by Alison Weir
Wilhelm was luckier. From the age of seven, he had received a fine education under Vater’s scholarly councillor, Herr Heresbach, who had been recommended by Erasmus himself. Wilhelm never stopped boasting that Erasmus had dedicated a book to him when he was only five. He was now fluent in Latin and French, whereas Anna and Emily could speak only German. Mutter did not believe in educating women beyond teaching them to read and write.
“It is immodest for great ladies to be learned,” she said, often. “It is not necessary for you girls to speak any other tongue.”
Anna could not imagine her mother ever succumbing to the kind of passion she herself had experienced. Mutter, whose resemblance to Anna was marked, physically, but not (Anna felt sadly) in many other ways, was too dignified, too serene, too devout. She supervised her daughters almost constantly. Even when Anna and Emily took some recreation in the fresh air, there she was, following at a distance with her ladies.
“We are never far from her elbow!” Emily grumbled as Mutter watched them perambulating the garden, and Anna found herself chafing even more now against such vigilance.
“The Duchess is a wise lady,” Mother Lowe chided when, back indoors, the sisters complained about Mutter’s rules. “It is rare to see a mother who looks after her children so strictly.” Mother Lowe was also a lady of great dignity, for all her plumpness, her apple cheeks, and her plaits tight-coiled around each ear. Anna and Emily knew beyond doubt that she loved them, but she colluded with Mutter in constraining them to be modest, chaste, and humble. Everything they learned from mother and nurse was intended to mold them into the virtuous future wives of princes; and if they strayed from the narrow path mapped out for them, or fell to daydreaming, well then, Mutter and Mother Lowe would be sure to keep them busy and distracted with religious devotions and needlework. Heaven forbid, Anna prayed, that they ever learned how far she had fallen short of their exhortations!
“You must be like nuns,” Mutter enjoined yet again. She was prone to giving little homilies as they sat plying their needles. It was now a week since their guests had left, and Anna wondered, in some alarm, if her mother had noticed her reaction to Otho. “You must learn custody of the eyes. Never let them stray where they should not go. Be discreet in your gestures and your expressions.”
Even if she had noticed, Mutter could not know the whole of it, Anna reassured herself, suppressing the guilt that nagged at her constantly. It still surprised her that she had been so heedless of Mutter’s training. Custody of the eyes? She had kept custody of nothing! I am not worthy to be married, she told herself miserably. I am not worthy of my family’s love. If they knew what I really am, they would spurn me, as I deserve.
She said nothing of her unhappiness. She must keep her secret, bearing her joy, her sorrow, and her guilt in silence—these were her punishments.
She yearned now for more distractions. Her days were a repetitive round of prayers, needlework, weaving, cooking, and instruction on how to run a great household. At least there was always music to listen to; however, playing and singing were condemned as indecorous. Emily cleverly circumvented that rule. She had a lute hidden amid the jumble of possessions crammed under her bed, which she would play softly at night or in snatched moments, and she was forever scribbling down the words to songs she had made up. But Anna lacked her temerity and boldness; besides, she could not play any instrument, and certainly she could not sing.
It seemed that her world was forever to be limited to the boundaries of castle and chapel, though occasionally she and Emily were allowed to entertain guests at dinner with the Duke and Duchess, for in Kleve, parents brought up their daughters to be good hostesses. The guests—who were chosen for them—were invariably humanist scholars, churchmen, or councillors Vater wished to favor. They praised Anna’s charm and graciousness, as Mutter looked on approvingly. She thought she had done well in so virtuously bringing up her daughters.
For all Mutter’s strictness, Anna loved her. She was the rock on which their world was built, their lodestar when things went wrong. The sight of her composed face, the sound of her calm voice, represented all that was good and safe. And her faith was an inspiration.
