by Alison Weir
“You may count on me to do that,” she wrote back, aware that her letter would probably be intercepted and read. “I will never utter a word by which anyone might suppose I am discontented; have I not always said I wish for nothing but what pleases the King my lord?”
All her life, she had been enjoined to patience. Dissembling her passions had become second nature to her. Mutter had always said that patience could only come of a singular grace from God, and a heart resolved to accept what could not be remedied. She would be proud to read how Dr. Harst admired Anna’s circumspection. “Your Highness has conducted yourself, with your household, very wisely,” he wrote. “Those who have visited you have marveled to me at such great virtue, and are loud in your praise. I rejoice to hear that you are well. People even say you are looking more beautiful than when you were queen. In truth, you are more regretted and commiserated over than the late Queen Katherine.”
His letter had her reaching for her mirror. Was she more beautiful these days? There was no doubt that French hoods did more for her than the Stickelchen ever had. Whatever the truth of the matter, it bolstered her confidence. How ironic it would be if Henry came to desire her after all, when she did not want him.
* * *
—
Harst arrived at Richmond, grave-faced, in early December. Receiving him in her parlor, where a fire had been lit, Anna’s first thought was that the Queen had been sentenced to death.
“Madam,” he said, unable to conceal his distress, “I must speak to you about a delicate matter, which, if not dealt with properly, could mean the end of all our plans.”
Anna immediately thought of Otho, and the little grave in the shadow of the elm tree. If she had not been sitting in her chair, she feared she would have collapsed.
Harst took the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, looking as if he would rather be anywhere else. “Monsieur Chapuys came to see me. The King had gone hunting, and many thought he would come here to visit you, my lady. But Monsieur Chapuys took pleasure in informing me that he took another road, and reminded me that there has been no sign, as yet, of his Majesty taking you back. I said that could hardly be expected, given that he is still wedded to Queen Katheryn.” Harst hesitated. “Then he said there was something I should know, and he thought, in friendship and charity, that he ought to tell me.”
“In friendship?” Anna interjected, nearly mad with apprehension. “How can there be friendship between the Empire and Kleve, when the Emperor threatens our borders?”
“It was not friendly at all,” Harst replied. “It was a ploy to undermine your chances of being restored, and I’m sure, Madam, you will tell me that what he said was groundless.”
Anna was praying that too. Her future, her very life, seemed suspended on the brink of disaster. “What did he say?”
“He said he had spoken with the Clerk of the Council, Mr. Paget, who was your Highness’s secretary, and that Paget had said something strange—that, if his Majesty separated from this Queen on account of her having had connection with another man before she married him, he would have been justified in doing the same with the lady of Kleve for the same cause, if the rumor current in the Low counties is true.”
Anna felt herself grow hot. “What rumor? What was he talking about?”
“I have no idea, Madam. And, as you clearly have none either, we must dismiss it as mere calumny. But—forgive me for repeating this, Madam—Monsieur Chapuys said it was not difficult to believe at your age, considering that you are fond of wine and indulge in other excesses.”
The room began spinning, and there was a rushing in her ears. She felt she was standing on the edge of a precipice. Chapuys had skirted too close to the truth.
She leaped hotly to her defense. “I condescend? I may enjoy a glass of wine from time to time, but all I indulge in is innocent good cheer with my household. Is that very wrong? And what does he mean, at my age?”
“Madam,” Harst replied, his face pained, “his drift was clear. He meant you are of an age to enjoy certain pleasures, and, I think, that you condescend to grant favors.”
“This is outrageous!” she seethed.
“It’s even more outrageous that Mr. Paget did not deny it. As one who worked for you, he should be in a position to know the truth of it.”
“I wish I had been there and made them explain themselves,” Anna fumed. “Did you not defend my honor to Monsieur Chapuys?”
Harst bristled. “Of course! I said I knew you for a virtuous lady, and that Mr. Paget should have better things to do than spread malicious gossip.”
“Thank you, my friend.” Anna relaxed a little. “I cannot bear to have people thinking or saying such things about me. Do you think it is the Catholics at court, trying to dissuade the King from taking me back?”
“Very likely,” Harst agreed, looking relieved himself. Anna thought she had been rather deft in diverting his attention to an alternative, and very plausible, explanation, and decided to move the conversation along further.
“I imagine Monsieur Chapuys believes there will be no reconciliation.”
“He said Mr. Paget did not believe the King would take you back or marry again unless Parliament forced him. Bishop Gardiner himself told me that the King will never restore you as his wife. However, that might be wishful thinking. He helped the Howards push the Queen in the King’s path, and has his own future to think of. I imagine he would oppose your remarriage with all his might.”
“But his teeth have been drawn.” Anna forced a smile.
* * *
—
Her heart was still pounding after the doctor had left. Who? she kept asking herself. Who had begun spreading the gossip about her, gossip that was rooted in truth? How had they known her secrets? Only Mutter, Mother Lowe, and Otho knew of Johann’s existence, and she trusted them all implicitly. How could anyone here know what had happened within the stout walls of a secluded castle in Germany? But that, of course, was not all there was to know.
