Anna of Kleve, the Princess in the Portrait

by Alison Weir

  She tried to still her juddering heart as she was divested of her finery and Mother Lowe attired her in a chemise of the finest lawn. Anastasia had picked off the rosemary from Anna’s wedding dress, and was strewing the sprigs across the counterpane. With her hair combed until it shone, Anna climbed into bed on the side that sported the pregnant cherub, and settled herself against the high pillows, pulling the sheet up over her bosom. Mother Lowe spread her hair out like a glossy golden cape around her shoulders.

  They waited in silence for the King to arrive and the ceremonial putting-to-bed of the bride and groom to commence. Whoever had thought up such a humiliating ritual ought to have been boiled in oil, Anna fumed. What passed between two people in bed should be a private matter. But here she was, in her night-rail, waiting to be ravished (there was no other word for it)—and a public spectacle to boot!

  She had forgotten to put a bodkin under the pillow! It was too late now. From behind the door leading to the King’s lodgings, she heard footsteps approaching, and a voice crying, “Make way for the King’s Grace!” Anna pulled the sheet up further, to her chin. The door opened and there was Henry, clad in a furred nightgown over a long nightshirt, with a night-bonnet on his head. Behind him, his gentlemen crowded into the room, joking and laughing, and peering to get a good view of Anna, to her mortification. The King ignored them—or maybe he too was embarrassed, for he looked like a man forced to endure something unpalatable. She prayed that she herself was not the object of his distaste.

  At the last, Archbishop Cranmer entered the bedchamber. Anna understood now why Henry was uncomfortable. He would not wish a man of God to hear unseemly jests. Like her, he probably wanted the whole charade over.

  “For England and St. George!” cried one of the young men, as the King bowed to Anna and heaved himself into bed beside her. A whiff of corruption rose from his diseased leg. They lay together, not touching, as Cranmer blessed the bed, sprinkled it with holy water, and prayed that man and wife be fruitful. Then, at the King’s nod, everyone left the chamber. Mother Lowe was the last to depart, after dousing all the candles.

  This was one place where Susanna could not act as interpreter, and Anna lay in dread. Wine had been left at the ready on top of the court cupboard on the far wall, and she longed desperately to be fortified for the ordeal that lay ahead.

  Henry turned toward her. He had his back to the firelight, so she could not read his expression.

  “Would you like some wine, Sir?” she asked carefully.

  “I think I’ve had enough,” he said. “Maybe we can have some later.”

  She felt his arm snaking across her, drawing her to the middle of the bed, so that she lay pressed against him, with the bulk of his stomach against hers. His leg was bandaged and beneath the covers, so the smell was not so offensive. She could bear it. She could bear a lot, she told herself.

  “Do not fear me, Anna,” Henry murmured in her ear. “I know how to please a lady, as a gentleman should.” His beard was rough against her temple. She felt his body stir against her thigh. She squirmed inwardly as he pulled up her night-rail and threw back the sheet and counterpane. She hated being so exposed to him, yet she dared not protest; it was her duty to submit to him in all things, from this day forward. Mutter, blushing, had said so, impressing on Anna the need to be a dutiful and loving wife.

  How different this would be with Otho! No, she dared not think of him now.

  Henry kissed her lips, his breath smelling of wine, and then she felt his hand traveling over her body. It moved hungrily over her breasts, and then down to her buttocks, before snaking around to her belly. It was there that it paused, and Henry drew back, his eyes raking over her body in the flickering light. She shrank from his scrutiny. Could he see those marks?

  After a short silence, he drew his hand away and lay back on the pillow.

  “Alas, Madam,” he murmured, “it seems I have indeed partaken of too much wine, and it has made me sleepy. I will come to you again another night.”

  He had not been sleepy a minute before. “Have I offended your Grace?” Anna whispered, in terror.

  “How could you have offended me?” he asked, his eyes glinting in the firelight. She feared his words had more than one meaning.

