But to lose one’s child after loving and caring for it for nine years? She could not imagine such heartbreak. A tiny part of her believed that Richard had deserved such sorrow, simply because of the suffering he had caused her. But Anne had done nothing to warrant God’s anger, Jane thought. She saw again the slight figure of Anne of Gloucester on her horse passing Jane at the conduit in the Chepe, when Anne’s face had held a sweet and happy smile. Now her face must be haggard, her body ravaged by agony, sleepless nights and pointless days. Perhaps she was wondering if her life had been worth living? No mother should have to endure that, Jane decided.
Suddenly a fluttering in her womb arrested her thoughts, and she gave a little gasp.
“What is it, sweetheart?” Thomas asked. “Are you unwell?”
Jane smiled in the dark. “Nay, I have never been better, Thomas. Our babe has just let us know he is alive and growing, ’tis all.” And she placed her husband’s hand on her belly, although she knew he would feel nothing. How ironic that in that moment of pondering one child’s death, the life of another should manifest itself thus. She sent a prayer of grateful thanks to the Virgin for giving her a sign.
It was then she knew she must forgive the king.
Thomas had commissioned a litter to be made for Jane’s personal use, and although she was disdainful of his overly protective treatment of her, by the time August came and the heat was unbearable, Jane reluctantly agreed the vehicle was worthwhile. In her seventh month of pregnancy, her belly was threatening to throw her diminutive figure off balance, and Thomas had teased her that she might never see her feet again. He cautioned her about going in and out of the city too much, especially as an outbreak of plague in the overcrowded neighborhood around Billingsgate had forced the temporary removal of the fish market to the area in front of Fishmongers’ Hall on the west side of London Bridge. But Jane insisted on a weekly visit to the Lamberts with another stop in St. Sithe’s Lane to see Sophie.
One mercifully cooler day in late August, Jane was helped into the awkward litter with Ankarette walking alongside, while two large hired hands carried the boxlike conveyance between them. They picked their way along the hardened rutted mud, doing their best to give their mistress a smooth ride, but at times a loose stone caused a stumble and Jane would be thrown to one side before the duo was able to steady the litter again.
“I cannot help my extra weight, sirrahs,” she joked to them, “and I shall soon have to double your pay.” But as Jane’s legendary generosity always meant a few extra pennies at the end of the day, the men laughed cheerfully as they plodded on.
She loved her days with Sophie, from whom she gleaned much practical information about weathering these last few months and what to expect during the birthing process. Sophie promised to come and be of help after the babe arrived, and Jane was grateful. Seven-year-old Pieter could be cared for by Janneke, who had now married her cordwainer’s son and had moved into her in-laws’ house. The other two children were old enough to look after themselves.
Jane chose to pay a visit to Sophie first today, and after exchanging their news of that week, Sophie quietly said, “You do not regret your marriage, do you? Thomas is good to you?”
“Silly Sophie,” Jane replied teasingly, but then she was serious. “If you had told me a year ago that I would be married to the king’s solicitor and expecting a child, certes I would have thought you were ready for Bethlem. Ah, Sophie, I cannot think that I could be any happier. God must have been with me in Ludgate when He sent Thomas to interrogate me, for I would never have met him otherwise.”
“And you do not think more on Tom Grey, do you?” She saw a look of sadness flit across her friend’s face before Jane shook her head vehemently. Sophie vowed never to bring the man’s name into a conversation from that day on. She had simply needed to know.
Next, Amy Lambert greeted her daughter with warmth and a refreshing cup of spring water. She had sent her servant out of the city with John’s cart to fetch a bucket of it. “Warm ale does not quench the thirst like fresh water, does it?” she asked, fussing around Jane and giving her more cushions. “Are you managing with the heat, daughter? I must say, you look much too healthy to be so close to delivery. Childbearing suits you, Jane.”
Jane drank deeply of the sweet spring water and laughed at her mother’s enthusiasm. “I have been fortunate, so I am told. I pray daily that our child will be born whole and healthy.” She paused, grimacing. “I cannot say I look forward to the pain, though, Mother. Sophie says the first child is the hardest.”
