Midnight in Westminster Abbey

by Sean Dennis Cashman

  “Is that why she’s called the Winter Queen?” asked Ginny.

  “Yes.”

  Anne brushed aside a contrived tear. Her companion unicorns adopted attitudes of stage sorrow.

  “Did you and your husband not agree on anything?” Charles II asked.

  “Yes dear, we were united in misery. First with the Gunpowder Plot of 1605: as you know, Dutch terrorist Guy Fawkes and his fellow conspirators tried to blow up the king and Parliament. One preacher described it as an intended explosion by ‘locusts from the nethermost Hell’.”

  “But the plot failed,” said Charles II.

  The attendant unicorns clapped their hooves like tiny hands and the animals in the audience cried out “Hear, hear!” and “And a good job, too!”

  “But we had other sorrows—yet another resurgence of the plague in 1606.”

  Facing Ginny directly, Anne of Denmark said sharply in the manner of an old-fashioned schoolmarm, “I hope you paid close attention to your earlier little tutorial on the plague. You should know how it did resurface periodically and wasted society.”

  Ginny stayed poker face but she shivered inside, partly in case Richard II reappeared in his other persona of Death.

  “And how concerned we all were at court: the swellings, the blotches—it was terrible,” droned on Anne of Denmark.

  But as Anne brushed away another contrived tear, a pet bear in the audience called out, “And what, pray, did you do about it, huh? Not a lot!”

  “Only months after we were spared being wiped out, it seemed that James’s court was hell-bent on self-destruction,” said Anne. "It was as if the devil himself was willing us on in our excesses.

  “I commissioned—that’s what you would say here—a masque by Samuel Daniel called ‘The Vision of the Twelve Goddesses’. It was performed at Hampton Court. For costumes we used—you would say recycled—the wardrobe of the late queen Elizabeth I. Her clothes were now unwearable but we could cut them up and refashion the usable parts into new garments for our stage artists.”

  Unseen on the side, Elizabeth positively bristled (as only she could) at this presumptuous insult. But she clenched her skeleton fists to keep her anger under control.

  Anne of Denmark now lowered her voice and returned to the earlier cringing tone the American visitors found so embarrassing.

  "Little by little, I discovered the dark secret of alternate Stuart generations. They have a death wish.

  "Such an extraordinary family the Stuarts! You might think that in medieval times, the kings were barbarians what with their burnings and unmentionable tortures but the Stuarts brought the tradition of beheadings down upon their own heads in alternate generations: Mary, Queen of Scots; Charles I; James, duke of Monmouth.

  “Apart from such generational tragedies, did your life in court run smoothly?” prompted Charles II.

  “Far from it,” answered Anne of Denmark. "In fact my case for being declared Queen for a Day is based on the continuous embarrassments and humiliation I was exposed to in London. We were plagued with scandal. My brother, King Christian of lovely Denmark, paid us a royal visit in 1606. He was the most charismatic man—everyone said so. But his visit was very uncomfortable for me. For one thing, it proved over-expensive. We had to entertain about 400 Danish guests, not only with food and drink but also entertainment high and low with masques and other formal events. A rumour spread that the whole visit cost almost half a million pounds that Parliament funded. But such matters are beyond me—my delicate disposition, you know.

  “Then, my brother liked women and wine. He kept a diary. He marked those days when he got drunk with a cross and a double cross if he was so drunk that he had to be carried to bed. On the other hand, my husband was obsessed with hunting other prey. Christian was angry at the insensitive way James treated me. So I was caught between conflicting loyalties to two irreconcilable leaders.”

  “Neither of them models of good behaviour?” Charles II said to tease his grandmother.

  "That’s your opinion, dear. Anyway, such goings-on were my sorry fate. There was this gap between what was taking place on the royal stage for public consumption and the unpleasant scenario behind the scenes.

  "Christian hated James’s obsession with hunting. Simply hated it. He complained that the royal party would ride a dozen horses to death in a single day and think nothing of it. He said the huntsmen killed more horses in jest—meaning the sport of hunting—than died in earnest in the continuous warfare in the Netherlands.

