Anna of Kleve, the Princess in the Portrait

by Alison Weir

  “We were children then! Not now, though. And we are being careful.”

  Mother Lowe harrumphed. “If I can see what’s going on, others can too. I agree, his wife is a shrew, and does not trouble to hide her infidelity. But they are fast married, and there’s nothing to be done about that. Take care, Anna, I beg you. Things are good now, ja? Let them stay that way.”

  Anna nodded, chastened. Her nurse’s concern was sincere, and born of love. And she was right. Life was good for them all. She must not put that at risk. But she could never end things with Otho. How could she return to her barren existence, yet still see him every day? She could not do it. She would rather die. She must therefore ensure that they were even more discreet in future.

  * * *

  —

  A few days later, a royal messenger arrived from Hampton Court with a missive for Anna from the King. He had issued letters patent making her an English subject, on condition that she did not leave England without license. The lands she had held as queen had at last been reassigned to Katheryn, and Anna held in her hand a long list of the manors, boroughs, rectories, parks, farms, mills, tithes, and annuities that were now hers in their place, again on condition of her remaining in England, and in consideration of her submission to the laws of the realm and the authority of Parliament, which had declared her marriage invalid. Heavens, she even had the right to a tithe of beans at some place in Sussex!

  As she looked down the list, which she must pass over to Wymond Carew as soon as possible, for he would have all to do sorting out her rents, she saw that many of the properties had been confiscated from Cromwell. A good number had clearly been monastic lands of which he had availed himself. Again, she was profiting from the misfortunes of others. She wished it could have been otherwise, but the decision had not been hers to make.

  Most of the place names meant little to her, but there were quite a few in Sussex, not far from Richmond. She promised herself another progress soon, to see some of them.

  She summoned Carew, and he looked over the document. “A handsome settlement,” he pronounced. “Barely less in value than you had when you were queen. You are assured of a good income.”

  “His Majesty has been most bountiful,” she said. “I am indebted to him. And I mean always to abide by the terms of my settlement.” Let Carew report that back to Suffolk!

  * * *

  —

  Anna could barely concentrate on the preparations for her journey into Sussex that spring. She was too worried, too preoccupied with a problem that had at first seemed a trifle, but had rapidly assumed monumental proportions. She was longing for an opportunity to speak in private with Otho. Their secret trysts had continued, but far less often than she would have liked. Always, discretion had to come first. But she needed him more than ever now.

  Mother Lowe bustled in, weighed down by a pile of towels, which she dumped on the bed. “There’s been a delivery of wine. The King sent it. The carter told me the Queen is expecting at last. He said it was the talk of the court.”

  Anna swallowed. “Since his Grace has been good enough to send us the wine, we should make an occasion to celebrate,” she said, although she had no appetite for celebrations just now, and the thought of wine made her queasy. “This news will be a very great joy to the King.”

  She walked through to her closet, looking for books and games to take with her on progress. She felt bowed down by her own fears, and with worry about Master Mandeville, a groom of her stable who had been arrested for heresy while performing errands in London, and was being held in the Marshalsea prison for questioning. She barely knew him, and had no idea what heresy he was supposed to have committed—Henry had not gone into detail in his letter informing her of the arrest—but she feared for him, being well aware of the penalty.

  Mother Lowe followed her into the bedchamber. “Something is troubling you, child,” she said. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I can’t stop thinking about poor Mandeville,” Anna told her. “I hope no one here betrayed him, and that no one else in my household is tainted with heresy, because, if they are, we all risk being thought guilty by association. I have written to the King, telling him I am shocked to hear the news of Mandeville, and that I had no suspicions of him at any time, which is the truth. I don’t think I ever spoke to him, beyond saying thank you.”

  “Hopefully he will clear himself,” Mother Lowe said, but she did not sound convinced. Anna wondered if those accused of heresy in England ever escaped the stake.

  At dinner, she asked Sir William Goring if he knew.

  “You are thinking of Mandeville, Madam?”

  “Yes, Sir William.”

  “My understanding is that a heretic may recant and escape punishment, but if they then lapse, it is the stake for them. I have not heard that Mandeville ever recanted before. I was not even aware he entertained heretical views.”

  “He didn’t receive the Sacrament at Easter,” Mr. Horsey recalled. “I thought that a bit strange.”

  “He denied the miracle of transubstantiation,” Wymond Carew said. They all stared at him.

  “I heard it in the court,” he told them. Yes, Anna thought, no doubt your good friend, the Duke of Suffolk, told you. She hoped it was not Carew who had laid evidence against Mandeville. Yet, even if it had been, and she taxed him with it, he would doubtless say he had acted in her interests—and he would be right.

  She did not know what to do. She dared not ask Henry to show mercy in such a serious case, yet she could not stop thinking of her wretched groom languishing in prison with no one to help him.

  * * *

  —

  Spring was in the air. All around Anna the gardens were bursting into new life, and there was a mild breeze and the smell of newly scythed grass. Yet the beauty of her surroundings failed to move her; it seemed cruel that the season was fulfilling its promise while she fretted in fear, unable to take any joy in it, and made one of the hardest decisions of her life.

