The Curse of the Hungerfords

by Alison Weir

  After supper, the Duke’s consort of musicians arrived with their trumpets, lutes and harps. Mutter would always have harp music if she could; it was her favourite, and she bestowed one of her rare smiles on the players when the last note had been struck.

  ‘I wish we could dance,’ Emily said wistfully, ‘or sing.’

  Mutter frowned. ‘My dear child, you know it is immodest for a woman to dance or sing in public.’

  ‘I know,’ muttered Emily gloomily, ‘but I do so love music and dancing.’

  Tante Elisabeth regarded her with disapproval.

  ‘She inherited her love of music from me,’ Mutter said. Elisabeth gave a thin smile.

  The men were talking of politics.

  ‘The Emperor has ambitions. He wants the duchy of Guelders for himself,’ Vater was saying. ‘But it will go to Anna’s betrothed.’ Anna saw Otho’s expression darken, but Vater continued, unheeding. ‘Duke Charles is childless, and Francis, as his great-nephew, will inherit. I myself have a claim to Guelders, but I relinquished it as part of the terms of the betrothal contract; I am content that my daughter will be duchess of Guelders.’

  Anna struggled to maintain her composure. She most certainly was not content at the prospect. Her imaginary image of Francis had metamorphosed from a courteous, smiling boy into a disapproving, suspicious man.

  ‘The Emperor also has a claim to Guelders, does he not?’ Onkel Otho asked.

  ‘Yes, through his mother,’ Vater told him. ‘But if he presses it, we will be ready for him. Kleve may be part of the Holy Roman Empire, but it is also one of the leading principalities of Germany. We will not let the Emperor dictate to us. We protect our independence. We have our own courts and our own army, and I keep control of our foreign policy.’ Wilhelm was listening avidly.

  ‘But Charles is very powerful. You would have a fight on your hands,’ Onkel Otho said.

  ‘Ah, but he might well be going to war with England, if King Henry continues in his attempt to divorce his Imperial Majesty’s Aunt Katherine to marry a courtesan. I count on Charles being too preoccupied with that, and with the Turks encroaching on his eastern borders, to concern himself with Guelders. I have the means to raise a mighty army.’ The Duke paused as a servant refilled his goblet. ‘I met King Henry of England once, you know. Eight years ago, I visited his kingdom in the train of the Emperor.’

  ‘What was he like, Vater?’ Wilhelm asked.

  ‘Handsome. Bombastic. Full of his new title. The Pope had just named him Defender of the Faith for writing a book against Martin Luther.’

  The conversation dragged on interminably. There had been no chance of any conversation with Otho, as Wilhelm and Emily were sitting between him and Anna, and now, at precisely nine o’clock, the Hofmeister was arriving to remove the wine, signalling that it was time to retire. It was forbidden to the courtiers to sit up any later, playing cards, drinking or even just chatting, and Vater liked to set a good example.

  Everyone bade each other a good night. As Anna was leaving the room, she felt a hand close on hers from behind, pressing something into her palm. She swung round, to see Otho giving her a longing look. Fortunately, no one seemed to have noticed, and she walked on, out of the dining chamber, to receive her parents’ blessings and hasten up to her room.

  Only then did she open her hand. She was holding a tiny package wrapped in a scrap of damask; inside was a ring enamelled in red. There was a note, too. ‘Sweet Anna, please accept this token of my esteem. My family’s coat of arms has a red ring, so it is special to me. I hope you will wear it and think kindly of your servant.’

  He had given her his special ring! If only it could have been her betrothal ring! And yet, even though it was not, it still symbolised eternal love.

  She dared not keep the note; though it broke her heart to do it, she tore it into tiny pieces and threw them out of the window. But the ring she hid under the loose floorboard in the corner of her bedchamber.

  When the von Wyliches left, two days later, Anna was torn between misery at having to bid farewell to Otho and relief at not having to fend off his earnest, covert attempts to speak with her. Once he had gone, taking with him the fear of exposure, she was able to relax, telling herself she must not think of him, for the sake of her sanity; nor did she dare ask her father for a place for him, lest her evident interest in his affairs led to awkward questions. Yet it was unbearably hard to resume the endless routine of her days, which she and Emily spent largely in their mother’s apartments, among the women. Rarely, except at night, in their shared bedchamber, were they alone.

  Wilhelm was luckier. From the age of seven, he had received a fine education under Vater’s scholarly councillor, Herr Heresbach, who had been recommended by Erasmus himself. Wilhelm never stopped boasting that Erasmus had dedicated a book to him when he was only five. He was now fluent in Latin and French, whereas Anna and Emily could speak only German. Mutter did not believe in educating women beyond teaching them to read and write.

