Anne of Cleves- Unbeloved

by D Lawrence-Young

  “Now, milady, if you will cast your eyes down a little for a few minutes that will give me just the right expression of modesty I wish to capture. Here, let me adjust your headdress a little. Ah, that’s perfect. I am sure the king will be delighted with this portrait.” He then made a few slight adjustments to the magnificent red gown, with its decorated gold bands and pearls and then stood back to admire the result. “Ah, that is just so, milady. Now I must concentrate before any more clouds come along.”

  He rapidly sketched in some more lines and then took up his brush and began stroking some paint onto the canvas which was now beginning to take on a life of itself. While Anne was watching him out of the corner of her lowered eyes, he alternately mixed his colours and then looked up at her as he continued working. Occasionally, he looked outside up at the sky but from what he could see, he would have a sufficient amount of time before the light would again be overcome by the clouds.

  For a week the two of them met in this room every day except one when the overcast sky prevented the artist from obtaining the light he wished to exploit. Despite this delay, however, the portrait was almost finished a few days after that. He then spent another few days when the bright sunlight was not essential for him to add some of the finer details of her jewellery and the embroidery on her dress and headdress. When all of this was completed he asked Anne and her family to come and take a look at the finished portrait.

  As usual, Anne’s brother, the Duke was very short with his appreciation.

  “Yes, it does you fine, Anne. I’m sure the king will like it. And now,” he said, turning to leave, “I have some work to do,” and saying that he left the room.

  Anne’s mother and sister were more forthcoming. “It’s beautiful,” Amalia said, clearly quite impressed by what she saw. “You look so calm, so poised.”

  “Yes, and so modest,” her mother added. “I’m sure the King of England won’t be able to refuse to marry you.”

  Holbein breathed a quiet sigh of relief. It seemed that he had been able to capture Anne’s air of modesty despite the richly embroidered clothes she had been wearing.

  “And I love the way Master Holbein has brought out the colour of your face and also the gold colouring of your jewellery,” her mother added. She turned to the painter. “Oh, Master Holbein, the necklaces look so real I feel that I can pick them up and touch them. You know, take them off my daughter’s neck and put them on my own.”

  Holbein smiled his thanks and felt very pleased. More than once he had heard his subjects and their families say that he was so skilled at making his portraits look so real, so close to life.

  “And, Anne,” Amalia said, stepping up close to examine the portrait. “Just look how finely Master Holbein has painted the veil on your headdress. It makes you look so delicate. I just hope,” she said looking at the painter, “you will paint such a good portrait of me. I will wear my dark blue velvet gown with its gold trimmings and I’ll wear my dark blue embroidered headdress and shoes to match. And mother, may I wear that lovely string of pearls you have? That will really complete the picture.”

  “Of course you may, my dear,” Julia answered and then she turned again to Anne and the portrait.

  “Oh, my darling daughter,” she said, wiping her eyes and pulling Anne closer to her. “You look so lovely. I’ll be so sad and miss you if His Majesty decides to take you for his wife.”

  Holbein smiled from where he was standing to the side. It was a good feeling to have one’s work appreciated. It is true that he had felt the pressure to complete the portrait quickly but he felt that he had painted a true likeness. That is what he was known for and that is what his royal master had demanded. He was pleased with his work and the effect that it had on Anne and her family. Now he was looking forward to painting a portrait of her younger sister as well. On hearing that she was planning to wear her dark blue and gold gown he was already thinking of the pigments and brushes he would use. Yes, it was good to have your work admired especially when he knew how important it would be for his royal master, the ever-demanding King of England, King Henry the Eighth.