  “All I want to do is please you,” she said.

  He got stiffly out of bed and reached for his robe. “I know that,” he said. “If you would please me, Anna, then go to sleep. Good night.”

  He fastened the robe and crossed to the door. It closed silently behind him.

  He had guessed, she was sure of it. Yet he had not said anything. Probably he had been too shocked. No one would expect a princess such as she to be concealing so dark a secret. Was Henry thinking he had been sold a bad bargain, duped and made a fool of? She had sensed he had chosen his words with care. He had not known how to react, or what to say or do. But he would when he had slept on the matter. She did not for a moment think she had got away with it.

  * * *

  —

  In the morning, she woke early. It was as if a pall lay over her. She turned on her back, lying rigid, expecting to hear at any moment the sound of the King’s guard coming for her.

  Mother Lowe bustled in at seven o’clock. “Good morning to your Grace,” she said, drawing back the curtains. She smiled at Anna. “Are you going to tell me? Was all well?”

  “No,” Anna whispered, tears streaming down her face. “He guessed. I know he did! He touched me, and looked…Then he stopped and said he was tired. And he left me. Oh, dear God, what is to become of me?”

  Mother Lowe sat on the bed and took Anna in her arms. “Hush, sweeting. This does not come as a surprise to me. His leaving at that point may not betoken what you think.”

  “What do you mean?” Anna struggled to sit up.

  “Last night, after you had been put to bed, Susanna and I sat up, and a few of the English ladies were disposed to be friendly. We had some wine, and Lady Rochford got rather merry. She told us the King lacks vigor; he can be useless with a woman.”

  “She said that? How can she know?”

  “Her late husband was brother to Queen Anne.”

  Anna made the connection. “He was the one executed for incest with her.”

  Mother Lowe pursed her lips. “The Duchess of Richmond told me afterward, in confidence, that Lady Rochford laid evidence against them.”

  “Why would she do that?” Anna was so appalled, she had almost forgotten her own predicament.

  “Maybe she was jealous of the love between brother and sister.”

  “What love? An incestuous love?”

  “Who knows? Most people here won’t talk about what happened. All Lady Rochford said was that Queen Anne had told her the King was impotent.”

  “But he got a son on Queen Jane.”

  “Anna, I was not married long before I lost my husband, but it was long enough for me to understand that men’s lust is subject to their health and their moods. It can be unpredictable.”

  Anna felt a sense of relief seeping through her veins. How humiliating for a man as powerful as the King to suffer impotence. Perhaps he had been dreading this marriage as much as she! And yet, he had been aroused—she had felt it. Was it the sight of her body that had unmanned him?

  “He did desire me, I know,” she said, feeling her face flush. “But when he had touched me, and looked at me, he stopped, and said he had drunk too much.”

  “There you are,” Mother Lowe said, nodding. “Drink can do that to a man, especially one in his state of health. His leg gives him much pain, it’s clear to see. That isn’t conducive to lust. Anna, you must be patient. Act as if nothing is amiss. Play the innocent. And be grateful you are not expected to show yourself in the court today. Now dry your eyes, and when you have had time to calm yourself, I will summon your women to help you dress. We cannot have them
seeing you like this. Imagine the gossip!”

  Anna lay there, trying to still her thumping heart. Maybe the King’s behavior did have nothing to do with her. If he was incapable, so be it; she would be spared his embraces. But she would be barren—and blamed for it, no doubt. There could be grave implications for the succession, and it would be a great grief to her not to bear more children to replace the one lost to her but it would be better than being publicly shamed.

  She forced herself to rise and suffer the ministrations of her attendants, wondering if the King would come to see her. She hoped he would remember the custom of Brautstückes; it would be in keeping with his thoughtfulness toward her. But, though she looked for him, or for a messenger bearing gifts, no one came.

  She sat in her privy chamber, trying to concentrate on copying the Kreuzstich in an embroidery pattern book she had brought from Kleve. She had last used the book in Düsseldorf, and memories of her homeland and everything and everyone she had loved and lost overwhelmed her. A tear dripped on the linen in her lap.

