by Alison Weir
* * *
—
Dr. Harst found her walking in the cloister. She was pleased to see him, eager to tell him about Wilhelm’s letter.
“I have heard from the Duke too,” he told her. “As you may imagine, he did not entirely open his mind to the King. He was much dismayed to hear of the annulment of your marriage. He thinks his Majesty’s conduct deplorable, and fears you might be persecuted in England, or that some dreadful fate might befall you. Naturally, I have sent a fast messenger to assure him his fears are completely unfounded.”
“I have reassured him too,” Anna said, realizing how hard this business must have hit her family, and the anguish it would be causing them. How well Wilhelm had dissembled in his letter to the King—she had been so relieved to read it that she had never guessed how concerned for her he had been. She had completely misjudged him.
They passed into Anna’s privy garden, where fat bees buzzed drowsily among the blooms. “You may have heard,” Harst said, “that the King has instructed all vicars and curates to announce to their parishes that you are no longer to be prayed for in church.”
“That’s rather sad. It was a comfort to have so many people praying for me.”
“Then it will comfort you to know, Madam, that when I went to the church near my lodgings last Sunday, people were expressing regret at your divorce, saying it was a great pity that so good a lady should so soon have lost her greatest joy.”
Anna smiled wryly. “I would not have put it quite like that.”
“No, but they were saying they loved and esteemed you as the sweetest, most gracious, and kindest queen they ever had, and that they greatly wished you could continue as their queen. It seems that word of your estimable conduct in a difficult situation has seeped out.”
“I do not deserve such esteem. I am overwhelmed by it.”
Harst sighed. “You do, believe me. But, Madam, there is more talk, especially at court, and I’d rather you heard it from me than anyone else.”
“What is it?” Anna asked, immediately concerned. “I thought you were not going to heed mere gossip.”
“I fear there is some truth in it, Madam. It is said that the King is going to marry Katheryn Howard. Some even report that their marriage has already taken place in secret.”
It was a blow, but not a hard one. “It is no more than I expected. If the King remarries, I shall take it in good part. He needs heirs—and someone he can love.”
“You are more generous than he deserves,” Harst said severely. “He risked bringing great shame on you.”
Anna looked at him sharply. Was he still drawing his own conclusions? “I will not hear any criticism of him, dear friend,” she said, sitting down on a stone bench and indicating that he should join her.
“Your patience in affliction is superhuman!” he observed. “Some are even saying that Mistress Howard is already enceinte, though I cannot confirm the truth of it.”
Anna tried not to mind. But, if Henry had sired a child on Katheryn, it must have been revulsion for her own person that had prevented him from paying her the same compliment. She sighed. There was no accounting for individual fancy.
“Tell me,” Dr. Harst asked, “how long are you going to be immured here at Richmond?”
“I am not a prisoner here,” she corrected him. “I can leave if I wish, but I have judged it wise not to appear in public until things have quietened down. Maybe it would be politic to retire to the country soon. After all, I have all these houses to live in!”
“And you are a lady of means.”
“Indeed! I mean to enjoy my freedom. Now that the friendship between my brother and the King is assured, I will be happy to distance myself from politics. I will have the privileges of royalty, but not the cares. I might no longer be queen, but I mean to maintain a privy chamber, and there seems to be no objection to my styling myself in the royal plural.”
“Madam, the King has won the main argument; he will not concern himself with what, compared to that, are trifles.”
“I am in good cheer. You may report that.” She smiled.
* * *
—
Another letter arrived from Wilhelm, written in his own hand. Faithful to her promise, Anna sent it to the King, who speedily returned it. She replied to her brother: “I am very content, and I wish you and my mother to know this.”
That day, her steward, Jasper Horsey, came to her closet to inform her that an officer of the Royal Wardrobe had come riding over from Hampton Court, by the King’s command, to inform him that beds and furnishings from the Crown’s store were being transported to her new residences. “The officer said he and his clerk had been kept busy for four days sorting out what was needed from the Earl of Essex’s house at the Austin Friars in London, and the royal wardrobes at the Tower of London and Westminster Abbey.”
