She had been impatiently doing her lying in for two weeks now. Henry, past assurances and undying love for her, hardly came to see her, or ask after her welfare. And her suspicions had taken a grievous turn. He was sporting with one of her maids, she just knew it. George confirmed it. Seeing him eyeing one of her prettier ladies-in-waiting, just before she retired to the bedchamber, fueled her paranoia. He hadn't visited her in ten days. Mary came often, and when Anne asked her of Henry, her eyes would dart guiltily around the room. Then she would change the subject, saying it was forbidden for men to enter a birthing chamber. Anne would simply chew her lip, and wait for Henry to come, knowing the King to be the only man who could enter. And he did come, on the eleventh day.
"Have you been busy with affairs, my lord King?"
He merely nodded, gave her a peck on the cheek, touched her belly, and left with brusque orders for her women to keep her warm and comfortable. It was maddening. But today she waited, and though she had waited for many days the same way, she knew he would come. And this time he would stay for longer than a quick peek. He would hear her frustration, whether he liked it or not. She was Queen and had a right to be acknowledged.
She held tightly to her belly, and rocked and rocked next to the fire the women had lit for her. She didn't need the heat so close, the babe warmed her blood. Her women had insisted Henry would come today, and would want to see her by the fire. So she sat close to it knowing the heat rosied her cheeks, and danced cleverly in her eyes. Even heavy with pregnancy, she knew she looked fetching, but she didn't need her looks today. Today, she needed her tongue.
Just after dinner he came. A loud banging in the front parlor accompanied his arrival, and a great deal of swishing activity as the five women rushed to take his cloak, or offer him wine. She remained where she sat, the creaking of the rocker companioning her temper. She kept it still, though, ’til she saw his ever-enlarging frame shadow the room.
"Have you come finally, to see to your bride?"
Four months married and already she smelled another woman on his clothes, but she waited for him to answer while she looked at the curtains, which by custom hid the windows of a birth chamber. They looked filthy to her, and she turned instead to the pallet bed that rested beside her own, the one she would actually occupy for the birth.
"Yes," he responded, coming closer so that she could see remains of his dinner tangled in his beard.
"I'm free from duties for an hour or two, and thought I'd see how the babe fares." No mention of her, or if he missed her.
"The babe fares as the mother," she replied, rocking faster as her temper rose.
"It’s unborn yet, my King, and can feel neither heat nor cold. Nor can it cry with loneliness." She could tell he wasn't sure what to reply, but that he had realized her inference. Instead of waiting for him to develop a ruse, she attacked.
"Have you been kept by affairs, my Lord?" She motioned away the waiting woman who held a tray of wine to him, and would have offered it. Let him wait longer, and wring his hands instead if he needed to hold something.
"Alas, overseeing the nursery has kept my time," he smiled, trying to flirt with her. "And other affairs."
"Affairs with one of my women, could it be?" She rose from the chair, rather ungainly at first, but refused to be fettered by her belly. "I've heard rumors, my lord King. Rumors that the groom has been philandering, already. And in sight of the entire court, no less."
"And you find fault with the rumor?" His sweet seraphic face grew red and bloated with annoyance. "Sweet Jesu! You nag me as much as Catherine. Have I been cursed with another shackle?"
It was as good as a confession to Anne, and she flew at him with fist clenched, punched him soundly in the mouth.
"You know I find fault with it! How could you dare forsake me so soon? Your countrymen laugh at me, as I sit here heavy with your child!" She watched his face grow as crimson as the doublet he wore, and refused to cringe as his own fist clenched at his side.
When he spoke his voice sounded as gritty as the mortar in the walls.
"How dare I forsake you? How dare you, criticize me. Remember whore, I am the King. I can lower you as well as I raised you."
Her mouth worked at the slander, but before she could speak he had hold of her shoulders. He shook her gently but tightened his grip so that she wanted to fall to the chair in an effort to escape.
