“Connections by marriage only, and I am widowed now,” Jane, Lady Rochford, said. “Remember that I am related to the king himself on my mother’s side, although being related to Henry Tudor is certainly no guarantee of personal safety.”
Winifred Edgecombe paled. “You will end up without your head one day, Jane,” she warned. “As for Lady Nyssa Wyndham, the king has remained friends with her mother. And the girl, I am told by Lady Marlowe, is an heiress.”
“So, the chit has something to recommend her besides her beauty,” Lady Rochford noted. “Still, only the highest born should serve the queen. It was that way in Queen Jane’s time … and before.”
She was referring to her late sister-in-law, Anne Boleyn. Jane Rochford had had an unhappy marriage to Anne’s brother, George, but Anne, who adored her sibling, could see no wrong in George. In the end, Jane had had her revenge on them both. They were dead, and she was in favor again. Lady Rochford smiled coldly. She gazed across the room at Nyssa Wyndham. She was young and beautiful and rich; but it took a great deal more than just those attributes to survive at court. You will have to be clever, little one, she thought. If you are not clever, you will not survive. Yes, you will have to be most clever, I think.
Chapter 3
The six English maids of honor had finally all been chosen. They included the Bassett sisters, Anne and Katherine; Katherine Carey, the daughter of William Carey, and his wife, Mary Boleyn; Catherine Howard, the niece of Thomas, Duke of Norfolk; Elizabeth FitzGerald, called the Orphan of Kildare, the late Earl of Kildare’s child; and Nyssa Wyndham. To Lady Browne’s pleasure, the king had ordered her to fill the other six places.
“We will send the maidens from Cleves packing in short order,” he told her. “If my bride is to be Queen of England, then she should be served by English women, should she not, Lady Margaret?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the smiling lady replied, her good humor restored. Lady Browne no longer minded that the king had chosen the first six maids. She would profit handsomely from the other appointments.
Nyssa and the Bassetts were the eldest of the maids chosen, but the sisters were clannish and enormously proud of the fact that their father was the royal governor of Calais. Anne, the elder of the two, had been the cause of gossip when the king had presented her with a horse and saddle in early summer. There was nothing to the chatter, but the talk had erupted anyway. The sisters, however, had always been a part of court life in one way or another, and Nyssa found their superior airs very annoying.
“Pay no attention to them,” little Catherine Howard said, and she laughed. “They’re naught but a pair of babbling magpies.”
“It’s easy for you,” Nyssa told her. “You’re a Howard. I’m just a Wyndham of Langford, and am yet ignorant of court ways.”
“Fiddlesticks!” Elizabeth FitzGerald said. “I’ve been practically raised here at court, and your manners are impeccable, Nyssa.”
“Indeed they are,” Katherine Carey agreed. “No one would guess you are newly come to court. Honestly!”
They were friendly girls, fifteen and sixteen years of age, and each of them prettier than the other. Catherine Howard had auburn curls and beautiful cerulean-blue eyes. Katherine Carey was a black-eyed blond. Elizabeth FitzGerald was black-haired and blue-eyed. They were also, Nyssa discovered, mischievous and full of high spirits. The gentlemen of the court were eager to be with them. Lady Browne had her hands full keeping her charges in order.
The Princess of Cleves finally arrived in Calais on the eleventh of December, but could come no farther. The weather simply refused to cooperate. The Channel was ferociously stormy for the next two weeks. It was soon apparent that there would be no gala Christmas wedding. The court, however, was at a fever pitch of excitement. Each day, more and more of the nobility arrived at Hampton Court, summoned by their king to pay their respects to the new queen, who remained stranded in Calais.
Then on December twenty-sixth the weather lifted briefly, and the Lord Admiral decided that if he did not sail immediately, another winter storm would roar down the Channel, making a crossing impossible until spring. They sailed at midnight. The crossing was fair and pleasant. At five o’clock in the morning the ships carrying the wedding party disembarked at Deal, where the Duchess of Suffolk, the Bishop of Chicester, and others were waiting to meet the new queen. Anne was lodged at Dover Castle, and almost immediately the weather turned foul once more. It began as sleet and quickly turned into a late December snowstorm. The winds were icy and blew without ceasing. It was colder than most remembered a winter being in many years.
