There in the little garden, amongst the finely clipped, dark green yews and the orange of the rosehips, they both rose from the marble bench and instinctively turned towards each other. Neither one wanted to say goodbye. No one was about. Philip took Mary’s face into his hands and drew her to him. His kiss was gentle and searching, warm and tender. Neither recalled how they came to be in each other’s arms; they only knew that they were and that neither wished to break the embrace.
“Dono tibi dedi,” he whispered in her ear, and she marveled at the paradox that the warmth of his breath sent such chills through her that she shuddered. “Ah, frigis sentient…doleo.”
Mary smiled and shook her head. She was not shuddering with cold, she replid in a soft whisper, but with delight.
Philip drew a little packet wrapped in gold tissue from his pocket and with a charming bow, presented it to Mary with both hands.
Shyly, she smiled and took the package, her eyes asking if she should open it.
He nodded enthusiastically.
Mary unwrapped the tissue to reveal an exquisite diamond cross on a delicate chain. Tears welled in her eyes and when the last rays of the sun on the horizon struck the diamonds, they danced a million sparking lights in her eyes. Overcome as the tears spilled, she handed the jewel to Philip, who clasped it about her neck.
Both were overcome with emotion and had no more Latin words; but when their eyes met they knew that no words were needed. Philip, who was very tall, bent to lift Mary’s chin, and this time, he kissed her forehead. Then he bowed and left her standing in the little garden, clutching the cross in her hand as she watched him go.
Chapter 16
“The king will not marry his daughter out of England lest the crown should be claimed for her as legitimate by the Church and not for those born since the withdrawal of obedience to the Holy See, like the prince.”
- Charles de Marillac, French Ambassador to the court of Henry VIII
Deal, Kent, December 1539
In the end, the only one of Anne’s party to see the White Cliffs was Anne herself, and that quite by accident, and through a veil of rain.
Anne had presented herself promptly at the wharf, earning the eternal gratitude of Sir William, along with his very deep respect. Never before had he known a female capable of going from slumber to seaside in less than one hour.
It was everyone else who had lingered over their mirrors, their baggage, their bread and cheese. It had been full dark when Sir William sent a page to Lord and Lady Lisle with a message to rouse the New Queen at once. He had meant to be embarked before daylight, but it was not to be. And when daylight finally arrived, he was dismayed by what he saw. A blood-red sky! Not at all the circumstance in which he wanted to sail. The sky was still overcast, but the wind had died down and the rain had ceased; he was weather-wise and never once had his instincts failed him. And yet here he was, preparing to sail across the English Channel in December with the most precious cargo he had ever carried, under a red sky.
But the wheels of departure had been set in motion and there was nothing for it but to continue. And after all, they could not stay in Calais forever. Sir William was aware of the king’s blistering impatience for his bride’s arrival. Having missed the date of the grand wedding that was to have taken place at Greenwich on Christmas Day, to cause the king to miss the New Queen’s grand entry into London on New Year’s Day was more than his life was worth and might cause His Grace to suffer a fit of apoplexy. This was a circumstance for which Sir William did not want to bear responsibility; perhaps it was best just to take their chances. And anyway, there was no stopping their departure now.
Anne of Cleves had been escorted from Düsseldorf with over two hundred people in attendance, but praise God, less than half of these were to continue on the journey to England. Anne and her ladies, of which there were only three, sensible girl! …would sail with him on the Sweepstakes, the others would be divided amongst the other ships of the fleet.
It was rising midday when they finally weighed anchor. By that time the wind had risen a bit, but only enough to give them a good billowing sail. Perhaps his weather sense had been accurate after all; a good, stiff wind should see them across the Channel swiftly, and God willing, without incident.
The first few hours had borne out this hope, but the fleet was long out of sight of land in limited visibility when the dreaded howling began. They were sailing directly into the teeth of a storm coming at them full bore from the northwest. Sir William knew what that meant and braced himself. But on this voyage it was not just himself and his crew, all seasoned sailors, who must be prepared for what was to come. He went below to speak with Anne.
