“’Tis indeed a tragedy, Your Grace. Such love is rare at court,” said Madge.
“Rare as hens’ teeth—but enough of sadness, my girl. Let us read from Tyndale’s Bible about Our Lord and His suffering. Let us humble ourselves before God and pray for the prince to arrive soon—before we both succumb to an ill humor,” said the queen.
* * *
“Lady Margaret? Lady Margaret?” said the queen, her voice tight with fear.
“Yes, Majesty. What is it?” said Madge as she rubbed her eyes, trying to see in the dark of night.
“I fear the babe is coming—my belly is gathering itself into a hard ball, just as my mother told me it would. And my sheets are soaked—I fear to light the candle to see what the liquid is—I fear it may be my life’s blood,” said the queen.
“But Majesty, isn’t it too early?”
“That may be so but I fear the babe does not know it. For again, he tries to come—ahhhhh!” The queen emitted a low groan and Madge was on her feet in a matter of seconds. She ran to the outer door and opened it.
“Bring a torch—quickly!” she said to the ladies. Soon, Mistress Holland appeared and lit the tapers and sconces in the queen’s bedchamber. In the dim light, Madge inspected the queen’s sheets and found there was no blood, but the sheets were indeed wet.
“Your water, madame, has broken. I will fetch Dame Brooke,” said Madge.
“Do hurry, Margaret. I don’t think we have much time,” said the queen, her face pale in the golden light.
“Madame, the king ordered me to call Dr. Linacre the moment your time came. I must find him immediately,” said Mistress Holland.
“Do as you will,” said the queen, holding her breath as another contraction gripped her.
Madge hurried down the back stairs, one, two, three flights until she entered the cavernous area where the cooks and bakers and scullions spent most of their days. All was quiet in the dead of night and Madge was not sure where Dame Brooke might be. She began shouting into the gloomy kitchens and soon, she saw candles flickering beneath the doors in the servants’ quarters.
“What’s all the caterwauling? Who’s in here?” rang a gruff voice. Madge watched as an old woman in her nightdress made her way down the corridor from the left.
“The queen is in her labor. I need Dame Brooke immediately!” said Madge, trying to keep the terror out of her voice.
“She’s at the end of that hall,” said the old woman, motioning to another corridor. Madge hurried, her bare feet slap, slap, slapping against the stone floor. She found the last door and banged her hand on it.
“Dame Brooke? Dame Brooke? The queen has need of you—now!” screamed Madge, feeling the panic rise in her throat.
The door opened and a middle-aged woman emerged, carrying a bag of various implements and cloths. Her reddish-gray hair was pulled back tightly in a bun and her clothes were clean and crisp. She moved with purpose and authority.
“Has her water broken?” Dame Brooke asked.
“I think so—her bed was wet but there was no blood—I checked. But her belly is gathering up hard and she thinks it’s time,” said Madge.
“Sounds like it is time,” said Dame Brooke. “Grab those cloths and that long feather on my cot—hurry girl!”
By the time they had returned to the queen’s confinement chamber, Dr. Linacre was already there and the queen was still abed.
“Get rid of him, missy. He’ll kill the queen with what he don’t know,” whispered Dame Brooke.
“How can I? The king has sent him to help,” said Madge.
“Help her into the grave, most like,” said Dame Brooke. She walked over to the queen’s bed and whispered into her ear. The queen sat up as best she could and looked at Dr. Linacre.
“I believe, Doctor, I have been mistaken. The pains have stopped. I am sorry to have disturbed your sleep but … ah, I will no longer need your services this night,” said the queen, struggling to keep her features from a grimace as another pain seized her.
“If Your Majesty is certain, then I shall be happy to return to my home. I shall check in soon if Your Majesty would like,” said Dr. Linacre as he bowed to the queen and left the chamber.
“Ahhhhhhh for the love of heaven, help me!” screamed the queen.
“That’s why I’m here, Nan Bullen. Now get up out of that bed! No child can be born with you abed. Walk a little while I unpack my things and then, take a seat in the groaning chair. We’ll let the pull of the earth help bring the bonny prince into this world,” said Dame Brooke.