Anne, however, insisted on pressing forward to London. On Monday the twenty-ninth she arrived at Canterbury, where Archbishop Cranmer greeted her, escorted by three hundred men in scarlet silks and cloth-of-gold. There Anne was housed in the guest house of St. Augustine’s Monastery. On Tuesday the thirtieth of December, Anne departed Canterbury and rode as far as Sittingbourne. On New Year’s Eve day she pressed on to Rochester. She was met on Reynham Down by the Duke of Norfolk and a hundred horsemen in green velvet coats decorated with gold chains. They escorted her to the Bishop’s Palace, where she would remain for the next two nights.
It was there that Lady Margaret Browne and fifty of the new queen’s ladies, including the six maids of honor, awaited Anne. Brought before the bride-to-be, Lady Browne attempted to conceal her astonishment and dismay. The woman before her was but barely recognizable as the woman in the Holbein painting that the king so admired. Lady Browne curtsied low, remembering as she did the scurrilous rhyme that had recently been making the rounds at court.
If that be your picture, then shall we
Soon see how you and your picture agree!
The gentle-visaged lady in the painting appeared to be one of medium stature, but the original was a tall woman with extremely sharp features. Why, she would be able to look the king directly in the eye! Her complexion was not pale, but rather sallow-hued. Her eyes were her best feature, Lady Browne decided; a bright blue, nicely shaped, and well-spaced. As Lady Browne arose from her curtsey, the lady Anne smiled. It was a kindly, sweet smile, but the Englishwoman knew in her heart that this woman would absolutely hold no appeal for the king. She was not at all the sort of woman Henry Tudor favored.
Margaret Browne and her husband had been part of the court for many years. She knew that the king, although a large man himself, preferred dainty, feminine women with clinging natures. This was a Valkyrie! A Rhine maiden! There was nothing helpless about her. And worse, her clothes were horrible. Totally unfashionable. Ugly! She wore an enormous elephant-eared headdress that hid her hair and gave the illusion of even greater height. It would have to go.
“Welcome to England, madame,” Lady Browne said, remembering her manners. “I am Lady Margaret Browne, appointed by His Grace, the queen’s mistress of her maids. I have brought six of them with me, and would present them with your gracious permission.” She curtsied again.
Young Baron von Grafsteen translated for the princess. He had now been assigned to her service by his uncle. When he had finished speaking, she nodded her head vigorously, the headdress swaying dangerously as she did so.
“Ya! Ya!”
Lady Browne signaled to another page by the door. Opening it, Philip Wyndham beckoned to the six English maids of honor to enter. The young girls, in their finest gowns, came tripping gaily into the chamber. They stopped at the first sight of Anne of Cleves, and both Bassett sisters gasped noisily. Lady Browne glared furiously at them, saying as she did, “Make your curtsies, maidens!”
The six young girls curtsied quickly.
“You will come forward as I present each of you to Her Grace,” Lady Browne instructed them. Then she turned to Hans von Grafsteen and said, “I shall introduce these maids to the lady Anne, sir.”
“Bring the lady Nyssa forward last, my lady,” the young man requested. “Her Highness vill be excited that Lady Wyndham can speak her tongue, even slightly. She vill vant to questio
n her about England.”
“Of course, sir,” Lady Browne told the young boy, and then she introduced each girl to her future queen, pleased that in spite of their obvious shock, they had regained their equilibrium and displayed excellent manners. She presented Katherine Carey first, as the girl was a niece of the king. Catherine Howard was next. She was not particularly important of herself, but her uncle, the duke, was. Then came Elizabeth FitzGerald and the Bassett sisters.
Finally Nyssa made her curtsey to the Princess of Cleves. “I welcome you to England, Your Highness,” she said slowly and carefully in the High Dutch that Hans had taught her.
A broad smile split the princess’s face, and she burst forth into a stream of words of which Nyssa could only identify a few.
Hans von Grafsteen grinned, delighted with his creation, and said to the lady Anne, “She cannot understand you, Highness. She is just learning our tongue. I am teaching her. She thought that perhaps it would be difficult for you in a new country, with no one to understand you. If you speak slowly, and distinctly, the lady Nyssa will comprehend.”
