by Alison Weir
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” Anna said, taking Mary’s hands in hers. “Although I can hardly be that in truth, because we are almost of an age, yet I mean to show you a mother’s kindness, and be your friend. Pray, sit with me, and I will send for refreshments. Then we can talk.”
She sent for wine, poured some for Mary and Margaret and gratefully downed a goblet herself. It left her feeling distanced from her fears. She poured another.
“Before Elizabeth returns, I should warn your Grace that we do not mention Anne Boleyn in her presence,” Mary said. “She is a winning child, and I do the best I can for her, but there is a wayward, capricious side to her, and she needs firm moral guidance to prevent her from turning out like her mother.”
Obviously Mary knew Elizabeth better, but Anna was captivated by the six-year-old’s charm and precocious wit. As they talked, she became aware of how bright and perceptive Elizabeth was. There was about her an air of brilliance that Mary lacked. Maybe it had surrounded Mary once, and the troubles she had suffered had extinguished it.
When Elizabeth impulsively took Anna’s hand and squeezed it, then gently touched her face, as if she was hardly able to believe that this new stepmother was real, Anna felt choked. The child clearly needed a mother’s love and stability in her life. Mary, with her enduring hatred of Elizabeth’s mother, was perhaps not the best mentor, although it was plain she loved her half-sister.
As Mary relaxed, her kindness and innate sincerity became evident, and Anna began to enjoy her company, warming to her more and more, but it was Elizabeth who captured her heart.
They spent the afternoon discussing Elizabeth’s education, her dogs, her dolls, court entertainments, and their different upbringings; they swapped anecdotes about mutual acquaintances and agreeing on the merits of Richmond. Anna noticed how relieved Mary showed herself when told she had been brought up a Catholic.
“I must confess, I thought you were one of those dreadful German Protestants!” she said.
“So do many people,” Anna replied. “I wish they didn’t. I go to Mass often enough.”
Mary beamed approvingly. “I rejoice to hear it. And I’m impressed to find that you speak English well.”
“I have worked hard at it,” Anna admitted, pleased.
After that, Mary seemed even more disposed to be friendly. By the time the princesses left, to take their barge to Whitehall, Anna felt she had found a new friend—and an adoptive daughter.
* * *
—
It was now the end of June. Waiting at Richmond for a husband who never came, Anna wondered if the King’s barge was still being rowed across the Thames to the house of the Duchess of Norfolk, so that he could pass his evenings with Katheryn Howard.
Most of her attendants were in touch with friends or relations at court, so news and gossip did reach Richmond, although Anna suspected that some was censored before it got to her. The most sensational, if not unexpected, news was that Cromwell had been attainted by Parliament, and adjudged a traitor.
“That means he will die, and his family will be left destitute,” Anna said to Mother Lowe as they sunned themselves by the riverbank. She could not stop thinking of Elizabeth Seymour and Cromwell’s son, Gregory, and what a dreadful blow this must be for them; but the worst blow would be that which would fall on Cromwell. She shivered. “How terrible, on such a beautiful day, to be shut away in the Tower, knowing you will soon be led out to execution.” In England, her ladies had told her, they cut off traitors’ heads with an axe. In Germany, at least, decapitation was by the sword, which was kinder. Queen Anne had been accorded the dubious privilege of being beheaded by a swordsman, and it had been mercifully quick. Pray God Cromwell’s end would be as speedy when his time came.
Deep down, Anna wondered if, when it came to it, Henry would destroy the man who had been his chief minister and mainstay. Had arranging her marriage really been what had brought Cromwell down? Or had it merely been a pretext for the Catholic party to remove him?
Helping herself to an apple from the basket of food Mother Lowe had brought with her, Anna had an alarming thought. What if Henry himself was punishing Cromwell for arranging a marriage he no longer wanted? The Emperor and the French King were now vying for England’s friendship. What if the alliance with Kleve was no longer needed? Suddenly, it seemed she was standing on the brink of an abyss.