  “When we had a celebratory masque about Solomon and Sheba, our critics exaggerated all the faults. They said that the masques were the excuse for a cornucopia of intoxication, promiscuity and gluttony. They complained about ladies of the masque rolling about drunk. And it’s true that the artist playing Sheba was so drunk that she upset her caskets with gifts in them and fell down at the feet of King Christian. Christian himself then fell down and was carried off to bed. He spilled cream, wine and jelly all over the sumptuous bedclothes. In what was left of the masque the characters of Hope and Faith spewed sickness. Simply spewed it around, dear.”

  To spare her present audience from further embarrassment, Anne of Denmark was ready with her next surprise—a rather grubby bag.

  “What on earth is that?” asked a friendly but somewhat smelly boar that had taken a prize place on the front row next to Ginny and Georgie. Georgie knew what it was but did not like to say but Ginny now put her American knowledge to good use.

  “Why, dear Mr Boar,” she answered, “it’s a carpet bag. In the States, we have this word carpetbagger, meaning fast and smooth-talking opportunists who descend on towns to take advantage of a situation—like profiteers did on the New South after the American Civil War. They had to travel light and so they packed their clothes and any tools in bags fashioned out of old carpets. That seems to be what Queen Anne is showing us now.”

  Anne of Denmark laid her grubby carpet bag—probably also recycled from Elizabeth I’s discarded wardrobe—down and opened it. When she uncovered an inner cloth, the audience sitting near the front could see a wooden image of a baby asleep in her cradle.

  Anne said simply and unaffectedly, “This is dear Sophia, our last child who died soon after her birth—just a month before the controversial visit of my brother, Christian. This wooden model was made for the sculptor who covered the memorial on her tomb, which you can see over there.”

  She pointed aimlessly in the abbey as if to be precise was too painful.

  Ginny found the little image moving.

  “Look, the little baby’s hands are holding onto her blanket.”

  Here Anne of Denmark’s mixture of wheedling and exaggerated communing with misery was too much for this sad queen in her silver dress. She ran crying from the makeshift stage with her unicorns trotting after her before the audience could debate her case.

  Behind the youngsters, there was a slight commotion among some kings. A few men and boys got up, shuffled past the rest of the audience and left the nave in a cluster.

  “Do you think they’re organising a bloc vote for their favourite candidate?” Ginny asked Georgie, who shrugged as he said, “Maybe.”

  After an awkward pause and confused noises off, an unidentifiable herald’s voice ordered, “Anne of Cleves, queen of England, come into court.”

  Then the lion (who had been the herald) stomped onto the stage, took off his glasses, and said again more insistently, “Anne, queen of England, take your stand in court.”

  And an exquisite, lively lady in gold did just that. Anne of Cleves was a stylish woman with a charming German accent who looked, moved, talked and smelled like a real woman. She looked like Holbein’s famous portrait come to golden life with her mysterious quizzical expression. She was what Georgie’s mom, Honey, would have called a real charmer. The epitome of diplomacy and tact, before she sat down the lovely Anne curtsied to the two audience groups in turn: the monarchs’ courtiers and the heraldic animals. Ginny caught the scent of su
mmer flowers, yellow roses mainly but also clematis and wild hawthorn flowers.

  Charles II coughed to bring everyone back to order. Then he began cheekily: “What attracted you to your husband, property millionaire King Henry VIII, libertine profiteer from the dissolution of the monasteries?”

  “How I dreaded his summons to court,” began Anne of Cleves giving herself time to bypass Charles II’s snide insult as she thought how to answer the tart question in her own way.

  "How had poor Katherine of Aragon followed such a summons to trial? Well, poor Katherine made an immortal speech about the dignity of first wives wronged beyond endurance. I was told that Henry, the great womaniser, was a mighty catch. A great lover—allegedly.

  "Some sisters have become queens—like Elizabeth of York, elder sister to Edward V. She married Henry VII. But I was a queen who was demoted to the rank of dear sister. When Henry VIII wanted a fourth wife after the death of Queen Jane Seymour, his ministers advised him to take a bride from northern Europe to bolster the Protestant reformation. I wasn’t a candidate—just a pawn in the never-ending conflict of Catholics and Protestants. It’s the stuff of dynastic warfare—not to mention romantic operas.

