It was for this reason, of course, that my uncle and his brothers had been so delighted when the King was attracted by my cousin. They must have temporarily forgotten how fickle royal favor could be.
Perhaps I am running ahead. I cannot believe that the frivolous girl I was at that time suddenly began to take an intelligent interest in her surroundings and to understand something of their meaning; but certainly I began to change then.
We were all excited when it seemed that the King was making his choice of a wife. One of the likely candidates was a lady known as Anne of Cleves, the Lutheran daughter of John, Duke of Cleves. My uncle was naturally against the match, Thomas Cromwell for it.
We heard her name mentioned often, and I learned a little about her. She was said to be beautiful, but were not all royal ladies beautiful? Especially those who were seeking—or being sought in—marriage with a highly desirable consort.
She had an elder sister who had been married for ten years to the Duke of Saxony, the leader of the Protestants in Germany. Her name was Sybilla and not only was she reputed to be of outstanding beauty, but she was known for her wisdom and the happiness she had brought to her successful marriage. In fact, she was reckoned to be one of the most distinguished and admirable of ladies.
The sister of such a lady must surely herself possess some excellent qualities? She was twenty-one years old.
“Why,” I said, “she is very old.” It was a remark which provoked some laughter.
“Mistress Katherine Howard,” said Dorothy Barwike mockingly, “having seen all of fifteen years, finds twenty-one … old.”
I blushed. I stammered: “No … I suppose it is not in truth … old. But for a Queen …”
“The King is not exactly a young man.”
That was true enough. When I had seen him with my cousin I had thought he was old—and now he was even older, so it did not matter that Anne of Cleves was twenty-one.
I daresay the King would have liked to see her for himself but, after the snub he had received from the King of France, he might have felt wary of suggesting this.
The next best thing was to have a portrait of her, but portraits, of course, did not always tell the truth.
The Duchess told me that the Duke did not like the proposed marriage. He thought it was most unsuitable. Then “that knave, Cromwell,” as my uncle called him, had the idea that he would send our finest painter, Hans Holbein, to make a picture of the prospective bride, and he was sure that when the King saw it he would be in favor of the match.
This is what Hans Holbein did, and he painted a beautiful picture. It came in an ivory box, shaped like a rose, I heard, and when it was opened, the portrait was disclosed, lying at the bottom of the box. The King was enchanted. He was not interested in the lady’s religion. What he cared about were her personal attractions and, according to the exquisite miniature, they were completely desirable. So the King would marry Anne of Cleves.
There was gloom throughout the house. Anne of Cleves, with her Protestant upbringing, was certainly not what the Howards were looking for.
By the end of the year it seemed certain that she would be the new Queen. I gathered, through the gossip, that my uncle blamed Thomas Cromwell for this.
It really was a very short time since Jane Seymour had died, but the King was clearly not greatly grieved by that sad event. Jane had served her purpose. She had given him what her two predecessors had failed to, but he could be only moderately pleased with his heir, for the child was not very robust and was therefore a constant source of anxiety. It seemed hardly likely that such a weakling as Jane would have produced healthy children had she lived, and, as the King was no longer young, it was well to get himself a new wife as quickly as possible.
We were getting excited. There would be a coronation and that meant revelry in the streets: and if, at the appropriate interval, little Edward should have a strong and healthy half-brother, that would ease the tension which had always existed about the fragile heir.
There were delays. In the first place, the future Queen’s father died. Then we heard rumors that Sybilla’s husband, John Frederick of Saxony, had expressed doubts as to the wisdom of the marriage. He was uneasy that the bridegroom had already experienced three unsatisfactory marriages—the first to a wife who was said to have been no wife and whom he had put from him; the second to one whose life ended on the scaffold; and the third to a wife who had died in childbirth almost immediately.
Everyone was asking the question, would there be no marriage with Anne of Cleves? Would the King have to look elsewhere? And despondency settled on us all.
Then there was good news. John Frederick’s fears were stifled by the League of Protestants, who declared that the marriage would be good for the Cause. Had not the King already broken with Rome? That was one step in the right direction. It might be that his wife could persuade him to take more.
At last Anne left Düsseldorf for England. Nothing could delay the King’s marriage much longer. We thought she would arrive for Christmas, which would be a most appropriate time; but, alas, it was not to be. The weather was bad; the winds were especially fierce, which perhaps was to be expected at this time of the year.
We heard that the Lady of Cleves would perforce spend Christmas in Calais. Then the winds suddenly subsided and we were delighted when we heard that she was to sail, and she arrived in Deal two days after Christmas.
My grandmother said, as I rubbed her legs: “The Duke is most displeased.”
“There is little he can do about that,” I replied, having become much bolder during those days. I should soon be sixteen years old and a child no longer. I had changed a great deal, and I tried not to think too much of the foolish, thoughtless girl I had once been, believing everything that was told me. I was now dreaming of going to Court. My grandmother had such ambitions for me.
“With a new Queen,” she often mused, “though she is not of our choosing, but… who knows? The Duke has kept favor, even after …” Then she would sigh and be sad, thinking of her favorite granddaughter.
Now she said: “True, we must needs accept that. They say she is very fair. The Duke has seen Master Holbein’s portrait and it depresses his spirit.”
“She is very beautiful then?”
My grandmother was silent. After a while she said: “Your uncle is among those who will go to Canterbury to greet her. It will not be long before she is crowned Queen, and it seems only yesterday…”
She was going to be sad for a while after this. The prospect of a new Queen brought back too many memories of that other.
There was great excitement in the Long Room. Someone always managed to get the latest news from a friend who had either heard or actually witnessed it. We had to sort out the truth from fantasy, but there was usually a grain or two of the former involved; and it all made fascinating listening.
Now there were reports of what had happened at the royal meeting.
When the King had his first glimpse of her, he was filled with horror.
“They say she is by no means as fair as he had been led to believe by accounts and, of course, Master Holbein’s portrait. She is big and he likes not large women. Master Holbein makes her skin look like velvet, and hers is marked by the pox. She wears the hideous fashions of her country and she is no beauty.”
“And what says the King?”
“The King is beside himself with wrath. He stayed for a very short time in her company. Then he made his excuses and left. He was in a fury. Be assured, someone will suffer for this.”
“It will go ill with Master Holbein for painting such a false picture.”