by G Lawrence
Henry laughed. “Brandon is marrying his ward,” he said and laughed only harder when shock registered on my face. “It is true, she is young,” he went on. “But Charles assures me it is a love match. Since my poor sister died, he has been morose, but he loves Katherine Willoughby.”
Katherine was the daughter of Marie de Salinas, one of Katherine’s closest friends. Marie had married Lord Willoughby, allowing her to remain in England when the rest of Katherine’s Spanish household had sailed home many years ago. Her daughter had been named after Katherine as a mark of friendship and respect. Katherine Willoughby had been engaged to Suffolk’s son, but since he was only ten years old, the Duke had evidently decided that the lady was too beautiful and far too rich to be left waiting four years for a husband. Suffolk was forty-eight; his new wife just fourteen. She had a substantial dowry, and vast tracts of land. I have no doubt that the notion of a young girl in his bed pleased Suffolk, but more than anything I suspected he wanted her money. Henry could say all he pleased about love and happiness, but I knew Suffolk. To him, women were a commodity, as much as the salt on his table. Mary Tudor might have married him for love, but he had married her for power and prestige.
“Will his son not be upset to lose his bride to his own father?” I asked.
Henry chuckled. “The lad will not mind,” he said. “And Charles is alive with love. For the first time, he understands how I feel about you. Before, he could not fathom it, for he had never been in love. His marriage to my sister was a good one, and they were happy, but I don’t think either of them truly opened their hearts to one another. Mary, because she could never really forget he was below her, and Brandon because he knew he was not her equal.” Henry made a prudish face. “I told them this when they married,” he said. “But they did not listen. It never works when two of so differing status wed.”
What about you and me, Henry? I thought. Or does your advice once again not apply to you?
“All men think they are wise,” I said. “But even the wisest sage turns to others. It is the fool who never seeks wisdom.”
“You are so right,” he said. “All men turn to me for advice and counsel, as they should.”
When we parted, as I walked down the halls to my lying-in chamber, I had to stifle a giggle. I had not noted it at the time, but Henry had managed to name himself a fool by saying he went to no other for advice.
My ladies cast me odd looks as I smiled at nothing. I did not share my thoughts.
As I settled into my chambers, I thought on what Henry had said. I convinced myself I had worried without reason. Clearly, he loved me. Had it not been proved by his declaration that he would choose me over his son? That at the precise moment all his dreams and ambitions were to be handed to him, he would give them up, for me?
But there was something at the back of my mind that had cause to bristle with indignation at my platitudes. That voice said Henry had wronged me. It told me he was attempting to control me; using sorrow, love and power as weapons.
I tried to ignore that voice. Had I not always been strong, courageous and resilient? I was not the type of person to fall for such abusive wiles.
That is what everyone tells themselves when they encounter a similar situation; it cannot happen to them.
But something had changed. That voice would not remain silent. This was a new phase in our relationship. I loved him still, but a veil had been lifted. No more did I see Henry as wise, or faultless.
When the ones we love do something wrong, and try to set that wrong to mending, we find new respect for them. But how was I to find respect for a man who believed himself perfect? If Henry had not the courage and resolve to see his flaws and improve himself, how could my love deepen? Those we love are not brought into our lives to make us feel better about ourselves. They are granted to us by God to make us better people.
Think not this is an excuse to alter the one you desire and make them into your pet, or lump of clay… That was what Jane tried to do to George; what Henry was trying to do to me. No… If two people love each other, they alter each other by example. We discover by experience what actions hurt the one we love, and we change our behaviour. We do not change because we are forced to, but because we want to. We strive to become better people for the ones we love.
Just as parents teach their children how to navigate the world, so lovers teach each other how to better themselves. We bend and shape ourselves, so the one we love will love us more and so we might look upon ourselves with the same eyes as they do.
I had tried to change Henry, tried to make him a better man, a stronger king, by setting an example and showing him where he had erred. But Henry was not attempting to alter me by example. He was trying to force me. He wanted me to be his clay.
He did not want me better. He wanted me quieter, meeker… weaker.
Chapter Sixty
Greenwich Palace
Autumn 1533
“God’s Blood, I am so restless,” I said to my mother, easing my ungainly body into a chair by the hearth in my lying-in chamber. I had only been inside for three days and already it felt like a lifetime. I was supposed to keep busy by reading, praying and embroidering, but I was too agitated. I was nervous about giving birth, fearful for my life despite all I had said to Henry, and worried about what was happening at court whilst I was stuck in these dark, stuffy chambers.
September was almost upon us, yet the hot weather had not abated. The shutters over the windows were supposed to keep out the light, which was apparently bad for a waiting mother and her baby, but through them I could see the bright, dazzling sun. The air in this dark, womb-like chamber was stale. I longed to open a window, to leave this gloomy room and head out on a horse for the green dales and welcome hills of England, but I could not. I had to sit, cooped up like a goose in a pen, and wait.
