Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn (27 page)

I am made to flash upon the end of my last
life, then am told the love is only bruised, not killed. I do not
love alone, nor does he, and we have no power to change it. It
almost exists separate from us, like a living thing that controls
us, and over which we have no control.

“Do you remember how it felt?” I am gently
asked. “It is still there. Do you remember the love?”

I jerk back from my reverie, defiant. I have
been asked: “Do you remember?”

I remember indeed.

What I remember are my tears as I whispered
“I love thee still.” I remember the sensation of a dagger being
thrust into my chest, then twisted, when he responded to me by
coldly snapping, “
That
is
thy
misfortune.” Then he
ordered me to my death and let me die.

I remember
that
. I remember sitting in
the Lieutenant’s Lodgings in the Tower compound and sorting it
through my head. I remember my efforts to confront the knowledge
that everything I had once believed about him was untrue. He had
never loved me. Still I could not fully believe that for, if I did,
I would have to sacrifice one of the few things of value I had
left. I would not give up that love, for whatever short time it had
been true. I had sacrificed everything in my life to claim it. I
had given up, or given away, virtually everything I had of worth. I
would, in fact, give my life itself. I had to trust that, for a
while at least, it had been real or all was lost and I had no pride
at all.

I remember watching my husband slip away from
me, moving on to other women. I wondered, if the love
had
been real, which of my failings lost it for me? Where within myself
did I begin to point the blame, and where did it end? I began to
feel as if I had no worth, if I could not even hold the love of a
man who once loved me so well. I felt humbled and chastened,
wondering who in heaven or on earth could want me, if Henry’s deep
love could turn to contempt? No one could, I reasoned. No one
should. All England was right to scorn and revile me, for I had no
worth at all.

At the moment when I knelt before my
executioner, finally knowing with certainty that Henry would not
stop the sword from severing my neck, I grew angry that I, who had
done him no purposeful harm, should have been made to feel so
unworthy by comparison to him, who let me die. I vowed I would
never allow Henry to hurt me again. I would never again allow
myself to feel love toward him, for he is evil, and my enemy. I had
sacrificed everything for a wisp of cloud, a dream. More the fool
was I, even more a fool than
ever
I swore I
never
would be!

Love? I once spoke aloud a vow to harden
myself against him, then spoke it again within my heart, and I feel
stubborn. I disbelieve the Voice for Henry does not love me. He
said he did not, and behaved as if he hated me. I cannot be tricked
in this manner.

I cannot be tricked, and I will not
believe.

The Voice seems to sigh, and lets me watch
as one thing leads to another in a forest long ago.

۞

I cry out, for I am a virgin, and the noise
calls attention to us. It is not the normal cry of a “forest
spirit”, a warning to all who hear it that distance should be kept.
It is unmistakably a cry of pain. My yelps draw two members of the
troupe who had been searching for mushrooms nearby, and who push
through the undergrowth out of concern that I am wounded.

We hence are discovered in that position: two
flaxen-haired children mating like dogs, skirts up, breeches down,
pressed together groin to groin.

It is a surprise for all concerned.

We are dragged by our ears back to the
encampment, fiercely scolded and soundly flogged, then told we will
be forced to marry when we reach the next church four days later.
That suits us anyway. It seems good fortune that we should not wait
another two years. We both agree after our second—and less
painful—attempt that he fits me quite well indeed, that I am
neither too small nor he too large, and that we should marry after
all. Married, we will be free to indulge in this new kind of play
without frowns and scoldings any time we like, and we like it very
much.

We like it a mere hour after the flogging, in
fact, ignoring warnings to keep apart until the wedding. We both
pretend we are answering a call of nature, which in fact we are. We
signal each other with whistles, then meet and resume the
interrupted act. Nothing we had ever experienced compares to
completion of that act.

We stumble out of the woods, disheveled and
disoriented, holding hands. We are seen, and had been heard but
this time we were not stopped, and now, not even scolded. A
conference of parents has ascertained that there is no way they can
keep us apart, for they have neither locks nor doors to hold us in.
They cannot tie us down, for we need to walk with the rest of them.
They have no access to a chastity belt until we reach the town, and
no means of controlling us except through guilt and heavenly
threats, for to flog us again would be to spoil us for the next
show.

Our parents soon realize there are no words
they can say even to cause us guilt. Nothing has an impact on our
behavior. They can do nothing at all except wait grim-faced and
angry for the church spire to appear in the distance ahead of us,
and to quicken the pace of the troupe in its direction.

Our parents blame themselves, though they are
not to blame. This has nothing whatever to do with them, and what
they have or have not taught us.

I am a lovely young bride, and Henry a
handsome young groom, in our hastily borrowed, ill-fitted wedding
clothes. We receive a special dispensation at the request of our
desperate parents, and are not forced to wait three weeks for Banns
to be announced. A priest steps forth within minutes of our arrival
at the church and, upon hearing that rapidity is of the utmost
importance, hears our confessions, assigns heavy penance, then
gives a stern Mass and fierce looks to us both without wasting more
than half an hour in the process. When he asks if anyone among us
has any objections, my father shouts “No! Get on with it, sir!” and
the priest finishes up the ceremony with words spoken so fast they
run together.

And so we are wed, firmly and forever, till
death us do part.

The troupe ever drew attention to itself, and
not surprisingly its appearance at the church attracts the notice
of people in the village, who gather around outside to watch us
come out. The entire village comes to the feast we hold afterwards
in a meadow, all strangers attracted by the music and the
merriment, and the joy of celebrating the good fortune of the newly
married. They bring mead and stout and food, and leave coins for us
with their wishes for our happiness, knowing us not at all. Their
kind wishes will all be amply realized, and we will live as happy a
life as anyone ever hoped for us.

