by Alison Weir
“Sir Thomas, I must thank you for your excellent hospitality,” she said.
“I am glad your Highness has honored me with your presence,” he said, in a voice all could hear. He never missed an opportunity to show the world how high he had risen.
But then, to her surprise, he bent to her ear. “Your coming is pleasing to me in a more personal way,” he murmured. “My lady, let us forget our differences. There has long been friendship between us, and I would there was more than that.”
She stared at him. Friendship? Presumption on his part, rather, and irritation and indignation on hers! Now he really had gone too far.
“Sir Thomas, I think you have perhaps had a little too much to drink,” she said gently. “I will forget we had this conversation—and so should you.” Without another word, she moved away and sought out Otho, her heart racing. She felt sullied. How could that man think she would ever condescend to be his mistress? For that was what he was proposing, since his wife was alive and well. For Heaven’s sake!
She spent the rest of the evening avoiding him. Toward midnight she felt a headache coming on, from the wine and the loud chatter, and Otho led her outside to stand in the cool night air.
“Let’s make our excuses and leave,” she said. “I don’t want to stay at the palace. I’ll tell you why later.”
“We can find an inn somewhere,” Otho said with a grin.
Something long suppressed flowered within her. “Will you go and say goodbye and thank Sir Thomas for me?” she asked. “I don’t want to go near him.”
His eyes narrowed. “Has he been pressing his attentions on you? Because if he has, I’ll run him through.” He was only half joking.
“He was just being his usual arrogant self,” she said. “No need for a duel.” She would tell Otho the truth later, when they were at a safe distance.
“I’ll go now,” he said, leaving her to savor the peace of the moonlit park.
“I couldn’t see him anywhere,” he reported when he returned. “I asked his wife to say our farewells. Let’s find your chariot.” It was waiting for them, with Johann yawning in the front seat, a few yards further on, in the place where all the horses were tethered.
“I trust you had a good evening, my lady,” Johann said, springing to attention.
Anna resisted the urge to hug him. “I did, thank you, Johann.”
They climbed in, and Otho pulled the velvet counterpane over her lap.
“I noticed an inn in Banstead,” he called to Johann.
“Ja, I saw it. I will take you there.”
As they rode past the banqueting house, Anna saw Sir Thomas standing outside, staring into the distance with a forlorn expression. Maybe he did, in his way, have feelings for her.
She turned to Otho, and he folded his arms around her. In a whisper, she told him what had happened, and felt him tauten with anger, which she soothed with kisses and caresses.
That night, in a bed under the eaves of the old inn, she let him love her again, as far as she dared.
* * *
—
By the following spring, Anna felt she could not go on. Her financial situation was now so desperate she was seriously contemplating returning to Kleve. It would mean living under Wilhelm’s watchful eye, and losing her independence, but it would afford some respite from her stressful situation. Wilhelm might even permit her and Otho to marry. She could take Johann with her, and her other German servants.
She had written to her brother telling him how bad things were, and was heartened when he immediately sent Dr. Cruser back to England with orders to insist that the Council rescue her from her difficulties.
Needing to make stringent economies in the meantime, she instructed her stewards to shut up Hever and Dartford, and traveled north of London to the property she had not yet seen. The More was a smaller house and would be cheaper to run. It was about a century old, and bore poignant traces of the grandeur it had enjoyed when Cardinal Wolsey owned it, but it was not in good condition. No one had stayed here in more than a decade. The gardens, Anna was dismayed to see, were utterly destroyed by years of neglect.
She mustered her servants and allocated the tasks that needed to be done to make the place comfortable. She worked alongside them, sweeping floors, polishing windows, and hanging the bright curtains she had brought from Hever. Johann made a passable job of painting window frames, and Jasper Brockhausen and his wife revealed a flair for gardening, assembling a team of volunteers to retrieve what they could.
The More looked far more welcoming by the time Anna heard from Dr. Cruser. He was in England and had already met with the Council twice, and pleaded with them to help her. God willing, he might do her some good.
She waited—and waited. Not until the first week in June did she receive a letter from him, telling her the King had written to her brother, promising to settle her bills. Cruser believed Archbishop Cranmer had interceded for her.
The sense of relief was tremendous. She went into the chapel, now free of layers of dust, and knelt to give thanks. Then she wrote to King Edward, expressing her gratitude for his goodness to her; another letter went to her brother, thanking him for sending her such an excellent champion as Dr. Cruser, and informing him she had decided to stay in England.
It occurred to her that the good doctor might be able to assist in another matter.
The long-running dispute over tree-felling at Bletchingley had become utterly wearisome, and she begged him to help her resolve it.
She was gratified to learn that he had obtained from the Privy Council permission for her to enjoy full access to the house and use of the woods there, provided she allowed no waste or despoiling of them. Making and selling charcoal was perfectly permissible.
She was rejoicing over her victory, imagining Sir Thomas’s fury when he heard how she had outwitted him, when Sir John Guildford knocked and told her there was a report of plague in London.
