“Yes,” said Frances, as if she were reading the dame’s thoughts. “The girl is innocent still, but we fear for her virtue. She is young and impressionable, and lacks experience of the court, and of ambitious men.” And lustful ones, she thought.
Dame Agnes eyed Lady Elizabeth thoughtfully. As if she knew that she were the subject of discussion, Lady Elizabeth looked up and smiled at the trio in the corridor, tipping her bowl of lavender buds for them to see.
Dame Agnes raised her voice and said, “That is well done, child. Now let Sister Clotilde demonstrate the method for mixing the buds into the oil.”
The dame’s eyes darkened and her lids narrowed. “Fie, what is it with these Howards? By what strange alchemy do they possess such power to charm? First the king is taken with that black-eyed witch, Anne Boleyn, whose mother was a Howard, and then Margaret creates scandal first with Lord Thomas, and now with Sir Charles. And now you tell me that Surrey thinks to debauch yon damsel!”
“Yes,” said Frances. “The knave writes poems for her and recites them in company, and all know to whom his passion is directed. He makes no secret of it. I have no wish to defend Margaret for her rash behaviors, but at least Lord Thomas and Sir Charles were free to engage in such mummery. The earl is a married man.”
“And if the earl presses his suit with Lady Elizabeth, I fear me that it can only end in heartbreak for her,” said Mary. “Or worse.”
Dame Agnes was thoughtful for a moment and then she said, “But my dear children, what can I do to help?”
“We were hoping,” said Mary, “that is, we thought that perhaps you would once again extend your kindness to allow our cousins to abide here at Syon with you; that you might be willing to take Margaret back into your care for a while, and the Lady Elizabeth as well.”
“Yes,” interjected Frances. “Before Margaret disgraces herself again, and worse befalls the Lady Fitzgerald.”
Dame Agnes’s eyes, which were such a light gray as to be almost colorless, suddenly went dark; her pupils had expanded until there was just a rim of paleness around them. “But my children…have you not heard? I thought that was why you are here?”
“Heard?” said Mary. “Heard what?”
“Come,” said Dame Agnes. “Let us away to my chambers. Such talk must not be overheard.”
# # #
“I cannot believe it!” cried Mary. “Syon to be dissolved! It cannot be true!”
Dame Agnes’s eyes filled with tears. “I am afraid it is only too true, Your Grace. Last year when the king promulgated the writ of Praemunire against Bishop John and myself, there was no doubt that it was at the behest of Lord Cromwell. That wicked man has had his eyes on Syon for some time now. We suspected as much, and we were prepared. We offered to pay the king a hefty fine to delay our expulsion, which he gladly accepted. We then threw ourselves on Cromwell’s mercy, who could not then refuse to grant us pardon. Bishop John and I were forgiven for our transgression,” at this she cocked an eyebrow, for of what, precisely, had she and the bishop been guilty..? “But I fear me that all that mummery only served to buy us time; and now the wolf is at the door again.”
“Cannot you pay again?” asked Frances.
Dame Agnes used a corner of her ample apron to wipe her eyes. “Would that we could,” she said. “But there is to be no escape this time. For the abbey is not to be torn down, you see, as so many others have been. It is to be given to Lord Cromwell’s son, Lord Gregory. He is married to the former queen’s sister, you know, and the king thinks very highly of him.”
Frances began to pace up and down the room in her agitation. “This is iniquitous!” she cried. “The Cromwells have already over twenty abbeys between them. Is there no end to this madness?”
“I fear not,” said Dame Agnes. “Dozens of abbeys have been closed and in the end, all will be lost. There is no stopping this juggernaut.”
“But what will become of you and the others?” asked Mary, genuinely distressed.
Dame Agnes laid a work-worn hand on Mary’s arm. “Do not worry for us,” she said. “We shall be all right. We have used our time well. Your cousin, Marie of Hungary, has found a place for us in the Netherlands. When we are turned out next month, we shall take ship for Amsterdam. From there we shall go to Haarlem, and be installed at Sint-Bavokerk, the great church of Saint Bavo. I am even to have a pension of two hundred pounds. Methinks that the king is not completely indifferent to our plight, you see. We do not go to your cousin as paupers. And we have great industry, we nuns of Syon. We shall be able to support ourselves, I trow.”
