“Your mistress, Sire, er, I mean your female companion,” Cromwell added quickly, correcting himself and averting his gaze. He reached out to take some sweetmeats and then finished off his glass of Madeira. He then added that the diplomat had reported that the Duchess of Milan had a gentle speech and a soft face. “Just the woman for you, Sire,” he concluded.
“That maybe so,” Henry said, while reaching for his own glass of wine. “But nothing came of it, did it?”
“No, Sire.”
“Tell me Thomas, wasn’t she the one who said that if she had two heads, one of them would be at my disposal?”
Cromwell nodded and waited for another storm. This time it did not happen and again the king pushed forward the plate of comfits over to his chancellor.
“Have some of these,” he said, stuffing a couple into his own mouth. “My pastry cook has certainly made a good batch of them this time. I tell you, Thomas, they are very good. Just look what they’ve done for me,” and the king patted his ample belly and smiled. “Thomas,” he said. “Never let it be said that the King of England is a small man. Not small in mind and certainly not small in body.”
“Yes, Sire,” and the chancellor leaned over to take some comfits from the silver platter. After a few moments of companionable munching, Henry told his chief minister to continue with his report.
“So, Your Majesty, soon after Mary of Guise had married King James, Castillion wrote to his master and enquired if there were any more French brides to be had. I remember that you thought that this was a good idea as, apart from providing you with a wife. As I remember saying at the time, it would strengthen any possible allegiance we had at the time with France. By that I was thinking about strengthening any Anglo-French alliance which would act as a bulwark against that Catholic Emperor, Charles the Fifth.”
Henry slapped his thigh and his face lit up. “Aye, that’s right, Thomas. I also remember thinking that that was a brilliant idea. What a great combination that would have made.” He licked his lips again. “I would have had a beautiful French wife and this country’s standing in Europe would have been strengthened, especially against those bloodthirsty Spaniards.”
“Yes, Sire, but nothing came of it.”
“Aye, that’s true, Thomas.” And Henry smiled remembering what happened. “So there I was in the Great Hall here when Castillion sidled up to me and said he had a very personal message for me. ‘What is it?’ I asked, and he replied that since I had been sorely deceived over matters of the heart in the past, maybe I would wish to see these young French ladies first for myself.
“Just think of that one, Thomas,” the king leered. “Seeing all these French ladies myself, maybe testing them out,” he grinned. “Yes, I even recall the expression on Castillion’s face when he joked, ‘Maybe Your Grace would like to mount them one after another and keep the one you found to be best broken in.’ Ha, Thomas! I would have loved to have tested these French mares, or should it be mères, eh? But I must admit it to you, he did succeed in shaming me for a moment when he said that to me, but then we had a round of cards and it was all over.”
Cromwell did not react. Past experience had taught him when it was best to be silent. He was pleased that it had been the king who had described that potentially explosive situation and not himself.
Just as he was refilling his goblet of wine, Henry asked, “So, my chancellor, my sometimes most devious advisor, where does this leave us now? I am still without a wife and my bed is cold, especially during these wretched winter nights. But that is not my only concern. I keep thinking that if anything happens to my dear sweet Prince Edward, then I will have no heir to succeed me. I’ll admit to you, Thomas, he looks so bonny and healthy now, but will he live to become Edward the Sixth? You know the old saying, don’t you? ‘Man proposes but God disposes.’ So, Thomas, I need another wife and another son. And soon. I’m not getting any younger and I must admit that I am quite worried about this.”
Cromwell looked at his royal master full in the face. “I know that, Sire, and that is why I sent two ambassadors to reopen negotiations with the Duchess of Milan two or three months ago.” He sighed and held up his hands as a sign of resignation. “But as you know, Sire, she would have none of it. If you remember, she even claimed that you had poisoned Catherine of Aragon who was her great-aunt and that your second wife was quite innocently put to death. Er…” Cromwell coughed apologetically, “may I tell you what she said after that, Sire? It wasn’t very flattering.”