“All will be well, God willing,” Amy said with a smile. “After all, women have been birthing children since Adam and Eve.” She did not voice the concern she had that Jane’s petite frame might make for a long and difficult birth, well remembering her own. “And I shall be there to see you through it. You must have Thomas send for me and Midwife Long as soon as you have the first spasms. She can ride with me.”
Jane nodded. “ ’Tis astonishing to think she brought me into the world, too. She must be as wizened as an old apple now.”
“Perhaps, but there is nothing Goody Long does not know about childbirth, Jane. She has brought many a mercer into this world, and the guild pays her well. We can put our faith in her good . . .”
Voices heard in the stairwell stopped Amy’s talking. “Who has John brought home with him this time?” she wondered. “Since he has discovered his nicer side, he likes to entertain. I do not mind so much, but I wish he would warn me. We only have mutton pie with peas and spinach from the garden.”
“Amy,” John called as he mounted the stairs. “You will never guess who came into the mercery today and has agreed to dine with us.”
Amy smiled and rolled her eyes at Jane. “Nay, I would not. Who?” she answered.
Both women stared in astonishment as the tall, lanky figure of William Shore walked into the room. Not knowing Jane had chosen today to visit Hosier Lane, poor John’s bewilderment caused his mouth to open and shut like a hungry carp, and he looked at Amy to rescue him.
“Mistress Lambert, God’s greeting,” William said, with a small bow. And then he turned his attention to Jane, forcing his thin lips into a semblance of a smile. “Jane, I hope I find you well.”
Jane was, for once, speechless: she had never imagined seeing William again. She had heard how successful he had become as a merchant adventurer in Antwerp, and she presumed he would remain there until he died. William appeared as disconcerted as she was.
“Aye, she is very well, Master Shore,” Amy said, coming to Jane’s aid. She could not resist adding, “Can you not see she is with child? She is married to the king’s solicitor, Thomas Lyneham, you know. They have a lovely house along the Strandway.” Then she took hold of John’s elbow and marshaled him out of the room. “Let us go and tell Cook we have one more for dinner, my dear.”
Jane lowered her eyes and placed her hands on her belly, aware William was staring at her.
“I am glad you have found the life that suits you, William, as I have found mine.” Then she raised her eyes to his. “All I required from you was a child. I suppose now we both have what we wanted.”
“We made each other unhappy, did we not, Jane? I have had many years to regret what happened, but aye, I am contented with my lot.” He paused, and then without warning his civility vanished. “I always knew you were immoral. I cannot pretend I was not grateful to be out of the country during your debauched liaison with the king. You are a harlot and always have been. At least my reputation stayed intact and my business flourished.”
Jane scrambled out of the chair as fast as her condition allowed. Her eyes blazing, she prodded his bony chest and cried, “Aye, your business flourished thanks to the helpful hand from my royal lover. And your lack of manhood pushed me into his arms. Why, you even encouraged me to preen before him, don’t you remember?” She turned away in disgust. “I do not think we have any more to say to each other, so either I should take my leave or you shoul
d decline dinner.”
“Very well. I will make my excuses,” William snapped, two spots reddening on his cheeks, and taking two long, purposeful strides, he left the room.
Jane sank back into her chair, feeling the perspiration running down her face and neck, dismayed at the feelings of shame and guilt that his words had reawakened. What quirk of fate brought him here today, she could not imagine, but she had hoped that part of her life was closed now as surely as the door she heard shut behind William below.
She felt the baby kicking as if in protest, and she cradled her belly, whispering: “Hush, sweeting, the odious, spiteful man has gone, and, God willing, gone for good.”
After a glorious September, October ushered in a nip in the air, and one morning Jane and Thomas awoke to the sparkling magic of Jack Frost’s early visit. Jane’s confinement had begun, and a night spent tossing in search of a comfortable position had left her voluminous nightshirt damp with perspiration. For two weeks now, she had experienced false spasms and a nagging backache. She heaved herself out of bed and waddled to the window.
