by Mavis Cheek
Deal to Dover, Dover to Canterbury, Canterbury to Sittingbourne, everywhere the reception for me was a wonder, the people crowded forward and cheered and the joy was mutual. Those who still argue that I was provincial and awkward might care to consider how much formality and pomp surrounded these journeyings and how regally and properly I conducted myself. Meek and mild I may have been, but I knew my place in the order of things and it was not a lowly one. I was a princess of royal descent and conducted myself accordingly. From Calais onwards I received such displays of love from the common people that I could only love them back. The people of England had fierce loyalties and a mind to support what was right. They never spoke of me as rawboned and coarse-looking – and they came close enough to see for themselves, believe me.
In addition to the advice of Mrs Gilmyn, I observed the English Ladies-in-Waiting sent to me, I noted what they wore, and within a short time my clothes were made in the same acceptable French fashion – square-cut and low-bodiced with the hoods made to fit away from the face and revealing the hair in the French way. The English court was not a place for modesty in dress. A month after my arrival I looked no different from any other fashionable lady of the court and Mrs Gilmyn was removed from my service. She was not alone. There were many who clung fast when my star was high – like the new Ladies-in-Waiting who came begging to serve me at the outset and who quickly went away from me in its nadir.
After my first meeting with Henry at Rochester it was clear, by the time I reached London, that my status was changed. The Tudor Court was not an easy place for survival. I was warned of this by my own envoy, Olisleger, when we finally arrived there and the place felt so unkind and devious. It was a court riven with religious and political factions and those who led them were headstrong, ambitious, dangerous, watchful. If Henry had only been kinder I believe we would have done very well eventually. A willing woman, so I learned later, is more than half the battle. But Henry had set his teeth against the marriage at our first disastrous meeting in Rochester and nothing would change his mind . . .
Oh Flora – Rochester – New Year’s Day 1540 – which should have been such a happy beginning and was not. I arrived there to stay in the Bishop’s Palace, which was very fine, and a great relief after stopping in Sittingbourne which had only ordinary inns to care for me and my retinue. I was very, very weary by now – so weary – and the weather was miserable and cold. How long it was since I had left home – how many miles I had travelled – and I needed rest. But there was none to be had; at Rochester, on New Year’s Eve, I was met by ever more noblemen and their wives with more feasts and receptions. Then came New Year’s Day after which my life and my expectations changed so painfully and dramatically that each moment is carved in my memory though I only learned the truth of it all much later. Tudor gossip could never keep such a tale to itself.
Henry decided to ride in secret to Rochester to surprise me on New Year’s Day though we were not to meet formally until several days later in London. He was as eager to see me, the Princess stepping out of the portrait and into his arms, as I was to see him, of whom I had only heard fine descriptions. But, Flora, if you or anyone thinks that the King of England could do anything so dashingly informal as ride to Rochester in secret to surprise his new bride – you do not understand the way of the Tudor Court and its spies. I knew he was coming – of course I did. Before he set out Henry told his first minister, Thomas Cromwell, that he was going to ride to me in secret ‘to nurture love’ – and since Thomas Cromwell was the champion of our marriage and wanted the alliance desperately, it is impossible that he would leave such a meeting to chance. This was Henry playing the gallant, the Knight Errant, the golden Prince of Chivalry. But I did not know the rules of the Chivalric Game – that a lady-love, because her heart is true, knows her true amour even when he arrives in disguise. We did not have Chivalric Games in Cleves – nor was Henry – in the end – a glorious gallant knight.
