by Alison Weir
Mother Lowe bristled. “I’ve never heard of a princess arriving in a foreign country to wed a king, and being sent home. Even this King would not dare. Your brother would not stand for it.”
“What can he do? Kleve is in no position to wage war on England.”
“He could turn the German princes against the King. The Elector of Saxony pushed for this marriage. He will not see you insulted.”
Anna sighed. “No prince goes to war for the honor of a princess. When the King divorced Queen Katherine, did the Emperor go to her rescue? No. If it comes to it, I will go home willingly. I wish I had never come here!” The tears she had been fighting back burst forth in a flood, and there was her old nurse, holding her as she rocked in misery.
“I would do anything to avoid my wedding night,” she sobbed. “You, of all people, know why! What if the King discovers I am no virgin? What will he do to me?”
“Hush, hush,” Mother Lowe soothed, stroking Anna’s hair. “No man can tell if a woman is a virgin.”
“But what of those silvery marks on my belly where the skin was stretched? And my breasts are not as firm as they were before I gave birth. Are these not telltale signs?”
“The King is a man,” Mother Lowe said dismissively. “He will not notice such things.”
“He may expect me to bleed,” Anna fretted.
Mother Lowe thought for a moment. “Keep a needle handy, under the pillow. Prick your finger, then smear it on the sheet. He won’t know the difference. All will be well, you’ll see.”
Anna prayed she was right.
* * *
—
The next morning, she waited in suspense. It was near dinnertime, and she was about to scream with frustration, when Olisleger and Hochsteden came to her. One look at their faces told her the meeting had not gone as hoped.
“What news?” she asked, without preamble.
Dr. Olisleger spoke. “Madam, we told the lords we were much perplexed. We stressed that the precontract had certainly been renounced, and I offered to remain here as a prisoner until proof of that could be sent from Kleve. They told us they would see the King after dinner, to know his mind on the matter. So we await his answer.”
* * *
—
Anna could eat little of the choice fare served at dinner. Whatever the King decided, there would be a sting in the tail for her.
At four o’clock, just when she was ready to climb the walls in anxiety, Lord Cromwell appeared, his face inscrutable. With him were two clerks in black gowns.
“Your Grace,” he said, nodding to Susanna to interpret, “I understand you know of the difficulty in regard to the precontract with Lorraine. Be assured his Grace wishes only to remove all room for doubt. He has taken advice from Archbishop Cranmer, who confirmed that, since you were under age when you were betrothed to the Marquis, a formal renunciation by either you or the young gentleman could render that betrothal invalid. The King now asks that you make that renunciation yourself. He feels that such a protestation, in the presence of a person of honor, before notaries, should be a sufficient discharge in law.”
His words astonished Anna. It seemed the King was now doing his best to remove the impediment, not, as she had feared, using it as an excuse to reject her.
Cromwell was still speaking. “His Grace has appointed me to be that person of honor, and these gentlemen are notaries, who can act as witnesses. Lady Anna, I ask you now, formally, to confirm that you renounce your betrothal and that you are at liberty to wed.”
Anna thought for a moment. There seemed no reason why she should not do as he asked. “I renounce my betrothal,” she said. “I am free from all contracts.”
“Thank you, Madam,” Cromwell said. “I will tell his Grace of your conformability. You have done well.” For a moment he paused, and she thought she detected a hint of vulnerability in his expression. It came to her that she was not the only one suffering anxiety over her coming marriage. Cromwell had been its maker; for him, its success was crucial. His glittering career might be staked upon it. She found it in herself to feel sympathy for him.
She thought he might say more, but he bowed and made to leave.
“My lord,” she said, “be assured I will do all I can to be a good wife to the King. I am sensible of the honor he has done me, and of all that you yourself have done on my behalf. If you wish it, I am ready to be your friend.”
Those shrewd eyes were staring at her, calculating, cynical. “I thank your Grace,” Cromwell said. “Consider me ever yours.”
