by Amy Licence
The meeting between Henry and Anne had been planned for 3 January but, knowing that his bride had arrived in the country, the king could not contain himself and set off from Greenwich to greet her ahead of schedule. His love of games, masques, plays and disguises was well known to his courtiers; it had been the staple of court entertainment for decades, allowing for chivalric role play and flirtation, often in the guise of an allegorical figure, a stranger, foreigner or folkloric hero. And it always worked beautifully, with the entire room complicit in the ‘secret,’ feigning surprise when the king finally removed his mask. Now Henry saw the opportunity to enact such a game for real. Anticipating a romantic readiness in his spouse, he hoped to catch her unawares, with his identity concealed. True to the plot of a French romance, she would be overwhelmed by the impressive stranger and fall in love at first sight. Anne, of course, knew nothing of this. It was a completely different custom to that she was used to in Cleves, and although she would not have anticipated it there were plenty of precedents for such meetings. Perhaps someone close to Henry should have warned her.
On New Year’s Eve, Anne had passed through Sittingbourne and reached Rochester, where she stayed at the Bishop’s Palace. The following day, she was relaxing by watching a bull-baiting through her window when a party of nine disguised men entered the room. They all wore hooded cloaks and the effect must have been quite sinister in comparison with the other welcomes she had received. Completely reliant upon her translators and still uncertain of courtly protocol, let alone Henry’s penchant for disguise, she was taken by surprise when one of the men approached her, took her in his arms and attempted to kiss her. In fact, considering the close closeting of her childhood, and the strict way in which she had been covered up for the viewing of the ambassadors, this behaviour was probably scandalous to her. On her way to be married to the king, she had been as good as assaulted by a stranger, whose familiarity showed disrespect to her rank and threatened her reputation. No wonder she did not respond and turned away coldly. In Henry’s insensitivity and conviction of his own personal charm, he had overlooked Anne’s possible feelings. If she really had swooned in the arms of a romantic stranger, without knowing it was her intended, surely it would not have been a good sign regarding her future fidelity?
Henry’s attempt to ‘nourish love’ had failed. Abashed at the failure of his romantic gesture, he retired and changed into regal purple, before returning and declaring his true identity. Recognising her mistake, Anne bowed low and, according to Wriothesley, the pair ‘talked lovingly together’, although Lord Russell reported that he ‘never saw His Highness so marvellously astonished … as on that occasion’. Hall related how ‘she with most gracious and loving countenance and behaviour, him received and welcomed on her knees, whom he gently took up and kissed’, after which, they dined together.16 Anne’s reaction had disappointed the king, but her appearance had been even greater a surprise. In his opinion she was not as attractive or as young looking as he had been led to believe, and although he afforded her the respect her position demanded, his growing anger seethed behind his diplomatic mask. The disguise he had adopted in the hopes of sparking romance necessitated him retreating behind another to conceal his dislike. Riding back to Greenwich, he informed Cromwell in no uncertain terms that he did not like Anne. They were ominous words indeed to the man who had invested so much in arranging the marriage.
50
The Unwanted Bride, 1540
Noon other life is worth a bene
For wedlock is so easy and so clene
That in this world it is Paradys1
On Saturday 3 January, Anne travelled from Blackheath to Shooter’s Hill. One of the highest points in London, named after the medieval archery practice that used to take place there, it was just two miles from Greenwich Palace, where Henry was already pressing Cromwell to find a loophole to allow him to avoid honouring the marriage. Yet the massive wheels of hospitality had been set in motion. The bushes and firs in the park had been cut down to allow for the huge retinue which greeted her, of knights, city dignitaries and gentlemen pensioners. There were also serving men, ‘in good order, well horsed and apparelled, that whosoever had well viewed them might say that they, for tall and comely personages and clene of limb and body, were able to give the greatest Prince in Christendom a mortal breakfast’.2 Dignitaries, clergymen and servants lined the lane in their ranks, from the park gates to the cross of Blackheath, to welcome Anne. Henry’s retinue alone numbered between 5,000 and 6,000.3 As news arrived at the palace that the new queen-to-be had been sighted, the king climbed reluctantly into the saddle, conscious of the contrast with his eager dash out to Rochester only forty-eight hours before.