Anna was grateful to Henry for his ongoing generosity, yet dismayed that some of her new furnishings were the confiscated possessions of Cromwell, who still lay in the Tower under sentence of death. She could so easily have shared his fate, had she chosen to defy the King.
She wondered why Cromwell had not been executed ere now. Could it be that Henry had decided to commute his sentence to imprisonment? She very much hoped so. She loathed the thought of that clever, brilliant man suffering a traitor’s death. Margaret Douglas had not long ago spelled out for Anna the dreadful details, and they did not bear thinking about. Besides, Anna still felt she had some affiliation with Cromwell because of her marriage. She did not want his furniture; it seemed wrong that she should profit by his misfortune. The things would be tainted, forever associated with his downfall. She vowed to store them in a lumber room.
* * *
—
On Dr. Harst’s next visit, he reported that, after dissolving Parliament for the summer recess, the King had left Whitehall and moved with a small household to the palace of Oatlands.
“It is less than ten miles from here,” he told Anna, as they strolled along the graveled path that ran parallel with the River Thames.
“Do you think he might visit me?” she asked.
“I do not know, Madam.” He paused. “I bring grave news too. Cromwell was beheaded this morning on Tower Hill. I was there to see it.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “No! I had thought the King would spare him. Oh, he will regret this, I am sure, for few princes ever had a more able or dedicated minister.”
“Or one who made him so rich!”
“Did he suffer greatly?”
Harst hesitated momentarily. “The King had graciously commuted the sentence to decapitation, but the executioner was a ragged and butcherly youth, who didn’t know what he was doing. Yes, I’m afraid he did suffer a little.”
Anna shuddered. “I fear it was my marriage that did for Cromwell. I feel somehow responsible for his death. Dr. Harst, I did not know how to make my husband love me! I lack the arts other women practice. I tried, I did try, to be dutiful and loving, and I think there was a time when the King began really to like me—but then it was too late. If Katheryn Howard had not caught his eye, Cromwell might still be here among us.”
“Who can tell where attraction lies, Madam. This King wants a wife he can love. That came across strongly during the marriage negotiations, when he was most concerned to see your portrait. As you yourself pointed out, it overrode all other considerations. Thus it was a dangerous matter for Cromwell to arrange this match. He believed all Germany would ever afterward assist this country for your sake. Instead, the marriage ruined him.”
“It did, poor wretch. It so nearly ruined me too.” They paused, watching the boats sail by on the Thames. Anna lifted her eyes to the fields that stretched beyond into the distance.
“The Catholics at court are rejoicing, of course,” Harst said. “Cromwell’s fall represents a victory for them. This
will drive the reformers underground. Mark me, you will see the King uphold religious orthodoxy more vigorously than ever. Mr. Barnes, who helped negotiate your marriage and is a notorious Protestant, is to be burned as a heretic at Smithfield two days hence. It is a grim pointer as to the way the wind is blowing.”
Anna had never spoken with Mr. Barnes, but she remembered seeing him at Düsseldorf, and being struck by the intensity of his gaze. She could well believe he had a fanatical zeal for the Lutheran faith. He must have, to maintain it in the face of such a terrible death.
Harst was speaking. “Never again, I think, will the King rely on one minister, as he did on Cromwell, and on Cardinal Wolsey before him. There is no statesman here of equal merit.”
“But Norfolk’s influence is prevailing; and if the King marries his niece, it will grow stronger.”
“Norfolk is no Cromwell. He’s a soldier, essentially, and ambitious for his family. The King knows that. No, we will not see any man rise so high as those that are gone, only factions fighting for precedence, mark my words.”
Anna walked ahead, reflecting that it was probably true. Well, she was glad not to have any part in it.
