by D. L. Bogdan
I rise to move toward him. He holds up a hand, stopping me. “Don’t. Please don’t. There is nothing we can do. The boy received a proper burial. When the threat has passed, I will permit you to visit his grave.” He bites his lip, closing his eyes, drawing in a deep breath through his nose. “I am leaving for a while,” he announces. “I—have business to attend to.”
“Thomas!” I cry, sinking to my knees.
He stares at me, his face reflecting my own sense of God’s betrayal.
“Please hold me!” I beg, reaching out my arms.
Thomas shakes his head, tears spilling onto his cheeks. “I must go . . .” he whispers. “I—I must go,” he says again.
Long after he departs I remain huddled on the floor in a heap of confusion and despair, my arms reaching out for a man who is not there.
Thomas Howard
There is no business to attend to, only that I must escape Hunsdon and Edward’s fresh grave and my wife’s pitiful grief. It is her first loss, I must remember. I must be patient. Surely God is predictable enough for me to realize that He will assure us more. Elizabeth will no doubt grow as accustomed to habitual grief as I am.
But am I? Oh, God, holding that little baby, knowing I could not save him, just as I could not save any of the others.
There is only one place to go.
I visit the tomb of Lady Anne Plantagenet. My princess.
There, alone beneath a mockingly sunny sky, I kneel, reaching my hand out to caress her cool stone effigy. My tears fall unchecked.
“Princess . . .” I whisper, feeling a proper fool. “I beg you hear me. I am lost. I—should be beside my wife, I know that. But I can’t bear it. I feel as though she does not deserve to grieve as I do! And I know that is wrong! Please help me. I do not know how much more I can stand. . . . How much more can I lose before I lose myself?” I shake my head, then lean it against the stone, giving into the need to sob.
It is a fool’s hobby, this talking to graves. I rise in anger, cursing my idiotic fancies. Wherever the princess is, it is too far away. She cannot hear me. She cannot help me.
No one can.
There is naught to do but return to Hunsdon and anticipate the birth of yet another child. I almost wish they’d succumb to the sweating sickness in my absence so that I might be prevented from losing them to something else in the future.
It seems my only certainty: transience. Loss.
“She will not eat,” Elizabeth’s maid informs me upon my return. “The poor child is mad with grief. Her cries are heard the manor throughout.”
“Give me something to bring her,” I order and upon the delivery of a tray of cheese and warm bread, I draw in a shuddering breath, urging myself to be patient as I approach her chambers.
The girl is curled up in bed, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs. I set the tray on her breakfast table, then sit beside her, reaching out a hesitant hand to touch her shoulder.
“Come now,” I say in gentle tones laced with exhaustion. “This won’t do.” I do not know what to say by way of comfort. “This won’t do at all. What of this next baby? What will happen if you do not eat? It could be our next heir, you know. Its life must be preserved.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth’s voice is bitter as she sits up, rubbing her swollen eyes. “If only for that. Not because it is our child that we are bound to love.”
“It is a dangerous thing, you know, getting so wrapped up in them,” I tell her, recalling my mother’s words upon the birth of my ill-fated sister Alyss. “Their lives are too fragile. I should say the only thing more fragile is our own hearts.” I close my eyes, my chest seized with the pain of this most recent loss. My advice, as cold as it is, is practical and Elizabeth is a practical woman if nothing else. After sifting through the emotions females are more prone to, she will make sense of it, I am sure. I continue. “It is best to leave the daily maintenance to the nurses.”
Elizabeth stares at me in horror. “Yes, of course. Leave them with the nurses so that they can be the ones to grieve! Heirs and pawns, that’s all they are to you, aren’t they?”
“That is all they can be,” I tell her. “Or else I think we should die of heartbreak.”
Elizabeth dissolves into tears, clutching her belly. “Oh, Thomas, why? Why must it be this way?”
There is naught to say to this, so I take her in my arms. “Come now, my girl. Eat. Please eat. This next Howard deserves a fair go of it.”
Elizabeth offers a small nod and I fetch the tray. As I do so, I notice the door of her chambers standing ajar, just enough for a little face to be peering through.
Cathy stands, shifting from foot to foot, her large blue eyes filled with tears. How long she was there and how much she heard I have no idea.
“Is my lady mother going to get better?” she asks in her little-girl voice.
Tears clutch my throat. “Of course she is,” I tell her. “Come in, little one. Come in and share our meal, won’t you?”
Cathy inches forward, reaching out a tentative hand for a piece of bread. She eyes me with caution, then profound sadness. It is then I realize she knows; she heard it all.
She says nothing but sits across from us, the proper lady, taking small bites of bread, shifting her gaze between her mother and me as though we are potential enemies requiring close scrutiny.
So young to be aware of the workings of this world.
Elizabeth Howard
I do not know why I’m so tired. The labor was an easy one; little Henry arrived within ten hours of the onset of the pains. I recover well enough. My figure is as fine as it ever was. But I have no energy. The baby, as beautiful as the others, resembles his father with the long Howard nose and narrow face, but I experience none of the urgent longing for him that I did for little Cathy and Edward.
