Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn (19 page)

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 down 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.

•
~
۞
~•

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 what
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.