by G Lawrence
“They came in hooded,” she went on. “The Queen was at the window, watching a feat of bull-baiting arranged for her. When the King came in, we all recognised him, of course, and he made straight for the Queen, wanting to present some jewelled furs he had brought for her, and to play the game of courtly love. We had not a moment to get there first, and once he was there we did not dare interrupt!” She smiled brightly and nodded, but I could see a sigh upon her soul.
Jane took a breath. I wondered if her cheeks were aching as mine were. “The Queen watched this bedraggled man bow to her, and was confused, for she thought him a beggar. Clearly not knowing what more to do with him, she inclined her head politely, then turned back to the baiting, ignoring him.”
I had to try hard not to gasp in shock. “Yes,” Jane said, “keep those smiles on. I know you are shocked but show it not.” She nodded, but a shake of the head was what I saw. “But what was the Queen to do? She knew the King not. She has never seen his image and he was not dressed like a king, but as a pauper. She thought this was perhaps some presentation of a poor man in a custom she knew not, so she greeted him politely and went back to her entertainment. If he was a poor man, she could not converse with him for the sake of her royal dignity. From her point of view, she did all that was necessary, but had you seen the King’s face…” Jane paused again. “And there is another problem.”
Another problem, other than mortally insulting the King of England at their first meeting? I thought.
“Although certainly not ill-favoured, she is not as pretty as her portrait. There are marks from smallpox on her neck and the sides of her face. They are not unsightly, but her skin is not as it is in her portrait. Her nose is also rather long in profile, and she smells as though she may not have washed for her entire journey. We tried to get her to bathe, but she said it was unhealthy and might kill her.”
That practised smile almost fell, but Jane forced it up again. “Then,” she went on. “The King embraced the Queen. Clearly, she was uncomfortable. He showed her a token, a little gold coin, and told her translator it was from her husband. This was the moment she might guess who he was and save the day, but the Queen was only more bewildered, asking her man why a commoner had been sent to bring her something from the King.”
“She did not know of the game of courtly love, my lady?” Anne asked softly.
“Apparently, it is not played in Cleves,” said Jane. “They think it unseemly.”
“Then, my lady, the poor Queen was utterly unaware of her part,” I said, tipping my head to one side as I smiled, as though hearing something that melted my heart.
“The King left with speed,” said Jane. “And was heard in the other room, close enough for the Queen to hear if she could understand the language, saying he liked her not. He changed his clothes and came back, this time presented as the King. Then, of course, she understood her mistake. The Queen was mortified, but baffled. She was informed it was a game, and she told her man to apologise for not having understood. It seemed this was accepted, and they talked for a while, through her translator. The King was polite and she humble, but it was clear she was embarrassed and he was utterly humiliated. He thought she, his perfect love, would know him in any garb, but she did not. Later, he said to his men he had been deceived about her looks, for there was nothing fair about her.”
“She is ugly, my lady?” I asked.
“I do not think so,” said Jane. “She is tall, and the King has always liked women smaller than him, but she is trim of figure and moves with elegance. Her nose, I admit, is a little shocking sideways on, but it is not so noticeable from the front. Her scars are slight. I think it is more her clothes he thinks ugly, for they are absolutely hideous, but that she did not know how to behave in this game of romance has disappointed him.”
“What of after, my lady?” I asked. “Does he like her more now?”
“They have, in truth, spent little time together. I hear from the King’s men that the King is bitterly disappointed, and wants to speak to Cromwell, for he feels he has been poorly handled. This marriage is not off to a good start. That first meeting, you see, it was not only a game to the King. It was a test. She, his perfect love, should have known the missing shard of her heart in any garb. The Queen did not fare well.”
We all felt a chill and not from the cold wind. Unlike other kings, our monarch was not one to remain with a wife who displeased him.
“My lady, do you think that is why Holbein painted her face-on?” I asked. “Rather than profile? Because of her nose?”
Jane nodded. “I think that may be the case, yet the portrait is not a lie; she does look like that, but the painter left out defects, like the scars, obviously could not capture her smell, and her nose looks better on canvas than in life. She is a little ruddy of face, but that is what comes of travelling in winter, and I think it will fade. She is by no means ill-favoured, but the King…”
“Desired her to be perfect,” I said, finishing Jane’s sentence without thinking.
“He did,” she said. I was surprised she did not admonish me for talking over her. “I thought you two should know. There will be talk over the next few days, as it will leak from the King’s rooms, and it is important we protect our mistress. You will stop any other maidens speaking ill of her, and lead by example. Say you think the Queen pretty, even if you do not, and remind the others of their duty to her. They are not to gossip with the King’s men. Go back to the others now, and tell them the Queen is on her way.”
“We will do all you say, Lady Rochford,” said Anne. “You can rely on us.”
“That is why I chose you,” she said. “The other ladies think I should say nothing, but if I do that the Queen is at risk.” She set her shoulders back and smiled again. “It is time to close ranks,” she said. “And protect our mistress.”
