Anna of Kleve, the Princess in the Portrait

by Alison Weir

  “I was going to say the same about your Grace.” She laughed.

  “I have not felt so well in ages,” he replied. “That’s a most becoming gown. It suits you.”

  This was a very different Henry from the one to whom she had been married. For the first time, she understood why people called him more of a good fellow than a king. If only he had exerted such charm when they were man and wife, she might have gained the confidence to be a little seductive and win him. But no matter. It was strange how, now she was free of him, she seemed to have that confidence.

  “I have had dinner laid in my privy chamber,” she said, as they ascended the stair to the Queen’s lodgings. She had taken care with the seating arrangements, to demonstrate her obedience to his will. His chair had been placed at the center of the table beneath the cloth of estate bearing the arms of England, which the harbingers had thoughtfully brought for her use. A separate, smaller table for her had been placed at right angles, at the corner of the high table, to denote that she no longer merited the distinction of dining at the King’s side.

  Henry made no comment, but she saw his eyes take in her arrangement. Once seated, he looked about him in admiration at the bowls of flowers she had caused to be set around the room, the brightly embroidered fire screen she had made, the sparkling Venetian glasses, and the snowy napery.

  “By God, Anna, you know how to make a house comfortable!” he said.

  “I would not go to such trouble for just any guest.” She smiled. At her nod, a servitor stepped forward and laid napkins over the King’s shoulder and then hers, while another placed the finest white manchet bread beside their chargers, which were of heavy gold plate. She signaled to her butler to pour the wine.

  “Mmm,” murmured Henry. “Rhenish? It’s very good.”

  “In Germany, Sir, we have been making good wines for hundreds of years,” she said, tasting hers. “Yes, this is excellent.” She smiled at the butler.

  The first course was brought in: six dishes of the choicest fish to choose from, garnished with spices and herbs. Henry tucked in zestfully, complimenting Anna on her table. “Mmm, this is delicious,” he said, polishing off the last of the carp in verjuice.

  He had made no mention of the annulment, or the momentous events of the past weeks, and Anna certainly wasn’t going to. He had made it clear that this was to be the beginning of a new relationship between them, and she was rather enjoying it. Freed from the ties that had bound them, it was obvious that they were both realizing how much they really liked each other.

  When the main course arrived, and Henry had exclaimed over the great venison pasty that Anna had commanded to be presented to him, knowing it to be his favorite dish, and he had served them both the choicest cuts from all the other meats on offer, he waved the servants away, reached over and took her hand.

  “I am glad you are contented with the ruling of the bishops, Anna. Thanks to your conformity and reasonableness, the matter was dealt with speedily, and to our mutual benefit.”

  Anna chose her words with care. “It was a heavy matter to me,” she confessed, “but I saw the necessity for the inquiry, and I do believe the sentence was the right one. It was very wise of your Grace to entertain those doubts. In my ignorance, I had not the faintest idea that something might be amiss.”

  Henry was watching her intently. Now he nodded. “I knew, from the first, that you were not my lawful wife. I knew it when Kleve could not produce the promised proofs. I told my Council my conscience would not permit me to consummate the marriage, as I felt sure I was not entitled to do so since you were another man’s wife.”

  “I understand, Sir,” Anna said, aware that he was explaining away his impotence. “And there I was thinking that my person was displeasing to you.” She could not resist teasing him a little, and was gratified to see his fair skin flush. Now he was embarrassed!

  “It was nothing personal, I assure you, Anna,” he said. “It was just that I knew I had no right to love you.”

  He did not know she had heard the gossip. It came to her that he really believed in the myth he had created.

  “I like you, Anna,” he continued, regarding her with those piercing blue eyes. “I like you very well, and I am indebted to you too. I know, from bitter experience, that divorce can be a messy and fraught business that can drag on for years, so I did not pursue an annulment lightly. I will tell you, my Council shrank from the prospect. But you were so amenable, so understanding of my concerns. I thought you would play the woman and prove capricious and obstructive, but you surprised me, and I began to realize what a gem I was losing. Notwithstanding, we could not remain in a marriage that was no marriage. I am heartily grateful to you for easing its ending.”