  Chapter Six - Negotiations

  To his surprise, Holbein did not enjoy painting the portrait of Amalia as much as he had that of her older sister. When he saw she would not or could not stand for more than a minute or two without fidgeting, he decided to paint her sitting down. He arranged for her to sit in a carved wooden chair next to a decorated table. The chair had padded armrests and that made it easier for the young lady to sit still. The table bore a vase of flowers that complemented her auburn hair and dark blue gown. But Holbein soon discovered she could not sit still for long even in this position. To solve the problem he asked her to hold her brown and white fluffy pet dog on her lap. When the dog began to squirm around on her lap, Holbein gave her a heavy book to hold instead.

  But that did not help either. And when her long delicate fingers were still, then her mouth was not. Unlike her older sister who knew when to keep quiet, Amalia did not. Perhaps, Holbein thought, her ceaseless stream of questions was a result of having been brought up in this small duchy, in such confined surroundings; maybe that was why Amalia felt that she had to ask the painter about London, Paris and Basel.

  “Which city is the grandest?”

  “They are all grand, milady, but I think London is the grandest.”

  “Which country has the most handsome men?”

  “They can be found everywhere, milady.”

  “So tell me, which country has the prettiest women?”

  “Pretty women are also to be found everywhere.”

  “And the most fashionably dressed?”

  “Also all over, milady.”

  “Are we ladies in Cleves dressed more fashionably that the ladies in London?”

  Holbein thought for a moment before answering. “For Cleves they are fashionably dressed and the same may be said for the ladies in London,” was his diplomatic answer.

  In truth, Holbein found Amalia to be much less interesting and more superficial than her older sister. When he talked to her during their breaks over the next two weeks, he found her questions irritating and that her stubbornly held opinions on people and places were not based on facts or experience, but merely on hearsay and emotions. This was not the case with Anne. Anne wanted to learn more about life. She wanted to know more about the world outside the duchy and was very pleased when the painter added to her store of English vocabulary or corrected some of her grammatical mistakes in English.

  The result was that although the ducal family praised Holbein’s second portrait as much as the first one, he himself was not pleased with it. To be truthful, he felt he had not captured the younger daughter’s superficial and more vacuous nature. However, he was not allowed the time to dwell on comparing the two sisters and their portraits. As soon as he had finished and the paint was dry on Amalia’s portrait, the two paintings were very carefully wrapped and, accompanied by their painter, were sent to England, to his royal master at Hampton Court.

  * * * * * * *

  It was a pleasant sunny end-of-summer day when the king sent for Cromwell, the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Oxford to come to his chamber at Hampton Court. They were to view the two portraits which had been set up on easels near the window. This was where Holbein had advised the king that the natural light would do them the most justice.

  After the four men had settled down in their chairs, the king stood up, and with his feet spread apart in his characteristic manner, addressed them. “Gentlemen, you know what you’re here for. I’d like to hear your honest opinions about these two portraits that Master Holbein has painted. I’d like you to tell me the truth, the honest truth and not the version of the truth that you think I’d like to hear. Fear not,” he added, seeing the Earl of Oxford momentarily wince. “If your opinion differs from mine, I’ll not send you to the Tower, at least, not this time. I’ve spent some time looking at these two portraits and have already reached my own conclusio
ns. You are all married men of the world and know what women are like. So gentlemen, let us proceed.”

  The three men stirred uneasily in their seats. They looked at one another and then at the king. They knew that they would be telling him something personal. Something more personal than whom to appoint for a certain post or which fortress needed its defences reinforcing. Oxford suddenly showed great interest in the decorated ceiling while his brother duke swallowed and decided to study the floor between his shoes. Only Cromwell sat calmly, maybe because he, more than anyone else, had sat here for so many hours in the past with his royal master. Henry sat down and started drumming his fingers impatiently on the table next to him.

  “Well, gentlemen, I am waiting,” he said at last. “Come now, have you all been suddenly afflicted with the disease of dumbness?”

