by Deryn Lake
‘You’re going to operate then, Doctor?’
‘What other decision can I make?’
‘None, Sir. They are both at last gasp.’
Even while he rolled back the sleeves of his long physician’s gown and passed his knife through a naked flame, bidding his assistant Dr Chambers be ready with needle and gut, Dr Butts prayed, Let His Grace’s message come soon. Let me be delivered from this final terrible verdict, God.
But the situation was not to be made easy and it was with great trepidation that Butts and Chambers, flanked by four midwives, stood on either side of the inert figure of the Queen, and contemplated the task that lay before them.
Rising like a small pale globe, Her Grace’s abdomen, stretched tightly over the distended womb, looked inviolable. But seeing how still lay the child within, Butts knew he must act, though it was not lost on him that the early hours of the morning were the very time when the soul was most likely to fly the body.
‘I pray for the safe deliverance of both mother and child,’ he said aloud and as the midwives crossed themselves, plunged in his knife. In her sleep the Queen stirred and groaned but did not regain consciousness.
‘Quick,’ said Butts to Chambers, ‘staunch the flow.’
And as his assistant gallantly leant across with towels, the abdominal wall opened to reveal the womb beneath. Now there was nothing for it. Dr Butts cut rapidly, instantly revealing the baby’s shoulders.
‘Quickly, let me get the head,’ called the midwife and almost thrusting the doctor aside, eased the child gently upward and out through the incision.
‘Oh Christ’s Holy Mother,’ said Butts, bursting into tears. ‘It’s a boy. We have a Prince.’
‘Aye, and let’s hear him shout,’ and with that two of the other women took the new-born infant and while one cleaned his eyes, nose and mouth, the second tapped him on the buttocks to bring him to life. The child let out a lusty cry and every adult in the room wept with him, for a moment forgetting the Queen who lay unattended and bleeding on her bed. It was Dr Chambers who suddenly remembered his other patient, and swinging round, began the primitive business of stitching her back together again with catgut taken from the intestines of a sheep. As he did so her eyelids fluttered and the doctor could but hope she would remain unconscious long enough for him to finish his task.
Outside the bedchamber the Palace was beginning to erupt with noise as the news spread like wildfire that the Queen was delivered of a healthy son. Courtiers hastened from their beds to foregather in the great hall, while the Seymour family, who had not retired at all, surged towards the royal apartments, demanding to see their sister, only to be pulled up short with the news that she was resting.
‘There’s nothing wrong is there?’ demanded Anne suspiciously, to be assured by Dr Chambers that the Queen was in fine spirits but still recovering from her ordeal. Yet the truth behind the closed door was very different as Jane swimmingly regained her senses to know by the soreness of her body that the child had been finally ripped from her and now there was nothing further to do but lie exhausted on her pillows, almost forgotten in the tumult.
As soon as he had satisfied himself that the Prince would live Dr Butts dictated a letter to the King, which went off at post haste to Esher.
‘Tell him,’ said the physician happily, ‘that he may ignore my other communications. That I acted as I thought best and my decision has been justified. For the operation has been completely successful, both Her Grace and the Prince being in marked good health.’
It was a gross exaggeration of course but Butts dare not risk putting doubt into the King’s mind about his physician’s ability. If anything untoward should happen it could be blamed on so many things — eating incorrectly or getting cold, to name but two.
Yet, thought the doctor, I must do my best for the poor soul. And he hurried off determinedly to supervise the brewing of a strengthening caudle which, with luck, might bring some colour back into the Queen’s ghastly cheeks before His Grace arrived and demanded to see her.
*
The news of the birth of a healthy Prince swept the length and breadth of the kingdom and there were few who did not fall into bed consumed with liquor on the night of the announcement. Bonfires flared everywhere, church bells rang crazily, Te Deums were chanted to attempt a show of solemnity, and guns boomed forth in all the King’s territories. There was not one unhappy person in the land. Only the infant’s mother wept as she tossed uncomfortably in her great bed, every stitch throbbing as if it were on fire.