Like Vater, Mutter was a friend to humanist scholars, but those who were welcomed into her circle, and at her table, were of one mind in opposing the teachings of Martin Luther. Mutter relied for spiritual consolation on her confessor, Father Gerecht, prior of the Charterhouse at Cantave, near her native Jülich. He was a monk of the very strict Carthusian Order, yet, although he had embraced the ascetic, secluded life of his cloister, he had a tender pity and love for those souls still living in the world, and visited court weekly. He had written two tracts against Luther, but there was no hatred in him. Anna loved to hear him preach, because all he spoke of was love.
“Never lose sight of God’s love for man,” he enjoined, smiling benevolently at her and Emily as they sat at table with Mutter. “You are Christian princesses, and must keep the Sacred Heart of God before you as the subject of special veneration and imitation.” Anna tried to do as he counseled, but she was finding as she grew older that the world offered too many distractions—most of which were forbidden to her.
Mutter, of course, was above worldly distractions. Her mission was to make good Catholics of her children. “I am always reminding them of the family motto: Candida nostra fides—‘Our faith is pure,’ ” she said, sipping her wine delicately. “And so it must be. My husband’s court is a school of this New Learning. It is true that we can learn much from these lately rediscovered texts of ancient Greece and Rome, yet I fear they inspire men to question the teachings of the Church.”
“A new study of the works of antiquity seemed a marvelous thing a few years back,” Father Gerecht declared, as fruit was served, “but your Grace is right, it has proved dangerous too, for it has indeed led men to question matters of faith and doctrine.” He looked distressed. “Some think the Scriptures should be available for all to read.” He did not mention the name of Erasmus; he did not need to, for they all knew that Erasmus advocated the translation of the Scriptures into the vernacular, and had translated some himself. And it was well known that Vater agreed with him.
Mutter would never criticize Vater, or openly disagree with him. And because Vater loved Erasmus, she would not criticize him either. She just sat there daintily cutting up her food, looking pensive.
Father Gerecht shook his head. “If laymen are permitted to read the Scriptures, they may boast that they understand them better than the clergy, who are trained to interpret them and invested at ordination with the spiritual power to do so.”
Wilhelm, listening with interest to the conversation, suddenly spoke. “Forgive me, Father, but I have heard it said that not all priests have the learning to interpret Scripture properly for their flock, and that some interpret it selectively for their own ends.”
“Wilhelm!” Mutter exclaimed, shocked.
The old monk smiled. “Your Grace, it is natural at the boy’s age to question, and if he has heard this, then he needs to hear that it is very rarely the case. There are venal souls in all walks of life, even in the priesthood, regrettably. But most are devout and conscientious in their calling. Does that satisfy you, my young lord?”
“Yes, Father.” Wilhelm did not look convinced.
“I should hope so,” Mutter said, severe.
Wilhelm bowed his head.
* * *
—
It would not be long now until Anna’s fifteenth birthday. Her birthday was in September, Emily’s in October, and they always had a joint celebration, usually a staid little supper with their parents and a few choice guests, who would come with felicitations and gifts. At least it was a chance to dress up.
Anna was standing in her chemise in the middle of her chamber, studying the fine garments spread out on her bed. Emily fidgeted impatiently, already dressed in a gown of
moss green with a wide black velvet belt and elaborate slashing on the tight sleeves.
“The black velvet is too somber, Anna,” she said.
“Yes, but it’s my most costly dress.” Anna bent over a rich pool of crimson velvet. “I’ll wear this one. And perhaps my new headdress, with my plaits showing.” She lifted up the beaded Stickelchen; it was beautifully embroidered, with a decorative forecloth of gold.
“Very fitting, Madame la Marquise,” Mother Lowe commented, as she bustled into the room with a pile of clean linen for the chest at the bottom of the bed. “Now that you are almost a grand old lady of fifteen, you must look the part! But that crimson clashes with your headdress. Why not wear your red silk?”
Anna hesitated. She had not worn the gown since June, and did not want to do so now. It bore an indelible reminder of what had passed between her and Otho, if anyone looked closely enough.
