The Curse of the Hungerfords Read online

  The Lady Mary did not forget me. When she became queen in 1553, she invited me to be one of her chamberers at her coronation, an unexpected and touching honour. The next day, she knighted Kat’s husband and named me a lady of her Privy Chamber, which meant that I was in constant attendance at court.

  I know Queen Mary to be a resolute, warm-hearted lady. I’m aware that she has earned criticism for being too stout in religion and for reviving the heresy laws, yet she has never shown me anything but kindness. It was she who chose a husband for me. At the advanced age of thirty-three, I found myself at the church door, exchanging vows with Sir Walter Hungerford.

  I knew, of course, about his father’s execution, thirteen years before. People had talked of little else. My Walter, the present Lord Hungerford, had survived the scandal and the shame. He had campaigned tirelessly for the restoration of his family estates until, finally, Queen Mary had reversed his father’s attainder and restored him in blood.

  It was from Walter that I learned the full story of his father’s crimes. That wicked man had locked up his wife, my husband’s stepmother, in the Lady Tower at Farleigh Hungerford, and tried to starve her. But for a priest who smuggled her food, thanks to the covert efforts of local tenants, he might have succeeded.

  ‘She thought he was trying to poison her,’ Walter confided. ‘And I could do nothing to help because I feared him.’

  ‘But why was he so cruel to her?’ I asked. I was then well into my first pregnancy, and we were lying in bed with the curtains drawn, holding hands, as we did in our early months together.

  ‘Her father had been beheaded, having rebelled against King Henry,’ Walter told me. ‘My father wanted to demonstrate how much he despised his in-laws. My stepmother smuggled out a letter to Thomas Cromwell, begging him to help her seek a divorce. And I am fairly certain that she accused my father of sodomy.’

  That alone would have been enough to bring Lord Hungerford to the block.

  ‘Cromwell ignored her,’ Walter went on. ‘Maybe he was protecting him. They were friends, you know, as well as colleagues. It was my father’s association with Cromwell that proved his downfall. When Cromwell was arrested, so I believe, my stepmother’s letter came to light and was investigated. It was found that my father employed a priest who went about calling King Henry a heretic. He also kept in our household a shady doctor who gave me the shivers; Father had him cast the King’s horoscope to find out when he would die. Then came the evidence of unnatural acts and abominable vices. He was accused of committing buggery with some of the servants. In the end, he was condemned for treason, witchcraft and sodomy. My stepmother remarried, and lives still.’

  Walter fell silent. It had been a terrible time for him, and after that night, we did not speak of it. But, before we went to sleep, he confided something else to me.

  ‘I think that my father’s character was shaped in his youth. His stepmother was accused of murdering her first husband here in this castle, and his father may have been complicit. I don’t know much about it. Father would never talk about it. When I was a child, I heard the servants gossiping about a body being burned in the kitchen oven. They said it was my step-grandmother’s first husband, whom she had murdered so that she could marry my grandfather.’

  ‘What happened to her?’ I asked.

  ‘She was hanged,’ he said, and I thought immediately of the spectre by the chapel door.

  Agnes, 1523

  On a cold February day, Agnes walked from the Tower to Holborn, with William Mathew stumbling behind her and guards marching on either side, through streets crowded with angry citizens baying for her blood. William Inges wasn’t there; he had claimed benefit of clergy to save his neck, although Agnes found it hard to believe that he was ever in holy orders.

  At Holborn, the cart was waiting for them, and they climbed up and sat down on the two rough coffins that had been set there. There could not have been a starker reminder of their imminent fate, but there was nowhere else to sit. Agnes’s maid was with them, she who had loyally attended her mistress during the long months in the Tower. Her presence lent Agnes some shred of dignity, but few would have recognised the once-proud Lady Hungerford in the wretched, dirty creature in the cart.

  The appeal to the King had failed. There was no earthly help to be had now. Agnes tried to pray, but the words would not come, for she was too consumed by terror. Every step, every turn of the wheels, was bringing her closer to the gallows. Her life was now measured in minutes.