Anne arrived at about midday, drawn in a chariot, flanked by a hundred horsemen. Dr Day, who had been appointed as her almoner, made a welcome oration in Latin, to which her brother’s secretary made a suitable response. Then, Lady Margaret Douglas, Lady Frances Brandon, Lady Mary Howard, Duchess of Richmond, and other ‘ladies and gentlewomen to the number of’ sixty-five, welcomed her and led her into a gorgeous tent or pavilion of rich cloth of gold that had been set up for at the foot of the hill, in which fires burned and perfumes scented the air. They helped her dress in a rich gown of raised cloth of gold, with a round skirt and no train, in the Dutch fashion. On her head she wore a round bonnet or cap, set with orient pearls ‘of a very proper fashion’,4 a black velvet cornet and about her neck, a partelet, set full of rich glistening stones. She was then helped onto a ‘faire horse, richly trapped’, while her footmen wore ‘goldsmith’s work embroidered with the black lion’ and a gold carbuncle on the shoulder.5 This time she had been informed of Henry’s approach.
Much had been written about the king’s response to Anne of Cleves, but there is rarely any significant thought given to what her feelings were towards her new husband. This is mostly because Henry was so vocal in his dislike, which developed into such a significant matter that summer that it required investigation and recording. Neither Anne nor her ladies wrote down their responses to the unscheduled meeting in Rochester, or the appearance of the king, so it has generally been assumed that she raised no objection. Such objections probably never even occurred to her. To reject Henry, Anne would have caused a diplomatic scandal as well as incurring the wrath of her brother, not to mention the terrible insult she would be giving to her host. In all likelihood, Anne accepted Henry warts and all, willingly, even happily. He was a majestic figure and she was about to become Queen of England. He was king; that was sufficient. She knew it was not a love match and had not anticipated any romance, hoping instead for dignity and respect, perhaps with affection developing over time. Such was the way with most arranged marriages, as she had witnessed between her own parents. Anne’s opinion of Henry is probably a misleading and anachronistic question to raise.
However, as she awaited him on 3 January, their meeting at Rochester was fresh in her mind. She may not have been able to speak English, and was not skilled or experienced with men or in the arts of flirtation and love, but that does not mean she was insensitive. Did she sense that he was disappointed? If she was able to detect any coolness or distance in his second welcome, she did not know enough about the man to be able to interpret it. Given his concerns over the Franco-Imperial alliance, Henry was not about to risk alienating the Duke of Cleves. It seems most likely that she rode forth across Shooter’s Hill in eager anticipation to embrace her future as the Queen of England, with an optimism that marital cordiality could develop over time. Anne was there to fulfil her duty; it is probably rather misleading to consider whether Henry’s looks and her personal preferences tallied. She had no way of knowing that her hopes were to be as disappointed as his had been.
Shimmering with jewels and studded with pearls, Anne was in a better position to impress than she had been at Rochester. However, just as Catherine of Aragon’s Spanish clothes had caused a stir in 1501, Anne’s Germanic costume failed to overturn national tastes for nati
ve and French fashions. Marillac commented that Anne ‘was clothed in the fashion of the country from which she came’ as were her ladies of honour, ‘a thing which looks strange to many’. To his (French) eyes, these women were ‘inferior in beauty even to their mistress and dressed so heavily and unbecomingly that they would almost be thought ugly even if they were beautiful’. Anne’s looks did not meet with his approval either: ‘She looks about thirty years of age, tall and thin, of medium beauty, and of very assured and resolute countenance … according to some who saw her close, [she] is not so young as was expected, nor so beautiful as everyone affirmed. She is tall and very assured in carriage and countenance, showing that in her the turn and vivacity of wit supplies the place of beauty.’6 Henry’s performance was convincing, coming forward to meet her ‘with most lovely countenance and princely behaviour’. He ‘saluted, welcomed and embraced her, to the great rejoicing of the beholders’.7 She, in turn, received him with ‘most amiable aspect and womanly behaviour’, with ‘many sweet words and great thanks and praisings given to him’.8 Placing her on his right, he accompanied her to Greenwich Palace. In the outer court, he embraced and kissed her again, bidding her ‘welcome to her own’.9 With Anne settled in her privy chamber with her ladies, Henry then hurried back to Cromwell, to seek a path by which he could avoid having to make her his wife. There was one glimmer of hope: Anne’s pre-contract with Francis of Lorraine.