“No, I think I will wear the black,” she said quickly. “That gold belt with the big buckle will go well with it.”
Mother Lowe laced her into the gown. “I do declare, my lady, that you have put on weight,” she said. “I was lacing it tighter last time.”
“That’s because she likes her Kuchen too much,” Emily scoffed. Anna did not laugh. She had enjoyed no more cakes than normal, yet she was aware that her bust had developed rather rapidly in the past weeks, and her stomach was rounder. It was all part of becoming a woman, she knew, but she did not want to become fat.
She put on the belt. It was true. Her waistline had thickened. “I shall have to look to my diet,” she said.
“ ’Tis common for young ladies of your age to get plump,” Mother Lowe consoled her. “If you eat less, it will all fall off, mark my words.”
* * *
—
But it didn’t. A month later, as the wind was whistling around the towers, the cobbles were slippery with damp russet leaves, and the household were preparing to move to Düsseldorf, as they did every winter, Anna had to face the fact that her belly and breasts were definitely swollen. Could she be ill when she felt very well? And what disease would manifest itself like this?
An awful possibility occurred to her. When the married ladies of her mother’s court were enceinte, their stomachs swelled up. They would disappear to their estates for some months, then reappear at court, slim as reeds and full of gossip about their new babes. But she could not be enceinte. She was not married, for a start, and Otho had assured her that kissing, even the more intimate kind, was harmless. Mother Lowe had just said it wasn’t to put her charges off kissing any young man they fancied.
But what if Otho had been wrong? What if kissing was not as harmless as he’d said?
Chapter 2
1530–1531
November came in with mists, and the packing was nearly completed. They would leave Schwanenburg tomorrow.
That night, Anna lay wakeful, her hands on her belly. There was a definite thickening there. And she had to keep hurrying to the close stool.
She got up and knelt down by the bed. Prying up the floorboard, she retrieved Otho’s ring. It must go with her; she could not bear to leave it behind. It was all she had of him.
When she got back into bed, sleep still eluded her. Dare she risk consulting one of her father’s physicians? Doctors swore an oath not to reveal anything about their patients, but would Dr. Schultz account loyalty to his Duke more pressing, morally speaking? And how would Anna ever find the words to tell him what she had done with Otho?
But she had to know what ailed her, otherwise she might die—or, Heaven forbid, have a baby, which was almost worse. She could not keep her symptoms a secret for much longer. Already she was fastening her belts as tight as she dared, and making sure she was clad in her warmest, most voluminous chemises before Mother Lowe arrived each morning to help her dress. Soon, surely, her nurse would notice that something was wrong.
* * *
—
She could not fool Mother Lowe. The very next morning, that redoubtable lady sailed into the room before Anna had had time to get out of bed.
“Hurry up, Madame la Marquise!” she said. “We have a journey of a hundred miles ahead of us, and your lord father wants to be on the road as soon as possible, to make the most of the daylight. I’ll just pour you some hot water and put your chemise to warm in front of the stove.”
Anna slithered out of bed. Not so long ago, it would not have bothered her to strip and wash in front of her nurse. Turning her back, she lowered her night-rail to her waist, took a clean cloth and began to soap her face and arms, praying that Mother Lowe would not notice the changes in her body.
“Anna, face me!” Mother Lowe’s use of her Christian name, as if she were a child again, and the sharpness of her command, left Anna in no doubt that her secret was rumbled. Clutching the damp night-rail to her breasts, she turned. Mother Lowe’s face bore such a look of horror that it chilled her.
“Is there something you need to tell me, child?” she stuttered. “Mein Gott, I had my suspicions, but I told myself, no, not my Anna, it is not possible. She is a good girl, and innocent of such matters. Anna would not do such a thing. Tell me you have not shamed us all!”
Anna burst into tears. “I don’t know!” she wailed. “He said it would not be harmful.”
