by Mavis Cheek
‘No change there, then.’ says Ewan.
Hilary manages a little snort of amusement. Miss Murdoch’s thin lips trace a smile. Even Flora laughs.
‘One false step, one false move and Anna could have the religious factions down on her, or the political factions down on her – or make any one of ten other dangerous enemies. In those years the example she set for both of her – much diminished – designated illegitimate – step-nieces – was exemplary. Indeed, she did more than an aunt for she did what a mother would do she showed them how to behave in order to survive.’
Flora turns to Miss Murdoch and says, ‘In art as in life, you should be aware that no book, nor any Internet site, nor any pundit on this earth can make up for using your own eyes and brain.’ She flaps a hand at the catalogue which Miss Murdoch clutches to her side. ‘Why, I look more like a Flanders Mare than Anna.’ She pauses, arm out dramatically. Unfortunately no one leaps to her defence but at least the two Japanese of the additional party burst into spontaneous applause. Kind of them. Hilary turns to them and says very slowly and loudly, ‘This is my father’s work. He died recently and – well – he was brilliant.’ She has bright, watering eyes again and has used up all her tissues. Flora reluctantly takes her handkerchief out of her pocket, her very pretty white and lacy one, which she fantasised about fluttering at Ewan over their lunch, and she hands it to Hilary. Flora imagined herself daintily dabbing at her nose – or perhaps her eyes if she could find something sad to share with him – or happy – or anything really – and its fluttering laciness would charm him with its utter femininity. It seemed altogether more seductive than twanging a stocking top which is what Rosie always recommended. You could bet he’d run a mile and anyway, Flora wore tights. There was something comfortingly all over about them. I am not a sex bomb, she thought sadly, and I never will be.
Hilary shows no regard for the little hankie’s prettiness and takes it and uses it. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ she whispers. Flora is braced. All or nothing now. She turns to look at Anna once more and she decides that she really can see a slight, very slight, look of interest in her expression. How comforting. ‘Well, too soon the King rejects Anna of Cleves, who has been so kind to them and so friendly and who is already loved by them. Mary and Elizabeth watch fearfully – both knowing how their father can behave. They have had six short months of normality – then everything is fear and anxiety again. Anna might be in danger, even mortal danger. Mary is not so anxious about Anna’s mortality as Elizabeth who is anxious with good cause. Her knowledge of the fate of her mother bites deep. Both the little girl and the young woman, the Tudor daughters both fearful in their own way – wait to see what happens. ‘Well – does Anna let them down? Does she call on her brother to come to fight and defend her and let factions wreak their worst – does she do anything either aggressive or provocative? Does she scream and shout and call upon the heavens in her name – does she even – understandable and forgivable as it might have been – bemoan and defame their father? She does not. She knows very well how to conduct herself. And she knows that those girls love their father despite all. So instead she professes herself sad but willing if it must be – to lose such a husband. She is amenable, docile, giving, dignified, royal. Which suits everybody. Including her. No one is injured, in particular not the daughters of the King who can remain her friends.
‘How Anna of Cleves behaves in this period becomes a great lesson for Elizabeth in later years. Even to the meeting between Anna and her replacement, Queen Catherine Howard. Even Chapuys, the Emperor’s ambassador and no friend of Cleves at all, describes it with admiration thus: “The lady entered the room as if she were the most insignificant damsel about court, all the time addressing the Queen on her knees, notwithstanding the prayers and entreaties of the latter, who received her most kindly, showing her great favour and courtesy.” We know that Henry was both relieved and charmed by such a display. And this modest, acquiescent behaviour from a woman wronged almost beyond endurance . . . Is this cleverness? Or is it stupidity? Is this the behaviour of a thick-skinned dullard or the behaviour of a highly intelligent woman who wishes to survive well? I think you know the answer and I think Elizabeth certainly did. After this moment, which so many must have wished would go badly wrong, Anna was safe. Clever? Or foolish? Which?’
They chuckle. Even Hilary chuckles. There is no question that they consider Anna anything but stupid. Miss Murdoch feels that strange sense of warmth on her back again and breaks out into a further sweat. She takes a covert look but can see nothing. It must be a very, very hidden heating duct.