  “Your Grace was ever good to me,” she said, “and you have been most generous in the settlement you made on me.” She waved her hand to indicate the ornate room and the palace beyond the window. “And I like being in England—and being your sister.”

  “Martin Luther was not so charitable!” Henry grimaced. “Do you know what he said when they told him of the annulment? ‘Squire Harry wishes to be God, and do as he wills!’ As if he can talk! He is severely discountenanced, for he thinks his followers have been deprived of an ally in England.”

  “I was never that,” Anna said sharply.

  “I know.” Henry raised his glass to her. “I know you for a devout Catholic, and no Pope-lover. But I fear your name is inextricably linked to the reformers in Germany.”

  “As long as your Grace knows the truth of it,” she replied. “I would not want my name tainted by heresy.”

  “Rest assured, Anna, I could never believe that. Some more of this excellent beef?”

  As he served her, carving the meat with skill, as a gentleman should, Anna noticed that the door was open a chink and that, just behind it, there was, unmistakably, a damask skirt. Frances Lilgrave was eavesdropping. She could not risk exposing the woman to Henry’s wrath, so she excused herself, got up and closed the door.

  “A slight draft,” she explained.

  “I am glad we are private together,” Henry said gently, making her wonder for a mad moment if he was about to make an advance to her. “I have some news I wanted to tell you myself. I have a new queen. When I was at Oatlands, on the twenty-eighth of July, I married Katheryn Howard.” It was so at odds with what Anna had expected that she was momentarily speechless.

  “I think you knew I would wed her,” he said, his cheeks again flushed. “I was attracted to her maidenly behavior, and it came to me that I should honor her with my hand, thinking that, in my old days—after the many troubles of mind that have plagued me in my marriages—I must obtain such a perfect jewel of womanhood. Anna, her love for me is not only to my quietness and peace of mind, but also leads me to hope she will bring forth the desired fruits of marriage.”

  Anna did not want to hear all this. It made her feel even more unwanted, and not a little jealous of her former maid-of-honor, to whom—she realized—she must from now on bend the knee. Now she had an inkling of how Queen Katherine and Queen Anne had felt when they, in their turn, were supplanted. She could have shaken Henry for his insensitivity. Yet she would not let it matter; she must not let it matter. So she kept a cheerful countenance—and found her voice. “I am so happy for your Grace, and I will be the first to congratulate Queen Katheryn on her great good fortune.”

  “Thank you, Anna.” Henry beamed. “I knew you would understand. I need sons, and at my age I cannot afford to wait. Besides, it was not as if I had been widowed and must wait a decent interval. Katheryn is young, and I look for a child soon.” He was telling her he had done with Katheryn what he had failed to do with her.

  “I wish your Grace many strong, strapping sons,” Anna said. “I always liked Katheryn. She was kind and thoughtful.” And so young, to be tied fast to an aging, ailing man.

  “S
he is, she is!” Henry agreed enthusiastically. “She has great qualities, and aptness for a crown.”

  As he waxed on lyrically about Katheryn’s charms and loving ways, Anna realized he was truly, genuinely in love, and it was this that had illuminated him and made him genial and expansive. She did not blame him, or begrudge him his happiness, even though it made her feel distinctly lacking. He could not help the way he felt. If he had had more love like this in his life, he—and his reign—might have turned out very differently. Maybe everything had happened for the best, and God’s hand was evident in Henry’s affairs.

  Something was nagging at her, though. Henry had said he was married on July 28. The date had rung bells. Now she remembered. It was the day Cromwell had gone to his execution. Had Henry chosen it deliberately, to mark the beginning of a new chapter in his life and the end of another?

