by Alison Weir
It seemed an argument was stirring, but just then, the bell at the top of the Johannisturm in the inner courtyard chimed four o’clock, and Mutter seized her opportunity. Anna guessed she did not want her offspring hearing any more talk against the Church and the true faith in which she had nurtured them.
‘Children,’ she said brightly, ‘why don’t you show your cousin Otho around the rest of the castle?’
The young people all jumped to their feet, Anna secretly rejoicing.
‘It will be our pleasure,’ thirteen-year-old Wilhelm said earnestly. Anna knew Otho would soon be receiving a lecture on the architecture of the Schwanenburg and the glorious history of Kleve – and she was right. As they returned through the state apartments, Wilhelm, who had all the virtues save a sense of humour, humility and empathy with others, started waxing forth on how he had been born here in the Schwanenburg and how rich and prosperous the duchy was.
‘Our father is called Johann the Peaceful, because he rules so wisely,’ he boasted. ‘When he married our mother, she brought him Jülich and Berg, and lands stretching for four thousand miles. When I am duke of Kleve, I will inherit all that, and I will be as wise as my father.’
Anna saw Otho smothering a smile.
‘Otho did not come to hear all this, Bruder,’ she said. ‘It’s a beautiful day, and you’ve been excused lessons for the afternoon.’ She turned to Otho, and felt herself grow hot. ‘Would you like to go up the Schwanenturm? The views are wonderful, and I can tell you all about the legend of Lohengrin.’
‘It’s too warm to climb all those stairs,’ Emily protested, her rosebud lips pursed in a pout.
‘Emily, you are such a lazybones,’ Anna sighed.
‘But I should love to see the views,’ Otho said, his twinkling eyes still on Anna, ‘and the exercise will be good for us.’
‘I think Otho would prefer to see the Spiegelturm,’ Wilhelm said, as if Otho had not spoken. ‘The ducal archives are most interesting.’
‘Oh, Wilhelm, it’s always what you want!’ Emily cried.
‘You can take Otho there afterwards,’ Anna said firmly. ‘But first, he wants to see the Schwanenturm.’
‘Then you take him,’ Wilhelm ordered. ‘I will go and look out some things I want to show him.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ Emily said. ‘I can help find them.’
‘You’re just too lazy to climb the stairs,’ Wilhelm scoffed, looking none too pleased at the prospect of his twelve-year-old sister’s company.
‘Come,’ Anna said to Otho. ‘Let’s leave them to their squabbles.’ She led him away before Wilhelm could stop her. She had never known such luck. Her life was hemmed around with rules, ritual, sewing and her mother’s endless vigilance, and the chance of a short time alone with this most handsome youth was beyond her wildest imaginings; it was incredible that it had been afforded her so easily, without any effort on her part. It was an escapade of which Mutter might well have disapproved, for she had always enjoined that a young lady should never be alone with a man, lest her reputation be compromised. She had never explained exactly how that might happen, though it was clearly a dreadful thing. But Otho did not count, surely? He was family, and he was not much older than Anna.
The mighty Schwanenturm loomed above them, its square shadow falling on the cobbled courtyard. Anna was headily aware of Otho walking just a pace behind her. She was glad she had donned her new red silk gown with its gold bodice embroidered with loops of pearls. She felt beautiful wearing such a dress, with her fair hair loose down her back. Sybilla, whose portrait showed off the slanting eyes and long golden tresses that had captivated the Elector, was the beauty of the family, everyone was agreed on that; but Anna revelled in the thought that she too could look pleasing.
The guards on duty at the door stood to attention as they approached.
‘My ancestor, Duke Adolf, built this tower,’ Anna said, pushing open the heavy door.
‘Allow me,’ Otho said, taking its weight. Anna went ahead, lifting up her gorgeous skirt to ascend the stairs.
‘The old tower fell down about a hundred years ago,’ she went on, trying to conceal her nervousness behind a barrage of facts. ‘Duke Adolf rebuilt it much bigger than before.’
‘It’s certainly high!’ Otho said. ‘These steps go on for ever. Shall we rest for a moment?’
