Anne of Cleves
David Lawrence-Young
© David Lawrence-Young
David Lawrence-Young has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
This edition published in 2018 by Sharpe Books.
Dedication
Although King Henry VIII had six queens, my only
queen is my wife, Queen Beverley, whom I do not plan
to divorce or decapitate.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One - A Birth and a Death
Chapter Two - Cherchez la femme
Chapter Three - Enter Anne of Cleves
Chapter Four - Plans and a Betrothal
Chapter Five - Portrait of a Lady
Chapter Six - Negotiations
Chapter Seven - Farewell to Cleves
Chapter Eight - Calais
Chapter Nine - A Meeting in Rochester
Chapter Ten - A Decision is Reached
Chapter Eleven - A Glorious Procession and a Last Minute Meeting
Chapter Twelve - “I like her not!”
Chapter Thirteen - Intimate Conversations
Chapter Fourteen - Cromwell is Surprised
Chapter Fifteen - Cromwell is shocked
Chapter Sixteen - Annulment
Chapter Seventeen - The Annulment Finalised
Chapter Eighteen - The End of Cromwell
Chapter Nineteen - The Rise of Catherine Howard
Chapter Twenty - The Fall of Catherine Howard
Chapter Twenty-One - Enter Catherine Parr
Chapter Twenty-Two - Matters Domestic and National
Chapter Twenty-Three - Power and Death
Epilogue
Bibliography
Contemporary Quotes about Anne of Cleves
“...a lady of commendable regard, courteous, gentle, a good housekeeper and very bountiful to her servants…[and never been] “any quarrels, tale- bearings or mischievous intrigues in her court, and she was tenderly loved by all her domestics.
“Raphael Holinshed, Chronicler. (c.1529-1580) Chronicles of England, Scotland & Ireland (1587)
She did “embrace virtue and gentleness wherein consists very nobility.”
Thomas Elyot, diplomat & scholar (c.1490-1546) and
Thomas Becon, Protestant reformer (c.1511-1567)
The Defence of Good Women
“Everybody has nothing but good to say about the Duchess.”
Baron Kaspar von Breumer, 1559.
Agent for Ferdinand, Holy Roman Emperor 1558-1564.
Prologue
My name is Anne - Anne of Cleves. Once, years ago, I was the fourth wife of King Henry the Eighth but now I am dying. I am not saying this to gain your sympathy but because it is a true fact. And because of this I feel the need to tell you something about my life before I depart this earthly world.
My life has evolved around a picture, a portrait: a portrait of me. There are not many people who can say that one of the most significant events of their life was spent sitting in a spacious castle chamber and having their portrait painted by Hans Holbein, the most talented court-painter of his time. But that is exactly what happened to me.
Master Holbein the Younger was instructed by his royal master, King Henry the Eighth of England, to come over to where I lived in the Duchy of Cleves in the Rhineland and paint a likeness of me. He then had to return to England with the finished work and show it to His Majesty. In London, after studying the portrait, the king would decide whether he would marry me or not. Of course you know the king did decide to marry me but our marriage lasted for a mere six months.
Now, as I lie dying in my manor house in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, I find myself thinking back on the different styles of life I led, that is, before and after this portrait was painted. A few days ago I made my will and bequeathed various sums of money, jewellery and other goods and chattels to all the people, both noble and base-born, who have served me so well during my life.
Fortunately for me, there has been quite a large number who were concerned about my well-being during these last two decades on this earth. Naturally, most of them were involved in my life both when I was queen and afterwards when I left the court and became known as ‘the King’s Sister.’ But now, as I lie here on my death-bed and before I list the names of all of these kind people, I think I should tell you something of my story. Although I am now forty-two, the main part of my story began twenty years ago. It all started with the birth of a baby boy, a prince, who was destined to become King Edward VI of England, the only legitimate son of King Henry VIII.
Chapter One - A Birth and a Death
“It’s boy! It’s a boy!”
“The queen’s had a son! – a prince!”
The joyous cries echoed down the long corridors of Hampton Court Palace to be slightly muffled by the heavy velvet cloaks and jackets of the king’s lords, and by the lighter fabrics of their wives and mistresses. They had all been standing around in expectant groups for hours waiting for this piece of news. Some were leaning against the walls; others were sitting on padded benches.
“A son! A son! We have a prince at last!” Everyone there, on that chilly October morning, gave vent to their feelings of joy and relief. The king now had a son. Surely another would soon follow. At last the curse on the Tudor dynasty was broken. The nobles, the guards and the servants - in fact, the whole country - had waited for this moment. It was almost thirty years since the king had married his first wife, that Spanish princes, Catherine of Aragon. The lords, guards and court officials clapped each other on the back and their womenfolk clapped their hands and smiled. Many of the women, remembering the pains that they had experienced, also winced as they thought of their queen lying there in the shaded and heavily curtained chamber, surrounded by her midwives and other servants. No doubt she was feeling very weak and totally exhausted.
“Is he alive? Is he well? How much does he weigh?” were the questions on everyone’s lips, questions that raced down the corridors of the king’s rambling Thames-side palace.