* * *
—
Anna was still not certain if the wedding would go ahead on Tuesday. On Epiphany Eve, before the Twelfth Night feast, the King accompanied her to Mass. As they processed through the court, smiling to left and right at the press of courtiers, he said nothing of the drama that had just been played out. He was courteous as ever, and just as inscrutable.
After Mass, he escorted her to her presence chamber, and there, summoning Cromwell and his lawyers, he issued letters patent granting Anna her dower. “Henry, by the Grace of God…” she deciphered at the top, when he gave her the document. She could not read it, but she could see the long list of lands and privileges that were now hers. She was thankful she could rely on her council to take care of her estates and collect her dues. What struck her most forcibly was how great a landowner she must now be. It seemed she had properties all over England.
“This dower, Madam, is the same as that held by Queen Jane,” Henry told her. It was the first time he had mentioned his late wife.
“It is a most generous settlement,” she said. “I thank your Grace, from my heart.”
“It is your due,” he told her. “My Queen must be seen to live in the comfort and magnificence befitting her rank.” He bowed. “Make ready, Madam. We will be wed in the morning. I will send my lords to escort you to the Chapel Royal at eight o’clock.”
Chapter 10
1540
The wedding gown was beautiful. Made of cloth of gold in a pattern of large flowers, stitched with large Orient pearls, it had long, hanging sleeves and a round skirt in the Dutch fashion. As became a bride who was supposed to be a virgin, Anna wore her fair hair loose, placing on her head a coronal of gold set with brilliant gems. In her hair, and pinned to her gown, were sprigs of rosemary. “Rosemary symbolizes love, faithfulness, and fruitfulness,” Mother Lowe told her. The great ladies of the household brought gold chains and a jeweled crucifix, which Mother Lowe insisted on hanging around Anna’s neck herself, and a belt adorned with gold and stones. When she was ready, she shimmered, so glittering was the effect.
Wilhelm had sent Baron Oberstein, a nobleman of Kleve, to England to stand as his proxy at the wedding and give Anna away. He was a rather dashing young man with a good opinion of himself, and punctilious in his duty. He was waiting for her in her presence chamber at seven o’clock with Grand Master Hochsteden. The Earl of Essex, who was also to escort her to the chapel, was late. Shortly before eight o’clock, a very apologetic Lord Cromwell arrived, saying he would take Essex’s place, but no sooner had he spoken than the elderly Earl tottered in, reeking of strong drink. He almost fell over while bowing to Anna, and insisted, in no dulcet tone, that he perform his duty. Shaking his head behind the old man’s back, Cromwell reluctantly agreed. Hochsteden’s face was a study in incredulity. Anna fervently hoped that Essex would behave himself. She threw an anxious glance at Baron Oberstein, but he was standing stiffly to attention, ready to depart.
Preceded by Cromwell, with Oberstein and Hochsteden walking on either side of her, and Essex lumbering behind, Anna passed through the crowds of courtiers who had lined the way to see her. Still not used to so many people doing reverence to her, she kept her eyes downcast and her head bowed.
The many lords waiting for her in the King’s presence chamber went before her to the chapel gal
lery. There she saw the King, dazzlingly dressed in a doublet and bases of cloth of gold embossed with large flowers of silver, and a coat of crimson satin slashed and embroidered, and tied with great diamonds, with a rich collar about his neck. She made three low obeisances as she approached, and he doffed his cap, making an elegant bow. His face gave away nothing, no hint of whether he was pleased to be marrying her. She told herself this was probably his way, to be formal in public. Later, when they were alone, he might reveal his true self and his feelings for her. When they were alone…She trembled at the thought.
The King held out his hand. She placed hers on it, and together they proceeded into the Chapel Royal, where Archbishop Cranmer was waiting. Baron Oberstein gave Anna away, in the Duke’s name, with the utmost correctitude.
Cranmer looked intently at Henry and Anna. “Have either of you two persons come here to this solemn ceremony with deceitful intentions?”