There was, however, much to comfort me. Folding tables, made so I could play cards or eat in bed had been crafted for me, each covered with patterned tiles in antique style. A clock, made of gilt metal and ornamented with busts and pilasters, was upon one of the walls. Its weights bore the initials H&A entwined with lover’s knots, and the mottos Dieu et mon driot for Henry, and The Most Happy, for me. Books had been brought for me, and even if I could not read them due to my edgy temper, I drew comfort from simply having them near, as many dedicated readers do. My mother had brought her birthing chair from Hever, and ignored Henry’s physicians who tried to tell her a bed was better.
“What would they know?” my mother had whispered to me after assuring the doctors it would only be used in case of an emergency. “As if they understand anything of what a woman endures in childbed.”
The chair, as my mother and Mistress Aucher informed me, would be better than the pallet bed Henry had provided. “Lie down, and what’s to aid the babe in making his entrance?” asked Mistress Aucher. “This way, the child slips out easier. Pay no attention to doctors, Majesty. Listen to women who have actually given birth.”
I had adhered slavishly to the customs of a royal birth, in order to protect my child from slight and slander, and had ordered more done to set the birth of my child apart from Katherine’s babes. The tapestries upon the walls depicted St Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins. My rich state bed, decked with an elaborate counterpane, lined with ermine and edged with gold, was the biggest bed I had ever seen. Crimson hangings whispered about it and its curtains were embroidered with my arms, picked out in golden thread. Upholding the rigid traditions of royal childbirth would demonstrate to everyone that my child was the true heir to the throne.
“Restlessness can be a sign,” said my mother, setting aside a tunic she was making for Father. “Have you had any others?”
“Surely, I would notice immediately if there was pain?”
My mother smiled. “Not necessarily. When I had your brother, I thought I had indigestion.” She laughed in a most becoming manner. “And with your sister, I thought I needed to visit the privy!”
I
made a face and she laughed harder. “Make proud faces of disgust all you want, my dear,” she said. “When the pains start and your child wants to make his entrance, you will not care for pride. When a child comes, Anne… never will you have been so aware of your body! You cease to be a creature of thought, and become one of sensation. Every drop of blood in your veins speaks to you, and you hurt in places you never thought about before.”
“Please,” I said, holding up a hand. “Enough… or you will frighten me.”
“It is not all bad,” she said. “When you hold your child in your arms… that is when you know what you suffered for. That is why mothers would do anything for their children, Anne, because we have already risked death to bring them into the world. What more can a mother risk for her babes, than life itself? God makes women into wolves when they become mothers. He grants us strength and courage, and infuses us with a desire to nurture. There is nothing a mother would not do for her children.”
“Do you think there is nothing a man would not do?”
My mother shrugged. “Some men care for their children,” she said. “Others do not. And mistake me not, there are some mothers who are strangers to the natural urge to protect their children. Believe me. I have met a few. But I think it is a mistake that men are not there to see their children born. I understand why, of course, because they would fly apart!” She tittered, putting a hand to her mouth to conceal the sight of the teeth she had lost recently.
“Men are marvellous when it comes to making decisions and deciding to act,” she went on. “If you want an answer to a problem, and you wish for a straight one, go to a man. They think it is their duty to sort and organise the world, so they have an answer for everything. And that is why they are banned when it comes to labour, do you see? They would see their wives screaming and puffing, and try to find a solution. But there is no answer but patience, courage and strength. That is why we keep them out. War and battle they might face with courage, yet childbed they cannot endure. But I often think more fathers would be closer to their children if they witnessed the effort it takes to bring them into life.”
“In some ways, I am glad Henry is not here,” I said, reaching for her hand. “But only more thankful I have you.”
“We will see you through,” she said. “And you will be fine. You are much healthier than you were when I first arrived.”
I was still tired, but since my cough had left me, I was feeling haler. “If it should come to a choice, between me and my child,” I said. “You will save my baby.” I saw her face fall. “No matter how much you love me, or what Henry has said, my child must live.”
“Both you and the baby will be fine, Anne,” she said. “We will make sure of that.”
On the morning of the Eve of the Feast of the Virgin, I awoke to a strange feeling, akin to the cramps I suffered in the first days of my courses. Being so used to waking with some source of discomfort, I did not mention it at first, but as the pains grew more frequent, I called my mother to me.
“I think I may be in labour,” I said.
“Why did you not say?” Her voice was both excited and fearful at the same time.
“I thought it nothing,” I said. “They are such slight cramps.” I wrinkled my nose as another arrived. “If this is all labour is, I know not what the fuss is about.”
Mistress Aucher, who had already overheard my conversation with my mother chuckled and glanced up. The midwife looked over at the same moment. Both were wearing faces of amused understanding. “The first stage is mild, Majesty,” said Mistress Aucher. “But do not be fooled. There is a long way to go.”
