The Danish Queen

by Lynda M Andrews

  When she returned on the Friday it was to find James a little better and without more ado and firmly quashing all prevarications, she set about organising their removal to Theobalds.

  Once installed at Theobalds and with proper care and attention James quickly recovered the use of his limbs, but Anne was far from well. Her legs, too, became swollen and painful, but she refused to believe her physician’s diagnosis of dropsy and stated firmly that it was nothing more than the affliction her husband suffered from, implying jestingly that she must have caught it from the King.

  James, of necessity, returned to London and Anne travelled to Oatlands and then Hampton Court in the autumn, but the damp, cloying mists of the Surrey marshes caused her great distress.

  She had developed a cough but put this down to a chill contracted from the damp atmosphere, but one night she awoke choking and gasping for her breath. She was almost purple by the time Dr. Atkins and Dr. Turner arrived and to increase her panic, when she drew her hand away from her mouth, it was covered with blood! In terror she clutched at her throat as the hot, sticky, scarlet liquid bubbled from her lips.

  Dr. Turner instantly took charge, whilst Anka tried to calm her.

  “Madam! Oh, Madam! Please be still! Do not struggle against it for you will surely choke!”

  “Your maid is right, Your Majesty. I can stem the haemorrhage only if you cease to struggle, violent exertions will only aggravate it!”

  At length the bleeding stopped and Dr. Turner administered a sedative, after Anka and Katrine had stripped the soiled night rail and linen and had dressed her again.

  “She will sleep now but call me at once should anything at all occur!” Dr. Turner instructed Anka as he left.

  “Katrine and I shall sit by her.”

  The doctor left and Anka took up her post beside the bed.

  Anne was drowsy but not yet asleep. “Is that you, Anka?”

  “Yes, I shall sit beside you, Madam, rest now.”

  “I cannot ignore the truth now, Anka! My Henry… he, too… I have a lung fever!”

  “Hush, Madam! Dr. Turner said you must not exert yourself or become excited.”

  The sedative was quickly taking effect and Anne’s eyelids closed. “I must conserve my strength,” she murmured before falling into a deep sleep.

  At noon the following day James arrived, having been informed of the Queen’s condition.

  “Annie, can I no’ leave ye alone! Ye should tak’ better care o’ yoursel’!” he tried to cheer her, noting the deep circles about her eyes and the pinched look about her nose.

  “I gave strict instructions that you were not to be alarmed, your legs…”

  “Ma legs are fine an’ they did right t’ inform me! When ye are better, Annie, ye are t’ move away from here! All these mists an’ evil vapours, it’s a fell unhealthy place, no wonder Wolsey gave it to King Hal! Aye, unhealthy! Auld Elizabeth used to maintain that Richmond was the warmest o’ her palaces, an’ she had a deal o’ sense did that one!”

  “No!” Anne’s cry was resolute. “I could not go to Richmond! Have you forgotten, James, Richmond was… Henry’s.”

  James fiddled uncomfortably with his gold-mounted cane. He had forgotten that Richmond had been one of his son’s residences. “Ye shall go t’ Oatlands then, ye hae always been fond o’ the place and it will be a sight more healthier there.”

  Anne agreed and after having refreshed himself and promising to return within the week, James took his leave.

  Despite its ill-favoured position, Anne remained at Hampton Court for she was too ill to be removed and it was here that she received the news that the date had finally been fixed for the execution of Sir Walter Raleigh. She received the news with great sorrow for she had long admired Raleigh and was ever mindful of his attempts to save the life of her son. As weak as she was she called for writing materials and wrote to George Villiers, now Duke of Buckingham, begging him to use his influence with James.

  If I have any power or credit with you, I pray you let me have a trial of it at this time in dealing sincerely and earnestly with the King that Sir Walter Raleigh’s life may not be called in question. If you do it so that the success answer my expectation, assure yourself that I will take it extraordinary kindly at your hands and rest one that wisheth you well and desires you to continue still (as you have been) a true servant to your master.

  Anna R.

  Her intercession was in vain. Raleigh had the previous summer employed an expedition to search for gold in Guiana but in the course of events had made an unprovoked attack upon a Spanish colony. James, fearing that Spain would wreak her vengeance upon the English colonies still struggling to wrest a living in the New World, refused to show clemency.

  On the 29th October, 1618, Raleigh went to his death thanking God that he died in the light and not in the dark prison of the Tower.

  At Hampton Court palace, far from the crowds who had turned out in their thousands to witness the death of the last of the Elizabethan adventurers, Anne wept quietly as she read the words of the poem he had composed for her in which he begged her to intercede for him.

  “Then unto whom shall I unfold my wrong?

