Anna of Kleve, the Princess in the Portrait

by Alison Weir

  They were slightly breathless by the time they ascended the final flight of stairs leading to the turret at the top of the tower and entered a narrow, sparsely furnished room with windows at each end. The Turkey carpet must have cost a fortune in its day, but it was now threadbare. Anna crossed to the window overlooking the river. Below, the town of Kleve lay spread out before her, a patchwork of red roofs and spires.

  Otho stood right behind her.

  “It is a fair sight,” he said, looking over her shoulder. She could feel his breath on her ear. “So tell me about Lohengrin.” His voice was like a caress.

  Anna tried to focus on the legend she had promised to recount, but her mind was too overwhelmed by this strange, heady feeling. Was this love? She had seen how deeply her parents loved each other, and had learned, from listening to the ladies and maids gossiping, that love could also be a kind of madness that made people act like fools, as if they were out of their senses. It could make you ecstatically happy or desperately sad. And now, standing in this dusty little room, alone with a young man for the first time, she understood what it was to be powerfully attracted to someone. It was a glorious feeling, and frightening too, as if she were being impelled toward something momentous and dangerous, and had not the mastery to stop herself.

  But she must! She would soon be a married woman, and had been schooled in absolute loyalty to her husband-to-be.

  “Do you know why this is called the Swan Tower?” she asked Otho, forcing herself to collect her thoughts and speak. “I don’t suppose you hear much about the legends of Kleve in Limburg.”

  “My mother used to tell me stories when I was little,” he answered, “but I have forgotten them mostly.”

  “Above us, on top of the turret, there is a golden weathervane,” Anna said, a touch breathlessly. “It bears the swan that the old counts of Kleve blazoned on their coats of arms, in honor of the Knight of the Swan, the mysterious Lohengrin. See here.” She turned and drew from her bodice an enameled pendant. “This is my personal device. The two white swans stand for innocence and purity.” Otho cradled her hand in his as he bent to look in her palm. Suddenly, he kissed her lightly on the wrist. It gave her the most pleasurable jolt.

  She was not quite mad—not yet. She had been taught that no virtuous woman would let a man kiss her until he made her his affianced bride. She withdrew her hand, and Otho straightened up.

  Her voice shook a little as she continued her story. “Lohengrin’s boat was guided by two white swans when he sailed along the Rhine long ago to visit a countess of Kleve named Elsa. She was in deep distress because her husband had died and a tyrant was trying to usurp his place by forcing her to wed him. Lohengrin came to her aid. He overthrew the tyrant and married her.”

  Otho’s eyes were shining into hers. “If she was as beauteous as another princess of Kleve I could mention—then I take my cap off to Lohengrin.” His voice sounded a little hoarse.

  Anna’s cheeks suddenly felt very hot. She had no idea how to respond to such a compliment.

  “He was a renowned hero,” she said, struggling to act normally. “But on the day after their wedding, he made Elsa promise never to ask his name or his ancestry. Unknown to her, and to all, he was a knight of the Holy Grail and was often sent on secret missions. She agreed, and they lived very happily together, and had three fine sons. They were my ancestors.”

  “You are going to tell me that it all went wrong,” Otho said.

  “It did. Elsa was desperate to know if her sons would have a great inheritance from their father. She could not contain herself, and asked him the question she had sworn never to ask. When she did, Lohengrin fell into anguish. He tore himself from her arms and left the castle—this very castle. And there, on the river, waiting for him, were the two swans with the boat that had brought him to Kleve. He sailed away in it, and was never seen again.”

  Otho was shaking his head, his eyes holding hers. “And what happened to Elsa?”

  “She was so overcome with grief for her loss that she died. She had loved Lohengrin so much.”

  For the first time, it was dawning on Anna how terrible Elsa’s loss had been. That sad realization must have been plain on her face, for, without preamble, Otho stepped forward and folded his arms around her, drawing her close to him. Before she could stop him, he had pressed his lips to hers and touched her tongue with his. It was the strangest thing, at once wonderful and repulsive. She had never dreamed that kissing could be like that, but she knew it was wrong to be doing it. What would her parents think of her?