As it transpired, there was not a long way to go. Within two hours my pains were more powerful and frequent, and they lasted longer. I found I could chat no more and had to grasp hold of the bedpost when a strike arrived. The midwife, a Mistress Cooper, instructed my mother to walk me about, but as the pains grew quicker and quicker, harder and stronger, and I started to feel nauseous, they stopped me.
“The child is coming fast,” said Mistress Aucher.
“Is that bad?” I had to puff between words, like a dribbling dotard climbing steep stairs.
“No,” she said. “Every babe and birth is different.” She grinned. “Perhaps your child just wanted to spare you, my lady,” she said. “Or perhaps he is simply eager to enter the world.”
Another two hours and I was in agony. Never had I felt so tired. My flesh was cold and I felt shaky. The pains became less frequent, but they lasted longer. Sometimes, for more than a minute I roared in agony. I had the urge to bear down and was moved to the birthing chair where I took hold of the armrests, placing myself over the seat which had a large hole in it, as women I had known all my life, and those I had only met a few days ago, took turns to squat under me and stare at parts of me only Henry and my mother had ever seen before. My mother was right when she had told me I would care no more for pride. All I wanted was for this to be over. For the pain to cease. For my baby to live. They had me take a deep breath and bear down as each flash of pain came.
“I see the crown!” shouted Mistress Cooper from somewhere beneath me. Although I understood that meant she could see the head, for a moment I wondered if I was not, in fact, bearing a full grown man rather than a tiny baby. That was certainly what it felt like. “Hold there, my lady!” shouted the voice beneath my skirts.
“Hold?” I almost screamed. Everything in me was telling me to push.
“Hold!” shouted Mistress Cooper.
“Pant, Anne,” said Mary, holding my slippery hand. “Pant like a dog, it will help. They are trying to prevent you tearing.”
I obeyed my sister. Panting like a greyhound, I tried to resist the urge to push and bear down. It was torture.
“The head is free!” shouted the delighted voice. “Just the shoulders, my lady, and then the rest is easy!” Mistress Cooper’s head popped up. There was a smear of blood on her cheek. “Another big push as the next pain rises, my lady, and the shoulders will come free.”
I did not have long to wait. As pain ripped through me, I pushed, holding Mary’s hand and my mother’s as I screamed. And as I shouted, another voice did too.
“There we go!” shouted Mistress Cooper. I fell back on the chair as beneath me there was movement and activity. The women tied and cut the cord binding me to my baby and hustled him to the font to wash and baptise him, if necessary. My mother leaned in and kissed me. “You did so well,” she said, her eyes shining with tears. “I am so proud of you, Anne.” From the font, a thin wail rose. Clearly my son did not like being washed in wine and honey.
“Let me hold my son,” I croaked, but Mistress Aucher stopped me trying to sit up.
“Wait a moment,” she said. “The baby’s cowl has yet to come.”
I only had minutes to rest before the pains began again. Although it was nothing to the last few hours, I resented having to go through the same agony, or an echo of it, again. The cowl, a shapeless lump of tissue, fell from me and the women gathered it up, examining it to check it had come out whole. When they were satisfied, although not before Mistress Cooper had inserted what felt like her whole arm into my source of life to check nothing remained, they took it to the fire, wrapped it in dry, brittle cloth and burned it.
“So the demons and fairies don’t come for your child,” my sister whispered in my ear. She laughed when I turned my tired face to her and frowned. “I know,” she said. “It is an old tradition, but what else would you have them do with it?”
“I want my son,” I whispered. I could hear him crying. The urge to go to him, to take him in my arms and tell him all would be well was overwhelming. No matter how weary I was, all I wanted from that first moment until the end of my days was to protect my child. They cleaned me with wine and water and moved me to the bed.
“You have a fine daughter, Majesty,” said Mistress Aucher, standing beside my mother.
A girl. A girl… No, surely it was impossible. I almost started to cry. My
mother saw my face crash and she took my hand. “Not here, Anne,” she whispered. “Show no disappointment.”
I understood. Women in Norfolk’s pay were in here, as well as others friendly with Suffolk’s household. I could not show my terror. A girl? Why had God dealt me this blow?
But when my mother came over with a bundle of screaming linen in her hands, I could feel disappointment no more. I took my daughter in my arms and looked into a red-purple face, screwed up and shouting. Tiny, tiny little hands were curled into fists, waving in my face. I chuckled at her screams, and she stopped. Her huge eyes opened wide, and a pair of blue eyes stared up into mine. There was a fuzz of red hair on her head.
She was the most perfect creature ever I had seen.
“She knows her mama,” chuckled the midwife.
I could not stop staring at my daughter. How could I have ever created something as wondrous as she? She had indeed stopped screaming, and seemed mesmerised by my eyes. Her mouth opened and closed a few times.