Anne of Cleves- Unbeloved

by D Lawrence-Young

  “I tell you, gentlemen,” said Henry, stopping his endless pacing to look at the portrait once more. “I really feel like riding down to Rochester to see her. I just cannot wait until she reaches London.”

  “Your Majesty,” Cromwell said, stepping forward. “Do you think that that is a good idea? Think of your leg. Think of this weather. Please look outside, Sire. The rain may have eased off a little, but it’s certainly not the weather for long rides for this time of day. Can you not contain your impatience?”

  He looked at Sir Anthony for support.

  “Your Majesty,” Sir Anthony said. “Much as I appreciate your desire to see the lady, I agree with your chancellor that perhaps it would be best if you wait another day or so.”

  The king whirled round on his advisors, his voice rising. “Listen, you two. You two are free men; you are free to be with whatever women you want. I am not. Everyone looks at me all the time. If I were to pinch a serving wench on her behind, the whole court would know about it within half an hour. That is not the case with you. When you do anything to a woman, no-one pays any attention. That is not so with me. I want a woman! I want a wife! And I want her now!” And he brought his fat hand flat down hard on the table. “My mind is made up. We will go and surprise her at Rochester. Are you game, Sir Anthony?”

  “Yes, Sire.” Past experience had taught this Privy Councillor when to agree and when to disagree with his king. Now was the time to agree.

  “You, Thomas, will remain here to see to the final arrangements for Lady Anne’s official entrance into London and I will go with Sir Anthony and a few others to Rochester today.”

  “But, Sire,” Cromwell protested. “Is this such a good idea? I realise that you are so impatient to meet the lady, but should you really do so before all the plans for doing so have been properly worked out?”

  “Of course it is, Thomas. You may be my learned chancellor, but as the son of a Putney blacksmith or whatever, you obviously have little knowledge of romantic love or tradition, has he, Sir Anthony?”

  Sir Anthony smiled a little and Cromwell fidgeted uncomfortably. He hated being reminded of his simple background, especially in front of the king’s noblemen.

  “Did you not know, Thomas, that kings and princes have always been known to see their lady-loves, their brides, before their wedding?”

  Cromwell shook his head and looked first at the king and then at Sir Anthony. This aspect of the royal tradition was new to him. Henry warmed up to his theme. “Yes, Thomas, the first king who did this was Louis the Second, the King of Naples and Sicily. He disguised himself as a simple knight and set off to see Yolande, his bride-to-be. She was the daughter of King Juan the First of Aragon. Isn’t that so, Sir Anthony?”

  The knightly courtier nodded in agreement and Cromwell continued to look uncomfortable. Despite his many years of service to the king, he had never before heard of this tradition.

  “And what about the former King Henry, Sire, King Henry the Sixth?” Sir Anthony asked. “Wasn’t he supposed to have met his wife, Margaret of Anjou, secretly before his wedding?”

  “Exactly, Sir Anthony. I’ve also heard that story,” Henry smiled and turned to face his chancellor. “So you see, Thomas, there is a precedent for my impatience, and right royal ones at that. And I’m sure that if you look further into this you will find some more examples.”

  “That’s true, Sire,” Sir Anthony said. “I can think of another one. About seventy years ago the Duke of Milan pretended to be his own brother, the Duke of Bari. And as such, he secretly met his bride, Bona of Savoy.”

  Henry slapped his thigh. “You see, Thomas, I am right. I will go in secret to Rochester and surprise my bride. Sir Anthony will come with and we’ll ask a few more fellows to join us. Oh, this will certainly be a surprise for my lady. Just you wait till I return, Thomas. You’ll hear all about it. I’m telling you, this is going to be quite a meeting, and all in the romantic tradition, to boot.”

  Two hours later, the king, Sir Anthony and several of his closest friends set out for Rochester. Luckily the rain had stopped but the road was muddy and they had to ride very carefully. By the time they had covered the thirty miles to their destination, they were all spattered with mud and it was difficult to see who was king and who was not.