Anne and I glanced at each other as we went to tell falsehoods to friends. In that glance was a spark of understanding. The Queen had failed her first challenge. It was not her fault. She did not know our ways. But that would not matter to the King. He had made a fool of himself.
Revealed as an old, fat bumpkin who could no longer be instantly recognised as a prince in any garb, he had been shown by the Queen that the illusion he had cast upon himself of eternal youth and beauty was a fantasy. He was no more the handsome prince who had once made the knees of maidens knock together. Without fine clothes, he looked like a beggar, an old man without any royal or noble grace shining through his skin.
It was not something anyone would like to know of themselves, but our King was not just anyone.
The marriage had not even taken place, and already it was in danger.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Greenwich Palace
January 1540
By noon, we were outside in the wind, waiting to be presented to the Queen. My French hood juddered upon my head, threatening to break loose and flee. I almost wished I could join it.
I was fearful for the mistress I had not met.
Women in tales of romance were supposed to recognise their lovers by second sight, the sight of love, when they came in disguise. But she had not. The Queen had acted with dignity. It was the King who had played the fool, and been crowned King of Fools by her rejection.
That is what he likes not, I realised, her rejection. What fragile creatures men were, to fear so small a fate! For women the great fear was that men would rape, beat or kill us.
Doctor Daye, the Queen’s new almoner, was preaching a sermon in Latin, but I listened little. I had always thought Latin beautiful, and sometimes liked to lose myself in its magic and mystery, but not that day. An ambassador of Cleves was following Daye’s words with his own, and I heard nothing. I was lost in thought, pitying our poor Queen for the shame and embarrassment she must have felt. Then, far off, a trumpet sounded. We glanced up to see the front of the Queen’s procession.
A last check of gowns and hoods, and we all straightened our backs and lifted chins, ready to
meet our mistress.
Margaret Douglas, Mary Howard and the Marchioness of Dorset were the first in line to greet the Queen when she stepped from her chariot. We maids were at the end of the row, with Anne and me at the head of the line. We waited. As a swish of crimson and gold flickered beneath my feet, Anne and I dropped into curtseys, and rose when we were bidden by a harsh, guttural, but not unkind voice.
The face I looked into was not unlike the portrait. Jane was right, the Queen was not ill-favoured. I might have called her plain rather than pretty, but she was not hideous by any means. She was twenty-four, with warm brown eyes, and deeply hooded lids which gave her a lazy look, as though just rising from sleep. Her skin was indeed ruddy, flushed with the cold air and a little dry, but that, I agreed, was from riding in winter without a mask. She had an air of grace and calm about her that persuaded my heart to stop thundering.
When she turned to glance at her translator, I saw what Jane meant about that nose. It was indeed large. Face-on, it was fine but from the side it was huge and hooked slightly, bending towards her lower lip.
And her clothes were outrageous. I could not tell where cloak began and gown ended. Her gown looked as though a maid had dragged out a chest of the richest scraps you could imagine, gold cloth, pearl buttons, gorgeous lace, fine cambric and rich velvet in many colours, then thrown it at the Queen and sewn it all on in haste. It was bizarre. I had never seen anything like it, even on fools, and it clashed horribly with her skin.
Her headdress was a little better, much like the one in her portrait. Lolling about her face like the ears of a hound, it showed what the idea was at least.
But she was not ugly. Her clothes were, but she was not.
“I am pleased to meet you,” she said slowly in English after my name had been read. Her accent was thick, hard and strange, but she spoke gently.
“I am honoured to serve you, Your Majesty,” I said curtseying again.
The Queen smiled at her translator and said something in her language. To my ears, it was a series of grunts and snorts, but he understood. “The Queen praises the beauty of her women,” he announced. “She is delighted so many flowers of England are here to adorn her royal garden.”
We all smiled. It was a lovely compliment, rather poetic.
She kissed the chief ladies of her household, and her translator thanked us all heartily on her behalf. The Queen then also kissed her councillors and officers, demonstrating she had learned some English customs, and it was suggested she retire until the King came.
Apparently, he had arrived at Greenwich that morning to prepare to formally greet her, which was surprising. Usually we knew when the King had arrived, for there was drumming and trumpeting. The palace had been quiet that morning but for the noise of everyone running about, getting ready.
As we turned to escort the Queen into one of the tents, so she could warm herself at the fire before the ride through the long parks of Greenwich, Anne turned to me. “We have to get her out of those dreadful clothes,” she murmured. “The greatest beauty of the world would look ghastly in that dress.”
In the tent, the Queen asked that her ladies and maids come close to the fire with her, for she did not want us, her wonderful flowers, to wilt, her translator said. We warmed wine for her and I handed the gold cup to Margaret Douglas, who brought it to the Queen in her golden chair. Outside, the wind was rising and the sides of the tent snapped and cracked. We stood about as we had been shown, trying to listen to what the Queen was saying to her women through her translator. Now and then she would answer in English before he could speak, only short answers, like yes and no, but it showed she was attempting to learn the language fast.