  “No,” she said, pulling back.

  He held her fast in his embrace. “Yes!” he breathed. “Please don’t deny us this pleasure! It can do no harm. You need not fear it.”

  “I might have a baby,” she protested, and was surprised when he laughed. “I might,” she warned. “Mother Lowe told me kissing leads to babies.”

  “And who is Mother Lowe?” he asked, nuzzling her nose with his as she struggled halfheartedly to free herself.

  “She is my nurse.”

  “Little she knows! You can’t get a baby from kissing. It’s harmless. And you were enjoying it, I could tell.” He was still holding her tight, grinning at her so engagingly that she felt her knees melt. It was thrilling, talking about such things with a man.

  He kissed her again, gently, tenderly this time, and then he was drawing her down onto the carpet, kissing her eyes and stroking her cheeks. His hands strayed elsewhere, and the glorious sensations he was awakening in her drowned out the alarms ringing in her head. He had said there was nothing to fear, and she believed him. He was a guest in her father’s house—a well-brought-up young man who, she could count on it, knew how to behave. And there was a rising, breathless excitement in him that she found infectious.

  “Oh, Anna!” he murmured, his eyes on hers as he twined her hair around his fingers, his breathing becoming more rapid and tremulous. “Let me love you! I will not hurt you.” His lips closed on hers again, with greater fervor, and then he reached down, pulled her beautiful silk skirts and chemise aside and—to her astonishment—began gently touching her private parts. She did not resist him: she was too far immersed in feelings and sensations she had never dreamed of.

  “As you have lips here,” he whispered, caressing her mouth with his tongue, “so you have them here, for the same purpose.” His fingertips moved rhythmically, exploring more boldly, and Anna felt the most exquisite pleasure mounting within her. There was no shock, just surprise at how little she had understood her own body—and no shame. Here it was, the madness of which the women had spoken! Had she lived until now?

  What followed was utterly glorious, and she gave herself up to it without further thought, being incapable of reason. A little pain—and then she was ascending to Heaven. As the pleasure mounted, she felt Otho’s body spasm. He cried out, and then, as he slowly relaxed on top of her, and inside her, holding her tightly and murmuring incoherent words of love, she was overcome by a wave of unstoppable ecstasy, building and building until she thought she would pass out.

  She lay there stunned as he turned his head to face her, and smiled.

  “Did you enjoy our kissing, Anna?”

  She nodded, thinking how beautiful his eyes were.

  “Oh, sweet Anna,” Otho murmured, his lips on hers, “you loved it, didn’t you? I could tell.”

  “Yes,” she breathed. “I never dreamed there could be pleasure like that.” She lay there in his arms, feeling blissful, wanting to prolong the moment for as long as possible.

  “This is what God intended for men and women!” He smiled.

  “It wasn’t wrong, was it?” Her sense of fitness was returning, and with it the awareness that she had been a party to something forbidden.

  “Of course not.” He released her and sat up, lacing his hose. “But let’s keep it as our secret. Our parents wo
uldn’t understand. They think such pleasures should be kept for marriage, but I see no harm in enjoying them before.”

  Anna began to feel guilty. Carried away on a tide of madness, she had betrayed the precepts drummed into her by her mother. But it had been so beautiful! Why, then, did she feel a creeping sense of dread? It was the fear of being found out, she realized; that was all. How could she regret something that had brought her such joy?

  “Can we be married, Anna?” Otho asked, gazing at her longingly.

  “Oh, I do wish that!” she cried. “But I am promised to the Duke of Lorraine’s son.” Her voice caught in her throat.

  He stared at her. “I did not know.”

  She shook her head. “It is not what I want, but my father is set on an alliance with Lorraine.” Belatedly, she realized that what she had done with Otho was meant to be saved for marriage; they had stolen what rightfully belonged to Francis.

  “Betrothals can be broken,” Otho said.