“It’s clear that Norfolk was instrumental in his fall,” she said. “Lord Rutland says the King was so appalled by the evidence that he did not question it. But who can his Grace trust hereafter, if he could not trust Cromwell?”
Mother Lowe did not answer. She had drifted off to sleep, leaving Anna alone with her teeming thoughts.
* * *
—
Just when she had given up hope of ever seeing him at Richmond, Henry arrived.
“A thousand apologies, Anna!” he said. “State and parliamentary affairs have detained me—and this miserable business with Cromwell.”
“It is no matter,” she said. “You are here now.” She wished she had worn her jewels, and a headdress, but maybe she looked becoming enough in her simple rose-colored gown, with her fair hair unbound. She called for wine, and when they had drunk each other’s health, Henry led her to the bowling alley, where he taught her how to play. His leg was not troubling him today.
“You beat me!” he cried, incredulous, when, by a very lucky chance, she won. Certainly she had not intended to.
“Again!” he cried, and this time he emerged victorious.
They had supper early, so that he could catch the tide. She was tempted to ask him why she was being kept here at Richmond, but it had been a most pleasant afternoon, and she did not want to risk spoiling it.
“I do hope your Grace will come again another day,” she said, as Henry kissed her hand in farewell.
“I will come again tomorrow,” he told her.
He left her happier than she had felt in weeks. She poured herself a glass of wine to celebrate.
The next day, she took more care in choosing what to wear, determined to entice Henry to her bed. She selected a low-necked gown of red and black embellished with heavy goldsmiths’ work, with full sleeves slashed and puffed with bows and bands. With it, she wore an ornate necklace from which hung a great crucifix with pendant pearls. She left her hair loose, like a bride.
When Henry arrived, she noticed his eyes on her bosom. But he was in a different mood today, nowhere near as talkative, and seemed barely to be listening to what she was saying. Supper was a rushed affair, as he was anxious to get back to Whitehall.
Maybe, she thought later, as she tossed and turned in bed, it was beginning to dawn on him that it would be a mistake to execute Cromwell. Or maybe—God forbid—he had been offended by the immodest gown. Her cheeks burned to think he might have guessed at her ploy to seduce him, and that she had humiliated herself. Next time, she would wear something discreet.
But when would next time be?
* * *
—
“Madam, wake up!” Mother Lowe was shaking her. Reluctantly, Anna dragged herself away from a dream in which she was back in Kleve, safe in the knowledge that she would never have to leave it again. She awoke and saw it was still dark outside.
“What’s happening?” she mumbled, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She could see the clock on the mantel in the flickering light of Mother Lowe’s candle. It was a little after two o’clock.
“Madam, Mr. Berde of the King’s Privy Chamber is here to see you. You must rise and make haste to receive him.” From the urgency in her nurse’s voice, and the unearthliness of the hour, Anna deduced that someone must have died. Not the King, Heaven forbid?
She was shaking as Mother Lowe put on her velvet night robe, linking its clasps right up to her neck. Having slipped on her shoes and had her hair brushed and her face
washed, she stepped into her privy chamber, where her women, who had heard the commotion, were gathering in consternation, some wearing wraps or cloaks, others still in their night-rails.
“Make yourselves decent and attend me in the presence chamber,” Anna instructed. “I have a visitor from the King.”
Even at this hour, Mr. Berde was immaculately dressed, clean-shaven, and brisk in manner. As Anna took her seat on the dais, he gave a brief bow and proceeded quickly to his business.
“Your Grace, I bring a message from the King,” he said.
“At this hour?” she asked.
“Alas, Madam, the matter will not wait, and it must be submitted before Parliament in the morning.”
Anna steeled herself for bad news.
“His Majesty wishes to inform you that he has grave doubts about the validity of your marriage.”
