by Alison Weir
Her recovery was slow. Easter came and went, and April blossom bloomed like snow on the trees, but still Anna was suffering rigors, although not so badly as to make her stay in bed. The Duchess of Suffolk visited, bringing spring flowers and sweetmeats. At her suggestion, Anna sent a letter to Dr. Butts, the royal physician, inquiring after the King’s health, and asking if his Grace would send some of the cramp rings he himself had blessed on Good Friday, which were believed to be efficacious against cramps, convulsions, and fits. The rings duly arrived, but with no word or letter from Henry, which was disappointing—and disconcerting.
Anna summoned Wymond Carew and instructed him to write on her behalf to someone in the Privy Chamber.
“I do not know who best to approach,” she told him, “but I expect you will. Please say I have been very sad since I last wrote to his Grace, for he did not respond to my gentle inquiry after his health. It troubles me that he ignored it, for I fear he is unwell.”
“The King is in a low mood these days,” Carew told her. “Do not take his silence amiss. I will write, though. Sir John Gates is the man; he gets things done. And I will ask my brother-in-law, Sir Anthony Denny, to declare your concern for the King to him.”
“That is most kind,” Anna said, realizing that, of late, she had seen more kindness in Carew than of old. Maybe it was because she was unwell.
“Charity binds me to comfort the comfortless,” he said softly, “and especially you, my lady.”
He left her astonished at this glimpse of the humanity she had not known him to possess.
* * *
—
A few days later, Anna began to feel better, and decided she fancied a change of scene. Soon, she and her household were on their way to Hever Castle, where she could convalesce in the tranquil Kent countryside. Slowly, her strength was returning, and she took care to walk daily in the gardens and rest in the afternoons.
One morning at the end of April, John Bekinsale came hurrying into the parlor to say they had visitors. “A party of horsemen is coming down the hill, Madam.”
Anna hoped this was not another visitation from the lords of the Council. Just then, Franz von Waldeck dashed in, without ceremony.
“Madam, it’s the King! The King is here!”
“Oh, Heaven save us!” Mother Lowe cried. But Anna was overjoyed. He had come; he had not spurned her kindness. She hastened out to the courtyard, and there he was, dressed in his hunting clothes, dismounting awkwardly from his horse.
“My dear sister Anna!” he cried, as she sank into her curtsey. He raised her up and kissed her on the lips, and she was saddened by how changed he was. The recent tragedy had made an old man of him.
“It is a pleasure to see your Majesty,” she told him. “I trust you are in good health.”
“I get by,” he said, pulling off his gloves. “I am pleased to see that you have recovered from your illness.”
“I am much improved, Sir,” she assured him, standing back to allow him to precede her into the castle. He was looking around the courtyard, a place that would once have been very familiar. This house must hold many memories for him.
“I’ve just ridden down from my lord of Suffolk’s house at Beckenham,” he told her, as they entered the hall. “He entertained me most royally there.”
“Alas, Sir, I fear I am unprepared, and cannot offer any royal entertainment. But, if you will give me leave to speak to my steward, I will ensure that you are served with a hearty meal.”
“Anna, I did not come to put you to any trouble. Some wine or good English ale would be sufficient.”
Anna sent for some, and they sat together in the parlor.
“Dr. Butts has prescribed a plaster for you,” Henry said, drawing a small package from his doublet. “He says it will comfort and ease the rigors, if you still have them. It’s also good for aches and rheums that come from being in the cold or in drafts. It’s made up of linseed, chamomile, and hyssop.” Henry was fascinated by medicines, and even made up his own remedies. Anna had been impressed to find how knowledgeable he was. “Linseed is good for inflammation,” he told her.
As she took the packet from him, he squeezed her hand. Their eyes met for a moment before he let it go. “I have been worried about you, Anna,” he said. “I did get your message, but I have been in no fit state of mind to see people of late. This late mishap with the Queen has caused me great grief. You know how much I loved her.” There were tears in his eyes. “It was enough for me to hear that you were not in any danger. I could not have faced your sympathy.”
This time, it was Anna who reached over and took his hand. “I do not know how she could have betrayed you so, knowing how greatly you loved her.”
“I have been asking myself that.” Henry sighed. “The truth is, I am old and overweight, and I have a bad leg. I could not offer her what a young man could. Even so, she had made her vow to me, and owed me love and duty, not only as her husband, but as her King. Treason can never be right, or condoned. She had her just punishment. But, Anna, I miss her…”
“Of course you do,” she said. “It is but natural. And it will ease with time.”
“The hardest thing is existing until it does,” he observed.
“I know,” she sympathized.
Henry cleared his throat and looked about him. “Anna, I am noticing how pleasant you have made this house. The bright embroideries, the bowls of dried flowers, that painted fire screen—you’ve made your mark on it.”
“I embroidered the cushions myself,” she told him proudly. “Would your Grace like to be shown around?”
“I would like nothing better,” Henry replied, and heaved himself to his feet.
Too late, she remembered that Anne Boleyn’s portrait was still hanging in the long gallery. As they ascended the stairs, she tried desperately to think of something to say to justify its being there.
