Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn (20 page)

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.

I did not want to go. I did not want to pass
through corridors where I had strolled with Hal, or face the
questions and the talk and the feigned sympathy over my shattered
wedding plans. I wanted not to have to see the King frequently in
territory that was his, rather than mine. I wanted not to have to
face Katherine, who knew of his visits to Hever.

I begged Mother no. She insisted. I cried and
threw a tantrum. She slapped me and spoke the word “duty” against
which I had no power.

The request was written in her hand and sent
by messenger to the Queen. We, all of us, awaited Katherine’s
response for weeks, each with a different sort of anxiety.

My rejection had preyed upon Henry’s mind and
settled there, infiltrating his thoughts. He composed a letter to
me confessing love he had dared not speak of before, describing
pain of excessive proportions over his inability to win me as his
own. Was there no hope that I might come to love him? He asked. As
“unworthy” as he was, could I not find something in him that
pleased me? Could I not give him any reason to hope?

When I read his dramatic proclamations, I
laughed and rolled my eyes. If the letter was spared after I
carelessly threw it on the floor, it was not me who saved it, for I
walked over it and left it there.

I received another, a plea from Henry to see
me. One may not refuse a visit from the King, so I welcomed him
back. The span of time that passed from the moment he vowed I would
see him no more until I was handed the missile begging for my
company was four days.

He arrived two days after delivery of our
invitation to visit. Henry meekly asked again if I would be his
mistress and, again, I refused. The refusal was less surprising to
him this time, and he did not leave in such a hurry, preferring to
uncover the reasons why I was turning him away.

“I serve my lady the Queen, Your Majesty. I
serve your wife, and I hope I do so with honor. I may not betray
her trust in me.”

“The queen has seen this before. It is to be
expected.” He was showing signs of impatience and irritation.

“ Your Grace, my intent is to become a wife.
Your
wife I
can
not be—you
have
a wife whom it
is my duty to serve and obey.” I said this plaintively, hoping to
appease him and yet make him understand. “Your mistress I
will
not be,” I added, less gently.

He tried tempting me with jewels and land. I
bristled back into my original anger. I looked at him with narrowed
eyes and asked him to please never offer again. I would not risk
Hell for jewels, I told him. I cared not much for jewels. As for
land, we had enough. I could not be bribed, I told him softly and
firmly, and would not be bought. (My brother George was advised of
this conversation through a servant and confronted me later in a
thundering bellow. He called me a mindless wench, and slammed his
fist down before me with his face dangerously close to mine. Not
only was I turning down the King, George roared, I would turn him
against us with such rash statements as these! That land,
of
which we had so much
, he screamed, could all be taken away in
an instant! Had I not one ounce of sense at all? he asked. I had to
wipe his spittle from my face as he shouted.)

Stripped to the root of the matter, Henry
pleaded. He confessed love he said he had not the words to
describe. Would I give him any hope at all to live upon?

No, I insisted. I respectfully could not.

During his next visit, he impatiently
inquired as to my health, and asked when I would recover enough
from my indisposition to return. He made no mention of Katherine or
her need of me.

“My health is good,” I bluntly replied.

“Then you are to return to us anon,” he
stated as fact.

“No,” I answered. “‘Tis still too soon.”

Henry twitched with irritation and mentioned
Hal indirectly in a manner that revealed he was uncomfortable with
the topic.

“Surely a strong, healthy young lass might
recover quickly from a minor disappointment. I do not understand
thy persistence in nursing pain over a mere setback in thy plans.”
He amended the statement coyly: “There are better men to tempt thy
heart.”

Were he not a king, he might have winked.

I turned and gazed directly into his eyes. To
do so was impertinent, even insolent, but I cared not.

“There are no other men to tempt my heart.”
Pausing too long, I added, “Your Highness.”

Henry blew a soft “Phhtt” through his teeth
and tossed his head. I could see that I had wounded him.

“I fear that despite your words of love, you
do not understand it, Your Grace.” It was a risky remark, uttered
impulsively. I felt a shudder of apprehension, and wished I could
take it back.

He shot a look to me quickly, and emotions
passed across his eyes. I saw anger, and uncertainty, and a glimmer
of what appeared to be hurt in a matter of seconds.

“I love
thee
. I know quite well what
love is, my Anna,” he answered impatiently.

“Then you know I cannot return yet.”

“Phhtt. I feel a totally different sort of
love for thee. It is
real
.”

“And you know before God that my love for
someone else was false.” I did not form it as a question. I said it
pleasantly, as a statement of fact, with no expression of any kind.
It seemed to carry greater impact that way, for Henry found himself
confused over the direction from which the arrow had come.

“No, I did not . . . I did not say . . . ” he
stammered.

“I can feel just as you can feel, Your Grace.
I feel as you would, were you promised to me and then torn from my
arms. I feel the same.”

Henry thought for a moment, unmoving. His
eyebrows were knotted above his nose, and his eyes looked startled.
He then turned to me with a raw look.

“Hast thou felt much pain?” he asked gently.
It had truly not occurred to him that his clever devising had made
a victim of me. It had truly never occurred to him that I had been
deeply hurt by his maneuverings. His concern was sincere. So, for
the moment, was his self-reproach, but Henry was ever able to
rationalize himself away from that emotion, and its impact was not
long lasting.