Her family had seen and congratulated her and in their hour of triumph none had noticed that her usual pallor was now the colour of wax, with two high bright circles of red on each cheek. Only Cloverella, lingering longer than most, had managed to whisper a request that she might treat her cousin’s wounds with herbal remedies, to be overruled by the doctors and midwives who considered the Queen their property and wanted no interference from a Romany, however well connected. There had been an actual confrontation between the insolent sprite and the eminent Dr Butts when it had come to the subject of Jane’s involvement in the infant Prince’s christening.
‘You cannot subject her to such an ordeal only three days after you have cut her open. It might kill her,’ Cloverella had said angrily.
Dr Butts had smiled down urbanely at the great-eyed girl regarding him so fiercely. ‘Madam, the Queen is my patient, not yours. Furthermore, as you well know, it is the custom of our realm that a Prince’s mother take part in the ceremonial of his baptism. So I would urge you to put aside your objections.’
‘My objections,’ Cloverella had answered earnestly, ‘are based on a precognition that my cousin Jane might well die.’
Dr Butts had looked at her horrified. ‘You speak unspeakable words, Lady. I would suggest that this conversation is terminated.’ And with that he turned on his heel, refusing to converse with Mistress Wentworth further.
So, ignoring better judgement, they had lifted the exhausted Jane up out of her sick-bed and dressed her in a mantle of crimson velvet furred with ermine, the great weight of which pressed into her wounded body like knives. Somebody had painted her face unnaturally bright, a doll’s vacant look blotting out the lines of suffering beneath a layer of enamel. Then she had been placed on a state couch, decorated with the crown and arms of England and draped with a counterpane of scarlet and a coverlet of white lawn, which had been hoisted high into the air and carried to an ante-chamber. There her husband had awaited her, boisterous, merry and somewhat inebriated, and thus Jane had remained, while the long line of guests filed past to be presented before forming up into a great procession making its way to the chapel.
The plague which had kept the baby’s father away from his wife’s side while she was in travail, had also curtailed the number of guests. Nonetheless, a vast multitude packed the Palace to see the parade set forth from the Queen’s chamber and note how well she looked, her cheeks so vivid and her eyes so sparkling, bright from the potion she had drunk to strengthen her for the ordeal.
Amidst a blare of trumpets, every note of which seemed to burst in her head, Jane watched the cavalcade set forth. First went the King’s Gentlemen, accompanied by the squires and knights, carrying candles which would remain unlit until the ceremony was over. Behind them walked the clerics, the members of the Council, the great lords, the officers of state and the foreign ambassadors, Chapuys twinkling amongst them. Next strode Thomas Cromwell, now Lord Privy Seal, with Lord Chancellor Audley and Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury. Behind them progressed a figure much despised in certain circles — Anne Boleyn’s father, the Earl of Wiltshire, walked solitary, a towel for use at the ceremony hung about his neck.
Less painful than an axe, thought Norfolk, whose place, as principal peer of the realm, was directly behind that of the Lady Elizabeth, now four years old, and clutching in her arms her half brother’s chrysom, his golden christening robe. Because the King’s daughter was so small she was carried shou
lder-high by Edward Seymour, the Prince’s uncle, to be created Earl of Hertford later in the week. Directly behind walked Thomas Seymour, winking his eye at the little redhead and making her smile, he, too, to be honoured at the special investiture with a knighthood. Almost at the very end of the procession, behind the Queen’s ladies and midwives, snuggled into the arms of the Marchioness of Exeter, whose husband was first cousin to the King, came the infant Prince himself, carried beneath a canopy of gold, the four corners of which were supported by the Marquis, the Duke of Suffolk, the Earl of Arundel and Lord William Howard. Finally walked the Princess Mary who was to be her half-brother’s godmother.
With another loud trumpet bray the procession vanished out of Jane’s sight, proceeding along draughty corridors, through the Council Chamber, the King’s Great Watching Chamber and the Great Hall, whence it threaded its careful way down the stairs into Clock Court and through the cloisters to the chapel door, where it halted and entered in reverential silence.