‘Pragmatism, dignity, modesty, wisdom – these were good lessons that carried Elizabeth through the years of being under suspicion from Mary for plotting against her. Just as Anna went to court and bowed the head and bent the knee, and was seen to do so, so did Elizabeth go dutifully to Mass, and bend the knee to her Catholic sister, so that no one could declare her heretic. Principles or pragmatism? Both if you believe what is in your heart is the truth.
‘It is, I think, no coincidence that both Anna when she was finally safe and free, and Elizabeth when she was safe and free and reigning Queen, were remarked for their spectacular dresses. It was their bravado – a celebration of femininity. Only the weak or oppressed comply to a standard that is not their own in their clothing.’ Here Flora smoothed the skirt of her cherry-red gown with its silly ruffles making nonsense of her knees and smiles.
Hilary says – rather weakly – which is understandable, ‘Did my father write all that?’
‘Not all, my love,’ says Flora. ‘Not quite all.’
Well, Edward might be strutting his stuff somewhere, but he was not here and Flora was and even if Hilary was looking a little constrained, still she was listening to her mother. With a certain amount of respect. And that was something. At least Flora knew it was all her own work and that would have to do.
Miss Murdoch shuffles and looks yearningly at the exit but she has to stay. If only they would turn the heating down, she thinks, for she has never known it to be so hot in an exhibition. Surely it can’t be good for the paintings? And so she waits, a little bit shinier in the forehead, a little bit damper under the arms. It is uncomfortable. Inadvertently Flora has learned another great truth – that she who holds the purse strings wields the power. ‘Do please hurry up,’ says Miss Murdoch. ‘I have my train to catch.’
But the crowd now assembled says, Ssh!
‘There was a time when Elizabeth forgot this lesson. When wisdom, dignity, pragmatism went out of the window, and a destructive madness entered in its place. It was the nadir of Elizabeth’s personal history – in the very last year of her reign and it was after that – I am certain – she commissioned the Hurcott Ducis stone. And others for other places, too. She turned and gestured towards the portrait of Elizabeth. ‘I think it quite likely – since Hurcott Ducis was not particularly important – that Elizabeth also had memorial stones for Anna placed in each of the houses and palaces she once owned – most of which have been destroyed, or extensively rebuilt – places like Hever Castle, Richmond Palace, Bletchingley, Dartford, Penshurst, Chelsea – the changes of time will have lost them – or they were incorporated in other buildings to be found and wondered over, as we found and wondered over this one. Elizabeth – who loved all things Italianate despite her contempt for the Pope – ordered them to be carved and placed as homage. Suddenly Elizabeth had good reason to remember her stepmother and step-aunt Anna of Cleves.’
Then Ewan laughed, easing the tension. ‘Flora,’ he said, ‘cut to the chase, will you? Why?’
And she laughed back, delighted. Who cared about her own reputation when she could polish Anna’s? ‘Well the fact of the matter is,’ she said, in a sudden rush, ‘that towards the very end of her reign Elizabeth behaved extremely stupidly for one so intelligent. She ignored the lessons of her youth, ignored her brilliant adviser Cecil and her council. She became self-indulgent, careless of the times, and deaf to reason. It nea
rly cost her both her life and her throne. Elizabeth became a fool for love.’ It is a brave woman who takes on a Tudor monarch even if it is a painted image and five hundred years on from her living self. Flora dares not look at the Ditchley as she adds this last for – true though she is sure it is – this is harsh criticism for this proud queen. She is about to continue when a voice interrupts and just for a dreadful moment Flora thinks the Ditchley has come to life – but it is not imperious Elizabeth, it is imperious Miss Murdoch. ‘I’m sorry’, she says, ‘But this really is the wildest speculation. Utterly suspect, I’m afraid. I really am not convinced by any of it. Not at all.’
‘I can tell you that my father would never put his name to anything suspect,’ says Hilary, going pink as she steps forward. ‘He was a scholar and knew more, I think, than you will ever know.’
Miss Murdoch, slightly anxious about the possibility of another wail and gout of tears, gives in and unbends. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘Possibly it could be so. Though Elizabeth was Gloriana to her dying day.’
Flora wants to cheer. Who cares whose tale this is? Because really it is only Anna’s and Elizabeth’s.
