Perhaps she should not have taken the poppy syrup, and she would not have, except for the unbearable pain. But the poppy syrup could not alleviate even by one iota the aching of her heart and the agony of conscience that she bore. She sighed and concluded that love was a feeling, an emotion, both terrible and wonderful. For that was her malady; she was in love. But God save her, she was in love with a Protestant heretic.
What was to be done? The emperor’s instructions were clear, relayed to her by a letter from Chapuys. She loved Chapuys like a father, and never had she known him to be anything but supportive of her plight and careful of her feelings. It had wounded her to the quick that his letter had been almost scolding in its tone. The emperor was very angry; he claimed that the king of England was simply using her to get at him and that her father had no intention of letting her marry anyone, in England or out of it. Her cousin had simply forbidden her to even contemplate such a marriage. Forbidden it! Easy to issue such an order from Valladolid, or Ghent, or wherever he happened to be, ruling his vast empire! If her father insisted, what choice had she but to obey?
But disobeying the emperor’s wishes was not the issue. Because she knew, and this, she believed, was what had made her so very ill; she knew with a certainty that it was her own desire to marry the duke, and that if ordered to do so by her father, she would do it with a glad heart.
Round and round these thoughts whirled in her brain until she thought they would drive her mad. They had certainly made her ill. She must obey her father; she must not marry a protestant heretic; she must keep on the good side of her cousin Charles; she loved Philip and would gladly endanger her immortal soul to have him. The more she thought about it the more her head ached. Then her stomach became sick, refusing all sustenance. Then her entire body became a vast wasteland of pain, radiating out from her broken heart to every extremity. To blame her father for forcing her to do that which she would have done without such coercion she knew to be the basest betrayal of her faith, not to mention much of what her beloved mother had stood for. And yet she yearned for Philip.
And so on and on it went until she felt likely to die the pain was so great.
They had met as often as possible over the days following that first meeting. And now every meeting they had was a joyful tryst to which both looked forward most eagerly. In his innocence, Philip had even promised her that once they were married, she would be allowed to practice her religion just as she always had. He would never expect her to compromise her beliefs for him. She was ashamed to have to admit to herself that she could not say the same.
And then all of a sudden and without warning, the pain was gone. Her eyes flew open and she sat straight up in the bed. Of course! Why had she not thought of this simple solution before? She would convert him. Hers was the true faith; he was in error, and she would help him to see the light. And if she could not convert him? What then? Well, did she not deserve a little happiness? Her conscience, beaten down for the moment, niggled at her poor, distressed mind once more and asked, happiness? Even at the expense of her immortal soul? But wasn’t that what faith was all about? Her father had the keeping of her body, and she must do with it what he decreed; there was no choice on that. And if what he decreed was the giving of her body in marriage to Philip, then that was what must be. But God had the keeping of her soul; He would provide.
Upon this comforting thought she tried to rise, but she could not. She had eaten nothing for two days and was as weak as a newborn calf. Her head was swimming, and finally she gave in and lay back on her pillows. She spared a thought for her father, who this very day, perhaps at this very moment, would be making the acquaintance of his New Queen. Now that she was in love herself, she understood him better. That desperate, frantic and yet wonderful feeling that directed itself at another and took one so completely outside one’s self, was something that she had never experienced before; and to know that this amazing feeling was returned was the ultimate happiness. But, oh! Why, oh why, did he have to be a heretic? Looking at him, and he looked like an angel, one must admit, that he was a heretic was hard to believe. As she reflected on these strange notions, the poppy syrup finally worked its charm, and for the first time in days, she slept soundly.
She was still sleeping when Lady Kingston returned with Dr. Butts. He held a candle over her and looked at her closely; he observed that some of her color had returned and she was breathing normally, instead of in the short, shallow gasps that had so alarmed Dr. Owen. There was no need to wake her. He signaled to Lady Kingston and together they quietly backed out of the room, leaving Mary to her dreams.