  Too soon, Tyburn came into view, and Agnes stared transfixed as she saw the gallows and the throng of people around it, waiting to see her die. The cart drew to a halt and the executioner leapt up and fixed the noose around Agnes’s neck before moving on to William. Agnes was trembling so much, she thought she would die of fear before the rope got her. Already she had lost control of her bladder.

  A priest was saying prayers, but she was beyond hearing him. The cart pulled away.

  Anne, 1557

  The child came too soon, in a gush of blood and mess. They would not let me see him.

  I had known this pregnancy would end in tragedy. Before I took to my chamber, I had seen the ghost by the chapel, and knew for certain that it was Agnes, for she no longer looked serene, but agitated, and the weal around her neck was clearly visible before she faded. Worse still she had beckoned me. It struck a chill into my heart.

  I have been haunted by her fate, imagining how it was for her at the end. This castle is indeed cursed, I am certain: the Hungerfords will never know joy in their marriages. And I fear I have become an inconvenience to Walter . . .

  I can feel my strength ebbing. My body seems light and insubstantial.

  Walter is at court. I know why; I am no fool. There is a lady there whom he is pursuing; I recognise the signs, for she is not the first. He was meant to come back in time for the birth, but of course it was premature.

  As I drift towards sleep, it seems he is here with me now, and that we are alone together for once. He is embracing me, and I am choking, gasping for air, as Agnes must have done in her final moments. Everything goes black.

  Author’s Note

  The lives of Anne Bassett and Agnes Hungerford are well documented in contemporary sources, notably the Lisle Letters and Letters and Papers of the Reign of Henry VIII. ‘Lady Agnes Hungerford’ by W. J. Hardy (Antiquary Magazine, 2, 1880) and The Tudor Murder Files by James Moore (2016) illuminate Agnes’s story. Although it’s often stated that her origins are unknown, I found traces of her and her first husband in Canterbury. I am indebted to Elizabeth Norton for the information on Margaret Skipwith.

  When I read The Tudor Murder Files recently, I was so captivated by its brief, but riveting, account of murder and executions in the aristocratic Hungerford family that I began reading more on the subject and resolved to write that story one day.

  Just a week later, I was pondering on which subjects to choose for the two e-shorts to complement my novel Anna of Kleve. For one, I settled on Anne Bassett, who might have become one of Henry VIII’s wives had fate not decreed otherwise – or so contemporary speculation had it. I knew a lot about Anne’s time at Henry’s court, but little about her later life. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that she married a Hungerford, and that I could weave those grim stories into my e-short.

  William Inges was hanged six months after Agnes. Some have seen Agnes’s ghost at the entrance to the chapel in Farleigh Hungerford Castle. There is no evidence that Anne Bassett was strangled.

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  A GERMAN PRINCESS WITH A GUILTY SECRET

  The King is in love with Anna’s portrait, but she has none of the accomplishments he seeks in a new bride.

  She prays she will please Henry, for the balance of power in Europe rests on this marriage alliance.

  But Anna’s past is never far from her thoughts, and the rumours rife at court could
be her downfall. Everyone knows the King won’t stand for a problem queen.

  Anna of Kleve

  The Fourth of Henry’s Queens

  Her story.

  History tells us she was never crowned. But her story does not end there.

  Available to order

  Chapter 1

  1530

  Anna peered through the window of the gatehouse, watching the chariot trundling through below, enjoying the rich sensuousness of the new silk gown she was wearing, and conscious of her parents’ expectations of her. At fourteen, she should have learned all the domestic graces, and to impress their guests with her virtues.