His own quarters had been given over to the ladies for their comfort, but when Anne opened the door to the cabin, what he saw appalled him. Anne’s sleeves were pushed to the elbow, and her hair had escaped the little cap she always wore, falling in wisps over her eyes. It was very dim in the cabin, the only illumination a lantern that hung securely from a hook on the wall by the door. In this light he could just make out the prostrate women; all three of Anne’s ladies were laid low, as well as the handful of serving wenches who were supposed to attend upon them. A pale arm hung over the side of the bunk, looking as if it belonged to a cadaver. The only sounds were the muted howling of the wind, and the moaning of the women.
Anne smiled. “Alle zijn ziek,” she said, using her forearm to wipe the sweat from her brow. “Sick,” she said, pointing needlessly to the others. The ship was pitching and she grabbed at the door jamb to steady herself. “Behalve voor mij.” Except for me.
Thank God for that, thought Sir William. He had no men to spare to tend to sick ladies. And he did not need her to tell him; he could smell it. Anne had answered the door holding a basin that reeked of vomit. Good practical girl, after another nod at Sir William she used her sea legs, and where had those come from so swiftly to a girl who had never even seen the sea? …and strode to the porthole. She opened it swiftly, held the basin out in her right hand, brought it back in clean, rinsed by the driving rain, and deftly snapped the porthole shut with her other hand.
Seeing the dismay on Sir William’s face, she smiled again and said, “No vorry for me, Sir Villiam. I vill…vat is vort?”
“Manage,” Sir William shouted over the sound of the howling wind.
“Manage,” Anne repeated. “Not iss to vorry. Go sail ship.” And with that she curtseyed, a feat requiring some talent in the pitch and yawl, shut the door, and went back to her task of caring for six very ill women.
# # #
Anne awakened to a gentle swaying motion and the faint sound of water lapping the hull. She opened her eyes, but it made no difference; the cabin was in total darkness. The lamp had gone out during the night and, not knowing where to find the oil, she had given up and lain on the narrow bunk next to Mother Lowe.
No sound issued forth from any of her women, and Anne wondered if they still lived. They had all been terrified of the storm, deathly ill, and convinced that they should soon meet their end in a watery grave. But Anne had not been convinced of this; why would God have vouchsafed her such a brilliant future, only to deliver her into Neptune’s hands at the bottom of the sea? No. The storm was frightening, uncomfortable and inconvenient, not to mention untimely, but it would soon pass and they would arrive safely in England. She was certain of it.
And now it seemed as if she had been right. The wind no longer screamed and the rocking of the ship replicated the easy motion that had been as nothing to her, but which had made her women very ill indeed, when they had barely been out of the port of Calais.
Where were they now, she wondered?
She swung her bare feet over the side of the bunk and landed in icy cold water up to her ankles. She almost cried out, but stifled her shout of surprise and discomfort at the last second…no need to wake her women from their exhausted slumber, which was likely their only means of release from the horrors of extreme nausea. Very quietly, s
he sloshed in darkness as black as pitch to where she judged the porthole to be.
The rush of air was crisp and refreshing, and Anne decided to leave the porthole open. It was as cold inside as out, and the cabin smelt abominably. There was an uncertain gray glow about the scene outside, but Anne was unable to distinguish the sea from the sky. It must be dawn. It was raining, but not the pelting rain of the storm; just a soft, gentle rain. She lifted her sodden skirts, wishing for the hundredth time that she could just divest herself of them. But that would not be seemly, especially if she wanted to go up on deck. She could hear the muted voices of the men above as they called to each other. Until she heard that first voice, she had harboured a faint fear that the admiral and all his men had been washed away and that she was adrift alone on the mighty ship. She smiled to herself at her fears.
She was hungry, but it had been impossible to eat whilst the storm raged; and impossible to eat now, in the fetid cabin. Anne felt for the canvas sack that she had secured in a little closet near the cabin’s entrance. She slung it across her shoulder and sloshed to the cabin door.