Dr. Harst caught up with her. “Changing the subject, Madam, I learned today that Hans Holbein has fallen out of favor. He was with me at Tower Hill this morning, for Cromwell was his patron, and his friend too, I suspect. He was complaining that his royal commissions had dried up.”
“That is because he painted the portrait of me that led the King to believe I was beautiful,” Anna said sadly. “Dr. Wotton thought it a good likeness.”
“I haven’t seen it, Madam, but I do not need to. I speak as a friend when I say you are a lovely lady; there can be no denying it. Beauty comes from within; it illuminates the features. Others, I know, have seen this in you. The King may come belatedly to see it too; I think he has glimpsed it already, but has been blinded by infatuation for another.”
Never had the scholarly Dr. Harst spoken so familiarly to her. “You are very kind, but you are embarrassing me,” she told him, feeling herself blush.
“It is my job to speak the truth!” he retorted amiably. She could have hugged him or squeezed his hand, but she was still the Princess of Kleve and he was still her brother’s ambassador. They walked on in companionable silence.
Chapter 18
1540
It was so hot. Anna was sewing with her new gentlewomen, and they had the windows wide open, yet still they sweltered. They had thrown off their gowns and were sitting in their kirtles, with the sleeves of their undersmocks rolled up.
“Look at us! We are so indecorous!” Anna laughed, when Mother Lowe came in and stared at them.
“What would your lady mother say?” the nurse asked, shaking her head and chuckling. She laid down two bolts of silk that had just been delivered by the mercer’s apprentice.
Anna was enjoying the days spent with her new attendants. Frances Lilgrave was brilliant with a needle, and had helped Anna improve her stitches and design some elegant embroidery patterns. She loved a gossip too, and it was hard not to relish her scandalous tales of who was having secret trysts, and who was no better than she should be.
Katherine Bassett was a paler version of her sister, Anne, and not, thank Heaven, as forward. She had become friends with Jane Ratsey, whom Anna found to be empty-headed, yet willing and kind. Mrs. Wingfield and Mrs. Simpson were pleasant company, and, of course, the lively Katharina and the gentle Gertrude were as amiable and loyal as ever. Fortunately, Katharina now had enough English to act as a reasonable interpreter, while Anna’s knowledge of the language had improved vastly.
Today, the talk was all of her proposed visits to her new houses.
“I think I will go to Hever first, and then Bletchingley,” she said. “You will all come with me, and we shall make a merry party.”
“I marvel that your Highness wants to stay at Hever Castle,” Frances Lilgrave said, her beady black eyes alight with the hint of another juicy tale to tell.
“Why should I not?” Anna asked.
“It was her family seat. Anne Boleyn’s, I mean. It came to the King when her father died last year.”
Of course. It had been Lady Rochford, Anne’s sister-in-law, who had spoken of Hever. She’d lived there, and hated it. Small wonder, for she made no secret of the fact that she had loathed the Boleyns.
“Do you think it’s haunted?” Jane Ratsey asked fearfully.
“I should hope not!” Anna said, hoping to discourage such talk. Even so, she found herself not looking forward to visiting Hever as much as she had been.
“If she had cause to walk, it would surely be at the Tower, wouldn’t it?” Katherine Bassett put in.
“We shouldn’t speak of her,” Mrs. Simpson reproved. “It’s frowned on at court, I hear.”
“I think we should talk about something more pleasant,” Anna intervened. “Like how many new gowns we need to order for the trip!” There was a chorus of assent.
Just then, Hanna von Wylich came in, accompanied by Jasper Horsey’s wife, Joanna. They had been keeping watch in the antechamber and gatehouse lest anyone approach while their mistress and her gentlewomen were in a state of déshabillé.