Was the gossip just about her “condescending” to men in general? It worried her that Paget had mentioned it being rife in the Low counties. Who knew her secrets? Again, only Mother Lowe, Elya Turpen, and Otho had been privy to her second pregnancy. Had the Bowyers guessed? It was unlikely they would have risked losing their comfortable tenancy by spreading gossip.
There were too many questions spinning in her head. In the end, as she lay wakeful that night, it came to her that there were only two people, Mother Lowe and Otho, who knew the truth of what had happened on both occasions. Anna knew, as surely as she knew God was in Heaven and the Devil in Hell, that wild horses would have torn Mother Lowe apart before she said anything. And she would never believe that Otho had deliberately betrayed her, but what if he had inadvertently done so? She remembered Mr. Horsey complaining how he had found Otho lying drunk on the stairs one night, soon after she had ended their trysts. Had Otho said something while in his cups?
She slept late the next morning, having not drifted off until four o’clock, and when she was dressed, she decided that she must steel herself and send for Otho. She made sure her ladies were present, and wondered why Jane and Katherine weren’t with them.
“My lady,” Otho said, bowing low. When he straightened up, she could see the pain of loss and longing in his eyes. “You have heard the news?”
“What news?”
“Mrs. Ratsey and Mrs. Bassett were summoned before the Council this morning.”
“No!” Anna’s heart began thudding alarmingly. “Why?”
“I cannot say. None of us know.”
“Ladies, please leave us,” Anna managed to say. The women departed, looking at her in bafflement.
“They will come for me next!” she cried. Otho hastened to her and took her hand, which she promptly withdrew. He listened, his frown deepening, as she poured out her fears.
“To be honest, I don’t remember,” he admitted, shamefaced. “I was drunk, and out cold more than once. If I did, I am truly, truly sorry.”
“It’s too late. I think we are undone already.” Anna was convinced of it, and would not be comforted. When Otho tried to put his arms about her, and apologized for the tenth time, she sent him away.
* * *
—
Had hours ever passed so slowly? Was this what it was like to be waiting for the summons to execution? Anna dared not let herself think about that, but tried to divert herself with books she could not read and embroidery stitches she kept dropping.
At last, at last, she heard the splash of oars below her window, and looked out to see Jane and Katherine stepping up to the jetty. Picking up her skirts, she raced down the stairs and through the gatehouse, and ran toward them.
“I have been so worried about you,” she cried. “What happened? Why were you called before the Council?”
“For gossiping.” Katherine snorted in disgust. “Really, you’d think they’d have better things to do.”
“Gossip may be of great significance in this matter of the Queen,” Anna said, suffused with such overwhelming relief that she felt quite light-headed. “What have you been saying?”
“Madam, I had only speculated what would happen if God worked to make you queen again,” Jane said.
“And Mr. Carew overheard us, and saw fit to report us,” Katherine sniffed. “I’d merely said it was impossible that so sweet a queen as yourself could be put away.”
“Oh dear,” Anna fretted. “Didn’t you remember, you silly girls, that it is treason to criticize my divorce?”
“I think the councillors were more annoyed at me saying, ‘What a man the King is!’ And because I wondered aloud how many wives he would have. I told them it was just idle talk, and that I had never spoken at any other time of your Highness, and I thought the King’s divorce from you a good thing. I said I was sorry about it at the time, but I knew not so much then as I know now.”
“And that was all?” Anna asked, as they mounted the stairs.
“Yes. They warned us never to gossip about the King again, and let us go.”
Reprieved! Her fears had been unfounded. She could have hugged the girls, and kissed them. Instead, she said, “How about some wine to calm us all down?”
* * *
—
The next morning, Anna roused herself to start baking gingerbread for Christmas. She was feeling relieved that yesterday’s interrogation had turned out to be a trifle, but anxious all the same lest someone else reveal her secrets. She seemed always to be anxious these days, and when a frantic Mother Lowe came bustling into the kitchen to say that Sir Anthony Browne and Sir Richard Rich of the Privy Council had arrived with four guards and were asking to see her, she thought she might die from shock. They had come for her, as she had feared. She was shaking so much she could barely utter the words of greeting.
“We are sorry to trouble you, my Lady Anna,” Browne said, not looking or sounding as if he were about to arrest her, “but we are directed to apprehend your servant Frances Lilgrave. She is to be taken to the Tower for questioning.”
Anna felt faint. Light became dark and her vision was scrambled by flashes like lightning. The sensation was momentary, but it frightened her. She must catch a grip on herself. They had not come for her, but for Frances, who loved nothing more than to gossip. Not for the first time, Anna wondered if she had been responsible for the rumors. But what did Frances actually know? And could Anna trust her not to betray her?
“What has she done?” she asked.
“She has slandered you, Madam, and the King also,” Sir Richard told her.
