Anna of Kleve, the Princess in the Portrait

by Alison Weir

  “He is more likely to be angry with the King,” Harst predicted. “Although it pains me to say it, I am in no doubt now that his Majesty wants a divorce. Mr. Rich told me, almost as a parting shot, that if you and the King are married in name only, the Church has the power to annul your union anyway.”

  “They have me on all counts, with everything covered,” Anna said miserably.

  Harst’s voice was tight with indignation. “The King must be sure indeed of the Emperor’s goodwill to risk angering the Duke. The best we can hope for is that he will make generous financial provision for you, to placate your brother.”

  Anna was hoping for that too. In justness, Henry should compensate her for the loss of the crown she had never yet worn.

  She wrote to him that evening. She assured him she was amenable to Convocation examining the validity of their marriage, although she had no doubt that it was lawful. Yet, should the bishops decide otherwise, she hoped his Grace would look kindly on her. She sent it to court by the last tide.

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, there arrived a letter from the Council: she must cease sending messages to the King.

  It reduced her to tears. When Harst arrived from Whitehall, she cut him off before he could speak. “Read this.” She swallowed, trying to compose herself. “There is more.”

  Harst read aloud: “ ‘The envoys of Cleves have not kept their promise to produce proof of the annulment of the betrothal between the Lady Anna and the Duke of Lorraine’s son. On the contrary, they have sent such documentation as puts the matter in much more doubt, and thus it appears plainly that the King’s marriage cannot be in any way validated.’ Madam, this is appalling! They are muzzling you when you have most cause to speak out in your defense.”

  “There are those in Kleve who are to blame as well.” Anna would not mention names, for if fault there was, surely it was her father’s, or his advisers’. “Had my betrothal been properly broken, with written authority, I would not now be in this peril.”

  “You are not in peril, Madam,” Harst reassured her.

  “I might have angered the King; is that not peril enough? What can I do from now on but show myself conformable? I shall write to the Council, assure them of my good intentions, and say I mean never to deviate from my resolve to please his Majesty.”

  “Do nothing yet, Madam, I beg you,” Harst remonstrated. “I think it will all be resolved soon. Yesterday, the bishops convened in Westminster Abbey, with Archbishop Cranmer presiding. I heard they were taking depositions from witnesses, on oath.”

  “Ah. No doubt my ladies have been busy!” Anna gave a mirthless laugh. “I shall take your advice, my good friend.”

  She left Harst to finish his ale before he returned to Whitehall, and wandered into her privy chamber, where her maids were playing cards. She poured herself a large goblet of wine—never had she so needed the courage it gave her—and sipped it gratefully. She sat down and picked up her embroidery tambour, trying not to think about what those witnesses might be saying. Would they claim the King had never wanted her? Would it all be written down for posterity to read?

  Her cheeks burned when it occurred to her that Henry himself might reveal what had—or had not—passed in bed between them, and that she was still as good a maid as he had found her. What she feared most was that he would say he had found her no maid at all. She quailed at the shame of it. If she came home a rejected bride, Wilhelm might, if she was lucky, be merciful—but if he found out she had gone sullied to her bridegroom, he would kill her, there was no doubt of it, and no one would blame him. She could not bear this suspense of waiting to find out what was happening. The bishops would be reassembling today. They would be looking at the depositions and discussing them, and that which should have remained private would be laid bare. She had had her suspicions since their wedding night that Henry had guessed her secret. Would he spare her the disgrace of exposure, and all its terrible consequences?

  Chapter 16

  1540

  Late that afternoon, Mr. Berde arrived at Richmond, asking to see Anna at once.

  “He called your Grace ‘the Lady Anna’!” the Duchess of Suffolk exclaimed. “How impertinent of him!”

  Anna said nothing. She knew what that imported. What am I now? she wondered.

  Mr. Berde did at least do her the courtesy of bowing to her. “Madam,” he said, his voice grave. “This afternoon, at three o’clock, the bishops agreed that his Majesty and your Grace are in no wise bound by the marriage solemnized between you, and have pronounced it null and void.”

  She had been expecting this, but still it came as a shock. She thought she might faint, as she had yesterday, but no, she was still standing, still breathing. Her head teemed with questions, but she could not speak.

  Berde stared at her, no doubt bracing himself for the storm. “His Majesty has been informed, as have both houses of Parliament, and Convocation has been prorogued until eight o’clock on Friday morning, when the bishops’ ruling will be formalized and take effect.”

  So she was still queen—but only for two more days. At least Berde had given no hint that her terrible secret had been laid bare. More than shock and indignation, she felt relief.

  She found her voice. “On what grounds am I to be divorced, Mr. Berde?”

  “On three counts, Madam. Firstly, by reason of the precontract between your Grace and the present Marquis of Lorraine; secondly, that the King’s Majesty, suspecting this impediment, entered into the marriage against his will, and never gave his inward consent to it; and thirdly, that this whole nation has a great interest in the King’s having more issue, which it is clear he can never have by your Grace, since the marriage remains unconsummated on account of his Majesty knowing in his heart that you were forbidden to him. Both his Majesty and your Grace will be at liberty to marry elsewhere.”