The Princess of Cleves nodded at the boy, and then turning back to Nyssa, said carefully, “You are kind, my lady, to have thought of how I might feel. Do you understand me now?”
“Yes, madame,” Nyssa said, curtseying again.
The princess turned to the page. “Who is she, Hans? Her family, I mean.”
“Lady Wyndham is the daughter of the Earl of Langford. They are not an important family by any means, but many years ago her mother was the king’s mistress. She was, I am told, a gentle lady of kind disposition and modest demeanor. She was known as the ‘Quiet Mistress.’ ”
“Ahhhh,” the Princess of Cleves exhaled. “Is it possible that this girl is his daughter, Hans?”
“Nay, madame, she is not. Nyssa was born before her mother ever came to court. She is not the king’s bastard, but trueborn.”
“Tell me, Hans,” the princess said, “why do these ladies look at me so strangely? This Lady Browne’s jaw dropped when she first entered my presence. What is it? My clothing, I know, is not English, and must seem strange to her, but it is more than that, I can tell.”
“It was the painter, Holbein, Your Highness. He flattered you when he painted your portrait,” Hans said frankly. “He made you seem smaller, and perhaps a bit softer than your features actually are. The king is most enamored of that portrait, I must warn you, my gracious lady.”
“Is he,” Anne of Cleves replied. “Well, he will have to take me like I am, I fear; and after all, he is no longer in the glory of his youth, Hans, is he?” She chuckled. “He is lucky to get a royal bride at all. He has not the best reputation as a husband.” She chuckled. “I shall, however, be as meek and modest as I can, for I have never in my life been more relieved to be away from a place as I am to be away from Cleves. My brother, the duke, has been insufferable since our father died.”
Nyssa listened wide-eyed. She could not understand most of the conversation, for the princess and the page chattered too quickly for her to follow, but here and there a snatch of sentence or a word penetrated her brain. The princess, she realized, was a woman of humor, and she was not at all stupid. “I will help you to learn English, my gracious lady,” she said boldly.
“Good!” the princess said with a smile. “Hans, tell Lady Browne I am most pleased by all the maids, but Lady Wyndham’s kindness in attempting our tongue bodes well for my happiness.”
The boy repeated his mistress’s words, and almost laughed aloud to see the look of relief that passed over the older woman’s face.
“Her Highness is most gracious,” she said. Gracious, yes, but a pretty young woman who would delight the king, no. Heaven help us all, Lady Browne thought. What will he do when he finds out? With another low curtsey to the Princess of Cleves, she shepherded her charges from the room. They followed after her like chicks after a hen.
“God’s blood, she is appalling,” Anne Bassett declared when they were safely back in their assigned chamber. “Gross and unfashionable!”
“The king will take one look and send her back,” Katherine Bassett agreed in superior tones. “She is a great tall stork of a creature, and nothing at all like our gentle Queen Jane.”
“Queen Jane is dead, and buried these two years past,” Cat Howard said in practical tones. “Her greatest accomplishment in life was producing our darling Prince Edward. The king would have become bored with her eventually, and her Seymour relations are intolerable, my uncle, Duke Thomas, says. The king needs a new wife, and more sons.”
“ ’Tis true,” Katherine Carey agreed, “but this princess, I think, will not suit him at all. Poor lady to have come so far.”
“The king is hardly in the flower of his youth, and cannot expect a perfect young beauty,” Elizabeth FitzGerald spoke up in her soft, lilting voice. “It is true that the lady Anne is not quite like her portrait, but she seems a good lady. I think her eyes are kind.”
“It will take more than kind eyes to win over Henry Tudor,” Lady Browne told them. “What do you think, Lady Wyndham? You spoke with her. What did she say?”
“I merely welcomed her to England, and she thanked me,” Nyssa told them. “I offered to help her with her English. She appears willing and eager to learn madame. I like her. I hope the king will too.”