  Her preparations for the journey completed, she went walking alone in the orchard, seeking some peace in which to ease her despairing soul. It was there that Otho found her. At the sight of him, tears welled in her eyes.

  “Is something wrong?” His blue eyes searched hers.

  “Something is very wrong,” she replied. “I am with child.”

  He looked stunned. “No, you cannot be. I was careful…”

  “I am. I know the signs.” She fought back the tears. “I have been here before, and I cannot believe it has happened again.”

  “Oh, Anna. I am so sorry.” He pulled her to him and stroked her hair. “What shall we do?”

  She was glad he had said “we.”

  “I have thought of a plan,” she said, breaking away. “It might just work. During the progress, I hope to find one of my houses lying in a remote spot. As soon as my condition starts to show, I will lodge there on some pretext, then pretend to be ill and stay until the child is born. Mother Lowe will have to be told. She helped me before and, though I know she will be angry, and disappointed in me, I’m sure she will help again.”

  “There will be talk if you have just one lady attending you,” Otho pointed out, his beloved face creased in concern.

  “I will take others, but they will not be allowed to enter the sickroom, lest I am contagious. You see, I have thought of everything.” She forced a smile.

  “And what can I do?” he asked.

  This was going to be the hard part. She had been dreading this moment. “Nothing,” she said. “No one must guess there has been anything between us. If my brother found out, he would demand that we be sent back to Kleve for punishment, if King Henry does not punish us first. Otho, my dearest love, this must end. We dare not risk exposure. It will be hard enough as it is to keep my condition a secret.” Her voice broke; she could hold back the flood of tears
no longer.

  “No! Anna, don’t do this!” Otho tried again to embrace her, but she stood back.

  “Don’t touch me,” she begged, “or I will forget all my good intentions. I am so sorry…”

  “This is my fault.” He punched his forehead. “May God forgive me!”

  “We did it together,” she reminded him. “I do not blame you. But now, it must be farewell. It will be hard, but we have to be strong.”

  “Anna,” he pleaded, “Anna, please…” But she was walking away, forcing herself not to look back.

  * * *

  —

  “The Queen is not with child,” Katherine Bassett said. “My sister wrote to me.”

  “Did she miscarry?” Anna asked, as the chariot conveyed them along the sun-baked track toward the town of Lewes, the next stop on their progress.

  “No, I think it was wishful thinking. The King is very disappointed.”

  Poor Katheryn, Anna thought. It must be dreadful, being under such pressure to give Henry a son. “I feel for them both,” she said.

  They had traveled south from Richmond and Anna had already inspected her properties at Maresfield and Alfriston. She could not see all those in Sussex, for there were too many; she would visit more another time. She wanted to gain an idea of what she owned, and see more of her adoptive land. It was taking her mind off the dreadful decision she had just made, but not numbing the pain. She did not think she could sink lower in misery than this.

  Ahead, she could see Lewes on its high hill. Tonight, she would stay in her house at Southover, at the foot of the hill, and tomorrow she would visit the nearby manors of Le Hyde and Kingston before riding on to Ditchling.

  The house at Southover was delightful, a fine timbered building with a stream running through the gardens and an orchard. Just along the road was an abandoned priory. Her tenant, Master Freeman, and his wife, were at pains to ensure that Anna enjoyed every comfort, and after enduring the jolting of the chariot on ill-kept roads, she gratefully seated herself on a settle in the beamed hall and accepted a goblet of wine.

  Ten minutes later, a messenger wearing her own livery caught up with her. Mandeville and two others had been found guilty of heresy and burned at the stake in Southwark. The news made her feel so sick that she feared she might lose the child. As her officers and ladies expressed their shock, she saw Otho, seated at an adjacent table, looking at her with the most profound sympathy and yearning, and had to summon all her resources to keep control of her emotions. How she longed to be comforted in his arms.

  She made a hasty excuse and retired to the great chamber that had been prepared for her, where she vomited and gave herself up to the ministrations of her maids. She could not stop imagining the terrible torments Mandeville must have endured, against which her own suffering seemed unimportant. It was too awful even for tears. The only consolation was that he was at peace now.

  “Bring me more wine,” she directed, desperate to calm herself, and gulped it down quickly. But, this time, it did not bring comfort. She lay wakeful for what seemed like hours, and when she eventually fell asleep, she dreamed of devils dancing in the flames.

  * * *

  —

  The manor house of Nyetimber was perfect for her purpose. Tucked away in its grounds, in the heart of a sleepy village, the magnificent half-timbered mansion would afford complete privacy when she most needed it—and it was much further from London than the other houses she had visited. Sitting at table in the hall, listening to the lute player thoughtfully engaged by her hosts strumming in the minstrels’ gallery, she felt some sense of peace here—and, Heaven knew, she needed it.

  Her decision made, she asked Mother Lowe to attend her in her bedchamber that night.

  “I need your help,” she said as soon as they were alone. “You will think me beyond redemption, I fear, and it grieves me to risk losing your good opinion of me, for I cannot plead the folly of youth this time—but, dear Mother Lowe, I am with child!” Again, the ready tears spilled.