Up on deck it was possible to separate the gray sea from the gray sky in her field of vision, but there was another element which, although she could see it, she was not able to put a name to.
Sir William was spying the coastline with his telescope, but hearing her feet slap on the wet deck, he turned. “Ah!” cried Sir William. “Your Highness! How are your ladies faring?”
“Zijn slaap,” replied Anne, joining her hands in an attitude as if for prayer, and then resting her cheek on them. “Sleep.” She pointed excitedly at the white wall in the distance that was coming closer and closer. “Vot iss dat?” she asked. “Vere are vee?”
For the first time, he noticed her sodden skirts and bare feet. “Oh, Your Highness, you will catch your death! Here,” he said, as he took his cape from his shoulders and secured it around Anne’s. “Jensen!” he roared.
“Aye, sir,” came a reply from the other side of the forecastle, near where he stood with Anne. “Give over your boots, man! Her Grace is barefooted as a tinker’s whelp!”
A small, wizened sailor appeared as if from out of nowhere and without a moment’s hesitation, sat down on the deck, removed his boots, and helped Anne to slip her feet into them. They were almost too snug, but they were warm from Jensen’s feet, and felt good.
“Ach, poor man,” she said. “Wachten. Vot iss vord? Vait.” She pulled an item from the sack that looked like a man’s forearm.
Sir William had seen these before in his travels in the Empire; it was a sausage, but unlike any sausage to be found in England. All German soldiers carried them. The meat was highly spiced and well-preserved; the sausage would last for months. Anne took a small knife from the sack and cut each of them a piece about the size of a hunk of bread. Never had anything tasted so good; and it explained the odd smell that Anne seemed to carry about her person. His knowledge of ladies was scant, and he had taken it for some sort of scent to which German women were partial.
Through a mouthful of sausage Sir William said, “To answer your question, Your Grace, these are England’s White Cliffs. Der Witte Kliffen. I wish with all my heart that your first view of them had been in the sunlight. They are indeed a sight with the sun shining on them!”
He realized that Anne’s English, though much improved, was not up to such a spate, and he smiled and shrugged. To Jensen he said, “Sound the bells. We have been blown off course, but only slightly. We will land at Deal instead of Dover, and send a messenger to the castle to advise them of the New Queen’s safe arrival.”
Anne chewed and swallowed the last of her sausage. “I vill go und see to mijn vrouwen.”
“Yes, do,” Sir William replied. “We will land shortly, Your Grace, so make them as ready as you can.” He pointed to the coastline, and Anne nodded. The day was growing lighter as they spoke.
Soon now, she would set foot on the land of which she was destined to be queen, and where she would spend the rest of her life. It was an exciting, exhilarating prospect.
Greenwich Palace, December 1539
The hot towel felt heavenly and the fire, which crackled merrily in the hearth, warmed his toes. Henry felt like whistling, but just as he was choosing a likely tune, his barber removed the towel and began slathering his face with a creamy froth.
Master Michael had been the king’s barber for years, but shaving the king still made him nervous, and he supposed it always would do. No one could have shaved the king without the occasional nick, of that he was certain; and His Grace did not help matters any by insisting on holding court in his privy chamber whilst his morning ablutions were performed. The king would insist on talking, gesturing, wriggling in his chair, all while Master Michael was attempting to shave and shape, cut and clip the royal head. The king’s mood was the sole barometer for his reaction if Master Michael drew blood, so he was glad that the king was seemingly in excellent spirits. The closer his bride got to London, the happier the king was.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor and moments later a page stood in the doorway announcing Cromwell.
“Ah, Thomas!” said the king. “Here you are. I am in need of my Lord Privy Seal this fine morning.”
Cromwell stole a glance out of the window to be certain that he and the king were both looking at the same day. It was anything but fine; sleet was tapping regularly at the glass and the wind was moaning. He bowed and replied, “At your service, Your Grace.”
