath a tree and watch the clouds. He was good company, and as my heart began to heal, I grew to see more in him than I had previously. He allowed me more latitude than he did most others, so I could speak to him and tease him with a previously unheard of impunity. One could even say our discourse was intimate and relaxed.

  In a very short time, Henry stopped using the royal “we” in private, and began addressing me as “thou.” Such an unprecedented dismissal of decorum made me feel giddy with honor, power, and disbelief, just as it made me terrified and wary of his intentions. I dared not—I did not choose to—return this gesture for a much longer time, only after we became intimate and, of course (since it is never proper to address one’s lover or spouse affectionately before witnesses) only in private.

  My family disagreed on how I should proceed with the friendship. I was holding strong to my conviction that I should keep Henry at a distance as much as I could. My mother had come to see the sense of it as well, for there was more to be gained in the long term from a fortunate marriage than from a liaison with a king. Granted, the liaison would eventually, most likely result in a marriage arranged for me by Henry, but to whom? I could not face the thought of a lifetime spent with someone I disliked, or to an old and tottering widower. I had come too close to bliss once to compromise. I was determined to concentrate on a marriage of my own choosing, and Mother agreed. I was far too old to waste time.

  My mother, as I said, was showing reservations whereas George and my father were growing impatient. They had the most to gain from an alliance with the King, and prodded me to press forward. The family fortune was in a low state at the moment. My gowns and my mother’s were all carefully mended instead of replaced, and the Boleyn coffers were emptying. There was much the family could do with royal gifts.

  However, when talk finally turned to marriage much later, the entire family stood against it, and respectfully suggested to the King that he reconsider. They pleaded with me, who had the power to dissuade Henry from anything but that. At the time, I would think they were spiteful and mean, conspiring to make me unhappy. I would later come to find they were attempting to protect me and—of course more importantly—themselves.

  In short time the King rewarded Father with an enviable appointment at court, and enough riches to enable him to pay taxes on his new title. He bestowed upon George his own lucrative assignments. A ship called the Anne Boleyn was commissioned in partner to the Mary Boleyn, which Henry had had built previously. With no other alliance between Henry and me, these things alone had the effect of stirring up enmity toward me.

  I had no say over which names the King might choose for his ships (I squeezed the bridge of my nose and let out a long sigh of dismay upon hearing of this one). As for members of my family, they were free to accept from Henry whatever he deigned to give. There would have been no stopping them from accepting it anyway—I had no power over their greed. I, however, stood firm and chaste and stubborn.

  Henry had offered small gifts, and each time I had refused. On the third occasion of my turning down the king’s generosity, my father threatened me with the ever-present (although now rarely used) whip. George shouted. My mother expressed disappointment with pursed lips and a dramatic sigh hoping I could walk away with something of value before the King moved on to someone else.

  They all viewed Henry somewhat as a philanthropist tossing coins from his carriage, and were pushing me closer to the front of the crowd so that I might scoop them up before he moved on past us. They would eventually wear me down, and I would begin to accept tokens from Henry, reluctantly and resentfully. The shame I felt grew worse, for in taking from him I was no longer blameless. I knew I could not look Katherine in the eye from the moment I accepted his first one. I viewed it in my heart as tainted, and I felt myself tainted for having taken it.

  Chapter 2

  •~۞~•

  I often inquired after Katherine, and Henry assured me that she was well, and had requested word about my welfare and happiness. She was anxious for me to return, he said, and he pressed me to commit to a date, “so that we might not disappoint her when we return with word of you. You have always been a favorite of the queen,” he said although I knew it was not true, and never had been. But like a child, I chose to believe w
hat he said, and felt an even more fervent loyalty toward her, and an even more numbing shame.

  I demurred for several months about my return to court and, growing impatient, Henry finally confessed that it was he who wanted me back. He asked me to be his mistress, sweetly, but with an air which implied that my succumbing was nothing less than what I owed him for the privilege of having been asked. It was, after all, a high honor to be chosen by a king.

  I declined.

  Henry grew red with hurt and anger, and left Hever in humiliation and bewilderment. He was determined that I should be punished by receiving no further visits or attention. I could, he decided, go to the devil.

  He could, I decided, go to the devil as well. I meant it more than he.

  My mother was not pleased, for I had angered him, but she could not dissuade me from my decision. Oddly, she did not press, nor did she threaten. She merely arranged for me to return to court. I was growing too strange, she thought, still weeping over Hal, and still clutching a once mislaid piece of his clothing to my heart as I slept. It had touched my mind, she feared. This was evidenced by the manner in which I conducted myself around the King, and in my lack of judgment in handling his admiration. I was scandalously rude, she thought. She was shocked by the vulgar way I behaved myself, laughing freely, teasing him, and taking unheard of liberties with his good nature. I would disgrace the family unless I recovered and returned to normal. I required the association of others, and the bustle and gossip of court to bring me back to myself, she believed.

  Mother was fully well-intended. It was Father and George whose interest was of a more material nature. Their concern for my personal well-being was the lesser concern at the moment. Of even less concern to them were my wishes. My return to court was an issue of vital importance to them, and my feelings were to be set aside for the good of the family. I was, after all, only a female, and if I found myself in a useful position, I had an obligation to exploit it.