  Cromwell coughed and started speaking in an unusually apologetic tone. “Your Majesty, you must realize that I am not an expert on artistic matters and nor am I a great man with the ladies,” he began, “but I would like to say that…” and he looked at the two dukes who were pleased that the chancellor had taken the lead in this problematic discussion. “That, er…,” Cromwell continued, wiping a few beads of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, “that, er, in my opinion, the picture of…”

  “Yes, come on, Thomas, out with it,” Henry cut in impatiently. “I’ve promised not to send you to the Tower. You are among friends here.”

  Cromwell looked out of the corner of his eye at Norfolk and knew this was certainly not true. The Reformation-minded chancellor had had several vicious arguments with the Catholic duke. He also knew that Norfolk was permanently jealous that he, the son of a Putney blacksmith and merchant, had much more influence over the king than he, Norfolk, had ever had.

  “I think, Sire,” Cromwell said slowly, “that the portrait of the older sister, of Anne of Cleves, shows a woman to be more suitable to be your wife.”

  Henry smiled encouragingly and the chancellor continued. “And not only that, Sire, that is in terms of what we can see on these canvasses, and from a brief talk I have had with Master Holbein as well as from this note from your envoy, they confirm my own humble opinion about the lady. Here, please allow me to read it to you. It is about her suitability in marrying you in relation to that question of the earlier betrothal to…”

  “Yes, yes, Thomas, read the report,” the king interrupted him again.

  Cromwell stood up, reached for his pouch and pulled out a piece of paper and began to read.

  I find the Council willing enough to publish and manifest to the world, that by any covenants made by the old Duke of Cleves and the Duke of Lorraine, my Lady Anne is not bound; but ever hath been and yet is at her free liberty to marry wherever she will.

  The king smiled, said nothing and then pointed to the Duke of Norfolk. “Come, sir, you are the country’s leading duke, what is your considered opinion?”

  Norfolk, who had noticed that the king had smiled twice when the older sister had been referred to, and despite what he thought about the king’s chancellor, said that he fully agreed with Cromwell. He was also aware that if he said that he preferred the younger sister to be the king’s next wife and the country’s next queen, he would not be incarcerated in the Tower. However, he also knew very well that His Majesty had a long memory, especially when it came to holding grudges against anyone. Past experience had taught him that the king did not suffer opinions that differed from his own.

  “Sire,” he continued in a louder and more confident tone that belied his true feelings. “After studying this lively portrait I think that the older sister seems to be a far more suitable woman, a more mature woman to be your future queen and helpmeet.”

  Henry smiled for the third time during that fateful meeting. “And you, sir,” the king asked, nodding his head in Oxford’s direction, “What do you think?”

  Oxford, who was as devious as his brother aristocrat, especially when it came to placating his royal master, unhesitatingly gave his opinion. “I agree with my fellow duke and your chancellor, Sire. The younger sister seems to be too young for you, perhaps not sufficiently mature for a mind such as yours.” He smiled briefly and then quickly reached over to pick up his glass of red wine.

  “Are you implying, my good Earl of Oxford, that I am old?” the king asked, jutting out his bearded chin.

  Oxford lowered his head so as not to face His Majesty. “Oh, no, Sire. It is just that I think that a ruler of your stature and intellect would not be happy with a wife who is, er, how shall I phrase this…?”

  “Carefully, Oxford, carefully.”

  “Yes, Sire, er, with a wife who perhaps maybe a trifle empty-headed, er, that is, much less intellectual than your royal self.” He paused, looked at the king, and on receiving no clear reaction, continued. “The portrait of the older sister, of the lady Anne, Your Majesty, seems to me to be, and please remember that I, too, am no expert in the world of art and of portraits … um , the portrait of Lady Anne seems to show that she is more thoughtful, Sire, more considerate, er, more…”

  “Enough, Oxford,” Henry said raising his pudgy bejewelled hand. “I understand what you are saying. There’s no need to treat me like a slow schoolboy who cannot learn his lessons.”

  Oxford sank back in his chair and concentrated on the glass of wine he was holding. Now he and the other two men waited for their royal master to say what was on his mind.

