by Alison Weir
“Madam, I believe, from what I have heard, that it is mere dalliance. Such things should be beneath your Grace’s notice, of course, and I have been debating with myself whether it was better to spare you pain, or to cause it through telling you about a circumstance that is probably of no account.”
Anna was not sure if she believed him. “I have my interests to protect,” she retorted, “and it is in my interests to know what is going on, however trivial the affair might be. It is my duty to preserve the alliance I represent.”
“I am sure it is trivial, Madam, so do not be too concerned. I hear this King is often given to amours of no consequence.”
“And were they of no consequence when his eye lighted on Anne Boleyn, and Jane Seymour? Dr. Harst, it has happened before, and it may happen again, if the King’s fancy turns to another lady. What of my position then? Do I merely acquiesce, and retire gracefully? Or do I oppose him, as Queen Katherine did, and face the consequences?”
“Madam, with respect, you are inflating this matter out of all proportion. I’m sure the King will soon be inviting you to join him on his annual summer progress, and this young lady will be forgotten.”
“He has given her land and jewels. I saw them together. He did not look as if he would soon be forgetting her. Believe me, Dr. Harst, that girl is a threat—to me, and to Kleve!” Anna was nearly beside herself with anxiety.
“It is a pity your Grace is not yet with child,” Dr. Harst blurted out, then reddened. “Forgive me, that was unpardonable.”
“But most apposite,” Anna replied. “I pray for it daily.”
He looked as if he would have said more, but had thought better of it. Maybe he was wondering if those rumors had been true. She would not enlighten him.
“We shall see,” she said. “The summer progress is only two months hence. I shall look forward to accompanying the King.”
* * *
—
She could not bring herself to forgive Susanna. She kept looking covertly at her ladies in turn, as they sat sewing, and thinking: Did you know?
And then, miracle of miracles, Katheryn was curtseying before her, asking for permission to leave court and go to the house of her grandmother at Lambeth, on the Surrey shore of the Thames. Anna’s first thought was that Henry was becoming too persistent, and that Katheryn was running away from his unwelcome advances.
“And how long do you wish to stay there?” she asked.
Katheryn’s blue eyes filled with tears; she could even cry prettily. “I wish to leave court, Madam,” she whispered.
“Why? Has someone been unkind to you?” Anna persisted, wondering if the girl was fleeing from her uncle’s bullying. Norfolk was not a man for niceties, she would wager. He would take little account of his niece’s feelings.
“No, Madam,” Katheryn sobbed.
“But I thought you were happy here?”
“Madam, I was.”
“Is it a young man?”
Katheryn dabbed at her eyes. “No, Madam. My grandmother needs me.”
Anna thought it astonishing that a daughter of the Howards would leave court just because she was needed at home. From what she had heard, their mission was to secure advancement for every member of their grasping family. Maybe the grandmother was arranging a match for Katheryn, and Katheryn did not favor it. And who was she, Anna, to disrupt the Howards’ schemes? Besides, it would be much to her advantage if the girl went home.
* * *
—
When next they took what had become a regular walk in the gardens, Anna told Dr. Harst about Katheryn’s departure.
“I am relieved to hear it, Madam,” he said. “I trust your Grace is happier now.”
“I am indeed. The King is being very kind to me.” Henry had supped with her every evening lately and brought her two gifts, a brooch and a book. He had not behaved like a man desperately missing his lady love. “I think Mistress Howard’s absence is to be permanent. Possibly a husband is in the offing.”
“Ah.” Harst looked pleased.
But Anna’s good mood soon dissipated. Later that day, as she was sitting in her privy garden, embroidering with her ladies and enjoying the June sunshine, Lady Rochford looked up from her tambour and smiled. Anna had never liked that smile—it made the woman look like a vixen.
“It is hard to believe your Grace has been married nearly seven months,” she said.
“The time has gone quickly,” Anna replied. She noticed the ladies exchanging glances.