  Henry wasted no time when he arrived at the Bishop’s Palace. Quickly dismounting from his sweating horse, he strode into the palace as energetically as his painful leg would allow and, surrounded by his five companions, demanded to know where the Lady Anne was staying in the building.

  The attendant recognised none of the dishevelled men in their muddy cloaks. All he recognised was their air of authority. Therefore, he did not hesitate to point the way up to the chamber from where Anne and her ladies were watching a bull-baiting spectacle in the courtyard below. Anne, intent on watching this new form of sport for the first time, only half-turned round to see the half dozen men enter the room. She then turned back to watch the angry dogs below, snarling and biting frenziedly at the maddened black bull.

  This was too much for the love-sick monarch. Pushing his noblemen aside, he strode over to where Anne was leaning out of the window. Putting his damp arms around her waist, he planted a heavy kiss on her upturned and surprised lips. Her face said it all.

  “Was ist los? What is happening?” she gasped, pushing the heavy king off her. She wiped the disgusting royal saliva off her lips with the back of her hand. “Who is this man? What does he want?” she cried. And looking dismissively at her attacker, she hurried and half-hid behind two of her ladies standing by the window. They were watching the bull fight below. The maddened creature had just gored two of the howling dogs below in the belly and the sounds of the wounded beasts carried up to the ladies’ room.

  Henry stumbled back causing a sharp burst of pain to shoot up from his throbbing leg. This was the woman he had been dreaming of ever since he had clapped eyes on Holbein’s portrait? This was the princess he had been dreaming about in bed? This creature, who was more interested in the fate of an angry bull than in him, King Henry the Eighth of England, her future husband? It was unthinkable. Nay, impossible. She was taller than he had supposed, and those clothes, those heavy German-style clothes! What had he been thinking of when he had agreed to marry this woman? What could he do about it now?

  He looked at Sir Anthony who was standing at the other end of the room. This courtier, just like the others, averted his gaze. No help was coming from any of them.

  Did not she recognise me? Henry asked himself. Do I look just like an upstart courtier? What had gone wrong here? I am the king, Henry kept repeating to himself. King Henry the Eighth of England. Doesn’t she know that? Why didn’t she recognise me?

  Spinning round to face the door, his cloak whirling around his broad shoulders, the angry and insulted monarch stamped out of the room closely followed by his band of nobles.

  “Did you see that?” he spluttered outside to no-one in particular. “She didn’t even recognise me! Me, the King of England! There I was, as large as life and she ignored me. No! She rejected me. Pushed me off like some meddlesome fly! Get me out of here. Get me away from all this!”

  Continuing to mutter something about this disastrous adventure, Henry gathered his men around him. They clattered down the stairs to the stables where they had left their horses ready to return to London. “I rushed here ‘to nourish love’ – and see what’s happened,” he growled to himself. A farce, an insult. His New Year’s romantic mission had turned into the worst snub he had ever suffered. It was an unmitigated disaster, however it was judged. And to him of all people, the King of England!

  Meanwhile, upstairs in the chamber where it had all happened, other thoughts and accusations were now swirling around like thick smoke as Anne and her ladies began to realise what had just happened.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that he was the king?” Anne asked Lady Lisle, accusingly.

  “We didn’t have the time, milady,” replied Lady Li
sle, unhappily fidgeting with her sleeves. “It all happened so quickly.”

  “I tried to tell you it was the king,” the Duchess of Suffolk said, “but…”

  “But, what?” Anne demanded, sounding angry for once. “Didn’t you see what he did to me?”

  “Yes, milady, but as Lady Lisle has just said, we had no time. As you saw for yourself, he just burst into the room without any warning.” The duchess shrugged her shoulders and held up her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “There was nothing we could do. Absolutely nothing. Please believe us.”

  Anne shrugged her shoulders with the same helpless gesture. Her ladies were right. There had been no time or warning that the king was on his way. There had been nothing that they could do. The harm had been done. Was this huge and sweating man with his small mean eyes and blotchy skin to be her husband? His face was fat and flabby, his hands were enormous. Was she destined to spend the rest of her life with this forceful monster?