Greenwich Palace, January 1540
His privy chamber was dark, lit only by the fire that crackled in the hearth. Every now and then a log would shift and send up a shower of sparks, only to settle again with a hiss and a sigh. Then the monotonous crackling of the flames would begin again. Henry stared into the fire, sunk in the depths of gloom. He might be a king, but he felt as if he were a condemned man awaiting the gallows.
He had tried in vain to have the humiliating ritual of bedding the newly married couple removed from the program of events that would punctuate his wedding day, but the Cleves delegation would not hear of it; how else should they be assured that their princess was well and truly married, and officially Queen of England? Nein, nein, vee moost haff der beddink! He snorted. You could lead a horse to water but you could not make him drink, and he had no intention of getting within ten feet of his new wife. He had ordered braziers burning scented herbs to be placed into the nuptial chamber, and had instructed Lady Rochford to ensure that the wench bathed and was doused with scent. Any scent would do as long as it wasn’t lemon verbena, lavender, or rose.
Henry heaved another heavy sigh. It was said that comparisons were odious and could have unpleasant consequences, but what could have been more unpleasant than his discovery that his new queen was, literally, the proverbial pig in a poke? Katharine had carried about her the pleasing scent of lemon verbena, and he would forever associate that scent with her; his first Anne’s hair and clothing had always wafted a delicate whiff of lavender; and attar of roses had been Jane’s preferred perfume. His new bride stunk of sweat, sausage and sauerkraut. God’s death, what he would not have given to be a thousand miles away! Well, they could, and did, force him to marry her, but they could not force him to sleep with her. The cow! It was an apt metaphor. It reminded him of a book that his tutor, John Skelton, had once allowed him and his little sister, Mary, to leaf through in order to look at the pictures. The book was about strange lands, in one of which it was claimed that the cow was a sacred animal; there was a drawing of a young heifer that was draped in a blanket of marigolds and had a garland of flowers draped across her horns. Anne bedecked in her wedding finery had brought the picture to mind.
And her voice! Her voice was deep and gravelly, and the way she murdered the English language with her gutteral German accent made him shudder every time she spoke. He was accustomed to Katharine’s lisping Spanish accent, Anne’s elegant French lilt, and Jane’s quiet, beautiful English. He had chosen each of them; they were all different, but they were all, he could admit it now, wonderful in their own way. Katharine was the grave, dignified, exotic Spanish princess that he had so envied his brother Arthur; Anne had been elegant, alluring, some would even say bewitching; and Jane had been fresh and sweet, quiet and reserved.
But this one! She was loud and coarse, and her German fashions made her seem even more foreign.
He arose and walked to the place by the window where the life-size portrait of Anne had stood until the day he met her. That portrait had been quietly put away and in its place was set Holbein’s exquisite New Year’s gift. It was a portrait of Edward in a red and gold robe with a little pearl-studded cap, holding a golden rattle as if it were a scepter. The child was the spit of him. He wondered if a father had ever loved a son, or any child, as much as he loved this one. What a king he would make some day! Perhaps he had been blinded
by his life-long pursuit of sons to ensure the succession. Perhaps God was telling him, by visiting on him this mighty curse, that he should have been satisfied with what he had and not sought for more.
But as tempting as it was to do so, he could not blame Holbein for this fiasco. It was impossible to be angry with him; he had only done what he was told to do. For it was a fact that Anne, except for her pitted cheeks, did indeed look like her portrait. But a painting was, even at its best, only two dimensional. A portrait did not smell, nor could it speak. And when these dimensions were added, the result was hideous to his eyes, to his ears, and worst of all, to his nose. There was a wide gulf between the abstract and reality. And the reality of Anne of Cleves was that she was a parody of Holbein’s portrait. The reality in this case was a caricature; it was a subtle paradox, and one that was about to cause him a great deal of embarrassment.
He had done his best to get out of the marriage. He had threatened, he had cajoled, he had been obdurate, obstinate; he had adamantly and stubbornly refused to go through with the wedding ceremony. All to no avail.