‘No, Miss Murdoch, Elizabeth very much was not. If you have done your research correctly . . .’ And here Flora pauses to let the shaft sink through that iron grey suiting which it does, leaving Miss Murdoch blinking evilly. ‘In those last years of her reign, when she was damn near seventy – she – foolishly – dangerously – fell in love with an ambitious, ruthless, headstrong young man whom she indulged beyond sanity, and whom she allowed herself to pretend was in love with her. There is a poem published in 1599 which was accorded to Shakespeare but which it is now known was written by Richard Barnfield. You’ll know it, Miss Murdoch.’ Miss Murdoch acknowledges, with a stiff little movement of her head, that she does. ‘“Crabbed Age and Youth cannot live together . . .” Barnfield was known to favour panegyrics and particularly panegyrics that were a mixture of eulogy and criticism. His panegyric “Cynthia” was already addressed to Elizabeth and it is highly likely that “Crabbed Age and Youth” was written in the same vein. The whole of England knew about Elizabeth’s foolishness with this young hothead Earl, and the poets and the playwrights were the chroniclers of the age. The date of the poem certainly fits – 1599 . . .’
‘But fits, Mrs Chapman, with what?’
‘With the date of Elizabeth’s great trouble – and with the date of Anna’s stone.’
‘What exactly was this great trouble?’ asks Ewan, gently. ‘Essex plotted to take the throne and make Elizabeth his prisoner . . . Possibly to kill her.’
Flora pauses for effect and while she does so Mary, quiet on the wall, cannot, just cannot, resist taking a peek at her sister and she sees suffering in Elizabeth’s eyes now, a suffering that Mary knows well. Perhaps they were not so temperamentally unalike after all?
‘The Earl of Essex believed he could take Elizabeth’s throne and be loved more than her, for his braveness, his wit, his youth. He really believed the country wanted him more than Good Queen Bess. He attempted a coup and it failed.’
Now she has all of their attention. They are as still as the portraits. Miss Murdoch is relieved to find the temperature has gone back to nearly normal.
‘Well, go on,’ says Hilary. ‘Don’t stop now.’
So Flora smiles, and does so. ‘Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, nearly undid all the good of Elizabeth’s reign, nearly lost her the respect and reputation of the entire Tudor Dynasty. And all because she abandoned wisdom and discretion. The dates of Devereux’s betrayal coincide almost exactly with the dates of the Italianate lettering on the stone. The stone itself is made from the finest Italian marble and the lettering is beautifully crafted by a Master – it is, according to experts, unlikely to have been made by a local craftsman – and so it must represent something truly expensive – and profound. It also contains the symbol of the swans – something not accorded Anna’s great tomb in Westminster. There was a romantic legend of the founder of the ducal dynasty, an eleventh-century knight who was first brought to Cleves by a boat guided by swans, so whoever commissioned the carving knew this tale and knew Anna of Cleves and her family armorial very well. It is the kind of tale Anna might have told to a child . . . And this is what I think happened . . .’
‘Can you speak up,’ says an eager voice from the back. And lo – it is one of the attendants. If she had time to think about it Flora’s cup of happiness would probably overflow.
‘After the danger was past and she was safe and Essex in the Tower Elizabeth went to Richmond Palace – a place where she had been happy – a place where – as a child – she had stayed with Anna. And she brooded on her foolishness for days, locked into her rooms. To choose Richmond was certainly significant. In old age one’s mind wanders to the past for guidance and comfort. She would, of course, remember the days of Anna’s ownership. And Anna was quite likely to tell her stories. Of knights and swans and all. I am sure that the date of the placing of the stones was 1601 – the year that Essex was executed. In those last years Elizabeth spent most of her time at Richmond Palace and the memory of Anna’s kindness and good sense cannot have been far from her mind. The stones, I’m convinced, were made as private marks of respect – finally for the Daughter of Cleves . . . whose funeral she did not, could not, mark nor attend, being held prisoner at Woodstock by her sister. It was Mary who buried Anna, Mary who remembered her with honour and placed her by the High Altar at the Abbey. Mary who did not include the romance of the swans. Elizabeth’s memorial stones were her own, personal and final marking of this extraordinary woman.’