  And not just that, but to be his wife and share his bed and have children by him. It was too much, she thought as the tears welled up in her eyes. Why did I agree to marry him? Why couldn’t I have stayed back at home in Cleves? It is true that life there was indeed slower and without all the excitement that I’ve had over the past few weeks, but at least I knew where I was and what was in store for me without any surprises like this. Even my strict brother, the duke, behaved better than this king had.

  Anne turned away from her ladies and looked out at the gory spectacle below. The bull was lying there panting out its life on the bloody red flagstones, oozing blood from several gaping wounds to its belly and its flanks. Two of the dogs were lying in their own pools of blood and intestines and a third one was yelping and licking piteously at the place where its hind leg should have been.

  But Anne saw none of this. Her eyes were clouded over with tears which then ran down her cheeks. All she could do was think about what had just happened to her. What would happen now? What would happen in the future? Will I have to marry him now? She thought. Will he still want to marry me after I failed to recognise him and show him any respect? What will my brother say? All the plans and negotiations – have they come to nought? Will I be sent home, a disgrace to my family and my country? And I had been told that the king was so handsome, so dashing and how lucky I was to be his next wife. And yet all I saw and felt was this huge man with his fat slobbering lips.

  Downstairs, in a small room near the stables, an angry and frustrated King of England was also having thoughts about his country and his future marriage. But this time, his pacing up and down the room was not born of impatience, but of anger. White-hot anger.

  “What do I do now?” he shouted at his courtiers facing him in a semi-circle. “How do I get out of this?” None of them dared to look at him. They either looked down at the muddy floor or up at the decorated ceiling. They fiddled with the rings on their fingers or fidgeted with their sleeves or any button that happened to be at hand. Not one of them had an answer, or if he did, he did not dare say it. A heavy and tense silence answered the king’s questions.

  Finally Sir Anthony could stand it no longer. “Your Majesty,” he began quietly. “Perhaps this was just some sort of a mistake. Perhaps, because we were all dressed the same, she did not recognize you. Look, Sire, we’re all wearing the same colour cloaks.” And he pointed to his and the king’s to prove his point.

  “But I’m the king,” Henry said, loudly and slowly. “I am bigger than all of you. Everyone knows that I’m a big man. Everyone. She should have recognised that.”

  “Your Majesty,” Lord Russell continued, trying to pacify his sovereign. “We know this but the lady comes from abroad, from a small duchy. Maybe she was never told how big you are.”

  That was the wrong thing to say.

  “What?” Henry roared. “Don’t they know about me in that Cleves place? Have not they heard of me? Am I just a simple peasant living here in England? Oh, just you wait, Master Cromwell. You got me into this and you will get me out of this, or by Jesus Christ and all His saints you will pay for this.”

  On hearing this, a silent and collective sigh of relief was felt by the group of courtiers. None of them liked the king’s chief minister. To them, despite his official role and newly acquired titles, he was still the son of a south London blacksmith – an upstart who had wormed his way into the king’s confidence at their own expense. Now he would pay. The king had just said that his chancellor was responsible for what had just happened. They conveniently forgot that once, when this marriage proposal had been first broached in the Privy Council, they had been the first to support it. They had all told their king that this was the best thing that he could do.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” they had said, smiling. “This Lady Anne of Cleves will be a much better wife for you than Mary of Guise.”

  “And yes, Your Majesty, she will be a far better choice than Christina of Denmark, Charles the Fifth’s young niece.”

  “That’s very true, Sire. This Lady Anne is older. That means she’ll be more mature. She’ll be much more suitable for you, Sire.”

  But now this was the past and it was as if it had nothing to do with them. Their problem was now staring them in the face - how could they keep their sovereign lord happy? The despised and mighty chancellor would pay the price for this. Even the king had said so. Just now. Master Thomas Cromwell, the Chancellor of England, in his perennial black coat would be laid low just like the black bull whose torn and bloody carcass was now being dragged away outside, over the wet, slippery flagstones.

  The king looked at his men. He knew what they thought of his chancellor and they knew he wanted revenge. This whole plan had begun to unravel at the edges and someone would have to pay. They did not know or care who it was, so long as it was not one of them. So who better than the chancellor they thought and, without thinking, Sir Anthony and Lord Russell fingered their necks.

