Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn (8 page)

I grew to have a mischievous preference for
discourse with men, who were often taken aback by forceful
attitudes daintily packaged in an attractive woman. I had beautiful
eyes and smiled teasingly when I spoke to them, feigning maiden
modesty between verbal jousts. I was mercurial and had a charming
wit. I flattered, then teasingly insulted by turns, now smiling
impishly, now lowering my eyes and blushing. Most of what I said
was lost with the cocking of one of my eyebrows, and the man would
press closer, changing the subject to my eyes. I had eyes that lit
up with playfulness. There are men who cannot resist a tease.

However, there were men—and of course,
women—who were immune to me and actually heard the words. These
words were often purposely scandalous and inflammatory, and only
sometimes a reflection of my true feelings because I loved to argue
and test my wits, and because I enjoyed tweaking the pompous, just
a little.

It was Emma’s influence, I suppose.

Once I was under Henry’s protection, I said
exactly what I wished to say. Prior to that, I sometimes spoke
wickedly in private or succumbed to the temptation to engage in
verbal battling, but most often I maintained a sense of place, and
sought to please everyone I met. This changed when I became his
mistress, and worsened when I was his wife. At times I felt
irritable from the pressures imposed upon me and no longer bothered
with self-restraint. At other times, I simply liked to play Devil’s
Advocate. I tossed explosive comments about religion and politics
into a discussion just to see how they would land and to see the
reactions of the people involved. I was particularly irksome in
this respect when speaking to those whom I disliked, and with
these, I often took sides or expressed opinions simply to
infuriate. It was a very, very risky and costly amusement.

Even more costly was my penchant for gossip,
and for unkind observations. I was not alone in this. I associated
solely with idle ladies and courtiers whose main source of
diversion was a generalized verbal viciousness toward their absent
peers. Clothing, mannerisms, intelligence, rank, love partners,
appearance and weaknesses all were subject to critique and
contempt. I took an active part in the sport. Cruel comments I made
in private grew to be public declarations once my opinions earned
greater interest and respect. Words I spoke were universally heard,
even when I spoke them thoughtlessly, intended them to merely be
witty, or was provoked by a momentary personal irritation that had
more to do with mood than real displeasure.

It does not please people to hear secondhand
that which they were not intended to hear about themselves.

It does not please me to be reminded that
this “harmless” amusement costs a hefty toll in the borrowing, and
that the punishment for unkind words and scornful laughter against
another is every bit as severe as for striking that person with
murderous blows.

“It is not what goes into a man’s mouth that
defileth him . . .”

It is what comes out. I have spoken and
laughed myself into a tangled net of harsh punishment. It is not
the first time I have done so.

Henry himself was an incorrigible gossip,
having to know all that went on with everyone, digging and prodding
me for stories that might amuse him. He also applauded my verbal
games because he loved a mental challenge. The more provoking the
observation, the more it amused him (provided the subject was not
critical of himself). I willingly accepted his encouragement, and
thus placed myself in danger more times than I knew. It escaped me
that some men viewed me with a seething resentment and would seek
to punish me for besting them with my wits. There were others, men
and women alike, whom I had infuriated that sought repayment. All
of these bristled at my audacity, knowing I was taking advantage of
a situation where they could not respond to me and risk the King’s
displeasure. Still others found me amusing, and I suppose I thought
they all did as a result. One sees one’s tactical errors clearly
from this vantage point. I should never have underestimated the
evil that can spring from bruised pride and wagging tongues.

But, again, I jump ahead.

Upon our return from France, Mary married,
had a daughter she most properly named for the queen, and was
installed at court as lady in waiting. After a span of time, Henry
noticed her and chose her. Mary went to him with little
self-examination or concern
,
either for
her spouse or Henry’s.

Mary was pretty and charming and eagerly
sought him physically, all qualities Henry preferred in a mistress.
He was well-pleased by her company for a time. However, Mary was
vocal about her love for him and made demands, and often burst into
tears over real or imagined omissions in the sincerity of his
attentions.

