Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn (23 page)

I should have guessed from this that he was
truly in love with me: he allowed me to make the choice myself. In
allowing this, he suffered unparalleled anxiety and self-doubt, for
my sake (though eventually it occurred to Henry that Italy must be
in more urgent need of Sir Thomas Wyatt and his poetry than England
was, so he sent him there for a time).

Sir Thomas understood Henry and the terms of
the skirmish, and faced him with a vain cheekiness he would not
have dared under other circumstances. The two of them bragged and
insulted like large bearded infants, with each of them claiming he
wholly had my heart. Each of them lied himself yet believed the
other, while I looked on amused and annoyed by turns. It was
comical it its way (and in private I squealed with laughter), yet
exasperating as well. For the duration of these joustings, I had
nothing but disdain for either one.

Sir Thomas was a man full of himself: full of
his charms and wit, full of his handsome face—and full of tales
about his adulterous wife. It seemed in questionable taste for him
to tell these tales publicly. He seemed intent upon amplifying his
supposed humiliation, subsequently raising questions in my mind
about the reason his wife found the need to warm another man’s
bed.

I answered those questions myself. I found
Thomas Wyatt abhorrent, and presumed his wife was as cognizant as
I. He made my flesh crawl, well and truly, and I grew cold and
terse toward him. Yet still, he wrote poems for me (most described
me as “fleeing”) and fawned after me with a slavish devotion.

I sent friends into a room before I entered,
and had them wave me in only if he were absent. It was a tedious
way to live.

“I wouldst that thou could make him wear a
bell and save me steps,” grumbled Emma who was most often sent in
ahead. “The tinkling sound would warn us which wing to avoid, much
less which room. And if we heard it coming toward us, we could leap
to our deaths from a window before he reached us. What say thee to
that?”

“I do think the plan hath merit. Our epitaph
might read, ‘Here Lie Anne Boleyn And Her Useless Servant Emma,
Most Cleverly Avoiding Sir Thomas Wyatt.’ I am indeed inclined
toward it.”

“‘Twould be better in rhyme.”

This went on for a period of time, with no
amount of discouragement seeming enough for Sir Thomas. The vulgar,
braying ass could not endure the thought that Henry might have won,
and so concocted a story that placed me in his bed. He told the
slanderous tale as often as he had charged his wife with adultery,
to his later regret. He would pay for the lie with time spent in
the Tower, and I would pay for the lie with my life.

Men who speak loudly about their “conquests”
most assuredly have little to claim. Had he truly been my lover,
Sir Thomas—or any man—would have exercised considerable discretion
knowing the stakes. The fact that he did not, the fact that he
bragged so loudly should have been reason enough to acquit him of
the charge. Sir Thomas had to speak long and earnestly, perspiring
freely, and be the fortunate beneficiary of a well-timed bribe from
his family, before he won his freedom and his life.

It is hoped he also learned his lesson about
telling tales.

Sir Thomas had a view of the scaffold from
his cell in the Tower, and saw my execution. He wept to his heart
when I died. I did not know, but that “braying ass” had been
sincere. He had truly loved me.

I had so few friends at the time of my death.
It is one of my regrets that I did not know sooner that Sir Thomas
Wyatt would be one of them. I do think that, had I an opportunity
to go back, I would be far kinder toward him . . .

•
~
۞
~•

I now see my favorite life. I am consumed
with excitement, so pleased, in fact, that I do not immediately
wonder why I should be shown these events. I enter into a
pleasurable state of nostalgia and joy, re-experiencing the life as
if I am there again, and in the process, my misery is quelled. I
have not felt so at peace for a long, long time.

I see us traveling in the vicinity of
Flanders in a caravan, making a noisy, gaudy procession through the
countryside. There are long miles before us, and trees dominate the
landscape on all sides, rustling and beautiful in autumn colors. We
are on a road of sorts, a path, meandering along in our ribbons and
costumes like bright splashes of color on a beautiful canvas. Even
the carts are brightly painted in many colors, and the horses have
ribbons, bells, and flowers tied to their harnesses.

