by Alison Weir
The insult to Kat – dear, sweet, plain Kat – stung, and my anger flared brighter than my disappointment. I made my curtsey and departed in a huff, hoping he realised he had offended me. Then I sought out Kat, and told her it was useless to pursue the matter further, as there were no places.
‘It is no matter,’ she said. ‘Mother wanted it more than I did. I am for Belvoir Castle today, with my Lord and Lady Rutland.’ And she went on happily with her packing.
When I thought later about what the King had said, it occurred to me that he was probably tired of being bombarded with these incessant requests, and had meant to put a stop to them, once and for all. But it had been an unkind way to do it.
Mother, though, would not be deterred. My heart sank when Lady Rutland told me that Mother Lowe had received a large bribe from my lady, for I knew what the answer would be.
And then, out of the blue, the King summoned me. It was a fine March day, and he invited me to walk with him in his privy garden – an honour not accorded to everyone. Needless to say, it threw me into confusion, especially when he began speaking in earnest.
‘I have missed you, Anne,’ he said, and my heart soared. All my resentment was forgotten. ‘You understood, of course, why I could no longer be your servant. But now . . . This so-called marriage. It is no marriage.’ He was looking at me pleadingly.
My thoughts were racing in several different directions, and at the end of one of them there was a crown.
‘I await proofs from Cleves,’ Henry said. ‘If there are none, I will have the marriage annulled.’ I wondered, my heart racing, if I had taken his meaning aright.
We had reached the gate, and he led me along the path to the stables. There, in the cobbled courtyard, stood a grey palfrey equipped with a fine saddle and bridle.
‘For you,’ the King said. He was smiling eagerly at me, waiting for my reaction, and I could only stand there and wonder what this princely gift betokened. I could not credit that he was expecting me to become his mistress, for his talk of divorce had led me to think he was looking forward to a time when he was free to wed.
‘I am astonished,’ I murmured. ‘Your Grace is too kind.’
‘It is a measure of my esteem,’ he said, and kissed my hand. I was sure then that I knew what was in his mind.
It all came to nothing. Within a month, as the world knows, he was pursuing Katheryn Howard, one of my fellow maids-of-honour, and my crazy hopes were extinguished.
I understood how the Queen felt, abandoned and humiliated. The courtiers had deserted her chambers to flock to the new favourite. Even Mother ceased pressing for a place for Kat. That was a sure sign of how the wind was blowing.
I cursed Henry for his fickleness. I wondered bitterly if he had it in him to love someone truly. Twice he had led me on, then forsaken me. I could only thank God that he had been discreet in his renewed pursuit of me, relieved that few could know of my mortification.
I soon realised that there was another reason why he had distanced himself.
Just days later, I was delighted to hear that Arthur had been recalled to England. Mother and my sister Mary would be following. The news could not have come at a better time. I could not wait to see them all. I had visions of us all retreating to the peace of Devon, where my battered heart could heal, my spirits braced by Mother’s down-to-earth support. She would be ecstatic that her exile was at an end.
Arthur had not yet arrived when Master Husee came banging on my door at court. His pleasant face looked unusually troubled.
‘Mistress Anne,’ he said urgently, ‘my Lord Lisle has been arrested on suspicion of treason, and has been taken to the Tower.’
‘What? When? What has he done?’ I cried, panicking.
‘As far as I can tell, he is accused of plotting to sell Calais to the French.’
I was horrified. ‘But he would never do that! He is loyal to the King.’
Master Husee shrugged despairingly. ‘I know he has had dealings with the French, but I never heard or suspected that there was anything remotely treasonable going on. My lady wrote a hasty letter saying he was questioned about a secret betrothal between your sister Mary and the new seigneur of Bours. Such closeness to a subject of the French King could be open to misinterpretation.’
It seemed trivial to me, a family matter and nothing more. I knew Arthur too well to believe anything else.
