Read Online Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn by Nell Gavin - Free Book Online Page B

first
painstakingly tutored as proper ladies of a certain station, then
dismissed as having thoughts of no consequence. We were taught that
God had created us for no reason other than to breed and serve men,
and we accepted it as one accepts the world one is born to. My
thoughts, however, begged for release. My tongue was a quiver, and
each opinion I held was an eager arrow in search of its target.
    I grew to have a mischievous preference for
discourse with men, who were often taken aback by forceful
attitudes daintily packaged in an attractive woman. I had beautiful
eyes and smiled teasingly when I spoke to them, feigning maiden
modesty between verbal jousts. I was mercurial and had a charming
wit. I flattered, then teasingly insulted by turns, now smiling
impishly, now lowering my eyes and blushing. Most of what I said
was lost with the cocking of one of my eyebrows, and the man would
press closer, changing the subject to my eyes. I had eyes that lit
up with playfulness. There are men who cannot resist a tease.
    However, there were men—and of course,
women—who were immune to me and actually heard the words. These
words were often purposely scandalous and inflammatory, and only
sometimes a reflection of my true feelings because I loved to argue
and test my wits, and because I enjoyed tweaking the pompous, just
a little.
    It was Emma’s influence, I suppose.
    Once I was under Henry’s protection, I said
exactly what I wished to say. Prior to that, I sometimes spoke
wickedly in private or succumbed to the temptation to engage in
verbal battling, but most often I maintained a sense of place, and
sought to please everyone I met. This changed when I became his
mistress, and worsened when I was his wife. At times I felt
irritable from the pressures imposed upon me and no longer bothered
with self-restraint. At other times, I simply liked to play Devil’s
Advocate. I tossed explosive comments about religion and politics
into a discussion just to see how they would land and to see the
reactions of the people involved. I was particularly irksome in
this respect when speaking to those whom I disliked, and with
these, I often took sides or expressed opinions simply to
infuriate. It was a very, very risky and costly amusement.
    Even more costly was my penchant for gossip,
and for unkind observations. I was not alone in this. I associated
solely with idle ladies and courtiers whose main source of
diversion was a generalized verbal viciousness toward their absent
peers. Clothing, mannerisms, intelligence, rank, love partners,
appearance and weaknesses all were subject to critique and
contempt. I took an active part in the sport. Cruel comments I made
in private grew to be public declarations once my opinions earned
greater interest and respect. Words I spoke were universally heard,
even when I spoke them thoughtlessly, intended them to merely be
witty, or was provoked by a momentary personal irritation that had
more to do with mood than real displeasure.
    It does not please people to hear secondhand
that which they were not intended to hear about themselves.
    It does not please me to be reminded that
this “harmless” amusement costs a hefty toll in the borrowing, and
that the punishment for unkind words and scornful laughter against
another is every bit as severe as for striking that person with
murderous blows.
    “It is not what goes into a man’s mouth that
defileth him . . .”
    It is what comes out. I have spoken and
laughed myself into a tangled net of harsh punishment. It is not
the first time I have done so.
    Henry himself was an incorrigible gossip,
having to know all that went on with everyone, digging and prodding
me for stories that might amuse him. He also applauded my verbal
games because he loved a mental challenge. The more provoking the
observation, the more it amused him (provided the subject was not
critical of himself). I willingly accepted his encouragement, and
thus placed myself in danger more times than I