۞

Life was brutal for most who lived in those
times. However, I did not know it was brutal when I was part of it.
I ate and I slept and found comfort in the warmth of a rough
blanket, or a pile of hay on cold nights. I found joy in my husband
and the people who surrounded me. I found happiness in the birthing
and raising of children. I found pleasure in my recorder, and harp,
and lyre, and the applause of an audience, and the coins that were
thrown to me. I had a strong, healthy body. It was a good life.

I sift a life’s worth of memories and images
through my fingers, and caress each one. There is no need to pry my
eyes open to watch. I am home. I linger on reminiscences, referring
back to them at times, and I forget how sour things turned in the
lifetime just past. I want to stay here in this life and, in the
absence of that, want to keep remembering, as if memories can erase
what is to come afterward.

It is not a coincidence that in Flanders I do
not miss wealth, and I do not long for power. It is not by chance
that my happiest life is one that places me far from either. There
are more important things, and I see them here. Now that I have a
basis for comparison, I will know what to pray for and strive for,
when I return again.

۞

Each spring we start out from our village
five days west of Antwerp, travel north to Holland then down toward
Brussels, over through Flanders then up toward Antwerp again. The
life is lived on a winding road through miles of forestland, thinly
peppered throughout with knots of cleared space where farms or
villages have grown. Through the span of my life, the forests grow
thinner then, after my time, disappear altogether as if they never
were. I would in time, as the child Anne en route to the court of
Margaret of Austria, travel a portion of that same road again and
find it markedly changed beyond all recognition. I would have no
sense of having been there before at all.

There are three troupes in all, each
numbering in members between 20 and 30. The other two troupes move
in other directions, one traveling west toward the North Sea, and
the other moving further into Holland and remaining there. We each
cover a circle of about 100 miles, visiting about 10 to 12 towns
along the way.

We travel with the troupe we are born to.
People who were not born to a troupe choose according to their
language skills, or in the direction, or with the group that most
suits their tastes.

Our troupe has the strongest skills in French
but we cover territory where each of the languages is prominent,
and some like Hal and Emma, are completely fluent in all of them.
The other two troupes speak primarily Flemish or Dutch, though we
all know each of the languages to some degree, for we all converge
again in winter.

Each year we follow the same road, departing
only occasionally from our route. We are not hunted by road thieves
who prey upon the wealthy, so our travel goes safely and our nights
are spent soundly. The pace is leisurely because we are not
expected, and we have no obligation to arrive. We find our audience
along the way and in the towns we visit, or else we do not. We
perform whenever there are people present, and spend the rest of
our days traveling for five to eight hours in one direction,
slowing on occasion while the men prowl with their bows in search
of game. We stop and set up camp while the men move into the
forest, if there is one, with traps to catch food for the morrow,
or to gather whatever they can to supplement the evening meal. If
we are entering an unwooded stretch of road with little game to
kill along the way, we barter in the last town before it, and carry
our meals with us.

Our expenses are limited to road tolls and
fabric, musical instruments, boots, paint and wagon repairs. We
sleep when the sun sets. When it rains we continue until the mud
stops the horses, then take shelter in our tents, or in hovels we
have built and placed at strategic distances over many years.
Sometimes we beg for a night’s stay at farms we pass.

During the winter, we live in huts like
village folk, although our village is deep within a forest, and is
populated only by our own kind. Its population is thin during the
warmer months, swelling to over one hundred during the winter when
the troupes return. There are some who live in the village year
round because they are too old, lame, or ill to travel anymore.
Some are pregnant women with a history of difficult births or
stillborn babies, who want not to risk the strain of travel. Some
are merely tired of travel, and choose to stay in one place. Among
these, there are some who have taught themselves skills like
farming, animal husbandry, spinning and weaving, curative herbs and
smithing, so we go to a place with all the trappings of a real
village.

We even have a small church, presided over by
a monk who once entertained a dream of living as we do. He
justifies himself by calling us “lost souls” and in need of him,
but he knows how to juggle, and he eagerly plays a reed flute
whenever we gather to practice our music. He issues mild penance,
when we confess our sins, and views us all with a tolerance and
understanding uncharacteristic of most men of the cloth in those
times.

The people there are not like village people.
All who live there can perform some feat for an audience, and most
days are spent working on new acts or new songs. It is a fairy tale
place, with much laughter and dancing. It is an open-minded place
where much is accepted, and much is overlooked. People like Hal,
who would not find love elsewhere, are embraced and important. We
welcome all.

I look forward to going to our village, just
as I look forward to leaving in the spring and sleeping on the
ground. It is my home, and does not seem strange to me. Other
villages seem strange, where folk walk about with tired and drawn
faces most times, toiling for naught but short lives filled with
more toil. They seem only to smile when we perform for them, and
our stays with them are always short. I have grown up enough now to
have learned that their lives are not the holiday that mine is. I
have heard the stories from new members who escaped that life. I
was shocked and dismayed by the discovery, and more determined than
before to be good at what I do for the sake of all those who smile
when I do it.

In the troupe and the village there are many
whom I will meet again. Katherine has recently joined us. Hal and
Emma, of course, are among us. Seven familiar souls from the music
room at the court of Henry VIII are here. Two of Henry’s court
jesters are here in this place, including my darling soon-to-be
born son Peter who will return as my own dearest fool. I see Sir
Thomas Wyatt. Princess Mary. Servants. Ambassadors. Henry’s court
will be partly recreated from those who surround me in this place,
and among them are some who will one day be my enemies. Most,
however, are destined (or doomed) to retain their affection for me,
for it is from this life that I draw my most loyal and passionate
allies.