I was, as reported, watching bear baiting when he rode into the palace and I did indeed continue to watch the bear baiting after his arrival in my presence, but it was not want of knowledge of who he was that kept me continuing to look at the bear outside the window – it was – quite simply – shock. Where was my golden prince, my noble paramour? Henry VIII was gross, red-faced, panting and sweating, old and virtually slavering. I was speechless with disgust and horror. Had I spoken I might have wept. A lady-love might recognise her true amour but when he is a fat, monstrous brute? What does the lady-love do then? Remember, Flora, this was not like marriage in these islands now. I had never seen this betrothed of mine, nor had anyone told me the truth about him. Henry’s Envoys described the King as most excellent and handsome and skilled in sport and the lute and all manner of things. They spoke of him as if he were the most delicate, the most elegant of Princes. They said nothing about his obesity which he tried to hide with absurdly wide padded shoulders, or his fleshy jowls, his small, cold eyes and his wet little mouth – or his great legs one of which was swollen and sore and made him limp. How could they dare? To speak of the King like that was treason.
When he arrived – dressed as just another rich nobleman – and entered the room where I waited – I was, wholly and disastrously, aghast. If my face owned any beauty it fled. I knew this great ox with his red face and tiny mouth and slitted eyes was the King. Of course I did. He made absurdly princely gestures – he bowed his huge body down and tried to smile. But he could not. We both faced each other as if we had seen a death. Which in some ways we had. The truth was that we were both disappointments to each other. I was taller than he liked, I was not fair, I was not buxom nor daintily slender – and I was not a coquette to act pleased nor a wittily spoken English girl – and I was horrified at the sight of him which contorted my features into nothing like the calm sweetness of the Holbein. In short I was not like his other wives, or his dead wife Jane, nor like any of his preferred dalliances and I was certainly not as he had expected from the portrait. Perhaps worse than these for such a vain man – the first look he saw on my living face – was repugnance. How could it be otherwise? His big belly overhung his codpiece – a travesty of manliness. And above his absurd wide shoulders, when he removed his feathered hat to bow, his short cropped hair – damp from sweat – made his head above that great body look small and absurd. He was pouring with dampness from the ride and from his great size no doubt. My sister’s husband, the Duke of Saxony, was not handsome and he was older than Sibylla, but he was of a good shape and size whereas this, this, was truly shocking. It is true that Henry’s voice was soft and courteous but his eyes displayed exactly what he felt, cold anger. And, I am quite sure, mine showed repugnant fear. We both stood there, staring at each other, my bones as water at the disappointment, his too, and in that moment the potential failed. That is all. It was at that moment when our eyes met across the room and he loathed the way I looked and I loathed the way he looked – we both read it in each other’s eyes. Disappointment, revulsion – these cannot be overcome. As a woman I must prepare myself to bear them for I had no choice, but as a man – and a king – Henry would not.
I do not know whom Henry called for in his heart at that moment, but I wanted to run home to my mother. And I knew I could not do that, nor ever could again. I was trapped. So I raised my chin, curtsied deep and low again, and became as charming as I knew how and returned my gaze to the bear. I was near to fainting but I knew that I must recover and be gracious, and so I was. But it did no good. I saw his face cloud over. While he could dismiss my distaste and pretend that he was the only one to make the rejection, he knew, he knew, that I felt the same. The English ladies might be clever at hiding their revulsion but I could not. How Henry of England could persuade himself that he was a desirable bridegroom – could nurture love in anybody – is only explained by his being a man who surrounded himself with fools and sycophants.
When I finally saw this portrait of mine, Flora, instead of being pleased, I wished with all my hear
t that the painter had done me less justice and not shown me to be beautiful enough to capture the heart of a king. Most certainly I did not look like that at Rochester, racked as I was with the horror of it all and the strain of such a long journey in such foul weather. I could have looked like the painting again, given time and love, but there was neither. Soon after this terrible first meeting I knew I should be scared for my safety. I remembered how the King could be with those who stood in his way. Heads rolled, bodies were split. He did not want me, and I did not want him and we were both trapped. I knew how Henry behaved when he was in a trap. Of course I remembered, in my fear and confusion, his second wife, Anne Boleyn, and her end. After he left, I could picture my own head rolling in the bloodied straw. That Queen’s death had been the gossip of Europe – how could the news of such an act not come, even to provincial Cleves? To slice off the head of his Queen? Anne Boleyn died only four years before my arrival and Henry, most noble Prince, was already preparing to marry Jane Seymour at the very moment the gunshot announced that the discarded Queen’s head was severed. I, too, was now undesirable – and I did feel afraid. What Henry did to his enemies does not need repeating here – French sword or axe, it matters little when you are scared. I felt ashamed of my fears. I was a daughter of Cleves and should have more courage. My duty was to marry and make an alliance, and give him more heirs. That was my duty. And that, God willing, was what I knew I must do.