The path winds through woodlands, and fields,
and farmland, and is familiar to me, for I have traveled this road
in this caravan since infancy. I see each portion of it at the same
time of year, and think of this as the “autumn” stretch of road. I
have never seen this countryside in any other season and can only
imagine it in springtime. Spring occurs for us only in Holland, and
summer is only spent in Belgium.

There is a saying among the adults that
“there is no marriage in Holland”. I do not know what that means
yet, but will learn in time that precautions are taken in the
spring to not conceive a child that might be born in January. We
have yet to have a January baby live its full first year. It is
merely coincidence that none of the infants lived; their odds for
surviving a winter birth are admittedly lower, but not
insurmountable. We have become superstitious. We blame the cold,
and the smoke from the fires, and think there is something about
the bitterness of the month that must be the cause.

The village turns somber, when a woman
expects her birthing to occur in January, and people grow
especially kind to her. I think of this now, because one of our
party is gamely placing the thought from her mind, convincing
herself that she miscalculated—she is certain she will have the
baby later. I watch her walking somewhat behind the rest of us,
belly distended as she enters her sixth month of pregnancy. She has
already lost three children, and never had one that survived.

Poor Genevieve. She will lose this one as
well.

I am told I was a Holland baby, and that
Henry was born in Belgium. We do not know our birthdays. Instead,
we celebrate our annual arrival at the stretch of road where we
were born, and count our age by the number of times we have passed
it. I have passed through 13 times, and Henry counts 15.

When I was small, I believed we had to travel
in order to find the seasons, and that we left our village to
escape a perpetual winter and go where it was warm. It seemed
strange to me, that we should choose to live for so long in a place
where it was winter, since life was harsh during that season. Would
it not be simpler to stay in Flanders? I always loved the colors of
the leaves in Flanders. It would be my choice to live there. But
there were more urgent concerns than what I preferred for
myself.

“Can we live in Belgium?” I asked my parents
when I was seven. My grandfather was old, and I was often concerned
for him. The old only died in the village where I believed it was
always winter, and winter routinely brought with it illness or
death. By living where it was summer, I thought we could keep my
grandfather alive. Flanders had too much of a nip in the air for
his lungs, I reasoned. I would make the sacrifice for him.

“No,” they told me, and were bewildered when
I cried and would not be consoled. It had never occurred to them to
explain the seasons to me, or the rhythm of life and death. These
things they presumed to be self-evident. It was finally Henry who
told me that seasons change of their own accord, and are not driven
by the country we pass through. He discovered this when he was 10
and was forced to remain in the village throughout an entire year
in order to tend to his pregnant mother, who was showing signs of
distress at the time the caravan was packed to leave. He found that
the seasons that occurred in the village after our departure were
the same as those we had always encountered on our route. He found
also that babies can die as easily in spring as in January.

He was given credit for having passed his
birthplace, and he earned the extra year, even though he stayed
behind.

There is a workhorse pulling a large wagon
that is packed with supplies and covered with a bulging tarpaulin
of thick, oiled cloth. Four small children sit up front with the
driver, giggling and waving hand puppets at each other while the
driver whistles and occasionally shouts encouragement to the horse.
Often he turns and speaks to the puppets, which sends the children
into shrieks of laughter and prompts the puppets to speak back in
high-pitched childishly disguised voices.

A second wagon packed with more supplies
follows behind. Genevieve occasionally rides with that driver when
she tires, but the bumpy ride makes her uncomfortable. Generally
she prefers to walk and, since she has walked her whole life day
upon day upon day, the strain is not too much. Being pregnant on
the road is only a minor inconvenience to the women in the troupe.
They are built to withstand it. Those who are not stay behind.

