Moth To The Flame

by Angela Warwick

  She was startled from her musings by the trumpets announcing the start of the procession and the protesting creak from the heavy wooden gates as they swung wide to admit her procession on to the London streets. Ahead of her went her new Knights of the Bath, followed by a selection of peers and nobles of the realm, then her litter jolted forward, dislodging her a little from her seat and requiring her to take a firm hold of the gilded railing beside her. The ceremonial canopy was hoisted above her and then she was amongst the people in the narrow streets, heading slowly for Westminster. Behind her came many other carriages and marching notables; the entire procession close to half a mile long.

  Anne swallowed hard and made an effort to look down at her new subjects with an expression of kindness and humility. It certainly wouldn’t do to appear arrogant or aloof. Looking about her she saw the colourful banners hanging from the specially erected poles and from the jutting upper storeys of many of the buildings. Wine flowed freely from conduits and she noticed that this had made a lot of the people very merry and more inclined to celebrate than mock her. Not that there weren’t plenty of jeers; she was prepared for that, but battled hard to show no annoyance or distress, bestowing benevolent smiles upon all.

  There were men-at-arms all along the route as well as a complete escort marching either side of her; Henry was taking no chances with the safety of his bride or his heir. Anne was grateful for their presence for although the streets seemed calm, she knew a single incident could change the mood in a heartbeat. It would only take one rallying call or a single menacing move towards her to spark off a stampede.

  At each crossroads along the way, her litter would halt so that she could enjoy the various pageants which were performed in her honour. This was also a good way for the rest of the procession to catch up with her, for the further they progressed, the more those on foot further back were tailed off.

  She smiled graciously and applauded enthusiastically at every entertainment she paused for and had her gentleman ushers distribute coins amongst the children who sang her praises in song and spoken verse.

  Much as she enjoyed her progression, Anne felt that it took an interminable time to reach Westminster; holding herself erect and alert for such a long time over the bumpy roads was causing her back to ache, and keeping a benevolent smile on her face whatever the provocation was far more tiring that she ever could have guessed.

  Finally the turrets of Westminster appeared ahead, the massive double doors of Westminster Hall almost dwarfed by the huge figure of the King himself, waiting impatiently and anxious to greet her.

  In an impressive manoeuvre, her litter was half turned and moved almost sideways through the narrow approach to the Hall, the cobbled street made even more difficult to navigate by the press of people on all sides, until finally she drew up beside him. She felt the child stir within her as she scrambled from her cushioned seat and half fell and half jumped into his waiting arms.

  Henry pressed his face into her hair, whispering “How do you like your capital city, my Queen?”

  Anne, well aware that his unspoken words were more likely ‘see how much I have done for you’, smiled sweetly at him as his eyes met hers and told him “I like it very well, Sire. I believe a good time was had by all”.

  Henry placed her carefully on her feet, and then led her solemnly to her marble throne set atop the dais under the great window. The celebration banquet then began, although the King did not remain very long to enjoy it; it was Anne’s day and he felt that his presence would take the attention away from her. After kissing her hand and wishing her well, he slipped quietly through a side door and boarded a barge to York Place, where he would later welcome her.

  Anne found herself ravenous after her long ride through the city; although the bulk of her child limited the amount she could eat. She contented herself with eating just a little at each of the courses, and amused herself by watching the scramble at the tables below her, as the hind most members of her procession arrived in numbers, desperate for refreshment after so much unaccustomed exercise.

  The banquet done, Anne was ushered away through the same side door that the King had used earlier, and settled in to a barge for the short ride up river to York Place. There, as before, she was greeted lovingly by the King, who dutifully escorted her to her apartments, advising her to retire early in order to get the rest she would need to sustain her through the morrow.

  Shortly before eight o’clock the next morning, Anne again stood in Westminster Hall; this time robed in purple velvet, to greet a procession of Bishops and Abbots, headed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer. They approached her slowly, dressed in their finest vestments complete with their crosses and croziers. Anne took her place in the middle of the clerics, and with her scarlet robed ladies walking behind, processed regally towards the Abbey. The Duke of Suffolk walked at the head of the procession bearing the crown on a velvet cushion whilst either side and slightly behind him came two more peers, one carrying the sceptre and the other the white rod.

  At the Abbey doors, Anne paused under the brightly striped awning which hung from the porch and waved to the watching crowds before disappearing into the vast chill interior and moving slowly up the central aisle towards the high altar.

  After ceremonies and rites which lasted many hours, and would have taxed the strength of the most robust person, never mind a woman almost six months with child, she was crowned by Archbishop Cranmer using the same regalia used for Henry himself nearly twenty four years earlier. As expected, the great coronation crown proved too heavy for her slender neck, although she managed to bear the weight for the time it took to receive the symbolic sceptre and rod. Before the mass, it was substituted by a smaller, lighter replica made especially for her and it was thus crowned that she walked triumphantly from the Abbey and into the light of day, escorted by a huge assembly of noblemen.