  When the bowls of fruit and the remaining custard tarts had been removed, the King rose. “Before I depart, Anna, I should be grateful if you would sign the deed of separation.”

  “Of course,” she agreed, and was surprised when he summoned the three lords who had accompanied him to Richmond; they were all Privy councillors. So this was the real reason he had come to see her. And yet he had enjoyed himself, she knew; he had liked her company. They had got on well, become firmer friends.

  When they laid the document before her, she signed it willingly.

  * * *

  —

  After seeing the King and his lords off, standing waving from the jetty, Anna led her ladies back to her privy chamber, where the servants were removing the tables. As soon as the door closed behind them, the ladies broke out in excited chatter.

  “Madam, we were thrilled to see the King on the best possible terms with you,” Gertrude cried.

  “Maybe he has changed his mind about the divorce,” Katherine Bassett speculated.

  “He is realizing he loves you after all,” Frances added.

  “Frances, you were listening at the door! I saw you,” Anna reproved. “What if the King had noticed you?”

  Frances flushed. “I’m sorry, Madam, but I could not resist. We were all bursting to know how you were faring with his Grace. And it was wonderful to see you dining so pleasantly together. I’ll wager we will see you restored to your place.”

  “Nonsense!” Anna snapped, her good mood dissipating. What if the King heard that her ladies, the people closest to her, and in the best position to influence her, were conjecturing that he would take her back? Might he wonder if she was encouraging such speculation?

  “It would reflect too much on the King’s honor to put me away on a plea of conscience and take me back so easily,” she said coldly. “It would argue too great an inconsistency. There were lawful impediments to the marriage, so the annulment must stand, however well the King and I accord together. Besides, as Frances has no doubt told you all, he has taken another wife.”

  Frances clearly had not told them, for she—and the others—looked utterly dumbfounded.

  “Yes, it is true,” Anna went on. “He has married Katheryn Howard, and I enjoin you all to honor her as your Queen.”

  Mother Lowe made a face. There were murmurs of disbelief and incredulity. “That girl…Far too young for him…Little slut…”

  “Enough!” Anna cried. “I will not have her maligned in my presence—or anywhere else, for that matter. You will speak of her with respect, and think well of her, as I do.”

  “You are a saint, Madam,” Gertrude said.

  “I am the King’s dutiful sister!” Anna reminded her.

  * * *

  —

  Florence had returned from Kleve. Anna summoned him at once.

  “You delivered my letter to the Duke?” she asked.

  “I did, my lady.”

  “And how did he respond?”

  “He retired immediately to consider its contents in private. Then he sent my uncle to inform me that, although he was sorry about what had happened, he would not depart from his amity with the King.”

  “I am relieved to hear it,” Anna said, with feeling.

  Florence’s handsome features were a picture of concern. “My lady, do not think the Duke was indifferent to your situation. He was troubled at your remaining here, and asked whether the King could be induced to suffer you to return home. But we told him it truly was your choice to remain, which you had made clear from the first.”

  “Did he comment on the causes of the annulment?”

  “He said that, as far as he knew, there never was any binding contract between yourself and the Marquis of Lorraine; he was sorry it was otherwise found, but he trusted the King to order the matter to his honor. However, he would not give any formal assent to the annulment.” And that, Anna realized, was as far as Wilhelm was prepared to go. He would not risk overturning the alliance with England.

  “But we spoke privately later,” Florence went on, “and he said he was glad you had fared no worse, for he had not the means to oppose King Henry. He will rejoice to hear you are to be restored to your place.”

  “What?” Anna was confused. “What place?”

  “As queen,” he replied, looking at her in puzzlement.

  She was aghast. “Where did you hear that?”

  “It is all over the court, and even in the taverns. People are speaking of it as something to be greatly wondered at.”

  This could not be happening. “Florence, they know not what they are talking about. The King has remarried, although it is a secret for now.”

  The young man looked confused.