“We all wish that your Grace could be with child,” Lady Rutland said.
“Indeed we do,” Lady Rochford echoed.
“I know I am not with child,” Anna declared, resenting them raising so delicate a matter.
“How is it possible for your Grace to know that?” asked Lady Edgcumbe.
“I know it well, I am not,” she retorted, in a tone she hoped would silence them.
“It would be such a great benefit to the realm, to have a duke of York join his brother in the nursery,” Lady Rutland persisted. “It must be his Majesty’s chief desire.”
Anna felt herself flushing. She knew how catty the English ladies could be. Were they implying it was her fault that she was not pregnant?
Lady Edgcumbe laughed. “I think your Grace is a maid still!”
Anna’s cheeks grew hotter.
“By Our Lady, Madam, I think your Grace is a maid still,” Lady Rochford chimed in.
This was intolerable. “How can I be a maid and sleep every night with the King?” Anna snapped.
“Sleep? There must be more than that,” chuckled Lady Rochford, “or else the King might as well lie in his own chamber.”
“Well of course there is more than that!” Anna snapped again. Her words oozed sarcasm. “When the King comes to bed, he kisses me, and takes me by the hand, and bids me, ‘Good night, sweetheart’; and in the morning, he kisses me and bids me, ‘Farewell, darling.’ Is this not enough?”
There was a silence.
Lady Rutland swallowed. “Madam, there must be more than this, or it will be long before we have a duke of York, which all this realm most desires.”
Anna shrugged. “I am contented with what I have, for I know no more.” Let them think her ignorant!
Lady Rutland pressed her. “Did your Grace not tell this to Mother Lowe?”
Anna had had enough of being interrogated. “For shame!” she exclaimed. “I receive quite as much of his Majesty’s attention as I wish!”
Afterward, she regretted having admitted that her marriage was a sham. The ladies would probably gossip, and gossip spread fast in this court. She prayed it would not come to the King’s ears.
* * *
—
On the evening of Midsummer Day, Anna was in her bedchamber, trying to mend the clasp on a necklace. Susanna and Gertrude were tidying away her day clothes, and from outside the open window she could hear the shouts of boatmen on the Thames.
Henry was coming to supper. Next door, her ladies were setting the table. Anna could hear them chatting. Suddenly, she was alert, having heard the name Katheryn Howard.
“It seems the King is still much taken with her,” came Lady Edgcumbe’s voice. “I hear he frequently passes over the river in a little boat to visit her, in full view of the citizens of London.”
“And sometimes he goes at midnight,” said the Duchess of Richmond.
Anna froze.
Susanna, who had been trying hard to win back her favor, looked at her in sympathy. “Pay no heed, Madam,” she said. “It is just malicious talk. You do not need to hear it.”
“Yes, I do!” Anna flared. “You kept too much from me before.”
Susanna fell silent.
“My lord Bishop of Winchester seems to be playing pimp!” Anna heard Lady Rochford say. “He en
tertains them in his palace.”
“We know what mark he shoots at!” someone giggled.
“My lord says the gossip is rife in the City.” That was the Duchess of Suffolk. “It’s rife at court too. People are saying these signs betoken that the King intends to divorce the Queen.”
“All they betoken is adultery!” Lady Rochford tutted.
Anna felt sick. Just then, the King’s arrival was announced. She would have liked to slap her ladies, and him, for good measure, or at least send him away, so that she could curl up somewhere and weep, but she did not dare. No, whatever it cost her, she must exert herself to be a gracious supper companion, and do all she could to preserve her marriage and the alliance.
She joined Henry, sinking into a deep obeisance. He was in a good mood, and over the repast they talked of his plans for the progress, the building works at Hampton Court, and the excellence of the beef. He did not stay the night, but bade her a very cheerful farewell.
The next day, she was perturbed when a deputation of Privy councillors requested an audience. She received them in her presence chamber, with her ladies present, wondering, in some trepidation, why they had come.