Mary straightened her back, tilted her chin regally and said, “Dame Agnes, whilst I have breath in my body and coin in my purse, you and the nuns of Syon shall want for nothing. And I make this vow unto God, that if ever He sees fit to bring me to the throne of England, that you shall have Syon back, down to the last brick and stone!”
Frances, who was not given to religious fervor or public displays, crossed herself, and Dame Agnes knelt before Mary and kissed her hand.
The room was eerily silent for a moment and then a knock on the door seemed to break the spell. Dame Agnes rose, Frances dropped her hands and began brushing errant yellow daffodil pollen from her skirts; but Mary stood stock still with smoldering eyes and seemed to be looking into the future. It was the first time that she had ever vocalized her dream, in any manner, of one day being queen of England, and somehow that seemed to give her hopes a substance they had not hitherto possessed.
The Duchy of Cleves, June 1539
The air was warm and very still, and Holbein was glad that he had brought with him an ample cloth with which to mop his brow. When he was painting, he always tied a scarf about his forehead, as he had a tendency to sweat when he was working, regardless of the weather. His rooms were, thankfully, high up in the massive tower of the Schwanenburg, the castle of the Swan, and as the castle was situated atop a very steep hill, what breeze there was cooled his rooms. For this reason, along with the commanding and spectacular view of the confluence of the Kermisdahl waterway with the Spoykanal, he did not mind at all the seemingly endless stairs he had to climb to reach his little apartment in the castle. But this morning he had finally been called to meet his subjects, the two princesses he was to paint, and this introduction was to take place in the presence chamber.
And so now he awaited his audience in the stuffy anteroom, which was filled with courtiers and supplicants. Although the ceiling was high and the room had windows on two sides, its situation within the castle walls admitted little in the way of moving air.
Holbein was very interested in people for their own sake, but he always tended to view them with his artist’s eye. And he was more than an artist; he was a portraitist. It was vital that he suffuse his portraits with the sitter’s own character, and that he added nothing of his own except his talent for representing the truth as he saw it.
He had been born in Augsburg, but his home was in Basel, and there his wife and children lived. He had at this point, however, lived a great deal of his life in England. Money must be made after all, and court painter to the king of England, at a retainer of thirty pounds a year, was more patronage than many artists ever achieved.
He had certainly begun to feel his years, though, this spring. For nigh on a year he had been on the road, painting this princess or that for Henry of England. The trips were exhausting, as travel was difficult at the best of times, but they had coincided so nicely with his own needs that he had little cause for complaint. He was a citizen of Basel, and as he wished to keep that citizenship, he must return there at least every two years. And on this journey, he had also made arrangements to apprentice his son, Philipp, to a prominent goldsmith in Paris.
All he wanted to do now was to paint the Cleves princesses and go back to England for a well-earned rest. Surely by now the king would have seen enough portraits of noble ladies that he was prepared to make his choice. Holbein was glad that he was not a king and had no need to produce
heirs. He loved his children, and was glad of them, but had he had none, it would not have had dynastic consequences; he simply would have shrugged and continued to paint. One wife in Basel and one mistress in England was enough; more than enough. Two families were enough for any man.
What was missing in his life was passion. No, he thought, that was not quite true; he loved his wife, Elsbeth, in his way, and although the infatuation he had shared with his English mistress had waned, there was still enough there to keep him coming back to her. But his true passion was his art. There was no room there for any other grand passion. Yes, that was it; no woman could so absorb him as did his art. And it was, perhaps, right that this should be so; how else could he have produced such remarkable paintings? And that his paintings were remarkable was a fact, not a product of his ego.