“Yes, Thomas, you may tell me, so long as it doesn’t go outside these four walls,” and Henry made a wide sweep of his decorated chamber.
“She said that your first wife suffered for a long time and that you had cast her out of your court and had done nothing to ease her pain.”
Henry exploded. “She suffered? Well, what about me? Do you know what it was like to be married for over twenty years to that obstinate Spanish cow who refused to accept a divorce? Well, do you?” Henry stuck out his bearded chin and thought back on his first marriage to the daughter of King Ferdinand of Aragon. He had married her in June 1509 and after the birth of several babies who were either stillborn or who had died soon after their births, Catherine had given him a daughter, Mary. A daughter. Who wanted a daughter? What he needed was a son, and better still, several sons. For the next few years, he and Catherine had tried to produce a male heir to the throne, but their efforts had come to nought. Fifteen years after marrying his older brother’s widow, Henry had ceased having sexual relations with his wife. For him it had become a complete waste of time and effort.
“Hmm,” he grunted to himself. “That’s when the whole affair with trying to annul my marriage with the Pope started. For over four years I sent and received messages to Rome but it was all in vain. Yes, it took my English Archbishop Cranmer to declare my marriage to Catherine invalid, but would she accept that? No, not until her dying day. Three years later was I finally rid of her. She even signed her last letter to me, the one written on her death-bed, ‘Catherine the Queen.’
“And then there was that Anne Boleyn woman.” Henry was just about to continue reviewing his past history when a polite cough from his chancellor who was now standing at the window looking at the ever-widening puddles and listening to the downpour below made the king jump from the past to the present.
“My apologies, Thomas. I was just thinking about the joys of married life. Tell me, were you happy with your wife?”
“With Elizabeth? Yes, Sire,” Cromwell answered, thinking of his own marriage which had ended twelve years ago with her untimely death. “Yes, Sire, I was very happy,” he added, deliberately omitting to say that she had brought him three beautiful children, one of whom was a sturdy healthy son.
“Ah, women,” Henry mused. “To quote that old cliché, we men cannot get on with them, and we certainly cannot get on without them, eh? But I digress. How far had we got with regards to finding me a new wife?”
“Not far, Sire,” Cromwell replied, returning to the table. “And there is another problem as well that we haven’t talked about.”
“There always is, Thomas. What’s this one?”
“It’s the question of the Papal Bull, Your Majesty. That and the Holy Roman Emperor and the King of France. It seems that they have decided to join their forces to act against you and isolate this country from the European continent.”
“What! Just because the Pope has revived that Bull of Excommunication which he first declared several years ago? The one he cooked up together with Emperor Charles the Fifth?”
Cromwell nodded.
“And now they think that they have me beat? Well, my dear chancellor, they are wrong!” And with that, Henry brought his huge fist down heavily on the table. “Well, they haven’t. I tell you, Thomas, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. We’ll get round those two crafty old men, don’t you worry about that. You always have a solution to this sort of problem. What do you suggest I do now?”
Cromwel
l looked out of the lattice window for a moment and studied the scene below where various courtiers and servants were still scurrying about trying to avoid the puddles while keeping their heads down. He then turned back to face his king.
“Your Majesty. I have been giving this problem much thought recently, especially since our negotiations about the Duchess of Milan were unsuccessful.”
“So what have you been thinking of? Out with it. I haven’t given you all these high offices and baubles for nothing.” He pointed to the heavy gold chain of office his chancellor was wearing. “Come on, Thomas, you have to show me you are worth such gifts.”
Cromwell swallowed. He was not sure if his royal master was joking or not. He continued quietly in a matter of fact manner. “Sire, I have been thinking that the best way of opposing this Roman Catholic combination consisting of the Holy Roman Empire and the King of France together with one or two minor principalities is to strengthen some of our own current ties with the Continent.”