Anna turned on the stairs to see him looking up admiringly at her.
‘You are very pretty,’ he said, ‘and that gown becomes you so well.’ His eyes travelled up appreciatively from her slender waist to the swell of her breasts beneath the velvet bodice.
Thrilled by his praise, she smiled down at him. She could not help herself. She knew she should not be allowing him to say such familiar things to her, or herself to acknowledge them. Yet she was bursting with such joy that she had no will to walk away, or to spoil the moment.
They were slightly breathless by the time they ascended the final flight of stairs leading to the turret at the top of the tower and entered a narrow, sparsely furnished room with windows at each end. The Turkey carpet must have cost a fortune in its day, but it was now threadbare. Anna crossed to the window overlooking the river. Below, the town of Kleve lay spread out before her, a patchwork of red roofs and spires.
Otho stood right behind her.
‘It is a fair sight,’ he said, looking over her shoulder. She could feel his breath on her ear. ‘So tell me about Lohengrin.’ His voice was like a caress.
Anna tried to focus on the legend she had promised to recount, but her mind was too overwhelmed by this strange, heady feeling. Was this love? She had seen how deeply her parents loved each other, and had learned, from listening to the ladies and maids gossiping, that love could also be a kind of madness that made people act like fools, as if they were out of their senses. It could make you ecstatically happy or desperately sad. And now, standing in this dusty little room, alone with a young man for the first time, she understood what it was to be powerfully attracted to someone. It was a glorious feeling, and frightening too, as if she were being impelled towards something momentous and dangerous, and had not the mastery to stop herself.
But she must! She would soon be a married woman, and had been schooled in absolute loyalty to her husband-to-be.
‘Do you know why this is called the Swan Tower?’ she asked Otho, forcing herself to collect her thoughts and speak. ‘I don’t suppose you hear much about the legends of Kleve in Limburg.’
‘My mother used to tell me stories when I was little,’ he answered, ‘but I have forgotten them mostly.’
‘Above us, on top of the turret, there is a golden weathervane,’ Anna said, a touch breathlessly. ‘It bears the swan that the old counts of Kleve blazoned on their coats of arms, in honour of the Knight of the Swan, the mysterious Lohengrin. See here.’ She turned and drew from her bodice an enamelled pendant. ‘This is my personal device. The two white swans stand for innocence and purity.’ Otho cradled her hand in his as he bent to look in her palm. Suddenly, he kissed her lightly on the wrist. It gave her the most pleasurable jolt.
She was not quite mad – not yet. She had been taught that no virtuous woman would let a man kiss her until he made her his affianced bride. She withdrew her hand, and Otho straightened up.
Her voice shook a little as she continued her story. ‘Lohengrin’s boat was guided by two white swans when he sailed along the Rhine long ago to visit a countess of Kleve named Elsa. She was in deep distress because her husband had died and a tyrant was trying to usurp his place by forcing her to wed him. Lohengrin came to her aid. He overthrew the tyrant and married her.’
Otho’s eyes were shining into hers. ‘If she was as beauteous as another princess of Kleve I could mention – then I take my cap off to Lohengrin.’ His voice sounded a little hoarse.
Anna’s cheeks suddenly felt very hot. She had no idea how to respond t
o such a compliment.
‘He was a renowned hero,’ she said, struggling to act normally. ‘But on the day after their wedding, he made Elsa promise never to ask his name or his ancestry. Unknown to her, and to all, he was a knight of the Holy Grail and was often sent on secret missions. She agreed, and they lived very happily together, and had three fine sons. They were my ancestors.’
‘You are going to tell me that it all went wrong,’ Otho said.
‘It did. Elsa was desperate to know if her sons would have a great inheritance from their father. She could not contain herself, and asked him the question she had sworn never to ask. When she did, Lohengrin fell into anguish. He tore himself from her arms and left the castle – this very castle. And there, on the river, waiting for him, were the two swans with the boat that had brought him to Kleve. He sailed away in it, and was never seen again.’
Otho was shaking his head, his eyes holding hers. ‘And what happened to Elsa?’