  As she walked regally towards Westminster Hall she felt the eyes of the Londoners boring into her and thought irreverently that the wine conduits could not have been flowing as freely as they had the previous day. Only a few cheers were raised on her behalf which did little to mask the insistent hissing of ‘concubine’ and ‘whore’ from certain sections of the crowd.

  Once again inside lofty, cool Westminster Hall, she snatched a brief rest in a withdrawing room before re-emerging to preside over the coronation feast. However, her exhaustion had been little alleviated despite her quarter hour of peace; it would take a lot longer than that to recover from eight hours of solemn ceremony and ancient rite. To add to her discomfort, she found that the endless procession of elaborate dishes with their waft of spicy odours thoroughly upset her still delicate stomach. Several times she had to direct her ladies to hold a cloth in front of her face so that she could vomit unobserved into a small bowl.

  It was late in the evening before the banquet came to an end. Beneath her cloth of estate, Anne rose to her feet, washed her fingers in a bowl held by her adored and adoring Thomas Wyatt, then retired thankfully from public gaze.

  The following day, court celebrations began at Whitehall palace. Her pregnancy prevented Anne from taking an active part in the revels, but she and the King presided over them all and declared them excellent entertainment. It was another ten days before the celebrations petered out, after which the King ordered that there should be a little peace in the palace so that his Queen could obtain the rest she so badly needed.

  The court remained at Whitehall until early August when it removed to Windsor so that Anne might benefit from the change of air and escape the stuffiness of the city. She had chosen Greenwich for her lying-in, so great preparations abounded within its walls. Anne, now nearly eight months pregnant was at the stage where she just wished to sit and dream of her coming child. Throughout her expectant months she had kept her sister close, often preferring to consult Mary rather than one of the King’s numerous physicians.

  Shortly before they were due to return to London, Anne expressed a desire to
walk in the great park. Mary agreed to accompany her and so did Margaret Lee, herself well into her seventh month. Her other fluttering ladies were waved away and told to stay in the castle; Anne wanted only those she could totally trust about her.

  Once away from the castle, Anne placed her hand over the mound which she hoped was the King’s son and said to Margaret “We had better not stray as far as we usually do!” Then she burst out laughing at Margaret’s shocked expression.

  “Certainly no horse in the stables would be overjoyed at the prospect of carrying us on their necks” replied Meg, looking wistfully into the depths of the green park, remembering the happy day when she and Anne had galloped joyfully back to the castle with the King’s hunting party.

  Anne sat down heavily on a fallen tree trunk and lifted her face to the bright blue sky. “Please let it be a boy” she addressed the heavens.

  “They do say it is possible to tell the sex of an unborn child by its position in the womb” Mary confided to the two expectant mothers.

  “Truly? In that case, what will mine be?” asked Margaret, smoothing her gown tightly across her expanding stomach, and looking expectantly at Mary.

  Mary considered for a few moments, her head on one side. “Well, it is only an old wives tale, but yours looks like a boy to me”.

  “It should be” replied Meg ruefully. “For already he runs most athletically within the confines of my poor body!”

  All three laughed, and then Anne straightened her back and pulled her gown back so that it lay snugly over her stomach. “What of my child?” she asked Mary.

  Mary looked hard at Anne’s body for a long time. “Yours appears to be between the two positions” she said at last. “It could simply be because you are further advanced that Margaret and already your child is preparing to be born”.

  Anne looked crossly down at her heavy body, saying “maybe it is twins – one of each! That would please the King!”

  “The shock would probably kill him” broke in Mary mischievously. They all laughed again, but looked around themselves to see that they were not overheard, for it was treason to speak of the King’s death, even in jest.

  Momentarily Anne’s face hardened as she looked at her sister. Mary has already borne the King a son, she remembered. However, maybe that was a good omen; if Henry could sire a son on the elder Boleyn, why not the younger?

  Shaking the thoughts away, Anne rose to her feet, grimacing. “I feel tired now” she announced. “I should like to rest awhile before supper; and so should you Meg.”

  With contented sighs, her companions got to their feet and slowly the trio made their way towards the castle.

  Chapter 26 – New Life

  In mid-August, the court returned to Greenwich; in Anne’s view a little too early, for the carpenters and other tradesmen were working up a fearful racket in their work to prepare the birthing chamber for the great event.

  Anne, overheated and overtired grumbled incessantly both about the noise and the heat and became increasingly snappy to those around her. The King, feeling awkward now that this most mysterious of female rituals approached, tended to pat her arm in a conciliatory manner and then make good his escape with as much speed as possible. But no matter how much she criticised, complained or ranted, his patience never faltered.

  Doctor Butts had revised his expected time of birth to the last third of September, so August 26th was fixed as the date on which Anne would officially withdraw from the court to await the birth of her child.

  On the morning of that day, Anne was escorted to the Chapel Royal within the palace to hear a special mass, and then returned to her withdrawing chamber to socialise and take refreshment with the members of her inner circle for the last time before the birth.

