“’Tis bruited through the streets and they are saying it at Court.”
“How could there be? She is no longer the King’s wife.”
“People do have children in the most difficult circumstances,” said Jane with a laugh.
“Can it really be true?” I murmured.
“That we shall soon know.”
“If it is the King’s …”
“Ah,” cried Jane, speculation in her eyes. How she loved the excitement of prying into people’s lives. She was the sort of woman who would weave her own fantasy about people’s actions to make a more dramatic story. I thought fleetingly of her evidence of the relationship between Anne Boleyn and her brother which had been given in such a manner as to make it seem like truth, and had resulted in sending her husband George to his death, accused of incest. And when it was considered, it seemed that all that had happened was that once, when Anne was in bed, Jane had come into the bedchamber and seen her husband sitting beside the bed while his hand rested on the coverlet. I wondered if she ever felt remorse for what she had done. If she did, it had certainly not cured her of the habit.
“One of the King’s greatest desires is to have a healthy son,” she was saying. “He will be most eager to see this child whom the Lady Anne has produced.”
“Did no one know there was to be a child? It is strange that he is suddenly here.”
“The King is deeply enamoured of you. He would never leave you, even if the Lady Anne does have a child.” Her eyes were speculative again.
The courtiers were asking themselves which choice the King would make. It would be interesting to see which was more important to him: his healthy boy or his beautiful bride.
I think I never took the matter seriously. If I did, there was the fleeting thought that, if he divorced me, I could marry Thomas Culpepper after all.
I knew Thomas would want that. I had seen him only briefly since my marriage, although he was a Gentleman of the King’s Bedchamber. He had avoided me; he was very much afraid that our friendship might be remembered. But I had caught a glimpse of something in his eyes which told me that his feelings had not changed. No mention was made of our suggested betrothal.
I knew people often thought of what had happened to Henry’s wives, and it was not surprising that they might soon be wondering what my fate would be. Thomas must have realized how careful we had to be. More so than I did. And he still loved me.
And now it seemed that my future might be in jeopardy.
Then I had a visit from Anne of Cleves herself. She came without ceremony from Richmond, which was not very far from Hampton Court.
I received her at once, and she immediately told me that she had been extremely distressed by a certain rumor and wanted to tell me that there was no truth in it.
Her knowledge of our language had made great strides since her arrival. She was a clever woman and the first task she had set herself was to learn English. She was moderately fluent now and only occasionally did the pronunciation of a word betray her origins.
She said: “I have been confined to my bed for about ten days. Mother Lowe was mostly in attendance. She knows my needs better than anyone, for she has been with me, you know, since I was a child. Then these rumors started. It is quite ridiculous.”
“I was of that opinion at the time,” I told her.
“I was sure you would be. It is amazing how these rumors start. One says, I think this, or I think that, and then someone else says it is … and it goes on from there.”
I agreed. I was thinking of Jane Rochford who, I knew, always had to embroider a tale.
“It was good of you to come and see me,” I told her.
“I wished you to hear this from my own lips. I do not need to ask if Your Majesty is in good health. I see you are.”
“And you also, my lady.”
“I am when there are no foolish rumors to upset me.”
“You have been indisposed, you say.”
“It is over. What do you call it? A little matter of the chest, which kept me to my bed—so starting this gossip, mayhap.”
“A rheum perhaps?” I suggested.
“But I am recovered completely.” She smiled at me. I believe she thought I was concerned because I had taken her place, for she went on: “I am happier than I ever have been in my life before.”
“I am so pleased to hear that.”
“I have my little Court at Richmond. The King has graciously given me other houses too. And I am rich. Life has become very good to me.”
“I am happy for you.”
She looked at me searchingly. Did I fancy I saw a shade of pity in her eyes? It might have been, for she had suffered great humiliation at the hands of the King when she had been Queen. And now I had stepped into her shoes.
I was so pleased that there was no child. I very much hoped that I should be the one to bring that joy to the King. I found I liked Anne of Cleves very much. There was something free and honest about her.
She asked me how the Court had seemed to me when I had first become her lady-in-waiting.
“I saw so little of you then,” she said.
“I was kept in the background. They thought I was such a novice … and it was true. I had to learn everything. It was all so different from my grandmother’s house in Lambeth. There was not the same order there.”
She told me a little about her childhood too. How different it was from mine! Her father was John II, Duke of Cleves, who, when he had married, had become Count of Ravensburgh through his wife’s inheritance. Anne had a sister, Sybilla. She wanted to know if I had any brothers and sisters.
“Several,” I told her. “But I was taken away when I was so young that I hardly knew them. Because we were poor, I was sent to my grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk.”
Sybilla had married almost ten years before Anne came to England. It was a brilliant marriage to John Frederick, the great Duke of Saxony.
“It is good to remember the old days,” said Anne. “When I think of my childhood, I remember the two white swans. This was because of an old legend of the Rhine. The Rhine was our river, you know. We always sang of it, and the story was that one of our ancestors came to us from nowhere and then left us in the same mysterious manner. She just arrived and then later, after bearing children, disappeared. She was supposed to be some messenger from the gods come to bless our family. She came down the river in a boat drawn by two white swans, and the swans have been our emblem ever since. Why do I tell you this?”
“Because I can see that we are going to be friends. How glad I am of that rumor, because it brought you to see me.”
“I shall return, if permitted to do so.”
“You have not only my permission, but my command.”
Then she talked about the King’s daughters and little son. She had made their acquaintance and was looking forward to improving it.
“The Lady Mary is very sad,” she said. “I should like to see more of her and cheer her if possible.”
“I have not yet spoken to her.”
“She is not easy to talk to. She has—how do you say? She retires into herself.”
I nodded, guessing that to be true. Poor Mary, she had suffered much.
We were silent for a moment, then she said: “The Lady Elizabeth is an interesting girl. She seems to be very clever. Wise beyond her years. And the boy, too, is clever.”
So we passed an hour in talk and we parted on the best of terms, promising ourselves another meeting very soon.
I thought about her a good deal after she had left. What struck me most forcibly was that she by no means regretted the loss of her crown. In fact, she appeared to be remarkably relieved to have discarded it.
It had been a most pleasant morning, partly because I was so glad to hear that the rumor about the baby was unfounded.