  ‘It is immodest for great ladies to be learned,’ she said, often. ‘It is not necessary for you girls to speak any other tongue.’

  Anna could not imagine her mother ever succumbing to the kind of passion she herself had experienced. Mutter, whose resemblance to Anna was marked, physically, but not (Anna felt sadly) in many other ways, was too dignified, too serene, too devout. She supervised her daughters almost constantly. Even when Anna and Emily took some recreation in the fresh air, there she was, following at a distance with her ladies.

  ‘We are never far from her elbow!’ Emily grumbled as Mutter watched them perambulating the garden, and Anna found herself chafing even more now against such vigilance.

  ‘The Duchess is a wise lady,’ Mother Lowe chided when, back indoors, the sisters complained about Mutter’s rules. ‘It is rare to see a mother who looks after her children so strictly.’ Mother Lowe was also a lady of great dignity, for all her plumpness, her apple cheeks, and her plaits tight-coiled around each ear. Anna and Emily knew beyond doubt that she loved them, but she colluded with Mutter in constraining them to be modest, chaste and humble. Everything they learned from mother and nurse was intended to mould them into the virtuous future wives of princes; and if they strayed from the narrow path mapped out for them, or fell to daydreaming, well then, Mutter and Mother Lowe would be sure to keep them busy and distracted with religious devotions and needlework. Heaven forbid, Anna prayed, that they ever learned how far she had fallen short of their exhortations!

  ‘You must be like nuns,’ Mutter enjoined yet again. She was prone to giving little homilies as they sat plying their needles. It was now a week since their guests had left, and Anna wondered, in some alarm, if her mother had noticed her reaction to Otho. ‘You must learn custody of the eyes. Never let them stray where they should not go. Be discreet in your gestures and your expressions.’

  Even if she had noticed, Mutter could not know the whole of it, Anna reassured herself, suppressing the guilt that nagged at her constantly. It still surprised her that she had been so heedless of Mutter’s training. Custody of the eyes? She had kept custody of nothing! I am not worthy to be married, she told herself miserably. I am not worthy of my family’s love. If they knew what I really am, they would spurn me, as I deserve.

  She said nothing of her unhappiness. She must keep her secret, bearing her joy, her sorrow and her guilt in silence – these were her punishments.

  She yearned now for more distractions. Her days were a repetitive round of prayers, needlework, weaving, cooking and instruction on how to run a great household. At least there was always music to listen to; however, playing and singing were condemned as indecorous. Emily cleverly circumvented that rule. She had a lute hidden amidst the jumble of possessions crammed under her bed, which she would play softly at night or in snatched moments, and she was forever scribbling down the words to songs she had made up. But Anna lacked her te
merity and boldness; besides, she could not play any instrument, and certainly she could not sing.

  It seemed that her world was forever to be limited to the boundaries of castle and chapel, though occasionally, she and Emily were allowed to entertain guests at dinner with the Duke and Duchess, for in Kleve, parents brought up their daughters to be good hostesses. The guests – who were chosen for them – were invariably humanist scholars, churchmen, or councillors Vater wished to favour. They praised Anna’s charm and graciousness, as Mutter looked on approvingly. She thought she had done well in so virtuously bringing up her daughters.

  For all Mutter’s strictness, Anna loved her. She was the rock on which their world was built, their lodestar when things went wrong. The sight of her composed face, the sound of her calm voice, represented all that was good and safe. And her faith was an inspiration.

  Like Vater, Mutter was a friend to humanist scholars, but those who were welcomed into her circle, and at her table, were of one mind in opposing the teachings of Martin Luther. Mutter relied for spiritual consolation on her confessor, Father Gerecht, prior of the Charterhouse at Cantave, near her native Jülich. He was a monk of the very strict Carthusian Order, yet, although he had embraced the ascetic, secluded life of his cloister, he had a tender pity and love for those souls still living in the world, and visited court weekly. He had written two tracts against Luther, but there was no hatred in him. Anna loved to hear him preach, because all he spoke of was love.

  ‘Never lose sight of God’s love for man,’ he enjoined, smiling benevolently at her and Emily as they sat at table with Mutter. ‘You are Christian princesses, and must keep the Sacred Heart of God before you as the subject of special veneration and imitation.’ Anna tried to do as he counselled, but she was finding as she grew older that the world offered too many distractions – most of which were forbidden to her.