  Every summer, Vater – or Duke Johann III, as his subjects knew him – brought his wife and children here to the Schwanenburg, the great palace that towered on a steep rocky hill, dominating the mighty river Rhine and the fair city of Kleve. Joining them today for a short visit, were Onkel Otho von Wylich, the genial Lord of Gennep, and Tante Elisabeth, who never let anyone forget that she was the granddaughter of Duke Johann I. With them would be Otho, Onkel’s bastard son. For all the reputation of the court of Kleve for moral probity, bastards were not unwelcome there. Anna’s paternal grandfather, Duke Johann II, had had sixty-three of them; not for nothing had he been nicknamed ‘the Childmaker’. He had died when Anna was six, so her memories of him were vague, yet the living testimony to his prodigious fertility was all around her at court and in the great houses of Kleve. It seemed she was related to nearly everyone in the united duchies and counties of Kleve, Mark, Jülich, Berg, Ravensberg, Zutphen and Ravenstein, over which her father ruled.

  Duke Johann was lavishly dressed as usual, welcoming his guests as their chariot drew up at the gatehouse – dark hair sleekly cut, fringe and beard neatly trimmed, portly figure swathed in scarlet damask. Anna looked at him affectionately; he did love to make a show of his magnificence. At his command, his wife and children were attired in rich silks and adorned with gold chains. Anna stood in a row with her younger siblings Wilhelm and Amalia, who was fondly known as Emily in the family. Vater and Mutter had no need to remind their children to make their obeisances, for courtesy had been drummed into them since they had been in their cradles. Nor were they allowed to forget that they were royally descended from the kings of France and England, and were cousins to the mighty Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, Vater’s overlord. Their awareness of that must be reflected in everything they did.

  As young Otho von Wylich stepped down, Anna’s heart almost stopped. To her, this cousin by marriage, two years older than she, seemed like a gift from God as he alighted on the cobbles. Oh, he was fair to look at, with his wavy, unruly chestnut locks and his high cheekbones, strong jaw, full lips and merry eyes, and he was charming too as he greeted everyone, displaying the proper deference to his host and hostess, with little of the gaucheness often seen in boys of his age. When he rose from his bow to Anna, his smile was devastating.

  She was already betrothed, as good as wed, and had been since the age of eleven. When people addressed her formally, they called her Madame la Marquise, for her future husband was Francis, Marquis of Pont-à-Mousson, eldest son of Antoine, Duke of Lorraine. They had never met – she had not even seen a portrait of him – and although she was always being reminded of her great destiny, the prospect of marriage still seemed unreal. Some of her dowry had already been paid, and she had long expected her wedding to take place as soon as Francis reached marriageable age at fourteen, this very year.

  She had been too young for a betrothal ceremony: her consent had been implicit in the contract her father had signed. She had accepted without question the husband chosen for her, having been schooled in her duty from infancy; but now, having seen Otho von Wylich, she wished for the first time that she was not spoken for. She could not drag her eyes away from Otho’s engaging smile.

  As she struggled to hide the fact that her world had just shifted seismically, Vater led the guests through the majestic Knight’s Hall, his serious, craggy features becoming animated as he pointed out the decorative sculptures to Otho.

  ‘This hall is said to have been built by Julius Caesar,’ he said proudly.

  ‘I well remember the great ceremonies that took place here,’ Tante Elisabeth said.

  Slowly, they processed through the state rooms. Anna was aware only of Otho, standing just inches away, and of his eyes on her.

  ‘We had these apartments built on the model of the great French chateaux on the Loire,’ Vater boasted, waving a beringed hand at the fine furniture and tapestries. Anna saw her uncle and aunt exchange envious glances. Mutter seemed serenely unaware. All this splendour was no more than her due, for she had been a great heiress, and had brought Vater rich territories and titles. She graced the court of Kleve in a manner that was regal yet humble, as deferential as a woman should be. Both she and Vater were strict in maintaining the elaborate code of etiquette laid down by the dukes in the manner of their Burgundian ancestors; in matters of courtesy and style, the court of Burgundy had led fashionable Christendom for nearly a hundred years now. Mutter and Vater also welcomed new ideas from the magnificent court of France, not far to the west of Kleve, and from Italy, which permeated north by means of visitors travelling up the Rhine. Anna sometimes sensed that Vater’s court was too sophisticated and free-thinking for Mutter’s taste; it seemed much more liberal than the court of Jülich had been. But Mutter would never criticise what went on in Kleve.

