Anna of Kleve, the Princess in the Portrait

by Alison Weir

  “She is at Schloss Düren, and appears to be safe for the moment,” Harst replied. “I have not heard that the town has been taken, but the news comes piecemeal, of necessity.”

  “How could this happen?” Anna was beside herself with horror and anxiety.

  “The Emperor surprised Duke Wilhelm by suddenly appearing in Flanders with a great army. There was nothing the Duke could do. Now the Emperor has demanded that King Henry break off diplomatic ties with Kleve and send me home, but the King has refused. He summoned me this morning and told me he would not do it, and that I must stay.”

  Bless him! Anna thought. Henry would come to Wilhelm’s aid, she was sure of it.

  “It is my mother I am most worried about,” she said, wringing her hands. “I want to go home and be with her.” And I need desperately to know that Johann is safe.

  “I too wish to leave, Madam, however well meant the King’s intentions. Yet, as he warned me, the situation in Kleve is too perilous to permit my return. We dare not attempt it. Imagine if you were taken hostage.”

  Anna realized Harst was speaking the truth. She felt like bursting with frustration.

  “We must rely on the Duke’s diplomacy to save the day,” he told her. “I understand he is appealing to King François for aid.”

  “I pray he will get it,” Anna said, “and that God will move the French King to compassion for the plight of our country.” She was not optimistic. François had been too preoccupied with his own problems to aid Kleve last time.

  * * *

  —

  Waiting for news was dreadful; not hearing anything was worse. But worst of all were the tidings that came late in August. The Emperor had taken and sacked Düren, the chief town of Jülich.

  “Six hundred houses have been fired,” Harst mourned. “There was great panic and bloodshed. Madam, they burned Schloss Düren too.”

  “My mother was there!” Anna shrieked. “What news of her?”

  “Alas, there is, as yet, no word.” Harst looked near to tears himself. “I wish I could offer your Highness more comfort.”

  Horrific images filled Anna’s head, of her mother trapped, or overcome by smoke and flames…As she broke down in tearing sobs, gasping out her grief, she felt strong arms around her, and there was Dr. Harst, forgetting all the rules of etiquette and holding her gently, weeping himself, and Mother Lowe, embracing them both, tears flooding her cheeks.

  “What is amiss? Is someone hurt?” Otho had come bursting through the door. Harst left Anna and Mother Lowe to support each other, and she heard him relate in lowered tones what had happened.

  Otho was visibly moved. “Would you like me to go to Kleve now to discover what has happened to your lady mother?” he offered, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I can go through France, and approach from the south. King François is our ally; he will not prevent me.”

  “That is so brave and kind of you,” Anna sobbed. “I have not the words to thank you.”

  “It might be best to wait for news,” Dr. Harst said. “It might well arrive sooner than you can get word to us.”

  “Yes, wait,” Anna said, seeing the wisdom in his advice. “But for only a day or so, for I do not know how I can bear the not knowing. Do you know if any of our other castles have been sacked?” She was thinking of Schloss Burg, hard by Solingen, and trembling in fear lest Johann had been caught up in the Imperial onslaught. Düren was not that far from Solingen.

  “Not that I have heard,” Harst said. “But I have been assured that the Duke and your sister are safe.”

  No news was good news, Anna told herself, praying as she had never prayed before that Mutter and Johann were still alive.

  * * *

  —

  The waiting was cruel and hard, especially when they got word that the Imperial forces were now marching through Jülich unopposed, and so terrifying the people that every town was surrendering its keys to the Emperor. But there was no word of the Duchess’s whereabouts, and Anna was beginning to give up hope that she had survived the fire. Even if she had, the occupation of her own duchy of Jülich would be the end of her.

  Early in September, Dr. Harst sought out Anna, his countenance so heavy that she shrank from hearing what he had to say and gripped Mother Lowe’s hand for support.

  “Madam, I have received word of your lady mother. God be thanked, she did not die in the fire.”

  “Oh, that is the most blessed relief!” Anna cried. “But was she hurt?”