  And Henry can now have his Katheryn! Anna did not begrudge him that happiness. She did not regret the loss of him as a husband, only as a friend—and lately he had certainly not been much of that to her.

  And then something odd occurred to her. Had no one noticed the contradiction in the bishops’ pronouncement? Her marriage had been dissolved on the grounds that she was still precontracted to Francis of Lorraine, so she could not be free to wed again—and yet their lordships had stated that she was. It made little difference, for there was no denying that the marriage had not been consummated, which was sufficient grounds in itself for an annulment.

  What would happen now? Henry had effectively condemned her to a life of celibacy and sterility. The disgrace she had so feared would have to be faced. What would Harst say? She wished he was here. What would the world say, come to that? More to the point, what would Wilhelm say?

  Mr. Berde was watching her warily as she gathered her thoughts.

  “Madam,” he said, “it is the King’s command that you should assent to the clergy’s determination.”

  “Forgive me, Mr. Berde,” she replied, “but this news has upset me, as you may imagine.” If you had any heart. “Allow me time to compose myself. I will give you my answer anon.” And with that she nodded, signaling that the audience was at an end. Berde backed away, looking vexed.

  * * *

  —

  She told no one. All that evening, she sat among her ladies and gentlemen, sipping wine, listening to the musicians playing and trying to master her teeming thoughts. In less than two days, the whole edifice of her life—the great household, the fine palaces, the deference, the jewels and other accoutrements of her rank—would crumble, and she had no idea what would happen to her afterward.

  Soon she would have to give Mr. Berde an answer. He was waiting in the grooms’ room, where she had ordered supper to be served to him.

  She noticed Otho von Wylich looking at her. She was aware of the sympathy in his blue eyes. He was sitti
ng alone, a little apart from the other gentlemen.

  “Where is your wife tonight, Otho?” she asked.

  There was a slight hesitation. “She is indisposed, Madam.” Another pause. “I trust your Grace is well?”

  “I am perfectly well, thank you,” she answered, wondering if something was amiss with him. Maybe they were both lying. She wished she could confide in him, and that he could give her the comfort she craved. But she had no right to that kind of comfort, and she had enough to cope with just now without other complications in her life.

  She knew she would not sleep, so when a distant church bell chimed eleven, she dismissed her attendants, picked up the ewer, and retired to her bedchamber, where she sat drinking more wine and fretting about what to do.

  What would become of her? If she returned to Kleve, it could only be in humiliation—galling, after the grand send-off she had had, to fulfill a magnificent destiny that was now no longer hers. Putting the problem in the most basic terms, she would be devalued in the royal marriage market, and unlikely to find another husband. She would be returning to her mother’s tutelage and vigilance, and the dull daily round of prayers and embroidery. Wilhelm would surely appropriate any settlement Henry made on her, as compensation for the cost of her marriage. He would be angry with her. Men did commonly blame the wife if anything went wrong, and in this case, an alliance was at stake.

  But here, in England, she was a long way from Wilhelm’s jurisdiction. Here, especially at Richmond, she could enjoy certain freedoms. If she kept the King’s goodwill, he might continue to be kind to her. Perhaps she could retain control over her own money, and keep at least some of her own people about her; he would surely agree to that—he owed her, after all. She had come to like England and its pleasant landscapes; she was growing used to the ways of its people.

  She was torn; it was only natural, for she loved Mutter and Emily—yet the truth was, she had grown used to being without them, and enjoying a degree of independence. Maybe, when all this trouble had died down, she could visit them one day. There were other things in Kleve she missed too, but certainly it would be better to stay in England. Here, she could be her own woman. Her resolve hardened. But that did not solve her immediate problem.

  * * *

  —

  When midnight struck, she sent a messenger to Whitehall to summon Dr. Harst back to Richmond. She longed to confide in someone, and was badly in need of his counsel. He would know what to do. All her instincts told her to assent to what Henry wanted.

  Harst made good speed and arrived at three in the morning, by which time Anna was feeling drained and dizzy from the effects of wine and lack of sleep. Without preamble, she related to him what Berde had said.

  “Madam.” His hand was on her arm, a breach of etiquette, but one intended to comfort her. Besides, what did it matter now? Tomorrow, she would be queen no longer. Yet she would still be royal, and a princess of Kleve.

  Harst had no doubt as to what she should do. “Madam, I strongly recommend that you accept Convocation’s sentence, and have patience.”

  Suddenly, the awfulness of what was happening struck her like a stinging blow. This was real, and there was nothing she, or Dr. Harst, or Wilhelm could do about it. She could bear it no longer: the shame of having everyone know she had been found wanting; that she was unlovable, rejected, abandoned…Her shoulders heaved, and she was seized with great gasping sobs. What had she done to deserve it all? Was she being punished for the sin of her youth?