I had another shock, very soon afterwards, when I learned that Mother and my sisters had also been arrested, and were being held under house arrest in Calais. Master Husee learned that Mother had been seen disposing of papers in the privy, which sounded ominous. My brother John, greatly alarmed, hastened over to Calais and carried away Frances and their daughter to England.
I don’t know how I got through those dark days. Hourly, I expected to hear of my stepfather’s execution. The Council summoned me for questioning, but I could tell them nothing, and they let me go. Tainted by treason as I was, some of my friends deserted me, among them Lady Sussex, who I dared to upbraid for her faithlessness. Later, we were reconciled, after a fashion, but things were never the same between us again.
I had relied on my mother and stepfather for many of the luxuries I enjoyed, the clothes I wore, and a handsome allowance. I could look for none of those now, and as time wore on, I began to run out of money. But I was more worried about Mother. The few letters I received from her were incoherent, and I was scared that she had gone mad.
My true friends rallied around me. Many ladies-in-waiting were protective of me, and my fellow maids kind. The Queen herself was sympathetic. They all seemed to think that the worst consequence of the tragedy that had befallen my family was that I now had no chance of making a good marriage. But I cared nothing for that. I was reeling from the news that our household at the Staple Inn had been broken up, and that the Crown had seized all the plate, jewels, clothes and papers found there.
Malicious tongues had it that Mother was the real traitor, having plotted to marry her daughter to a Frenchman who was bent on seizing Calais. There was a story that Arthur had tried to enlist the Pope’s support in surrendering Calais to the French. Speculation got wilder and wilder. It was even being said that Mother had taken a Catholic priest, the aptly named Sir Gregory Sweet-Lips, as a lover, and that he was in touch with the Pope.
In the end, of course, the scandal died down, and it became clear to me that there was not enough evidence to support the charges of treason; had there been, Arthur would have suffered for it. Nevertheless, he remained in the Tower, and Mother and Mary were kept under house arrest in Calais.
This horrible affair left my heart bruised and my nerves shattered, but there was one consolation. The King.
He sent for me at the height of the madness, and was kind. ‘I have a great liking for you, Mistress Anne, as you know,’ he said. ‘I know you were not involved in this bad business, and I am sorry for your trouble. Rest assured, your place at court is secure.’
I thanked him, from my heart, miserably aware that his was given elsewhere.
One reason why the fuss abated was that there were three other, juicier, scandals. One was the arrest of Lord Cromwell in June; the second was the attainder of his colleague, Lord Hungerford, for treason, sodomy and sorcery. And the third was the matter of the Queen.
I was not sorry to take my leave of her, standing in line with all her other servants, on the day her household was disbanded. I had never warmed to her, and I still believed that, but for her coming, the King would have married me. It was an irrational dislike, because she had had no say in the matter, but it had been on her account that he had abandoned me.
I felt even more resentful of Katheryn Howard. Had she not fluttered her bright blue eyes at the King, and conducted herself provocatively towards him, luring him into her snares, it might have been me whom he married that summer – on the very day that the heads of Thomas C
romwell and Walter Hungerford fell. And I was commanded to serve her as maid-of-honour. Kat was very envious. Once again, she was passed over. All she was offered was a post in the household of the Lady Anne of Cleves.
But when news of our brother John’s death reached us, that all seemed trivial. He was just twenty-three, far too young to be struck down by a wasting illness no physician could diagnose. Our thoughts were at Umberleigh, with Frances, whom he had left pregnant, and her two fatherless little girls.
Little Arthur, who was named after my stepfather, was born there in October 1541, the month before the fall of Queen Katheryn. For the third time in four years, I was present at the disbanding of a royal household. This time it was Sir Thomas Wriothesley who ordered us all to repair to our families or friends. Afterwards, though, he took me aside and informed me that I might remain at court in my old lodgings, even though there was no queen to serve.
‘His Majesty is conscious of the calamity that has befallen your family,’ he explained. ‘He will provide for you at his own expense, and arrange a suitable marriage for you.’