  “I know, Anna,” Mother Lowe said gently. “I am not blind. You’ve not had your courses for some time. Elya Turpen told me.”

  And she had thought she’d been discreet. Even the laundress knew her secret.

  “She will not talk?” she asked fearfully. “No one must know. Tell me no one else suspects!” Her knees felt weak, and she sank down on the bed, pulling off her hood.

  Mother Lowe bent and took her hand. “No one else has said anything, and I warned Elya not to. I think, if anyone had guessed, there would be talk. You know how fast gossip spreads—and there are those in this household who would take the greatest pleasure in repeating it at court.”

  “I know.” Anna wept. “We tried hard to be discreet, and careful. Do not think ill of me!”

  “How could I, Anna?” The nurse stroked her hair. “There is no likelihood for the present of your being able to remarry, despite what was said at the time of your divorce. No one could blame you for seeking consolation, and you have been extremely unlucky. I wish Otho was not married; but, even if he were, it would not be easy for you to wed. How you make your peace with God is your business, not mine. I’m only concerned about what is to be done.”

  Anna sagged with relief. How fortunate she was that her nurse loved her unconditionally. She threw her arms around her, surprising the old woman.

  “Thank you! Thank you!” she said.

  Mother Lowe disentangled herself, pink with emotion. “We must think what to do!” she said.

  “I have it all planned,” Anna told her. She outlined what she had decided, and Mother Lowe nodded approvingly.

  “It could work,” she pronounced. “No—we will make it work.”

  * * *

  —

  By June, Anna knew that, soon, she would be unable to hide her condition any longer. She reckoned she was now five months gone with child, counting from when she had last made love with Otho.

  She announced she would be making another visit to Sussex, but only a short one this time—nothing on the scale of last month’s progress. Mother Lowe would be accompanying her, with Katharina and Gertrude, Florence de Diaceto, John Bekinsale, and two grooms. She dared not risk taking her English ladies, for she did not know if she could trust any of them absolutely.

  Mother Lowe packed English gowns that could be unlaced to accommodate Anna’s increasing girth, and a good store of night-rails, with books and games against the coming months when she would be confined to her chamber.

  They were nearly ready to leave when two letters arrived. Recognizing Wilhelm’s seal, Anna opened his first, and was delighted to read that he was married. He had secured a great prize, no less a personage than Jeanne d’Albret, the heiress of Navarre, who would be a queen in her own right one day. She was the niece of the French King, and marriage to her would bind Wilhelm closer to France and bolster him against the territorial ambitions of the Emperor. It was a most splendid match, and Anna was overjoyed for him.

  Her eyes widened in disbelief as she read on. Wilhelm’s bride, for all that she was only twelve years old, had at first refused to consent to the marriage. “She was whipped for it, and did in the end agree,” he had written, “yet even then she signed a statement that it was against her will. Her father made her obey him, but still she protested, and had to be taken by the collar and carried forcibly to the altar by the Constable of France. It was not an edifying sight, and occasioned me much embarrassment. She has gone back to her mother now, for it has been agreed that the marriage will not be consummated until she is older. It is my hope that, before then, she will learn to be obedient and dutiful.”

  Anna wondered why the young Jeanne had so taken against Wilhelm. Many girls married husbands who were a dozen years or more older, and this was a good match for both parties. In time, Wilhelm would be king of Navarre, one of the greatest princes in Europe.
And he was handsome. Surely the Princess had been taught that she must marry the man chosen for her, as Anna had done? Yet Anna could also remember her own fears and anxieties about marriage. She had some sympathy for the girl, who was, after all, very young.

  Shaking her head, she opened the other letter. It was from Dr. Harst, informing her that her erstwhile betrothed, Francis of Lorraine, was to marry the Duchess of Milan. “The King has protested,” he wrote, “and declared that he holds your Highness as the real and legitimate wife of the Marquis.”

  Well, Henry would say that, Anna thought. He must preempt Francis’s marriage casting doubt on the legitimacy of their divorce and his marriage to Queen Katheryn. It was best not to comment. It all seemed so unimportant beside the challenges that lay ahead of her.

  At dinner that last night before Anna’s departure, Katherine Bassett revealed that there was tension between Henry and Katheryn. Anne Bassett sent regular letters about life in the Queen’s household, with which Katherine always regaled Anna and the rest, and mostly they were filled with gossip of little consequence. But Anne had now reported that the Queen had been sad and thoughtful for some days, prompting the King to ask what ailed her.

  “She heard the Queen say she was upset on account of some rumor that his Grace was about to take back your Highness as his wife,” Katherine said.

  Anna shook her head in despair. “Not again, please God! What did the King say?”

  “He said she was wrong to attach faith to rumors, and if he had to marry again, he would never take your Highness, for you were precontracted to another. Yet Anne says many think he might be reconciled to you for fear of the King of France making war on him at the solicitation of the Duke of Cleves.”

  “That won’t happen either,” Anna said flatly. “My brother has only the friendliest of intentions toward the King.”