  Cast down my tears, or hold up folded hands?

  To her to whom remorse does not belong,

  To her who is the first and may alone

  Be justly termed the empress of Britain!

  Who should have mercy, if a queen has none?

  Save him, who would have died for your defence!

  Save him, whose thoughts no treason ever tainted!”

  James visited her in December and was alarmed to find that her physicians were doubtful of her recovery and thought her case was desperate. He was shaken by her appearance for she lay as white and as pale as the sheet that covered her, her limbs emaciated, her skin almost transparent. He bent over her. “Annie, can ye hear me?” he whispered.

  Slowly she opened her eyes and James thought that they were like two large brown pennies in her ashen face. “So you have come,” she breathed.

  “Aye, lassie, I’ve come! No, dinna try t’ rise!” he bade her.

  She sank back thankfully, the effort causing droplets of sweat to form on her brow.

  “I hae had a bit word wi’ yon doctors.”

  “What… what did they say?”

  “That ye are doing well… considering,” James lied.

  “You need not conceal the truth from me, James. I… I have not much longer upon this earth.”

  “Nay, Annie…” James began, but she caught his hand and held it to her cheek, her thin shoulders shaking with silent sobs. “I am afraid, James! I fear death, I fear that it shall come upon me suddenly when I am alone!”

  James stroked the brown curls, noticing for the first time that they were sprinkled with grey. “Dinna fear, Annie. Trust in God! Ye shall not be alone… when the time comes, I shall be with you!” he promised.

  This seemed to satisfy her and exhausted by the short conversation she drifted once more into sleep.

  James gently laid her hand upon the coverlet and kissed her clammy brow and then with a heavy heart crept from the room. Before he left he issued strict instructions that at no time was the Queen to be left alone, day or night.

  Throughout January, 1619, he journeyed three times every week from the capital to Hampton Court and with each visit his hopes diminished. Other matters aside, he had a sincere affection for his wife and now at the prospect of facing his own declining years without her, he was disconsolate.

  At the beginning of February James was stricken down at Royston and his life despaired of. News was quickly sent to the Queen but Anne was dying. She had tried to conceal the fact for days; only Anka and Katrine knew how ill she really was for she would permit no one else to attend her. Knowing that her time was short, she sent for her son but before he arrived the Bishop of London and the Archbishop of Canterbury arrived.

  “Madam, we hope that as your Majesty’s strength fails outwardly the b
etter part grows stronger,” the Bishop of London greeted her.

  “Pray for me,” she whispered.

  “Pray with us, Madam?” the Archbishop begged.

  With the words of the prayer, which she repeated after the two prelates, her voice grew stronger. “I renounce the mediation of saints and my own merits and only reply upon my Saviour Christ, who has redeemed my soul by his blood,” she replied to the Archbishop’s questions.

  The door opened quietly and Prince Charles, a quiet serious youth of eighteen, entered and crossed to the carved bed draped with green and gold hangings.

  “Charles, is that you?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  She stirred herself and signed for Katrine to raise her upon her pillows. “You are well, my son?”

  “If I could restore you to health, Mother, I would say that I was never better.”

  “Your father?”

  Charles exchanged glances with the Archbishop for James’ condition had also deteriorated.

  Anne saw the look. “Do not keep the truth from me, not at this time!”

  “His life is feared for!”

  Anne closed her eyes and tightened the grip on her son’s hand. “Poor James,” she murmured. She opened her eyes and looked directly into the liquid brown eyes of her son. “Poor Charles! So young… so heavy a burden!”

  Charles Stuart struggled to conceal his fear for he refused to admit even to himself that he was afraid. Afraid of the blow that would deprive him of both his parents. Afraid of the staggering burden that would descend upon him once his odd sire had ceased to breathe.

  “Charles, I implore you, go home now!”

  “No, I will stay to wait upon you.”

  “I am a pretty piece to wait upon!” Anne replied, attempting to jest. “I cannot stand death-bed crowds, please go now!”

  Reluctantly he kissed her and slowly walked to the door.

  “Madam, all I have to say is, set your heart upon God and remember your poor servants,” the Archbishop said, inferring that she should make her will, an act she had determinedly refused to carry out, trying to stave off this last and so final task. The Archbishop and Charles left but the Bishop stayed.

  “Madam, heed not the transitory things, but set your heart on God,” he pleaded.

  “I do, but go now and come again on Wednesday night.”

  “No, Madam, I will stay and wait upon you this night.”

  “Do not misunderstand me, there are no lodgings prepared for you, that is my reason for requesting you to retire, I do not wish…”

  “I understand, Madam,” he replied, knowing that it would be a miracle if she indeed saw the dawn.