So far, Henry had not made any reference to having been at Hever in the past, or to the Boleyns, those silent presences no one was mentioning. At the end of the gallery, he paused to get his breath, bathing in the sun streaming in through the armorial glass window. Anna waited as he peered at a portrait of Wilhelm she had hung there—a drawing by the French artist Clouet, in which her brother looked far more handsome and cheerful than he did in the flesh.
“I am glad the amity between the Duke and me has not diminished,” Henry said. “He has more sense than the Elector and his friends!”
They passed on, looking at portraits of Mutter, kneeling gravely before the Virgin, and Erasmus, wittily smiling in a little picture once owned by Vater.
“My father embraced Erasmus’s teachings wholly,” Anna said.
“Your father and I had much in common. I admired Erasmus too. Alas, all those high ideals we shared got swept up in the religious quarrels. People now think that to be a humanist is to be a heretic.”
They were nearing the other end of the gallery, where the portrait hung. Anna was aware of Henry halting beside her. “I thought they would have removed that,” he said tersely.
He had given her the perfect opening. “So did I, Sir. I did not know what to do with it, for it is Crown property, so I left it here. I was going to ask what your pleasure is in the matter.”
“Take it down and put it away somewhere,” he said. “You don’t want that witch staring at you.”
“I will give the order,” Anna said. “Shall we go downstairs? I can smell something good cooking. I think your Grace will like it.”
His Grace did. He stayed to dinner after all, his good humor restored, and it was not until late in the afternoon that he departed, bound for nearby Penshurst Place, where he was to stay the night.
“Penshurst is a fine house, Anna,” he said, as he kissed her goodbye. “You must visit me there and I will show it to you. And now, farewell!” With a final squeeze of her hand,
he mounted his horse, not without difficulty, and wheeled it around, his hand raised in a salute.
Chapter 23
1543
Anna was in her closet at Richmond, writing letters, when Wymond Carew knocked and popped his head around the door. “Forgive me, Madam, but there is a royal messenger below, come to say that the King will be at Hampton Court shortly, and would like to have your company there.”
Anna rose. She had not seen Henry for some months, so she was delighted to receive this invitation. She dismissed her ladies’ speculation that there might be a subtext to it.
“More than a year has passed since the death of the Queen,” Gertrude reminded her. “His Grace might be looking for a new wife.”
“Nonsense!” Anna replied. Privately, she thought that Henry’s infirmity might be a barrier to his marrying again.
They ignored her, being too busy looking out her most becoming gowns.
* * *
—
She had forgotten how big, how noisy, and how teeming with people the court was. Her lodgings in Clock Court were spacious and comfortable, but they were on the ground floor and people were always walking past. She found herself longing for the peace of Richmond or Hever, yet she was looking forward to seeing Henry, and could not leave, of course, until after he had sent for her.
There were no women at court because there was no queen to be served. Anna had brought with her Mother Lowe and Katherine Bassett, who had pleaded to be taken. Anna and Katherine drew some masculine interest as they walked in the gardens or watched games of tennis or bowls—at least until the men realized who Anna was, and hastily averted their eyes. She wondered if they believed she was still untouchable—or that she might soon be their Queen again.
It was the French ambassador, Monsieur de Marillac, who enlightened her. Standing beside her as she was enjoying an archery contest, and laying on the courtesy, he assured her his master was her friend, especially in these present troubles of her brother with the Emperor. She did not know whether to trust his smooth Gallic charm, and could not decide whether his swarthy features were interesting or repellent, but she warmed to him.
“The Lady Mary was at court two months past,” he told her. “Almost all the gentlemen of the court went out to welcome her, and the King met her as she entered the park and received her most lovingly.” Anna felt a pang that Henry had not afforded her the same courtesy.
Marillac was observing her closely, and she noticed his rival Chapuys in the group of spectators opposite. He was watching her too, but in a less friendly manner.
“Many are of the opinion that the King is thinking of marrying again,” Marillac said. “Your Highness may not be aware that, during the past month, your brother’s ambassador has been three or four times at court—where he has not been seen for many moons—and the last time, he came upon the King’s summons.” He waited for her to digest that.
She had not seen or heard from Dr. Harst for well over a year. She had thought all this business about her remarrying the King had been forgotten, and was alarmed to find that someone as well informed as Marillac thought it a real possibility.
“It may be that my brother has been asking England for aid against the Emperor.”
“It may indeed, Madam. Yet many think this embassy concerns yourself.”
“Well, Monsieur, this is the first I have heard of it.”
“The strange thing is, Madam, that when I asked some councillors what your brother’s ambassador was doing at court, they told me he was not an ambassador, but a representative of yourself, there to assist you in your private affairs.”
Anna wondered what game was being played out behind the closed doors of the council chamber. “That is news to me,” she said. “I would far rather they were talking about aiding Kleve. Since last October, as you know, my brother has been in desperate need of King Henry’s help.” She had endured months of anxiety since learning that the Emperor had defeated Wilhelm in battle and captured Guelders at last. Wilhelm’s ally, King François, had not been able to come to his aid because he was fighting the Imperial forces in Italy. She feared for her family—and for her child. What if the Emperor was not content with Guelders?