Madge helped the queen to her feet and took her arm as she walked around the room. Dame Brooke had laid out clean strips of linen, what looked like the catgut strings of a lute, a long knife, a feather, and several vials of powders and liquids, none of which Madge could identify.
“Take a seat, Your Grace, in the groaning stool. I’m going to lie down and will be looking up at you as you sit. That way, I can see how far along you are and from this position, I’ll be able to catch the babe when he comes,” said Dame Brooke as she lay down on the clean rushes and put her head under the heavy damask curtain that skirted the stool. “Aye, you’re pretty far along. I’ll warrant this babe will be here within the hour.”
As the queen sat on the groaning stool, her ladies stood around, helpless.
“I would be alone with Dame Brooke and Lady Shelton. Mistress Holland and Lady Boleyn may stay. The rest, leave immediately!” said the queen, looking in great distress as she sat upon the groaning stool.
To Dame Brooke’s surprise, the labor continued, with the queen’s screams growing in intensity.
“How much longer?” said Madge.
“I don’t know. She’s pushing out all her strength, I fear, but ’tisn’t enough,” said Dame Brooke.
“Can you do anything to help her? I cannot bear her to be in such pain,” said Madge.
“If you think you can help me, I’ll quill her,” said Dame Brooke.
“I’ll do whatever you say,” said Madge.
“Bring me that vial, the last one in the second row. And the peacock feather,” said Dame Brooke. “Now listen with care. When you feel her belly harden, tickle her nose with this feather. But not until you feel the belly draw up. Understand?”
“Yes. How will I know when the belly is drawn up?” said Madge.
“Mother of God—you put your hand on it and wait. In the meantime, Nan Bullen, you can pray to St. Margaret and take a sip of this,” said Dame Brooke as she took the vial, uncapped it, and lifted it to the queen’s mouth. Madge could smell the contents and was happy she was not required to drink such swill. But the queen’s pain seemed to have eased a bit after a few minutes.
“Now, Nan Bullen, when I tell you, you sniff this powder into your nose as hard as you can,” said Dame Brooke.
“What is it?” asked the queen.
“Never you mind what it is—you must obey me now! Or you will die in your arrogance,” said Dame Brooke.
“Yes, yes, I’ll do whatever you say,” said the queen as another pain came upon her.
Madge took her hand and placed it on the queen’s belly. She could feel the lump harden beneath her fingers and waited until it seemed to reach its zenith.
“Now—it’s hardened now!” she cried.
“Sniff, Your Grace, sniff hard. Now, Madge, get that feather and tickle her nose. Come on, woman, tickle!” said Dame Brooke.
Madge kept one hand on the queen’s belly and with the other, ran the peacock feathers under the queen’s nose and even up inside. Suddenly, the queen sneezed hard and the sneezes kept coming until she’d sneezed four times in a row and then she yelled once again, a prolonged scream that sounded as if she were being torn asunder. Then, Madge heard a slap and a small, mewling cry.
“Someone take the babe!” commanded Dame Brooke as she handed up a bloody, wiggly thing from beneath the groaning stool. Madge motioned for Lady Boleyn to grab one of the clean towels from the bed. Lady Boleyn did so and took the squirming ba
be from Dame Brooke’s hands.
“Here comes the afterbirth—take it, Madge, and bury it in the courtyard—that will protect the babe from the evil eye,” said Dame Brooke.
Madge received a bloody bundle. She wrapped it in a clean cloth and set it beside the door. She would bury it later. The queen was pale but still seated as the midwife treated her from below.
“Is it a boy? Do I have my prince?” said the queen.
Madge had hardly thought to look. She glanced at Lady Boleyn who shook her head.
“You have a fine, healthy daughter, Nan Bullen,” said Dame Brooke. “A fine girl with the king’s own red fuzz atop her head.”
“Oh no! It cannot be! I have promised Harry a son—I have failed him,” said the queen. “No, no, no! He’ll put me away! He’ll put me away!”
“Now, now, dearie, calm yourself. You can get into your bed now, Nan Bullen. You are all fixed up. Love that yonder babe—for, though sons be fine for fathers, there’s nothing better than a daughter for a mother,” said Dame Brooke.