The Duke of Suffolk acted as spokesman. “Your Grace,” he said, his expression unreadable, “the King desires you to remove from court to Richmond Palace two days hence, for your health and pleasure.”
Alarums began sounding in Anna’s head. Why send a deputation to tell her that? It came to her that Queen Katherine had been banished from court prior to being divorced. Was she too to be repudiated? In a flash, she understood how vulnerable she was—a foreigner, isolated in England, far from her friends. Unlike Katherine, she had no court faction, no powerful Emperor to support her. What was she to do?
The only course, it seemed, was to do the King’s bidding and hope for the best.
“My lords,” she said, making herself smile at them, “I am content to depart at his Majesty’s pleasure. I will be ready as soon as I can.”
“Thank you, Madam,” the Duke said, looking more cheerful. “Every arrangement will be made for your comfort.”
After the Privy councillors had left, Anna gave Mother Lowe orders for the packing of her household gear and belongings. Trying not to read too much into the King’s order, she went to her closet to pray for guidance. But the remembrance of Henry last night, at supper, kept intruding. He had said nothing of sending her to Richmond, so why the sudden concern for her health?
She lay awake for much of the night. In the dark hours, it seemed certain that this move was a preamble to his divorcing her. Even in the morning, she was still convinced it boded no good.
Unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, she summoned Dr. Harst.
“Madam, what is wrong?” he asked. “I am dismayed to see you looking so sorrowful.”
“The King is sending me away,” she said, fighting back tears, and recounted what had happened.
Harst hastened to reassure her. “Madam, I was told that he is sending you to Richmond to protect you from plague in the City.”
“I had not heard there was plague in London. My ladies say the King is mortally terrified of plague, and removes to a safe distance upon any hint of it. Is he departing too, then?”
“I cannot say, Madam.”
“Dr. Harst, I fear this is just an excuse to get me out of the way.”
“Madam, I think not!” Harst protested. “I sensed the motive was concern for your well-being. It did not occur to me that you would be upset by this. And Richmond is not so very far from the court; less than two hours along the river, they say.”
Anna was far from convinced. “Dr. Harst, there are rumors at court, and in the City, that the King means to repudiate me for Katheryn Howard, just as he repudiated Queen Katherine for Queen Anne, and Queen Anne for Queen Jane.”
“Madam, this is mere gossip. I have heard nothing to substantiate it, I assure you. Please, do not worry any more. I will come to visit you at Richmond, and if I hear anything that perturbs me in the meantime, I will tell you.”
His words were reassuring, but the concern in his eyes led Anna to believe otherwise.
With a heavy heart, she prepared to leave Whitehall. On the morning of her departure, Rutland came to say that her barge awaited her outside. “His Majesty has asked me to inform you that he will visit you at Richmond in two days’ time.”
The relief was overwhelming. Henry’s concern had been genuine. “I am surprised he does not come now, to escape the plague,” she said.
“Plague?” Rutland looked bewildered. “Madam, there is no plague.”
“That is strange,” she observed, her heart sinking. “Dr. Harst was informed I was being sent away to avoid the plague.”
Rutland seemed at a loss for words.
“If there is no plague, why am I being sent to the country to escape it?” she persisted.
“Madam, I cannot answer that. Perchance Dr. Harst was mistaken. You are being sent there for your health, because the air is clean. That’s what I have been told.”
He knew more than he would say, she was sure. She was certain now that Dr. Harst had been lied to.
“His Majesty will see you in two days,” Rutland said brightly.
“I shall look forward to it,” Anna replied.
But, as the barge pulled away from the jetty, she was full of forebodings.
* * *
—
Despite her anxieties, she found Richmond a little paradise on earth. As her barge made its tranquil way westward along the Thames, the beautiful palace rose up ahead of her, distinguished by vast expanses of bay windows, fairy-tale pinnacles, and turrets surmounted by bell-shaped domes and gilded weathervanes. Encircling it was a mighty brick wall, with a tower at each corner, and beyond that lay a large deer park.