“Best not to worry too much, my lady,” he said. “There is often plague in the summer. You’re safe enough here; we’re nearly thirty miles north of the City.”
A day later, he ventured as far as he deemed prudent into London, and was back very soon, looking worried. “It’s the sweating sickness,” he said, as the household crowded round. There were gasps of dismay.
“The sweating sickness?” Anna echoed, puzzled.
“It is a dread illness, Madam, that seems only to strike in England, every few years. The last outbreak was in the 1520s. I have heard that it’s caused by an atmospheric putrescence. It causes a most profuse sweat, which seizes people without warning. Remedies have no effect.”
Anna shuddered. She imagined Johann stricken with it, Otho dying…
“Aye,” said Dr. Symonds, who had replaced Dr. Cepher as Anna’s physician. “A man can be well at breakfast and dead by dinnertime.” His normally urbane and reassuring manner had been replaced by an expression of grave concern. “Madam, we must ensure that no one from London is admitted to this house. When the sweat struck before, it traversed the whole kingdom, and the death toll was huge.”
Sir John spoke. “In Edgware, where I was warned about the sweat, I heard that some persons at court had died of it, and that King Edward had been rushed away to Hampton Court.”
“Be honest with me. Are we safe here?” Anna asked Dr. Symonds. “I have properties further away where we could seek refuge.”
“As long as we do not come into contact with any outsiders, we will be safe.”
“We have plenty of food,” Meister Schoulenburg put in.
It was like being under siege. Only afterward did they learn that nearly a thousand souls had perished in London, amid widespread panic. All business was suspended, the shops were closed, and the citizens had locked their doors and prayed to be spared. At The More, Anna and her household held their collective breath for t
wenty tense days, constantly watching themselves and each other for any sign of the contagion, and eating sparingly, as there was only so much meat and fish in the wet larder, and the weather was warm.
At last, in July, as Jasper was working in the garden, a man shouted over the wall that the sweat had abated, and that there had been no cases hereabouts.
Gradually, life returned to normal. In September, Anna was delighted to receive an invitation from the Lady Elizabeth to visit her at Ashridge.
At eighteen, Elizabeth had matured into a slender, poised young woman with an incisive wit and a formidable intellect. With her sandy hair, sallow skin, and hooked nose, she was not beautiful, yet she had undeniable charm, and Anna did not doubt that men found her attractive.
They congratulated each other on avoiding the sweat, and walked in the gardens, enjoying the sunshine and catching up on each other’s news. Anna gathered that Elizabeth preferred to stay away from the court these days.
“There used to be warmth between my brother and me. He called me his sweet sister Temperance. Yet he is distant toward me now, and the formality at court is daunting. He is like a god to be worshipped. He’s not yet fourteen, but he knows everything. I cannot get close to him anymore. And when I do see him, he does nothing but complain about our sister Mary’s insistence on having her Mass.”
“Her faith is more than life itself to her,” Anna observed.
“Yes, but Mass is illegal now. She should stop provoking the King and be more pragmatic, like you. You were a Catholic, yet you have converted like the rest of us.”
The conversation was taking a dangerous turn.
“I am a private person,” Anna said. “My conformity is not important to the King. The Lady Mary is his heir. I’m not surprised he wants her to abandon the Mass, although I am certain she will never do that.”
“Then let us pray God preserves my brother for long years to come!” And Elizabeth went tripping ahead along the graveled path, humming as she went, her long hair flying loose behind her.
* * *
—
January 1552 found Anna at Bletchingley again, digesting the startling news that the former Lord Protector had been beheaded.
“He plotted to overthrow the Duke of Northumberland,” Sir John reported. This was the title Warwick had recently bestowed on himself to underline his greatness. Only twelve years ago, he had been Anna’s master of horse—now he was supreme in England!
“There was a great outcry among the people,” Sir John reported. “They think of Somerset as ‘the Good Duke.’ I think even he believed there might be a last-minute reprieve. He died bravely.”
“He was never a friend to me,” Anna said, “yet I am sorry for him.”
She went back to the accounts Jasper had given her to initial. The deficit was greater than it had been last week. She might have to leave England after all.
She set the ledger to one side and began a letter to Wilhelm, informing him of Somerset’s execution. “God knows what will happen next,” she wrote, “and everything is so costly here in this country that I do not know how I can run my house. If I do decide to return to Kleve, I will be no trouble to you. England does not feel like my home anymore.”
She was still wondering what to do when a letter arrived from the Privy Council, informing her that the King had granted Penshurst to Sir William Sidney. There was no apology, and no mention of her being given another house in exchange. She wrote back, complaining in the strongest terms, but did not receive even the courtesy of a reply.
“It may be for the best,” Otho said, as she lay in his arms that night. “You have three houses to keep up already.”
“Personally, I would rather only have one,” Anna told him, “but, as a princess of Kleve, I must live in a style befitting my status. If I had my way, you and I would have a pretty manor house in the country, and I would be playing Hausfrau!”