"Better than you have stood by whilst the country forgives its King for solacing himself where he must. So you must close your eyes and endure.
"Now sit," he said. "And go back to your sewing of swaddling clothes, or whatever else you do, and speak of this no more. I will have no one criticize my actions. Not even the whore I have set on the throne."
"Whore?!" The second use of the word bore her temper to raw wound, and she pushed her swollen belly at him like a weapon.
"For six years I endured your clumsy kisses, your inept caresses, only so I could supply you with this whore-son." She pushed at his chest so she could get past him, but he grabbed her wrist and twisted her so that she screamed in pain. The pain didn't deter her, only enraged her more.
"Was I worth throwing away your precious reputation and pious Queen?"
Instead of becoming physically vicious, as she knew he wouldn't for fear of the babe, he spoke with more venom than she had ever heard him use, and it cut to the marrow of her anger, making her fear him suddenly.
"Ah, but I haven't thrown it all away, dear lady." The face that had grown fat over the years, contorted into a troll's face. "Catherine still lives, and our child... she listens still to the father she adores. And is not truly illegitimate for all your trying."
"Then to hell with Catherine, and the demon child she has spawned. I'll be sure she swaddles my child like a servant should a true prince. For I am her death, and she is mine."
The fever of her rage swept away any care for what she spoke. She was too far into her anger to care that his mouth opened and closed in workings of pure lividness. And somewhere within the hollows of her sanity, she realized she had gone too far. But he said nothing further, simply turned on his heel with a quick look of disgust and stormed from the room. She sat back on the chair, exhausted and spent. Not even the pains in her stomach could force her to make her way to the bed, she'd rather sit here and sweat with each spasm, knowing each one was deserved.
George was reading in Henry’s antechamber, when Henry stormed in. At sight of his master, and the obvious rage that tore at his face, George dropped the book onto the tapestried chair. He hurried to fetch a goblet of ale. Anne must have cornered the King about his mistress.
"Damn your sister." Henry hurled the goblet across the room. It struck the stone wall with such force, bits of rock came away. Servants hurried to clean it, all the while trying to look as if they were part of the wall or floor. George said nothing.
"Damn her." Henry said again. This time he kicked at the rushes. The sweet, musty smell of them crept up George’s nose. He knew then, that Anne had not only cornered Henry, but had had the last say. Nothing irked the King more, and Anne had a knack for it. In seconds Henry’s furious stare burned straight into George’s face.
"Did you tell her of my lady?" George thought briefly of the woman, saw in his mind, the beautiful fair hair and blue eyes, the straight tiny nose.
"No, Sire," he lied.
"I’ve said naught. Anne is quick enough to have noticed it for herself."
"Fortunate for you then, for I’m furious enough to throttle that shrew you call sister. And I’d put you in her place if I had reason."
George kept his thoughts quiet, instead went to the hearth where he poked the embers around. The opulent chamber lost its beauty. For a moment he thought instead that he stood in a damp hovel. There was nothing like anxiety to ground the senses.
"How dare she be jealous. Catherine expected me to fulfill my needs elsewhere when she was with child. Even encouraged it."
"Beg your pardon, your Grace," George blu
rted. "But I believe you have but the one child. Mayhap Catherine was jealous and you knew it not. And Anne was just such a case. Look at how well the Princess Dowager lives now."
Oh, sweet Jesu, he’d gone way too far. Henry glared at him with such hatred he thought he’d get a good clout and a hanging in the morn. All he could do now was try his best to cover the blunder.
"At least, I imagine that is the cause of Anne’s insane jealousy."
"Get out," the King said. "Get out and do not come back."
It was a blessing to be let go with his head. George hurried from the chamber and closed the door meekly. Even from the hallway he could hear Henry bellowing at the poor servants within.