This, then, was the journey I made to England on that first occasion and this was its first result. I was Henry’s captive and a woman – and worse, as he would see it, I was the enemy of his future happiness. I had to gather my wits – those wits that Henry’s angry words told the world I did not possess. And gather them I did. It seemed wise to act as if nothing in the world had happened save that we had met, parted on good terms, and would meet again at our formal betrothal celebrations in Greenwich. Instinct guided me. God bless that, at least, Flora, for it was then that I saw the look in the eyes of those English attendants who had lived for my every whim until that moment. They also saw, and they also knew, that my star had not faded, but gone from the Universe completely and that if they wanted to keep their heads or their positions they must now avoid a young woman who was so grave a disappointment to such a ruthless King. Make no mistake, I knew, as soon as Henry and his gawping nobles left Rochester and the horses’ hoofs rang out so fast away, that I was in some kind of danger. His love-nurturing gift to me was forgotten on that visit and was given to me later – beautiful sable furs. I have never looked upon a gift so sadly. Their warmth was a travesty.
Well, women are pragmatists Flora, then as now, I suppose. There was no more to be done except, as the King’s betrothed, to make the final, planned part of my journey from Rochester to London, where on my arrival I would be formally greeted by my husband and endure all the long-planned rituals and festivities that had been so carefully arranged for our public wooing. To the outside world, it seemed, Henry was persuaded that we should continue as if we were truly happy to be betrothed. It was not entirely sham. I wanted – expected - to do my duty. I had recovered somewhat from that first ordeal and being active and busy was a good thing. Women are at their best being active during a crisis. But it was my first experience of my latent skills in hypocrisy. It was certainly not the first for my betrothed.
Henry was a man who liked to have a clear conscience. He liked to be able to sleep easily in his bed and to do so he needed to justify his every action – particularly if questionable – with religious acceptance, textual or intellectual force, the support of his bishops and council. I learned about this striving for public acceptance later. It was the difference, perhaps, between the honest despot and dishonest apparently lawabiding King. Henry could arrange anything, including having the Christian text bent to his will, which he did in the case of his first discard, Catherine of Aragon. He killed her, too, in his own cruel way. King Henry could call upon people of power and position to do his unpleasant, underhand work for him. Even his Archbishop was ready to bend the knee – and pay the ultimate price – dishonesty before God – if needs be. While dreadful, personal things were being said of me, and while Henry’s Council worked night and day against me, to my face Henry was all charm. I was not deceived, nor was Olisleger who guided me through this dangerous time, but we were all playing the game of false piety and duplicity. When I eventually met Henry for our proper formal ceremonials he had recovered his aplomb and was as gallant as the watching world could wish. I learned later that he was at his most deadly when he was being most charming.
Very soon I understood that Henry could not chop off my head – even had he wanted to – for there was nothing treasonable in my behaviour. Even Henry could not kill a wife for the length of her nose and the colour of her eyes. But Henry was not a man to take blame or swallow a need for revenge and I was, nevertheless, one of those mistakes that took a life; Cromwell – the man who wanted the political alliance so badly and arranged it all – who had encouraged Holbein on the misson, Cromwell had his head removed instead. That it was Henry who agreed to the marriage enthusiastically, was immaterial. That Henry saw my portrait and declared his love for me on the strength of it was also immaterial. A scapegoat was required. And although logic might suggest Hans Holbein to be as much at fault – it was not convenient for Henry to lose his favourite painter. Cromwell had, however, fulfilled his role, become over-proud – and paid for it.