I do not know if it is my husband’s well-intended words of caution that have turned my heart so cold or if it is my own new perspective, altered by this very unwelcome experience. I think of the queen and all her losses. If one loss is as painful as to cause me to lie abed sobbing for hours or to pace the manor without aim, then how must it be for her? How must it be for Thomas? There is no doubt that is what makes him who he is. How much better is my understanding of it all now? No wonder he cautions me to rein in my love.
Yet how can I? How can I not?
Sometimes I think were it not for these children I should take my own life. In this I am different from Thomas and the queen. Thomas is a man; he has all of the occupations of his sex to distract him, a government to participate in, goals and challenges to be met, wars to fight. The queen has a kingdom to be obligated to; she must press on. But a lowly woman with no kingdom and no battle but the daily one of living has nothing. Nothing but her children.
So I must live. I must press on, as Thomas urges. If only for them.
The pain may lessen. Others who have lost say it does. But I cannot imagine how or when or sometimes if I even want it to. To smile at one of Cathy’s or Henry’s antics grips my heart with agonizing guilt. Should one in mourning feel happiness? Is it tantamount to dismissing the gravity of the event?
I distance myself. It is almost against my will, as though it is something my body and mind are forced to do in order to survive. I watch the children from afar. Cathy handles herself well; she is the perfect little lady. Everything that is expected of her is mastered and performed. She minds her nurses and tutors, is a competent dancer and embroiderer.
“She is just as smart as a girl should be,” Thomas always says of our eldest child.
Henry is precocious and bright. He is talking in small sentences at one year and shows himself to be a loving, if not high-minded boy.
“I wonder where he gets that,” Thomas teases when the trait is noted.
“Yes, we all know how sweet and docile you are,” I remind him with a slight laugh. I am able to laugh a little more now. Perhaps it is because I am with child again and, despite whatever pain seems to pursue me, I love being pregnant.
The queen is great with child as well. The little princess has been betrothed to the dauphin of France, which seems to solidify our at times unstable alliance with that overindulgent lot. With that union secured, it has become the kingdom’s foremost obligation to pray for the birth of a healthy prince.
I believe few pray harder than I, save perhaps the queen’s dearest friend, Maria de Salinas. What a triumph it would be for Her Grace to give the kingdom its longed-for prince at last!
But no amount of our humble prayers can bring it forth. In November the queen delivers her sixth child, a baby girl who dies before she could even be christened.
“Oh, my poor dear lady!” I lament to Thomas, clutching his hand as I learn the news at Hunsdon. Against my will, selfish thoughts permeate my awareness, fears for the life so new in my own womb. I curse myself for thinking of myself before the queen but cannot seem to stop. I cup the slight mound of my belly, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Six babes and only one to survive thus far! When does it end?”
My husband pauses. “She has asked us to come to court,” he says at last, disengaging his hand and moving toward the window. He stares out at the swans in the pond but does not seem to see them.
“How can I go to her and I with child?” I cry. “It would seem almost cruel, as though I am flaunting my good fortune.”
Thomas shrugs. “You are not showing yet; she will not know. You’ve no need to tell her for quite some time.”
I bow my head, rising from my chair to approach him and lean my head on his shoulder, praying for the safe delivery of our child, praying that I can offer some kind of comfort to my beloved queen.
We arrive at court for Christmas and the queen is almost over-demonstrative in greeting. She clasps my lord’s hands, offering her sad smile. “How good it is to see you, Lord Surrey,” she tells him before turning to me and resting a hand upon my shoulder. “Lady Surrey, dear child, how much we have missed you. How are you?”
I force a smile in return. “Quite well, Your Grace,” I tell her as she ushers me away from her entourage. I am not fool enough to ask after her. I cannot begin to fathom the depth of this woman’s grief.
“Promenade with us a while, Lady Elizabeth,” she tells me, looping her arm through mine.
Though the queen is only twelve years my senior, she emanates an air of motherliness, making those in her presence feel loved and nurtured. No one is more deserving of children than she; the fact that she is consistently denied them confounds me to no end.
“We were much aggrieved upon hearing of the loss of your son,” says Her Grace.
“Many thanks,” I tell her, painful tears clutching my throat. I cannot allow her to offer her condolences without returning them. “May I offer my sympathy regarding your loss as well?”
The queen bows her head, drawing in a breath. “All we can do is pray for comfort and better times to come. All will transpire as God wills it.”
I bite my lip to stifle a sob.
“I try very hard to believe that,” she goes on, dropping the royal “we.” Allowing me this glimpse of herself as a woman and not a queen is a privilege to match few others. “It is exceedingly difficult. And now I hear Bessie Blount is with child. She is to give my husband, my king, a baby. She, not I, his lawful wife.” Her body convulses as she attempts to repress a sob.
I had not heard this latest development. “It is most unfair” is all I can think of to say. Were I in lesser company, I would take to cursing that harlot Bessie Blount with all due fervency, but I refrain, though I am certain it is no less than what Her Grace is thinking already.
The queen’s laugh is bitter. “Most.” She squares her shoulders, sighing. “But what can I do? Blame an innocent child? It does not ask to enter this world. I must accept the situation with the grace my station requires.”