  This would not do! She was supposed to be a happy bride. No one must know that anything was wrong. She had to do something to divert herself. She asked Susanna and Margaret Douglas if they would join her for a walk in her privy garden. Cheerfully, they wrapped themselves in their furs, pulled on their gloves, and stepped with her into the secluded, frosted little pleasance. They walked past flower beds laid out in neat rectangles, with low railings surrounding them and striped poles supporting heraldic beasts at each corner. They strolled along the paths between, talking of the wedding and yesterday’s grand festivities. Anna took care to display appropriate enthusiasm and appreciation.

  * * *

  —

  The King did not come that day, or at night either. At dinnertime, his waiter arrived, to wish Anna, on his behalf, an enjoyable repast.

  “He will come daily, Madam,” the Duchess of Suffolk explained. “It is the King’s custom to send him.”

  Anna did not know whether to be relieved or fearful when Henry did not come to her bed. Grateful to be alone, she summoned Susanna to sleep on the pallet.

  “I like the Lady Margaret,” she said. “I wonder that she is as yet unwed. Surely she is a valuable prize for any man?”

  “Madam, she fell in love with Lord Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk’s younger brother,” Susanna told her. “They secretly precontracted themselves, which was foolhardy, for the Lady Margaret is the King’s own niece, and her marriage was in his gift. They were sent to the Tower for it—a fine scandal it was—and condemned to death.”

  Anna’s hand flew to her mouth. Henry had condemned his own niece to death? The pretty, vital, charming Lady Margaret!

  “They were spared,” Susanna went on, “but held in prison for many months. In the end, the Lady Margaret was released, but Lord Thomas became ill and died. She was in great grief, and went to live with the Duchess of Richmond at Norfolk’s palace at Kenninghall for a long time after. She only returned to court to serve you. She loved Lord Thomas truly, and I think she still mourns him.”

  “What a tragic story,” Anna observed, with feeling. It made her own troubles seem trivial.

  When they had doused the candles, she lay wakeful and sad, thinking she would never now know the kind of enduring love Margaret Douglas had experienced, and that, if the King could condemn his own flesh and blood to death, not to mention a wife he had once adored, what might he not do to one who had transgressed as she herself had?

  * * *

  —

  The next day, her period of seclusion at an end, Anna walked in Greenwich Park, taking only Susanna and her English ladies with her. Already, she could sense some resentment at the favor she showed to her German attendants, and toward Mother Lowe in particular. She knew she must not let her household remain divided; if she did, factions would form, which could lead to unpleasantness and rivalry.

  At the top of the hill behind the palace, near an old abandoned tower, she encountered four young gentlemen of her retinue, out hawking on horseback. She recognized Florence de Diaceto, Franz von Waldeck, and Hermann, Count von Neuenahr. The fourth was Otho von Wylich, clad in black velvet and looking very gallant on his fine steed. They all bowed in the saddle to her.

  Her eyes met Otho’s. How beautiful he was, with his blue eyes, high cheekbones, and tousled curls. He gave her an engaging smile, and she felt a faint throb of desire. How she envied his wife.

  Pleasantries were exchanged. Anna found herself wanting to confide her troubles to Otho. It would be madness, she knew, but she felt he would understand. He was her kinsman, after all. Yet it was unthinkable. She could not—dared not—see him, or any man, alone. So she smiled at all four gentlemen, and walked on.

  * * *

  —

  Henry came to Anna’s bed that night, having sent notice by an usher of the time of his arrival. He entered through the connecting door, smiling, although those shrewd eyes were regarding her appraisingly. Thankfully he did not look angry with her.

  “Good evening, Anna,” he said, casting off his night robe.

  “Good evening, your Grace,” she replied, hoping she looked pleased to see him, and grateful that she had learned a little more English. She had been practicing hard; sleeping with him without being able to talk to him made her feel greatly at a disadvantage.