I know that the dynastic and fruitful possibilities of our marriage were good and Cromwell should have been spared; that politics moved on in the year following our marriage and that Henry and England were not so isolated from France and Spain – no longer needing a strong alliance with Cleves and the German States – was not Cromwell’s fault. Indeed, it is perhaps a tribute to his cleverness in creating the alliance with Cleves that those two strong countries became more tractable towards Henry after England and Cleves were joined. It was good diplomacy. But Henry suffered from that other trait that is so poisonous – he was stubborn and he had power. I was like a much-prized and now broken toy to him and the only way to make amends for the disappointment was to be thrown away.
I can say it now, though never in my lifetime. Henry was a fool. A petulant fool. If he had not allowed his sulking to get in the way of his duty and had taken his ancestor Edward II’s example – a king who cared nothing for his wife yet fathered an heir with her – he could have kept our politically astute marriage, achieved the heirs he wanted and needed and have his dynastic security. I was well enough built and young and likely to bear Henry the abundant sons he needed. But, in his perversity, just at the moment when he could have achieved everything, he acted with all the pettishness of a spoilt baby. He stamped his foot, dug in his heels, and refused to play. The very parts of me that he so shamefully described as being unpleasant to him – my hips, my breasts, my robust build – were indicators of fecundity. I am quite sure of it. I may have grown up in a formal and proper court, but there was birth happening all around me, and there were women who were married and with child – and my own sister married and gave birth so I know very well that a generous shape is best for childbirth. Queen Jane, I learned later, was built as Henry liked his women, small and delicate and fair – and childbirth killed her. I truly believe, with my hand on my painted heart, that if Henry had stayed married to me and we had made sons together, he would have been a happier man, and if he were a happier man then he would have lived longer. And in living longer he would have spared England much bloodshed and corruption.
I became close to Mary and Elizabeth during the King’s lifetime. Once I was safely divorced and no threat Henry encouraged our meetings, though little Edward was kept away from court and scarcely saw any member of his family for fear of his catching some infection. I accompanied both daughters on formal occasions, rode in carriages with them, dined with them, danced with them – and was in every sense a valued aunt. Henry tolerated – even perhaps liked – this state of affairs and m
y portrait, too, was kept and respected. But after his death, with all the religious and political upheavals that followed, life became more dangerous. The religious world turned upsidedown with far-reaching consequences for English politics and royalty. The scars of those religious differences never healed though Elizabeth, in her reign, showed a healthy wisdom. By saying that the way a man worshipped was according to his own conscience and that she had no mind to try to put a window in men’s souls she saw off some of the worst. She, like me, learned the art of non-provocation. And she, like me, learned to live as a single woman in an age where such a phenomenon usually counted for very little.
So you see, Flora, it was because of those turbulent times that my portrait came here to France. For when another Cromwell, Oliver, sold the royal art collection the French, wise and cultivated connoisseurs, bought many of the works, including me. I was glad to go. The stories about me and the lies and inventions and personal insults persisted. No one, it seemed, remembered the Princess of Cleves who was liked and admired in those years spent in England after her divorce; no one remembered the step-aunt who had shown affection and warmth to those sad Tudor daughters. By the time I arrived in Paris, somewhere around the mid-seventeenth century, I was known to the world as The Flanders Mare. It would be fair and good if the things said about me over the centuries were redressed for there is no evidence for them. This visit back to England, which I would not have made had I a choice, will be strange, like going home, even more so than if I were to be returned to Cleves. But a home of mixed blessings. Perhaps, Flora, with the interest you have shown, perhaps we will meet there again and perhaps, this time, you might understand the truth of it, and will make the truth prevail.