“Let us hope King Henry can send aid, my lady. It is noble of you to put your brother’s interests before your own.”
“My brother’s interests are mine,” she said. “They are more important to me than any other consideration.”
* * *
—
On the third day of her visit, Henry sent for her, and received her in his privy gallery. The day being rainy, they walked up and down for a space, Anna leaning on his arm.
“I am sorry I could not see you earlier,” he said. “I have been plagued with business and petitioners. They never go away.” He smiled ruefully. “And I had one of my headaches.”
“I trust you are better now,” Anna said.
“Greatly,” he told her. “It’s the close reading of all those official papers that does it. It keeps me up at night, and I can’t see to read as well in candlelight as I used to.”
“Maybe your Grace needs new spectacles,” she suggested. “That might alleviate the headaches.”
“I will think about that,” he said.
“I trust I find your Grace feeling happier than when I last saw you.”
Henry grinned. “Much happier. And I’ll tell you a secret I know I can trust you to keep. There is a lady…”
He was looking at her expectantly.
“I am so pleased for your Grace,” she said, meaning it. “May I ask who the lady is?”
“Lady Latimer. I don’t think you know her, for she is rarely at court.”
Anna tried not to betray her dismay. She knew of Lady Latimer, who was the sister of Mrs. Herbert, one of her former ladies-in-waiting. Indignation mounted in her. She had not realized till now how much she had liked the idea of Henry taking her back as his queen, as opposed to the reality. It had been gratifying to know that people still hoped for her restoration. Now, learning he had set his sights on a commoner, whose sister had been her servant, she felt slighted and disparaged. At least Katheryn Howard had come from an ancient noble house!
“Her brother is captain of my Gentlemen Pensioners,” Henry was saying. “She visits him from time to time, and is an occasional lady-in-waiting to the Lady Mary. She came with her to court in January, which was when I saw that in her which I knew I could love. But her husband has only just died, so I must be discreet for now.”
“And she returns your Grace’s affection?” Anna chose the word with care. For all she knew, this widow might be Henry’s mistress, although, given the size and the increasing infirmity of him, which had struck her today after so long an absence, she doubted he would have any use for a mistress.
“I like to think so,” he said. “She was fond of her husband, although he was ill for a long time, so she was more nurse than wife. I am allowing her time to mourn.”
“I do hope your Grace will find true happiness,” Anna made herself say.
“Anna, you will be discreet? I know not if my suit will find favor.” He sounded like an eager young swain.
“Of course, Sir. I will speak of this to no one.” How could he not think his suit would find favor? He was the King!
“How is the Lady Mary?” Anna asked, not wishing to speak of Lady Latimer any more. She felt humiliated…
“In good health, and much in demand as a godmother, she tells me.”
Anna thought it sad that Mary, who was now twenty-seven, was not yet a mother herself. Sometimes she could not fathom Henry’s reasoning. Bastard though she might be, Mary was still his daughter. Yet here she was, unmarried still, and lavishing her thwarted maternal instincts on other people’s children.
“I should love to see her,” she said.
“You may see her whenever you
wish, Anna, with my blessing.”
“Then I will invite her to Richmond,” she told him. “Thank you, Sir. It will be a great pleasure to me to have her company.”
* * *
—
Anna had been back at Richmond for a fortnight when Otho suddenly appeared in her privy chamber, jubilantly waving a letter.
“My lady, I have great news from my father in Kleve! Your brother has defeated the Emperor’s troops at Sittard!”
“Oh, joy!” Anna leaped up, thrilled. “That is the best news you could have brought me.”
Their eyes met. She could see in Otho’s all the love and desire he felt for her, and it was tempting, in this surge of elation, to give him some sign that it was reciprocated. Perhaps it was plain to him anyway. It took all her resolve not to give him any encouragement.
But the news was wonderful, and cause for rejoicing. As her German servants hugged and congratulated each other, she called for wine, so that they could all toast Wilhelm’s victory. God grant that the Emperor would now retreat and leave Kleve alone.
* * *
—
As summer bloomed, Anna took herself and her entourage down to Bletchingley, where she again had to suffer Thomas Cawarden’s insufferable arrogance. This time, he took pleasure in informing her she was to be guest of honor at a feast he was hosting at Hextalls. And, of course, she could not refuse, after he had bragged of the trouble he and his wife had gone to on her behalf.
He had not thought to inform her that he had got married. He was not obliged to, but it would have been a courtesy. His bride, Elizabeth, was his complete antithesis, a pretty, self-effacing woman of good breeding who seemed content to defer to his every word and stay in his shadow. She was very pleasant to Anna, but rarely joined in the conversation at table, and it was her husband who barked orders to the servants.
Anna was disconcerted to find, on the high table, where Cawarden had seated himself in the place of honor at her right hand, some distinctive German pottery she had brought with her from Kleve. The last time she had seen these pieces, they had been in the court cupboard in her house nearby.