  Despite the atmosphere of jollity and the suppressed excitement of those around her, she found herself battling to shake off a feeling of impending doom as her eyes strayed to the closed door of the birthing chamber. It was called the chamber of virgins, its name taken from the tapestries which lined its walls depicting the parable of the ten wise and the ten foolish virgins. Anne was already familiar with the room, although she had not seen it since it had been prepared for the great event.

  She delayed the moment of incarceration for as long as was decently possible, but finally there was no option but to focus her thoughts, thank her companions for their good wishes and move towards the door, which was thrown open at her approach. Regally she stepped across the threshold into a heated gloom, followed by her waiting women, and as the door closed, looked about her with both interest and trepidation.

  The huge chamber seemed half the size she remembered; the lowered ceiling draped and tented so that it almost touched the canopy above the state bed. All the windows were covered with matching heavy material, shutting out all light so that telling day from night was impossible. The floor was also thickly carpeted, so she was even denied the sweet scented herbs which she so much preferred underfoot in less exalted surroundings.

  With a sigh, she plumped herself down on an available day bed and wondered how she was going to keep herself alert and amused. She remembered Mary’s confinement at Hever and suddenly wished herself there, facing her labours in the peace and quiet of her familiar childhood bedchamber. But she was no longer plain Anne Boleyn, she was the Queen, and therefore must bring the heir to the throne into the world in the expected fashion.

  Gratefully she took the goblet of wine which appeared in front of her, smiled at those ladies who were regarding her anxiously and turned her thoughts inwards towards the child waiting to be born.

  In the early hours of September 7th, Anne turned over awkwardly in the great bed, then suddenly awoke and struggled into a sitting position. The chamber was in darkness apart from a spluttering wall sconce and all about her was silent. She deduced from the lack of activity that it was probably night time, although was unable to see the face of her little mantel clock, the King’s wedding gift to her, to confirm that it was so. Yawning heartily, she sank back into her feather pillows rubbing her eyes with her fingertips. Something had woken her, but what?

  Her eyes were now becoming accustomed to the gloom and as she stared above her at the embroidered canopy, she found her eyes could just distinguish the tiny fleur-de-lys pattern. Then for a moment she was confused, her mind searching for an anchor. Was she in France? No, of course not; she was in England, at Greenwich, lying in the magnificent French bed that Henry had presented to her for her confinement.

  Satisfied that her thoughts were in order, she closed her eyes in an attempt to drift back into slumber. She had been dreaming that she was in labour she remembered, labouring in great agony to bring forth the long awaited heir. Suddenly the muscles in her abdomen contracted painfully, leaving her breathless and realising that her ‘dream’ had been the commencement of her pains and it was because of them that she had woken.

  For a moment she laid still, one hand on her frantically beating heart, the other on the mound of her child. Then as the memory of the pain receded she thought perhaps she had imagined it. When minutes later her body was gripped by another spasm she knew beyond all doubt that her time had come. Raising her head from the pillows she called hoarsely “Margaret…. Margaret!” There was no response. Clearing her throat she called again, louder this time “Margaret. MARGARET!”

  Cumbersome through her own pregnancy though she was, moments later Anne’s bed curtains were parted to reveal Margaret Wyatt-Lee, clad in a voluminous nightgown, a candle in one hand with its flame shielded by the other.

  “Anne” she whispered. “Is it the babe?”

  Mutely Anne nodded, her bottom lip crushed between her clenched teeth as another contraction tore at her body.

  Suddenly the chamber was ablaze with light and movement. Doctor Butts appeared by her bedside, gazing owlishly at her. “How long have you had the pains Your Grace?” he asked her.

  “I have been vaguely aware of them for some hours, I think” she told him. “You s
ee, I was dreaming that I was in labour then I suddenly awoke to find I truly was”.

  “Hmmm” Doctor Butts gently palpated her swollen body. “That is often the way of it; women at their time often dream of their coming labours when the child is on its way. Think of it as nature trying to bring you as much rest as possible to see you through your ordeal”.

  Anne said nothing; she was beginning to feel a little light headed due to the combination of the pain and lack of sleep. Dr Butts continued “At what time did Your Grace retire last evening?”

  “Between nine and ten” she replied. “I was very tired and fell asleep almost immediately. What is the time now?”

  “It was but a few minutes past two when I left my chamber to attend Your Grace” he told her. “Try to rest between your pains Madam, for they are but the prelude to the rhythmic spasms which will eventually expel the child”.

  Anne gripped his wrist as he made to leave her bedside. “Then how much longer before the child is born?” she asked urgently. “I felt sure that the birth was imminent!”

  “Your Grace is mistaken” he soothed. “When the child is truly on its way your pains will come much closer together. I would estimate that you still have at least twelve hours to go”.

  Her grip on his wrist slackened, her hand falling back down on to the coverlet. “Another twelve hours?” she repeated blankly. “God give me strength”.