  “There is no need for ceremony in our chamber,” he told her. “You may call me Henry.”

  “Thank you, your…Henry,” she said, and smiled.

  “I’m holding a tournament next week, in honor of our marriage,” he told her, as he divested himself of his nightgown. He sounded more enthusiastic than Anna had ever heard him.

  It seemed strange that no other festivities had been planned. She remembered that, when Sybilla wed, the wedding celebrations had gone on for days. Surely they would be even more lavish when a king married a foreign princess? Maybe this King considered her costly welcome in Calais and her reception at Blackheath sufficient to mark their nuptials.

  She remembered Mutter telling her that Henry was planning to honeymoon with her at St. James’s Palace, but there had been no word of them removing there. It was so frustrating, being isolated from what was going on behind the closed doors of the King’s apartments and the council chamber! If only she knew what was in Henry’s mind.

  He blew out the candle by the bed and turned to her. This time, there was no divesting her of her night-rail. “Come here,” he said, and pulled her to him. Then he heaved himself on top of her, pressing her deep into the mattress. He was so heavy that she could barely breathe. She opened her legs to accommodate him, and waited for him to enter her. But she could feel that nothing was happening. After a few unbearable moments, in which she feared she might suffocate, he rolled off her, panting.

  “I cannot, Anna,” he said. “I am sorry.” He gestured at his leg. “I am in constant pain, and it is worse tonight. Forgive me.”

  She understood what he was trying to tell her. The faint, sickly stench had made it clear. “Sir—Henry—there is nothing to forgive,” she protested. “I am sorry for your pain. Can I help?”

  “That is kind, but my doctors have tried everything. Maybe tomorrow it will be better. Let us sleep now.” He made himself comfortable in the bed. Evidently he was not going back to his apartments tonight.

  “I do hope so,” she said. “Good night, Henry.”

  “Good night, sweetheart,” he said, and dropped a kiss on her forehead. The endearment threw her, it was so utterly unexpected. It was as Mother Lowe had said: things would be different after they were wed, and tonight, the kindness they had shown each other had broken the ice. There had, in the end, been no need for artifice. Henry had revealed himself to her in all his vulnerability, and she had shown herself willing to help. He had clearly liked that.

  In the morning, she feared she might have read the si
tuation incorrectly, but no.

  “Good morning, Anna,” he said, when he awoke. “What hour is it?”

  She looked at the clock on the mantel. “Sieben—seven,” she said.

  “Is it? Then I must go. I have ambassadors to see.” He slid from the bed, wincing as he limped across the room, and picked up his robe. Putting it on, he came back to the bed, took Anna’s hand and kissed it.

  “Farewell, darling,” he said. “I will see you tonight.”

  * * *

  —

  The next night, things were no better, nor were they on the night after that. Mother Lowe had been right. The King was impotent.

  When he joined Anna on the fifth night, he did not even attempt to enter her. They lay there, making halting conversation, until Henry got up and invited her to play cards with him.

  “Sent, ja?” she asked.

  “Yes, if you wish,” he agreed.

  “You play well, Anna,” he said, after beating her at the first game. “Now I will teach you Primero.”

  She found herself enjoying his company, and suspected he liked hers too. He was doing his best to put her at her ease and help her to understand what he said. He had even asked her to teach him a few words in German. It was one o’clock before they fell asleep.

  Henry returned the next night, and the one after that, and then again, after a gap of one night. A pattern was being established. He had apparently given up all pretense of trying to consummate the marriage, for he made no move to touch her. Instead they played cards or chess, or slept. Anna’s fears were beginning to recede.

  She was still aware of her shortcomings. The language barrier did not make for the intimacy and easy conversation that might have awakened deeper feelings between them. She had no idea how to charm a man. She could not entertain Henry with music or dancing because she did not know how. All she could do was offer him a warm welcome and show her pleasure in his company. But was that enough?