Soon she had to admit that it was wonderful to have this little Eden to herself, with the freedom to wander undisturbed through the courtyards, sit by the splashing fountains, and take the air in the pleasant knot gardens. When it rained the next day, she walked in the galleried cloisters around the gardens, and explored the great tower, which contained the royal lodgings built by Henry’s father. Hers were on the second floor, Henry’s on the first. She heard Mass in the richly appointed chapel, and leafed through precious illuminated manuscripts in the library.
“It’s sad that the King rarely stays here now,” Lady Edgcumbe said; she was in attendance with Lady Rutland, the two of them accompanying Anna as she walked along a path bordered by lime trees.
“I marvel at that, seeing it is so beautiful,” Anna said.
“He came here often in the early years of his reign,” Lady Rutland recalled.
“Why doesn’t he come now?” Anna asked.
“He prefers his more modern palaces, like Hampton Court and Whitehall, where the royal lodgings are all on the first floor, in the French fashion. This tower seems so old-fashioned now.”
“That does not worry me.” Anna smiled. “I grew up in ancient castles—and I think Richmond is lovely.”
Chapter 15
1540
Anna tried to see things in perspective and persuade herself there was nothing sinister about her being sent to this beautiful place. She reminded herself that Henry would be here tomorrow, and she would know then whether something was amiss, although one could never tell with Henry.
The next day, she waited, counting down the hours, trying to estimate the time of his arrival. When dusk fell, she had to accept the fact that she, like Richmond itself, had been forgotten, abandoned…
Yet someone did come—two people she very much wanted to meet. The following afternoon, as Anna was racked with fevered speculation over Henry’s failure to visit her, the Lady Mary and the Lady Elizabeth were announced. A small, slight young woman, overladen with finery and jewels, entered the room, holding by the hand
a slender child with red hair, an unusually old face for one so young, and a bearing way ahead of her six years. Both curtseyed gracefully.
“My Lady Mary, my Lady Elizabeth, you are most welcome!” Anna declared, wondering if Mary had come as the King’s emissary. “I am overjoyed to meet you both at last.”
“Your Grace, we are on our way to Whitehall, and I thought we should seize the opportunity of making your acquaintance.” Mary spoke in a deep, gruff voice, and had a disconcerting way of peering at you as she did so. There was no mistaking whose daughter she was, with her red hair and blue eyes, although her features were blunter than Henry’s. Clearly, though, she had not come from the King, which sent Anna’s spirits plummeting, yet she provided a welcome distraction. While the Duchess of Richmond took Elizabeth off to the stool room, Mary greeted Anna’s ladies warmly, especially her cousin Margaret Douglas.
“The Lady Margaret was my lady-of-honor at one time,” she told Anna.
“Until I was made to serve Anne Boleyn.” Margaret made a face.
Mary stiffened. “That woman gave my mother and me much grief,” she said vehemently.
“I have heard that Queen Katherine was a most gracious and devout lady,” Anna said soothingly.
“Oh, she was!” Mary breathed. “She was a wonderful mother, and true to her principles to the last. She was ready to face a terrible death, rather than compromise them. Anne Boleyn was utterly cruel to her, and to me. It was thanks to her that my father broke with Rome. I pray constantly that he will one day be reconciled to the Holy Father.”
Anna judged it safer to nod rather than reply, fearing that Henry would not approve of his daughter’s sentiments. She sensed in Mary a banked-up tide of bitterness at the blows life—and Anne Boleyn—had dealt her.
“But I hear Queen Jane was kind to you and helped you to be reconciled to the King,” she ventured.
“She was a good woman and a kindly soul, God rest her.” Mary crossed herself. “And now, I must call your Grace ‘Mother.’ ”
