by Jean Plaidy
I knew he longed for me to announce my pregnancy. There seemed no reason why I should not. But it was the familiar story. So far, there was no sign.
He was so enamoured of my youth and loving nature that he had not yet complained. But would he in time? My poor cousin had gone to the scaffold, many said, because she had only produced one child and that of the wrong sex; and when she might have given birth to a son, she had miscarried and he had lost his patience by that time.
I shut out all thoughts of such a thing happening to me. He adored me. But then he had adored Anne. He was an extraordinary mixture of ruthlessness and sentimentality. He always had a reason for his actions which made them right in his opinion. One could be in high office one day and in disgrace and disfavor the next.
Being light-hearted by nature, I did not dwell on these matters. The King loved me dearly. I was the wife for whom he had been searching all his life. I was safe.
Then I wrote to Joan Bulmer, offering her a place in my household.
When Joan arrived, I sent for her. She had changed a little. Her attitude toward me was different. But then, so was that of everyone—the outstanding example being that of my uncle, the Duke. I had seen little of him since my outburst, about which I was pleased. He must understand that he could not control my life.
Joan knelt and expressed her undying gratitude. I made her rise and told her that I hoped she would be happy at Court.
“I knew Your Majesty would help me,” she said. “You were always so kind … to everyone.”
There was a slight smile about her face as she said those words. I knew she was looking back, remembering.
“And now you are the Queen herself… and as kind as you ever were. Your Majesty, I shall always remember. I shall never forget.”
Why did it occur to me that it was not only my kindness she was remembering, but incidents from the past?
“I look forward to serving Your Majesty … in whatever capacity you wish … as I always tried to do.”
There it was again … that covert smile. It would have worried me then if I had allowed it to.
I said: “I believe you were not very happy in your new life.”
“I was not, Your Majesty. Oh, it will be a great pleasure to serve you … just as I did in the old days at Lambeth.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Mistress Tylney has promised to show me what will be expected of me.”
“You will find this different from the Duchess’s household.”
“Oh yes, Your Majesty.”
When she had gone, I sat thinking of her. She brought back memories which I would rather forget.
She settled in and was soon a close friend of Katherine Tylney and, in that light-hearted way, which was typical of me, I ceased to think about her.
Lady Rochford was the first to bring the news. I should soon have heard it, she said, for indeed the whole of London was talking about it.
“The Lady Anne of Cleves has been brought to bed of a fair boy,” she announced.
“The Lady Anne!” I cried. “A boy! No, it cannot be. It is false. I do not believe it.”
“’Tis bruited through the streets and they are saying it at Court.”
“How could there be? She is no longer the King’s wife.”
“People do have children in the most difficult circumstances,” said Jane with a laugh.
“Can it really be true?” I murmured.
“That we shall soon know.”
“If it is the King’s …”
“Ah,” cried Jane, speculation in her eyes. How she loved the excitement of prying into people’s lives. She was the sort of woman who would weave her own fantasy about people’s actions to make a more dramatic story. I thought fleetingly of her evidence of the relationship between Anne Boleyn and her brother which had been given in such a manner as to make it seem like truth, and had resulted in sending her husband George to his death, accused of incest. And when it was considered, it seemed that all that had happened was that once, when Anne was in bed, Jane had come into the bedchamber and seen her husband sitting beside the bed while his hand rested on the coverlet. I wondered if she ever felt remorse for what she had done. If she did, it had certainly not cured her of the habit.
“One of the King’s greatest desires is to have a healthy son,” she was saying. “He will be most eager to see this child whom the Lady Anne has produced.”
“Did no one know there was to be a child? It is strange that he is suddenly here.”
“The King is deeply enamoured of you. He would never leave you, even if the Lady Anne does have a child.” Her eyes were speculative again.
The courtiers were asking themselves which choice the King would make. It would be interesting to see which was more important to him: his healthy boy or his beautiful bride.
I think I never took the matter seriously. If I did, there was the fleeting thought that, if he divorced me, I could marry Thomas Culpepper after all.
I knew Thomas would want that. I had seen him only briefly since my marriage, although he was a Gentleman of the King’s Bedchamber. He had avoided me; he was very much afraid that our friendship might be remembered. But I had caught a glimpse of something in his eyes which told me that his feelings had not changed. No mention was made of our suggested betrothal.
I knew people often thought of what had happened to Henry’s wives, and it was not surprising that they might soon be wondering what my fate would be. Thomas must have realized how careful we had to be. More so than I did. And he still loved me.
And now it seemed that my future might be in jeopardy.
Then I had a visit from Anne of Cleves herself. She came without ceremony from Richmond, which was not very far from Hampton Court.
I received her at once, and she immediately told me that she had been extremely distressed by a certain rumor and wanted to tell me that there was no truth in it.
