Read Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn for Free Online Page A

settled. Rome proved the hardest to
convince, but Henry pressured his father who manipulated the stakes
so that all involved would approve.
    Katherine, who was never asked how she felt
about any of it, suffered through the haggling like a head of beef
at auction, then went to Henry, finally, as his wife. When his
father died and Henry took the throne, Katherine became a
queen.
    Henry dearly loved Katherine, and was clearly
born to be king despite his position as second son and his early
expectation of entering the Church. My family talked of nothing but
Henry for months, even years, it seems. He was such a fine, strong
king and we were so proud to be his subjects. His well-known
feelings for Katherine fueled Mary’s and my adolescent fantasies
and yearnings for romantic love. To a young girl, he was the
perfect king and she, the perfect queen.
    Katherine, the fairy tale princess from
Spain, intrigued me. For a time, I developed a preference for
anyone or anything of Spanish origin, fixing a mantilla upon my
head and posing before the looking glass, insinuating myself into
friendships with Spanish visitors, practicing Spanish dances on my
harp or lute. I referred to Katherine by her Spanish name,
“Catalina”, and reverently rolled the word over my tongue,
sometimes in a whisper to myself, like a love poem or a song.
    I developed so strong a reversal of those
feelings, as years passed, that my distaste will transcend that
lifetime. I have grown to so thoroughly dislike the country and the
people and the language and the music and the history that the word
“Spanish” equates itself in my mind with “hellish”.
    Had Katherine been Danish, I would have
detested the Danes.
    Then, however, I was proud that my dark hair
and complexion were like that of my queen. Our great king had
chosen a dark bride rather than a golden one, and he adored her.
For the first time in my life, I was not ashamed to be dark and for
that, I fervently loved her.
     
    Mary was frivolous with her intellect, as was
I, and liked to daydream, sketching landscapes from the window.
Developed early and eagerly interested in young men, she often sat
in a reverie of love toward one gentleman or another, and sometimes
spoke of being attracted to the King. Most young ladies were, when
Henry first entered his manhood. Mary talked of tossing him roses
and of having him bow to her from the jousting field like a
romantic figure from the days of the Crusades. Then she flitted on
to the next young man who caught her fancy and dreamed of him
instead. She planned for a handsome knight to fetch her away
someday, and worship and adore her. In the meantime, anyone of good
name would do, and in the absence of a young man of good name, a
masque or a festival would suffice.
    Through the years, I would be her confidant
and her friend, applauding her for attentions paid by an eligible
suitor (or later, amorous kings) and wiping her tears when he would
disappoint her. I hid as much as I could all the details from
Mother, and Mary did the same for me. It was always best that
Mother know less rather than more, and she knew only as much as we
were jointly incapable of withholding from her.
    At this I see Mother’s face, and even here I
stiffen from resentment and anxiety. The mother I reflect upon was
not soft. I always picture her in the dim light of the sitting room
in the evening, always in a restrained and muted glow, not in
sunlight or surrounded by garden flowers as some fondly recall
their mothers. I see her, handsome and slender, appearing taller
than she was, standing very straight and proper and inflexible,
issuing quiet orders that were to be obeyed promptly and without
question. I think of her and still feel I have to strive to be
better and am close to failure, for her requirements were high and
unforgiving.
    Mother was a “presence” at Hever, which had
seemingly been built, not to be occupied, so much as to provide a
backdrop for her. Within it we were all