Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn

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:
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Curled Up With a Good Book
: ** FIVE
STARS ** “Threads is not your run-of-the-mill historical novel.
Nell Gavin's imagination shines through, and her research is
meticulous.”

By Nell Gavin

SMASHWORDS EDITION

۞ ۞ ۞

PUBLISHED BY:

Nell Gavin on Smashwords

Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn
:

Copyright © 2001 by Nell Gavin

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۞ ۞ ۞

One of the more surprising aspects of
researching a book about Anne Boleyn is discovering the manner in
which each reference disagrees with every other reference on some
point or another. There is scant verifiable information on
her—there is much more speculation—and various biographies take
different views on what the same scant information reveals about
her. The perspective on some events switches radically again when
you read a third book. So, those who have read one of Anne’s
biographies but not the others, and who question some point or
another may find the reference in another book.

I preferred some versions of Anne’s story to
others. While I read several references and used facts from all of
them, I preferred and relied most heavily on the information in
“The Six Wives of Henry VIII,” by Alison Weir.

I also rejected a good deal of the
information credited to Eustace Chapuys, Spanish ambassador during
the reign of Henry VIII. His reports to Spain (their content is
quoted or referred to in all of the biographies) were filled with
condemning propaganda about Anne that probably contained some
truth. However, it was most likely largely distorted or untrue
because the things Anne is credited with doing (her extensive
charities, her defense of free-thinkers and religious heretics, and
her courage in submitting to death in order to defend her
daughter’s crown) are not in sync with the she-devil Chapuys
described. Later, he made similar remarks about the “ulterior
motives” of Anne of Cleves (another of Henry’s wives) that were not
supported by statements from other witnesses, or even by logic.
Unfortunately for Anne Boleyn, it was ill advised for anyone to
speak well of her after her death, so much of her history is
comprised of the Chapuys reports with little rebuttal from
friendlier factions.

When I massaged viewpoints and conclusions
out of frustrated necessity, I felt less as though I were
manipulating history than striking a plausible compromise between
facts that amount to “good guesses” on the part of a number of
scholars. Nevertheless, there are a few instances when I knowingly
adjusted the timing of an event or rearranged the characters. At
these times, I gave greater weight to the plot. But for the most
part, the facts are as accurate as I know to make them (given the
divergence of opinion), except for Anne’s childhood and all of her
private thoughts, which remain open to conjecture.

In
"Threads"
, the Anne I offer to you
is the one I kept seeing in each of her biographies, whatever facts
they presented or how those facts colored her, the Anne who was
always described as an “enigma”. I think that term applies to
anyone who has a difficult personality, but whose character is
essentially good.

Most importantly,
"Threads"
is a
fantasy. It is not, nor is it intended to be, an historical
reference.

•
~
۞
~•

I could not see the crowd any longer. Were it
not for the sound of an occasional involuntary cough, I might have
thought myself alone and dreaming. In the midst of this unnatural
stillness, I could sense the thousands of unsympathetic eyes I knew
were fixed upon me. I could neither hide from them, nor could I
stop myself from visualizing the faces and the stares.

Suddenly, startlingly, a bird flapped its
wings and took flight. I imagined all faces were turned toward the
sky and all eyes were now fixed upon the bird. For that one moment,
all in attendance would have forgotten me and would allow me to
quietly slip away before they even noticed I had left them. That
fanciful imagery and a final prayer were all the comfort I could
give myself.

A voice with a heavy French accent shouted:
“Where is my sword?”

Then, in one instant, a hand reached for
mine, and a voice gently said “Come,” and I followed. Disoriented
yet aware, I looked down and saw the crowd, its taste for blood
satisfied by the day’s entertainment. I thought, “Wait,” and saw
Henry in my mind and in a flash I was with him for one last moment.
He was mounted for the hunt, surrounded by huntsmen and hounds,
awaiting the sound of gunshots that would announce my passing. They
rang out as I watched and he inwardly flinched, outwardly revealing
no emotion at all. He would now race to Jane, would make her his
wife in only 10 days’ time, and would never speak my name aloud
again.

I looked at him and thought, “
Why
?”
like a wail, a keening, and could see he was disturbed, though
determined not to be. Denying.

I knew he could sense me. It was in his
thoughts, and I could read them as if they were spoken aloud. He
was agitated and fearful. “
Damn
you, Henry,” I thought. He
heard me in his mind, and thought he was mad.

Then I turned away from him one final time
and floated toward the light and toward memory. Like a rustling, I
felt him reach toward me then catch himself. Like a whisper, I
heard him say to me, “Damn
you
,” but the words were not
spoken except in his thoughts, and they carried no conviction in
the face of his anxiety.

I sensed there were tears, but his face was
stone and tears would not be shed. He would restrain them and hold
them within like a cancer, and they would change him and the lives
he touched from this day forward. He would never face what he had
done. He would do it again and again as if to trivialize the sin.
By feeling less next time he could prove it was not sin, for did he
not feel righteous? If it were not right, would he not feel
shame?