“Come and see, Thomas,” she exclaimed. “How beautiful!” The edges of the glass windowpanes were rimed in delicate icy patterns that framed the garden etched with white. Thomas joined her, wrapping his arms around her taut, distended belly, and thrilled to the responding bulge that moved slowly under his fingers, as if the babe were greeting its father. He could not wait to hold his child and prayed it would be a little girl who would have her mother’s green-gray eyes—or were they yellow and gray or hazel and green? He could never quite tell. He knew Jane wanted to give him a son, but with so many Lynehams populating the north of England, he really did not care. The baby was to be called Julyan, as the name could be used as much for a girl as for a boy. Thomas told Jane those who carried the name valued truth and justice. “I think we both esteem those characteristics highly. What do you think?” And Jane had been delighted with his choice.
“It seems to me I am having to reach lower to put my arms around you, my dear,” he said softly. “It seems to me the babe has moved down.”
“Since when have you learned the language of birthing, husband?” Jane laughed. “Next, you will be demanding to be by my side during the delivery. You know ’tis forbidden. I would not object, in truth, but my mother would. As for Goody Long, from all I have heard of her, she might throw boiling water over you.”
“Nay,” Thomas said, shuddering at the thought of Jane in pain, “I shall wish to be as far away in the house as I can be with a large jug of wine to numb my nerves. But I shall be downstairs, I promise.”
A sudden dull stab caused Jane’s belly to tighten, and she gave a little cry. It had a different characteristic this time, she noticed. “It may be that you should send for Mother and the midwife this morning, Thomas,” she told him.
Thomas let her go, his face a picture of anxiety. “Now? Today? Are you sure?”
Jane smiled at him. “Aye, now, my dear. And make certain the doors and windows are cracked open. We want to evict all evil spirits, do we not?”
Privately Thomas thought this superstition a waste of time, but he was not about to irritate his wife today, so he assured her all would be as she asked, and making her comfortable back in bed, hurried off to send his servant to Hosier Lane.
Thomas had no sooner left the room, when Jane felt the water gushing between her legs. Sophie had warned her this might be the first sign of the oncoming labor, and she called out for Ankarette and Nurse Isabel to bring clean rags and ready the birthing chair. As the two servants bustled about the chamber, stoking the fire, fetching a pot of water to boil, and piling laundered strips of bedsheets upon a stool to use as rags, Jane tried to remain calm by picking up the printed book Thomas had recently purchased. She had been intrigued to see that Master Chaucer had included a story about a lawyer in his Canterbury Tales, and she became deeply involved with the dramatic story of the Christian daughter of a Roman emperor sent to marry a sultan. She smiled at the lines:
Constance, mild and true,
And humble, heavy with her child, lay still
Within her chamber, waiting on Christ’s will . . .
Suddenly, another spasm made her drop the book and clutch her stomach.
“Is the midwife here yet?” Jane asked. She hoped she did not sound as afraid as she was feeling, but she would have been comforted to know help was near.
Ankarette dipped a rag in the tepid water and wiped her mistress’s flushed face. “There, there, ’tis too early to be concerned, sweetheart,” she cooed, and Jane had to smile. Ankarette was only five years her senior, and yet in times of crisis, the good servant became a mother hen. “This may go on all day, so put your nose back in the book and rest easy. Both Isabel and I have attended births before, so you have naught to fear.”
All the same, Jane was much relieved to hear her mother’s voice on the stairs an hour later, and when the two newcomers came into the heated room, Jane gave them a wan smile of welcome, although she was dismayed by the number and depth of the midwife’s wrinkles. Would this old woman be up to the task? she wondered. For her part, Goody Long was equally dismayed when she looked Jane up and down. “Such a big weight for such a small lass. ’Twill be a long, hard day,” she confided to Ankarette.