Her knowledge of our language had made great strides since her arrival. She was a clever woman and the first task she had set herself was to learn English. She was moderately fluent now and only occasionally did the pronunciation of a word betray her origins.
She said: “I have been confined to my bed for about ten days. Mother Lowe was mostly in attendance. She knows my needs better than anyone, for she has been with me, you know, since I was a child. Then these rumors started. It is quite ridiculous.”
“I was of that opinion at the time,” I told her.
“I was sure you would be. It is amazing how these rumors start. One says, I think this, or I think that, and then someone else says it is … and it goes on from there.”
I agreed. I was thinking of Jane Rochford who, I knew, always had to embroider a tale.
“It was good of you to come and see me,” I told her.
“I wished you to hear this from my own lips. I do not need to ask if Your Majesty is in good health. I see you are.”
“And you also, my lady.”
“I am when there are no foolish rumors to upset me.”
“You have been indisposed, you say.”
“It is over. What do you call it? A little matter of the chest, which kept me to my bed—so starting this gossip, mayhap.”
“A rheum perhaps?” I suggested.
“But I am recovered completely.” She smiled at me. I believe she thought I was concerned because I had taken her place, for she went on: “I am happier than I ever have been in my life before.”
“I am so pleased to hear that.”
“I have my little Court at Richmond. The King has graciously given me other houses too. And I am rich. Life has become very good to me.”
“I am happy for you.”
She looked at me searchingly. Did I fancy I saw a shade of pity in her eyes? It might have been, for she had suffered great humiliation at the hands of the King when she had been Queen. And now I had stepped into her shoes.
I was so pleased that there was no child. I very much hoped that I should be
the one to bring that joy to the King. I found I liked Anne of Cleves very much. There was something free and honest about her.
She asked me how the Court had seemed to me when I had first become her lady-in-waiting.
“I saw so little of you then,” she said.
“I was kept in the background. They thought I was such a novice … and it was true. I had to learn everything. It was all so different from my grandmother’s house in Lambeth. There was not the same order there.”
She told me a little about her childhood too. How different it was from mine! Her father was John II, Duke of Cleves, who, when he had married, had become Count of Ravensburgh through his wife’s inheritance. Anne had a sister, Sybilla. She wanted to know if I had any brothers and sisters.
“Several,” I told her. “But I was taken away when I was so young that I hardly knew them. Because we were poor, I was sent to my grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk.”
Sybilla had married almost ten years before Anne came to England. It was a brilliant marriage to John Frederick, the great Duke of Saxony.
“It is good to remember the old days,” said Anne. “When I think of my childhood, I remember the two white swans. This was because of an old legend of the Rhine. The Rhine was our river, you know. We always sang of it, and the story was that one of our ancestors came to us from nowhere and then left us in the same mysterious manner. She just arrived and then later, after bearing children, disappeared. She was supposed to be some messenger from the gods come to bless our family. She came down the river in a boat drawn by two white swans, and the swans have been our emblem ever since. Why do I tell you this?”
“Because I can see that we are going to be friends. How glad I am of that rumor, because it brought you to see me.”
“I shall return, if permitted to do so.”
“You have not only my permission, but my command.”
Then she talked about the King’s daughters and little son. She had made their acquaintance and was looking forward to improving it.
“The Lady Mary is very sad,” she said. “I should like to see more of her and cheer her if possible.”
“I have not yet spoken to her.”
“She is not easy to talk to. She has—how do you say? She retires into herself.”
I nodded, guessing that to be true. Poor Mary, she had suffered much.
We were silent for a moment, then she said: “The Lady Elizabeth is an interesting girl. She seems to be very clever. Wise beyond her years. And the boy, too, is clever.”
So we passed an hour in talk and we parted on the best of terms, promising ourselves another meeting very soon.
I thought about her a good deal after she had left. What struck me most forcibly was that she by no means regretted the loss of her crown. In fact, she appeared to be remarkably relieved to have discarded it.
It had been a most pleasant morning, partly because I was so glad to hear that the rumor about the baby was unfounded.
It had made me think though that it was time I was pregnant, and then I began to wonder whether this rumor about Anne of Cleves had started because it seemed that the King might have married another barren wife.
I had a visit from my grandmother. I could see that she was distraught.
She said: “Manox is back.”
I felt a shiver of alarm. I did not want to think of Manox. I was trying to pretend he had never existed.
“Back?” I said. “Where?”
“At Lambeth.”
“You have taken him into your household?”
“It seemed that I had no choice.”
“But … why?”
“Let me explain. He arrived and asked to see me. I was disturbed and acting on my first impulse refused. He went away, and I thought that was the end of him. I did not tell you then, because I thought it would disturb you. He came back next day and asked that a message might be delivered to me saying that, in view of the position he had once held in my household, he felt sure that I would grant him the honor of receiving him.”
“And you did?”
She lifted her shoulders. “What he craves is a place at Court—with the musicians.”