Henry and I follow behind the slow-moving
horses and wagons, along with a group of about 20 adults. Our
entire group is still dressed for the acts and skits we performed
earlier that afternoon in a town a few miles past. There was no
point in hauling out the sacks of clothes and dressing properly
with only a short distance to go. We each have only one change of
clothing anyway. Wearing the appropriate one is far less important
than arriving at our destination before nightfall—and there is also
another town nearby. It serves us best to be costumed when we
approach a town.

I am an acrobat, and cannot perform in my
skirts, so I am wearing a pair of wide trousers that are gathered
at the ankles, bright vermilion in color and embroidered with
yellow flowers. With this I wear a green bodice over a yellow
shirt. Henry is wearing a similar pair of trousers, blue with white
stars like the night sky, and a vest of black with tassels of red.
The others are also wearing brightly colored clothing: dancing
skirts, or flowing capes and peaked feathered caps. The children
are all dressed as little fairy nymphs, with reddened cheeks and
gauzy wings.

There is no word for us, exactly. The word
sometimes used to describe us is “jongleurs”. In time, in English,
a word “circus” will be invented. However, a roughly equivalent
term is used in our language, which is a pidgin combination of
French, Flemish and Dutch. The term can also mean “gypsy” or
“beggar” or “troubadour.” In our case, we are a little of each.

We live upon the “charity” of the townsfolk,
one could say, although we do not feel as if we are needy. Our
benefactors certainly do not view us as pitiful. They welcome us
wildly as we approach, spilling out by the dozen to greet us after
their first spotters dash back to the village shouting, “They are
coming!” We are one of their very few diversions, aside from holy
feast days, so they excitedly line up along the road on either side
and watch us as if we were a parade.

We become a parade for their benefit. Among
us are jugglers, acrobats, fools, dancers and actors. Musicians
perform, and dancers dance past the crowd. The little dogs flip
backwards head over tail, again and again. Henry carries me on his
shoulders so I can somersault to the ground, and the horses lift
their heads and walk with a lighter step.

Our stage is any cleared area in the middle
of any village, perhaps the steps of a great building, if there is
one, or the area beside a church. We are not “acceptable” in a
social sense, but are most certainly not driven out as the gypsies
are. We are akin to beggars but are better loved, for we give
pleasure in return for our pennies. We invariably draw entire
villages out to see us, including the old, and the sick, and the
lame who are often carried to the show. Work ceases for the
duration of our visits, and smiles greet us wherever we go, so my
perception of life thus far is that it is always a holiday, and
that village people always smile and laugh as we do.

The townspeople do not begrudge us our coins
or feel resentment in tossing them our way, though it seems at
times we must cost them dearly. In return for their sacrifice, we
put on skits, and play music, and sing ballads about the distant
towns we have been through, and about people we have met. For a
short time we bring them some color and music, and we make them
forget. It is for this that they happily pay us.

When we are far from a town, the travelers we
meet along the road smile, wave and shout to us. In response, there
are always some in our party who will produce juggling balls to
entertain them in passing. Sometimes Henry and I do shoulder stands
and flips. Whenever we spot a figure in the distance, we prepare as
if for a show, and often earn extra coins for our efforts, or
fresh-killed game, or in Flanders where the textile makers are,
lengths of fabric we can use for costumes. It is certainly worth
the effort to perform, although most of the group would gladly
perform just for the applause (I am certainly one of these. Henry
is perhaps the worst.).

We have a greater level of freedom and
self-determination than most. We exist on the outskirts of “normal”
society, so we are not constrained by its rules, and can decide
upon our own direction and goals. The men tend toward unfurrowed
brows and an ease of temperament, for they have not the burden of
toil, nor of servitude.

The women tend to be less submissive, and
more outspoken and headstrong than their village counterparts
because they are not chained to hearths and gardens, and because
the success of the troupe depends equally upon them and their
skills. Everyone knows and accepts this, including their husbands
who sometimes jump at their voices, unabashed and unashamed.