Despite Cromwell’s best efforts to dissuade Henry from repudiating Anne, claiming he ‘thought she had a queenly manner’,10 the king directed the council to examine her previous contract. This had already been investigated the previous autumn by the English ambassadors at Cleves, who had then been entirely satisfied with the explanation that the engagement had been entered into when the parties were both below the age of consent and that Anne was now free to marry where she wished. Now, her secretary could only repeat this information, promising to summon the relevant legal paperwork from Cleves at once. Anne must have been surprised that such a question had raised its head again at this stage in the proceedings. She willingly swore an oath to the effect that she was not obligated to Lorraine, and there was nothing Henry could do unless he wanted to send Duke William of Cleves into the arms of the Emperor. While Anne eagerly anticipated her wedding day, her bridegroom felt the net close in around him, knowing he must put his head ‘into this yoke’. Seething with rage, backed into a corner, he decided that he was ‘not well handled’.
The wedding took place on 6 January, in the queen’s closet at Greenwich. Anne was dressed in the round-skirted Dutch fashion again, this time in a gown of rich cloth of gold, ornamented with large flowers and pearls and her fair, long, yellow hair hanging loose. On her head she wore a coronet of gold set with jewels and decorated with sprigs of rosemary, a common medieval wedding custom that signified love and loyalty. With the most ‘demure countenance’ she passed through the king’s chamber into the gallery, and closet, where she greeted her future spouse with three curtseys. His heart might not have been in it, but Henry had at least dressed the part. His gown of cloth of gold, with raised silver flowers and black fur, a coat of crimson satin tied with diamonds and rich collar, were part of the mask of royalty that he hid behind on that day. Cranmer officiated and the Earl of Overstein gave Anne away. Henry placed a ring on her finger that bore the legend, ‘God send me well to keep.’ From there, they walked hand in hand back into Henry’s chamber to hear Mass and take wine and spices.11
Soon after, at nine in the morning, Henry changed into a gown of tissue lined with red velvet, and collected Anne from her chamber where she had been waiting, and they dined together. Then it was the queen’s turn to change again, with her choices yet again prompting criticism; this time, it was ‘a gowne like a man’s gown’, and a cap she had previously worn at Blackheath, although chronicler Hall conceded that her apparel was ‘rich and very costly’.12 The hours between then and supper, probably served mid-afternoon in winter, are unaccounted for, but Anne and Henry emerge at that point to attend Evensong, eat together again and enjoy the banquets, masques and ‘diverse disports’ until ‘the time came that it pleased the king and her to take their rest’.13 It probably pleased Anne considerably more than it pleased Henry, but, if he was displeased with his bride, things were about to get much worse. They retired to their chambers and were ceremonially undressed for the wedding night. It would prove a disaster.