  “Not in the fire, but I am deeply sorry to tell your Highness that she died four days afterward. Please accept my profound condolences.”

  Anna closed her eyes, trying to ward off the pain and grief that were overwhelming her. She was remembering Mutter’s gentleness, her devotion, her care for her children, and her abiding love for Vater. She was united with him now, in Heaven, for surely a soul as pious as hers would not have suffered long in Purgatory.

  “How did it happen?” she asked, too numb for tears.

  “Dr. Olisleger writes that she fled the castle in some terror,” Dr. Harst told her. “Her attendants reported that she was almost out of her wits with anger over the loss of her country. In her state of health, the ordeal proved too much for her. Mercifully, she did not live to see all Jülich subdued.”

  “What of Kleve?” Mother Lowe asked anxiously, wrapping her arm protectively around Anna, who was desperately trying to come to terms with her loss.

  “I fear that few towns in Kleve could resist such an army as the Emperor has under his command. The taking of Düren has made them all afraid. Dr. Olisleger predicts there will be no resistance, and that the Imperial forces will cut a swath through to Nijmegen, by which time the town of Kleve and all the country on that side of the Rhine will be at the Emperor’s commandment.”

  The world as Anna had known it was falling to pieces. Her grief for Kleve was almost as intense as that for her mother. Suddenly she was howling at the awfulness, the unjustness of it all.

  * * *

  —

  The white linen cap and long veil seemed an appropriate choice; it felt fitting, and oddly comforting, to be mourning Mutter in a German headdress. It made a simple contrast to the heavy black velvet gown with its wide partlet, stand-up collar, and tight sleeves. No jewelry, apart from the rosary hanging from a chain around her waist. Her face stared back at her from the mirror, pale and etched with grief. It had been a fortnight now, and still the pain of loss was raw. And now she must rouse herself and receive Dr. Harst, whose arrival had just been announced.

  She thought she had reached the nadir of despair, and that she could not feel worse, but she was wrong. Harst’s gloomy face struck fear into her heart. His news was shocking. Wilhelm had conceded defeat and formally submitted to the Emperor.

  “He had no choice, my lady,” Harst said, as she reeled from the blow. “The King of France appears to have abandoned him, and he is ravaged by grief for your lady mother. He met with the Emperor at Venlo, and came dressed in deepest mourning. He was made to kneel before his Imperial Majesty in submission and sign a treaty ceding Guelders and Zutphen. In return, he was allowed to keep his duchies of Kleve and Jülich, although there will be some diminishing of the autonomy he has hitherto enjoyed. Furthermore, he has agreed to divorce Jeanne d’Albret so that he can marry a niece of the Emperor.”

  Anna listened to it all with mounting shame. She could not bear to think how humiliating it must have been for Wilhelm, that proud man, to suffer such public abasement and dishonor. If she felt she could not face the world on account of her country’s degradation, how must he be feeling? And this while they were mourning their mother. The only consolation was that, now the war was over, Johann was safe. To Anna’s inestimable relief, Mother Lowe had heard from the Schmidts that Solingen had not been touched by the invaders.

  “I will go to King Henry myself
and beg his aid,” Anna said. “He will help, I am sure.”

  “I would advise against it, Madam,” Harst replied gloomily. “There is no sign at court of compassion for Kleve. The councillors made it very clear to me that the King will not risk a war with the Emperor.”

  Another blow. Anna had thought Henry would welcome a chance to prove his friendship with Kleve; she had thought he would intervene for her, as well. Her disappointment was profound.

  “There is nothing to be done, my lady,” Dr. Harst said sadly. “At least your brother has retained his duchy, and rules there still. I doubt the Emperor will interfere in the daily business of government.”

  “Yes, but we enjoyed such independence in Kleve! My father would be horrified if he knew what had happened.”

  “Your father would have made the same choice. Who dares withstand the might of the Holy Roman Empire?”