They were shortly to find out, for the king, eager to meet his bride, had galloped all the way from Hampton Court in order to, as he had told Cromwell, “nourish love” between himself and the lady he would shortly marry. He burst boldly into the presence chamber of the Bishop’s Palace unannounced, clad in a great cloak, a hood obscuring his identity, clutching in his hand a dozen sable skins he intended gifting the lady with. But she, seeing the enormous, bulky figure in the long, swirling cloak, screamed with fright, and grabbing up a pillow, began to beat the intruder about the head. The king fended her off, backing away; it was not an auspicious beginning.
Hans von Grafsteen bowed to the king and apologized. “She does not know it to be you, Your Grace. Allow me to explain.”
Henry nodded impatiently. “Be about it, lad! I have patiently awaited this lady’s arrival, and am now anxious to make her acquaintance.” He strove to make out the features of her visage.
The young page moved to the princess’s side. “Your Highness, do not be frightened. It is the king himself come to surprise you.”
“This great wild boar of a man is the king?” the princess said, the pillow dropping from her hands. She stared at Henry Tudor, then looked away, saying, “Gott in Himmel, what have I pledged myself in marriage to, Hans?”
“You must greet him, my lady,” the boy told her nervously.
“If I must then I must,” she answered him, and made him a deep curtsey, her head lowered.
How sweetly modest she is, the king thought, his good mood restored. Frightened by a strange man, and so brave, but then charmingly polite. What delicacy of manners, what … what … what a big woman! This was not the woman in the portrait! Henry Tudor was shocked when she arose to smile at him, meeting his gaze most directly. “Welcome to England, madame,” he managed to say, manfully concealing his horror.
Hans von Grafsteen conveyed the king’s greeting to the princess.
“Thank him for me, Hans,” Anne of Cleves replied, distressed to see on closer inspection that her bridegroom was as fat as a well-fed hog ready for butchering. His clothing was magnificent, she could see when he tossed his cloak aside. Far more fashionable than anything she had ever imagined. Her own wardrobe would be most inadequate despite all the expense and preparations. It was certainly old-fashioned compared to her own attendants. She would have to remedy that, but as Queen of England that would be no problem.
His initial surprise over with, the king said, “Ask the princess if her trip was a pleasant one, Hans.” The woman was too damned tall, and her nose was pointed to boot.
The page relayed the king’s words.
“Tell him my welcome
at Calais was more magnificent than anything I have ever encountered,” she answered. “I am appreciative of the warm greetings of the English people. I have been well-treated.” He is not happy with me, she thought silently, all the while smiling at him. I shall have to tread lightly with him else I end up without my head. Perhaps I can win him over, but do I really want to?
“I am touched by the princess’s eagerness to reach me,” the king said. Of course she was eager to get here, so she could bind herself to me in marriage. They have lied to me. They have all lied to me. Cromwell. He wanted this match to the exclusion of all others. He shall pay! And if there is a way I can extricate myself from this nightmare, by God’s bloody bones I shall find it! I will not be shackled to this creature, though I cannot blame Holbein. He is an artist, and sees with his heart.
“Ask the king if he would like to sit, Hans. I can see he is favoring his one leg, but do not say that. He will be sensitive about it. Old men are always sensitive about such things. Just say I would be honored if he would take a cup of wine with me, and if he accedes, then pour us some. He has ridden many long, cold miles, and as we can both see, he is not exactly delighted by my person, I fear.”
“Courage, madame,” the boy said, and then turning to the king, said, “The princess asks if you will take a cup of wine with her, Your Grace. She worries that you might catch a chill after your long, wet ride this day. She is a most thoughtful lady.”
“Aye, aye,” Henry Tudor agreed. “A cup of wine would be good, lad. Thank the princess for her solicitude.” Well, the creature had a kind heart. That was something, but not enough, damnit!
The princess beckoned him to a comfortable chair by the roaring fire, and took her place opposite him. Her clothing was appalling. Her accent was thick. Ohh, they were all going to pay for this debacle; Cromwell in particular. Certainly he had lied when he said that Mary of Guise and Christina of Denmark had refused his overtures. What woman in her right mind would not want to be Queen of England? Cromwell obviously had some hidden agenda, but his plans would not come to fruition. I will not marry this woman! I will not!
Love, Remember Me Page 7