“And how do you suggest we do that? Send over an army and hammer them like we did to the Scots at Flodden Field? Do you remember that? We had no more troubles with them afterwards. We killed over twenty-five of their earls and dukes to say nothing of an archbishop and a couple of abbots. And then…”
Cromwell held up his hand. “Oh, no, Sire, nothing like that. I was thinking how we could act against this new Treaty of Toledo which the French and the Spanish signed recently. You know, the one where they agreed to keep us out of Europe.”
Henry waved his hand dismissively. “Huh, Thomas. Do you really think that the situation is as bad as that? You know what happens with most of these treaties? After all the fanfare of the signing, nothing really changes and both sides continue looking out for what is best for them. That is called politics. The art of getting the most out of the situation, and preferably at the other side’s expense.”
The chancellor leaned forward, took another comfit, paused and continued.
“Sire, I was thinking that it might be a good idea if you might marry one of Europe’s Protestant or Lutheran princesses or aristocratic young ladies. I know that it might mean that she’ll have a slightly lower rank than that of the Duchess of Milan or of Marie of Guise but it will certainly help to balance the status quo and let the Emperor and the French think that they are not completely in charge when it comes to Europe, Sire.”
Henry leaned back in his chair and put his hand to his forehead. After several minutes he straightened up. “I see,” he said. “Marry a different foreign-born lady, eh? And do you have any ideas who that might be, my chancellor and royal marriage-broker?”
“Yes, Sire,” Cromwell smiled. “It just so happens I do. As I said, I’ve been looking into this matter and I’ve been thinking about Ambassador Hutton’s earlier reference to Lady Anne of Cleves.”
“Cleves? Isn’t that a small principality in the Rhineland?”
“Yes, Sire. It straddles the Rhine and is somewhat inland to the east of the Low Countries. Here, may I show you where it is on this globe.”
The two men rose from the table and walked over to where an old beige coloured globe sat in its round wooden frame. Cromwell moved the great ball around slowly until Europe came round to the top. “There,” he pointed. “There on either side of the River Rhine, two or three inches east of the North Sea coast.”
The king did not look very impressed. He stretched himself and looked down at his still bent chancellor. “Wait a minute, Thomas. Surely this Cleves place is part of the Holy Roman Empire. They would never agree to any sort of union with me, with England.”
Cromwell coughed apologetically. “It’s not quite like that today, Your Majesty. It is true that this duchy – this Cleves place as you phrase it – was part of the Holy Roman Empire in the past but the duke, Duke William, recently had a quarrel with the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles the Fifth, about land rights in Guelders. My ambassadors have told me that since then, the duke has been hoping that you, as the King of England, would give him some support.”
Henry slapped his thigh. “Ah, that’s what he wants from me. Well, maybe he’ll get it, too. Perhaps I’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone and get the stone back, too if I am lucky. I’ll have some influence on the Continent and get myself a new wife at the same time. That’s brilliant, Thomas, sheer genius.”
Again, Cromwell blushed under his sallow skin. Being praised like this twice in one day was unheard of.
“Yes, Sire,” he said quietly. This arrangement could work out to be quite profitable for you and this country.”
“And what do you know about the two Cleves women you mentioned earlier? Are they marriageable?”
“Yes, Sire. The duke has two sisters. Amalia and Anne. I have been told that they are both amenable young ladies. Not married and fair to look upon.”
“And how old are they?”
“Amalia is about twenty-two and her sister is two years older.”
“But wait a minute, Thomas. Didn’t Hutton report that this Anne of Cleves was nothing special?”
“Yes, Sire, but that was just his opinion. My other emissaries have told me that she is quite a pleasant young woman. Not a striking beauty, but certainly no ugly old crone, if you get my meaning.”
Henry was silent for a few moments before he asked his next question. “And are there any strings attached to these two ladies?”
“Strings, Sire?”
“Oh, you know, Thomas. Previous betrothals or contracts of that nature. Something akin to that which Marie of Guise had with King James?”