  “When I travelled to England, I knew I was entering a hornet’s nest of political intrigue. The king had despatched three wives already. All around Europe they whispered, ‘Divorced, beheaded, died’. I knew I had to keep my wits about me to keep my head. There were all those competing factions, Norfolk against Seymour, Catholics against Protestants.”

  Listening intently, Ginny thought Anne of Cleves had rehearsed her speech often because she sounded so smooth and practiced.

  "Master artist Hans Holbein had come to Cleves to paint my portrait. Ladies, you know if your face and figure are less than ideal for what conventional wisdom thinks is beautiful, how depressing this can be. No manner of expensive fitted clothes compensate for the way you feel inside. But then, as I said, an underrated genius like Holbein comes along. He can capture you exactly the way you are and yet his art can present you as some dazzling charismatic icon.

  "Well, here I am: plain undervalued Anne of Cleves. But Master Holbein made me immortal. Odious comparisons work both ways. Henry VIII saw me first in the portrait. Then I saw Henry himself as large as life and not nearly so attractive when he came, supposedly incognito, to waylay my bridal party en route to London. I was looking out of the window at bull baiting when he burst in on me. What a portent! I could not believe that this bloated brute with a smelly diseased leg was the talented Prince Charming of European legend. I was dumb with fright. And it seems that no matter how gross, he had never been turned away before.

  “This was not a match made in heaven. What were we both to do? After our mutual first shock, we agreed about one thing: you moderns call it damage limitation. Of course, he would never admit it. What would Henry say? That it was my fault? That it was not him but me who was the fright? Can you imagine? I expect you can,” she added, surveying the beautiful people and animals before her who were not really so beautiful close up.

  "That’s the way men are. They said I was ugly; that I looked like a horse; that I had acne rosé; that Henry did not know which way to have me; that I was ‘The Opposite of Sex’. Me! Can you imagine? Any moderns who think they have been mistreated by your tabloid press—you do not know the full extent of insult. Attacks on you come from your gutter press and your base Internet sites. The attacks on me came from the high and mighty king of England. And he made sure all England followed his party line.

  “But I was very lucky, you know,” she said confidentially to Georgie. “I got away intact.” Then she added, saying to no one in particular as she casually touched her modest headdress, “You can always rely on a Dutch cap. I recommend it. That’s my chosen artefact. Need I say more?”

  Anne shuddered as if to make a show of being a clueless white queen. Ginny sensed that underneath this calculated show of ditsy forgetfulness was a shrewd political operator. Anne continued.

  "Queen for a Day wasn’t just a modern invention of American TV in the 1950s. Think about the fate of Henry’s wives. Both foreign rulers and English nobles were fielding their young girl relatives like racecourse fillies for their own promotion. But neither the foreign rulers nor the English nobles had any thought for the perilous path the young queens had to tread at court with such a cruel and capricious husband. First time around, I wasn’t even queen for a night. This wasn’t reality TV. It was domestic reality at its most brutal.

  "What would be my fate? Henry had buried three wives already. Would he kill me off as well? I had three saving graces. I was a foreign princess. The marriage had not been consummated. And from childhood, I knew I always had to play with the cards I had. That’s how some writers reported the politics later. In their scenario, I was a sly-boots who kept Henry up all night—like Scheherazade with the Caliph—not with romantic stories but with compulsive card games.

  "As many of you know, contrary to folklore, actresses don’t have to be beautiful. But I had to work at it so that, although I was gone from the political front bench, I was not going to be forgotten.

  "I gained control of the difficult situation and personal freedom by subtle diplomacy amounting to subterfuge.

  “Some people will tell you that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. That’s not my opinion. The best way—as in modern advertising—is through his children. Both his daughters, Mary and Elizabeth, became fond of me. I made sure of that,” Anne of Cleves said with a flicker of steely determination. “My lasting gift to the House of Tudor was to get Mary and Lizzie to agree about something and behave like loving sisters and not competitors.”