“He’s well, he’s well. Lady Lisle says he’s a bonny bouncing lad with fair hair,” a young lady reported as she stepped out of the queen’s chamber. “Hooray! The king has a prince at last, after all these years.”
“Aye,” a young page, wearing the Duke of Norfolk’s colours, whispered to his friend, his hand covering his mouth. “And only after he had two wives before this one.”
“Does the king know?” a young blonde lady-in-waiting asked. “Has anyone been sent to tell him?”
“Yes, my dear. Some of his men have ridden off to Esher to tell him the good news. Fear not. If he doesn’t know now, he will do so soon.”
“But why is he there in Esher? I know he has another palace there, but surely he should be here, by the side of the queen.”
“Oh, my dear,” one of the older ladies said. “You must be new here at court and obviously don’t know our King Henry.”
“That’s right,” young Jane Westbourne bowed in respect. “I arrived here only one month ago from the country, from Derbyshire.”
“Then I will tell you. His Majesty has a mortal fear of any sort of illness and the plague. The last time there was plague in London he even gave out orders that anyone who lived in London would not be allowed to come out here to the court in Hampton, whatever their rank.”
“What, nobody?”
“That’s right. Nobody, whether he was an important lord, a merchant or a foreign messenger from abroad. And that is why he moved out to his palace at Esher and took half the court out there with him when he heard that Queen Jane was due to give birth. He associates giving bir
th with illness and human frailty. And especially womanly frailty.”
“But still, shouldn’t he be here with her in her hour of need?”
The older, more knowledgeable woman shrugged, tapped the side of her nose and leaned over to the young lady-in-waiting. “That’s men for you, and that’s our king.”
“But Queen Jane wasn’t ill. She was just giving birth.”
“I know that and you know that, my dear, but you go and try and convince His Majesty otherwise. But now I have to go,” and saying that, she made off through the still crowded corridors in the direction of the Great Hall.
It was true what Lady Ashton had said. Due to his obsessive fear of illness and the plague, King Henry the Eighth had moved himself and much of his household to Wayneflete Tower at Esher when his wife had gone into labour. He did not wish to be around when he imagined the air would be rent by the wailing and screaming of hysterical women.
There, at Esher, in the former Bishop of Winchester’s red-brick palace, some ten miles south of Hampton Court, where his first wife had suffered three days of labour pains, the king made sure he passed a pleasant time with his favourites. This included hunting in the wooded hills of Surrey, playing cards and engaging in the usual gossip that was an integral part of courtly life. In order to justify his absence from his wife – “my dear sweet Jane” – in her hour of need, Henry confided in the Duke of Norfolk that he was not really far from his beloved wife. “Just a fast horse ride away,” he said while maintaining that she was constantly in his mind and in his prayers all the time. “And besides, sometimes, as you know, pregnant women take it into their minds to act in a most non-regal manner and that would not reflect well on me, the country’s ruler, would it?”
As Norfolk nodded his agreement, Henry continued, “And anyway, my dear Norfolk, as soon as I heard that my wife had gone into labour, I sent my messengers off to Hampton post-haste. So no-one can say that I am cut off from what is happening there.”
Now that it was known that the queen had been delivered of a healthy son, masses were sung in every church, bells were rung and the Lord Mayor of London and his aldermen marched in procession from St Paul’s Cathedral to Westminster Abbey. There, more bells were rung, more prayers were offered up as the Lord Mayor and all the city’s highest civic officials called on the Lord to thank Him for the queen’s safe delivery.
No doubt many of the more politically or dynastically-minded officials also thanked the Lord that the new child was not only healthy but a prince as well, and not a princess.
But how many of these worthy officials really thought about their Queen Jane as a person and not just as the mother of their next king? Did any of them spare her much thought? True, they knew she had retired from the rigours of courtly life some time earlier and that the king had arranged for the country’s most experienced doctors and midwives to be kept close by. They also knew that the queen had suddenly developed a passion for eating quails, and so dozens of these birds were hurriedly shipped over to London from Calais and Flanders. There they were roasted and presented to the queen in order to ensure that she would remain happy and healthy.
And of course, the court being the court and noblemen being noblemen many wagers had been laid on the sex of the newborn child. Many of the lords had publicly wagered that the royal baby would be a boy, while their more wily counterparts had loudly agreed with them, but had quietly betted on a princess at the same time. But however they had wagered, all of their interest was concentrated on the magnificent chamber in the Silver Stick gallery. Some of the more superstitious court gossips were not pleased that this was the chamber where the queen had given birth. “That’s where Anne Boleyn slept,” they whispered as they raised their hands to hide their mouths. “And you know what happened to her. That room is cursed.”
But cursed or not, the queen gave birth there. The baby seemed healthy and all of her ladies-in-waiting waited on Queen Jane hand and foot. It is true that, despite their loving care, the queen had gone into a long and painful labour. For three whole days, she had suffered, sweated and screamed. But then early in the morning on 12 October 1537 it was all over. The future heir to the throne of England had been pushed out into the waiting world outside crying lustily. He was then hastily gathered up, cleaned and handed back to his proud but exhausted mother.
