by Alison Weir
From Greenwich, the court moved to Hampton Court for yet more triumphs and celebrations, and Anna was commanded by the Council to accompany it. It seemed as if Henry, recalling the glorious days of his youth, was bent on one last great festival before the darkness closed in on him. She was aware of an air of expectancy, of suppressed speculation—suppressed, of course, because it was treason to predict or even imagine the King’s death.
One evening, she was on her way to sup with the King when she encountered Susanna Gilman in a gallery. Susanna looked at her warily, yet Anna found she no longer felt any rancor toward her erstwhile friend. What had happened six years ago no longer mattered now. So she smiled and asked after Susanna’s health, and walked on, feeling pleased that there remained no ill feeling between them.
She left Hampton Court on a blazing-hot August day, weeping in her litter because some intuitive instinct told her she would not see Henry again. He had sent for her to bid her farewell. She had found him in a reflective mood, and suspected he too had an inkling that his time was short, for he had held her tight in their last embrace, and there had been tears in his eyes as he looked into her face.
“You have ever been a good friend to me, Anna, more than I deserve. You have such excellent qualities and virtues, gifts of which I recognize myself both bare and barren. But for such small qualities as God has endowed me with, I render to His goodness my most humble thanks, and I thank him, most heartily, that I have enjoyed the friendship of a good woman such as you.” He had let her go and kissed her hand in the most courtly fashion. “Love, dread, and serve God,” he’d exhorted her. “Be in charity with all.” It was as if earthly concerns no longer mattered to him, only his immortal soul.
“I have loved your Grace as a sister,” Anna had told him, “and I am ever grateful for your goodness to me.” She had been remembering all the money he had sent her, the properties he had transferred to her on the Duke of Suffolk’s death, to augment her income, and the sum he had outlaid to Dr. Cepher last autumn, when she had suffered a recurrence of tertian fever. “May God keep your Grace in health, and bless you.”
“Farewell, dear Anna.” Henry had bent and kissed her on the lips. She had curtseyed, and was conscious of his eyes lingering on her as she left his presence.
* * *
—
She returned to Richmond feeling emotional, and informed her household that they would be removing to Bletchingley. She hoped a change of scene would lift the pall of sadness that lay over her.
When they rode out to Bletchingley, Otho was beside her, as he always was these days. For the last year they had secretly been lovers again, not in the fullest sense—Anna was resolved not to risk any more illicit pregnancies—but in every other way, and her household, who must have noticed, had turned a blind eye. Anna knew, from the way her servants treated her, that she was much beloved, and she was grateful that they were so protective toward her. She sensed they thought she deserved some happiness, after all the troubles she had suffered; and things became easier that August, when Hanna left Otho in England and went back to her family in Kleve. There was much disapproval, and sympathy for the abandoned husband; no one begrudged him the love he had found. Yet Anna and Otho were discreet, and took care never to make demonstrations of their affection in public. For Anna, it was enough just to be with him, especially on this beautiful summer day, riding through the pleasant leafy lanes of Surrey.
Word of their coming had been sent ahead the day before, and Thomas Cawarden, now knighted by the King, was waiting to receive them. Anna was still wary of him, still worrying that he was involved in some nefarious activity or other. He seemed to have a finger in every pie, and to have cultivated everyone of standing round about, and in the court. He was good at putting pressure on people.
She had to concede that Sir Thomas was a diligent steward at Bletchingley. He cared for the place as if it were his own, and no doubt he was hoping that one day it would be. It was his proprietorial attitude that irked, and sometimes infuriated, her.
He had done well for himself, as he never ceased reminding her, and was now doing so again over the supper he’d had prepared in her honor. Two years ago, when the King had enjoyed a brief period of respite from his ailments and led an army into France and taken Boulogne, Sir Thomas had been appointed Master of Revels and Tents, with the responsibility of providing tents for the troops. He had also led a company of horsemen and foot soldiers, and it was for these services that he had been knighted.
“These days,” he informed the company, “his Majesty licenses me to keep forty liveried retainers. I shall need a larger house to keep them in!” Anna was aware of him casting his eye over the splendors of her dining chamber. Her eyes met Otho’s, and she knew he was having the same thoughts.
Sir Thomas leaned toward her. “Madam, you will be pleased to hear that the King has granted me the reversion of Hextalls, as well as other lands in Surrey, Kent, and Sussex.”
The arrogance of the man! Hextalls was hers too, so why would she be pleased to hear that it would come to him on her death? She might yet marry and bear children; she was, after all, only thirty. Yet this insufferable fellow had deprived her posterity of part of its inheritance.
“You’ll be looking for the reversion of Bletchingley next, Sir Thomas!” She said it as a jest, but meant it as a warning.
There was a pause, then he laughed. “There would certainly be enough room here for all my retainers!”
Sir William Goring came to Anna’s rescue. “Sir Thomas, you may not have heard that the Duke of Cleves has married the Emperor’s niece, the Princess Maria of Austria.”