Holbein turned to Sir Christoph Mont, the representative of the English court to the court of Cleves, who sat on the bench beside him. “You are lucky,” he said. “I am happy in England, but my heart is German.” The dress, the decoration, everything was so very different on the continent, and in the Germanic states in particular. The French, the Spanish, the Italians, they all had their peculiarities; but there was something about the dark opulence of the states of the empire that set them apart.
“Yes, I suppose I have been very lucky,” Sir Christoph replied. “I have been in the employ of England most of my life, but I have been able to spend my time in my native lands.”
“These girls,” said Holbein. “What are they like?’
Sir Christoph considered for a moment. “The Duchess Anne is the eldest, and much the prettiest, to my eye,” he said. “The Duchess Amalia is pleasing, but somewhat plain, I fear.” He laughed, removing his cap to wipe his sleeve across his damp forehead. “And it has been the devil’s own task to even find out that much about them! For weeks I was not allowed to see them at all, and then when I finally did meet them, they were so heavily veiled that I feared the worst. When I insisted that I be allowed to inspect the princesses more closely, Duke William asked if perhaps I would like to see them naked!”
“Mein Gott,” said Holbein, with round eyes. “He never said that, did he?”
“Indeed, he did,” assured Sir Christoph with an emphatic nod. “And had I not been here on a king’s errand, I would have answered him sharply and called his bluff!” Sir Christoph shook his head. “Much has changed in the months since the death of old Duke John. The new duke has new ideas, to which we have had to adjust. Duke John was petitioning the Emperor Charles for Christina of Denmark’s hand for King Henry, with an eye to helping his son-in-law’s relative gain England’s support for the throne of Denmark. But Duke William wants an alliance with England for Cleves, so that he may count on King Henry’s support in his pursuit to regain the Guelderland. The conquest and annexation of Guelders is his most ardent desire; he wants to expand his territory, which he could never get the old duke to agree to do. So whereas Duke John’s policy was of little interest to the emperor, Duke William’s policy has become of vital interest to him. Where the father had subtly delayed the suit of the King of England for a marriage with the House of Cleves, the son is now much in favor of it.”
Holbein had only been half listening; politics bored him. At least now he understood why there had been such a delay in sending him to Cleves. But he was here at last; and his fingers itched for his paints and canvases. Some response was needed; Holbein said “Humph,” and this signaled Sir Christoph to continue his assessment of the situation.
“Indeed,” said Sir Christoph. “The emperor put King Henry’s nose right out of joint when he signed an accord with François Premier. Nothing could have been better calculated to send King Henry in search of an alliance that would likewise annoy the Emperor Charles. An alliance between England and Cleves would be a formidable enough force to give the Emperor Charles pause. And so here we are!”
Just then the halberdiers opened the doors to the presence chamber and a herald appeared. He was dressed all in black save for the red and yellow coat of arms on his breast and cap. He stood very erect, his chest thrust out and his arms back, and cried in a clear, loud voice, “Sir Christoph Mont und Master Hans Holbein!”
“We are called,” said Sir Christoph. Immediately his demeanor changed from a man having a quiet gossip with a trusted friend to the seasoned diplomat. He arose, bowed, and said “Here, Mein Herr.”
The herald turned and Sir Christoph and Holbein followed him at a sedate pace into the massive hall. Holbein had been in royal courts most of his life; the opulence and awesome formality of the Germanic court of Cleves gave him no pause and caused him no sense of nervousness. He kept his eyes down, matched his pace to the herald’s and Sir Christoph’s and gave thought to nothing except getting past the ceremony of the reception of a foreign national to the court and on to his task, which was to paint.
Finally, the herald halted before a massive platform on which were two thrones. The herald announced them, and stepped aside. At that moment Holbein raised his eyes and it was as if lightning had struck him.
# # #
The mighty oak tree spread its branches and the light filtered through at just the right angle. Few people realized just how important light was when painting a portrait; both in terms of the available light one painted by, and the quality of the light as it illuminated one’s subject.
Anne and her mother had no English, and Sir Christoph had no compunction about speaking it to Holbein as he fussed over his pencils. “God in Heaven, man, what is taking so long? You had the Duchess Christina painted in three hours!”