  Her ladies and the Countesses of Arundel and Bedford had gone to supper but upon their return stayed in her antechamber at her own request. Only Anka remained with her. At midnight her doctors visited her but finding her asleep withdrew. A little after their departure she awoke.

  “Anka, bring me something to refresh my mouth.”

  Anka held a glass of Rhenish wine to her lips and Anne sipped a little. “Bolt the door, I do not wish to be surrounded by a multitude!”

  Anka obeyed and then returned to her post.

  “Stay by me?”

  “I am here, Madam.”

  She drifted once more into sleep but after barely a quarter of an hour she awoke.

  “Anka!”

  “Madam.”

  “Pray bring some water and bathe my eyes.”

  Anka went to a chest in the corner of the room and poured a little water into a bowl from the jug that stood there and carried it to the bedside with a candle to make her task easier. She set the candle down on a small press beside the bed and dipped a cloth into the water.

  “Anka, it is dark in here. Please bring a candle that I may see more clearly.”

  Anka’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Madam! Can you not see the candle that burns beside your head?”

  “No.” It was barely a whisper. Anne gulped and then said quietly. “I fear the darkness of death is upon me, Anka.”

  “Shall I fetch the Prince of Wales?”

  “In an instant. Anka, you have been with me for so long, what will you do? Where will you go?”

  The tears were flowing down Anka’s cheeks. “I do not know, perhaps I shall stay here in England… or visit Denmark, but like you, dearest Madam, this is my home now!” Anka replied, fighting to keep her voice under control.

  “Will you do something for me, Anka?”

  “Oh, Madam, you have but to ask…”

  “If you should go to Denmark, bring back a rose from the gardens of Cronenburg, bring it to me… wherever I lie?”

  With tears streaming down her cheeks, Anna Kroas unlocked the door and as she did so the clock over Anne Boleyn’s Gateway struck one.

  The Prince, the Bishop, the doctors followed by the Queen’s ladies quickly entered. Charles knelt by the bed and took her hand. She could not see him but with her other hand she tenderly touched his head.

  Her voice was so faint that he had to strain to hear her. “God bless you and guide you, my son. I give you my blessing…”

  He struggled to answer but could not, tears welling up in his eyes.

  They were the last words she spoke. Her voice had failed but when the Bishop begged her to make a sign that she was one with God and longed to be with Him, she feebly raised one hand. She could not see nor could she speak but she prayed with the Bishop in her heart. Life had dealt her many harsh blows, but she had also had moments of great happiness.

  With a smile on her lips, her hand resting in that of her son, Anne of Denmark, Queen of Great Britain, departed this world on the 9th March, 1619. She was forty-six.

  Epilogue

  The Thames lay grey and sullen in the light of the cold March morning as her body was taken by water from Hampton Court to Denmark House where she lay in state until the 13th May, while James (who had recovered) desperately raised the money with which to afford her a decent burial.

  On the 13th May, the black hearse, draped in black velvet fringed with silver and drawn by six black horses, each decked in black plumes and harness, took her body to Westminster for burial. Charles, Prince of Wales, followed the Archbishop of Canterbury and both walked in front of the hearse. Anne’s palfrey—its saddle empty—was led by her Master of Horse, Thomas Somerset. Behind him came the Countess of Arundel supported by Ludovick Stuart and the Marquis of Hamilton, and to Lady Arundel’s despair was added great discomfort in the form of her black broadcloth mourning gown which contained sixteen yards of material. Behind the solemn procession walked the heralds bearing aloft the banners of the Goths and Vandals and the banners of Denmark’s Northern Allies, the pale sunlight picking out their brilliant hues.

  At last the procession came to Westminster, the resting place of England’s Kings and for Anne, the resting place of her children. James did not attend the ceremony due to his still weak condition and his intense dislike of morbid occasions.

  Anne had never returned to Scotland but she was mourned throughout that land. Prayers and services of remembrance were conducted throughout Scotland and Mr. Patrick Galloway led the service at St. Giles in Edinburgh.

  James Stuart died in March, 1625, at the age of fifty-eight, worn out by his profligate life. Of the seven children Anne had borne only two survived and both were destined to tragic lives, doomed to follow in the footsteps of their Stuart ancestors who had suffered from malign fate.

  Charles Stuart was beheaded at Whitehall Palace by Oliver Cromwell and Elizabeth Stuart was to become the beautiful, but ill-fated, Elizabeth of Bohemia—The Winter Queen.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1978 by Robert Hale

  This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by

  Canelo Digital Publishing Limited

  57 Shepherds Lane

  Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU

  United Kingdom

  Copyright © Lynda M. Andrews, 1978

  The mora
l right of Lynda M. Andrews to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781911591368

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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