I know this because I know how Henry could
twist logic to suit his ends. He could speak for God Himself, he
believed, based solely on what he knew to be truth within his
heart. He was my husband and I know him to his soul. He was often
mistaken.

And so, many more lives would be lost by his
decree. It would torment him until the end and he would be guilty,
defiant, dictatorial, irrational and dangerous, never realizing
that much of it was the denial of grief and conscience. It would be
a sad end for a man who, oddly, wanted very much to be a good
one.

With concern that was habit more than
heartfelt, I absently thought, “He should cry,” then left him.

Good-bye.

•
~
۞
~•

I still have my immortal soul. I had thought
myself shorn of it when I first lay with Henry. My love for him now
feels as if it were comprised of greater parts misfortune than sin
though, and it seems to me that I will not be dashed into a fiery
Hell because of it. It seems, in fact, as though I might find
peace.

For a while, I do. Peace: The healing time
until being prodded to action—a short stop on my way. I linger
there as long as I am allowed, but there is business to attend to,
and so I move along.

Elsewhere, beyond that, there is to be no
time for peace. There is to be time only for memories, and these
soon became all-encompassing. I see each moment of my past
existence as a surgeon examines a cadaver organ by organ, and I am
horrified, then confused, then satisfied by turns.

Death is not as I had expected from hours,
months, and years of religious instruction, nor is it the dark and
frightening place of lore. There are neither harps nor terrifying
images. I sprout neither wings nor horns. It is not as I had
imagined, nor is it as I had feared. Yet it is what I had known it
to be, deep within me, like words I had once memorized long ago,
but forgot until now when I am awakening from a lifetime of
unconsciousness.

The first memories that come to me are of my
life, the life just past. From birth to death they pass in a rush,
but are unblurred as if time is compressed. I see the entire span
of my life without recriminations, but also without
rationalizations. There is no escape from the things I had done, no
opportunity to right wrongs or explain things away, or even to look
in another direction to avoid seeing. My thoughts and actions lay
before me harsh and real.

I then go back again and watch myself from
infancy, more slowly and lingeringly. I examine the relationships
within my family. I follow the course of my music. I watch my
educational and spiritual development and my emotional decline.
Like separate threads all crazily woven into the whole, I see my
friends and then my enemies, and myself in tangled interaction with
them all.

I see my courtship with Henry, a fairy tale.
I watch us marry in the cold of January, in joyful secret, then I
see the most loving of unions besmirched and defiled and twisted
into a nightmare from which I could not awaken. I spend the largest
part of my time examining my relationship with Henry, for it was
Henry who ultimately defined my life. It was always Henry who
brought out the worst of my failings and weaknesses. Ultimately, it
was Henry who ordered my death.

He cannot freshly harm me here, and for that
I am grateful, but the harm he previously inflicted reverberates
and grows. There is nothing to heal it but time. Even here, there
is no other cure for heartbreak. I wish that death were a magical
cure for all that ailed my spirit in life; it is one more thing I
expected and found false. I arrive with the same baggage I carried
with me in life. There is nowhere to lay it down here either, no
more than a woman with child can lay aside her babe before its
birth, for it is within me. I am as I was, just not encumbered with
flesh.

I expected the pain to leave and find it has
not. It will not go.

I hear words as if they were music on the
air. I sense but cannot see the source of them. They float around
me like physical beings of vibrant form, and color, and substance.
Sometimes they strike me like clamorous blows. Sometimes they
whisper comfort and encouragement. Sometimes they weep with me. At
times, they even laugh. The intent of the words appears to be to
drum some truth into me as I watch myself in a situation where I
failed to heed them. They change according to the scene I am
examining.

My companion does not identify . . . herself?
The Voice seems more female than male, although gender does not
exist in this realm. She merely calls herself my “mentor”, or
“teacher”, seeming almost as a mother would.

She scolds and nurtures like a mother.

The Voice, and the words, describe an ideal
toward which I am striving so that I might compare myself to this
and view my progress. Jesus Christ is the example with which I am
most comfortable, and is therefore referred to most frequently, but
is not the only one. There are others for me to measure myself
against: Moses, Abraham, Krishna, Buddha, Muhammad, as well as
nameless other souls who have reached understanding.

“Compare myself to Jesus Christ?” I wonder. I
had done that in life, and had thought myself humble until now,
when my Judgment Day (if that is what this is) has come. I am raw
with humility.

But still.

I cannot recall anyone in my life who was
Christ-like, or Buddha-like, if you will. I have never met a person
such as that. Does that not make the assignment unreasonable? Are
we not all incapable of success? Is it not merely something to
lamely strive for without expectation of reaching the goal because
no one can
? Are the words of Jesus Christ (or Buddha, or
Abraham . . . ) not simply scripture bandied about by the devout,
believed in theory but rejected in action?