He said she smelled. And he didn’t like her boobs.
Are we in a middle school lunchroom?
No. We’re in 16th century England at the court of Henry Tudor, AKA Henry VIII.
Great Harry was talking about his fourth wife, Anne of Cleves, whom he married in 1540, after having gone through Katharine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour.
I’ve always had a soft spot for Anne of Cleves, the second “divorced” in the old “Divorced, beheaded, died. Divorced, beheaded, survived” rhyme. If anyone deserves a great meal, she does.
Matter of fact, I would like to prepare a spread with things that were not available to her, and explain the advantages of new technology, like the fork. Only knives and spoons were used at table back then. We’d forgo silver trenchers for some Fiestaware, as well. Cobalt Blue, maybe.
And there would be frilly drinks like lemon drops and cosmos. Many. The girl could use ’em. Read on.
When Henry married Anne he was no longer the attractive, robust young buck who had charmed court and country. He was at that point, and I’m being charitable, not a catch.
It’s not because he became a very big boy. It was his temperament and distorted view of himself. He was a tyrant with little empathy for others.
Scholars often cite chronic pain as a causal factor. He had leg ulcers that would sometimes become blocked and need to be drained. This situation was excruciating, and kept him from doing the things he loved, like dancing. Henry was also desperate for more sons. For the obvious reason: “insurance” heirs to the throne.
Long story short, he agreed to marry Anne of Cleves, a German princess, when she was 24 and he 49.
You’re wondering why he agreed, and why he had the nerve to claim she smelled when he was sporting what almost certainly was an odorific runny sore, correct?
Let’s face it, even though Tudor royalty bathed at some regular interval and changed their “linens” (AKA underwear) often, I’m sure they all had BO—including the sexy Anne Boleyn, with whom Henry was besotted for years. Why the problem with this new wife? And what’s with the boobs thing?
Conventional historical interpretations more or less side with Henry; Anne was unattractive and he was completely turned off.
The feminist interpretation argues that he saw himself through her eyes, and then lashed out.
It all started with the portrait above. Henry wanted to make sure Anne was pretty enough for him (I know, I know), so he sent court painter Hans Holbein to Germany. The picture sealed the deal.
As Anne was making her way from Germany to London, Henry hatched a courtly plan to surprise her at a stopover point. He was to play a messenger delivering a letter from Henry, and then, shaking off the disguise, woo her. Good idea if you look like, I don’t know, George Clooney. Or even Rosemary Clooney. Bad idea if you’re a ringer for the cook in The Canterbury Tales.
When Henry showed up in her room, she was bewildered—most likely a combination of exhaustion and confusion—and either he did not like what he saw, or she didn’t like what she saw. The look of horror on her face when she realized who this clown was could well have sealed her fate.
In a nutshell, their wedding night consisted of Henry groping her under the covers. He reported on the event the next morning:
“I liked her before not well, but now I like her much worse! She is nothing fair, and have very evil smells about her. I took her to be no maid by reason of the looseness of her breasts and other tokens, which, when I felt them, strake me so to the heart, that I had neither will no courage to prove the rest.”¹
Nice.
Six months after their wedding Henry was granted an annulment by a less-than-impartial church court.
Poor Anne. A stranger to the land not able to speak the language and made a laughingstock by her husband, all the while being wonderful to his children and a stand-up gal in general.
That’s where the mixed drinks come in. It’s the least I could do.
Anne had the last laugh, though.
When informed of the annulment she played her cards right:
“I acknowledge myself hereby to accept and approve….entirely putting myself, for my state and condition, to your highness’ goodness and pleasure; most humbly beseeching your majesty that, though it be determined that the pretended matrimony between us is void and of none effect, whereby I neither can nor will repute myself for your grace’s wife, considering this sentence (whereunto I stand) and your majesty’s clean and pure living with me, yet it will please you to take me for one of your humble servants, and so determine of me, as I may sometimes have the fruition of your most noble presence; which as I shall esteem for a great benefit, so, my lords and others of your majesty’s council, now being with me, have put me in comfort thereof; and that your highness will take me for your sister; for the which I most humbly thank you accordingly.”²
More than simply remaining alive, which she did not take for granted, Anne was given annual funding, properties and a hifalutin title. She was a guest at Henry’s court, and even managed to maintain good relationships with both his daughters, Elizabeth and Mary, after his death. If you know anything about those two and how their religious differences played out you’d agree that that was no small feat.
Anne of Cleves died in 1557 at age 41—never having eaten guacamole³, sadly, so I would serve that as an appetizer. Most likely the version my family likes, with both lime juice and a jigger of tequila. She would hopefully find that interesting enough to forgive the lack of woodcock, mutton, eel pasties and goose that graced her dining experiences back at Hampton Court.