The queen rose slowly, awkwardly, and crawled into her bed. Lady Boleyn had bathed the child and anointed her with almond oil, then swaddled her tightly in the strips of cloth made for such purpose. She then lay the babe on the queen’s chest, next to her heart. The queen held her daughter and patted her, cooing soft words. Soon, mother and daughter were asleep.
In a mere ten days after entering her confinement, the queen had given a relatively easy birth to the child all Christendom had been awaiting. To her complete disappointment, the baby was not the much longed-for prince, but a princess. The king visited her immediately after the baby had been cleaned and swaddled, blustering into the hitherto forbidden rooms, waking his sleeping family.
He had been so confident of a son that announcements and invitations to the christening had already been printed, and extra S’s had to be added so that the documents were changed from “prince” to “princess”. When he came to the queen’s apartments, he immediately cleared the room of everyone but Madge, who sat on her pallet beside the queen’s bed.
Madge could feel the energy in the room when he entered. She saw the queen’s quick intake of breath as she awoke and heard the scurrying of feet as the king ordered everyone to leave.
“You may stay, Lady Margaret. Your tongue never wags, I’ll warrant,” said the king as he gazed not at Margaret, but at his wife.
“Sweetheart,” he said kindly.
“Oh my love, I am so sorry,” said the queen, tears coming in a rush.
The king sat down beside her and held both her hands.
“No matter, no matter. We are yet young. There will be more babes. A son next time.” He gave her tender looks that Madge was happy to see—it seemed there was still love in his heart for his queen.
“We shall name her Elizabeth for my mother. And yours,” said the king. At that moment, a small cry came from the nearby cradle. “Ah, she likes her name!” The king gently lifted his daughter and brought her to his burly chest. She cried a bit louder. He patted her, then touched the tuft of red hair on her head. “You are your father’s daughter, sweetheart. Yes, you are!” he said. The baby cried even louder.
“If Your Grace will hand her to me, I shall feed her—I believe she is hungry,” said Anne.
“Feed her? Woman, surely you know queens do not feed their young! Lady Margaret, go to the other ladies and find a suitable wet nurse,” ordered the king. Madge got up immediately, smoothing her dress as she did so.
“But Your Grace, I am her mother—surely it is I who should give her nourishment?” said the queen.
“Madame, you will need to get her a brother as soon as you can. This, above all else, is your concern,” said the king in some anger. “You promised me sons, a castle full of boys ready to carry on the Tudor dynasty. Your mission from God is to get them! If you die trying, you must give me a son!” The king’s voice had risen as had his color. He turned to Madge. “Go, Lady Margaret! Go!”
Madge did not need to be told again. Off she ran, out of the innermost rooms to the outer chambers where the women gathered, playing cards, reading, stitching, and passing the time as best they could. She found Lady Bryan who went to fetch the wet nurse, for Lady Bryan had already made proper arrangements. She knew the king’s mind in such matters as she had been in charge of the other princess years ago. Madge returned to the ladies’ chambers and moved to an open window, a welcome relief, the air fresh and cool.
Fifteen
Madge enjoyed more and more freedom from the queen’s presence as the weeks prior to Her Majesty’s churching passed. The queen was busy with the princess, Elizabeth, and His Majesty, who visited them daily. Often, the queen sent Madge out on some pretended errand so that the family could enjoy one another without the eyes of the court upon them.
Madge sought out Cate and together they would walk in the gardens or take Shadow to the grazing fields nearby, though getting to those open places took half an hour or longer.
“How does Her Majesty?” Cate said as the two of them found a hidden spot in the garden.
“Happy—in love with her new babe and the king. She has never looked more comely and she has had a change in spirit, too. No longer ill-tempered but sweet and full of smiles. Of course, she worries that she has disappointed His Majesty and she often says strange things—like the king will rid himself of her if she does not produce a son. I try to soothe her but oft times, in the lonely night, I hear her crying,” said Madge, reaching to scratch Shadow behind the ears.
“And the king?” asked Cate.