“No,” said the King, his face impassive.
“No,” Anna answered.
“I must warn you both,” the Archbishop continued, “in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, that, if either of you know of any just impediment why you should not be wed, you should immediately state it.”
There was the slightest of pauses. “I know of none,” the King said, and Anna echoed him. Then Cranmer turned to the wedding guests, and asked them to declare if they knew of any legal obstacle to the marriage. They answered, to a man, that they knew of none. The Archbishop looked satisfied, and proceeded to the nuptial ceremony. At his nod, the King placed a ring on Anna’s finger. She glimpsed the motto he had chosen for her: “God send me well to keep.” Never had she had more need of the Almighty’s protection and succor.
There was no going back now, no going home to Kleve. They were pronounced man and wife, and Cranmer blessed them and wished them a fruitful union. Anna was queen of England at last.
The watching lords bowed low as the King led her, hand in hand, into his adjacent holy-day closet for the nuptial Mass. Cranmer said the Agnus Dei and the Pax Domini, then gave the kiss of peace to Anna, upon which the King, in turn, kissed and embraced her. After they had received the Eucharist, Henry and Anna offered their tapers at the altar.
When the service ended, they were offered wine and spices, as the trumpets sounded, and a herald strode grandly through the court, proclaiming Anna’s title and style. When he returned, amid a throng of courtiers eager to see—and be seen by—the new Queen, the King rewarded him with a purse of silver shillings.
Laying down his goblet, Henry kissed Anna’s hand, and departed for his privy chamber to change, while the dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk escorted Anna to her own chamber, with all her ladies following. She was still in her wedding clothes when, shortly after nine o’clock, she was summoned to attend the Mass of the Trinity, for today was the Feast of Epiphany. She went in procession with her serjeant-of-arms and all her officers before her, as was proper for the Queen of England, and arrived at the holy-day closet at the same time as the King who was now attired in a gown of rich taffeta lined with embroidered crimson velvet. Side by side, they led their trains into the Chapel Royal for a magnificent service, taking part in the great offertory procession as if they were following in the footsteps of the Three Kings.
After Mass, to another fanfare, Henry and Anna entered the King’s presence chamber to dine together in full view of the court, with the chief lords and officers of state standing in attendance. Anna sat on a smaller chair beside the King’s throne, stiff with anxiety. The meal was served with great formality, and eaten mostly in silence, save for when the King asked her if she was enjoying her meat—she was barely picking at it—or addressed a remark to Norfolk or Suffolk. When dinner was over, she escaped with relief to her apartments, but even there she could not relax, for her ladies were clustering around, congratulating her and saying how well she had acquitted herself.
“You were every inch the Queen, Madam!” Margaret Douglas enthused.
“And you bore yourself so handsomely; every eye was upon you!” Susanna exclaimed. Only the Duchess of Richmond and Lady Rochford held themselves aloof. Maybe she did embody an alliance they deplored, but could they not try to like her for herself?
She rested on her bed in the afternoon, glad to be divested of the heavy golden gown. She tried to sleep, but it was impossible. All she could think of was the night to come.
It was dark when Mother Lowe came to rouse her, handing her a cup of aleberry, the spiced ale so enjoyed at court that it was poured freely for all comers every night at the servery by the kitchens. She drank it gratefully, hoping it would distance her from her fears.
It was time to make ready for the evening’s celebrations. Her ladies dressed her in a taffeta gown with voluminous sleeves and the Stickelchen she had worn on Saturday for her reception at Blackheath. Her German ladies were in high spirits as they donned similar attire, with an abundance of gold chains. She wished she felt like celebrating, and could be as lighthearted as they. They did not have to face going to bed with a terrifying man who smelled, and who might have cause to be very angry with her.
She joined the terrifying man in chapel for Vespers, and they supped in private afterward, with just Susanna present. Again, Henry was attentive and solicitous. He spoke of his daughters, Mary and Elizabeth, and of Prince Edward, who sounded a very confident child, and who was looking forward to meeting Anna.