  * * *

  —

  Late that autumn, after she had put off her mourning, Henry invited Anna to court. Still smarting over Wilhelm’s humiliation, she arrived resolved to ask the King if there was anything he could do, but soon realized, from his commiserations over Kleve, that he too was tied, and there was no point. So she made small talk with Queen Katharine, joined her and Henry to feast and watch the courtiers dancing, and tried not to think of how much the King had aged since she had last seen him in July. It grieved her to see him declining so fast. If only he could lose some weight, he would feel better, and his leg might improve, affording him better mobility. But there he sat, with rich food piled high before him, and a goblet that was continually being refilled. And no one dared give him any wise advice.

  She was glad to get back to Richmond, glad too to be told by Wymond Carew that he had been offered the prestigious post of treasurer to the Queen, and would be leaving her service.

  “It is a great honor, and I am very pleased for you, Mr. Carew,” she told him. “I am pleased also to hear that your surveillance is to be withdrawn. I trust I am no longer under suspicion of intriguing against the King my brother, whom I would never hurt.”

  Carew had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I was but obeying orders, Madam. I have never doubted your loyalty.”

  She let it go. The man was leaving; soon she would be free of him. “Who is to replace you as my receiver general?” she asked.

  “On my recommendation, my kinsman Thomas Carew.” Thomas was a kindly, cultivated man who had been serving Anna as a gentleman of her chamber. She could not imagine him ever agreeing to spy on her.

  “The choice pleases me very well,” she said, “although I trust his duties will be limited to those of his office!”

  “I have not heard otherwise, Madam,” Carew said stiffly.

  She smiled at him. “I wish you well in your new position,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  It came to her that night, as she snuffed out the candle and curled up for sleep, that, since she was no longer to be spied on, certain possibilities might open out to her. The image of Otho’s beloved face came to mind—and that of little Johann, in faraway Solingen, although he would not be so little now: he was twelve, and no doubt she would not recognize him. He was three years into his apprenticeship, and excelling at his craft, Mother Lowe had told her. Dare she now—if it could be arranged—bring him over from Kleve and install him in her household, through the good offices of Otho? Surely there could be little risk. No one would know who he was, least of all Johann himself. And they could be together, a family of sorts, her, Otho, and their son.

  The more she thought about it, the more it seemed feasible. Yet was it fair to uproot the boy from all he knew? Was she being selfish?

  She broached the matter with Otho, having invited him and some of her other gentlemen out riding so that she could put the white osprey Duke Albert of Prussia had sent her through its paces. It had come to England, fully trained, with a gift of a dozen falcons for King Henry, and the King had sent it on to her. It was a fine hawk, and she was pleased that Duke Albert, one of the Protestant princes of Germany, had thought of her.

  Riding ahead of the rest through Richmond Park, with Otho keeping abreast, she confided to him her idea.

  “There is now no chance of my remarrying the King, so I have no political importance here. I am no longer being spied upon. I can, at last, lead the life of a private person. Why should I not employ someone from Kleve in my household—as an old favor to a friend, say?”

  Otho appeared torn. “I want to be with our son as much as you do, Anna, but I still think it would be wrong to bring him here now. Let us wait until he is a young man and has finished his apprenticeship, then I will make some pretext to visit Solingen and renew my offer to find him a position in England. By then, people will have largely forgotten about your marriage to the King, and the risk of scandal will be far less.”

  Johann would not finish his apprenticeship for four years. It seemed an eternity. Anna knew that Otho spoke sense—and that he would keep his word. But how, now that the idea was born, would she ever find the patience to wait so long?

  Chapter 24

  1546

  Anna stood with the ladies Mary and Elizabeth and the duchesses of Richmond and Suffolk, watching the King and Queen receive the Admiral of France, the new French ambassador. The presence chamber at Greenwich was packed with the lords and ladies summoned to do him honor. Anna felt honored too, to be accorded a place beside the King’s daughters, whom Henry had restored to the royal succession two years since, in order of seniority after Prince Edward.

  The Lady Mary stood stiff and unsmiling, for she was her Spanish mother’s daughter through and through, and could never love the French. No doubt she was regretting the retirement of Messire Chapuys, who had left England last year. But he had never been a friend to Anna, unlike the faithful Dr. Harst, who had also gone home, many months ago, having no need to remain. Anna missed him, and the news he had brought of the court and the wider world at large. Now she had to rely on her household for it, or her occasional guests. She did not entertain so much these days, for she could not afford to, even with the King supplementing her income.