  Henry stood up and walked slowly around the seated group. Although his ulcerous leg was sending sharp pains though his body, he enjoyed the feeling of power he had over these three men, his most senior advisors. It did not take much effort on his part to notice that as he passed by the two noblemen they cringed slightly, though had they been told this, they both would have denied it most vehemently.

  “So, gentlemen,” Henry said after settling down again in his chair and placing his leg in a position where he hoped it would be less painful. “This is what I’ve decided.” He paused to look at the three men carefully, noting Norfolk’s facial twitch, Oxford’s expressionless grey eyes and Cromwell’s sharp features. “I’ve decided to take the Lady Anne to be my next wife and queen.” Each of the three advisors breathed a silent sigh of relief. Their royal master had agreed with their opinions. The king continued. “As such, I’ll be instructing my envoys - probably Wotton and Mont - to return to Cleves in order to have a marriage contract drawn up by the lady’s brother, the duchy’s ruler, Duke William of Cleves.”

  Cromwell and the noblemen smiled. This important meeting was going well.

  Henry then indicated that he had more to say. “And if you gentlemen are interested in my reasons for choosing the Lady Anne over her sister, Amalia, then yes, the question of age and probably maturity is indeed relevant.” Henry walked over to stand next to Holbein’s portrait of Anne. “While I think that both portraits show two very comely women, I think that lady Anne seems to display a more gentle disposition than her sister. Yes,” he said as he closely examined the features on Anne’s portrait. “Yes, a disposition more like my deceased queen, Queen Jane, that is, and perhaps a little like my first wife before she became so hard-headed and stubborn. I must admit, I like the expression of her eyes, soft and forgiving, and her face is unblemished, without any unseemly marks or scars. Master Holbein has assured me that what you see here today, gentlemen, is how the lady really looks. He says that here,” and he pointed at Anne’s portrait, complete with sleepy eyelids, “that he has painted a truly faithful likeness of the lady.”

  “Your Majesty,” Cromwell said. “I am sure he has. If you remember the portrait of…” and then he stopped himself as he was about to remind his king about his friend, Sir Thomas More.

  “Yes, Thomas, you were saying?” Henry said, looking directly at his chancellor.

  “Yes, Sire, I was just about to comment on that portrait that we call ‘The Ambassadors’ and how closely Master Holbein depicted their features. If you recall, it was a most detailed and
exact likeness of Jean de Dintville and the Bishop Georges de Selve. I was most impressed, Sire and, I believe, so were you. I remember that you noted how well Master Holbein contrasted the light and shadows in this work.”

  “Thomas, I did not realize that you were such an accomplished critic of the arts,” Henry said, raising his eyebrows. “I’d always thought of you more as a dealer in money, property and power.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, Your Majesty,” Cromwell said, looking down for a moment. “But over the years, especially since I started working for you, Sire, I have come to learn to appreciate some of the finer aspects of life here at court.”

  Henry smiled. “Oh, what a flatterer you are, Thomas. But just remember, there is a limit you know of how much flattery that even I can take. But, for now,” he said clapping his hands, “let’s return to the business at hand. We’re here to discuss and plan the business of my next, and hopefully the last of my marriages.”

  At the end of the following week a contract was signed in Düsseldorf and then towards the end of September 1539 the Duke of Cleves dispatched several envoys to Henry’s court. They were led by the duchy’s Vice-Chancellor Olisleger and Francis Burchard, the Vice-Chancellor of Saxony.

  It was a warm, muggy day when the delegation was shown into the king’s chambers. They were greeted by the king himself, who was wearing a dark, bejewelled hat and a maroon jacket trimmed with gold and seeded pearls. Standing to the side was a more modestly dressed Cromwell in his customary loose black garb. Nicholas Wotton and Christopher Mont were wearing dark blue and dark grey robes respectively; the only jewellery that they wore consisted of the finely engraved gold clasps which closed their gowns.