by Alison Weir
When Sir William Goring took their part, Anna rounded on him.
“I think you know why I am displeased with them. You should have told me what was going on. Am I to have no privacy? Is not my word good enough, that I would do nothing to injure the King?”
“The orders came from above, Madam.” Sir William looked perplexed. “To obey your Highness would have been to contravene them. In faith, Madam, none of us can do our duty to you as you desire. I ask you to understand our position.”
Anna did understand, but it galled her to have to concede that the Carews had done no wrong. Even Mr. Horsey stood up for Carew, asking if he might assist with costing the household provisioning when they returned to Richmond.
“He is good at his office, Madam, and sound with figures. Believe me, I have little liking for him, and I know he resents me, but he is as grieved in this matter as you are. It is affecting all of us.”
“As it is affecting me!” she blurted out. Horsey just stood there, not meeting her eyes. How would he feel if his privacy had been violated?
“Was there anything else?” she asked, her tone cold.
“Madam, I need to know where you will sojourn over the winter, so that we might make provision.”
“I don’t know,” she said, feeling distressed. Right now, the only place she wanted to be was a long way from here, away from them all. “I will give it some thought, but I can’t do it now.” She heard her voice break, and knew that Horsey must have heard it too.
At the end of August, Dr. Harst came again, disturbing her peace as she sat apart from her ladies by an open window, trying to read. But he was relentless.
“Your Highness, are you aware that your chamberlain has asked the Council for license to go home with his wife; and that he, Mr. Horsey, and Mr. Carew have been driven to asking their lordships where you will winter, because you will not tell them?”
She stared at him. She had known nothing of this. “Is Sir William leaving my service then?”
“The councillors are reluctant to permit it. Until your divorce settlement is finalized, the King is effectively running households for two queens, and good men like Goring are thin on the ground. Madam, this situation is escalating, and your behavior is only making it worse. Accept that Carew did what he had to. Show yourself above such squabbles.”
She roused herself, weighing his words. She resented being harangued yet again, but in her heart she knew Harst was right. It pained her that she had been so enveloped in her sense of betrayal that she had lost sight of how she should conduct herself as mistress of the household. Guilt washed over her. She should have let it go and moved on. “You are right, my good friend. I will summon them all now.” For the first time in weeks, Dr. Harst smiled at her.
Her officers filed in, and stood looking warily at her.
“Sirs,” she said, and made herself sound pleasant and cheerful, “we will be removing to Richmond next Monday. I am sorry I did not inform you of this before, but I have not been feeling myself lately.” It sounded like the transparent excuse it was, yet she hoped they would take it as the olive branch it was meant to be. “I wish to thank you all for your patience with me at this time, and for your good service. If I can be of any assistance in matters relating to our move, you know where to find me. And, Mr. Carew, I will be writing to my brother this night. The letter will be ready for you to take to the Council in the morning.”
Carew looked gratified, and relieved, as well he might. There was relief too in Horsey’s face, and in Goring’s.
“When I next see the King,” Anna informed them, “I will ask if he will graciously consider raising your salaries equitably. Thank you.”
They left looking happier, and she heard a burst of conversation as the door closed behind them. Harst was regarding her with approval.
“Well said, Madam. I knew you would do the right thing. I doubt they will give you more trouble.”
* * *
—
No sooner had Anna arrived back at Richmond than the Lady Mary paid her a visit.
“This is an unexpected pleasure,” Anna told her, beckoning for wine to be served.
“None for me,” Mary said, waving it away.
“You won’t mind if I do.” Anna accepted a glass, aware of Mary’s gaze on her. “I trust your Grace is well.”
“Tolerably,” Mary replied, “though it is getting to that season when I suffer all kinds of ailments. The autumn is never good for my health. But you are in fine fettle, I see.”
“I ride out daily now,” Anna said proudly. “I am become a reasonable horsewoman, and I go for long walks, taking the air. Tell me, is there news of the court?”
Mary sighed. “Yes, but not what you might want to hear. Queen Katheryn daily discovers some new caprice, and my father leaps to indulge her. She is become greedy, greedy for new gowns, jewels, and endless diversions. Anna, she will wear him out. He is besotted.”
“You do not like her?”
“It’s not that; but she is so immature, so giddy, and so oblivious to the fact that he is no longer young.”
Anna rather doubted that, remembering how she herself had been shocked to find the King looking old and grossly obese—and the nightly reminders of it in the marriage bed. “She comes of a good Catholic family,” she pointed out, knowing that must find favor with Mary. “She will be able to influence the King in the way of truth.”
Mary snorted. “I doubt she has the brains for it.” Her voice was bitter. Anna wondered if she was jealous of this stepmother who was younger than herself, and married to a man who adored her.
“You know there is still talk that the King will take you back,” Mary said, making Anna start.
“Not again!” she cried.
“Many of us wish he would,” Mary murmured.
“I appreciate the sentiment, but I am contented as I am,” Anna assured her.