No one had expected the labor to last so long into the night, and Thomas fell asleep in his chair in the hall after midnight and only awoke when one of the women came hurrying down on an errand. He would then send a new loving message to the weary Jane, giving her courage to persevere.
“You are truly loved,” Amy told her, well into the night. “The man has not stopped pacing for hours.”
Goody Long might have more wrinkles than a slept-in shift, but she had the stamina of an Araby horse, which Edward had told Jane could run for as many as four hours at a time. The old woman’s beard hair could rival a mare’s mane, Jane thought to herself as the midwife leaned in close to check Jane’s paps. “Plenty there to feed the wee mite,” she said, cackling, her surprisingly strong hands expertly working their way down Jane’s body as she checked this and that. There was something in the practical, temperate manner that instilled confidence in Jane, and as yet another and stronger wave of pain assailed her, she listened carefully to the woman’s instructions as her body prepared to expel the too-large object from the narrow birth canal.
The pains were coming closer together, and each time one tightened its grip on her, Goody Long encouraged her to take quick, short breaths.
“How much longer, Mother?” Jane demanded after night fell, believing she could endure no more. Why had she wanted a child all these years? Why would a woman go through this more than once? And then she remembered: ’Twas all because of Eve’s first sin, and during her next pain, she roundly cursed her female ancestor.
“It will not be long now, Jane,” Amy soothed when the bell for matins rang. In her weariness, she wondered why someone bothered to ring the bell when only those cloistered communities would heed a call to prayer in the middle of the night.
“Dear God, I want to push. Can I push, goodwife?” she asked. The urge was overwhelming and she began to satisfy it.
The midwife frowned as she inspected Jane’s condition, inserting her hand up the widening orifice and feeling for the position of the babe’s limbs and head. “Nay, you must not yet. You must fight it,” she cried. “Blow hard and keep blowing.”
Jane was exhausted but she blew, and Amy and Ankarette blew with her. For more than half an hour Jane blew until she begged to push again. Amy stroked her daughter’s damp hair and held her hand. Then Goody Long said, “Come, child, ’tis time to get onto the chair,” and relieved, Amy and Ankarette supported the weakened Jane the few steps to the hard, backward-sloping chair. The midwife instructed Amy to sit behind Jane and brace her. As Jane lowered herself onto the broad wooden seat, she screamed as a new and searing pain between her legs now alarmed her, and her tears came unbidden.
“It hurts me too m
uch to sit.” She wept, arching her back off the uncomfortable seat and trying to get up.
“She may be torn inside,” Goody Long surmised. Her many years of experience and the Mercers Guild’s gift to her of Trotula’s treatise on The Sickness of Women told her that her skills would be put to the test this night. “Let us put her back on the bed.” Then she told Isabel to place the large jasper stone between Jane’s breasts and start praying to St. Margaret. She put her hand inside Jane, and a scowl informed Amy all was not as it should be. Under her breath the midwife rattled off every curse she could think of: “By Christ and his saints! God blind me! By the nails on the Cross and the Blood on the thorns! Hell’s bells! God’s truth!”
“What is it?” Amy asked the expert softly. “What is wrong?”
“The babe is facing away,” the goodwife mumbled, shaking. “ ’Tis not a good sign. We must make the bed as hard as we can.”
Ankarette tweaked Isabel’s sleeve and said, “I know where there is a trestle top. Come with me.” The two ran from the room.
Jane was panting again now as the midwife had demanded: “It helps to stay the need to push.”
When the soft mattress had been replaced by the hard wooden plank and Jane was lying upon it, her head tipped over the edge, as had been depicted in Trotula’s illustration, Goody Long asked Amy for the butter she had brought with her and liberally smeared her right hand and wrist with it. Jane flinched as she felt the probing fingers inside her, but she tried instead to concentrate on the flowers embroidered on the canopy above her head. Giving a grunt of satisfaction, the midwife found what she was looking for and, cradling the back of the baby’s head in her palm and with her thumb upon one temple and her fingers on the other, she rotated it with a gentle twist.
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