She was so calm, such a gentle presence. I saw shoulders that had been rigid relax and heard our collective, racing heartbeat settle. Her composure and deportment made her seem older than she was. She had an air of wisdom and maturity, remarkable when I considered how little she had been in the world and how frightening all this must be. She must have great courage, I thought, for after all, bravery is not absence of fear but feeling fear yet managing to do what is needed. And she could not be doing better. It was safe to say I admired her spirit from the first hour I knew her.
As wind slapped the tent again, and Mary Howard apologised for the weather, the Queen listened to her man translate and smiled gently. “The Queen said I am to tell you England is made fair and green by the rain that comes to her skies,” he said. “Therefore she sorrows not, for she sees what beauty trials may bring. A lesson from God, she thinks, that what is worthwhile comes with trial and suffering.”
I marvelled at her. What a wise thought, beautifully expressed.
Ladies-in-waiting helped her to change into a gown of cloth of gold with a pearl-encrusted bonnet on her head, which was a little better than the monstrosity she had been wearing, but it lacked a train, which made it seem rather stumpy. But she had a stunning necklace of stones glimmering like snow in the light of the fire.
They tried to encourage her to wash a little in hot water brought in a bowl. The Queen refused to wash all over, but did clean her face and hands. She shook her head, smiling gently as they tried to get her to do more, and I caught the word, “death” as she refused. It was true that physicians thought it perilous to bathe in winter, and the Queen evidently believed bathing might bring on her demise.
Her thoughts were not uncommon. Plenty of nobles did not wash in winter, and some only had two baths a year. She was also standing in a tent, with open air that carried wandering spirits and fevers all about her. But the ladies were growing desperate.
People changed undergarments each day, and washed hands and faces, using perfume to conceal offensive odours, but we all knew how the King abhorred bad smells, and close up, even past the smell of the scented wood in the fire, the Queen was pungent. The ladies doused her in perfume, which she also shied away from after a while, evidently believing they were putting on too much, and she would reek like a high-class whore who had not the grace to know when to stop.
The King arrived not long after, and as trumpets blared to announce his arrival we took the Queen outside, guiding her and her ladies to the front of the tent. Surrounded by councillors, gentlemen attendants, bishops, nobles and the new division of his bodyguard, the Gentlemen Pensioners, a special contingent gathered from the sons of the nobility, the King rode up, magnificent in purple and cloth of gold with buttons of diamonds, pearls and rubies. The handle of his sword was rich with emeralds green as Jane Boleyn’s eyes, and a collar about his throat was heavy with pearls and gems. Ten footmen dressed in gold tunics stood about the King, and near them ten pages in crimson.
As we flanked her, the Queen was helped into a saddle decorated with the heraldic devices of her family, and rode to the King. Surrounded by footmen wearing the Black Lion of Cleves on their livery, she handled her horse well and he doffed his cap, saluted her, then embraced and kissed her. The King’s manners were impeccable, but I could see stiffness in him, reserve. When a man truly wants a woman, there is a looseness to him, as though the soul reaches out. There was none of that in him. There was nothing here he wanted to claim, nothing to possess.
They spoke gently, and clearly the Queen had been saving her words for him, for she spoke carefully, but well, in English. None of what she said was complicated, but it was all said perfectly. No mean feat for one who had been learning the language a matter of weeks.
We cheered, lifting our voices to shout “God save the King!” and “God save the King and Queen!”
The Queen rode at the King’s side, speaking only when he spoke to her and smiling all the time. With her Master of Horse, John Dudley, at her side she appeared entirely composed as they took their horses along the gathered ranks of lords, Council members, ambassadors, bishops, archbishops and foreign dignitaries, including Phillip of Bavaria who was still waiting for Lady Mary to agree to wed him. The line stretched from the tents back to the gates of Greenwich Park, and the men had all
been standing in the cold waiting for this moment.
“She will think the men of England naturally blue after this day,” Anne said, putting her hands into her armpits to keep them warm.
“And us statues, frozen in place,” I said, my teeth chattering.
Mistress Stoner took pity and allowed us some hot wine. The King and Queen were at the end of the procession line, so would not see we were sipping at steaming cups.
For the procession back to the palace, the King rode, but the Queen was in a carriage gilded with the arms of Cleves, along with two ladies of her country so old they looked like they might fall into the grave at any moment. After her came a carriage full of younger ladies of Cleves, also dressed in the bizarre fashion the Queen wore, and draped in so many golden chains I wondered how they could lift their heads. Then came one carrying lesser servants and another, an empty litter made of cloth of gold, which was a gift from the King.
We were put into open carriages, unwieldy contraptions that were vastly uncomfortable, and trundled behind them. Mary pointed a finger to the river. “Look,” she said. We did, spying boats rowing up and down the Thames with banners and flags streaming from their masts and sails. Despite cold air, and skies threatening snow any moment, there were thousands.