  She could not control herself. The tears came like a flood. Had she been building castles in the air, imagining a happy future for herself here? She was alone in this land, with only the good Dr. Harst to protect her, which was hardly reassuring. Effectively, Henry could do what he liked with her. He might even find some pretext to have her beheaded, like Anne Boleyn. Panic gripped her, as she saw in her mind’s eye the sinister bulk of the Tower of London looming ahead as she was carried there, a prisoner; she saw herself kneeling in the straw, blindfolded, imagining the agony, the blood…

  Suddenly, she was screaming in terror. Doors banged, and there were voices outside, and urgent knocks, but she could not heed them. She was too far immersed in mortal fear. If only God would let her die here, of her misery, and spare her what was to come. Whatever it was, it would not be good, she was sure of it.

  Strong arms were holding her, drawing her down on a bench. Her head was cradled against her old nurse’s motherly bosom. “There, there, mein Liebling,” Mother Lowe murmured, gentling her. “Hush now.”

  “Thank God you came,” Anna heard Harst say. “It broke my heart to hear her Grace lament thus. This has all been too much for her, poor lady.” He knelt and took Anna’s hand. “If it was anything I said that upset your Grace, I am deeply sorry for it,” he murmured.

  The hysteria had subsided. Anna struggled to regain her composure. “I am sorry, forgive me,” she gasped.

  “There is no need to apologize, Madam,” said another voice, and Anna looked up to see Lord Rutland in his night robe and cap, with several anxious faces peering from behind him. She sat up, releasing Mother Lowe’s hand.

  “Thank you, thank you,” she said, her eyes embracing them all.

  “Madam, you have nothing to fear from the King,” Rutland said. “If his Majesty could see you now, I know his heart would be moved. He would be touched that you are so saddened at the prospect of losing him.” Anna did not correct him.

  “What happened?” Rutland asked Harst, and the doctor told him.

  “You gave her Grace good advice,” the chamberlain observed. “Madam, as I said before, you should respond to his Majesty as you think right.”

  Calmer now, Anna rose, smoothing her skirts. She knew what she must say. If she did not, it would fester inside her like a wound for the rest of her life. “Please send for Mr. Berde. Mother Lowe, if you could kindly bring me some water and a cloth.”

  She dabbed at her face and let the nurse comb her hair. A glance in the mirror told her she looked dreadful, but no matter. It would not hurt Henry to hear that she appeared devastated.

  Mr. Berde looked shocked when he saw her. And so he ought!

  She took a deep breath and summoned her courage. Henry should know she had never taken their matrimony as lightly as he had. “Pray convey my answer to the King,” she said. “Tell him that I gladly accepted him as my husband and master. I gave myself to him, and in my heart I will remain his wife until the bitter death.” Even as she said it, she was wishing the words unsaid, fearing that a bitter death might well be her reward. What had she done? Had she gone mad?

  Berde visibly flinched. Harst and Rutland were staring at her as if she were crazed. “The King will not be pleased with such an answer,” Berde said at length.

  “I do not wish to anger or offend his Majesty,” Anna replied. “I will not oppose him on this matter, but I must speak as my conscience dictates—as he does.”

  She could sense the exasperation of the men around her.

  “Very well, I will tell his Majesty that,” Berde replied grimly. He gave a perfunctory bow, and left.

  Unable to bear the dismay in the faces of those who remained, Anna wished them good night and retreated to her chamber. She was too exhausted for explanations tonight.

  * * *

  —

  In the morning, Harst came, but not—thank Heaven—to castigate her. “I am for the court, Madam,” he said. “I am deeply unhappy about the speed with which this annulment has been obtained, and the way the King has treated you, and I intend to go before the Council and say so! You are a princess of Kleve, and should not be kept in suspense as to what the future holds or what kind of settlement is being made on your divorce. I hope to rectify that today.”

  “I think you are hoping also to repair any damage I may have done,” she said. She had not slept at all, and suspected, from the lo
ok of him, that Harst had not either. “Tell me, was I wrong to state my view?”

  “Brave, Madam,” he replied. “I would not say wise, especially as we are looking to the King to be generous.”

  “I am regretting it today,” she confessed. “I fear I spoke rashly, impulsively. I was not thinking straight. Any moment now, I am expecting soldiers to come and arrest me.”

  “The King is not a man to be gainsaid, but even he would not dare go that far,” Harst assured her.

  “I do hope not! Good Dr. Harst, make speed to the court, I pray you, and say it was never my intention to imply any criticism of the King or his bishops. Say, I beg you, that I was crazed at the prospect of losing his love.”

  “That is very wise.” Harst smiled. “Your Grace should have been a diplomat.”

  * * *

  —

  He was back after dinner, and Anna invited him to walk with her in the privy garden.

  “Madam, I think the King fears you as much as you fear him.” He smiled.

  “Why?” she asked, astonished.

  “Clearly, he fears you might incite your brother to war, for the first thing the Council did today was assure me his Majesty would not abandon the alliance with Kleve, and that he intends to treat your Grace as his sister. Madam, I urge you now to accept the ruling of Convocation. If you do, all will go well for you, for the councillors still bear you much goodwill, which they would not do if you had incurred the King’s displeasure. But if you refuse to accept it, then I fear undue pressure will be brought to bear on you, with disastrous consequences.”

  Anna could well imagine what “undue pressure” might mean. “I will accept it,” she declared. “Shall I send for Mr. Berde?”