  “Come, I have decided,” Henry said, now in a calmer voice. They looked up. What now? “We’ll leave here at first light for London. We’ll make for Greenwich and take my barge from there, and then I’ll decide what must be done. In the meanwhile, Sir Anthony, you’ll make sure that the Lady Anne receives my present of furs and sables. These she must have. Never let it be reported that the King of England went to meet his bride empty-handed. Never let it be said that I am mean and vengeful.”

  The king turned to Lord Russell. “Go and see about the arrangements for our staying here the night. Go now.”

  Russell bowed and quickly left to find a steward. He was relieved to have a reason to leave the room.

  “Now all of you go. I wish to remain here on my own for a while. We’ll meet again when Lord Russell has arranged our stay for the night.”

  As quickly as possible, the remaining courtiers muttered, “Good night, Sire” and filed out of the room leaving their still angry but now subdued king pacing the room wondering how he would solve this new marital problem.

  The next day, after a fast ride to Greenwich as he had planned, the king and his men sailed up the Thames back to London. Facing his men on the royal barge, Henry tried to justify his outburst from the previous night.

  “Whom should I have trusted? I’m telling you, she looked nothing like that portrait that Master Holbein painted. Nothing. I’m now so ashamed that I praised her the way I did. Oh what a fool I was. What a fool. And gentlemen, I must tell you, I like her not. Not at all. Nothing!”

  Chapter Ten - A Decision is Reached

  By the time Henry had reached his palace at Greenwich his temper was as black as pitch. His head was aching, his breathing was laboured and his leg was throbbing painfully. After stepping down from the royal barge onto the pier, he entered the palace, changed his muddy clothes and had the marks of the previous night’s insult washed off of himself. At least, the external aspects of it. Inside, he was still seething. Then, after ordering something to eat and drink he called for his inner circle of advisors, that is, the men who
had ridden down with him to Rochester, to join him in his chamber. “And make sure you bring Master Cromwell with you,” he ordered the captain of the guard. “I wish to see him immediately.”

  The captain in his splendid Tudor livery of green and white decorated with the Tudor red and white rose whirled round and left to fulfill his royal master’s orders. He wondered why the king’s chief minister had been called ‘Master Cromwell’ this time and not ‘my chancellor’ as the king was wont to call him. The captain shrugged his shoulders and thought that it was not his problem. His task was to carry out His Majesty’s orders and that was that. What lay behind these orders or what led up to them was not his business. Perhaps the chancellor had mislaid an important document or forgotten to attend a certain meeting. ‘All I know is this: I think I ‘m better being in Master John Stock’s shoes today, the captain of the king’s guard, rather than in Master Cromwell’s. Hmmm, it doesn’t look as though His Majesty is very pleased with his chancellor.’ And thinking thus, Captain Stock took four of his men and they started off down the long corridor in the direction of the chancellor’s chambers.

  Ten minutes later, Thomas Cromwell, the Chancellor of England, wearing his customary black gown and flat black cap was being ushered into the royal presence. Normally he would have walked this route unescorted, unless he happened to be carrying an important document or something else of great value. But now he was wondering as he stood at the open door why he had been escorted to His Majesty’s chamber when he had not been asked to bring anything at all. He looked around at the other advisors sitting there trying to learn from their faces what the reason was for this hurriedly called meeting, but their blank expressions gave nothing away. Not one of them greeted him, even officially. It was most unsettling.

  Cromwell stood there, searching in his mind for a reason for this meeting. How had the meeting gone with Lady Anne? Was His Majesty pleased with what he had seen and heard at Rochester? He certainly did not look happy. Had the lady fulfilled his expectations? Full of foreboding, Cromwell scanned the Privy Councillors’ faces again. They gave nothing away, that is, those who even bothered to look up at him. All of this was very strange. Usually it was he, Cromwell, who was the first to know what was happening in the royal circle. After all, it was he, Cromwell, the Chancellor, who usually initiated much of what was planned here at Greenwich or at any of the other royal palaces.