Again, I was struck by Henry’s kindness to me, even in the midst of his sorrow – for it was no secret how badly the affair of the Queen had shaken him. He was out hunting daily, from November until after Christmas, doubtless trying to divert his ill humour, and it was bruited about the court that he was neglecting state affairs. Yet he did not forget me or mine. Early in the New Year of 1542, when Arthur had been in the Tower for twenty months, his arms were restored to their place in the chapel of the Garter knights at Windsor. Rumour had it that it was a sign that he would soon be freed. How I prayed for it, and especially for my mother, who had been permitted to write to me only infrequently. All her letters had betrayed the incoherence that had alarmed me in the first place. It seemed that she was no less confused with the passing of time. I feared that the strain had permanently robbed her of her wits.
At the end of January, the King invited me and dozens of other ladies to a lavish supper and banquet, the first he had hosted in months. He had never been merry since first hearing of the Queen’s misconduct, but he was on that evening, when the tables were laden with gold and silver plate, fine Venetian glass and a delicious variety of dishes, and he made us all great and hearty cheer. I had a place of honour on his left hand, while Elizabeth Wyatt, whom Sir Thomas Wyatt had repudiated for her adultery, was on his right, being of higher rank. For all her reputation, she was a pretty, likeable creature, and his Grace showed her the greatest regard. To be fair, he did divide his attention between us, and the other guests, but I sensed his preference for Lady Wyatt, probably because he thought her easy game.
Listening to him paying us compliments, and seeing him smile at our witty remarks, it was hard to believe that, earlier that day, Parliament had drawn up an Act of Attainder against the Queen. No wonder the gossips were busy, for it was widely believed that the King would not be long without a wife, if only because of the great desire he had for more sons. Lady Wyatt was soon discounted, for it was out of the question for him to marry a lady of such a notoriety; but there were many who looked covertly, or hopefully, at me.
Yes, the King did seek my company in those difficult weeks, but what the inquisitive courtiers did not know was that he wept on my shoulder when we were private, bewailing the misfortunes that had befallen him. I may have been the only person, apart from his fool and confidant, Will Somers, who knew that Henry now shied from the prospect of marriage. He had been too deeply hurt. Small wonder that Parliament passed an Act declaring it treason if a woman with a past did not declare it when the King made plain his interest in wedding her.
Well, I had no past, but this time I was not hoping for a proposal. Twice bitten, three times shy. And yet, I think now that, if I had played my cards aright, I could have had him then. It was me he had turned to in his grief, me to whom he showed the greatest favour. Had he promised to find a husband for me? He never did, so was he reserving me for himself? I shall never know. Maybe he shrank from marrying another young maid-of-honour.
It was during one of these harrowing, emotional evenings that I was emboldened by Henry’s favour to speak up on Arthur’s behalf.
‘Is it true that your Grace means to release him? He is a good man who would not hurt a fly, still less commit treason.’
The King nodded thoughtfully. ‘For all the Council’s searching, no evidence has been found to support the allegations. We had to be sure, Anne. But you are right. Lord Lisle is harmless, and yes, I do believe him to be loyal. I will pardon and release him, and your mother and sister.’
I was so overcome with relief that, rather than kneeling to express my gratitude, as I should have done, I flung my arms around Henry and kissed him. ‘Thank you, Sir! Thank you!’
He looked startled, then kissed me back, on my cheek, and patted my hand. It was the last time he kissed me.
In March that year, Arthur was to be set free. I made my way, with my maid, to the Tower of London to greet him when he emerged. I had planned to take him for a celebratory dinner at the Swan in Gray’s Inn Lane, where the City guildsmen eat. I waited, and I waited, listening to the bell of All Hallows chiming the hours. At length, I ventured to the gatehouse and spoke to the guards on duty. Where was my Lord Lisle? I was sure he was due for release today. After they had consulted their papers and confirmed that was indeed the case, one hastened away to find out what was happening.