His entire Privy Council had backed up Cromwell when he declared that to refuse to marry the girl and to send her back to Cleves in disgrace would be an unthinkable diplomatic breach and might even lead to war. All of his advisors seemed baffled as to what the problem was; even Brandon was unable to find any serious fault with Anne, and said that he thought her prettier than Jane. He spoke in her defense, saying that whatever her faults, she was both amiable and pliable of personality, and in any case was blameless.
Henry had wrung his hands and lamented that she was nothing so well as what had been spoken of her, and if he had known then what he knew now, he would never have consented her to come hither into his realm.
But the fact was, said Cromwell, she was here now, everything was set in motion, and the king could not back out at this late hour. There was no remedy; the king must honour his promise.
Well, he would reluctantly put his neck in the yoke, but someone was going to pay.
A discreet tap on his door told him that all was in readiness. He must now walk the torchlit corridors with his men, and the men of Cleves, to Anne’s bridal chamber. He must do so with a smile of anticipation, and he must somehow get through the bedding ceremony. He was a consummate actor and that talent now stood him in good stead. Under no circumstances must anyone outside of his immediate circle become aware that there was a problem. He needed time to think, time to plan.
If it were not for the political consequences, he would not go through with this farce any further for any earthly thing. But face his wedding night he must, and for that, someone was going to pay.
# # #
Anne lay on the elaborate bed fingering the delicate lace on the cuffs of her nightdress. The nightdress was gauzy, so Anne’s ladies had pulled the covers up to her chin, leaving only her arms exposed. The room was dimly lit with only a single candle on the tables at each side of the bed. There were braziers placed throughout the chamber burning sweet-smelling herbs, but they gave out little light; the only other source of illumination in the room was the hearth. Her ladies flitted in delightful agitation about the room like colorful butterflies, making sure that everything was in order for the king’s arrival.
Only Anne was calm, and while she waited for the hubbub to die down and for the king to arrive, she gave her thoughts over to her new husband. Henry was an enigma to her. A veritable mass of contradictions! His first gesture had been a playful one, that of surprising her at Rochester instead of waiting for her to be brought to him at Greenwich. That indicated a certain impatience; but then he had disappeared like a marsh mist and she had not seen or heard from him again until he met her and her party days later on Blackheath for her entry into London.
He had greeted her joyously and his manners were impeccable; but something was wanting. And she simply could not put her finger on what it was. Certainly her welcome into London could not be faulted. As grand as her receptions had been at every stage of her journey, the entry into London was not to be rivaled.
The ten miles from Dartford to Greenwich, where she had progressed from Rochester and awaited the king’s summons to begin the final stage of her journey, had been made on a glorious winter’s day. Under a watery yellow sun and a sky as blue as a robin’s egg, she had journeyed in her magnificent open litter of cloth of gold and crimson velvet, the king’s wedding gift to her. The day was fine, but chilly, and she snuggled under heaps of soft furs; thus warmed, she was able to wave and smile at the throngs of people who lined the roads to catch a glimpse of their New Queen and to wish her well.
The king had caused to be erected on the heath a grand royal pavilion of cloth of gold, as well as a number of smaller pavilions, where Anne and her party could rest and refresh themselves before continuing on to the river. The pavilions were richly furnished and warmed by braziers burning sweet-smelling herbs. Refreshments of every kind had been set out. There was a variety of wines, mulled ale, and cakes and fruit.
Before setting out for the river pageant, Anne’s new English ladies, both those whom had met her at Rochester and those whose acquaintance she had not yet made, lined up in their finery to swear their fealty to her. There were her Privy Chamber women, Lady Eleanor, the Countess of Rutland; Lady Jane Rochford; Winifred, Lady Edgecumbe, and Alice, Lady Browne; her ladies-in-waiting, Lady Frances, the Marchioness of Dorset and Lady Margaret Douglas, the king’ nieces; Lady Mary Howard, the Duchess of Richmond, the king’s widowed daughter-in-law; Lady Anne, the Countess of Sussex; and Lady Anne, the Countess of Hertford. Her maids of honour were Lady Lisle’s daughter, Anne Bassett, Mary Carey, the daughter of Mary Boleyn; and lastly, two young nieces of the Duke of Norfolk, both new to court; Katherine Howard and her sister, Margaret, both first cousins to Anne Boleyn.