Chapter 45
An exhausted Anne lay weak and spent upon the pallet. The blankets had long ago been taken, and after each wave of pain and sweat came such a shivering as such she had never suffered. The women in the room tut-tutted to her, shushing her and telling her she was doing wonderfully. Blast, but it annoyed her. Would they never close the fetid holes that were their mouths? She didn't care how well she was doing, she cared only that this cursed thing be taken from her. She wanted the acute wracking of her body to cease. So she could once again feel normal, with just the pains of her conscience to wound her.
"Come now, my lady, I see the head. Oh, the bald little head. He's coming, my Queen, you must push again." She grunted with the exertion of the push, screamed when a hot searing pain nearly tore her canal apart.
"Sweet Jesu! Could it not be a little bigger?" She heard a giggle in the corner.
"Close your foul mouth!" She hollered as another wave hit her, and then concentrated on that pain again. As God was her witness, even if Henry decided to forgive her, she'd never let him touch her again. A great wetness shot from her. After, came sweet relief. From the world where she lay exhausted she heard a sharp cry. Ah, beautiful cry, the cry of her son.
"Give him to me," she ordered, trying to sit up on the pallet.
"Pass me my prince."
The midwife came to her, the babe still slick and bloody from the trial, Anne could see the odd curves of his head where her body had tortured it.
"He's beautiful," she breathed reaching her arms up so she could take him.
"Truly a beautiful babe, my lady, but no prince."
In the instant she thought the woman mocked her, that she, the whore, could never produce such lineage. But when the baby's slimy body lay on her breast, naked save the juices from her body, she could see it was no boy. And her heart pinched tight in the same moment from anguish and love, both battling for space there.
"She's truly magnificent," the midwife said, beaming down on mother and daughter.
Anne touched the tiny blanched cheek.
"Yes," she said, as love won the war.
George had returned to his own apartments and was eating a savory stew near the hearth when Henry stormed him for the second time. He sent Jayne away with an ungracious curse. The servants who had followed their King huddled in a corner.
"Your sister has betrayed me."
George dared not argue with Henry. Instead he watched the large frame storm throughout the room in uncontrollable fury. Once or twice Henry grabbed at a trinket and hurled it against the stone, where it sounded with either a great thud or a resounding crash. He wished for a moment he stood anywhere but in the King’s presence. The red-haired man’s temper was the foulest he’d ever seen.
"The country laughs. They laugh and laugh and laugh. Great Harry, Defender of the Faith and King of England, slapped in the face by God and by a woman." Henry kicked a table, sent it crashing to the floor and George scurrying to right it. One of the young boys made ready to scoop it up himself, but stared at George with eyes as round as plates when the duty was done. He looked relieved to be relieved.
"She is indeed the Concubine, as the entire country calls her. Doubtless she laughs as well—and produced this girl-child to spite me." Henry stressed girl-child as if it was distasteful, and George felt a sudden clenching of his stomach. He licked his lips hesitantly, afraid of Henry’s wrath, but determined to defend Anne. Indeed, his temper had begun to rise as well. And what the hell, he’d already incurred Henry’s fury.
"In truth, my sister is strong willed—spiteful even, but I doubt she would have borne the girl apurpose—she loves you well and wanted the boy as much," he said.
"Yes, well, that may have been the case before she heard of my lady."
"Your lady, Sire? Do you think Anne would deliberately give you reason to cling the more to another woman?" George mustered a wan smile, one he hoped would bring Henry back to his good humor. He was rewarded with a brief chuckle, one that almost stole the King’s wrath. But in a moment, he returned to his sullenness.
"She’s passionately jealous," Henry muttered, and searched George’s eye.
For a moment George remembered all the men who had gone to the tower, and thought under the scrutiny he’d be called for an execution in the morrow. The thought that he’d already gone too far, spurred him.
"Was it not her passion which drew you?"
A grumble came from Henry, one that sounded reluctant and sullen. He paused before the window where he stared out into the autumn sunshine. "That and her wit."