‘She was so overcome with grief for her loss that she died. She had loved Lohengrin so much.’
For the first time, it was dawning on Anna how terrible Elsa’s loss had been. That sad realisation must have been plain on her face, for, without preamble, Otho stepped forward and folded his arms around her, drawing her close to him. Before she could stop him, he had pressed his lips to hers and touched her tongue with his. It was the strangest thing, at once wonderful and repulsive. She had never dreamed that kissing could be like that, but she knew it was wrong to be doing it. What would her parents think of her?
‘No,’ she said, pulling back.
He held her fast in his embrace. ‘Yes!’ he breathed. ‘Please don’t deny us this pleasure! It can do no harm. You need not fear it.’
‘I might have a baby,’ she protested, and was surprised when he laughed. ‘I might,’ she warned. ‘Mother Lowe told me kissing leads to babies.’
‘And who is Mother Lowe?’ he asked, nuzzling her nose with his as she struggled half-heartedly to free herself.
‘She is my nurse.’
‘Little she knows! You can’t get a baby from kissing. It’s harmless. And you were enjoying it, I could tell.’ He was still holding her tight, grinning at her so engagingly that she felt her knees melt. It was thrilling, talking about such things with a man.
He kissed her again, gently, tenderly this time, and then he was drawing her down on to the carpet, kissing her eyes and stroking her cheeks. His hands strayed elsewhere, and the glorious sensations he was awakening in her drowned out the alarums ringing in her head. He had said there was nothing to fear, and she believed him. He was a guest in her father’s house – a well-brought-up young man who, she could count on it, knew how to behave. And there was a rising, breathless excitement in him that she found infectious.
‘Oh, Anna!’ he murmured, his eyes on hers as he twined her hair around his fingers, his breathing becoming more rapid and tremulous. ‘Let me love you! I will not hurt you.’ His lips closed on hers again, with greater fervour, and then he reached down, pulled her beautiful silk skirts and chemise aside and – to her astonishment – began gently touching her private parts. She did not resist him: she was too far immersed in feelings and sensations she had never dreamed of.
‘As you have lips here,’ he whispered, caressing her mouth with his tongue, ‘so you have them here, for the same purpose.’ His fingertips moved rhythmically, exploring more boldly, and Anna felt the most exquisite pleasure mounting within her. There was no shock, just surprise at how little she had understood her own body – and no shame. Here it was, the madness of which the women had spoken! Had she lived until now?
What followed was utterly glorious, and she gave herself up to it without further thought, being incapable of reason. A little pain – and then she was ascending to Heaven. As the pleasure mounted, she felt Otho’s body spasm. He cried out, and then, as he slowly relaxed on top of her, and inside her, holding her tightly and murmuring incoherent words of love, she was overcome by a wave of unstoppable ecstasy, building and building until she thought she would pass out.
She lay there stunned as he turned his head to face her, and smiled.
‘Did you enjoy our kissing, Anna?’
She nodded, thinking how beautiful his eyes were.
‘Oh, sweet Anna,’ Otho murmured, his lips on hers, ‘you loved it, didn’t you? I could tell.’
‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘I never dreamed there could be pleasure like that.’ She lay there in his arms, feeling blissful, wanting to prolong the moment for as long as possible.
‘This is what God intended for men and women!’ he smiled.
‘It wasn’t wrong, was it?’ Her sense of fitness was returning, and with it the awareness that she had been a party to something forbidden.
‘Of course not.’ He released her and sat up, lacing his hose. ‘But let’s keep it as our secret. Our parents wouldn’t understand. They think such pleasures should be kept for marriage, but I see no harm in enjoying them before.’
Anna began to feel guilty. Carried away on a tide of madness, she had betrayed the precepts drummed into her by her mother. But it had been so beautiful! Why, then, did she feel a creeping sense of dread? It was the fear of being found out, she realised; that was all. How could she regret something that had brought her such joy?
‘Can we be married, Anna?’ Otho asked, gazing at her longingly.
‘Oh, I do wish that!’ she cried. ‘But I am promised to the Duke of Lorraine’s son.’ Her voice caught in her throat.