  When they reached the private apartments, wine was served, the sparkling Elbling that Vater regularly had brought upriver from the vineyards on the Mosel. Onkel Otho and Tante Elisabeth accepted their goblets with alacrity. It was as well that it was not evening, for the rules at court were strict, and all wine, even the Duke’s, was locked away at nine o’clock by his Hofmeister, who took his duties very seriously.

  As they sipped from their goblets of finest Venetian glass, the adults talked, stiffly at first, then gradually relaxing, while their children sat silently listening, Anna intensely aware of Otho, who was sitting beside her.

  ‘Your father has a wondrous palace,’ he said.

  ‘I hope you will be able to see more of it,’ she replied. She felt sorry for him, for he had no hope of inheriting any great houses, even though it was no fault of his that he was a bastard. ‘But I am sure you live well in Gennep.’

  ‘Not as well as you do here, Anna,’ he told her, with another of those devastating smiles, and she thrilled to hear her name on his tongue. ‘But I am fortunate. My father and stepmother treat me like their lawful son. They have no other children, you see.’

  ‘But you have friends?’

  ‘Yes, and I have my studies, and an amiable tutor. One day, I will have to make my own way in the world, probably in the Church.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed, before she could stop herself. ‘I mean, you could surely have a happier life doing something else.’

  He grinned. ‘You are thinking of the pleasures I would have to give up,’ he said, making her blush. ‘Believe me, I think of them too. But I have no inheritance, Anna. It will all go to a cousin when my father dies. What else can I do?’

  ‘Vater will find you a post here, or Dr Olisleger, his chancellor, I am sure!’

  ‘How kind you are, Anna,’ he murmured. Their eyes met, and she read in his gaze all she could have hoped for. ‘I can think of nothing I would like more than being at the court of Kleve. It would mean I could see you more often.’

  His words took her breath away. ‘Then I will ask for you,’ she promised.

  She noticed her mother watching them, a slight frown on her face. Vater was warming to his favourite topic. She knew for a certainty that she would hear the name Erasmus before too long. The great humanist scholar was Vater’s hero, the man he admired above all others, and whose advice he sought on religious matters.

  ‘Erasmus says the Church is not the Pope, the bishops an
d the clergy,’ he declared. ‘It is the whole Christian people.’

  Tante Elisabeth looked dubious, while Mutter’s expression remained inscrutable. Anna knew Mutter did not agree with Vater on religious matters. Devout as a nun, she was probably wincing inwardly to hear the Holy Father in Rome dismissed as if he were of no importance.

  ‘Erasmus preaches universal peace and tolerance,’ Vater went on, oblivious. ‘There can be no higher ideal than that. It inspires the way I live my life, the way I govern my duchy and my court, and the way I nurture my children.’

  ‘It is a high ideal,’ Onkel Otho observed, ‘but a dangerous one. Even if he does not intend to, Erasmus encourages those who attack the Church. It’s a short step from that to the heresies of Martin Luther.’

  ‘Luther speaks sense in many ways,’ Vater countered. ‘There are abuses in the Church, and they need to be rectified.’

  ‘My lord has banned Luther’s works,’ Mutter said quickly.

  ‘I have indeed, twice,’ Vater confirmed. ‘But some of his protests against the Church are justified. No one should have to pay priests to forgive their sins and save them from Purgatory, and it’s wrong that the princes of the Church live in luxury when our Lord was a simple carpenter. But to deny five of the sacraments is plain heresy.’

  ‘Your son-in-law would not agree with you,’ Onkel Otho replied.

  ‘The Elector of Saxony has extreme views,’ Vater said, looking pained, ‘and I fear Sybilla has become infected with them, for a wife is bound to follow her husband. The Elector wants me to join his Schmalkaldic League of German Lutheran princes, but I will never do that.’

  ‘Yet you allied yourself to him by marriage,’ Onkel Otho persisted. ‘You are linked to the League whether you like it or not.’ Now it was Mutter’s turn to look pained. It must have gone against all her beliefs to see her daughter given to a Protestant.