“You are a lady without rival,” I tell Queen Catherine with profound sincerity.
Her smiling lips quiver. “And there are other things to look forward to, aren’t there? The birth of your baby, for instance?”
“Your Grace!” I cry, covering my belly and bowing my head in shame. “How . . . ?”
“A mother knows,” she tells me. “And I would never ask you to hide your condition for fear of offending me. A baby is a blessing to be shared, not hidden as if in shame. I am overjoyed for you and Lord Thomas. After what has been lost, this is nothing less than what you deserve.”
On impulse I throw my arms about Her Grace and she hugs me back, offering modest laughter.
“God bless Your Grace always!” I cry, knowing I could not serve a more gracious and honorable queen.
Upon returning home to Hunsdon, I am taken with illness that remains with me for the duration of the pregnancy. I am fraught with misery. Night and day I take to the basin, vomiting wretchedly. I am weak and exhausted and my belly cramps so often that I fear an early labor. I cannot visit Cathy and Henry; it is all I can do to rise from my bed and take nourishment. I spot blood, which causes my heart to lurch in panic. I cannot bear the thought of losing another child.
Thomas does little to comfort me during this time. He maintains a conspicuous distance. No longer does he visit me when my confinement begins. No longer do we engage in the banter that stimulated me during my other pregnancies. Though I make certain the servants communicate my distress, I hear little. He sends gifts; he has always been good about that. But the jewels and bolts of fine fabrics are of little consolation.
I want him. For everything that has passed between us, good and bad, I want him. His mind, his challenging, obstinate spirit, stimulate me. His touch, his kisses, for some unfathomable reason, inflame a passion in me I never dreamed possible. It is not the love I dreamed of as a girl, but I cannot say what I feel is not love just the same, and though our foundation is shaky at best, I yearn for its fortification. But for that, he must be at my side.
He is sent for in June, when my labor begins in earnest. I do not understand why I am in such terrible pain; it is as though this is my first baby. For two days I am assaulted by the tight and terrible cramping of a womb that seems unwilling to part with its tiny inhabitant.
The midwife, a wizened old countrywoman, shakes her head again and again. “I do not understand. Nothing is happening at all.” She sits beside me, swabbing my forehead with a cool cloth. “Oh, dear child . . . I fear for you. You’ve bled overmuch.”
I begin to shiver and sweat at once. It is so hard to stay awake. . . .
Thomas Howard
“Lord Surrey, I do not know how long she can go on,” the midwife tells me, her crackling tone gentle. “She is so weak . . . you best prepare for the worst. Her strength is gone.”
Panic surges through me. Till now I have done my best to avoid Elizabeth. It was not with the intention to neglect; it is just that her sickness repelled me. After all, sickness leads only to one thing and in my vast experience, it is best to be absent for that occurrence. But now I have no choice. And in the face of her prospective loss, my thoughts become muddled. Nothing makes sense, not even in my own head. My heart is racing and skipping, my face is burning.
“And the child?” I demand.
“There is a procedure I could try where one cuts through the belly into the womb, but it is very risky. Few survive it,” she says. “It is likely they will both die, Lord Surrey. I’m deeply sorry.”
Her dire prediction causes me to shake in anger. No, rage. Searing, burning, and uncontrollable it courses through my veins, a force I cannot deny. “No . . .” I breathe. “No. Not again. Do you hear me? This is not happening again!” My thoughts are racing. I cannot catch up to them. I see my other children; their faces pass before my mind’s eye as they appeared during their last moments on earth, in suffering. And for what? God’s delight? My limbs are tingling and quivering. I cannot see right. My vision blurs. I proceed into Elizabeth’s chambers, pushing past the midwife and servants, making my way to the bed where lies my wife. She is pasty; her eyes are closed.
“Wake up!” I order, sitting on the bed, shaking her shoulders. “Wake up, do you hear me?”
Elizabeth’s eyes flutter open. “Thomas . . .” She begins to reach for me.
“It is your wish to leave as well?” I cry. Her arms fall to her sides. She begins to cry, mewing like a sick kitten. “Then go, if it is so easy!” I cannot rein it in any longer. I seize her chin between my fingers, staring her down without being able to focus on her features. She is saying something; I cannot hear her. My other hand reaches out, grasping onto something soft and silky, her hair, I think. I tug at it, pulling her out of bed, dragging her out of her chambers and through the hall to a destination unknown even to myself.
“Come now, let us be off! You must be impatient for the next world!” I cry in a tone that rings with giddiness. “We’ll spare you further suffering! I shall do it myself, girl, right quick—ha! I shall beat God at His own game! Beat Him before He can claim Himself the victor!” With this statement comes unexpected laughter. It bubbles up in my throat, releasing itself in a strange cackle that sounds like a dog’s painful yelp. I yield to it. It has been a good long time since I laughed.
“Thomas!” Elizabeth’s voice permeates the strange fog that has enveloped my mind. “Stop! The baby is coming! You’re going to hurt the baby!”
“What baby?” I cry. “There is no baby! What was will never be! You are leaving! You are all leaving!”