  Mutter, of course, was above worldly distractions. Her mission was to make good Catholics of her children. ‘I am always reminding them of the family motto: Candida nostra fides – “Our faith is pure”,’ she said, sipping her wine delicately. ‘And so it must be. My husband’s court is a school of this New Learning. It is true that we can learn much from these lately rediscovered texts of ancient Greece and Rome, yet I fear they inspire men to question the teachings of the Church.’

  ‘A new study of the works of antiquity seemed a marvellous thing a few years back,’ Father Gerecht declared, as fruit was served, ‘but your Grace is right, it has proved dangerous too, for it has indeed led men to question matters of faith and doctrine.’ He looked distressed. ‘Some think the Scriptures should be available for all to read.’ He did not mention the name of Erasmus; he did not need to, for they all knew that Erasmus advocated the translation of the Scriptures into the vernacular, and had translated some himself. And it was well known that Vater agreed with him.

  Mutter would never criticise Vater, or openly disagree with him. And because Vater loved Erasmus, she would not criticise him either. She just sat there daintily cutting up her food, looking pensive.

  Father Gerecht shook his head. ‘If laymen are permitted to read the Scriptures, they may boast that they understand them better than the clergy, who are trained to interpret them and invested at ordination with the spiritual power to do so.’

  Wilhelm, listening with interest to the conversation, suddenly spoke. ‘Forgive me, Father, but I have heard it said that not all priests have the learning to interpret Scripture properly for their flock, and that some interpret it selectively for their own ends.’

  ‘Wilhelm!’ Mutter exclaimed, shocked.

  The old monk smiled. ‘Your Grace, it is natural at the boy’s age to question, and if he has heard this, then he needs to hear that it is very rarely the case. There are venal souls in all walks of life, even in the priesthood, regrettably. But most are devout and conscientious in their calling. Does that satisfy you, my young lord?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Wilhelm did not look convinced.

  ‘I should hope so,’ Mutter said, severe.

  Wilhelm bowed his head.

  It would not be long now until Anna’s fifteenth birthday. Her birthday was in September, Emily’s in October, and they always had a joint celebration, usually a staid little supper with their parents and a few choice guests, who would come with felicitations and gifts. At least it was a chance to dress up.

  Anna was standing in her chemise in the middle of her chamber, studying the fine garments spread out on her bed. Emily fidgeted impatiently, already dressed in a gown of moss green with a wide black velvet belt and elaborate slashing on the tight sleeves.

  ‘The black velvet is too sombre, Anna,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but it’s my most costly dress.’ Anna bent over a rich pool of crimson velvet. ‘I’ll wear this one. And perhaps my new headdress, with my plaits showing.’ She lifted up the beaded Stickelchen; it was beautifully embroidered, with a decorative forecloth of gold.

  ‘Very fitting, Madame la Marquise,’ Mother Lowe commented, as she bustled into the room with a pile of clean linen for the chest at the bottom of the bed. ‘Now that you are almost a grand old lady of fifteen, you must look the part! But that crimson clashes with your headdress. Why not wear your red silk?’

  Anna hesitated. She had not worn the gown since June, and did not want to do so now. It bore an indelible reminder of what had passed between her and Otho, if anyone looked closely enough.

  ‘No, I think I will wear the black,’ she said quickly. ‘That gold belt with the big buckle will go well with it.’

  Mother Lowe laced her into the gown. ‘I do declare, my lady, that you have put on weight,’ she said. ‘I was lacing it tighter last time.’

  ‘That’s because she likes her Kuchen too much,’ Emily scoffed. Anna did not laugh. She had enjoyed no more cakes than normal, yet she was aware that her bust had developed rather rapidly in the past weeks, and her stomach was rounder. It was all part of becoming a woman, she knew, but she did not want to become fat.

  She put on the belt. It was true. Her waistline had thickened. ‘I shall have to look to my diet,’ she said.

  ‘’Tis common for young ladies of your age to get plump,’ Mother Lowe consoled her. ‘If you eat less, it will all fall off, mark my words.’

  But it didn’t. A month later, as the wind was whistling around the towers, the cobbles were slippery with damp russet leaves, and the household were preparing to move to Düsseldorf, as they did every winter, Anna had to face the fact that her belly and breasts were definitely swollen. Could she be ill when she felt very well? And what disease would manifest itself like this?

  An awful possibility occurred to her. When the married ladies of her mother’s court were enceinte, their stomachs swelled up. They would disappear to their estates for some months, then reappear at court, slim as reeds and full of gossip about their new babes. But she could not be enceinte. She was not married, for a start, and Otho had assured her that kissing, even the more intimate kind, was harmless. Mother Lowe had just said it wasn’t to put her charges off kissing any young man they fancied.

  But what if Otho had been wrong? What if kissing was not as harmless as he’d said?

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