  Anna shook her head. “I doubt it.” She felt tears welling, and knew her misery must be written plain on her face.

  She stood up, tidied herself and moved toward the door.

  “Where are you going, Liebling?” Otho asked, looking bewildered.

  “We should go back. We have been here too long,” she said.

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her again, long and yearningly, leaving her in no doubt as to his feelings. They belonged to each other now, and nothing could change that: it was what his lips were saying to her. She was drowning in emotion. She wanted the moment to go on forever, but made herself break away. She dared not stay alone with him here any longer.

  “I love you, Anna,” she heard him whisper.

  Ignoring the soreness between her legs, she hastened down the stairs, bereft, and desperate to cry out her sorrow in her chamber, where there would be clean water, soap, and towels to remove all trace of her sinfulness, and she could take off the gown of which she had been so proud, but which now bore the stains of her fall from grace. Otho was right. What had passed between them must remain a secret; besides, Anna did not have the words to describe what had happened. If her parents found out, she would be blamed. She should not have been alone with Otho in the first place, let alone allowed him to kiss her and lie with her. They would say he had dishonored her, a princess of Kleve, when he was a guest in her father’s house. Yet it had not been like that! She had lain with him willingly—and she had been in ecstasy. Otho had said he loved her and had spoken of marriage—yet they could never belong to each other. Tears welled again in her eyes as she emerged from the tower. She prayed the guards would not notice her distress.

  “Anna?” Otho cried, behind her. “Are you all right?”

  “The Spiegelturm is over there,” she called back, her voice catching. “They’ll be waiting for you. Tell them…tell them my head is aching and that I’ve gone to lie down.”

  Leaving him standing there, she hastened away to her chamber. Mercifully, it was deserted. Mother Lowe was enjoying her usual afternoon nap.

  Crying, Anna unlaced her bodice and sleeves and let her gown fall to the floor, then poured some water from the ewer into the bowl beside it. It was while she was scrubbing herself that she noticed blood on her lawn chemise. Was this the monthly visitation Mutter had warned her about? When Anna had asked why women had to bleed, Mutter had simply said that it was God’s will, and that Anna would learn more about it when she was about to be married. Anna wondered if it had anything to do with what she had done this day.

  She changed her chemise and put the soiled one to soak in the bowl of water. What to do about the dress? There was blood on the lining of that too, so she took the damp cloth she had used to wash herself and rubbed it away. Soon, the stain was nearly gone; if you were not looking for it, you would not see it. She laid the damp dress away in the chest, and put on another, of creamy silk banded with crimson. Then she stared at herself in the mirror, checking that no one could see she had been crying. Her eyes looked a bit red, but she could put that down to the headache. And it was true, her head was aching, from the burden of love, guilt, and desperation she now carried.

  * * *

  —

  When the bell in the tower summoned everyone to supper, she sped down the stairs and arrived in the dining chamber on time. Vater never could abide unpunctuality.

  Otho was there already, with Onkel Otho and Tante Elisabeth. She wanted to fly into his arms, but made herself avoid his eyes, aware that he was avidly seeking hers. No one must guess the secret that lay between them.

  “Is your head better, my dear?” Tante Elisabeth asked her.

  “I am much better, thank you,” Anna told her.

  “You’ve changed your dress, child,” Mutter observed.

  “I was too hot in the other one.” She was praying Otho would not give them away, by some chance word or glance. Mutter could be sharply observant.

  The meal was an ordeal, and she struggled to behave normally, and to eat the choice carp and roasted pork served to her. She dared not think of what had happened earlier, lest her face flame and betray her. It wasn’t easy, with Otho sitting so dangerously near to her, looking so handsome, and her stomach churning with love and desire. It took all her inner resources to behave as usual. She did not think anyone noticed anything amiss.

  After supper, the Duke’s consort of musicians arrived with their trumpets, lutes, and harps. Mutter would always have harp music if she could; it was her favorite, and she bestowed one of her rare smiles on the players when the last note had been struck.