Henry did not love her, and viewed her need
for him as cumbersome. When she found herself with child, he saw no
further use for her, and sent her back to her husband who would
keep her and the infant in a household at a distance from court. As
if to make a point about the line she had attempted to cross in his
affections, and because of his convenient doubts of the child’s
actual parentage, (even though he had Henry’s red hair), Henry
never acknowledged her child as he had Bessie Blount’s.

While Mary was still Henry’s mistress, I was
sent to court myself. I watched the scenes unfold, then ached for
Mary who seemed broken by the King’s abandonment. I heard the talk
at court, and all the clucking remarks about her behavior. How
could the young lady be foolish enough to imagine that a king would
want her for love? She might have learned from Bessie Blount, who
had retained the King’s attention for quite some time, that love
was not his interest and was not to be expected. He had a wife,
Katherine, who fully owned his love. He did not want love from a
silly girl. That “silly girl” had a husband, which made her
behavior even less to be endured. Henry wanted a playful but
sensible woman who tended to his needs and then retreated,
satisfied with money and gifts and, if necessary, a respectable
arrangement of marriage to someone else.

I remembered those comments and felt pain for
Mary that she had earned such pitying contempt. I prayed I would
never look like such a fool.

I let her weep and shout out her anger and
betrayal and her hurt to me. I gave her what comfort I could, and
counseled her, not knowing how. Mary’s pain was real, and my heart
truly broke for her. I hid the talk and the sneers from her, and
was angered at Henry even knowing, as I did, that he could not have
done things differently. The blame for such foolishness was Mary’s
alone, for in truth she had been foolish, but Henry’s coldness
angered me nonetheless.

Life was not as we had planned, when we were
children. For Mary, it turned out to be tolerable. Her husband
eventually died, and she then fell in love with a soldier. She had
no wealth, but was blissfully wed, and was quite content with her
lot, particularly after seeing the dangers she had escaped by not
winning Henry’s love. She outlived all of us, and had a fair life,
overall. She was deserving of it.

•
~
۞
~•

From my first breath, I was taught duty and
honor. Raised to be petulant and demanding, I was also trained to
fear God, and to love those whom I served, and to serve them
loyally. I served Queen Katherine, and I loved her. Having finally
met the fairy tale princess, I found her to be tedious and
self-righteous and inclined toward vicious, secret vengeance while
always maintaining a façade of sanctimonious piety. However, I
loved her still. It was my duty, and a nearly lifelong habit. I
suffered through her company, not admitting to myself that her
company was insufferable to me, so proud was I to be in her circle.
I overlooked her shortcomings and the boredom I felt in her
presence, and tenaciously felt love toward her because she was my
Queen and it was my duty to love her.

The hatred I came to feel for her was as
strong as the love, and Henry the cause of it. Beneath it all, I
wished her no harm. I never did. I only spoke so out of anger and
hurt, and never acted upon the words—or meant them. Throughout
everything, all of it, I had a childish desire for her to love me,
but knew not how to make it come about. And so I hated and punished
her because she had spurned me, and because I wished to hurt her,
and I could. I neither screamed for her blood at any time, nor
encouraged Henry to kill her. There was no subterfuge and secret
plotting. There was no poison, nor talk of poisoning as her
supporters vehemently accused. I did not hide my hurt and anger
behind a veil, or act upon it in secret. I hated her openly for all
to see, and bespoke a hatred even stronger than the strong one I
felt.

I also loved Henry. I had fallen in love with
him as a child when I had seen him, tall, handsome, young and
glittering at the festival following his coronation, while I stood
in the shadows with the other children. He was already a man, 18
years old, enormously tall, with red-gold hair and broad shoulders.
Most strikingly, he had an air of vibrancy and energy, and a very
infectious laugh. He turned and saw me for a moment—I thought he
did—and my heart skipped. He became the man against whom I always
compared the others. I saw Henry often in my daydreams through the
years, even after he grew thick about the middle and lost the
appeal of his youth. After becoming one of Katherine’s ladies, I
hated the disloyalty toward her I knew my daydreams signified, and
often considered them a crime against God, thinking in that way
about a man who was married to the woman I served. I feared
punishment. I forced myself away from the daydreams as much as I
could. However, the love was already there when Henry first decided
he would have me, and had been for many years. It was my secret,
and no one guessed.