The swearing-in ceremony complete, the colorful procession made its way across the heath, to the clarion call of the royal trumpets, to the river’s edge where the king’s barge and a host of boats waited to take the royal party upriver to the Tower. The boats were all bedecked with pennants and banners that snapped in the breeze, their vivid colors catching the eye. There was so much cloth of silver and gold that it hurt the eye to behold it all. Crowds of people lined the banks of the Thames cheering and shouting their approval. When the flotilla embarked, the guns at Greenwich boomed merrily until two hundred rounds had been fired. The people waved and shouted in their joy and delight. As they approached the Tower, the guns there boomed their welcome. From the Tower landing, they processed through the streets to St. Paul’s Cathedral to hear mass. Along the way they were greeted by the Lord Mayor of London, the masters of the guilds, and purple-clad clergy from all the churches of the city. Merry music played and the children sang. And then they had sailed back to Greenwich. There a sumptuous banquet awaited them.
It had been a delightful, wonderful day, and one that Anne would never forget.
Anne had expected to be married the next day, but she was not; it was not until three days later that the wedding had taken place. No explanation was offered for the delay, and it was not Anne’s place to ask. And now she awaited her husband to celebrate their wedding night.
When the king arrived he said nothing, but allowed his men to lead him to the bed. His squire pulled the covers back, just as he would have done had the king been alone, and Henry laid down on the bed. For a bedding, the room was strangely quiet, no one uttered the usual ribald jokes and no drinks were served. Anne’s ladies lined up along her side, Henry’s attendants lined up on his, and the Cleves delegation stood at the foot of the bed. At a signal from the king, Archbishop Cranmer doused the bed and the newly married couple with holy water; when he was finished, he murmured a prayer, all said “Amen!” and the bed curtains were drawn. Subdued voices gradually faded away until the door was closed and then all was quiet.
Anne’s mother, the Duchess Maria, had not prepared her daughter in any way for her wedding night; no one had prepared her,
and she had done just fine, bearing four healthy children to prove the point. Knowing this, Mother Lowe had attempted to fill the void, but she was a spinster, and her preparations had consisted of informing Anne that her husband now owned her body to do with as he would. She was to turn herself over to him accordingly and ask no questions. Anne knew that soldiers sometimes raped women in time of war, and that this was a terrible thing; but as to the form that this took she was still ignorant.
Henry lay on the bed as if he were a frozen block of ice; perhaps it was for her to make the first move. After all, he had been married before, three times; he must know what to do. But he could not do it until she gave him her body, yah?
Anne threw the covers back and slipped from the bed to the floor. She walked to Henry’s side of the bed, and without a moment’s hesitation, pulled the ribbon at the throat of her gauzy gown and let it drop to the floor. She had never seen another woman naked; for that matter, she never seen herself naked in a mirror. If, as Lady Lisle had once observed, she had no vanity, not had she any modesty. It simply did not occur to her.
Henry had sat up as soon as Anne moved, curious as to what she was about. Now he looked full at her, his mouth a round “O” of astonishment. He had not had time to stop her when she dropped her gown to her ankles, but his surprise had been overwhelmed by the sight of her naked body. Her chest was flat to the armpits, and there protruded two lumps of flesh with splotchy brown aureoles and nipples as big as his fingertips; but instead of pointing upwards, they seemed to be pointing down at her toes. The top half of her was slender, she did have a tiny waist, but below that her hips were broad and her thighs were like tree trunks. Spying the wine jug across the room, she walked over and poured two cups. Her backside was fat and dimpled, and her spine was knobbly.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Page 53