  “I wish we could dance,” Emily said wistfully, “or sing.”

  Mutter frowned. “My dear child, you know it is immodest for a woman to dance or sing in public.”

  “I know,” muttered Emily gloomily, “but I do so love music and dancing.”

  Tante Elisabeth regarded her with disapproval.

  “She inherited her love of music from me,” Mutter said. Elisabeth gave a thin smile.

  The men were talking of politics.

  “The Emperor has ambitions. He wants the duchy of Guelders for himself,” Vater was saying. “But it will go to Anna’s betrothed.” Anna saw Otho’s expression darken, but Vater continued, unheeding. “Duke Charles is childless, and Francis, as his great-nephew, will inherit. I myself have a claim to Guelders, but I relinquished it as part of the terms of the betrothal contract; I am content that my daughter will be duchess of Guelders.”

  Anna struggled to maintain her composure. She most certainly was not content at the prospect. Her imaginary image of Francis had metamorphosed from a courteous, smiling boy into a disapproving, suspicious man.

  “The Emperor also has a claim to Guelders, does he not?” Onkel Otho asked.

  “Yes, through his mother,” Vater told him. “But if he presses it, we will be ready for him. Kleve may be part of the Holy Roman Empire, but it is also one of the leading principalities of Germany. We will not let the Emperor dictate to us. We protect our independence. We have our own courts and our own army, and I keep control of our foreign policy.” Wilhelm was listening avidly.

  “But Charles is very powerful. You would have a fight on your hands,” Onkel Otho said.

  “Ah, but he might well be going to war with England, if King Henry continues in his attempt to divorce his Imperial Majesty’s Aunt Katherine to marry a courtesan. I count on Charles being too preoccupied with that, and with the Turks encroaching on his eastern borders, to concern himself with Guelders. I have the means to raise a mighty army.” The Duke paused as a servant refilled his goblet. “I met King Henry of England once, you know. Eight years ago, I visited his kingdom in the train of the Emperor.”

  “What was he like, Vater?” Wilhelm asked.

  “Handsome. Bombastic. Full of his new title. The Pope had just named him Defender of the Faith for writing a
book against Martin Luther.”

  The conversation dragged on interminably. There had been no chance of any conversation with Otho, as Wilhelm and Emily were sitting between him and Anna, and now, at precisely nine o’clock, the Hofmeister was arriving to remove the wine, signaling that it was time to retire. It was forbidden to the courtiers to sit up any later, playing cards, drinking, or even just chatting, and Vater liked to set a good example.

  Everyone bade each other a good night. As Anna was leaving the room, she felt a hand close on hers from behind, pressing something into her palm. She swung round, to see Otho giving her a longing look. Fortunately, no one seemed to have noticed, and she walked on, out of the dining chamber, to receive her parents’ blessings and hasten up to her room.

  Only then did she open her hand. She was holding a tiny package wrapped in a scrap of damask; inside was a ring enameled in red. There was a note, too. “Sweet Anna, please accept this token of my esteem. My family’s coat of arms has a red ring, so it is special to me. I hope you will wear it and think kindly of your servant.”

  He had given her his special ring! If only it could have been her betrothal ring! And yet, even though it was not, it still symbolized eternal love.

  She dared not keep the note; though it broke her heart to do it, she tore it into tiny pieces and threw them out of the window. But the ring she hid under the loose floorboard in the corner of her bedchamber.

  * * *

  —

  When the von Wyliches left, two days later, Anna was torn between misery at having to bid farewell to Otho and relief at not having to fend off his earnest, covert attempts to speak with her. Once he had gone, taking with him the fear of exposure, she was able to relax, telling herself she must not think of him, for the sake of her sanity; nor did she dare ask her father for a place for him, lest her evident interest in his affairs led to awkward questions. Yet it was unbearably hard to resume the endless routine of her days, which she and Emily spent largely in their mother’s apartments, among the women. Rarely, except at night, in their shared bedchamber, were they alone.