“I would be a mother to him,” Anna said, sipping her wine, trying not to think of another little boy who had lost his mother. “He must miss Queen Jane.”
“He never knew her. She died twelve days after he was born,” the King said, a shadow passing across his face. “He has his nurse, Mother Jack, of whom he is fond, and Lady Bryan runs his nursery most capably. She has been lady mistress to all my children.” It seemed there would be no place for Anna in the Prince’s life. She tried not to feel disheartened. She was grateful when Henry made a jest and became animated talking about his horses. But still there was that distance.
The remains of the second course were removed, and Anna downed her third glass of wine. They adjourned to the presence chamber, where privileged courtiers had gathered to partake of a banquet of sweet treats. Anna was grateful for the entertainment that followed, since it distracted her a little from her fears. She had never seen anything like The Masque of Hymen. What would they say in Kleve if they could see lords and ladies dancing together in the most revealing costumes, or hear jests that were plainly bawdy, judging by the guffaws of the audience? She was glad she could not understand them. But some of the German lords of her escort could; Olisleger and Hochsteden were both red in the face. She felt sorry for their embarrassment. Yet no one else seemed to be bothered; the courtiers were laughing raucously. Many were drunk. She had tried to get a little drunk herself, but tonight, when she most needed it, the wine seemed to have no effect.
The King, sitting beside her, was explaining that Hymen, the god of marriage, was acting as arbiter in a dispute between Juno, the goddess of marriage, and Venus, the goddess of love and desire, who preferred to retain her freedom. Of course, there was no real contest, especially on this occasion: marriage won outright—as anyone could have predicted.
Anna had not expected that, once the victory had been assured, the players, men and women both, would hasten over to the audience and pull everyone to their feet, urging them to dance. A beguiling nymph who looked a lot like Anne Bassett—gracious, it was Anne Bassett, the forward minx!—approached the King himself, smiling and reaching out to him. But to Anna’s astonishment, he turned to her. “Forgive me, fair nymph, but tonight I must honor my Queen.”
Anna stared at the podgy hand he was holding out to her. Was he really asking her to join him among the couples whirling around the chamber?
“Will you join me, Madam?” he asked.
She could not dance! What should she do? Da
re she risk making a fool of herself in front of the court? Or dare she risk turning him down? Which was worse?
She took a deep breath. “If it pleases your Majesty,” she said, accepting his hand, “although I fear I am not skilled in dancing.”
“Then I will teach you,” he said.
The courtiers drew back as Henry and Anna stepped off the dais, and the music ceased. He was still holding her hand, and he swung her round to face him. “We will dance a pavane—the King’s Pavane!” he cried, and the musicians struck up another tune, slower this time, with a compelling tabor beat.
“You take one step to two beats,” Henry said. “You move sideways, and then forward. It is a very slow and stately dance, and most apt for special occasions.”
Anna quickly got the measure of it, and soon she was moving about the floor with ease. At the end, she curtseyed low as the King bowed, and they returned to the dais amid loud cheering.
Henry leaned over to her. “It grows late,” he murmured. “It is time to take our rest.”
Anna felt faint.
The King signaled to Mother Lowe. “Have the ladies attend the Queen to bed,” he commanded, and stood up. The dancers halted, and everyone made low obeisances.
“Madam, I will see you presently,” he said, bowing. Followed by his lords and gentlemen, who were smirking and nudging each other, he departed.
* * *
—
Anna was fighting down panic by the time she got back to her apartments. Shaking, she hurried through to her bedchamber, her ladies striving to keep pace.
She was astonished to find that, while she had been reveling downstairs, her bed had been replaced with a fine one of oak with painted decorations. On the headboard, “1539,” the date of her betrothal, was chiseled above her initials and the King’s. She blushed to see the carvings at either end—a startlingly priapic cherub and a pregnant one. The message could not have been clearer.