In the deepest core of her heart she had expected this. It prompted fear and perplexity rather than shock. What will happen to me? How should I respond? She felt faint and dizzy.
“His Majesty,” Berde continued in his officious manner, “has unburdened himself of his doubts to Parliament, which, aware that there is but one male heir of his body to ensure the succession, and of the likelihood of civil war should that line fail, has petitioned him to commit the examination of validity of your marriage to the bishops and clergy.”
Anna heard his words through a buzzing in her temples. Was Henry such a moral coward that he could not face discussing his doubts with her? Did he have to arm himself with a body of official opinion before sending a messenger?
“Madam, for the validity of the marriage to be examined by an ecclesiastical court, your Grace’s consent is essential, which is why I am here,” Berde was saying.
Now it became clear. Berde’s visit had been timed to intimidate her into complying. At night, human defenses are down, and even little issues seem like big ones. She was trembling now, understanding the reality of the situation, and the enormity of the decision she had to make. Queen Katherine had faced this dilemma, and chosen what she believed to be the right path—and she had suffered for it, hounded to an early death. Since then, the King had had a wife beheaded. If Anna proved obdurate, would he have any scruples in sending her to the scaffold too?
She could not speak. Her mind was teeming with fear and anger. She had done no wrong, and should not be in this position. The alliance must be protected—but at the cost of her suffering, her very life, even? If the King rejected her now and sent her home disgraced, no other man would consider her. Worse still, her brother, impoverished though he was, might feel obliged to retaliate by declaring war on England—when he had the Emperor baying at his gates. Wilhelm might even blame her for the failure of the alliance, and for not trying hard enough to please the King. He would see her conduct as detrimental to Kleve, treason even…
Any moment now, she thought, she would fall in a faint.
Berde was waiting for her answer. If she denied him what he had come for, she could be on her way to the Tower within the hour. Her every instinct was telling her to say, “Yes, yes, do what you will!”—but duty to her brother, and to Kleve, prevented her.
With a huge effort of will, she stood up. “Mr. Berde, I will give this weighty matter the most thorough consideration. You shall have my answer presently. Please wait here.”
She could see from his face that he was not best pleased, but he made no complaint and bowed as she led her ladies out.
She had thought to sleep on the matter, but when she returned to her bedchamber, she knew that getting back to sleep would be impossible. What she needed now was wise counsel. She summoned an usher, who came stumbling in, half awake and hastily dressed.
“Send for Dr. Harst,” she commanded. “Apologize for disturbing his rest, but ask him to come at once. It is a matter of vital importance.”
The usher lumbered off. Anna prayed he would catch a convenient tide for Westminster, where Harst was lodging. She called for wine, to steady herself. She waited—and waited, her women sitting around her, stifling yawns. They had all heard Berde’s words, or been told of the purpose of his visit. No one spoke. It was as if everything was in suspension until Harst came with what Anna prayed would be a magical solution to her dilemma.
When three o’clock chimed, she ordered that wine and little cakes be served to Mr. Berde in the presence chamber, and had a second drink herself. Another hour passed. She tried not to feel guilty about keeping him waiting; after all, he had not scrupled to disturb her slumber.
At last, at four o’clock, Dr. Harst was brought in, through the door of the privy stair that led up from the deserted King’s apartments. Anna had sent a groom to conduct him that way, so he should not meet Berde.
“Oh, my good friend, I was never more glad to see anyone!” she cried, holding out her hands to the ambassador. She had now downed three goblets of wine, and was feeling emotional.
“What has happened, Madam?” Harst asked, his brow furrowed with concern.
“The King has grave doubts about the validity of our marriage. He has consulted Parliament and wants an ecclesiastical inquiry, for which my consent is essential. He sent one of his gentlemen, Mr. Berde, here tonight, at two o’clock, to obtain it.”
“I trust you have not given him an answer,” Harst said, in alarm. “This needs the weightiest consideration.”