“And what would I be?” he laughed, tickling her and making her squeal.
“Don’t do that! People will hear us,” she reproved him. Since that night at the inn, they had been sharing a bed at every opportunity, and it was blissful, yet they had had to be discreet. Anna knew that most of her household sympathized with their situation, but they might not approve of Otho treating her as if she were his wife. Only, of course, he wasn’t, because the ultimate joy was denied to them. It was as frustrating for her as it was for him, and often, as she lay beside him, making free with his body, the longing was overpowering—but it was not as great as her fear of the consequences. It was as if she were conditioned always to expect the worst. That was what her life in England had done to her.
“The problem is more in your head than in reality,” he had said to her.
“But the Council made its views clear,” she countered.
“That was Somerset. Now he is gone.”
“And you think Northumberland will be more sympathetic?”
“Let’s just get married, Anna, and damn the consequences!”
And always she had said no, denying herself, denying the man she loved.
* * *
—
In March, there was some joyful news from Kleve. Two years ago, the Duchess Maria had borne her first child, Marie Eleonore. Now she had a new daughter, whom Wilhelm had named Anna in honor of his dearest sister. Anna wished she could attend the christening, but she could not afford the journey. Instead, she sent her niece a silver rattle with tinkling bells, and her blessing.
It was a little burst of happiness in an otherwise miserable spring. The Council persisted in its relentless policy of reducing Anna’s settlement. In April, the King commanded her to exchange her manor of Bisham for another of equal value, but had his officers seize it before a suitable exchange could be made. And it would not be made, Anna knew, for all her protests. Then the Council put pressure on her to exchange her lands in Kent, but she was wise to the game of exchanges by now, and flatly refused, much to their chagrin.
As if this were not enough, Jasper came to her with a long face and warned her that her finances were again in a perilous state.
“Madam, we must pare back your expenditure and make economies.”
“Very well,” she agreed, too weary even to ask what he was planning. But what was there to pare back? Jasper had it all worked out. Fewer dishes at meals. Fires to be extinguished at nine o’clock, whatever the weather. Following the old custom in Kleve, no food or wine to be served after that time. Candles were to burn down before they were replaced. This caused the most resentment, for the servants were used to appropriating them as perquisites after only one evening of usage. And then the daily ration of ale was reduced.
Anna was aware of the rising tide of anger in the household. Her cousin, Franz von Waldeck, now twenty-seven and a gentleman of her chamber, was the most vociferous, and took Jasper to task at supper one evening.
“What do you call this?” he challenged, pointing with distaste at his small portion of fish. “No sauce, and no alternative dish. We might as well be living in a monastery.”
“They eat better there, I’ll wager,” Thomas Carew said.
“My Lady Anna,” Franz continued, “your table used to be famous. Now no one comes, and the food gets worse daily.”
“It is not the fault of Meister Schoulenburg,” Anna said. “We have to live within our means.”
“No, it’s his fault,” Franz declared, jabbing a finger at Jasper.
“Forgive me, but since when did you become acquainted with her Highness’s accounts?” Jasper retorted. “She has no money, and is in debt. We have to make economies.”
“It is your mismanagement of her finances that has led to this!” Franz snapped.
“You can’t talk!” Jasper flared. “You, with your eight servants, whom she is obliged to support!”
“Gentlemen, desist!” Anna cried. “
Franz, you are in no position to criticize.”
“I looked at the books. They’re in a hopeless mess.”
“That’s a lie!” Jasper roared.
“How dare you!” Gertie spluttered.
“On my family’s honor, Herr Brockhausen, I am not a liar, and you will take that back!” Franz had gone red in the face.
Anna banged her fist on the table. “I will not have this unseemly squabbling. Franz, I check the accounts every week. They are not in a mess; you exaggerate.”
He glared at her. “Madam, it grieves me to see you so ill served. It is not compatible with your honor or your status to have this penny-pinching inflicted on your household.”
“Nor is it compatible with my honor to have my people starving! None have been let go, or gone unpaid, so if you want to retain your eight servants, you had best stop complaining.”
She turned to the seething Jasper. “Maybe we could economize in other ways.”
“Don’t you think he’s tried?” Gertie interrupted.
“I know he has.” Anna smiled placatingly. She could not afford to upset these good, loyal friends. “But let us put our heads together and see if we can’t find a better means of saving money. Now, shall we all change the subject? I hear there is to be a new Book of Common Prayer in English.”
For all her efforts, the quarrel was not done with. Enmity simmered, and she suspected there was more to it than appeared on the surface.
* * *
—
Anna raised some money by selling some of her jewels. Sitting in her garden at Hever one June morning, staring into her depleted casket and wondering if she could bring herself to sell a brooch King Henry had given her, she suddenly became aware that Franz von Waldeck was standing at her elbow, waiting to speak to her.
“Franz, what can I do for you?”