I felt painful jealousy, when Henry chose
Mary as his mistress. Too proud to show it, I pretended I found
Henry’s company to be tedious, and his person to be unappealing. I
paid him only the barest compliments and attention when he appeared
in the music room, and grew increasingly solicitous of Katherine in
whose eyes I could see a shadow of reproach when she spoke to me.
Already. Even then—even when it was my sister, not I, who held his
interest.

Perhaps it was my haughty disdain that
fascinated Henry after I first caught his eye. He expected
attention from women, and indifference preyed at his pride. More
likely it was my singing voice and my skill on the lute, for I was
an impressive musician. Henry earnestly aspired to be one himself,
as music was his very greatest passion. However, he gave no
indication of an interest in me, even after he had discarded Mary
and I continued from loyalty toward her to snub him as much as I
dared.

For a time, he seemed not to notice that I
was snubbing him. That chafed me. I increased my attentions toward
other men when he was present, and watched Henry from the corner of
my eye.

Even after I met Hal, I viewed Henry’s
acknowledgment of my attractiveness as a prize to be won. It was a
secret wish of mine that he find me as appealing as he had Mary. It
was only partly competitiveness. A part of me had always felt
impatience toward him for looking right through me when I was
beside my sister. It was
I
whom he should see. I knew not
why I thought so, but it was a sense deep within me, that Henry
should recognize and acknowledge me. I brushed these thoughts away
as imagination and confessed them as pride to a priest, yet watched
him still for signs that he had noticed me, expecting it.
Waiting.

Vanity, infatuation and a little too much
mead overcame conscience and resolve one evening when I saw my
opportunity to steal Henry’s attention for a moment. Finding myself
near to the King at a court dance, I coyly looked across at him and
caught his eye with an expression I now know to be that of an
Egyptian prostitute. I tempered it with English modesty so as not
to be crass, but the look still was one universally understood by
men. I looked at him in this way for just a split second before my
mouth twisted into a half smile, and then a full grin that even
exposed my teeth (which one tried never to expose).

Having grinned so improperly (Henry thought:
“delightfully”), I turned away from Henry to face my partner. We
circled in opposite directions, men on the outside, women within,
and the two circles stopped. Henry had elbowed and manipulated his
position so he could be across from me. I curtseyed, and looked up
at him shyly, lowering my eyes with blank, well-bred English
innocence, then darted him a quick glance, the prostitute,
prompting Henry to throw back his head and laugh.

“Bewitching Mistress,” he whispered as he
took my hand and led me around the circle. “When might we see more
of you?”

In a dangerous breech of decorum, but with
mead-blunted senses and the somehow certain knowledge that I would
not anger him, I blinked at Henry three times maintaining well-bred
English innocence. In a low, shocked tone of voice I asked, “More?
Of me? Your Highness, I show you as much as I would allow
any
man to see of me. I fear I dare not show you more and
still retain my reputation. Please do not ask again, Your Grace.” I
gave him the stern frown of a humorless tutor then, laughing, I
broke away for the start of the next movement and danced away with
someone else.

He followed me in the circle with his new
partner, then leaned over and whispered “Impudent!”

I cocked my head feigning a failure to
understand his meaning, and whispered back playfully: “Quite so!
Your Grace most certainly is impudent!” Then I twinkled and dimpled
at him to soften the insult and danced away with my glance meeting
his a few seconds longer than necessary. For the first time of
many, his eyes followed me and the sensation was electrifying. It
is a heady feeling, being noticed by a king. It is thrilling to be
noticed by a man you have always secretly loved.