“We are all very pleased for him,” Anna said. She omitted to add that Emily had written to say that the new Duchess Maria was very nice, but positively ugly, for she had the notoriously long Habsburg jaw and a face like a horse. Anna had smiled when she read that, glad to see that her sister was still her old irrepressible self. Emily had never married, but that might be remedied now that Wilhelm was allied to the Emperor, who seemed to have an endless store of relatives.
“My brother is delighted with his bride,” Anna confirmed. “Certainly she is more amenable than the first one!”
“How long will you be staying at Bletchingley, my lady?” Sir Thomas asked.
“Oh, I think for quite some time,” she replied, and saw the fleeting dismay in his eyes. Of course, while she was elsewhere, he could treat the place as his own. She would not have put it past him to move into the great house in her absence. “I do so love it here,” she went on, feeling mischievous. “I have decided I prefer it above my other houses, and mean to make it my chief residence.” She was enjoying herself now, seeing his discomfiture. “I intend to undertake some improvements.”
“May I ask what they will be, Madam?”
“I will tell you when I have decided, Sir Thomas.”
* * *
—
The next day, she looked around the house, with Otho, Sir William, and Mr. Chomley, her cofferer, in attendance, and drew up a list of every improvement she wanted to make. She meant to establish her presence here, and transform the house to reflect her own tastes.
She summoned a wood-carver and asked him to make a magnificent chimney piece in the antique style for her great chamber, instructing him to include the figure of the King. She ordered carved wooden panels bearing her initials and emblems.
She set in train the building of new dwellings on the estate for her poorer tenants, a communal brewhouse for their convenience, and a tavern for their recreation. She wanted her people to look upon her as a kind benefactor.
Soon, Bletchingley was filled with the smells of sawdust and fresh paint. Anna spent hours with her ladies making hangings, curtains, drapes for beds, and even rugs. It was good to have a project on which to focus, and to make the house her own.
By the time winter drew in, Bletchin
gley was looking brighter and more colorful, and everything smelled so fresh. Looking around her, admiring it, Anna felt even more possessive toward the house.
They were preparing for Christmas now, but in an atmosphere of sorrow, for the cold weather had taken its toll. Early in Advent, poor Dr. Cepher had caught a chill and died of it, and the chaplain had followed him to the grave within days. Anna had ordered that they be buried in the parish church, and attended the committal service herself, thinking how sad it was to be summoned from this world as the festive season approached.
On the day after the funerals, Sir Thomas came to look at the improvements Anna had made, and pointed out that the roof needed attention and some of the window frames were leaking.
“Your Highness needs to address these things, or the problems will get worse,” he warned.
“But I have spent all my money,” she pointed out, keeping him standing. “I must wait until the next quarter.”
He lost patience. “Madam, it is a question of priorities. It is foolhardy to lavish a fortune on a chimney piece when the roof has holes in it and the rain can get in.”
“I will decide on the priorities here,” Anna snapped, outraged that he felt he could speak to her like that. “I marvel you did not tell me that repairs were needed before I outlaid money on refurbishment. It’s your job as steward to know these things.”
“I had not then undertaken an inspection of the roof,” he snarled. “It’s not easy to access.”
“Well, we shall just have to wait until March,” she said.
“There is another matter I wish to raise,” he hissed, clearly furious. “Since you first came here, I have given you all the wood you could need for your fires. Yet your servants are felling good trees in the parks for charcoal, wasting the timber. Quite blatantly, they told me it was theirs to do as they pleased with, and I could not deny them. They were about to take forty loads away! I have impounded it all. They do not need that wood for fuel, so I suspect they are secretly planning to sell it to the iron foundries in Sussex and make a profit!”
Anna made to answer, but Cawarden held up his hand. “That is not all, Madam. After I delivered the timber you requested for the improvements to the house, your servants, without my consent, felled a great many more trees, and built four new houses of timber. This cannot be justified by the law. They even took my wood-axe to help build a brewhouse and a tavern, and—”
“Will you let me speak?” Anna interrupted, stopping him in full flight. “First, Sir Thomas, shall we get one thing clear? The trees are all on my lands, and are therefore mine. My servants cut down the trees on my authority, and they were to sell the charcoal on my authority too. You must be aware that, nowadays, money does not go as far as it did, and that I am no longer a wealthy woman. I do not have to explain myself to you, but, as a courtesy, I will tell you that I need the profits from the sales to the foundries, so you will let them have that wood. No, Sir Thomas, I will finish what I have to say! As for the law preventing me from building houses, I know nothing of that, but I am sure that, if I asked the King’s Majesty, he would give me permission. I have never heard of a lord or lady being prevented from providing houses for their tenants!”
Sir Thomas was almost purple with rage. “Madam, you and your servants are running down the estate!”
“That is my concern, Sir—unless, of course, you are looking to the future and anticipating that it might be yours?”