The baby was released by the Marchioness to the Archbishop, who himself performed the ceremony, assisted at the solid silver font by Sir Nicholas Carew, Sir Francis Bryan, Sir John Russell and Sir Anthony Browne. But it was Mary who held the baby tightly, almost as if he were her own, during the rest of the ceremony, his parents not being present by decree of ancient custom.
Around midnight Garter in ringing tones announced, ‘God of his Almighty and infinite grace, give and grant good life and long to the right high, right excellent and noble Prince, Prince Edward, Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester, most dear and entirely beloved son to our most dread and gracious lord, King Henry the Eighth,’ and the long ceremonial was finally over. Torches were lit and the trumpets burst forth once more, to announce the return of the newly christened child.
In the Queen’s ante-chamber poor Jane, who seemed in a frightening state of elation, forced herself to even further effort, for it was her voice, and hers alone, that must be the first to welcome the Prince by name, giving him the maternal benediction. Turning to Cloverella, who had refused to go with the others to the chapel, preferring to stand for the whole two hours behind her cousin’s couch, she murmured, ‘Prop me up a little, sweetheart, for I feel I have slipped down low to greet my son.’
But though it was said in a whisper, the King had overheard and was on his feet, placing his great hands on either side of his wife’s shoulders and heaving her into a sitting position. Cloverella saw Jane wince with pain as she was pulled so abruptly by a man too powerful ever to be really gentle.
Cloverella leaned over her cousin. ‘Your Grace, you don’t look well. Is there anything I can get you?’
Jane smiled. ‘I am very well, my dear. Why, this is the most exciting moment of my life; to greet my little son fresh from his baptism.’
‘But after you have blessed him you must go to bed. Please, Madam.’
Jane gave Cloverella an unreadable look. ‘Oh yes, I shall. I think afterwards I will sleep for a very long time.’
Her cousin went cold, remembering the doll-like creature in the crystal and thinking how like it Jane looked now, her garish face beginning to run slightly. But Cloverella was unable to reply, for the King, huge with pride, was suddenly jumping to his feet, shouting, ‘I believe they are returning. Why, yes, I can hear the trumpets.’
He thundered a kiss on to Jane’s scarlet lips and then hugged her impulsively. Cloverella watched, powerless, as sweat broke out on the Queen’s brow and would have intervened, even telling the King himself to watch what he did, had not the tinny trumpets blown at the very doors, which swung open to reveal the whole motley crowd.
With enormous pomp Edward was carried to where the Queen awaited him and while the Ladies Mary and Elizabeth, hand in hand, curtsied before their father and stepmother, Jane blessed the child and wished him a long and happy life, then kissed him on the brow. It was over! The baby was handed back to the Marchioness and amidst cheers of elation and a royal fanfare, Jane’s couch was lifted shoulder-high, that she might return once more to her bedchamber.
As the crowd formed into two lines, all making reverence as the Queen and her ladies passed through, Cloverella was swamped with the knowledge that soon these very same people would be assembling again to make a final act of homage to the dead.
*
Five days after the Prince’s birth, which had been on St Edward’s day, 12th October 1537, the Queen of England became ill and received the last sacrament, much to the astonishment of those who had thought how brilliant she had seemed at the child’s christening.
Her brothers, both to be honoured that very week, flew into a panic which was typical of neither of them, and met together in secret to discuss the awful probability of the death of their sister.
‘I simply can’t understand it,’ said Edward, ‘she seemed to recover from the birth so well.’
‘But she was cut open, Ned. That is far and away more dangerous than the normal delivery of a child.’
Edward, several times a father himself, answered, ‘I know that,’ while Thomas was silent for a moment, shaking his head and stroking his guinea-gold beard. ‘I love Jane,’ he said eventually, ‘and now I fear her end is near.’
‘Have you spoken of this to Cloverella?’
Thomas looked bleak. ‘No, it is my own intuition. Jane and I were close, Ned. We played together. It was you who always seemed elderly and grand to us.’
One of Edward’s rare and beautiful smiles crossed his normally serious face. ‘That is because I was … and still am.’
Just for a moment the two brothers shared an enormous affection, Ned ruffling Thomas’s hair, while he mimed punching Edward in the chest.