PART EIGHT
Catherine Howard
51
The King’s Infatuation, 1540
Give place, ye lovers, here before
That spent your boasts and brags in vain;
My Lady’s beauty passeth more
The best of yours, I dare well sayen,
Than doth the sun the candle light,
Or brightest day the darkest night.1
The royal wedding night may have been a disaster, but Anne was still Henry’s wife. As such, her household was now appointed to anticipate and supply her needs. The Earl of Rutland was her chamberlain, Sir Thomas Dennis her chancellor, Sir John Dudley became her master of horse, with others appointed as secretaries, surveyors, auditors, solicitors and attorneys, as well as the more prosaic roles of cup-bearer, sewer, usher, clerk and sergeant. She was allowed to retain one of her Flemish doctors, Dr Cornelian, given the need for her to communicate over delicate matters in her native tongue, as well as a cook and footman from home. Her wardrobe was placed under the care of Henry Cryche and Dr Malett and Dr Oglethorpe became her chaplains. Perhaps someone dropped a hint to Henry Cryche about Anne’s clothing. On 11 January, she appeared to watch the day’s jousting dressed in the English fashion, with a French hood, ‘which so set forth her beauty and good visage that every creature rejoiced to behold her’.2
The list of Anne’s female attendants included many of those who had served Jane Seymour and had been biding their time since, until the arrival of a new queen would again give them a formal role at the heart of the court. There were Henry’s nieces Frances Brandon and Margaret Douglas, as well as Mary Arundel, Countess of Sussex; Eleanor Paston, Countess of Rutland; Elizabeth Howard, Duchess of Richmond; and Elizabeth Grey, Lady Audley. The new queen’s privy chambers required a more intimate set of waiting women, who were the ones to change her clothes, assist with bodily functions and supervise her bedtime. The jobs went to Jane Parker, Lady Rochford; Jane Guildford, Lady Dudley; Catherine St John, Lady Edgecumbe; Isabel, Lady Baynton; and Susanna Horenbout, the sister of Flemish miniaturist Lucas Horenbout, who often depicted Henry VIII. Little did they realise just how important their proximity to Anne would become in the months ahead. Her gentlewomen included Jane Ashley, Lady Mewtas; Jane Cheney, Lady Wriothesley; Jane Seymour’s sister Elizabeth, Lady Cromwell; and Margaret Skipwith’s sister Catherine, Lady Heneage. Anne Bassett, Mary Norris, Ursula Stourton and Dorothy Bray found positions as Anne’s maids of honour, as did Catherine Carey (possibly Henry’s daughter by Mary Boleyn) and a plump, pretty young granddaughter of the Duke of Norfolk named Catherine Howard.
The pretence of marital harmony was still being maintained. Queen Anne was happy among her new ladies at Greenwich, according to John Norris, writing to Lady Lisle to report that her daughter Anne Bassett was ‘merry’ along with them.3 On 18 January Henry wrote to Anne’s brother, William of Cleves, to the effect that he had ‘spoken to his ambassadors about his negotiations with the Emperor and concealed nothing’ and would ‘act sincerely in matters concerning their friendship and the marriage’.4 Yet, behind this diplomatic façade, the king was still hoping that the Lorraine pre-contract would allow the marriage to be declared invalid. Three days later, Anne’s vice-chancellor, Henry Olisleger, wrote to Cromwell in a mixture of Italian and French to establish that he was working to produce the paperwork: ‘We have received the letters to the dukes of Saxony and Cleves, but the copy of the letters patent of the dower of our mistress [Anne of Cleves] is left behind. Please send it to-night to Gravesend or to-morrow night to Dover that we may t
ake it with us, and we will advance the business of our mistress as rapidly as possible.’5 It could not be rapid enough for Henry.
Shortly afterwards, the majority of the Flanders retinue departed, having been feasted well and received their share of a huge £1,405 16s 15d that had been set aside for parting gifts. Four or five gilt cups were given, but the majority were given purses of coins; £102 to the Earl of Overstein, £100 to Grand Master Hoghensten, £99 to Vice-Chancellor Olisleger and various other amounts to her ladies and gentlemen, with £19 to her surgeon and £9 to her messenger.6 On 4 February, Henry and Anne departed Greenwich and travelled by barge to Westminster. They were welcomed by a flotilla of merchants on barges, with flags and pennants flying, guns shot at the Tower and the mayor and aldermen dressed in their robes of office and gold chains. According to Marillac, it was ‘more honourable than any magnificence made at the coming of the said lady’.7