He stared at her. ‘I did not know.’
She shook her head. ‘It is not what I want, but my father is set on an alliance with Lorraine.’ Belatedly, she realised that what she had done with Otho was meant to be saved for marriage; they had stolen what rightfully belonged to Francis.
‘Betrothals can be broken,’ Otho said.
Anna shook her head. ‘I doubt it.’ She felt tears welling, and knew her misery must be written plain on her face.
She stood up, tidied herself and moved towards the door.
‘Where are you going, Liebling?’ Otho asked, looking bewildered.
‘We should go back. We have been here too long,’ she said.
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her again, long and yearningly, leaving her in no doubt as to his feelings. They belonged to each other now, and nothing could change that: it was what his lips were saying to her. She was drowning in emotion. She wanted the moment to go on for ever, but made herself break away. She dared not stay alone with him here any longer.
‘I love you, Anna,’ she heard him whisper.
Ignoring the soreness between her legs, she hastened down the stairs, bereft, and desperate to cry out her sorrow in her chamber, where there would be clean water, soap and towels to remove all trace of her sinfulness, and she could take off the gown of which she had been so proud, but which now bore the stains of her fall from grace. Otho was right. What had passed between them must remain a secret; besides, Anna did not have the words to describe what had happened. If her parents found out, she would be blamed. She should not have been alone with Otho in the first place, let alone allowed him to kiss her and lie with her. They would say he had dishonoured her, a princess of Kleve, when he was a guest in her father’s house. Yet it had not been like that! She had lain with him willingly – and she had been in ecstasy. Otho had said he loved her and had spoken of marriage – yet they could never belong to each other. Tears welled again in her eyes as she emerged from the tower. She prayed the guards would not notice her distress.
‘Anna?’ Otho cried, behind her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘The Spiegelturm is over there,’ she called back, her voice catching. ‘They’ll be waiting for you. Tell them . . . tell them my head is aching and that I’ve gone to lie down.’
Leaving him standing there, she hastened away to her chamber. Mercifully, it
was deserted. Mother Lowe was enjoying her usual afternoon nap.
Crying, Anna unlaced her bodice and sleeves and let her gown fall to the floor, then poured some water from the ewer into the bowl beside it. It was while she was scrubbing herself that she noticed blood on her lawn chemise. Was this the monthly visitation Mutter had warned her about? When Anna had asked why women had to bleed, Mutter had simply said that it was God’s will, and that Anna would learn more about it when she was about to be married. Anna wondered if it had anything to do with what she had done this day.
She changed her chemise and put the soiled one to soak in the bowl of water. What to do about the dress? There was blood on the lining of that too, so she took the damp cloth she had used to wash herself and rubbed it away. Soon, the stain was nearly gone; if you were not looking for it, you would not see it. She laid the damp dress away in the chest, and put on another, of creamy silk banded with crimson. Then she stared at herself in the mirror, checking that no one could see she had been crying. Her eyes looked a bit red, but she could put that down to the headache. And it was true, her head was aching, from the burden of love, guilt and desperation she now carried.
When the bell in the tower summoned everyone to supper, she sped down the stairs and arrived in the dining chamber on time. Vater never could abide unpunctuality.
Otho was there already, with Onkel Otho and Tante Elisabeth. She wanted to fly into his arms, but made herself avoid his eyes, aware that he was avidly seeking hers. No one must guess the secret that lay between them.
‘Is your head better, my dear?’ Tante Elisabeth asked her.
‘I am much better, thank you,’ Anna told her.
‘You’ve changed your dress, child,’ Mutter observed.
‘I was too hot in the other one.’ She was praying Otho would not give them away, by some chance word or glance. Mutter could be sharply observant.
The meal was an ordeal, and she struggled to behave normally, and to eat the choice carp and roasted pork served to her. She dared not think of what had happened earlier, lest her face flame and betray her. It wasn’t easy, with Otho sitting so dangerously near to her, looking so handsome, and her stomach churning with love and desire. It took all her inner resources to behave as usual. She did not think anyone noticed anything amiss.