“What’s he to be called?” the question flew around the packed corridors once it had been established that he was well.
“Edward. He’ll be called Edward and he’ll be the sixth king to bear that name. That is what the king has declared. The king sent that message through this morning.”
“Edward, now there’s a fine name for you. I thought that the king may have decided on a Welsh name, y’know, like after his ancestors, but to be named Edward is very traditional.”
“You’re right there. We’ve had several good kings of that name,” a historically minded courtier said. “Think of King Edward the First and his grandson, King Edward the Third. They were good strong kings.”
“Aye, and so was Edward the Fourth. He was also a very powerful ruler.”
“That’s true enough, and especially with the ladies,” the courtier winked. “But the second and fifth Edwards did not bring too much honour to the name, did they?”
“You are certainly right there, but the three strong ones outweigh the two weak ones, especially young Edward the Fifth. Poor lad, he wasn’t allowed to live out his life, so we’ll never know if he have made a good king or not.”
“Well, my friend, just think on this. Today is St. Edward’s Day, so that really is a good sign, isn’t it?”
“You’re right, but let’s stop dwelling on the past and join in the festivities.” Indicating that his fellow courtiers should follow him, he walked over to the open window on the second floor. “Just listen to those church bells and those fire crackers. Come, let us to church. They’re going to sing a special Te Deum and I wouldn’t want to miss these celebrations for anything.”
And such celebrations there were. Important landowners and merchants distributed food and wine, free beer was handed around and bonfires were lit throughout the capital. It was impossible to walk more than a few yards without bumping into a drunken and smiling tipsy Londoner cheering the good fortune of the king and the nation.
The cry, “We have a new prince! Prince Edward!” was on everyone’s lips. Even the Tower of London, that grim fortress usually associated with pain, torture, imprisonment and death could not resist in joining in the widespread feelings of joy. Its guns shot off two thousand rounds of ammunition, the sound of the exploding gunpowder mingling with the fireworks and the shouts and cries of the drunken citizenry. Ale and wine flowed like water and the capital’s population sang, danced and belched. In the meanwhile, the more sober-minded bishops gathered in St. Paul’s Cathedral and gave thanks to the Lord for having safely delivered their queen of a healthy prince.
The celebrations continued until well into the night as Henry and his chief advisors made plans for the new prince’s immediate future.
“When is he to be christened?”
“On Monday, on the fifteenth of October.”
“Where?”
“Here, in Hampton Court, in the Chapel Royal. His Majesty does not want to have the christening at Lambeth or at any of the other palaces. He is worried that taking the young lad out of here on this grey October morning just after his birth will not be good for him.”
“Ah, a really concerned father!”
“Well, wouldn’t you be the same? This is his only son and you know how obsessed he is about having a male heir to succeed him.”
“That’s true enough. And tell me, do you know how many people he has invited to the christening?”
“Aye, four hundred.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, you know how much the king fears crowds. For him, crowds mean chaos and that’s the last thing he wants. Especially now. And my wife also told me that he’s given orders that all the
bed-linen and clothes that the queen has used have to be carefully washed and that all the rooms, floors and walls in the prince’s new apartments are to be swept and washed with soap every day.”
“Isn’t he exaggerating?” asked a lady-in-waiting quietly; she had joined the conversation after looking around to see if anyone else was listening.
“Probably, madam, but you know how it is with new-borns. So many of them die early and I’m sure His Majesty is scared of that happening. After all, this is his first and only son…”
“So far.”
“And the king’s already over forty-five years old. I tell you,” he continued, also looking around carefully before adding, “and I’m not sure he is going to have another one.”
“Why not?” Lady Burton asked. “Doesn’t that also depend on his wife? The queen is younger than he is. She’s not yet even thirty.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he shrugged. “You women usually know better than us men about these matters but come, we’ll be late for the christening. It’s not every day a prince is to be christened and I’m sure it’s going to be a glorious event. Can you imagine the king having it any other way, and for his first son, too?”
The courtier was right. On a raised platform beneath the magnificent vaulted ceiling in the Chapel Royal, there for all the world to see, the baby prince’s three godfathers: the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk stood by the gold and silver font. On the king’s orders, a pan of glowing coals had been placed close by. There was to be no risk that the royal baby would catch a chill on this most important day. Huge bouquets of flowers and bowls of sweet smelling water which had been placed on both sides of the platform perfumed the air.
Before the little prince, now wrapped in a fur-trimmed mantle of cloth of gold, and under a miniature canopy of state was carried in by the Marchioness of Exeter, his four-year old half-sister, Lady Elizabeth, carried the chrism, the consecrated oil. The other ceremonial accoutrements were borne by the First Earl of Wiltshire, Thomas Boleyn, while a train of abbots, bishops and other nobles and ambassadors followed him. The end of this grand procession was brought up by the prince’s nurse and midwife, his godmother and Mary, his other half-sister and the other ladies of the court, all in their traditional order of rank.
Anne of Cleves- Unbeloved Page 1