“Which is why I have sent for you. I said I will give my answer presently. Mr. Berde is waiting without. Dr. Harst, what shall I do?” A tear rolled down her cheek.
Harst took her hand and squeezed it. She recognized the uncharacteristic gesture as a measure of his sympathy. “I think we should take advice from your chamberlain,” he said. “He is the King’s cousin, and knows him well, and he is also your friend. My guess is that he has heard something of this matter already. Let us confer with him, and agree on the best course to take.”
Anna dismissed her ladies and sent for Rutland, who brought Wymond Carew as his interpreter. Anna would have preferred not to discuss the matter before the stiff-necked Carew, but she had no choice, since she did not want Susanna Gilman gossiping about it. She was still sore with Susanna, still smarting from her betrayal.
“My lord,” Dr. Harst said to the Earl, “the King’s Highness has sent the Queen a certain message, to which he requires an answer.”
Anna could see, from the look of comprehension on Rutland’s drawn face, that he already knew what that message contained.
“I know of this matter,” he admitted. He turned to Anna. “My instructions were not to mention it until the King had informed your Grace.”
“It seems I am always the last to know what is going on,” she observed drily, noticing Carew regarding her with something like sympathy, which made her warm to him a little. “My lord, I have summoned you and Dr. Harst because I do not know what answer I should make to the King. Mr. Berde is waiting for it. I cannot keep him waiting much longer.”
Rutland considered for a moment. “My advice, Madam, would be to send whatever answer you think fit, either in writing or by mouth.”
“I will not write anything down,” she declared. “Could you take my answer to the King, Dr. Harst?”
“By no means, Madam! He will not welcome my involvement, and might try to prevent me from helping you in future.”
“Very well, I will send Mr. Berde. But what shall I say?”
“Do not immediately give consent,” Harst urged. “Promise the King his request will receive serious consideration. Tell him his messenger took you unawares. Play for time.”
“But that only defers the decision,” Anna said, disappointed that neither Harst nor Rutland would advise her what course to take. “If I consent, I fear his Grace will find a way to divorce me. That means returning to Kleve in disgrace, which could imperil the friendship between my brother and the King. It might even mean
war—and punishment for me. But, if I refuse his Majesty’s request, it may go hard for me…” She began weeping uncontrollably.
“Madam, be of good comfort,” Rutland said gently. “The King’s Highness wishes only to abide by the law of God and discharge his conscience and yours. All will be done for the best, so your Grace has cause to rejoice, not to be sorry.”
Anna dabbed her eyes and nodded, feeling drained. Maybe Henry really was just making sure that all was sound and lawful.
She looked at Dr. Harst for guidance, but he merely smiled sympathetically. She turned back to Rutland. “Pray tell Mr. Berde I am considering the King’s request,” she said.
When Rutland had gone, Harst’s smile vanished. “Madam, I cannot express the outrage I feel on your behalf. Matters must not be allowed to progress until Duke Wilhelm has been consulted. You are right to be concerned. If you resist an annulment, as Queen Katherine did, you risk repercussions, and your brother may well feel bound to go to war on your behalf. That is why I would not take any message to the King. I do not want my actions, or yours, misinterpreted.”
“What should I do?” Anna asked desperately. “Shouldn’t I just consent? If the King is grateful and well disposed toward me, then he will remain well disposed toward Kleve as well, and the alliance will not be at risk.”
“Alas, Madam, I fear the King no longer needs that alliance. The Emperor and the King of France are now falling over each other to gain his friendship.”
“So Wilhelm will not blame me if the alliance fails?”
“Why should he? Madam, if the King divorces you, he will surely wish to placate the Duke by any means he can. He does not want war.”
“But if he forges a friendship with the Emperor, Charles may require his support in the matter of Guelders.”
“I think his Majesty is in a position to dictate terms, Madam. We must do all we can to ensure he remains friendly toward Kleve. If he does not, it will be a rift of his own making, not yours.”