Tudor royalty ate seasonally, out of necessity, and had access to New World foods, but some things did not travel well or just didn’t catch on in England by that point. Bananas and avocados are examples of the former, and corn of the latter.
Enter a plate of cornbread to accompany the guac, because I’m surely not serving any kind of chip to a former Queen of England. Southern cornbread with extra sugar or Northern cornbread with less sugar. She’d like that. She’d decide corn was just fine.
Cheese would be out. Apparently upper crust English folk of the time thought it lowly.
The main course would be a roasted chicken and Renate’s Famous Potatoes. I have to give the girl something that reminds her of home. The chicken, that is. The potatoes would be a new food for Anne. Although they were introduced in Europe in the 16th century, they apparently made it to England after her death—and were first thought of as strange.
Renate’s Famous Potatoes are medium-sized starchy potatoes cut in half lengthwise and then laid, cut side down, on a sheet pan with a goodly amount of vegetable oil and salt. After rubbing a little oil on the tops you blast them in a hot oven. Preferably with convection. When done and you pry them up with the edge of a metal spatula they’ll be golden brown. All you have to do is add a little pepper before service.
Hard to imagine I would be introducing potatoes to a German, but there it is. Not having court jesters or lute players on retainer I have to rely on culinary novelty.
I’d serve another bread, too. This is, after all, the Bay Area, and we have the terroir for some of the best sourdough bread in the world.
I’d be careful about it, though.
In Tudor times, the higher the class, the more refined the grain used for bread. Anne would not be pleased by the whole grain bread we consume as a healthy food. Then again, they had not sunk to the level of Wonder Bread by 1540, either, so I think I’d be safe with an untrencherly loaf of Acme sourdough made with finely-ground whole grain flour.
What about a salad?
Sliced heirloom tomatoes, perfectly ripe, topped with chopped pistachios and a bit of fleur de sel. Tomatoes, you see, did not show up on any plate in England until the end of the 16th century.
Dessert would be—what else?—a banana split! The bananas would be A New Thing, but the ice cream, oh, the ice cream! It would be a smash hit. It would be unbelievable. Can you imagine not knowing what ice cream was and then being given it? It’s like the first time you have great sex. So good you can’t believe it’s possible.
In 1540 eating ice cream was not possible.
There were slushy concoctions involving fruit and sweeteners and wine, but it was not until the technology for making a proper sorbet entered the scene and was later expanded to custard that we have anything resembling modern ice cream. All of that didn’t come together until the mid-17th century.
The heck with the Internet. Can you imagine NO ICE CREAM?
Would Anne of Cleves enjoy the meal and the company? Hard to say. Tudor royals lived a circumscribed life, and I’m Cali-casual. Anne’s lack of knowledge of current-day customs and my loosey-goosey ways would probably drive her crazy.
I can speak German. That would help.
And I make a good roast chicken.
Maybe those things and half a dozen lemon drops would help in my attempt to find out what really happened on her wedding night.
Notes
¹ Alison Weir, The Six Wives of Henry VIII (New York: Ballentine, 1995) 406.
² Anne of Cleves, “Letter to Henry—July 11, 1540” http://www.pbs.org/wnet/sixwives/inherwords/ac_words.html
³ Use any basic guacamole recipe you like and replace half the lime juice with tequila. I don’t use tomatoes in my guac, and prefer scallions or red onion. So, you’re looking at ripe Hass avocados, chopped scallion or red onion, chopped cilantro, a bit of mild, basic ground chili pepper or even Tajin seasoning, lime juice, tequila and sea salt. Mash it all up in a bowl.
Works Consulted
Anne of Cleves. “Letter to Henry—July 11, 1540.” PBS: The Six Wives of Henry VIII.
http://www.pbs.org/wnet/sixwives/inherwords/ac_words.html
Brears, Peter. All the King’s Cooks: The Tudor kitchens of King Henry VIII at Hampton Court Palace. St. Martin’s, 1980.
Erickson, Carolly. Great Harry. St. Martin’s, 1980.
Lindsey, Karen. Divorced, Beheaded, Survived: A Feminist Interpretation of the Wives of Henry VIII. Addison-Wesley, 1995.
Ridley, Jasper. Henry VIII: The Politics of Tyranny. Viking, 1985.
Sim, Alison. Food and Feast in Tudor England. Sutton, 1997.
Weir, Alison. The Six Wives of Henry VIII. Ballentine, 1995.
—. Henry VIII: The King and his Court. Ballentine, 2002.
Wooding, Lucy. Henry VIII. 2nd ed., Routledge, 2009 and 2015.