He came back with a grave face. ‘Mistress,’ he said, his voice cracking, ‘I have bad news. I am afraid that Lord Lisle collapsed at the sudden rapture of learning of his pardon. He lies in his chamber, very sore sick from the pain in his chest.’
I was so distressed that they let me in to see him. I stayed two days, watching over him, before he suffered severe and fatal pangs and died. I followed the coffin when it was buried in the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula in the Tower.
The worst of it was that, as Mary wrote to me, being liberated had lifted Mother’s spirits, and she had rejoiced to learn that Arthur was also to be freed, thinking soon to be reunited with her husband; but the news of his death plunged her back into a stupor, and after that she barely knew where she was or who we were. It was pitiful to see, Mary said, and not the homecoming Mother had dreamed of. Mary took her down to Tehidy, where she could benefit from the bracing air and be looked after. And there she has stayed ever since.
Agnes, 1522
Agnes knew that her only hope was to plead not guilty. She was sure there was no proof to convict her. She had not even been present when the murder was carried out, and if her co-accused testified against her, saying she had incited them to do the killing, she would deny it. It was the word of a lady against common thieves.
But when she was brought into Westminster Hall, she was surprised to hear Mathew and Inges plead not guilty too. So they had not betrayed her; she was fairly certain of that. It must have been Walter. Alarmingly, the court seemed to be in possession of damning depositions by someone who seemed to have a very good idea of what had taken place. How could they have known? Was it just clever guesswork – or had there been a witness to the killing? One thing remained certain: no one could have witnessed her part in it.
‘William Mathew and William Inges, the court finds you guilty of murder,’ the presiding judge declared, at the end of the day. ‘Agnes Hungerford, we find you not guilty of petty treason, but guilty of inciting and abetting the murder. Accordingly, you are all three sentenced to hang.’
The spectre of the flames receded. She was not to burn, to her profound relief. Yet she was still to die, and hanging was no easy death, as she had seen for herself on one or two occasions. Agnes began to tremble. This time, it was not on account of something that might happen to her, but because of what would of a certainty happen to her – unless she could make a successful plea for mercy.
The judge ruled that, because Agnes was now a convicted felon, all her pos
sessions were forfeit to the Crown. It was then that she noticed Walter, among the spectators, looking smug with triumph, and knew, without any doubt, that she had him to thank for her present trouble. He would get his hands at last on his father’s goods; and he had exacted a cruel vengeance.
Anne, 1542–1554
I stayed on at court, where I had the King’s special favour and many friends. In 1543, when I was twenty-two, I was again appointed maid-of-honour, this time to Henry’s sixth wife, Katharine Parr, and I served that gracious lady for three years and more. I grew close to the Lady Mary, and we often partnered each other at cards or on the virginals and lute. I remember giving her some embroidered gloves one New Year.
Even now, I cannot bear to recall how affected I was by the King’s death in 1547. He had been the lodestar of my life, and when he was gone, the world seemed an empty, troubled sea in which I was cast adrift. I was granted an allowance for mourning attire, and went about the court like a wraith, feeling as if I no longer had any place there.
Queen Katharine retired to Chelsea. Kat was still with the Lady Anne of Cleves, and stayed with her even after her own marriage later that year. I went to the wedding at the church at Hever, and was glad to see my sister a happy bride. I was godmother to her son Henry the following autumn.
I had received an annuity for my service to Queen Katharine. It kept me in relative comfort, enabling me to rent a house in London when it became clear that there was no place for me at court under the new King, Henry’s son Edward. During the six years of his reign, I visited Mother at Tehidy a few times, and was sad to see her still out of her wits. She hardly knew me, and spent her days sitting in her chair by the fire, mumbling incoherently and wringing her hands. It was a long way to go for such poor reward, and eventually I made the journey just once a year, to salve my conscience. She had been a good mother, and it was the least I owed her.