Anna felt again that she might faint.
“Do you know Mr. Taverner, Clerk of the Signet?” Sir Anthony asked.
“Is that the same Richard Taverner who dedicated An Epitome of the Psalms to the King?” Anna asked, remembering that flowery dedication welcoming her coming to England. “Why?”
“It is indeed him, and he is involved in this.”
“In what, precisely?” Her heart was thudding so loudly she feared they might hear it. “If my honor is being slandered, I have a right to know what is being said about me.”
Sir Richard looked at Sir Anthony and indicated he should speak.
“A few days ago, Madam, we had word of an abominable slander: that your Highness had been delivered of a fair boy, and that it was the King’s Majesty’s, begotten back in January when you were at Hampton Court.”
Anna was genuinely stunned. It was perilously near the truth, but the details were all wrong and could honestly be denied. Whoever had spread this slander had not known her secret. “It’s a foul lie,” she said, “and I’d like to know who is responsible, and why.”
“That is what his Majesty would like to know too,” Rich said. There was an edge to his voice, and she trembled to think that Henry himself might be wondering if there was some truth in the gossip. “Taverner learned of this from his mother-in-law, Mrs. Lambert, who said she’d heard it from Mrs. Lilgrave, and from old Lady Carew. They discussed it among themselves and with others, but Taverner thought he ought to divulge what he had heard to Dr. Cox, who advises the King on religious matters. Dr. Cox immediately disclosed it to the Lord Privy Seal, which was how the matter came to the Council’s attention.” His face softened. “Madam, please don’t worry. We know there is no truth in it, but it is treason to slander the King. We need to find out where this malicious slander originated, and deal with the culprit accordingly. Fear not, we will root them out. The King will not have his honor, or yours, impugned.”
The last thing Anna wanted was for them to do any rooting-out. Who knew what they might dig up?
When summoned, Frances Lilgrave became hysterical, pleading with Anna not to let them take her, but the guards marched her away, leaving Anna shocked and fearful.
Would she be next?
* * *
—
Tossing sleepless in bed later, she racked her brains trying to make sense of what she had heard.
It worried her that the King, who had told her to ignore gossip, was taking this matter so seriously. He knew there was no basis to the story that he had fathered a child on her, so he must be concerned either to discover where it had originated, or whether Anna had indeed given birth. At the very least, the uncovering of such misconduct on her part would provide him with an excuse to free himself of his financial obligations to her. Even if he did not punish her more severely, now that she was his subject, she would be left destitute, and could not possibly go home to Kleve disgraced and beggared, for Wilhelm would surely exact a severe penalty.
Hopefully, Henry was merely being touchy about his honor, and wanted to bring the offenders to justice. But who were these people who had slandered him—and her? She knew that, as fine embroiderers, Frances and her husband had close links to the court, but who was Taverner to Frances? And who was old Lady Carew? Anna could not place her. She had met so many people at court, it was hard to recall them all. Wymond Carew was not of knightly rank, so it couldn’t be his wife, who was plain Mistress Carew, and she had heard him say his mother was dead.
Could it be that the Catholics were doing their best to discredit Anna so that the King would not take her back?
* * *
—
As Anna waited to hear word of Frances, more news about Katheryn Howard’s crimes filtered its way through to Richmond. It was said that she had fornicated before her marriage with one Francis Dereham, and after it with Thomas Culpeper. Both men had been sentenced to death. The King had shown mercy and commuted Culpeper’s sentence to beheading, but Dereham was to suffer the full penalty for treason. Anna was horrified. What had he done to deserve such savagery, save se
duce a young girl? But maybe there was more to it than she knew. She had heard that Dereham had inveigled his way into the Queen’s household, which looked suspicious in itself, given their previous relationship.
No one now doubted that Katheryn would die. The sentences handed down to her lovers presaged that. Anna could not bear to think of her suffering such a fate at such a tender age.
It was cried in London that the men’s executions would take place on December 9, at Tyburn. Some of Anna’s household were planning to take a barge and be present, but, that morning, a butcher delivering sides of beef told them the word was that the traitors were to die on the morrow instead. He had no idea why there had been a postponement.
The next day, Anna again gave permission for her servants to go to Tyburn. They returned subdued, sickened by what they had witnessed, and she did not press them to talk about it. She could all too easily imagine how horrible Dereham’s suffering had been.
A pall lay over Richmond. There had been no word of Frances Lilgrave. Surely, if she or Taverner had said anything incriminating, the councillors would have been here with their guards before you could say a Hail Mary.
Anna got a nasty jolt when Browne and Rich did arrive that evening, until she saw they had no armed company. She invited them to be seated and called for wine, of which she herself had need.
“Thank you, my lady,” Sir Anthony said. Of the two, he was by far the more pleasant. Sir Richard reminded her of a snake. She did not like his abrupt manner or the way he stared at her as if weighing up the veracity of what she was saying, although maybe it was her guilty conscience making her think that.