Mother Lowe’s hand flew to her mouth. “He? You had best tell me everything!” She was visibly struggling to regain mastery of herself, but her shock was plain.
Anna hung her head, bracing herself to face the consequences of her wickedness, knowing that this was one thing her nurse could not make better. All the same, as her sorry tale came tumbling out, in fits and starts and clumsy euphemisms, she felt relief at unburdening herself.
While she talked, Mother Lowe dressed her with trembling hands. This would reflect badly on her nurse, Anna realized. Mutter would say she had not properly looked to her charge, or instilled in her a sufficient sense of propriety. And that would not be fair, for Mutter herself had suggested that Anna, Emily, and Wilhelm show Otho around the castle. She had not told them to find Mother Lowe, because she had known that Mother Lowe would be napping. And, for all that Mutter herself had drummed into Anna the need to be virtuous, she had failed in her duty too, because she had not told Anna what she must guard against.
“He was definitely inside you?” Mother Lowe barked, her cheeks pink.
“Yes,” Anna whispered. “He told me it was kissing, and harmless.”
“Harmless my foot! It is what a man and woman do to get a baby. And it looks like you have got one, poor lamb.” The nurse sighed deeply. “What’s to be done, I cannot think. Your lady mother will have to be told.”
“No!” Anna cried, suddenly furious with Otho for misleading her—had he done it deliberately?—and devastated at the prospect of Mutter’s shock, her disappointment in her daughter, and the anger that must surely follow.
“I have no choice,” Mother Lowe stated firmly. “She has to know, so she can decide what to do. But you must leave it to me to tell her, in my own way, to make her understand that, while you acted foolishly and with impropriety, you were taken advantage of by a young scoundrel who should have known better!”
Anna was trembling. She wanted to protest that no, it had not been like that! But she dared not. She needed Mother Lowe on her side.
“What do you think she will say?” she whispered.
“What any mother hearing such news would say!” the nurse snapped. “And you must allow her her righteous fury. But I think I know her well enough to say that, when she has calmed down, she will be just.”
“Are you going to tell her now?” Anna faltered.
“No, child.” Mother Lowe lifted Anna’s cloak from its peg. “We have to be on our way. It’s best to wait until we get to Düsseldorf.”
“But we won’t be there for three days!” Anna cried.
“And there’ll be little privacy on the way. No, it must keep until we arrive, for I need time to think how I’m going to approach your lady mother.”
* * *
—
Never had a journey seemed so long. It was an eternity before the walls, spires, and onion domes of the ducal capital appeared in the distance, wreathed in fog.
Anna had been born here, in the palace overlooking the River Rhine, and it was from here that Sybilla had departed to marry the Elector of Saxony. But today, Anna could not take her usual pleasure in what was normally a happy homecoming. She was too full of dread. As she alighted from the chariot in the outer courtyard, all she could think of was that tonight she would know her fate. She could not imagine what it would be. Would her betrothal be broken? Could they consign her to a nunnery, to live out her days in shame? Worst of all, would her parents disown her? Or—and she began to cherish a golden beacon of hope—would Otho be made to wed her? Maybe things would turn out well after all.
Vater was dismounting, looking up in satisfaction at the two towers flanking the open end of the great courtyard, each surmounted by a cupola. Mutter was directing her maids to see to her personal luggage.
“You girls, go up to your rooms,” she told her daughters. “And, Anna, do try to look more cheerful. It will be Christmas soon.”
“Yes, my lady,” Anna said, forcing a smile, then turning away quickly so that Mutter should not see the tears brimming. By Christmas, she might have been cast out from her family.
She made for the stairs, Emily following, and they ascended to their chambers on the second floor. The sumptuousness of the private apartments, which always struck Anna anew each time she came here, made no impression on her today. She closed the door of her chamber behind her and sank down on a carved settle, choking back her sobs. Her maid came knocking, asking if she should unpack, but Anna sent her away.