Joanna was amiable enough, when she wasn’t ruling her husband—and thus Anna’s lower servants—with a staff of iron (although she did it so capably that Anna had no wish to complain); but Anna had never forged any kind of friendship with Hanna von Wylich, whom she thought brittle, sly, and secretive. Something was going on between her and Otho; it was clear to all that no longer were they a happy couple. He wore his misery like a cloak. His wife, by contrast, didn’t seem to care.
But today, she was animated. “A barge is mooring below, my lady. It bears men in the King’s livery!”
“Make haste, Madam,” Joanna urged. “They will surely be here to see you.”
At mention of the King, Anna had leaped to her feet, and Mother Lowe began pulling on her gown, fumbling with the laces.
“Someone bring a comb!” she cried. “You girls, make yourselves decent.”
By a miracle, they were all looking presentable when two men in red livery bearing the Tudor rose emblem were shown in by John Bekinsale, Anna’s punctilious gentleman usher.
They bowed to her. “My Lady Anna, the King asks if he may visit you tomorrow, and dine with you,” the taller man said.
She was astonished. Henry had said he would come to see her, but she had thought it just fair words. “His Majesty will be most welcome,” she said. “At what time will he arrive?”
“At eleven o’clock, my lady. He is coming by barge from Hampton Court.”
“And will there be any other guests?”
“No, my lady. His Majesty will bring just his master of horse, three lords in attendance, two grooms, and a small escort. If your kitchens could provide them with an adequate repast, that would be much appreciated.”
“Of course,” she said, thinking she could have a table set up for them in the watching chamber. “Pray tell the King I am sensible of the honor he is paying me, and will be glad to see him.”
When they had gone, she wondered if her last words might be misconstrued as meaning she had been pining for Henry. Well, he would soon—she hoped—see that she wasn’t.
“We have much to make ready,” she said, turning to her women. A buzz of excitement broke out, especially among the younger ones, who must have been longing for some diversion from their humdrum days. She summoned Jasper Horsey and informed him of the King’s visit, then sped down to the kitchens and spent an hour with Meister Schoulenburg and Henry, her butler, discussing what was to be served at dinner. She inspected the many kitchen offices that would be spurred to action, checking that all was clean, after which she went through the napery chests, selecting the finest linen for the table. Richmond had become a hive of activity, with the
assembling of provisions, the polishing of glasses and gold plate, and the rattle of pans.
Escaping the hubbub she had set in train, Anna raced upstairs to search in her wardrobe. She must look her best for the King; there must be no hint that without him she had let herself go. He would see a happy, confident woman, contented with her lot. She would never again wear in his presence anything like that low-necked gown of red and black she had naively donned to arouse his ardor. That could be cut up and made into cushion covers. There were other gowns too that held uncomfortable memories; it was a shame, after all Mutter’s care, and so much money, had gone into providing them. But there was one Henry had never seen, one of the English ones Anna had had made, in a dark green damask. It fitted tight to the waist, with a pointed stomacher, standing collar, and long hanging sleeves, and it suited her well, she thought. There was a matching French hood edged with pearls, and she could wear the pendant Henry had given her.
The next morning, thus attired, she waited at the waterside, her household behind her, for the royal barge to make its serene way to the jetty. And there he was, the King, broader than ever in a sumptuous suit of cloth of silver, lumbering heavily along the gangway toward her. She sank to her knees, bowing her head, then felt the shadow of Henry’s bulk loom over her, and his hands grasping hers and raising her up.
“Anna, my dearest sister!” he greeted her, kissing her on the mouth in the English manner.
“Your Majesty—Brother—this is a great honor,” she told him, searching his face for any sign of embarrassment. There was none. She had expected their meeting to be awkward, underpinned with wariness, even guilt, but Henry was in an ebullient mood, and looking a lot happier than when she had last seen him. She should have known he would feel no unease with her; he had such a deep-rooted belief in his own righteousness that it would never occur to him that he might have wrecked her life.
“You are looking very well, Anna,” he said, taking her hand and leading her through the gatehouse.