“As far as I know, Your Majesty, both of these young ladies are – may I phrase it somewhat indelicately – ripe for plucking. There are no strings attached to them.”
Henry leaned back and let out a bellow of a laugh. “Oh, Thomas, what a man you are! You spend your life carrying out delicate affairs of state for me and yet you still use the crude expressions from your youthful days in Putney. ‘Ripe for plucking’ indeed! Yes, Thomas, go and find out what there is to learn about these two birds. I just hope that at least one of them will be, as you say, ripe for plucking.”
“Yes, Sire.” And saying this, Cromwell bowed and left the chamber leaving his royal master to think about his next possible wife.
Chapter Three - Enter Anne of Cleves
My name is Anne of Cleves - at least, that is what the English call me. Here at home in the Rhineland Duchy of Cleves I am known as Anna von Jülich-Kleve-Berg. I was born in September 1515 in Düsseldorf, so that makes me twenty-four years old. My father, John, the third Duke of Cleves, was known as John the Simple - not because he was simple-minded but because he was less flamboyant than his father, my grandfather, John the Second. My grandfather was known, however, not only for his flamboyance but also for fathering sixty-three illegitimate children. It is not surprising therefore that he was also called John the Babymaker.
My mother, Maria of Jülich-Berg, had three daughters: Sybille, me and Amalia, in that order. Sybille was born in 1512 and so she is five years older than I am and Amalia was born two years after me. Sybille, with her long red hair and beautiful olive-shaped eyes was considered the beauty of the family, and I will say more about her later. We all spent our early years at Schloss Berg, a large castle near Solingen, the town famous for the manufacture of its excellent knives and swords.
Although my immediate family was not one of the most important in Europe, we did have some high-ranking and influential connections. We could trace our lineage both from the kings of England – through a daughter of Edward the First - and we were also descended from the King of France. In addition, my father was closely related to King Louis the Twelfth and my mother was connected to the kings and the nobility of the French house of Burgundy. So when I heard myself later described as a daughter belonging to a ‘minor noble family from the Rhineland,’ you can understand how upset that made me.
Although my father’s duchy was relatively small, it was populated with hard-working folk who
made it a very wealthy area. For this reason and, perhaps, due to political reasons, it was not long before my very attractive older sister, Sybille, was married. This happened thirteen years ago, in 1526. She was only fourteen at the time. She was married to John Frederick, the Elector of Saxony who was also the head of the Protestant Confederation of Germany, the ‘champion of the Reformation.’ This question of religion was certainly one of the reasons that my sister was seen as such an attractive ‘catch. This, combined with the fact that our duchy lay within the area of the Holy Roman Empire, meant that we were a Lutheran island within a Catholic sea.
My father believed in the teachings of the reformation and was greatly influenced by the beliefs and writings of Erasmus. My father was thus opposed to the Catholic Emperor, Charles the Fifth, and although he did not join the Schmalkaldic League, a defence union composed of ten city-states and six German Lutheran principalities, he was certainly sympathetic to their ideas and plans.
My own upbringing was quite conservative: my mother did not believe it necessary to give her daughters any education apart from some basic skills in reading and writing German. Unlike other girls of a similar standing, I was never taught any foreign languages and this was to cause me several problems later in my life.
“Mother,” I asked her one day. “Why don’t I have a governess who will teach me French? I’ve heard that other young ladies learn this language?”
“Because there’s no need for that,” she immediately replied. “You do not need to know any French here in Cleves and besides, French is the language of that Catholic country while here in the duchy, we believe in the Reformation.”
“Well, what about learning English? I’ve been told it is quite similar to our own German tongue?”
“Huh!” was her reply. “And what makes you think that you’ll be needing English? Are you planning to travel to England? No, my girl, a young woman’s role is to learn useful skills such as needlework and homemaking, skills that will keep her future husband happy.”
Anne of Cleves- Unbeloved Page 3