  With that, she held out her arms. Mary I and Elizabeth I came running up to her as if to a favourite aunt.

  “To get out of the marriage you cut a good deal?” asked Charles II.

  “I clawed my way back to a decent settlement: a dignified annulment. I was to live as the king’s dear sister in a house on an estate of my own. Or was it two estates? Yes, I got that. But there were consequences. I speak for all discarded wives. I speak for good marriage settlements. I had to give up my regal status. I never got to wear a crown. To escape with my life, I had to lead a different non-royal life. I was sometimes afraid for my life. How many tyrants have there been who butchered family members without scruple or remorse?”

  “I think despite her political skill, Anne of Cleves has talked herself out of the running for queen for a day,” Ginny said quietly to her brother.

  “You’re right there,” Charles II (who had overheard Ginny) said, also quietly. Ginny sensed he was irritated beyond exasperation. He said angrily to Anne, “Are you trying to show your contempt for this court?”

  “Far from it,” she answered sweetly. “I’m trying to conceal it.”

  “So, that’s the way you’re playing it. You’re trying to embarrass two-timing husbands everywhere.”

  Charles II said this without any sense that he was being lampooned as a two-timing husband himself. He had lost count of the number of times two in his two timers’ table.

  Anne of Cleves was now ready for her parting shot: "As for the old adage, the second line reads, ‘Divorced, beheaded, survived’. Henry’s last wife may have had the good fortune to outlive her husband—as she had two previous ones. But in the whole bizarre and cruel scenario of Henry VIII and his six wives, it was I who lived longest. If Mr Chaucer is right and what women want is control of their husbands, then which of us was the winner here—Henry or me?

  “Cheers,” she added as she downed a skein of ale in one that the proud lion announcer had just handed to her. “You’re Non-U until you’ve drunk with the best of them,” she added. Then she inclined her head to acknowledge the audience.

  ****

  Ginny looked around for Georgie but, unknown to the halberdiers, he had wandered off again to the cloisters. There Georgie watched several kings—men and boys—drawing straws. They were in a good-hearted
but heated conversation on one of their favourite topics: their dislike of interfering relatives, especially uncles. Ginny had already told Georgie that, from what she had heard, it took very little to set grumbling kings off into an agreeable psychological game of ‘Ain’t it awful?’ as they swapped stories about how badly they had been treated when they were children. And now in the cloisters they were at it again.

  Little Edward V complained there seemed to be no end to the rivalry between his father’s brothers and his mother’s first family.

  “So many uncles that I lost count, protectors all, especially my uncle Richard, duke of Gloucester, who sent me and my younger brother Richard to the Tower of London. We were never seen again.”

  “In a way, you were lucky,” said slightly taller boy king Edward VI. “My father had no brother still living—but my late mother did: two brothers. And besides their wanting to control me and out-rival one another, they had a political axe to grind—to impose their form of Protestantism across the length and breadth of England.”

  The adult Richard II recalled the many uncles of his youth ruefully.

  “Not only did my royal uncles want to rule over me as a child but also to impose their will on me when I was grown up—and there were five or six of them—originally,” he added darkly.

  “I should have seen that coming,” said the adult Edward III, Richard’s grandfather. “I thought I was doing well leaving England with an heir and spares galore. Perhaps I was wrong.”

  Henry III had listened intently to the discussion. It made him think back again about the ruthless nature of politics in his own century, the interminable wrangles between king and barons. He had hated that. And when the other royal children started talking about similar wrangles they stirred unwelcome feelings in him better left buried. Wrongdoings in his time and later were best left in the past. Henry III did not want to think about history repeating itself whether as tragedy or farce. But try as he might, he could not completely suppress distant memories of past cruelties towards him. He visibly tightened his body and withdrew emotionally, sucking on a leftover sweet for comfort before saying, “Perhaps I was lucky in my advisers when I was a boy king. It was due to their loyalty that the Plantagenet dynasty survived the bad rule of my father, King John.”