Master Michael took another hot towel from a bored page holding a stack of them and cleaned the king’s face of the last of the foam. Praise God, he had survived another day without cutting his royal master. He looked down at his hands; they were shaking ever so slightly. So far, he had been able to conceal this malady from the king, but someday soon he would be found out and then he would be shaving the king no longer. It would, in some ways, be a relief.
Henry rubbed his chin; the shaved bits were smooth to the touch. He arose from his chair, grabbed his walking stick, and began to pace the room. “I have drawn up letters patent creating a new Earl of Essex,” he said. “I want the document sealed immediately.”
Cromwell’s heart sank. When would his turn come? He had been raised to the peerage as Baron Cromwell, but that was three years ago now, and God knew, he deserved more. Look how much wealth he had delivered into the king’s hands with the dissolution of the monasteries! And he had found the king a new wife against fearful odds; he wondered if the king knew just how brave a woman had to be to agree to put her neck into the noose of matrimony with the King of England. The king was not unaware of the reluctance of the princesses of Christendom to become his queen, but His Grace seldom dwelt upon the unpleasant; he simply ignored it. Still, Cromwell had been mightily disappointed to discover that although Anne’s brother, Duke William, was a committed Protestant, the New Queen was Catholic. Still, this was not, in the grand scheme of things, anything to be concerned about. The queen would have no power, and even the will o’ the wisp of the king’s affection would depend solely upon her ability to bear His Grace more sons.
Henry tapped Cromwell on the ankle with his stick to get his attention, which had evidently wandered. “And does my Lord Privy Seal not wish to enquire upon whom this new honour is being bestowed?” he asked.
Cromwell forced a smile and replied, “Of a certainty, Your Grace. I would like to be the first to congratulate him, if Your Grace has not already claimed that privilege.”
“Then come here,” said the king.
Cromwell crossed the room and stood before the king. Suddenly Henry stepped to one side and said, “Behold the new Earl of Essex!”
Cromwell was staring at himself in the king’s dressing mirror, a large oval of polished silver set in a golden frame. For a moment he was too stunned to speak, and just as he finally collected himself, a page entered the room and knelt before the king, holding up a silver salver with a letter on it. Cromwell went on staring at himself in the mirror
. It was as if he were looking at a different person. The Earl of Essex…!
Henry cracked open the seal and skimmed the letter. “Listen to this!” Henry cried. “Her Grace has departed Canterbury for Rochester. Her ship was blown off course by a fearful storm, and she came ashore at Deal instead of Dover.” He glanced at Cromwell, who was still staring transfixed at the new Earl of Essex. “Oh, how fortunate that I sent Brandon and Lady Catherine to meet her! They went to Deal to fetch her, and brought her back to Dover Castle. The weather was foul, very beastly, Brandon says, but in spite of it, throngs of people lined the roads to greet her! Brandon tried to persuade her to rest at Dover, but the lady would not; she insisted on departing the next day for Canterbury, rain, sleet and cold be damned! Cromwell, the lady is intrepid, and as anxious to make my acquaintance as I am hers.”
Henry rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Once again he recalled the days when he used to dress up and surprise Katharine and her ladies in their rooms. That was a merry time! He looked at the letter again. Why not, he thought?
“Cromwell!” he bellowed.
Cromwell turned as if in a daze.
“Have Sir Anthony arrange an escort. Now! We will depart as soon as it can be assembled. And find the Yeoman of the Revels. I want costumes. Ah,” he thought, his hand to his mouth. Which ones? “A band of Turks might scare Her Grace,” he said. “Nothing foreign. Something English. I have it! Robin of the Hood! Archers. We have plenty of those. Tell Master Farlyon that I want all the archer costumes he can find.” He glanced out of the window and noticed for the first time that day that the foul weather Anne was experiencing was also visiting Greenwich. “And tell him to wrap them up well in oilskins, and make sure no harm comes to them. Oh, the happy times are here again, Cromwell! Excuse me,” he said, making Cromwell a mock bow, “My Lord of Essex, I mean to say! Thomas, this is all due to your good offices. I cannot thank you enough. Now, go! I want to be gone within the hour!”
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