Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn (34 page)

Then, Henry ordered Elizabeth moved to
another location, away from us for a good portion of the time,
removing any possibility that I might come to know her and grow
fond.

Had Elizabeth been a boy, I would not have
had the dreams and the fears. I would still have a husband who
nightly raced to my side—and I would have welcomed him. Things
would have been very different, and I blamed the baby for that. I
did not hate Elizabeth; I did not feel enough toward her to hate. I
merely did not like her much, for she was the cause of all my
grief.

I thought of this as I watched her look up at
me from her cushions, cooing and kicking and punching the air with
her fists, a princess, but motherless except for a servant named
Sarah. Then I turned and left the room and, except for high level
plans one must make for a child of royalty, I gave her not another
thought until next time.

It was, of course, my loss more than hers.
She had others to take my place, whereas I never had another child
that lived.

When she was near at hand, Henry found more
time than I for visits to the nursery. He fussed, and spoke to her,
and held her. He found in her more beauty than I could see, and
more worth. Knowing what questions to ask, he grilled the nurses
about bowel movements, and her progress at smiling or rolling over.
He asked about the foods Sarah ate that might have turned her milk
and caused Elizabeth a colic. He took strict note of Sarah’s diet,
and had her eat the best the cooks could prepare, eliminating
onions and other items he had heard could give a baby gas. He
reported all this to me, and I listened dazed and uninvolved in it.
There was much in the care of an infant that I did not know, and it
seemed to me to be overwhelming, all taking place in a land foreign
to me.

۞

“And yet, I am amply skilled at motherhood. I
truly am.”

“You never gave yourself a chance.”

I sink into numb anguish and regret, seeing
the baby and now finding her to be sweet and beautiful. How could I
not have responded to the sweetness of the child? I remember
another little girl whom I loved, but only had for a very short
time. I wish to pass along to Elizabeth the feelings I once felt
toward other children, but it is too late. I am gone, having made
it her fate to be motherless for the entire span of her life.

I find one small grain of comfort. As
Elizabeth grew, there were kind souls who took pains to tell her
how proud I had been of her, and how dear she was to me. They
described the joy I felt whenever she came to me, and how I could
not bear for her to leave my sight.

For once, I do not cringe when I see my story
distorted. God bless them for giving her that. God bless them.

Can I love her from here? I force love out of
me in her direction. I push it on her. I love her. I
love
her. Can she feel it? Does she know? Would she condescend to love
me back? In shame I think “no” and let the love flicker for an
instant, then stubbornness takes hold, and I love more furiously. I
need nothing in return from her. I will love her no matter what she
thinks of me, or how fiercely she condemns me.

Still living, grown old but still alive,
Elizabeth feels it, and begins to cry in deep hard sobs, not
knowing what has caused her to do so. She has only the faintest
recollections of a mother, and has been taught the woman was a
villain. Even still, she has spent her life loyal to my memory, a
gift I did not earn and for which she received nothing in return.
She thinks of that mother now and cries, and I force the love on
her still. Something is broken inside of her and somehow my efforts
help her just a little.

I have earned a punishment in my neglect of
her. I receive affirmation rather than words from the Voice.

A child is not a prize, nor had for some
purpose other than to love it. It does not matter what form the
child takes in its gender, its appearance, or the state of its
health. It is a part of the life force that is God, and is a
blessing. I do not place conditions on the outcome by saying it
must look a certain way, or possess a certain skill, or be of one
sex versus another. It is placed with me so that I might nurture,
guide and teach it—and learn from it. It is not given to me so that
I might find it lacking, or blame it for all that goes wrong, or
abuse it, or abandon or neglect it.

Each child entrusts itself to its caretakers
in a form wholly helpless, and depends upon those caretakers for
unconditional love, the right of every human child. If I betray
that trust, my reward may be an all-encompassing hunger for a child
and the inability to have one, or receiving a child only to lose
it.

I think I already know what my punishment is.
A scream rises within me. I will lose another child.

The deaths of three little girls had been
preparation for Elizabeth. I had every reason to value a female
child because I had painfully lost three of them. I was given the
chance, and when tested, I failed for selfish reasons.

“You did not abuse her, nor did you abandon
her. You took great pains to assure her future as your own looked
more bleak. You were not a fiend toward her. You merely forgot she
had worth in her own right, and focused all the blame for your fate
upon her.”

“And so?”

“And so you will know how it is to be
devalued for having been born what you are.”

“Will I lose another child?” It is a terror
that I will always carry with me.

“Perhaps not. It is up to you.”

“I will not lose another child. I will do
anything to prevent it. I will sacrifice anything.”

“Remember that you said that.”

I am silenced with fear. I hear a warning in
the words.

The skeletal structure of my next life plan
has already been set forth. The design in this plan is that I learn
self-effacing service. Lessons in duty and discipline will
continue. There will also be corrective punishment: I will be on
the receiving end of tongues as sharp as my own, and I will not
have the freedom to protest or respond. Lastly, because I failed a
test with Elizabeth, I will now face that same test again under
even more difficult circumstances.

In the Orient is a land called Cathay, or
“China”. There is an ancient tradition called Astrology, which is
commonly thought among the Chinese to portend a person’s future and
determine his worth. Within this discipline it is said that a
female child who is born during the Year of the Horse is not
marriageable, or rather, cannot find a husband except among those
who cannot find acceptable wives. Worse is the fate of the female
infant with the misfortune to be born in the Year of the Fire
Horse, which occurs every 60 years. Large numbers of these female
infants are put to death, for they will not find anyone to marry
them at any price, and a woman’s value is based solely upon her
ability to marry well. If they live, they are destined for hard
servitude and a lifetime of societal contempt.