“His Majesty makes merry with the little princess. His eyes are for the queen and no one else, though I have heard him sigh and moan when the queen talks about the princess. His longing for a son is not abated. What of you, Cate?” said Madge.
“If you ask of Lord Brandon, as your smile tells me you do, he has proven himself, indeed, a scoundrel,” said Cate.
“How so?” said Madge.
“Have you not heard? He has stolen his own son’s plighted wife and married her himself! And she not much more than a child—twelve or thirteen, I’ll warrant. They say his son is heartbroken. Humph—it had not been five months since the king’s good sister died, yet off goes my lord Suffolk as if he were a young buck. Humph,” said Cate.
“I had not heard this news! Bad blood—those Brandon men—bad blood!” said Madge.
“I am evermore glad I did not succumb to the duke’s wishes. Oh, he did try me, Maddie—more than once! But I held onto my virtue. Take that as a lesson,” said Cate.
“Good Cate, I never doubted your virtue—I can only hope to follow,” said Madge. “I begin to see that few leave court with virtue intact—I intend to be one of them, if I must grow fingernails as long as spikes!”
* * *
In early October, a few days before the queen was to be churched, Her Majesty invited several of the king’s favorites, along with His Majesty, to dine with her and her ladies in the outer rooms of her apartments. Madge was in charge of procuring music and selecting the dances for the occasion while Lady Jane Seymour and Lady Rochford, wife of George Boleyn, made the rooms beautiful with bouquets of colorful leaves and late-blooming flowers. Madge had met Lady Rochford only once and found her arrogant and aloof. It was said that she and her husband were often at odds. Madge could see why this might be so—her cousin, George, was full of life, loving to play at cards and to carouse the streets of London. But Jane Parker, his wife, had a dour expression and listless eyes. She and Mistress Seymour made a hapless pair—sad, gray turtledoves sitting fatly on the branch while the queen, a bright cardinal, twittered and chattered with great liveliness.
Madge discussed dances and songs with Master Smeaton. They had devised an order of song that would tell the story of the king and his lady love, something they hoped would please both king and queen.
“Your ideas are clever, Lady Margaret. I did not know you had such a head upon your pretty shoulders,” said Master Smeaton.
“’Tis easy when I work with you, sir. Your own knowledge of music and the dance are considerable,” said Madge. She smiled up at him and felt the warmth of his brown, brown eyes. “Tell me, sir—have you a mistress here at court?”
“Nay, I am the son of a sheepherder and only my talent keeps me here. I first came to the Royal Children’s Choir as a small boy. Because I could sing and learned to play the instruments with great speed, the choirmaster recommended me to His Majesty and here I have been since,” said Master Smeaton.
“Is life here to your liking then?” said Madge.
“Oh lady, there is no place on earth I would rather be. I love to sing for the king! I love the food and the pretty people, the rich tapestries, the gold plate as it glitters—all these things have I grown to cherish. The king himself has given me fine clothes and he gave me this,” said Master Smeaton as he held up his hand to show a small garnet ring. He kissed the stone and looked lovingly at the king. “’Tis my most prized possession.”
“I am glad you have found a home here, Mark. Many would not find such a welcome,” said Madge.
“I have no property, no rank, no gold—nothing but the king’s delight in my music. There is safety in that. I do not meddle in the intrigues of the court. I only wish to sing and please my king,” said Smeaton.
As the chamber ladies made ready for the evening, the queen’s apartments bustled with activity. Even Jane Seymour’s pasty cheeks took on a peachy tone as she arranged and rearranged the table settings and centerpieces. Madge made certain the rushes were fresh and the center of the floor clear of tables so if the queen and king wished to dance, they would have room to do so. Finally, all was in readiness, and Their Royal Majesties entered from the queen’s privy chamber.
Madge curtsied low and watched as silk slippers with golden embroidery passed on the floor in front of her. She noticed the king’s feet were twice the size of his wife’s. To her dismay, they stopped in front of her. She kept her lowly position.
“Dear cousin, arise,” said the queen as she took Madge’s hand to help her stand.
At the Mercy of the Queen: A Novel of Anne Boleyn Page 10