  “I am sorry,” Anna said. “I did not mean to speak so sharply. Go and get some refreshments at the servery—and keep all this to yourself!”

  When he had gone, she paced the floor, deeply troubled. This bruit might have arisen from her ladies gossiping, especially Frances. If it was traced back to her household, she would be implicated, and the bright carapace that had convinced Henry she was not pining for him would be shattered. If the court was buzzing with rumors, surely he would hear them. He had once said he never heeded them, but this matter touched him too nearly.

  She determined to show the world she was happy and contented in her single state. For the next week, she took care to appear in public with a joyous face, and donned a new gown every day, each more sumptuous than the last. She rode her palfrey to the edges of Richmond Park, where she could be seen by large numbers of the King’s subjects; she took pleasure jaunts with her ladies along the Thames, and hosted a dinner for local worthies, serving the choicest food and wines. For that she wore a glorious gown of black velvet edged with fur from Pamplona. Let none say she was languishing!

  Afterward, she was to wonder if this vile gossip had prompted Henry to announce his marriage. Two days after his visit, Dr. Harst described to her how Katheryn Howard had appeared as queen at Hampton Court, and dined publicly under a cloth of estate. She had comported herself with dignity and grace, and been well received by the courtiers, he reported, though many had shown surprise at her elevation, thinking her no more than just another royal mistress.

  Dr. Harst was somewhat agitated. After much blustering, he blurted out, “Madam, I hear you are showing yourself unduly gay and frolicsome. There is talk about you in the court. People are arguing whether such behavior displays prudent dissimulation or stupid forgetfulness of what should so closely touch your heart.”

  “It’s neither!” Anna cried, goaded to fury. “I just don’t want people thinking I wish the King to take me back. There were rumors to that effect. I feared they emanated from my ladies, and that people would think I was encouraging them.”

  “I doubt your ladies are informants of the French ambassador,” Harst observed. “He has taken the greatest pleasure in fueling the gossip.”

  “That’s as may be, but I am happy, and I see no reason why you, Dr.
Harst, or anyone else, should look askance at my simple pleasures. Does everyone expect me to sit here mourning my lost husband? Am I not entitled to build a new life for myself? Or should I be rending my clothes and beating my bosom to show the man who put me away that I miss him? Dr. Harst, I have my pride!”

  Harst had the grace to look chastened. “Forgive me, Madam. I’m sure the gossip will abate, as it always does.”

  “I trust it will, and that you and everyone else will stop judging me and finding me wanting. Whatever I do, I cannot win!” She was still seething. But later, after Harst had gone, and she had calmed down, she could not help feeling she had alienated a friend.

  * * *

  —

  When Anna next went to Sunday Mass, a new bidding prayer enjoined her and the whole congregation to pray for the King, Queen Katheryn, and Prince Edward. It would be the same in every church in the land. She prayed fervently, as she was bid, trying not to mind. She had been doing that a lot lately.

  She spent the long summer days enjoying sports and recreations, which were a great antidote to regret. At Richmond, there was plenty of scope for such pursuits. At the lower end of the gardens there were pleasant galleries and houses of pleasure where you could play chess, backgammon, dice, cards, or even billiards, with the warm breeze whispering through the latticed walls. There were bowling alleys, butts for archery, and tennis courts. Anna went often to the courts, to sit in the gallery and watch her household playing.

  She found herself taking special pleasure in seeing Otho bounding around the court and dealing fast serves to Franz von Waldeck, his tall, muscular body lithe and agile. She could not stop remembering how intimately she had once known that body, or imagining that the mature man would be a far more accomplished lover than the callow youth he had been. Once, she was sure he saw her staring at him, and blushed to think he might guess that she was indulging in such fantasies. Another time, his wife was waiting for him when he left the play, and there were hard words between them. Anna could not hear what was said, but the tone was acrimonious on his wife’s part, and defeated on his. For the hundredth time, she wondered what had happened to turn such a loving couple against each other.