We are all subject to the rules and beliefs
of any society we select and, in Cathay, the horoscope is one of
the most important defining factors of a person’s life. It will
stay with him throughout life like a birthmark, and will influence
the way he is treated, and so influence the entire span of his
life.

In this realm, horoscopes are treated as
valid in the sense that they are self-fulfilling. If, within a
society, a child is deemed unmarriageable because of her time of
birth, she is unmarriageable because it has been declared that she
would be, and will suffer for it. All who believe in Astrology and
act upon their beliefs make its influence real. Because of this,
Astrology is considered here to be as important as the physical
situation in the life plan of a person destined for birth within
such a society. In preparation for arrival in Cathay, the horoscope
is carefully plotted in advance down to the moment of birth so that
it is in concurrence with the life plan. That which is the soul’s
destiny, that which is not determined or influenced by society’s
interpretation of the birth time, will take place—or not take
place—regardless of the position of the stars and what they
predict.

The plan is that I will be born in Cathay in
the Year of the Horse. My position in the family will be as
unwelcome daughter to a couple with several other daughters, but no
sons. My physical surroundings will be reasonably comfortable by
comparison to many, and my appearance will be satisfactory.
However, I will not be male. I will be held accountable for this,
and for the trouble I bring my family as they attempt to marry me
off. A husband will finally be found for me and in my 24th year,
the Year of the Fire Horse, I will give birth to a female.

Beyond that, I may write the story as I
choose.

“Remember that there are times when that
which appears to be a virtue can be a burden to you. You have
learned duty, and will learn it to an even greater degree. However,
you must be wary of it, and decide to whom you must be most
dutiful. Duty, more than any other thing, will have the potential
to betray you.

“Remember, also, that there are times when
that which might seem to be a grave fault is actually your greatest
asset. You are willful, defiant and stubborn. Where you are going,
females who possess those qualities are more than unacceptable—they
are contemptible, and seen as an abomination. You will learn to
subdue your will to such a degree that it might be thought you have
no strength at all. However, it is your will that you must call
upon, and your ability to defy others, and your refusal to give in,
for it is only these three things that might save you from wrong
choices. You are equipped for what you are going to face. You can
succeed.”

I do not want to think of all that now. I do
not wish to dwell on the future yet.

•
~
۞
~•

There were several palaces where Henry, or
Elizabeth, or I—or we—stayed from time to time. Our main residence
was Hampton Court, built at great expense by Cardinal Wolsey until
Henry saw it and fancied it for himself. At Henry’s subsequent
hinting, Wolsey was forced to offer it to the king as a gift
(having little choice but to relinquish it). The king accepted it
guiltlessly and graciously, added some improvements, and moved his
court from the sprawling Whitehall Palace to Wolsey’s former home.
Meanwhile, Cardinal Wolsey went elsewhere, a poorer man.

The palace boasted hot and cold running
water, an elaborate sewer system that removed substantial waste
deposited by substantial numbers of palace occupants, and a wing of
kitchens where hundreds upon hundreds of kitchen servants prepared
food for several hundred people at a sitting. It was the finest,
most inventive and most modern dwelling any king had ever
inhabited.

Within the palace were rooms that had
ceilings painted to resemble the night sky, dark blue with a myriad
white stars. Large gilded cherubs peaked out from every arched beam
and every corner of the chapel, fairly cluttering the ceiling and
walls. The rooms were massively high, and elaborate stained glass
panels that displayed my initials and Henry’s (and sometimes
Cardinal Wolsey’s, poor man) went from ceiling to floor. There were
tapestries larger and more richly detailed than any to be found
elsewhere hanging upon each wall, and paintings, and the finer
examples of my own handwork.

The feasts laid at table boasted peacocks
(skinned, then prepared, then replaced within their feathered skins
and served), truffles, game, and every gently-seasoned rare
delicacy the cooks could prepare for the royal family and the upper
nobility. Any dish the royalty or higher nobility waved away
untouched was offered to the lower nobility, who would otherwise
eat simpler fare such as meat pies. Anything sampled and rejected
by either group was distributed to the poor, who daily lined up
outside the castle gates for scraps.

I sometimes tasted food and rejected it
solely because it pleased me to share with the poor outside,
particularly on those days when I had passed them and seen their
faces. I even viewed it as a form of religious fasting, to pass
over and share a dish I loved in order to eat a dish less pleasing.
On the day of my coronation I, rather giddy with excitement and
anxious to give thanks, took one bite each from 23 separate dishes,
then waved each one of them off to the crowd at the gate while
everyone watched, disapproving and aghast. At court, it was
considered improper, selfish, spiteful and boorish to share with
the poor, rather than with the privileged and well-fed.

Hampton Court’s bricks–hundreds of thousands
of them–were painted in checkerboard red and black. The walls that
enclosed the lavish gardens were painted white with red crosses
(this was Henry’s solution to the irritating and persistent problem
of courtiers who insisted upon urinating there - they would not
dare relieve themselves upon a wall that displayed the Holy Cross).
Gargoyles and statues shone in bright yellow or blue.

Overlooking the courtyard on a wall near our
apartments, Henry had installed a huge monstrosity of an
astronomical clock that could, it was said, be read from a mile
away, were it not enclosed by walls. It was, along with everything
else at Hampton Court, intimidating, stunning, excessive,
magnificent and fantastic.

Colorful flags and banners flapped in the
wind above the courtyard, where scores and hundreds of people
merged and converged as they moved to perform their daily business.
The courtyard sometimes held a population larger than many a
village, and was filled with liveried footman, pages and servants,
entertainers, color bearers, soldiers, foreign dignitaries,
carriages, horses . . . It made one dizzy to look out a window at
them all and watch. Of course, when I was in the midst of them, the
scene was entirely changed. They all ceased their activity and
stood at attention, or with knees bent and heads lowered–every
one–and let me pass.