Holbein had been expecting this attack and was ready for it. “And a guilty conscience I have suffered ever since! No, I will not be rushed. If you are impatient then go back to the castle,” he sniffed.
Sir Christoph placed his hands on his hips, spread his legs apart, and planted them on the soft, green grass, just a few feet from where the ladies sat waiting patiently on a blanket in the shade. Holbein stifled a grin; Sir Christoph looked for all the world just like King Henry in such a pose. “It is not a matter of being impatient today,” he said. “You have been at it for nigh on three weeks!”
Holbein knew all the arguments; genius took time; he would not be rushed. But in his heart, he knew the real reason for his remarkably slow pace, his deliberate delay, and it was not a reason that he could share with Sir Christoph. For the truth of it was, once the portraits were painted and sent to England, he would leave Cleves and never return. He might never see Anne again. And then his heart would skip a beat and he would remember why he was here in Cleves, painting these portraits; Anne might very well become the next queen of England on the strength of his work. And if that happened, he would be at the same court with her, would see her often. How could he bear it? How could he bear it either way? Never to see her again; to see her much of the time…he did not know which would be worse. While these thoughts were whirling around and around in his brain like figures chasing each other on a Greek vase, he had stood staring into space, transfixed, pencil poised in the air.
Sir Christoph heaved a heavy sigh. “God’s eyeballs, man, what ails you? You will never finish if you don’t work!”
Holbein sighed in his turn. “With all due respect, my lord, perhaps you would return to the castle? I cannot draw under such circumstances.” He arched his eyebrows, tilted his chin, and pursed his lips.
“And that is another thing!” cried Sir Christoph. “Why all these drawings? Your chamber walls are lined with them. You are here to paint, man, not to draw!”
At this Holbein visibly bristled. “Ach, and would you now tell me my business? I always make my drawings first. My drawings are essential. They tell me what to paint. I cannot produce a portrait without my drawings.” And they might be all he had left of Anne when he was done with his errand. He needed those drawings. “And may I remind you, sir, that these portraits are for a king? And not just any king! Henry of England is an exacting master. I will do nothing
less than my best for him.”
Sir Christoph threw up his hands, bowed to the ladies, and stalked off down the hill.
Once he was lost to sight, Holbein smiled, approached the ladies, and addressed the Duchess Maria in German. He was not permitted to address the princesses directly; their mother was their chaperone and all communication was supposed to take place through her. “I will draw the Lady Anne first today, if it pleases Your Highness,” he said with a bow. The duchess waved a bored hand by way of permission.
Anne smiled, arose, and walked to the place where Holbein had placed a small wooden block for her to stand on. The Duchess Maria fanned herself and soon began to nod, her back to the tree. Anne’s sister, the Lady Amalia, amused herself by plucking blades of grass and tossing them into the breeze to see which way they blew. Soon she, too, was nodding.
At twenty-three, Anne was tall, and seemed slender because she had a tiny waist. But as bulky and jewel-encrusted as her clothing was, Holbein, with his artist’s discerning eye, could still make out the lines of her figure. Her breasts were slung low, full at the bottom, and tip-tilted. In his mind’s eye, he imagined nipples like rosebuds. He adjusted his scarf around his head; he had begun to sweat. He must banish such thoughts while he worked. She was wide of hip, but that indicated a propensity for ease in child-bearing, and was that not the purpose of any royal match? Her skin was creamy and pink. She had some small pits from some childhood ailment, but to him, that was no mar to her beauty. Her smile was radiant, and she seemed to glow from within. She was a truly happy, good-natured person. And he could not stop drawing her. It was almost maddening.
So this was what true obsession was like, he thought. It went beyond mere passion. It was all-consuming. What was it about this girl, he wondered, that so captured his imagination? She was far beyond his reach. He had no designs on her virtue. But he wanted to do the only thing he could do; draw her. He did not want to start painting her yet because once he did that, he would soon be finished, and then he would have to go.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Page 46