  The Lady Elizabeth was smiling graciously at all, basking in this rare chance to be a focus of attention. She had her mother’s dark eyes, and even now, at the tender age of twelve, she knew how to use them to effect. She was accomplished and learned—and very vain.

  It was the King who drew Anna’s eye most. When he had raised and embraced her on her arrival, she had seen that he was in much pain, and that he could not stand for long. He had collapsed on his chair of estate immediately afterward and signed to a page to bring his footstool. Anna saw that it was stained with pus, which was seeping through the bandages under his hose.

  That evening, during a lull in the festivities to mark the ambassador’s coming, the Lady Mary sought out Anna.

  “I am worried about my father,” she muttered, hardly audible against the chatter going on around them. “He is ill. Anyone can see it. The Queen says he spends most of his time in his secret lodgings, and seldom stirs out of his chamber, unless it is to walk in his privy garden—when he is able. I think she is having a difficult time, for his temper is worse than ever. His legs give him so much pain that he becomes exceedingly perverse, and is inclined to lash out on the slightest provocation.”

  Anna took Mary’s hand and squeezed it. “I am aware his health is failing. It is plain how badly his legs trouble him.”

  “He tries to hide it, but you can see by his face that it is worse than he pretends.” Mary looked distressed. “He cannot go up and down stairs now; he has to be hauled up and down by a pulley device, and he has had two chairs made with extended arms, so he can be carried to and fro in his galleries and chambers.” She glanced around at the company, then bent close to Anna’s ear. “Let us walk in the gallery, where we can be private. We might be overheard
here.”

  The gallery, by good fortune, was deserted. They sat down on a window seat.

  “In faith, Anna, I do not see how my father can last much longer,” Mary said. “And then we shall have my brother, and I fear for us, and for England, because he is being tutored by Cambridge gospelers—heretics all, I do not doubt! And she, the Queen, encouraged it.”

  Anna awoke to the bleak prospect of an England ruled by reformers. No wonder Mary was so worried.

  “You heard what happened last month? Bishop Gardiner tried to have her arrested for heresy, but she managed to convince the King of her innocence.”

  Anna wondered if she should tell Mary what she knew of Katharine Parr’s activities before her marriage to the King, but shrank at the prospect of what the consequences might be, should Mary think fit to tell Henry. So she kept silent. She had spent these last years living contentedly away from court, far from the intrigues and jealousies that pervaded it, and she was looking forward to going home, to Otho, who was now dearer to her than he had ever been, and the people she now regarded as her family. And Johann was fifteen now. Only a few more months to wait…

  “I trust she has profited from the experience,” she said. “It may have jolted her into an appreciation of her error.”

  “I don’t think she would call it that,” Mary said, tart. “No, Anna, the future is very uncertain for those of us who are of the true faith. We must pray that my father lives longer, but already the wolves are chafing at the muzzle for a new order. And there is nothing to be done about it!” Her voice was bitter. “Do they not fear for their immortal souls?” She sighed deeply, fingering her rosary. “We should rejoin the company, lest we are missed.”

  * * *

  —

  Again and again, over the days that followed, Anna was struck anew by the luxury and lavishness of the court, which seemed greater than ever. She dined every day, with the princesses, at the King’s table; in the afternoons, she enjoyed the chase and, in the evenings, she sat next to Queen Katharine as they watched the extravagant masques staged every night in honor of the French Admiral. Afterward, she was among the privileged guests invited to gather privately with the King and Queen in the new banqueting house that had been erected in the gardens, an exquisite small pavilion hung with tapestry and furnished with cupboards laden with gold plate set with rich stones and pearls, and salvers of sweetmeats. Henry, Anna saw, was acting as if he still had many years ahead of him, doing his best to ignore the pain in his legs and determinedly driving himself to lead as normal a life as possible.