“It will not happen. That girl is entrenched. He’s taken her on progress so that he can show her off. It’s embarrassing, the way he constantly caresses her and makes a great show of his affection.”
Anna felt a pang. He had never shown her that kind of affection. Yet who could account for what attracted one human to another? She was glad Henry had found someone he could love.
They spent a while talking, and Anna insisted Mary stay to dinner before she left for Essex and her palace of New Hall. Mary much enjoyed the game pie Anna had ordered, and the custard flavored with nutmeg, and left full of thanks for the hospitality.
Shortly afterward, a messenger from Dr. Harst arrived with a letter for Anna from her older sister Sybilla. Anna settled down in her chamber to read it, but stood up in consternation on learning that Sybilla was furious with the King for setting her aside, insisting she would never acknowledge the annulment and would continue to refer to Anna as queen. Her husband, the Elector, was outraged too, and the Schmalkaldic League, of which he was head, had wasted no time in severing diplomatic relations with England. Anna winced, but there was worse to follow. Never mind that these princes had united against the might of the Emperor and needed Henry’s support, Sybilla wrote; they would never renew the alliance.
She had not known that her sister had become such a firebrand.
Mother Lowe appeared, and Anna showed her the letter. “That’s what comes of fraternizing with Luther,” Mother Lowe muttered. “She always was an opinionated young lady. Still, she does have your interests at heart.”
“That may be so, but I dare not show this to the King,” Anna fretted. “What shall I do?”
The nurse squeezed her hand. “Burn it.”
“Someone may have seen the messenger arrive, and ask what he brought.”
Mother Lowe fumbled in her pocket and handed over a folded piece of paper. “You can show them this. It came from Solingen.”
Their eyes met. It
was Anna’s great grief that she had word of her son all too rarely.
“It’s from Frau Schmidt,” the old nurse said. “You can say the messenger brought it for me.”
Anna took the creased letter and devoured it avidly. The boy was well. He was now serving his apprenticeship under his father and showing promise.
“How good it is to know that,” she whispered, near to tears, suddenly consumed with the longing she had so resolutely repressed. “His father is proud of him, it says. His father is here! He does not even know he has a son.”
“And it’s imperative it stays that way,” Mother Lowe said severely.
Anna was about to protest, but subsided.
* * *
—
As she lay wakeful that night, aching for her child, she began to feel angry. Johann had the ducal blood of Kleve in him, yet he was hidden away as a shameful secret, and being trained as a swordsmith. He had no idea who his real parents were, or even that he was adopted. And Otho—he had a right to know he had a son, surely, and now that she was her own mistress, and a private person, the danger of exposure was not so great. She was sorely tempted to tell him.
She was still agonizing over what to do two days later, when the King came to dine at Richmond. He was again the hearty self she had seen since their divorce, and still full of the joys of his new marriage. They sat up late together, alone in her dining chamber, talking and playing cards until the candles were dying, and she found herself enjoying it immensely. Replete with good Riesling, she even found herself flirting a little. She did not want Henry back, but she was very glad to have him as a friend. It was extraordinary how two people who had made such a bad beginning had now come together in genuine affection.
When he got up to leave, he embraced her warmly. “God bless you, my dear Anna. I will come again soon. And maybe you would like to come to court at Christmas.”
“I would like that very much, Brother,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. “God go with you.”
After waving him off by torchlight, she turned back toward the palace, and there was Otho, sprawled on a stone bench in the shadows, looking dejected.
“Go ahead; I’ll be with you directly,” she ordered Katharina and Gertrude, and walked over to him.
“What is wrong?” she asked, as he sprang to his feet. “No, sit down, please.” She sat beside him. “I know that all is not well between you and Hanna.”
“It is no secret,” he muttered. “She is playing me false with your cupbearer, and cares not how she humiliates me. I’ve tried, God knows, to win her back. It was losing the child that did for us. It changed her.”
“She lost a child? I did not know.” Anna laid her hand on his. “I am so sorry.”
“I loved her,” Otho declared, his voice taut, “but she is no longer interested in me. We both desired that child so much.”
Anna did not hesitate. She was the one person who could offer him comfort and consolation; and she had been longing to tell him her secret, the secret that should be his too. “Otho, you have a son,” she said.
His head jerked up. “I have a son?” He seemed bewildered.
“We have a son,” she amended.
There was a long silence.
“Oh, my God,” he blurted out, sounding choked. “My God. Why did you not tell me?”
“How could I? I was commanded to keep it a secret. The only other people who know are my mother and my nurse. They arranged for me to go to Schloss Burg to have the child. I called him Johann, after my father. He was taken away from me and placed with a swordsmith in Solingen.” She was weeping now. “I have seen him only once since. He is a darling child, and happy, I believe, but I want more for him. And I miss him, I yearn for him…”
Otho reached for her, and suddenly they were holding each other tightly, both sobbing helplessly, and then they were kissing, hungrily, desperately, tasting salt tears on each other’s lips.