“Oh, no!”
She was frowning. “He heard that Joan Bulmer is back, and he said he was sure you would be as kind to him. You would remember how pleased you had been with his work when he was teaching you the virginals.”
I stared at her blankly, and she went on quickly: “So I said I would arrange it. It seemed all I could do. You will not have to see him if you prefer not to. He can simply join the musicians. I can arrange that. He means no harm, I am sure. He is just a little … insistent. He always was.”
“No,” I murmured. “I need not see him.”
“It is nothing to concern yourself with.”
“No,” I said. “That is so.”
We were alike in some ways, the Duchess and I. We both shut our eyes to unpleasant possibilities.
She said: “If your uncle had been on friendly terms, I might have asked him. He would doubtless have ways of removing …”
“It is of no account,” I said quickly. “Manox is only a humble musician.”
“There is a certain insolence about the man which displeases me,” went on the Duchess. “But then he always had that. The respect is so lightly applied that one can see through it. He has a great opinion of himself, our strutting little musician. He should be taught a little humility, and the Duke would have been the one to teach him. But I am not on the best of terms with my stepson; and I gather Your Majesty has offended him too.”
“He really is overbearing and arrogant. I’m afraid I was not in the mood to pander to his wishes.”
“Indeed not, and you Her Majesty! Who does he think he is? I will tell you. He is the premier peer of England. To tell the truth, I’d say he thinks he is as important as the King himself… or should be.”
“You should see them together! Then you would know who the master is.”
“Still, he has power, that one. It is well to be with him rather than against him.”
“He must make amends to me.”
“Well, little granddaughter, it is you who are the Queen. Tell me about last night’s banquet. What did you wear? They say the King is so enamored of you that he cannot take his eyes from you.”
And so we talked, and I fancied that she, as well as I, was all the time trying to believe that Manox’s return to London was of no importance.
When I was alone with the King a few days later, he took me on to his knee and said: “We are shortly to set out on our travels.”
I was excited. I enjoyed traveling through the towns and villages while people came out to cheer us, and Henry was so proud when they commented on my beauty. I could not help being enchanted by it all.
He stroked my hair and went on: “We will not have these risings every now and then on some small issue which some people think is their concern.” His face darkened. “This man Neville … he has paid the price of his folly and treachery, but you see, sweetheart, we have to make them see that we will have no more of it. That is why we shall go. We have to bring home to them what are the rewards of their conduct.”
My heart sank. This was not going to be one of those journeys during which everyone was merry. It would be a somber reminder of what happened to traitors.
“We shall drive through those counties which were involved in the trouble,” he was saying. “We shall make them understand that on no account shall they defy us.” His face was scarlet now, his mouth that straight line which I dreaded to see.
“It is one of the more unpleasant duties of the King,” he went on. “He must keep his realm safe.”
His mood changed and he was soft and sentimental again.
“It pleases me that I have my sweet little Queen to comfort me,” he said. “I plan, during this tour, to meet the King of the Scots. He can be a tiresome fellow, and I must make him see that he will come to no good if he would play his devilish g
ames with me.”
His mood had changed again, but almost immediately he was once more the loving husband.
“Your brow is troubled,” he went on. “Why, sweetheart, these are not matters for you. Alas, my lot is not always a merry one. A crown is not an easy thing to carry. That is why you, little one, are such a joy to me.”
I saw less of Henry during the short time before our journey began. He was busy with his ministers and plans for the journey. It was not a happy time for me. He began a fierce attack on those he suspected of working against him. The John Neville affair had affected him more deeply than I had at first imagined.
All the cases of those imprisoned in the Tower were examined, and, if the King’s suspicions were strong, ended in execution. Even those who had not been found guilty of treason, if the suspicion was strong enough, were dispatched.
I was very uneasy. I could not stop thinking of those people lying in that gloomy place, waiting to be summoned to the block or the hangman’s noose. I had once or twice attempted to beg for their release, but Henry had made it very clear that he had not come to me to be reminded of his enemies.
I was horrified to hear of the case of Thomas Fiennes, Lord Dacre, who was at that time a prisoner in the Tower, although there was no reason why he should be there.
Jane Rochford told me there was quite an outcry over the matter, and that, if there had not been so much trouble over John Neville’s rising, when many had been under suspicion, something might have been done about the case.
I always liked to understand these things, and particularly this matter of a man who was facing death for something he had not done.
“Then why is he in the Tower?” I demanded.
“I have heard,” said Jane, “that one night he left his castle of Hurstmonceux with a party of friends. He is a youngish man … some twenty years old … and such can be high-spirited. He was only eighteen when he came into the title. You know what young men are. Well, he and his friends found themselves on a gentleman’s estate nearby and decided to indulge in a little poaching for fun. The party then split up and one of the groups was confronted by a gamekeeper. There was a fight, during which the gamekeeper was killed.”