Flora found herself suddenly very close to tears and fumbling for her hankie –which was already damp and still held by Hilary. Hilary dabbed at her own eyes and handed the poor wet item back to Flora. For a moment Anna was Flora, Flora was Anna and their tears and Hilary’s tears all mixed together. It seemed oddly appropriate. Hilary, who was looking a bit pink and watery again, took the hankie back. Ewan had a very brighteyed look about him. Flora swallowed hard, sniffed, touched the edges of her eyes with her fingertips, and continued. ‘Those of us who have fallen under the spell of someone dashing and exciting and then found them wanting will understand a little of what Elizabeth felt but it is not the purlieu of a dutiful prince when there is duty to be performed. Anna did her duty. Elizabeth forgot – for a dangerous moment – to do hers.’
‘I think there can be no other explanation – the dates match, the quality suggests someone noble paying for the materials and carving, and someone very much aware of artistic fashion and forgive me –’ She looked downwards with a bashful smile, ‘but then as now – I hardly think we of Hurcott Ducis, if faced with the same idea, would be able to say what the fashion in memorial materials and calligraphy might be . . .?’
Ewan shuffled and smiled a bit.
‘Oh, I think my father would,’ said Hilary.
Which brought Flora firmly back to earth again. She made one more dab at her eyes, and went on. ‘Perhaps the ritual of having those stones made and placed helped Elizabeth in her darkest time – as some kind of retribution. I think they were placed discreetly because Elizabeth was not one, nor ever had been, to exalt another publicly (being so fragile inside herself) apart from her father. They were Elizabeth’s private testimonial to Anna and our stone, in little Hurcott Ducis, is perhaps the only surviving reminder of that bond and late recognition.’ Flora then gives a bow and has a sudden regret that Edward is not here, after all, to see her performance. Perhaps, after all, he is. It certainly feels, in quite a nice way, that Flora is being watched.
‘Is that it?’ asks Miss Murdoch, looking fearfully in Hilary’s direction. Hilary is building up again.
‘Not quite,’ says Hilary, who steps forward with pink nostrils and pinkly wet cheeks so that she and Flora make something of a handsome Pieta – minus the body.
Hilary says, ‘That stone – which my father found and researched so eruditely – is now his eternal m
emorial in the old wall of Hurcott Ducis, which he so loved and which so loved him.’
Oh no, thinks Flora. That really is too, too much. She is about to object, to give the moment – and the stone – back to Anna – when she feels that Louvre warmth again – like a breath on her back. She turns but there is only Anna’s portrait. Anna looks resolute. Flora feels it. Oh let it go, she decides, let it go. Flora gives Hilary a kiss instead of speaking out, and that is that. ‘Clever old Edward,’ she says, to no one in particular.
Ewan and Hilary both nod.
Miss Murdoch stares up at Anna’s portrait for a minute. And then looks at Flora. ‘Perhaps,’ she says, ‘you are right. My cheque?’
Flora hands her the envelope and as she walks away she says, ‘It’s a very good story.’
‘I’ll send it to you,’ calls Flora.
‘Do.’ And with that the Murdoch is gone.
Flora is certain that the story is too good for even Miss Murdoch to resist. Use it she will. There will be no more Flanders Mare.
‘Lunch,’ says Ewan.
‘Shame about Dilly not joining us,’ says Flora sadly, ‘Such a bright girl.’
‘Yes,’ he says. But he looks at Flora wonderingly. A vague light of truth hovers around his brain – ‘And so are you, Flora,’ he says with absolute conviction. ‘And so are you.’
Never, thinks Flora, take anything at face value from a woman who has studied Anna of Cleves.
She watches Ewan walking ahead. Such a nice, ordinary man, she thinks. And still in love with his wife. That is suddenly very, very obvious. Bright bloody girl. She sighs. That is love, that is. She must, she decides, be the only woman in the world without an edge to fight. She sighs again. Hilary – usefully – mistakes the sigh and links her arm with Flora’s as they walk away. Is that enough? It ought to be. But Flora looks about her as they walk past the portraits and she can’t help but envy them. Even Anna made her mark in time. Now she never will. Even with the History of Hurcott it will be Edward’s name, not hers, embossed on the cover.