He glared at her. “Madam, woodland needs managing. It is my duty to see to that.”
“And this is my property. I will not allow you to criticize me for acting for my own benefit and that of others.”
He stood there fuming, then turned on his heel and stalked out without a word.
“There’s a man to be wary of,” Mother Lowe observed. “He has ambitions, that one.”
“Don’t I know it!” Anna muttered.
* * *
—
One afternoon, as Anna was making a Christmas wreath for the table, Sir William Goring asked for a word.
“Madam, Sir Thomas Cawarden has complained that your servants are wasting good timber and cutting down trees without his permission.”
“They had my permission!” she said firmly. “I have had the matter out with him. Really, Sir William, I am sick of the man’s presumption.”
“Yes, Madam, he does rather exceed his remit. Fear not, I have persuaded him to let you have the forty loads of timber he has been keeping back. However, he wants you to acknowledge that they are a gift to you from him.”
“What?” Anna was seething with rage. “How can he make me a gift of my own property? The impertinence of it!”
“I did point that out, my lady. He also asks you to make a present of an apron to the park-keeper’s wife, as recompense for the trouble the tree-felling caused her.”
“The answer is no,” Anna declared. “On both counts.”
Cawarden would not take no for an answer. Grudgingly he surrendered the wood, but he became ever more vehement when she permitted her servants to cut down more trees. The quarrel dragged on, with considerable bad feeling, especially on the part of Anna’s servants, who resented being shouted at for merely doing what their mistress had ordered.
Anna considered appealing to the King to have Cawarden removed from his post as steward of Bletchingley. But she had heard that Henry was unwell, and did not like to disturb him. Sir Thomas had no such scruples, however. One day, near Christmas, he disappeared. When he returned later, he was triumphantly brandishing a document bearing the royal seal.
“You see, Madam,” he said nastily, “his Majesty understands the need for careful management of an estate, especially one in the gift of the Crown.” He thrust the paper under her nose.
As she read it, she felt her anger rising. Henry had granted his faithful Sir Thomas Cawarden the reversion of Bletchingley with its parks and all the lands attached to it. It would be his upon her death.
Fury got the better of her. “You may now be the next owner here, Sir Thomas,” she seethed, “but, while I live, Bletchingley is mine, and you will run it as I order. Now go. You are dismissed.” As he went out, smirking, she resolved to ask the King to dismiss him. She was sure that, when Henry learned of his insolence, he would withdraw the grant.
Her resolve hardened when Sir William Goring came to give his resignation. “My lady, I have been offered a place in the King’s Privy Chamber. I did think twice about it, as it has been a privilege to serve you, but of late there have been too many trials. You know who I mean…”
Anna understood, although her heart was sinking. She had a great liking for her chamberlain. “Of course you must accept the post, Sir William. It is a great honor. Do you know who will replace you?”
“I have recommended Sir John Guildford, Madam. You will recall that the King awarded him a pension earlier this year, in acknowledgment of his good service to you.” Sir John, a lawyer who had sat in Parliament and held various offices under the Crown before he joined her household, was a good administrator and reliable, affable, and witty too.
“I am sure he will prove most efficient,” Anna said, “yet I am sorry to be losing you.”
As Sir William bowed himself out, she prayed that Sir John Guildford would be as staunch in taking her part against Sir Thomas Cawarden. His presence blighted all her pleasure in Bletchingley, and it was utterly galling to know that he would get this beautiful house on her death. She resolved to go to court herself and ask the King to have him removed. She would tell Henry the truth!
Chapter 25
1547–1549
January came in on a tide of hail. It was freezing cold, and the wind whistled through the vast chambers, obliging Anna to have the leaking windows sealed up, much to Cawarden’s unconcealed amusement. It snowed, and the roads became impassable, then waterlogged with the thaw. She could not go to c
ourt, so nothing could be done about Sir Thomas.
Early in February, the weather improved, and Anna decided she would travel to Whitehall on the morrow.
A fire was crackling merrily in the hearth, and there was the pleasant scent of burning applewood in her chamber. She began looking through her gowns, wondering what to wear to court. As she was rubbing at a grease spot on her tawny velvet, Mother Lowe knocked and said a royal messenger was asking to see her. Already, she could hear him thumping up the stairs. He had not even waited for her to go down to receive him.
He knelt before her. “My lady, I bring heavy news. The King is dead.”
* * *
—
She cast off her bright attire and put on the mourning clothes she had worn for her mother. She ordered her whole household, down to the scullions, to wear black. She reread the letters the King had sent her, and cried over them. She got out the jewels he had given her, and pressed her lips to their cold surfaces. She could not believe he had gone from her—and from England. What would become of her adopted land now that a boy king ruled over it? Would it turn Protestant, as the Lady Mary had feared? And would young Edward be as good a friend to her as Henry had been? It was a lot to expect from a nine-year-old child who barely knew her, she thought dismally.