"Her wit, her passion, and her intelligence?" George pressed.
"Yes. She’s a smart one, and has beaten me more times than I want to admit at chess or debates."
He was being won, and George dared not back down.
"Would you imagine with me then, my poor sister’s state? She discovers the man she loves before any save God is sharing his passions with another woman..."
"But am I not a man as any other?" George hurried,
"Of course, your Grace, but Anne is a woman of deep emotions. It’s a shame such passions must come with such jealousy, but then, passion means heat in all emotions. But imagine further—she is forced to hide from the world whilst she awaits the child that will prove to the country that she is the rightful queen. She prowls about the chamber knowing most of the court and the entire country prays she will not deliver. Her seclusion is such that your elder child by another woman waits and prays in the same corridor for news that she has borne a daughter." George crossed the room, dared stare directly into Henry’s eye.
"And now Anne has borne that girl-child, and fears she has lost your love as well. Can you not see how she believes she has failed in everything that matters?"
He continued on when the King took to shuffling,
"But imagine more, your Grace, what hope there is in a living daughter. Anne is young yet, and nubile. A daughter can sometimes be a blessing to a man who has had no children in seventeen years." George waited with his teeth clenching his bottom lip. Perhaps he had gone too far, but then, Anne’s future was at stake. And so too, was his own. There really had been nothing to lose. And when Henry turned on his heel, and left the chamber without a word, George collapsed onto a plump tapestried chair, fearing what he had done.
Chapter 46
"The King waits outside." The midwife entered the room, breaking into Anne’s despairing thoughts. Anne nodded, swallowing her fear. She watched the woman scurry outside to notify him. The babe was nestled in her cradle when Henry stole into the room, trying to be quiet, but nearly tripping over the pallet bed in his haste to see his child. Though she feared his reaction to her failure, Anne was prepared to defend the identity of her tiny child with all the vehemence in her soul—no matter what he might say.
"My lord?" she asked, uncertain as to whether she should speak. Though she had produced a living child, it was not the son they both expected, and she wasn't sure if he would curse or thank her.
"I have found a wet-nurse already." His voice sounded gruff, like the rustling of dry leaves. She wondered whether he was still angry.
Lowering her eyes she said, "I’m glad you have thought of it, husband." At the mention of their relationship he drew near to the bed where she lay shrouded in satin.
"Dare I hope you still find pleasure in the title?" He touched her hand, studied her eyes.
"Your eyes are so black in the dimness, yet I see the spark of forgiveness," he let the statement trail.
"Not forgiveness, Sire, for there's naught to forgive save my behavior. The spark you see is regret." She took the hand that touched hers, pulled it to her breast.
"For the sake of our babe, can you forgive my slander?"
She might harbor his words in her soul, but instinct told her to bury them. He waved away the thought with a shake of his head.
"Had I known you were so close to your time, I'd not have baited you—or slandered you, my lady." Full lips touched her forehead in a warm tender kiss. She sighed audibly, content, and relieved she had made the right choice. Whether he truly forgave her remained to be seen—and whether she could forgive him also.
"Then my world is beautiful again, and I can count myself the happiest woman in the realm." She lied, turned to the cradle, then to his face.
"Have you seen her?"
Nodding, he smiled broadly. "She is Tudor through enough. The bald head shows pink and fair, and the eyes are deepest blue. But I pray she has your passion, for though it drives me mad at times, it is what I find dearest in you."
From beneath the satin coverlet Anne looked over to the wooden cradle where a soft whimper had sounded. Henry strode over and picked the infant from it with such tenderness and ease, he should have been born a woman.
"Meantime, we must cancel the joust planned for our son, and add an s' to the princes' proclamation. Damned seers." His face darkened with annoyance, but brightened again so quickly Anne doubted she had seen it.
"I've a name for her if you'd care to hear." She watched him. How tender he was even with a girl-child rather than the expected son.
Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Page 21