‘I pray she lives,’ said Ned, pulling his brother close to him.
‘Amen to that.’
They stood quietly, arms round each other’s shoulders, relishing the bitter-sweet sharing of sorrow. And then, slowly impinging on their consciousness, came the distant noise of heavy running feet to break their mood. The noise stopped at Edward’s door and turned into a moderate but persistent knocking.
‘Who is it?’
‘Me. Dorothy. Your sister.’
‘Then come in.’
Lady Smith needed no further bidding but flew through the entrance in a state of great excitement.
‘Jane has rallied,’ she said, ‘Her Grace the Queen has sat up in bed and demanded quails, her favourite food.’
Thomas and Edward gazed at each other in a rare astonishment that slowly turned to laughter.
‘Then may God be praised and thanked,’ said Tom, visibly wiping his eyes. ‘She had me frightened, the little wretch.’
‘Remember of whom you speak,’ answered Edward smiling. ‘We’ll brook no familiar talk of the Queen’s Highness.’
‘Queen’s Highness be damned,’ whispered Thomas, pulling the other two conspiratorially close. ‘She’ll always be our funny little sister, won’t she?’
‘Always?’ echoed Dorothy, and was surprised to hear that she had spoken the word as a question.
*
Dark hours beyond midnight, and a small dark person escaped into the Palace gardens to sit beneath a tree and stargaze, to look upon the icy firmament and wonder. Beneath its inexorable, eternal stare she became diminished, unimportant, seeing the work of the immortal hand and wondering at its vast, incredible, impartial meaning. Simultaneously Cloverella was at one and at odds with all she saw and felt.
Within the Palace of Hampton Court, her own dear cousin, her childhood friend and confidante, lay dying, there was no doubt about that. Jane had rallied briefly, attended the state christening which had been too much for her and had, in fact, killed her, then had grown stronger and ordered her favourite foods. But now, one short week later, it was obvious that the little owner of such cut and painful flesh could struggle no more and was about to slip quietly away.
‘Jane, Jane,’ sobbed Cloverella as she suddenly found that, unbidden, the Romany blessing for the dying was on her
lips.
*
‘Only prayer can save the Queen’s Grace, Sire,’ said Dr Butts solemnly. ‘If she can fight through these dark crisis hours and see the dawn, then she will live.’
‘God’s Holy mercy,’ answered the King, hiding his face behind his hands, ‘it is too much to bear. Why must my great joy be so diminished by grief?’
‘Take heart, Your Grace,’ answered Butts soothingly. ‘There is still hope, though it be but a slight one.’
From where he stood it was impossible to see the King’s expression behind his shielding fingers, so the physician, though wary, was not quite prepared for what happened next. Henry suddenly lowered his hands and Butts realised aghast that his expression had changed from that of grief-stricken husband to one of furious accuser. His eyes were glinting slits, like those of a charging boar, and a fleck of saliva dappled his lip.
‘Butts,’ he hissed dangerously, ‘is this your fault? Have you killed the Queen’s Grace by ripping her asunder?’
Inwardly the Doctor shuddered, though his face remained impassive. ‘Your Grace, if I had not removed the Prince’s Highness by surgery then I fear he would not have survived. An infant grows dangerously tired if his mother labours long,’ he answered expressionlessly.
‘Oh,’ replied Henry gruffly. ‘I see.’
Hit him on the raw, thought Butts. He would rather sacrifice a dozen Queens than lose his precious heir.
Aloud he said smoothly, ‘Her Grace no doubt has somehow taken a chill and perhaps been fed incorrectly. Allowing her to eat quails was madness, and against my wishes.’
‘Then why did you let her?’ Henry asked coldly.
‘Because I was not consulted, Majesty. The damage had been done long before the matter came to my attention. These foolish waiting women …’
He allowed his voice to fade away, having no wish to name names and make accusations when he knew full well that the Queen was dying of something he had observed often before, a type of fever that set in after childbirth, usually with fatal consequences. As to what caused it, Butts had no idea, but he was certainly not going to tell the King the truth, thus giving his sovereign an excuse to accuse him of negligence.