I am certain he gave not a thought to Hal and
the life he was now forced to lead.

Tears sprang to my eyes but I willed them
away and met Henry’s gaze again. He saw the tears come and
disappear. Henry noticed everything.

“Yes Your Grace. I have felt pain,” I said
this slightly smiling, slightly narrowing my eyes, almost
mockingly.

“I want thee not to feel pain,” he said
quietly. “I am sorry thou hast. Truly sorry.” He looked confused
and thoughtful and he looked sorry. He stared at his hands, then
looked up quickly, crossed his arms over his chest and buried his
hands under his armpits. “But thou wilt recover,” he said
reassuringly.

“Yes, sire.”

“You
shall
,” he repeated
challengingly.

“As will
you
, Your Grace,” I smiled,
dipping my head.

•
~
۞
~•

He began what he would continue for several
years. He pressed, then he held back from pressing. He bribed and
threatened. He begged and asked again, and again. I held firm. I
teased him and made light of his efforts. I flattered to appease
his wounded pride, then pulled back and coldly complained of head
pains, begging leave to retire.

When he was not present, I made scathing
comments about his motives and his character. I made him the butt
of cruel humor among my most trusted friends. I acted out our
conversations for their amusement. Perhaps most cruelly, I laughed
at his songs.

It is difficult to describe the emotions I
felt, being courted by a king. I was developing feelings for him
that must be kept hidden, and so to hide them I laughed at him and
teased. I wanted word to get back to Katherine and my sister Mary
that I did not care for Henry, and that was the primary reason I
was so cruel. The interpretation of my actions by those viewing
them was far different though, not because of what I said and did,
but because of the manner in which Henry was behaving. My actions
were having an unintended opposite effect from the one I devised.
It was presumed that their effect was intentional, and my crafty
manipulations were premeditated.

Still, despite my protestations, I felt
flattered to a remarkable degree. During the days of our courtship,
Henry’s attentions made me feel as if I were above the common sort.
I generalized and believed that I must be quite unique and
important in all things, which is not a comfortable thing to say
about oneself in retrospect, and is impossible to view objectively
when one is in the midst of feeling so. I had talent, intelligence
and charm above the average, and these were heightened in my own
mind when I saw the impact they had on Henry. I defy anyone else,
however, to feel differently when faced with the same temptation of
self-flattery. It is easy to feel flattered by emotions that
powerful; it is impossible not to when the source of those emotions
is a king.

Vanity often roots itself in insecurity. A
lifetime of inferiority had prepared a fertile bed for vanity, and
I was becoming a little full of myself. I would become more so in
time. I would, in fact, become quite full indeed. That fullness
would bring with it its own grief.

More strongly than I felt any other emotion,
even that of self-aggrandizement, I felt shame and hurt and a
desire to stop this. The dislike I was incurring, for the moment
with little reason, tore at my heart. I did not regain most
friendships, and so I felt betrayed and hurt and a failure at what
I had been raised to do. I had been raised to please, and wanted
nothing more than to succeed in pleasing. I wanted to make amends.
When I failed in this, I reacted. I responded defiantly.

“So you are not pleased?” I might have asked.
“Well, then let me please you even
less
so that you might
know how petty and mean you are to complain of
this
!”
Afterward, I would crumple with mortification that I could behave
so.

Those feelings wore at my good nature and my
good nature grew less good in time. The petulant child held tight
to slights and insults, nurturing them and clinging to them for far
longer than one should cling to hurt. That child liked to make
people sorry they had wounded her, but the emotions behind the
petulance were sincere. I liked them. I wanted to be liked in
return and they would not like me. I was deeply wounded and knew
not how to be wounded without dramatically reacting to the pain, or
hiding it. I spent most of my days doing the one or the other. I
wanted it all to end.

But still Henry kept coming to me.

Over the course of time, he became my friend
and I grew to look forward to seeing him. My childhood infatuation
was being resurrected by Henry’s close presence, while Hal was
retreating into a dull ache that erupted into sharp pain only at
night. Henry’s way was becoming more clear although I fought hard
not to let him see this, and still fought against it in my heart.
It was difficult not to let him see, for there were frequent
moments when our eyes met. I could not deny there was a connection
between us, and so I prayed. I did not want a king. And yet I did,
if he were this one. In wanting, there is sin, and so I was
torn.

What I saw in Henry’s eyes could not be
rationally explained, and so I often attributed it to imagination
and passing infatuation. Other times I knew in my heart I was not
imagining. I could not reason away the fear that Henry would draw
me into him with those eyes and I would not have the power to say
no.

I confessed these sinful thoughts, as ever,
to the priest. My confessions vacillated. Sometimes I confessed
pride for concocting a connection that did not exist between myself
and a powerful man. Other times I confessed my temptation to give
in to a love I knew to be true, yet sinful. I confessed more
frequently as months passed, but nothing was resolved. The priest
only suggested I pray, and so I did, sinking lower and lower into a
chasm where I had no choice but to love and give in to Henry. I
could not discuss this with anyone but the priest, so I never
obtained more practical advice on what to do.