“God forgive me, I had no idea,” Otho said in her ear. “I was young and foolish, and unthinkingly took my pleasure. It grieves me that I caused you such shame and sorrow.”
“But you brought me joy too,” she murmured, surrendering her lips to his once more. “And now this…”
“I have dreamed of it,” he whispered, as she clung to him tightly.
“I have wanted to tell you for years,” Anna said a little later, “but they would not let me. There was too much to lose.”
“There would have been for me too! I had Hanna to consider. But not anymore.” He drew back and grasped her hands. “Anna, I am overjoyed and proud to know I have a son, especially since he is your son too. I am a bastard myself, but my father has always treated me as if I were trueborn, and my stepmother has been kind. I want that for Johann.”
His words made Anna weep again. This was beyond all her hopes.
“I will go to Solingen,” he declared. “I am not known there. I will make some pretext to buy a sword, and try to befriend the family and see the boy, to ascertain that he is happy and well cared for. Then…I do not know what I will do, but if money can help, I am not poor. My father is generous to me.”
“If he is happy, that is what matters,” Anna said, pulling her hands away to find her handkerchief. “I want what is best for Johann. And yet, I cannot help thinking that there must be a better future for him. But how to ensure it, and whether he would be happier, I cannot say.”
Otho was thoughtful. Anna shivered. “Let us go in. I think we both need a drink. There might be some wine left in the dining chamber.”
There was. The servants had left a cloth over the ewer after clearing the table. Anna poured two large goblets, and they drank deeply. And then Otho was pulling her into his embrace once more, and this time there was no gaucheness, no ignorance, just two troubled souls seeking comfort in each other.
* * *
—
When Anna came to her senses, she was lying on the Turkey rug before the empty hearth, with Otho’s arm flung across her breasts. He was pressed against the full length of her body, facing her, gazing into her eyes.
She remembered telling her maids she would be with them shortly. Heavens, what time was it?
Reluctantly, she lifted Otho’s arm and sat up.
“Anna?” he asked.
“I must go to my chamber. My maids will be wondering where I am.”
“I don’t want you to go.”
“I have to.”
He sat up beside her and kissed her tenderly. “Thank you for that. I had long hoped that, one day, when our lives were less complicated, we might come together again. Yet I never expected this. Anna, you mean a great deal to me.”
“As you do to me, Otho. And I am grateful to you for ensuring…” Her voice tailed away as she felt her cheeks grow warm. He had foregone his full pleasure to keep her safe, yet he’d brought her to that joy she had longed for all these years. And it had been even better, infinitely better, than she had remembered.
“There are more ways than one of loving.” He smiled, kissing her again.
She rose, straightening her skirts and retrieving her hood from the table. “I still have your ring,” she told him.
“You kept it all these years?” He seemed stunned.
“I could not forget the father of my child—and the man who taught me how to love,” she whispered.
“Will you wear it now?”
“Yes, Otho, I will.” She smiled at him.
“Shall I see you again?” he asked. “Shall we…?”
“Yes,” she said, and he drew her to him for a last embrace.
“We will do what’s best for our son,” he assured her. “I will leave for Solingen on Saturday.”
Chapter 20
1540–1541
Anna stared at Dr. Harst. “I assure you, I am not with child! Where did these rumors come from?
”
“In faith, Madam, I do not know, but the court is agog with them. And people are saying the King is the father.”
“What? This is outrageous.”
“They impute much to his visit here in August. Some claim you were alone with him.”
“And so I was, at his Majesty’s instance. Who was I to gainsay him? We talked and played cards. He told me how much he loves the Queen. What more can I say?”
“Madam, it is said he is troubled because the Queen is not yet with child; and—forgive me—it is being alleged that you have been suffering the sickness common to women in that condition.” Harst’s tone was so strained that Anna wondered if he actually believed the rumors.
“I have been sick, but it was something I ate, and I am better now. How dare people draw such baseless conclusions! And how do they know I was ill?”
“There are those in your household who regularly visit the court. People will talk.”
Anna wondered who had talked. It was ironic that she was being accused of a sin she had not committed, when all the while she had been agonizing lest the sin of which she was guilty should be exposed.
“I hope that his Majesty is also being taxed with these rumors,” she said tartly. “It’s unfair that they rebound on me. Let him refute the gossip!”
“He will not condescend so far.”
“He might, if it touches his honor—and mine! And I pray he will. In the meantime, Dr. Harst, my brother the Duke will be counting on you to defend my reputation at every opportunity.”
“It is not just your reputation that is at stake, Madam. There is also talk that the King will now leave Queen Katheryn and take you back.”
“That is nonsense,” Anna cried, “and if anyone raises the subject, you must say so. The King makes such singular demonstrations of affection to the Queen that it cannot be.” She got up from her seat by the fireside and went over to the window, staring out at the autumnal colors of the garden below. “I think I will remove to Bletchingley or Hever, or even Rickmansworth. I don’t want my servants going in and out of the court as easily as they do from here. I want these evil bruits stopped.”
